Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Got what you deserved, coming to The Divide. A trespasser. Exposed. Flayed. Finally present, to witness what he wrought,” Ulysses' voice rasped.

Arcade imagined it would sound just as harsh and inhuman even without that respirator mask. Hatred and anger seethed beneath Ulysses' veneer of weariness, despite his claims to the contrary.

“Walked this road with one destination in mind, found another.”

Metal scraped against metal, sharp edges shrieking. A machete? A Bowie knife? Its blade tracing the leg or back of a metal chair? What was this mad courier planning to do to Vulpes now?

Unable to see from where he lay prone and hog-tied in the sunken section of Ulysses' Temple, Arcade couldn’t help but imagine all the horrible, terrifying possibilities, his worry spiking into physical torment.

“What you betrayed set me on this path,” Ulysses continued, still calmly lecturing Vulpes, his tone in stark contrast to his previous violence against Vulpes' body. “The path to The Divide. To witness its destruction." There was a soft, squishy sound.

"What was that?" Arcade yelled. "I swear, if you don't stop hurting him.... I just...I just.... You haven't seen rage until you've seen nerd rage. I'm telling you."

A quiet cough, heartbreakingly familiar, sent Arcade’s heart racing. Vulpes hadn’t made a sound since the beatings began. But that cough meant he was alive. Amazing how active an adrenal gland could become at hearing the merest proof of life.

Blood pulsing, Arcade twisted the bonds at his wrists with renewed vigor and wished ED-E had come with a Stealth mode. And a Don’t Let Yourself Get Hijacked And Captured mode.

Honestly, why was Enclave technology always peculiarly useless in underdog situations?

Rather like himself.

Ulysses ignored him. "Sought the Courier. Knew his role. Didn’t follow my road back far enough.”

“I never hid my role from you. I never hid for whom I worked,” Vulpes replied, his tone forced and breathless, revealing with painful clarity the effort speaking cost him. “If asked, I will always explain what a Frumentarius is, what we do. I explain to any passing stranger. Every prospective victim. They are forewarned.” A dry click as his throat worked to swallow, then he sneered, “Yet I succeed.”

Arcade smacked his forehead against the cold grey floor. Goading the madman was unlikely to aid their situation.

“Courier can’t learn his history now. You know yours,” Ulysses began.

“Indeed,” Vulpes interrupted. “I inveigle through lies and deception. I find weaknesses, character flaws, and I exploit them. I employ smiles and words to do my bidding, as I did with the Twisted Hairs. And I am proud of it.”

Forehead still pressed against the metal ground, Arcade winced at what he heard next, what he guessed was blunt force trauma, probably to the midsection. It sounded more like punches to the stomach than to the face. But what did he know? The Followers didn’t teach courses on identifying violence in the wild. Maybe they should. Like gecko calls. Or bighorner trumpets. The sound of fists on various body parts. That could be useful.

“Killing is personal,” Ulysses intoned. “Wouldn’t have killed the courier. Will kill you.”

“I am proud of it….” Vulpes’ voice grated as he forced himself to speak on. “Because I pit myself against thinking adversaries. Always. Those who had the chance to know better, to do better, than fall into my traps. Yes, I broke your Twisted Hairs with a smile.” He spat blood. “But your tribe’s eagerness to serve a force that assimilated tribals, your hubris that you would be the exception, was your downfall. I may have opened the gates to your hell but, on your own, you galloped through them.”

There was a long, tense silence. Arcade guessed any other tortured man would have filled it with screaming. He felt like screaming himself.

Instead he focused on his triage plan, reckoning what Vulpes’ injures might be, and what might need doing, along with how he’d reprogram Ulysses’ medical Eyebots, and what clothing he’d rip for bandages if need be. Repeatedly he mapped out the order of each step he’d take. It made him feel less helpless.

“Home isn’t where you’re born into this world,” Ulysses abruptly remarked, quiet and thoughtful. “Courier taught me that. Lesson I should have remembered.” A deep, bitter chuckle followed. “You’re not drawing my attention for pride in Caesar, are you, Vulpes? You seek to walk this path of pain alone.”

Suddenly footsteps approached his position and Arcade’s stomach iced over.

“This is your fear. My taking your relic of the Old World on this journey with you.”

“Relic. Of the. Old World?” Vulpes feigned ignorance, his voice little more than a croak.

“Signs on his back. Plain as mine. He could wake the giants beneath the earth himself, with hair that bright. Put them back to sleep, too.”

Please don’t ask me about Navarro. Please don’t ask me about Navarro.

Apparently Braxton had delivered Enclave tech to The Divide, bringing nuclear doom to the people who had settled there. If this courier blamed Braxton for his unwitting role in their destruction, how much more culpable would he consider a member of the cabal which produced the technology?

He was innocent of those deaths, of course, but he’d already pre-judged himself guilty of his own and Vulpes’ demise. He’d been the one to push forward, to bring Vulpes here in response to Ulysses’ message, seeking an explanation of what Braxton had done to The Divide in general and this other courier in particular.

And right in the middle of their confrontation with Ulysses, the Temple had been swamped by Marked Men. Vulpes and Ulysses had successfully distracted and eliminated them while he used his Enclave knowledge to abort Ulysses' missile launch.

But their cooperation had been short-lived. Once the battle finished, Ulysses stabbed them in the back—in Vulpes’ case, literally.

“You take this one's pain as your own, Vulpes. See that now. Don’t feel for something that hard unless it’s home. And home’s a hard loss to bear.”

A heavy clanging thud resounded through the Temple. Arcade was pretty sure Vulpes’ chair had been dashed against the floor, with him in it.

That could be an opening.

Assuming he remembered that one night at the Lucky 38 correctly, the one where they’d drunk atomic cocktails and Vulpes had demonstrated how most chair escapes start with being on the floor. Or maybe they’d been on the floor because of the atomic cocktails. No, no, it was definitely for the escapology thing. Definitely.

He just needed Ulysses to focus on him alone.

“Your…Your theory…. Mr. Ulysses. Mr. Ulysses?” Arcade cleared his throat and tried again, speaking louder, his voice ringing against the metal Temple floor. “Your theory regarding the power of a single individual to change history is flawed. It’s based on a fallacy. It’s….”

A blade sliced through his bonds, then rough hands dragged Arcade to his feet like he was just so many pounds of dead Brahmin meat. Legs almost too weak to stand on, limbs burning from lack of circulation, he found himself staring down into Ulysses’ hard, bright eyes while the courier gripped Arcade’s shirt front with the hand that held the Bowie knife and his throat with the other.

Arcade met that gaze, willing Ulysses to keep contact, and did not look behind him.

“Someone—possibly several someones—found or created, sent, and ac—activated that package, none of whom were the Courier,” Arcade stammered. “Braxton was simply the—the unknowing idiot who carried it. Perhaps one person can change history. But it took at least two to bring down The Divide."

And it took two to bring down Ulysses.

Although Vulpes, Lord Death of Murder Mountain, who had slipped his bonds as only Caesar's very best Frumentarius could do, performed most of the work.

In the aftermath, leaning heavily against Arcade’s side, Vulpes coughed as blood trickled from between his lips and said with a small grin, “We must stop meeting like this.”

“What? And I thought Followers Doctor Patches Up Injured Civilian was our go-to role-play piece.” Arcade’s fingers flew over Vulpes body, cataloging injuries. “Although it’s my sincere medical opinion that that could have gone better. Still, nothing that can’t be fixed. Let me program the medical Eyebots. You’ll be fine in a jiffy.”

“A jiffy?”


“It’s…a really quick thing.”

“Is this like your handbasket?”

“Hmm? No, going to Hell in a handbasket is a completely different…thing. Hold still.”

Arcade didn’t relax until Vulpes was resting comfortably. On the floor. But there wasn’t really anywhere else to move him.

“Why do crazy people not have proper beds? I ask you. Much of the Wasteland’s orneriness could be solved by a reasonable eight hours of sleep per night.” Arcade set Other ED-E and the repair Eyebots to guard the Temple, just in case, dimmed the lights, brought blankets and pillows, and lay down beside Vulpes.

The consoles surrounding the two quietly beeped and buzzed and winked with festive lights. The sounds reminded Arcade of his childhood, and as such weren’t particularly comforting. He shifted closer to Vulpes’ warm form.

“Hey. When you were talking…earlier….Were you just playing for time or trying to get Ulysses angry so he wasn’t thinking clearly or did you mean what you said?”

There was a long pause, during which Arcade thought he might have to specify what he was talking about, or maybe wait until tomorrow when Vulpes was awake. But then Vulpes turned to him, nestling against his side in an invasion of hard elbows and unyielding limbs, and his answer floated on a whisper to Arcade’s ear.

“I meant every word.”

Arcade shivered. He shouldn’t ask questions to which he really didn’t want to know the answer. “So…you’re proud—“

“The Legion has long been caught between two tactics in its conquest of tribes. Lanius’s and mine. I trick humans. Lanius burned the Hangdogs’ hounds.”

He drew a long breath and Arcade waited.

“It was a waste of resources. Those dogs were already trained, and, with the resultant emotional trauma, the people were never capable of giving Caesar 100% of themselves afterward. Have you met Antony?”

It seemed to be a rhetorical question, as Vulpes kept talking.

“The Legate has little respect for me because I use words, not force. But there is no honor in cruelty to animals. And any fool with the right amount of physical strength can be a butcher.”

“So he’s merely a garden-variety monster, then?” Arcade stated more than asked.

“Not merely. We shall not underestimate him as he does us. When the time is right, we shall use all of our guile and strike like a jiffy.”

Arcade tried to shift sideways. “That’s not actually how one uses the word….” Vulpes eyes were closed, his dark eyelashes harsh streaks against his shadowed skin. “Precisely.” Arcade lay back down and tenderly stroked Vulpes’ glossy hair. “A huge, majestic, irradiated jiffy. That’s us.”

Any wasteland that had room enough for a devoted alliance between a Follower and a former Frumentarius had room for several mythical creatures, after all.

Chapter Text

The Malpais Legate.

Seeing the man, seeing his living, burned flesh, should not have surprised Vulpes. Being true to Caesar, Vulpes had never officially confirmed the rumors, but both he and Caesar knew them to be true: The Burned Man walked.

Frumentarii who approached Zion never returned. The absence of proof was in fact proof of Joshua Graham's existence. No one else could vanquish so many of Caesar’s spies and assassins.

But to actually see the man with his own eyes, a survivor of great Caesar's ire, pitch, and flames....

The ex-Legate was impressive, though he should not have been. Average height. Average build. Features hidden behind thick swathes of bandages. Perhaps it was the intensity of his eyes. Perhaps the gravelly sound of his voice.

Arcade certainly liked Graham’s voice. It was irritating how the doctor encouraged Graham’s deep, hypnotic monologues and intonations of useless, shamanistic phrases. That was a statement of fact. Not… jealousy.

He was not remotely jealous as he watched Arcade deftly changing Graham’s bandages by firelight, while the campfire crackled and occasionally threw sparks into the darkness.

Not remotely…. Perhaps a little bit.

He inched closer to Arcade, not caring if Graham interpreted the stance as possessive, and listened to their discussion.

Arcade and Graham were fighting a verbal duel, marshaling battalions of quotes apparently all pulled from the same Old World book, titled Scripture, and launching these utterances at each other with quick and clever aplomb.

Vulpes dutifully championed Arcade to win, even though Arcade’s version of this ancient text brimmed with peace, forgiveness, and love, whereas Graham’s edition revolved around wrath, judgment, and blood—which honestly was far more compelling.

But Arcade was not a shaman, as Graham was, so perhaps some textual nuances were lost on him.

Follows-Chalk approached the campfire at this point and indicated Graham was needed elsewhere. They would battle the White Legs the next day, and last-minute preparations kept popping up.

Graham helped Arcade finish the bandaging. “Salt-Upon-Wounds waits for us tomorrow. There will be blood. But let your conscience rest peacefully. Killing, if done righteously, is merely a chore as any other.”

“No.” Arcade rejected Graham’s statement emphatically. “Killing should never be described as a chore.”

“It’s too enjoyable,” Vulpes offered.

A scandalized burble escaped Arcade. “That wasn’t what I meant at all. I mean killing should never be normalized into part of a person’s daily routine.” He looked down at his hands. “Of course, we tend to do it on a daily basis. But only to bad guys!”

Graham contemplated Arcade and made a pitying noise. “Righteous killing is all we have to protect ourselves. Virtue and morality alone can’t keep us safe. Honest hearts bleed, good men die, innocence cannot stop a bullet. But I forgive your naïveté. You are a Follower of the Apocalypse.”

Then, as if suddenly reminded of Vulpes existence, he turned to face him. “You, on the other hand, are a sinful, murderous heathen. Your death would have been a step in repaying Caesar, the removal of your services to him a blow to the strength of his Legion.” He glanced back at Arcade. “But you say you have already weakened Caesar with this one’s removal. A removal of loyalties rather than a removal from life. I would not have thought it possible.”

Arcade’s back had stiffened. “I didn’t do anything. Vulpes rescued me. He didn’t need to be set on fire and thrown off a monumental cliff to realize Caesar was evil.”

Vulpes tensed, ready to defend Arcade in case Graham responded to that affirmation with violence.

Instead of taking offense, Graham released a short, rumbling chuckle. “Though misguided, your heart does you credit. The light of the mind alone cannot dispel the whole world’s darkness. Perhaps your hand will be a blessing upon New Vegas.”

Arcade shifted uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Follows-Chalk reiterated his humble request for Graham to come with him, and they left, boots crunching on gravel.

Arcade slid over to Vulpes until their sides pressed against each other. “You’re not annoyed that we’re helping the Sorrows, are you? I know it’s technically a distraction, but we have to help. I can’t sit and do nothing when—“

“Of course you must help.”

“Then…what’s up? You’ve been pretty quiet.”

“I have been…observing.”

“Oh? Learned anything interesting?”

“Yes. You have a weak spot for ex-Legion members with interesting voices.”

Arcade smiled. “It’s a kink, I grant you. But you should know… the object of my affections is not interchangeable. There’s only one, irreplaceable lover in my life. That’s you, by the way. Just so you know. I’d say it more often, but I’m afraid of disgusting you with my awkward declarations of devotion.”

Vulpes' lips parted but he couldn’t frame a response. The words he wanted were still foreign to him and slipped away when they needed to be said.

He was good at seduction, as that was based entirely on lies. Responding to affection with honesty was like ripping open his own chest. In fact, he felt it would be easier to pull out his beating heart and give it to Arcade rather than to speak words offering his heart.

During Vulpes’ silence, Arcade’s face had turned a splotchy pink. “So…umm… we should probably get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”

“I do not sleep well in the presence of others.”

“You sleep when you’re with me.”

“Yes.”

“O-okay.”

The doctor clearly did not understand the inherent compliment he was being given in Vulpes’ ability to sleep in his presence.

Vulpes natural state of existence was to be on edge, watching, waiting, a hair’s breath away from alertness even when he took rest. Even inside a shelter, in a bed, or in camp, his eyes would slide open the moment anyone moved, his senses ever vigilant. Sleeping was a vulnerable state, and being vulnerable was fairly asking to be murdered in the Wastes.

That he could lie next to Arcade inside the Lucky 38 and not awaken when his partner moved, that he could sleep the vulnerable, complete unconsciousness of the victims and soon to be dead while Arcade lay beside him was still something of a shock to him. There was a languorous sort of bliss to waking slowly at Arcade’s side in the Lucky 38’s soft and profligately pillowed bed that had been unknown in his life before.

“This first watch of the night will be for you to slumber,” he told Arcade. “Move that bedding here and lay beside me. I will watch over you.”

Arcade rearranged the sleeping bag and blanket. “Wish they had pillows,” he mumbled to himself.



“You have my lap.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer if you’re not careful.”

“I wish you to ‘take me up’ on all my offers. There is nothing I would deny you.”

Arcade removed his glasses and fiddled with them, the pulse in his throat beating a flustered tattoo. Vulpes took the glasses from his shaking fingers.

“I shall keep these safe, too.”

A moment later Arcade was snuggling against Vulpes’ thigh. “I don’t know if you realize it, but you’re inflaming my imagination. Stop it. The Sorrows are too innocent for the sight of what I want to do to you.”

Vulpes petted Arcade's bright hair until he fell asleep.

Several hours later, Graham returned. He noted their sleeping configuration, Arcade’s head pillowed on Vulpes’ lap, and stopped.

Vulpes glared at him, daring him to approach.

Coming to a decision, Graham strode over, crouched at Vulpes’ side and whispered, “What does the good doctor see in you? You are an unrepentant sinner, a butcher living in darkness. As I was.”

Vulpes shrugged. “I do not deny it. I care nothing for the Mojave or Zion. I have contempt for the NCR. I despise profligates, the dissolute, and most humans I have met.” Very gently, he touched Arcade’s cheek. “My only concern is this man. I will save Arcade Gannon, and Arcade Gannon will save the Wasteland.”

Graham nodded thoughtfully. “He has a quality of mercy I had forgotten the Followers of the Apocalypse could possess.” The bandages over his mouth moved like he was twisting his lips. “My exposure to them was as revolutionary as yours, though not as morally enriching….” There was a definite beat before he added, “Nor as pleasurable.”

There was something in the way the world ‘pleasurable’ rolled off his tongue that raised Vulpes’ hackles. “Speak your thoughts, Legate.”

“You heard me tell the doctor I survived Caesar’s punishment because the fire inside me burned brighter than the fire around me. That internal fire keeping me alive… was love. New Canaan's love. God's love.”

Vulpes snorted, a swift derisive sound.

“You do not believe in this love, just as I do not condone the love you share with your Follower. Oh yes. I see it. But perhaps, despite our limitations, both exist, and are meant to exist. And the love inside you will preserve your life in your fire to come.” Graham paused. “But if it does not, let your death mean something.”

“That was my intention,” Vulpes replied, his tone icy and inflexible even though a part of him recognized the Legate meant well. He inhaled and tried again. “The Legion will retreat. The NCR will retreat. Arcade will have the independent New Vegas he desires. I will happily go to my grave to see this done.”

Graham nodded. “We each protect lambs from ravening wolves, and to do so become wolves ourselves.”

“He’s not a wolf, he’s a teddy bear,” murmured Arcade, still mostly asleep. He rolled over so he was facing Vulpes, head still pillowed upon his lap, wrapped his arms around Vulpes’ waist and hugged hard, pressing his face into Vulpes flesh.

Vulpes fought not to respond, gritting his teeth and swallowing back the noise that Arcade's touch drew from his core. He failed, and the resulting strangled groan was most embarrassing.

Graham clasped his shoulder and stood. “My greatest regret is that I was too close to see when Edward strayed from the path of salvation. Learn from my mistake. Keep your Follower safe, body and soul. And you will be doing God’s work, whether you believe it or not.”

Vulpes watched him leave.

“I’m not a Wasteland Savior,” Arcade mumbled, groggily trying to surface into awareness.

“No.” Vulpes stroked Arcade’s golden eyebrow, tenderly following the circuit of his eye socket. “You are the Last, Best Hope of Humanity, I believe. Go back to sleep.”

Luckily for him, Arcade did.

Chapter Text

The gruff voice spoke very slowly, contemptuously, grating on Arcade’s ears, “The Brotherhood has successfully hunted so many Enclave members, you’re practically an endangered species. It’s been years since we’ve had a good capture. And now I’ve got one. All to myself.”

Arcade blinked back to consciousness. The world was fuzzy. Where were his glasses? Reaching for his face, he started to sit up.

And didn’t move.

Leather restraints squeaked as he twisted his torso and wrist. The hell?? Panic slammed through him as he tried and failed to move any of his limbs.

“Struggle all you want,” said the voice from somewhere behind him. “You lost as soon as you arrived here.”

He couldn’t turn to see who spoke because he was on his back, bound with straps across his midsection, wrists, and ankles, to a flat, metal table. Its chill raised gooseflesh across his skin. All his skin.

He was naked.

Oh not good. NOT GOOD.

He urged his dazed brain to think. Cold meant air-conditioning, meant a working Old World structure. He remembered just as the old man said its name.

“The Sierra Madre will be your grave.”

The Sierra Madre.

Elijah.

“Yet another deranged warlord,” mumbled Arcade, annoyed his voice wasn’t more clear. “Why do they always want to see me naked?”

He’d been drugged. It was just after…. Christine had been about to activate the voice lock on Vera’s private elevator to the vault so they could go… when Elijah had ambushed him with a needle to the neck.

“I imagine it’s your Enclave physique.”

Elijah appeared in Arcade’s line of vision, walking from behind his head toward the other end of the table, letting his fingers graze along Arcade’s flank as he passed.

Arcade flinched away from the touch, more reflex than conscious thought, and suddenly Elijah had both his hands framing Arcade’s right thigh and ran them down the length of his leg. “Excellent conformation. I knew you were one of them the moment I saw you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Arcade growled.

Elijah ignored him. “Of all the people Dog could have fetched for me.” He shook his head as if wondering at his own good luck.

Then he ran a forceful, stubby finger up the sole of Arcade’s foot.

An annoying contact that felt somehow invasive, it jarred Arcade’s frayed nerves and he tried to kick out, but the restraints meant he only rattled the table.

Elijah strolled closer to Arcade’s face, petting first Arcade’s knee, then his ribs. “Amazing what elite breeding, proper nutrition, and a youth protected from radiation will produce.” Fingers traced Arcade’s pectorals. “A pure, 'true human.' Isn’t that what you called yourselves?”

“I never called myself anything. You have the wrong person.”

“Play stupid, then.” He disappeared out of view behind Arcade’s head.

Arcade heard the slosh of liquid in a bottle. Suddenly a ball of wet cotton pressed an icy shock of sharp, astringent-smelling liquid against his skin, along his right eyebrow and then entirely circling his ocular orbit.

“Odd that they let you survive childhood with defective vision. Or did that develop later?” A fresh, wet cotton ball completed the circuit of his left eye. “I was never interested in the human machine, but Auto-Docs have proved useful in my travels… the Big Empty’s, Sinclair’s.… Being trapped here in the casino, I needed a hobby. And I’ve always liked to be hands-on.”

“Only when you couldn’t get others to do the work for you.” It was a good retort, if only his voice wasn’t so tight with worry.

The cold touch disappeared, to be quickly followed by the snap of surgical gloves being donned. The sound made Arcade wince.

Where were Vulpes and Christine? Elijah wouldn’t have killed them. He needed them for the final stage of his heist.

Was he a hostage? This yet another method of enforcing compliance? Control freak.

Elijah indulged in a second round of glove snapping, clearly for Arcade’s benefit.

Over-dramatic control freak.

Which meant his best chance at foiling Elijah’s plans would be to subvert that sense of control. Get him angry, distracted. Get him to make a mistake.

“I’ve been thinking,” Arcade began, with the unperturbed confidence of someone not strapped to a metal table. “The Brotherhood of Steel and the Cloud are very much alike. Both toxic non-entities, mindlessly preserving Old World tech while helping nobody with it. Fair comparison?”

“You’re playing for time. But time has been against you since America ended,” Elijah jeered, coming around to stand where Arcade could see his face. “The Enclave thought they were so clever, and ended up being brought down by cowboys. You didn’t deserve the technology you created. The Brotherhood—”

“If this is going to become a full-scale rant, could I get a pillow? Also some coffee. And ear plugs.”

Elijah chuckled. It was an unfriendly sound. Arcade wished he could see the man’s face clearly.

“A few tissue samples, I think. Preserve that Enclave DNA. Perhaps you’d like to donate an organ?”

“In the words of Socrates, ‘Go fornicate yourself’.”

“You’re suggesting semen collection? Yes. Perhaps by electro-ejaculation. Something for you to look forward to.” Elijah moved behind Arcade’s head again. “But first…. Royce may have told you I enjoy finding limits… boundaries… and breaking them. I’m going to test the limits of your enhanced physical endurance. I’d enjoy it if you struggle against me. But it won’t make any difference to the results.”

Metal clinked against metal. Tools on a tray. Elijah had picked something up.

“We’ll start small.”

He came back into Arcade’s line of vision, brandishing a shiny instrument. Tweezers? Arcade almost sighed with relief. What could he do with…?

The tiny pincers closed over Arcade’s left nipple and squeezed, cruel and hard. He jolted against the restraints, unprepared for the pain.

“Excellent reaction to stimulus.” Elijah pinched the other nipple, twisted the device, and Arcade’s body jerked helplessly again. “Do you think I can break you before the others clear the way to my treasure in the vault?”

Arcade clenched his jaw against another vicious assault, this time on the sensitive nerve endings of his lower abdomen. “I’m writing a strongly worded letter of complaint to Frederick Sinclair.” He gasped, swallowed back a whimper at another shock of pain. “Service here is terrible. Still no coffee.”

——————————————

Christine finished hacking the turrets. “They’ll fire on Elijah now, not us,” she said, glancing over at Vulpes. “You realize this means, when he brings your friend down in the elevator, they’ll be opening fire on him, too.”

“Understood.” Vulpes didn’t look up from the collection of holotapes and personal logs he had loaded onto the vault control terminal. “As long as you give me a chance to rescue Arcade first.”

She patted the turret command keyboard, then wandered to stand beside the table loaded with gold bars. “Ending Elijah is more important than saving your friend.”

“We can accomplish both.”

“Remember, if you’re in the line of fire, a hail of bullets will be coming for you, too.”

“Once my friend is clear, you have my permission to open fire regardless.”

“I don’t need your permission.”

He shrugged and kept reading.

“Elijah must die. You don’t know the things he’s done. I can’t let this go. I’m sorry.”

“I would not ask you to. But Arcade lives. Or everybody dies.” He straightened up from the terminal, somehow managing to look both icily pensive and darkly amused.

“What?”

“You noticed when we achieved this objective that it was singularly lacking in any treasure for Elijah to exploit. Would you care to know why?” He indicated the terminal screen.

When Christine finished reading the log entries and messages on the final terminal, she drew back and whistled. “He did it all for her. Power. Food dispensers. Medical supplies. Security. Sinclair built a vault to protect that starlet and a world to welcome her when she returned to the surface.”

Vulpes’ lip curled in disgust. “The Old World was as corrupt and decadent as Caesar always maintained.”

“What? I had someone I would have done that for. Once. Elijah took her away. Just like he wants to take this…”treasure.” And he’ll never understand the worth of either. Neither will you.“

“You think I do not understand love?”

Christine raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re sneering.”

“This man Sinclair knew nothing of love. His building is a monument to obsession and greed. She was dying and he did not notice. She was trapped by Domino and he didn’t see. She loved him and he failed to recognize that truth until it was too late. Even had she not reciprocated his affection, love doesn’t plot the murder of the beloved. There are other words for that. And I am familiar with all of them. Perhaps I do not understand love, but I understand what love is not.”

Christine tapped her fingers against her lips. “Sinclair should have let go.”

“Yes.”

“For a Legion boy, you have—“

“Thought quite a bit about love. I know. As my friend would say, shut up.”


“I was going to say, ‘a subtle intelligence.’”

“Ah. I was Frumentarii.”

“Yes, I believe that. I also believe you have thought quite a bit about love.”

“Shut up.”

Christine laughed, and stopped abruptly, startled. “That was not my laugh. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this. If Dean Domino wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him again.”

“Hold on to that emotion. I shall be contacting Elijah on the security intercom, to tell him the vault is secure, his treasure awaits, and to bring Arcade as he promised.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve tracked that madman for so long…. I’m ready to put him down. Whatever it takes.”

——————————————

Christine was as good as her word.

She gave Vulpes enough time to pounce on Elijah and free Arcade, before opening fire with the turrets. Then she launched herself into the bloodbath.

When they were done, there wasn’t enough left of Elijah to spit on.

Then, her mission complete, and no Veronica to return to, Christine elected to stay behind, where she need never speak with Vera’s voice, guarding the secrets of the Sierra Madre.

Just one more ghost amongst the holograms endlessly reenacting scenes that had graced the casino’s pre-War halls.

Vulpes and Arcade left the Sierra Madre, walking past a crowd of holograms miming applause for a mute hologram singing on stage.

“Do you ever think that’s what we are?” Arcade asked. “Hollow men, stuck reliving patterns that died with the Old World. More focused on re-creating what we think life was than creating something new for the world that will be.”

“When you are in charge of the Mojave, you can change that.”

“Who knew all those years of reading failed Pre-War socioeconomic policies would one day pay off.” Grinning, he glanced sideways at Vulpes. “And watching Gladiator movie holotapes.”

Vulpes snorted. “I am fairly certain those holotapes are historically inaccurate.”

They could hear the Sierra Madre’s farewell broadcast issuing from what speakers remained under the blood-red sky. “Farewells can be a time of sadness….”

“I’m more than happy to leave this place.” Arcade stumbled against Vulpes’ side and Vulpes caught him.

“Are you certain—“

“No Med-X.” Arcade shook his head. “I see a syringe, I think of Vera. Poor thing. I’m just sore. Life has done worse to me.”

Vera’s recorded voice was still speaking in the background, “…that fortunes were more than the wealth in your hands….”

“Perhaps Sinclair had an idea, at that. You are in need of a vault to keep you safe from Life.”

“Funny. No, I’ve got you. That’s enough.”

“…to those who know these joys, the Sierra Madre holds little they don’t already have,” Vera said as Vulpes and Arcade exited the Sierra Madre gates.

Chapter Text

"What do you mean, no??" Arcade's voice rose in both volume and anxiety as he spoke.

“NO,” thundered Dr. Klein. “WHAT ELSE CAN WE DENY YOU?”

“You’re not performing my brain surgery until after we perform one more experiment for you? We have to discuss this."

"WHY? YOU HAVE YOUR BRAIN. WE HAVE THE TECHNOLOGY. ALL YOU MUST DO TO INTERSECT THE TWO ... IS SURRENDER.”

"I told you they couldn't be trusted." Arcade's brain, suspended in its bio-med gel-filled jar, sniffed haughtily. "But did you listen to me? Do you EVER listen to me?"

"Shut up," Arcade snarled at it.

"Oh, no, not you,” his brain continued, mocking him. "It's always 'Let's listen to my heart’ or 'Let's listen to my glands.’"

“Will. You. Shut. ARGH!" Arcade broke off in a shout of frustrated rage, fingers wriggling like he wanted to strangle something.

"Look! Look! Its penises are all aquiver!"

"Doctor. Dala.” Arcade’s voice grew very precise, very level, and almost dangerous in its calm. “This is not a penis. It is a finger. Here is another, very specific finger. And here is its compatriot on my other hand.”

Suddenly he plunged his face into his palms. “Oh Lord help me, I'm making rude gestures at robots. What is my life." He whirled on the jar in which his brain floated. "I blame this on you!”

"Me? I'm not in your cranium," Arcade's brain protested.

"Exactly! And you should be! You are abandoning your duty of care to the rest of my body. This is... treason! Brain treason!” Arcade shook his head. "I cannot believe I am confronting my own brain. And it’s being a dick! I mean, giant robotic scorpions? No problem. Mad scientist in the Forbidden Zone? We’re there. But my own brain in a jar? This isn't happening. That's it. I draw the line.”

“You draw the line? What about me?" whined his brain. "Condemned to the tyranny of your grotesque biological functions and oozing hormones. Especially when you think about..." The volume on the brain's voice modulator lowered and it hissed, "Him." Suddenly it made a burbling sound of shock. "Stop that! You're doing it right now! I don't even have to say his name anymore. Your debauched fantasies never stop! Your reproductive system just shoots into overdrive and I have to deal with all the gooey consequences.”

“I hate you.” Arcade growled.

At that point, Vulpes returned from The Sink.

"Where have you been?" Arcade snapped.

“Getting purified water for our journey. The toaster and I—"

“Stop right there. No sentence that begins with 'the toaster and I’ ever ended sanely. Or even remotely well."

"It is a very bloodthirsty appliance. It advises—“

"No. We are not taking battle tactic advice from that toaster. I don't care what it thinks it knows about death rays."

“Look! Its little face is turning pink!” Dr. Dala floated closer to Arcade, her screens thrusting into his personal space. “Is that exertion? Breathe faster, my proud, magnificent teddy bear. Heavier. This is so exciting!"

Vulpes raised an eyebrow. ”Is that collection of Old World technology … flirting—?”

"That is Dr. Dala and she is not flirting with me. Please ignore her. Are you laughing?!”

“Not at all," Vulpes replied. "Perhaps a mild smile. Nothing more.”

“I hate everyone.”

“Now you know how I feel,” Arcade’s brain announced archly. “The idiots I have to deal with. Including you. Taking me into gangrenous vaults and disease-ridden communities. You want to save the Mojave but do you ever care how I feel?”

Vulpes moved to stand close at Arcade's right side, his mere proximity a balm, making Arcade feel a little less attacked. He sighed. "They've taken my brain, my heart, my spine, and my dignity."

"Will killing any of them help at all?" asked Vulpes.

"No."

"I can bring you a dog," Vulpes offered.

"Those are my options? Mass murder or a pet?"

"She is quite a nice robotic dog. Roxie. Perhaps a fitting partner for Rex."

"Well someone deserves to benefit from this hell of an expedition. Let's bring Rex a girlfriend, by all means."

“You cannot leave before you help me with my research, dear Lobotomites," Dr. Dala reminded them.

“Dare I even ask,” began Arcade, “What precisely do you want us to do, Dala?”

“In 43% of observed cases, two Lobotomites left alone will fight for dominance or inject bodily fluids into each other's orifices. Unsanitary. But intriguing. Unfortunately....”

“I don’t like where this is going,” Arcade growled.

“STOP RESISTING. OR IT’S THE SCHRODINGER BOX FOR YOU.”

“You can’t harm my teddy bear,” Dala protested.

“I’M NOT GOING TO HARM IT. I’M GOING TO DISSECT IT UNTIL IT’S DEAD.”

“But not if we agree to this experiment, is that correct?” asked Vulpes. “We obey, Arcade will get his brain, and we will be released unharmed?”

“Correct,” said Dr. Borous. “We’re not MONSTERS. This is FOR SCIENCE.”

Arcade swore at Borous. In Latin.

Doctor 8 buzzed and squeaked.

“I DID SO understand him!” Borous yelled at 8.

“Unfortunately, my research has stalled,” Dala meanwhile explained, her voice silky and unflappable. “I have tried to observe more cases, but subjects seem unwilling to release bodily fluids in my presence. It is most frustrating. You will help me, won’t you, my little teddy Lobotomite?”

Arcade groaned. “This is unreal.”

“It’s not formography,” Dala added quickly, almost guiltily. “Only Science.”

“EVERYTHING we do here is FOR SCIENCE.”

“You, sir, are a sadist. I saw what you did to your dog,” Arcade snapped at Borous.

“We could exchange saliva," offered Vulpes, resolutely adhering to the main topic.

Arcade glared at him.

Vulpes shrugged. “Lanius will not wait forever. We need to return to the Mojave and I am willing to be pragmatic about this.”

“Oh, yes, please perform for me, my Loboto-Bears.”

Vulpes moved so he stood chest to chest with Arcade, and waited silently for permission.

Arcade made several circular motions with his arms, carefully avoiding contact with Vulpes, and muttered, “I am so done with this place,” before grasping Vulpes’ shoulders and pulling him into a kiss.

He hadn't expected Vulpes to respond. He'd figured they could mash their mouths together for a second or two and that would be that. Done. Dusted. Over with.

But Vulpes was actually kissing him, melting his exasperation and softening the pressure of his mouth with a leisurely assault of licks and nibbles and gentle exploration. Short, sweet touches, never sloppy. Vulpes was teasing him, seducing him like he was some shy target from whom the spy wanted to wrest information. He had forgotten Vulpes had these talents.

Possibly that was why Vulpes had made the offer to the Think Tanks in the first place. This wasn’t a private or personal experience for him. Kissing was just one more weapon in the toolbox of the Frumentarii; what he offered them no more emotionally engaging than an offer of a ripper demonstration. Just an exchange of saliva, like he said.

He let Vulpes’ tongue briefly swirl with his, heat rising in his veins. If only he could be as detached about this.

“How does that tube of flesh feel, lolling about in your mouthal cavity?” Dala purred.

Vulpes pulled back, confused.

“Tongue. She means our tongues,” muttered Arcade.

“Like a mucus-y, muscled worm,” Dala continued, enthralled. “Don’t stop.”

“We have exchanged bodily fluids. The experiment is over,” stated Vulpes.

“No, no, all the fluids.” Dala inhaled with an excited hum.

Arcade expected a reaction of violence or insulted fury, but instead Vulpes’ hand simply moved to Arcade’s neck, took hold of the long zipper of the Lobotomite jumpsuit they’d been forced to wear, and lightly pulled.

Arcade’s fingers immediately gripped his wrist, halting the zipper's progress. This wasn't right, no matter how willing his glands were and how loudly his heart thumped in his ears. “We could just kill them all.”

“Then you wouldn’t get your brain back.”

“I’m beginning to think that’s the lesser of two evils.”

“I don’t need you, either!” called Arcade’s brain from behind them.

“I will obey any command you give me. But you should know….” Vulpes dark eyebrows knit for a moment and he broke eye contact. “I have witnessed you displayed at a disadvantage before me. It would seem only fair if this were your turn to witness me in similar straits.”

“I’ve said this to Boone and I’ll say it to you: Life isn’t a series of paybacks. Besides….” Arcade couldn’t help the small grin he could feel forming on his lips. “Somehow I don’t think you’re ever at a disadvantage.”

“Then allow me to do this. I cannot say I will be as skilled as you were in Caesar's tent, but I am willing to make the attempt.”

Arcade hadn’t realized his grip on Vulpes’ wrist had loosened until the zip made little snicking noises in the room’s hush as it traveled south, down Arcade’s chest, past his waist, all the way to the base of his crotch.

The upper part of the jumpsuit parted in a wide ‘V’, revealing the black t-shirt Arcade wore beneath. Vulpes’ artful fingers tugged at the shirt’s hem, raising it up to reveal a fine trail of blonde hair that disappeared behind low-rise briefs.

Doctor 8 buzzed and beeped excitedly.

"The SONIC EMITTER," yelped Borous. "SOMEONE get 8 the EMITTER. To receive his AROUSAL."

"This is never going to work," hissed Arcade, mostly to himself. Having the Think Tanks as an audience was both humiliating and distracting.

With his fingertips, Vulpes traced the line of gold, slowly, as if to caress each individual hair, and the muscles of Arcade’s lower belly fluttered helplessly in response. The light touch drifted lower, ghosting over the fabric of Arcade's briefs and cupping him in a way that made a tiny whimper escape his throat before he could stifle it.

Their eyes met. Vulpes' were almost black, his expression predatory. "Yes. It will."

Arcade’s breath hitched.

Still holding his gaze, very deliberately, Vulpes sank to his knees before him.

Vulpes lowered himself with the same controlled, feline grace all his motions possessed, and the dark pull in Arcade’s groin at the sight surprised him not only in its strength but in its very existence.

“I—I—-“ Arcade swallowed thickly. That sinister thrill of power electrifying his senses he associated with the Enclave, and he didn’t want to indulge anything that could make him similar to them.

Except that feeling was so incredibly… wickedly pleasurable. He had to admit he preferred the dominant position, and this... mastery lent a bright, irresistible edge to the want building within him.

Vulpes continued to kneel before him, awaiting his command. Arcade couldn’t think what he wanted to say. And the longer he delayed, the more consuming that ache grew. He almost wished one of the Think Tanks would say something and kill his excitement.

Then Vulpes leaned forward and nuzzled him. At first it was just gentle pressure, becoming small, pleasing friction as he rubbed with this nose and cheek, and then humid heat as he mouthed the fabric separating him from Arcade’s flesh.

"That's good." Breath quickening, Arcade surrendered. “Very good.” He ran his fingers through Vulpes’ dark hair, petting him. “More. Touch me.”

“Yes," Dala, her voice a low, breathy croon, urged. "Encircle your warm hands around it. Cradle it with your finger muscles.”

Freeing Arcade’s cock from his briefs, Vulpes obeyed.

Calloused skin closed around his erection, grip just the good side of painful, and Arcade watched in awestruck silence as Vulpes stroked him. That hand was capable of terrible destruction, and to see it turned to serving him was just… it made him feel soooo….. He bit his lower lip, trying to keep back a moan.

This couldn’t really be happening. From what he’d gathered, the Legion regarded the kneeling partner in this position with the same disgust as actual ancient Rome. And yet, there before his eyes, Vulpes knelt at his feet, the look of concentration on his face adorable… and slightly scary in its intensity.

Arcade was the center, the absolute focus of all his attention. He was truly trying to figure this out and make it good. Arcade placed his hand over Vulpes’, fingers interweaving, guiding him to what he liked best.

“That’s it. Just like that.” Amazing how much better this felt than his own hand alone, even under these circumstances.

Slipping his other hand down to fondle the special spot behind his balls, Arcade’s head fell back, eyelids sliding closed, and he gave himself up to the pleasure.

At least the Think Tanks hadn’t demanded Vulpes perform oral sex—that was considered exponentially more degrading to the giver. He was going to feel guilty enough about this later.

But that was later.

Right now his hindbrain was glorying in the attention. “Don’t stop. You’re going to make me come.”

“Yes, keep going. Release your bodily fluids into him, my big blonde bear.”

INTO??

Arcade’s eyes flew open in time to see Vulpes’ mouth closing over the head of his cock. He hadn’t expected this, didn’t want Vulpes thinking he had no choice but to comply, and tried to say so.

Unfortunately, his protest to the Think Tanks came out as a garbled, mindless groan.

Teeth and jaws that could destroy him were instead being used with a delicious delicacy to bring him pleasure. Suction and tongue and the grazing touch of teeth; he was being worshipped by that hot mouth.

“Oh, you’re good at this. So good.” His fingertips dug into Vulpes’ skull, compelling even though Vulpes already complied, before he even realized his hands had moved.

He could hear Vulpes’ soft grunts as he worked to keep Arcade’s rhythm without choking, feel where Vulpes’ hand had replaced his, stroking behind his balls at the same time.

He could also hear Dala making odd whooo-ing noises in the background but it didn’t matter. He was so, so close and it was going to be glorious.

“So good. So good,” Arcade murmured, the chant all his overloaded brain could proffer. He wracked his swiftly melting intelligence to come up with something else, some compliment he could give that would exist just between them, something private in which the Think Tanks couldn’t share.

“Pulcher es. Totus pulcher es, amicus meus.” Beautiful. You are completely beautiful, my friend. He struggled to get the words out, breathing hard, voice raspy with the frantic, throbbing need building inside him. “Te amo. Semper te amabo.” I love you. I will always love you.

He called out Vulpes' name, fleetingly noting how it echoed in the central dome before his mind became incapable of thought, blown across the stars.

Vulpes sucked down each pulse of semen, swallowing, pulling Arcade’s climax from him as fast as his convulsing muscles could offer it up. Arcade moaned through his release, more vocal than he had ever been before, and he didn't care; his entire existence was concentrated into that pure, intense, overwhelming sensation.

Out of breath, dazed, satiated, Arcade’s gradually returning situational awareness first registered Vulpes’ tongue tenderly cleaning his softening cock before he realized he was still loosely gripping Vulpes’ skull.

Quickly releasing him, Arcade put himself away as Vulpes sat back on his heels, subtly moving his jaw like he was trying to soothe the sore joint without being noticed.

With his free hand, Arcade reached to cradle Vulpes face, palm to his cheek, and wipe the water that had collected and spilled at the corner of Vulpes’ eye with his thumb.

Wordlessly, Vulpes' eyes slipped shut and he leaned into the touch.

Dala sighed contentedly, then purred, “You have sufficiently percolated me.”

Arcade raised an eyebrow at Dala, then gave her his best scathing expression. “I thought this was for science.”

“THE EXPERIMENT IS OVER,” Klein cut in. “THAT’S YOUR CUE.”

“Right. Whatever,” Arcade snapped at the Think Tanks. He offered his hand and pulled Vulpes to his feet. “I’m going to go get my brain installed—“

“Over my better judgment,” muttered Arcade’s brain. “Did you see that? Ignoring the squick factor, do you understand the degree of dehydration I’m going to be forced to operate under?”

Arcade ignored it. “Then we’ll pick up that dog you mentioned and go home,” he said to Vulpes.

Dala sighed. “I will miss you and the pitter-patter of your penis feet so much.”

Without looking at her, Arcade flourished a very specific finger.

“GREAT,” Dr. Klein said dourly as he floated away to prepare Arcade’s brain for the operation. “NOW THE PENIS ON ITS HAND IS ACHIEVING ERECTION.”