Fallout: Rise Of The Burned Man

Chapter VI

Neither repented they of their murders, nor of their sorceries, nor of their fornication, nor of their thefts. [Book of Revelation]

The streets of Freeside seemed a little busier than usual, the Courier noted as he passed through, his eyes wandering over his surroundings on the way to the New Vegas Strip. Children screamed as they ran past chasing one another with guns too heavy for their small hands and vagrants swore and mumbled, slumped in broken doorways as they were tended to by Dixon, Freeside's primary chem pusher. The female crier for the Atomic Wrangler winked at him as he walked past and he averted his eyes, his gaze falling upon a King who leant in the doorway of the King's School of Impersonation, his face hollowed out by the neon lights. He smiled at the Courier before tossing his cigarette away and heading indoors.

The lower-ranks of the Kings still retained their respect for the Courier who'd done so much for Freeside and the Followers in the past few months but he knew that the King's favour which had originally been given was rapidly being revoked. There had been a time when he'd walked the streets of Freeside and a King would run up and hand him a stimpak with thanks from the King.

That time had since passed.

He flashed his passport into the Strip at the securitron at the gate who moved aside to let him through, clambering over the dead body of a vagrant who'd thought to try and outrun Mr. House's security guards. As though such a thing were possible.

The Courier made his way towards the Gomorrah, the casino owned by the Omerta family and arguably the most seedy on the New Vegas Strip. Each of the major casinos had their own 'feel' - the Tops was a place for the men of the Mojave to kick back and have a good time, the Ultra Luxe was a place for the gamblers who wanted to pretend they were owed the finer things in life, the Lucky-38 was pre-war simple gambling and the Gomorrah was a pantomime of all of the things which could drag a man to perdition. In their own way, the Courier judged them all to be as corrupt as one another but there was a special kind of hatred he had reserved for the patrons and the owners of the Gomorrah.

It was a house of whores, even by the Strip's standards.

Vulpes Inculta was sat at the bar in Brimstone, his pale fingers clasped around a cold tumbler of whiskey; the ice cubes beginning to melt into the amber in the heat of the room. His expression was one of apathetic distaste as he watched a chained prostitute dancing on the table opposite, sweat shining on her body. He looked away.

"Vodka," the Courier said quietly to the serving ghoul who smiled her approval.

"I'll bet you will," she said, her eyes heavily lidded, her lips pouting, "Can I get you anything else?"

The Courier was unsure if her whorish attitude was genuine or just demanded of her by the owners of the casino. Regardless, he shook his head, collapsing down into the seat next to the head of the Frumentarii as the server slid him his alcohol.

"You have news?" Vulpes asked, not turning to face the Courier as he watched the gamblers across the way. His voice was eerily cool despite the heat of the bar and slippery like silk. The Courier had always expected to see the flash of a silver tongue whenever he spoke.

"Yes," the Courier said, swilling the alcohol about the bottom of the glass, "There is work for a resistance in Freeside, formed through an alliance between the Kings, the locals and funded by the Van Graffs. The Followers also have given aid."

"Who leads the movement?" Vulpes asked calmly.

"The King," the Courier tapped his glass on the wood of the table, "Julie Farkas seemed to know a lot about it, so her for the Followers. Jean-Baptiste is giving weapons and there will be underground safe rooms and an escape route through the basement of the King's School of Impersonation."