standard disclaimer applies
this one of the chapters that gives the story it's M rating so if graphic sex makes you queasy you should avoid this part. Also, though I've put this under the category of "romance", bear in mind it's not your average meet-and-fall-in-love story. Benny had shot the courier in the head only a month ago, remember.
As always, critique welcomed and appreciated
and then in the strange way things happen
their roles were reversed from that day
the hunted became the huntress
the hunter became the prey
Man oh man, Benny thought right before his brain fried completely, this broad was about ready to blow. He probably wasn't going to have to do a whole lot of anything to get her off. She was just primed for it.
She also had her hand down his pants and was literally giving him the best handjob of his life.
"Must be a courier thing," he said, his voice strained like every muscle in his damn body. "You're damn good at handling packages."
She didn't laugh, but her hand did tighten over his cock so the outcome was all good. He arched over her, hands on each side of her hips as she slowly stroked him, up and down, jumping from sharp, powerful caresses to languid, soft ones. And that was so good and put him into this perfect haze of pure sex, but it was kind of one-sided, her doing all the work, and Benny sort of prided himself on being the big man around town. Hell, the whores of Gomorrah came to him when they were looking for a good time. For free.
The broad wasn't as stacked as he usually preferred his dames—he liked them like that Gomorrah poster, big breasts and round ass—but there was definitely something to be said about the high, perky charlies that pushed up against her shirt and the way her curves were lean lines merging into more lean lines. She was sleek, like a cat, and so fucking soft it was making his head spin.
He urged her onto her back and down she went, and he shucked off his pants with a hearty kick. He liked what he saw, her without her pants, but he was dying for a look at those charlies and he slid her tank over her head. It tangled somewhere around her wrists, holding her captive.
She had a necklace around her throat, made of beads and what looked like teeth. Deathclaw teeth, Benny thought on closer inspection, and that was wild. The girl had to be tough, but there was no way she'd killed a deathclaw.
When he went to pull it off, she stiffened. "No," she said. "Don't." He shrugged. Well, whatever kept her hot.
Benny stroked a hand appreciatorily down her body, from the underside of her chin, to the soft swell of her breasts and then circled her naval.
"You got one classy chasse there, girlie," he told her, bending his head down and stroking his tongue over her belly button. Her muscles went into wild spasms beneath his tongue, and he smiled against her hotly flushing skin.
His mouth went up, his hands went down. He climbed onto the bed beside her, and drew one breast into his mouth, sucking greedily. Meanwhile, his fingers slipped into her hot spot, where she was wet and very willing, legs falling open the minute he needed them to—and that was so 18-karats he felt drunk.
She groaned and thrashed, arching into his hand and into his mouth. "Please," she hissed. "I don't need—I want—"
Yeah, he had a pretty good idea what she wanted but he was starting to really dig the idea of teasing her. So he ignored her very blatant cries and sank his fingers deeper inside her and bit down on her nipple. She cried out, and the sound was like fucking music.
Something hit the ground with a dull thud. Glancing down told him it was the PipBoy she'd had strapped to her wrist, wherever the hell she'd gotten it from. She was no Vaultie; she tasted like rain and sunshine from where he was drawing her breast into his mouth—he'd played around with Sarah Weintrub a few times and she was all sterilization and cement. This broad was pure outside air.
There was a tug, hard on the back of his neck. Sigrun had finally managed to get her hands free and was now yanking impatiently at his tie, very obvious in her desires. Fuck the foreplay. He teased his fingers inside her one last time, before climbing up her body and straddling her.
"You ready for the tops?" he asked, breathlessly, working off his shirt and tie. Now he was part of the naked party too.
"Hurry," she demanded, arms fastening around his neck and drawing him down again. Her hips bucked against his, tucked his cock in between her thighs.
"Alright, alright—just trying to do this with a little finesse here, honey baby." He hooked an arm underneath her knee, and brought it up to her chest. "But if that ain't what the lady wants—well, the Ben-man'll just give her what she does."
She groaned when he pushed himself inside her. It was a little tighter than he'd thought, but it felt so damn good. The broad obviously felt the same, thrashing against him and groaning in a low, keening cry. He worked himself inside her, and cursed when he hit pay dirt. Yeah, this was the fucking ticket.
Benny suckled on that little, messy tattoo on her neck as his hips jackknifed. The girl beneath him panted, worked eagerly to meet him. She was already so damn close—and this was the sort of thing Benny loved to draw out.
She shuddered under him, fingers digging hard into the skin on his back—so hard he nearly yelped. Then he felt her closing up around his cock, like a hot, wet glove. He groaned, licked his way up her throat and jaw, and fastened his mouth over hers. That was it, the broad was done. She arched beneath, every muscle he could touch straining. Her free leg was wrapped around his waist, and her heel dug into the small of his back.
Yes, yes yes, Benny thought because it felt so good. The girl had been working up to a very good explosion, and he was so damn glad he got to be inside her when she went off. Like a rocket. And while she was clutched him like a bur, he worked himself up good too; fast, hard strokes in and out as her muscles rippled around him.
Yeah, didn't take long for him to go off, either.
When he woke up, he was aware of the sound of a chamber clicking. More specifically, his fucking chamber. He knew Maria's sound like another man knew the sound of his hunger.
He lay on his stomach, sheet riding low on his hips and sweat from literally one of the best bouts of hey-hey he'd ever had cooling on his skin. And speaking of hey-hey, where'd that crazy broad get—
Oh, right. The chamber clicking. He turned his head from the pillow and meet Sigrun's eyes from where she sat, curled up and naked in a chair. Maria was in her hands, all gold and steel and lethality, but Maria didn't have any rounds in her. Her magazine was in the broad's hand, and the single left-over bullet. Maria's chamber was empty—it had been a while since that'd happened.
Obviously, she wasn't looking to off him, else she wouldn't have disarmed Maria. Maria was the best at what she did, and Sigrun had gotten a firsthand taste of that.
"You know, baby, I ain't into that real kinky shit," Benny said.
She didn't pay attention to him. She turned Maria in her hands, fingers moving over the lady carved onto the gun's handle with obvious meticulous precision. It was ironic—the lady's peaceful face and comforting, cupped hands on the handle of a powerful gun who had given more than one unlucky gent the big sleep. "Do you know who this is?" she asked quietly.
Benny did, but he wasn't in the mood to share. The first man he'd ever killed had given it to him, and the story of the lady on its handle. It was the first real taste of faith Benny had ever gotten, as a snot-nosed punk completing his first kill and Bingo watching on with pride. It was the sort of thing that stayed with you.
"I've seen her a few times," Sigrun said, surprising the hell out of him. Old-world churches just weren't the bees' knees these days, and the icons they had worshipped even less so. "The Lady of Guadalupe, I think."
That wasn't her only name. Benny had been partial to Maria.
"Listen, honey baby, you gonna sit in the chair and play twenty questions for a while longer? 'Cause I could always catch some z's. If not, get that ass of yours back in this bed."
He honestly hadn't expected her to stand up and do as he asked—he'd just wanted to stop her damn questions. But Sigrun stood and slid back into bed with him. He caught the hint of her ink on her shoulder blade as she did so and, curiosity loving cats, he flipped her onto her stomach.
Wings. Fucking angel wings. They were stylized, geometric lines darting into one another, arching over each shoulder to make the tops, and ending in sharp little points where her hips started. But they were wings.
He whistled low between his teeth. "Who gave you this, baby? This is some talented work."
She tried to roll away, but he wouldn't let her, pressing his hand down into the small of her back and holding her still. His fingers traced the black lines of her wings and she shuddered beneath his whisper-light touch.
"You didn't pick this up in some dive out in the Waste, baby," he told her and continued when she was stone silent, "You're forgetting the Families ain't all polish and pizzazz—I know tribal ink when I see it."
She turned her head to give him an unhappy look, and Benny pulled the sheet off his hips to show her his. Linked chains that ran up his hip to the underside of his armpit. Oh, it had hurt so fucking bad, especially when the inker had gotten to his ribs, but hell—Benny had been fifteen and so sure it was worth it. Everyone in the tribe got those linked chains and Benny hadn't thought about their meaning until he was older and Bingo wanted nothing to do with House's offer. Those links meant you followed the leader.
"I ain't exactly on the up and up with all the tats they slap on tribals these days, but I don't think this is from around here. My complements to the artist, though."
"I was fourteen," the dame said quietly. "They gave me the tattoo and my name. Sigrun—she was a valkyrie, you know? An angel of justice." She snorted.
He'd heard about those tribes. The Great Khans didn't hand out names unless you passed their initiation rites, which basically translated to being able to get the crap kicked out of you and walking away afterwards. But this dame wasn't Khan, or no fucking way would Jessup have buried her that night.
The Deathclaw teeth and beads necklace made a lot more sense now too. She hadn't killed a Deathclaw, probably hadn't been within fifteen feet of one, but someone in her tribe had. Tribes had a habit of passing its junk down, making it into some sort of heirloom.
"What they'd call you, before?"
Another snort. "Honey. My mama wasn't exactly the creative type."
"Honey?" That fit her better than Sigrun. Sigrun sounded like some big badass bade who could kill you with a flick of her wrist. Honey sounded like this broad in his bed, small and soft. "Mind if I call you that from now on, my Honey baby?"
"Do it and see what happens," she said, with obvious intent. Benny relented. She'd gotten the drop on him before, no sense letting her do it again.
"What are you going to do now?" Sigrun asked, arms folded in front of her and chin propped up on them. She was looking at the headboard.
"Probably best if you're not in the know, pussycat," he told her.
"Last time I wasn't in the know, I ended up with a bullet in my head, remember?"
"I'm doing you a favor here, doll. Why don't you sit pretty and let the Ben-man do what he's got to do?"
She turned her head and glared at him. "I don't sit pretty," she snapped.
He curled a hand around the soft cushion of her ass and she jerked. "You sit damn pretty, baby."
She nudged him with her elbow, but Benny grabbed her and tucked her against his side, arms around her waist and head nestled against the curve of her hip. She smelt a lot better than you'd figure, given she looked like she was covered in about a year's worth of desert. She smelled sort of like fresh rain, maybe, or something equally poetic.
"Anyway, doll, let's catch some z's and see about going for another round in a bit." He smiled against her skin. "I ever tell you, you're a real ring a ding broad? You wore me out, baby."
Well, he was gone. And was she surprised? No, Sigrun decided, she certainly wasn't. She'd known, deep down, that Benny would hightail it the minute he saw daylight. If she hadn't been so caught up in a sexual haze or whatever, she might've seen it coming.
And the letter, the one she still had downloaded into her PipBoy? It basically told her to prowl around the Strip and wait for him to get back. Yeah right. She hadn't come to him to be his moll. She'd come for answers—and then apparently sex, but even the sex hadn't been planned. And, wow, the sex. How had that even happened?
Sigrun didn't like to lose control, but she had lost it that night. She'd needed something to cling to because she'd suddenly been adrift and Benny had been right there and—fuck she was messed up.
"Where did Benny go?" she asked.
The Securitron—the Yes Man, he called himself—gave a helpless shrug of his robotic shoulders, his display face still in the vaguely disturbing smile. "He sure was in a hurry this morning when I saw him head for his secret underground elevator!"
"Yes," Sigrun said, "but where did he go?"
"Well, if I had to guess I'd say to Fortification Hill, that's where Mr. House keeps a large underground bunker likely filed with some sort of advanced security device. Controlling that will likely let you control New Vegas, you know!"
Yes, she did know. She'd already been informed of Benny's plan to undermine Mr. House and take New Vegas for himself, or for the Chairmen at least. The Yes Man had been very helpful, letting her know that if she—by any off chance—wanted to take Vegas for herself she'd could do the same thing Benny planned to do—get the Chip, get into House's bunker, kill House, and take over Vegas.
God, what she was doing even talking to this robot? She'd gotten what she wanted and now it was time to go. What she should not be doing was listening to Benny's Yes Man outline the best way to name herself Queen of New Vegas. She didn't want that. Power never sat well in her hands.
"Fortification Hill," Sigrun repeated. "Isn't that where Caesar's Camp is located?"
"Indeed, it is! Boy, you sure know your way around the Mojave! I hope Benny's got enough stealth boys to get into House's bunker or Caesar will certainly kill him—isn't that sad?"
The Yes Man didn't seem to think so. Sigrun blinked, took in a breath, steadied herself and said, "Alright. I'm leaving."
"Gosh, really?" The Yes Man called after her. "That's too bad, I really enjoyed talking with you. Well, come visit soon, okay?"
Sigrun's answer was to shut the door behind her.
When she left Benny's room one of his Chairman gave her a conspicuous wink. She glared at him on her way over to the elevator. Well, her goal might not have been to end up as Benny's moll but that was probably the rumor circulating already—if the looks were anything to go by.
Below, at the casino level, the Tops was still grooving. It wasn't as loud as it had been the night before. Early afternoon wasn't conductive to gambling, but there were still some clients at the tables, determined to turn their fates around.
Benny's right hand man—what was his name? Swerve? Swan? Swank—caught up with her just after she made it to the main lobby.
"Hey, where'd the boss man run off to?" he demanded of her.
Sigrun barely spared him a glance and wouldn't have answered him at all if he hadn't grabbed her by the elbow with the very obvious message that she wasn't going anywhere until he got what he wanted. She was in no mood to answer anyone's questions, but she was even less inclined to start a brawl, even if Swank had no idea how hard he'd go down.
"How am I supposed to know?" she asked, shaking her arm free. "Isn't he your boss? Shouldn't he be telling you these things?"
"Yeah, but babycakes, you were the last one to see him." There was a very lewd undertone to that sentence that Sigrun didn't particularly care for but well—it was kind of true, wasn't it?
"Well, I don't know where he is so you'll just have to—" She was spared from further explanation by the sound of commotion near the front desk. And not the normal sort of commotion like a gambler with too much booze upset over his losing streak. She couldn't see what it was, buts she knew what trouble sounded like. Both she and Swank headed for it.
"—and I said from my cold, dead hands." That was definitely Craig Boone, 1st Recon Sniper and Legionnaire Slaughterer. He stood just in front of the Tops' main doors, arms crossed over his chest, and looking about ready to take down the whole Tops Casino if he didn't get what he wanted, nowish.
"Ain't no gets in the club packing what you're packing, pally," said the greeter, stance giving the very clear message that he was just as willing as Boone to dish out the pain—only they didn't really know what Boone was capable of. Sigrun did, and she rushed to defuse the situation before it went off.
"It's okay, we're leaving," she said, grabbing Boone a bit roughly by his arm and hauling him to the door. Boone went, but not before sending a last, parting look at the greeter over his shoulder. ED-E whirled above their heads, making greeting clicks.
"Come back anytime, babydoll!" Swank called after her. "We'll show you the tops—just like Benny would've liked."
Sigrun didn't color under Boone's scrupulous glare, but it took a lot her self control. They stopped by the closest bench, where Boone began to systematically go through his belongings—he'd never really trusted the Vegas crowd, he told her once, nothing but swindlers and thieves. Sigrun crossed her arms over her chest and wondered what the odds were that Boone wouldn't ask her what the hell she had been doing in the Tops all night long—or who.
Actually, very high. She and Boone got along, but only because they had an understanding. She'd helped take out Jeannie Crawford, but she hadn't asked for any other information other than the fact that the old woman in Novac had sold Boone's wife and unborn child to Legion slavers. That was enough for her to sign on to any assassination attempt, but when he said Carla Boone was dead she had taken his word for it—she didn't ask how he knew, why he knew, and when he told her shut up about Bitter Springs, she had. In return, Boone didn't ask about the tattoos on her back, on her neck, didn't ask about the Platinum Chip, and hopefully wouldn't ask about Benny.
From her perch on the bench, New Vegas looked slightly less impressive in dull morning light. The debris and cracked sidewalks, the NCR troopers blinking owlishly in the light, didn't add much to the city's supposed mystique. The atomic bombs hadn't destroyed New Vegas, but the world that had emerged after the Great War had certainly tried. If it wasn't for Mr. House, New Vegas would have easily been just another empty city, a morbid painting to a world no one could remember.
"Sigrun—" Boone began.
"Did you wait for me in the Tops all night?" she asked, cutting off his question. Boone took a moment, saw that she was obviously not in the sharing mood and let it drop.
"No," he said. "We took a room at Vault 21."
She sighed. "How much did that set us back?" Together they had only managed scrounge just enough caps to get past the Securitrons at the Strip's gate.
"Enough," Boone said. "Then Cass bought whisky."
Sigrun sighed. The former caravan driver had warned her early on that if Sigrun wanted her to tag along she was going to have to be willing to front some caps for whisky. Sigrun didn't mind downing a bottle or two—though scotch would always be her preference—but Cass drank the stuff like it was water.
"I take it we don't have the Platinum Chip?" Boone said. When she didn't answer, since it was so very obvious she didn't have the fucking Chip, he continued, "What happened in there?"
God, she didn't know. It had been sex, hadn't it? Her and Benny in his room. But it had been more than that, more than sex—or maybe it hadn't. She didn't know. The whole night was in stark technicolor, from Benny's breath on her skin and the way his had been surprisingly dusky to the tribal tattoo on his hip—she could remember it all. But hell if she had knew what it had meant.
"When I figure it out, I'll let you know," she said, and was only half joking.
"Well, what are we going to do now?" Boone asked.
Cut and run was her first reaction. Why stick around? She was just a courier who'd had some serious bad luck. She didn't want to get caught in power plays between the Strip, the NCR and the fucking Legion. Justice was her weakness and Sigrun knew that if she got too close she wouldn't be able to walk away. And how could she solve this massive clusterfuck, anyhow? The Legion would burn, the NCR would conquer, and Mr. House would scheme. It would never change. If she had any brains, she'd haul ass and never look back.
But then she thought—the Kings, Goodsprings, the Followers of the Apocalypse. Good people trying to make sense of a really bad situation; people who'd gone out of their way to help her and people she'd helped. Could she really just walk away from them? They'd be destroyed by whoever came out on top at the end of this. Swallowed alive. Maybe it was presumptuous—no, Sigrun thought, it was extremely presumptuous—to assume she could change anything, but how could she not try?
Sigrun sighed. Kendo had always been right, especially about her. Little girl, you love yourself a good cause, he had said. It hadn't been a compliment.
"Let's just meet up with Cass," she said at last. "Cool our heels for a bit and see where the day takes us."
Boone stiffened suddenly, his impassive face going even more unreadable and stony, and Sigrun knew exactly where the day was going to take her. She followed Boone's gaze to what had gotten his ire up.
Even without the red uniform and dog helmet, you could make him out of the crowd. He exuded the essence of not one of us. His face was pointed; sharp angry angles and his dark eyes were cold and hard—it reminded her bit of a dead fish. When she'd met him in Nipton a certain calm had come over her. A kind of calm that you got when you knew you were going to die and nothing could stop it—she hadn't felt it in Goodsprings Cemetery; every instinct inside her had been primed to survive. But seeing him had been like seeing the end of the line. Nothing could have stopped him that day in Nipton, the fire burning red hot and the men strung up on their crosses, if he had wanted her dead. It hadn't mattered that there had been seven other Legionnaires surrounding him. They had been little more than ambient noises. It had been him—Caesar's special dog. He would tear out your throat if you were stupid enough to show it. She'd walked away that day, but only because the beast had had his fill.
Vulpes Inculta. Head of the Frumentarii.
She angled herself between Boone and the Legionnaire. He looked like your standard New Vegas traveler—pantsuit and all. If Boone took a shot him here there was no telling what trouble they'd get in with the Securitrons watching.
"News of your deeds have reached my lord," Inculta said, his voice scrapping against Sigrun's skin like sandpaper. "And he desires your presence at his camp on Fortification Hill. It would benefit you to make your way there."
He tried to pass to her a heavy medallion on a silver chain. Sigrun reluctantly took it. It felt heavy and too cold in her palm, like how death had felt before Doc Mitchell had patched her up.
"This is the Mark of Caesar. With it, your crimes have been forgiven," He was obviously referring to Nelson. She, Boone, and Cass had gone in masked and killed every Legionnaire they had been able to get their hands on, but who knew if one of them had managed to get news back to Fort Hill about them? "This is Caesar's highest honor and will not be bestowed twice."
She turned the medallion over in her hand, considering the best way to tell him to fuck off and to, more specifically, die in a fire. Inculta could read that easily in her face and a flash of annoyance slithered through his eyes.
"It would also interest you to know," he said, "that the man you seek is heading towards Caesar's camp as we speak. Soon Caesar will be in possession of the Platinum Chip."
Benny was heading to Fort Hill? She remembered that the Yes Man had said something along those lines, but she had been too busy trying to figure out how to get the hell out of dodge for it to really register.
"If this is a trap," she told Inculta. "I'm taking you all down with me." And she meant it. She was tribal through and through—an eye for an eye.
Inculta didn't look threatened. "If Caesar wanted you dead, you would have been dead already," he pointed out and, Sigrun admitted, he was probably right. She'd seen Legion patrols in the Mojave and, yes, she couldn't have taken them down without getting herself taken down too. And Caesar didn't have enough loyalty toward his men to worry about causalities.
She pocketed the Mark. "Walk away slowly," she said. "Now."
Inculta inclined his head and, true to his form, almost immediately melded in with the crowd. Her last glimpse of him was when he brushed by Cass's shoulder. And then he was gone, just another faceless gambler in a sea of vice.
"What was that all about?" Cass asked, her words slightly slurred. Her cheeks had those bright pink splotches that had gotten her that namesake.
Boone didn't answer. He was looking at Sigrun. Underneath his sunglasses, his eyes were harsh. He might have let her walk away, before, tossed the whole experience up as one big mistake. But now? Now Sigrun could deliver him the means to Caesar's head. He wouldn't let her walk away anymore.
She sighed and rubbed her temples. "Nothing." She nodded to Boone. "Mr. House wants an audience, as I understand it. Why don't we go see what he's after?"
Benny hadn't gotten as far as he would have hoped, but how the hell was he was supposed to know that those squares would take so long heading upriver? His plan had been to get as far into Caesar's Camp o' Murders as he could and then huff it the rest of the way to the bunker. It would've been kittens once he'd gotten inside. Caesar kept the Legion under his thumb because not a one of them had the sense of the real world. They didn't know a pressure cooker from a sensor module. If they followed Benny down into House's bunker, some of them might get to wondering and Caesar obviously didn't like wondering.
But his last stealth boy had worn out just as they docked. He'd made a break for it, but that fink Lucius had knocked in his kneecaps with the blunt end of his machete.
Looks like its endsville for me, Benny had thought just before they had started wailing on him. A ballistic fist had broken his jaw and the screams that came after gurgled wetly in Benny's chest. A sandaled foot was pressed down and down into his ribs and curling away from it just seem to make it worse.
"That's enough," one of Caesar's mutts said. "Take him to Caesar to be dealt with."
Oh boy. A meeting with the Big Daddy himself. This would go well, Benny imagined. If well meant a crucifixion in his immediate future.
They dragged him by his arms up the hill. One of his shoulders was dislocated and he screamed the whole way up, though it was muffled by all the blood in his mouth. He about drowned in his own blood, but he could barely swallow let alone work up the strength to spit it out.
"You broke his jaw?" There was suddenly searing, shooting agony on his chin and it jerked Benny out of the blackness he'd unwittingly sunken into. Thanks a ton for that, pally, he thought. "Give him a stimpack. I need him to talk."
He felt the prick of a Med-X at the corner of his shoulder, and then the long needle of a stimpack administered directly to his aching jaw. The drug numbed him over, and it took another hour or so for the bones in his jaw to stitch themselves back together.
All the while the big boss man himself waited patiently on his throne, like he had all the time in the world to waste. Maybe he did. All Benny knew was that looking at him reclining there made him want to go ape. He didn't want this clyde's grimy little hands anywhere near his favorite girl. Vegas deserved a hell of a lot better than the fire Caesar'd give it. Hell, Benny'd sell it over to the NCR before he let Caesar breath in a whiff of her perfumed air.
Caesar didn't look like you'd expect the top dog of the Legion to look like. He was middle-aged, balding, and short. Like an average Joe on Vegas' street corner. How the fuck was this the cat threatening Vegas? He looked sort of like a grandpa. Threatening didn't even come close to matching up with him.
Caesar stood from his throne, walked over to Benny. Without any preamble, he removed House's prized Platinum Chip from its place in the pocket at Benny's heart.
"Would you care to tell me what this is?" Caesar asked, cool as a cucumber.
"Honestly? Not really inclined to, pal." Benny shrugged his shoulders.
"That's fair enough." He stood and looked to his bruiser of a bodyguard. "Lucius will see that you give us what we want."
Benny was sure he would. He wasn't delusional. He knew he could be broken, and the Legion broke people the best. He'd talk, he'd give them what they wanted. Eventually. But that didn't mean he couldn't put up a hell of a fight, right? He was a Chairman—former Boot Rider—and he'd always been tougher than he'd looked. Spry little bastard, Bingo had called him. And then Benny had put a knife in his throat.
the tribes of the Fallout work fascinate me, a lot more than the NCR does. The workings of Sigrun's tribe will be expanded on slightly, as will what exactly forced her to leave her tribe. I imagine her tribe to be a mesh of the Great Khans and the Daughters of Hecate from the cancelled Van Buren project. I'm trying to make this seem "lore" friendly so let me know if it veers too far from the mark and, of course, if Benny suddenly starts seeming non-Benny tell me. I'm trying to keep everyone as IC as possible in a Fallout game.
J. P. Tuesday: nice to meet you anon OP! Obviously a big thanks goes out to you since you got me out of my writing rut. I had planned just a small 500 word or so ficlet for you, and because I love f!Courier/Benny and the Chairman of the Board. Let's keep this grooving, hey?
ANON: thank you so much. Here's hoping you continue to enjoy it.
Harumi Kitomi: thank you! I hope you like where this story ends up going.