"Hope you got here alright," said Will dryly. "Can't imagine walking here from the Prydwen at this time of night."

"I took a Vertibird."

"Ah, right, shoulda' guessed."

Arthur Maxson entered the Lamont home with the air of a king walking into some peasant's hovel. He seemed to be almost shocked: as if he truly could not believe the General of the Minutemen, in many ways, his opposite, could live in such squalor. And though he had the courtesy not to voice his feelings out loud, Piper could read the disdain on his face as clearly as reading her own newspaper.

Piper side-eyed him. She had the pleasure, or lack thereof, to meet the Brotherhood Elder face to face before. Not surprisingly, she found him just as she predicted he'd be: haughty, standoffish, and conceited, just like most of his soldiers. He was also young. Younger than MacCready even. And by far the youngest person in the room, currently. He was just a child; a child with an army at his disposal. But you'd never guess it just by looking at him. Maxson was a giant, and had the frame and muscled build to match, dwarfing his political rival, Will, who was 5'10 and looked like he had trouble with strong winds ("It's called swimmer's body," protested Will, every time someone teased him about his skinniness. Piper didn't really get it. Most swimmers she knew were Mirelurk food).

Maxson also carried himself like the leader of an army. Wherever he went, he seemed to carry this inherent gravitas: a sense of authority that was almost irresistible. A charisma that could only be found in great leaders; Caesar, Napoleon, Washington, and Maxson. The few times Piper had been adjacent to Maxson whenever he was barking out instructions, she had to suppress that small urge to stand at attention and carry out his orders herself. There was a fiery intensity inside him that could only be cultivated through years of intense military training. The scar on his face, taken from a Deathclaw, was all you needed to see to prove his fortitude. It reminded her of what her father had once told her: Deathclaws didn't leave scars. They left corpses. Maxson was a revered military leader, chiseled from steel itself.

Whereas Will, General of the Minutemen and fellow military leader, did not look the part at all. First of all, he was thin— not a trace of thick, built muscle like Maxson or Danse, Will's lean "swimmer's body" was built more for speed and agility than strength. Only MacCready was skinnier, yet no one expected muscle from a lowly mercenary. Will was shorter than most of his commanding officers; Nick Valentine joked that even Power Armor couldn't make him look taller. Due to his build, usually, Will had to announce his presence before he entered a room, otherwise, you'd never notice him. And the scars on Will's face weren't impressive or scary like Maxson's was. They were faded, ugly thin lines spread horizontally across his cheeks like a hideous smile.

Will was also generally not intense like Maxson was. He didn't possess the fiery energy of a hardened warrior. Will was easy-going, and oftentimes pretty quiet. It was hard to make Will angry and much easier to make him laugh. Yet despite his mostly passive demeanor, nobody was more beloved or respected in the entire Commonwealth than William Lamont. People trusted him, and children adored him. He had the love of the people, something that Arthur Maxson could never have. And Maxson knew that well.

From the day she had met him on the bridge of the Prydwen to now, as he stood in Home Plate, beneath all those layers of intensity, Maxson reeked of one thing. Something which Piper had smelled on him ever since she laid eyes on him. And that was insecurity. There wasn't just a chip on his shoulder: there was a boulder.

The Brotherhood of Steel had always been something of a giant question mark ever since they'd arrived in the Commonwealth in their floating fortress. They were a quasi-religious technology hoarding militia— of course, that raised a few eyebrows. But their intentions seemed pure enough. Rid the Commonwealth of the Institute menace? That was something the people could get behind. But it just so happened that the Minutemen beat them to the punch, and suddenly that "Brotherhood question mark" had just gotten a lot bigger. Few wondered why they were even still here. But it seemed like Arthur Maxson was determined to finish what he started: and that was cleansing the Commonwealth.

They had less than half of the settlements the Minutemen did, but for the Commonwealth citizens who lived in the Brotherhood-allied settlements of Nordhagen Beach, Finchtown, Croupville, Zimonja, and Airport City, though made to pay heavy taxes, were well-supplied, well-fed, well-protected, and lived peacefully. They wished for and worried about nothing, being guarded by heavily armored soldiers, enjoying the best of what Brotherhood technology could offer. Meanwhile, the settlements under Minutemen jurisdiction, though numerous, almost always seemed like they were about to fall apart from poor defenses or starvation.

And the worst thing of it all was that the Minutemen and the Brotherhood did not currently get along. Ideological differences aside, with the Institute gone, the Minutemen and the Brotherhood were the two most powerful factions in the Commonwealth today. And it was up to them to make sure it didn't fall apart in the postbellum.

"We need to discuss a few things," said Elder Maxson brusquely. "And we need to discuss them now."

"By all means, Arthur, let's talk," Will calmly spoke. "The middle of the night is just as good a time as any."

"Don't patronize me, William. We both know why I'm here."

Will sighed, rubbing his temples, a look Piper instantly recognized— a look that was often correlated when talking with Elder Maxson. She decided that if a discussion were to happen between the two leaders, she was probably intruding. No matter. The upstairs rooms were just a comfortable place to eavesdrop as any, and this house was basically a giant acoustic chamber.

"Piper, why don't you go check on Nat?" hinted Will, as if he was reading her mind. But just as she was about to leave, Maxson spoke up.

"No," demanded Maxson. "She stays."

"You don't order people around in my house, Arthur. If she wants to leave, she can."

"And let her spy on our conversation? No, she needs to be here, so I can mind my own discretion and keep an eye on her. Besides..." said Arthur, pulling a tightly clutched paper leaflet from his jacket, and thrusting it into Will's hands. "Maybe the two of you can explain the meaning of this?"

Will carefully uncrumpled the paper— it was creased to hell, but Piper could make out that particular typeface anywhere: it was today's issue of the Publick.

"I see you've been reading Piper's newspaper," said Will, studying the front page. "Looks like Fallon's is having a sale on winter coats." Piper had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing out loud.

"Don't play games with me," snapped the Brotherhood Elder, as he jabbed his finger into the paper, the force of it tearing a small hole in the middle. "Go on, read it out loud."

"Tyrant Maxson Throws Wrench Into Negotiations," Will read aloud. "Headlines are supposed to grab your attention, Arthur, that's how they make their money."

"Continue reading," barked Maxson, close to losing his patience. Will sighed, taking a closer look at the paper.

"Arthur Maxson, Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel...during a meeting of the Joint Comprehensive Accords yadda-yadda-yadda...quoted as saying...such and such...threatened martial action against the Minutemen if the agreement to hunt down remaining Institute synths was not met," finished Will, frowning.

"Tell me this, General Lamont," hissed Elder Maxson, the taste of Will's title like acid on his tongue. "How would she—" he said, wildly pointing at Piper. "—know what was said during that meeting, considering she wasn't even there?"

"I don't know," mused Will as he skimmed through the rest of the article. "Piper? Who did you get this information from?"

Piper inspected her fingernails.

"I can't remember," she stated simply. Maxson rolled his eyes.

"Oh stop it. It's obvious to me what's been happening, and I only regret that I assumed you to be too ethical to stoop to that kind of impropriety from the start," ranted Arthur. "It's clear that you've been siphoning information to her to help further her career. Or that she's been coaxing information out of you in exchange for...wanton favors!"

"Wanton...?! You listen here, pal," threatened Piper, waving a finger in Maxson's face. "I'm not some kind of floozy that sleeps my way into getting information! I've never bought any kind of favor in my life. Especially from him!"

"Well if not from him, then who? It had to be someone in that meeting, and I trust everyone on my team with my life," declared Maxson.

Piper clenched her teeth behind a very thin smile. Every inch of her was itching to get her hands around Maxson's neck. Because it was true: Piper had never gotten a single ounce of inside information, not even the faintest hint of a story from the General concerning important matters. Nor had she ever gone to him for help. The two had agreed long ago that each other's work were independent ventures, and they wouldn't compromise ethics to help each other.

Ironically, it had been a certain sympathetic Brotherhood scribe that had given Piper the details of Maxson's outburst at the last meeting of the Joint Comprehensive Accords— at no small risk to herself. The Codex of the Brotherhood didn't have a very forgiving stance on quote-unquote "traitors". That's when Piper realized:

Maxson wasn't here because he was concerned about journalistic ethics. He was here because he was scared. He probably trusted the people who worked for him about as much as he trusted her. No matter who gave the story to Piper, there was indeed a person on the inside spilling the beans— that was all but confirmed. Maxson was here making sure there weren't any leaks on his own side that he had to plug. But she wasn't about to expose her confidante just yet. So she went quiet, though this did nothing to quell Maxson's anger.

"I thought so," sneered Maxson. "I expect no less from this rag sheet. No standards, no professionalism, no—"

"That's enough, Maxson," interrupted Will sharply, just before a fuming Piper was about to kill a Brotherhood Elder. "Get on with it. What do you want?"

"Firstly, I want you to rescind this issue of the Publick and freeze any outstanding deliveries you've made."

"Ha! Fat chance!" laughed Piper. "Even if I wanted to, that ship has sailed."

"Then I want you to publish another story correcting your own mistake, with an apology to the Brotherhood of Steel," Maxson ordered.

"You can't tell me what to publish!" yelled Piper. "You might have the Commonwealth Journal under your thumb, but you're not going to corrupt the Publick's integrity!"

Maxson shot Will a look that said can you see what I'm dealing with? But Will shook his head.

"She has the right, Arthur," said Will, folding his arms. "Freedom of the press— that's one of the first points we agreed on for the JCA. Besides, it's the truth. All the information in that article is 100% accurate."

"How convenient we've only come to agree on points now when it benefits you," snarled Maxson. "And not when it's something crucial to the future of the Commonwealth."

"Oh for…" Will threw his hands up in exasperation. "We're not talking about this. Not now."

"Then when? This wouldn't even be a problem if you hadn't just held up your own end of our agreement—"

"The accords are still being written, nothing's been ratified yet!" snapped Will. "It's your own fault for assuming I'd ever agree to something like that!"

"Yet you previously agreed that the Minutemen would aid the Brotherhood in hunting down and destroying all remaining Institute assets!"

"I said that the Minutemen would lend their resources in efforts to apprehend Institute criminals who escaped justice!" Will contended. "And if you're unsatisfied with what we've done to those people already…" He trailed off, unwilling to comment further. A dark, sorrowful look came over his face.

Two hundred souls: men, women, and children. Those were what remained of the Institute after the Minutemen vaporized their home: squatting in the ruins of Lexington before they were discovered by passing traders. The poor refugees were brought into safety, fed, and clothed and most were happy for it. Few had caught a glimpse of the terrors of the surface world, and weren't excited to see any further. They thought the worst had come and gone. Then, the Brotherhood and the Minutemen got involved. Little did the Institute remnant know that the Commonwealth had tasted their blood and they were thirsting for more.

They called it the trial of the century. In truth, it was more like sending brahmin to slaughter. Of the two hundred survivors that were lucky enough to escape the destruction of the Institute, only eighty remained after the trial. The rest were lined up against the outer side of the Wall (no one wanted to give the condemned the honor of dying within the confines of the city), and during a three day period of public executions, painted the Great Green Monster a bright shade of red.

Of course, there was legitimate justice done. Justin Ayo was shot. Alana Secord was shot. In fact, almost every member of the Institute's infamous security branch, minus their children, was found guilty and summarily executed. Dr. Zimmer, the missing head of the Synth Retention Bureau, was found guilty in absentia, with orders to this day to arrest on sight.

But as the tribunal executed their final SRB defendant, they soon found out that culpability among the rest of the Institute remnant were harder to determine than those who'd seen a quicker trial. There were others that still had most of the Commonwealth split on their final judgments. There were those that were involved in the Institute's schemes to a lesser degree, yet they were executed as well. But there were also those that claimed ignorance, but couldn't prove it to the tribunal. And so, in a morbid attempt to play it safe, they were sent outside the wall as well.

Piper still recalled the final days, where the Institute showed the Commonwealth they were indeed the monsters they thought they were. She remembered the talented painter who had traveled all the way from Somerville just to watch the trial. While it proceeded, he would soon find a job as a courtroom artist, as Piper commissioned the man to paint the proceedings. They were very good. When he was finished, Piper had his paintings printed in the Publick. There was one that she'd never forget— the one made on the day the tribunal sentenced thirty people to death.

The whole trial, the apprehended Institute scientists, in spite of an entire Commonwealth calling for their heads, remained the picture of officious, quiet dignity, even while on stand. They seemed coordinated, sharing the same stories and testifying the same information. Diamond City Security even had to separate their holding cells because of feared coordinated attempts at perjury. But when it became clear that the tribunal had no interest in their stories and more interest in revenge— when a bloody end outside the wall approached, they became wolves. Her stomach still churned when she saw that painting; now, it was burned into her brain.

The twisted, screaming faces. The hard, accusatory fingers pointed at anyone in reach. The tears and desperation, the betrayal, calling for the heads of the only people they had ever known. The ugly, pained expressions of fear as the "guilty" parties were dragged off to their deaths. Pain, fear, and hatred captured perfectly in crushed berries and oils, painted deftly to reflect reality.

To Piper, that painting held a truth. And in some ways, William Lamont, who served as a key witness during the trial and ended up recusing himself, held that silent truth to himself heavier than others: that these people were dying for nothing. In spite of all they did or didn't do, the Commonwealth forced these people into killing each other.

Although she'd never say as much, Piper realized that even though the Commonwealth "won" the trial, they had lost a part of themselves that could never be restored. She still remembered throwing up from desperate relief after the tribunal finally recognized that children could not be held accountable for their parents' crimes.

The remaining survivors— and survivors they were once more— the truly ignorant, the low-ranking scientists, and the children were split into two groups and separated, so they could never conspire with one another again. One group of survivors was sent to Airport City, and the other group was sent to Sanctuary, where they would be allowed to integrate into the Commonwealth as citizens, provided they lent their skills to their community. And though they were subject to the same distrust and fear their fellow scientists had imposed on the Commonwealth, they were allowed to live freely— under close supervision.

"What are synths but crimes against nature?" challenged Maxson. He was one of the many who had gone on record as not being satisfied with the final judgements, wishing for more blood spilt. He started quoting, as if from memory: "Any and all beings identified as 'synths' are to be deemed enemies of the state, by right of their own abominable creation, and therefore must be destroyed where they stand, so as not to—"

"Put it to a vote," growled Will. "If you're so hell-bent on passing this through, put it to a vote with the committee, and we'll see just how the Commonwealth lies on this issue!"

"William—"

"I will not, nor will I ever, agree to something that will actively threaten the liberties of the Commonwealth's citizens! Do you want to see people turn on each other again? Do you want to send soldiers knocking down people's homes, rounding families up for questioning? Or is that what you've already been planning for with the Inquisitors?" Will snapped. "You can't identify a synth. No one can!"

"The Inquisitors are to be a self-policing force for the Brotherhood, nothing more!" A barefaced lie. Even Maxson looked slightly embarrassed at being called out.

"And ferals are just ghouls without manners," shot Will. A phrase that was becoming more and more popular in the Commonwealth these days, thanks to a certain mayor of Goodneighbor.

Maxson frowned. "We can argue about policies as long as you'd like. But at least when we have a disagreement, I expect it to be privy to only those involved. The last thing I need is for it to appear in the damn NEWS!" he roared. Both of Will's eyebrows raised, and Piper flinched slightly. Sensing he had brought the energy up too high, Maxson cleared his throat.

"We are in the middle of something great here. We are trying to create a new sovereign state," said Maxson. "That has not been done in a very long time."

"And?"

"And?! Public opinion is everything! Sensitive information leaking out can swing our carefully laid-out plans in disastrous directions!"

"So what does that have to do with my paper?" asked Piper incredulously.

"You, and your paper..." began Maxson, gesturing wildly to Piper. "...are painting the Brotherhood of Steel as villains! You are swaying public opinion based on a collection of...lies!"

"I don't know if the big metal ship you live on has windows, but if they do, you might want to look out of them sometime! And you'll see for yourself what good the Brotherhood's been doing to the Commonwealth: maybe you'll know what your own soldiers are doing down in Bunker Hill…!"

"Rumors and speculation!" blustered Maxson.

"Speculation?! We have several eyewitnesses who said they saw the whole thing!"

"And I don't suppose you would care to name them?" demanded Maxson. "To let the Brotherhood cross-examine their legitimacy?"

Piper ground her teeth. "No. I would not."

"Thought so." Maxson turned to Will. "If you can't see how her paper is hurting what we're trying to accomplish, then we might as well just end this all now."

Will sighed. Piper knew— from moody dinners and frustrated rants, that negotiating with Elder Maxson was akin to arguing with a brick wall. And as much as Will cared about the Commonwealth, there was a certain appeal to ending their meetings with the Brotherhood of Steel.

"Look, she can't rescind the story, and I won't let you compromise her press freedoms by issuing an apology— it'll only seem like it was ordered under coercion. But, I do believe that you have a point, and that having a clear leak of information poses a security concern. So I'm sure that Piper will agree that from now on she'll refrain from publishing stories about what happens during the JCA meetings ever again."

Piper was about to open her mouth to protest— Fat goddamn chance of that. That was until she saw the expression on Will's face: Bite the bullet, champ. Say yes, and get this bastard out of our house. So Piper swallowed her pride.

"Fine," she grumbled half-sincerely, rolling her eyes. Not a very strong 'Fine,' but Maxson seemed content.

"Satisfied?" asked Will. "Then get on with it. Because I have a feeling you didn't just come down here to scold Piper over her newspaper."

Maxson wheeled towards Will, staring him directly in the eyes, getting close enough so Will could see every line and detail of the scar on his face. It was an intimidation tactic. And sure enough, it often worked. Will, however, had seen enough scars in his lifetime.

"I've heard.." began Maxson slowly, his voice slowly building into a fiery crescendo. "...that the Kingsport Polytechnic opening is scheduled to proceed as planned?"

"That's correct," said Will.

"Even after I've made it clear how I stand on this issue: your illegal settlement is opening on Brotherhood land, is that right?"

"It will be, as of tomorrow."

"Right, then listen to what I'm about to say now," said Maxson, raising a finger. "I'm giving you one last chance to do the right thing. Have your troops stand down at once, and cancel the event tomorrow. We will convene at another time to discuss the proper fate of Kingsport."

"And if I don't?"

"You don't want to know what happens if you don't" snarled Maxson.

"If you think there's anything to discuss, Elder Maxson, you're sadly mistaken," said Will. "Kingsport Lighthouse belongs to the Minutemen."

"You treasonous bastard!" Arthur roared, spittle flying into Will's face. "You have some nerve! Kingsport Lighthouse had been ours since the Prydwen flew into the Commonwealth!"

"You're a bad housekeeper, Arthur," spat Will. "You let Kingsport sit unoccupied and allowed the Children of Atom to move in rent-free, threatening the safety of Salem. You stood by as Minutemen lost lives taking it from them. And now you have the audacity to demand it back?"

"That was our outpost! Furthermore, you knew we were ready to begin construction on Kingsport! We declared it months before…!"

"You let the Atomists take over, I put a stop to them. And the Commonwealth doesn't need any more of your military bases."

A big ugly vein popped on Maxson's forehead, adding another layer of texture to the scar over his eye— it looked as if Maxson's entire right side of his face was throbbing in anger.

"I'm giving you an ultimatum: cancel the Polytechnic opening tomorrow, and withdraw your troops from the area, or I'm shutting down the accords."

Will crossed his arms, standing defiant against the Elder.

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

For a moment, Piper was certain Arthur would have clocked Will in the face. He probably would have if she wasn't present. Instead, Maxson immediately whipped around, and stormed straight for the front door, obliterating everything in his path.

"Arthur—"

"No," flashed the Brotherhood Elder. "We have nothing more to discuss."

As he swung the door open, he turned around to issue one last statement to Will:

"I won't forget this breach of trust. And you will pay for it."

The front door whipped closed with a punctuating slam, signaling the end of Arthur's visit, leaving both Piper and Will a little stunned as to what had just occurred in their living room.

"He's bluffing, right?" asked Piper. "He wouldn't throw away the last two years of planning for one settlement, right?"

"Course not," said Will, picking up a coat rack that Maxson had knocked over. Piper frowned. He sounded sure, but he wouldn't meet Piper's eyes.

"You sure you did the right thing?" she asked.

Will looked at her, about to reply...then something else from behind Piper grabbed his attention.

"Oh for…" Will groaned. Piper spun around. From the top floor overlooking the staircase, the heads of both Nat and Shaun that had been hanging upside down over the ledge to spy on the grown-ups' conversation quickly popped out of sight, as if they hadn't been there at all.

"What did I tell you about doing that?" scolded Piper, quickly charging up the stairs. "You better not have heard anything! Get back to bed!"

The two were huddled together at the base of the staircases ledge. They'd clearly been listening for a while and had been climbing over each other to get a better view of the conversation.

"But we we're just—"

"Zip it!" she ordered, pointing a finger to their room. "Move it, or you're both grounded!"

Shaun and Nat dismally returned to their bedroom, both sulking. She didn't care. Better not to test Maxson's fury any longer, though Piper knew that if he ever came back down to Home Plate again to shout at Shaun and her sister, she'd personally see that he'd return to the Prydwen in crutches.

Sam Gordon was having a nice dream. He was back in Whiskeytown with his brothers, as they were just finishing repairing the family barn. A dust storm had come and gone, taking a chunk of the roof with it, but thankfully none of the family's Brahmin. Thank god for small miracles, his older brother Jay said. The work was hard and pain-staking, and Sam and his brothers were baking in the hot sun, shingling a re-constructed roof. But despite his pain, there was something about the shared suffering that endeared him. Listening to the dirty jokes told by Jay and the dirty stories recounted by Rob, sharing laughs with each other; it made Sam forget about the pain.

It was almost sundown when their Mother called out from the house to get back inside for supper. Jay and Rob climbed down hungrily. Sam, however, took a moment. He stood back, looking proudly at the repaired roof. What was once a gaping hole had been patched and rebuilt due to handy craftsmanship of the three brothers. He felt satisfied— no, complete. He looked up to the sky, wanting to drink in all the sun he could before it disappeared.

And that's when he looked at the sky and realized that the sun wasn't going down at all. The sky itself was on fire. It was burning red, angrily radiating off an intense heat that permeated far beyond Sam's skin, boiling his insides with a fiery, hateful inferno. The fire rose within him, until it burst to the surface. Every time he opened his mouth to breathe, flames would shoot out. His hair was catching fire, his skin was crackling and roasting. But oddly enough, there was no pain. He was scared. Confused. He looked towards the house, where his brothers would surely be, running back inside for a warm meal. Instead what he saw was himself and his weeping mother standing a few meters away from their home...standing over two graves.

And that's when Sam woke up with a start to the resounding sound of a particularly loud ringing phone. He cursed, reaching out and fumbling blindly for the receiver on his bedside table. He answered the call.

"Hello?" he muttered, barely awake.

An obnoxiously cheery voice blared in his ear:

"Howdy, Sam! Victor here, giving you your ol' courtesy wake-up call. It is currently 0500 hrs, and the boss needs everyone down at the lab!"

Sam groaned, sitting up. "Is it Phase Four?"

"Yep. Looks like we're about ready to begin operations, so you better skedaddle down here right-quick."

"Alright Victor, I'll be down in a minute. Thanks."

"No problemo, partner. And just let me say, it is a pleasure to—"

He hung up, silencing the robot abruptly. Rising from his bed, he silently cursed Mr. House's hokey robotic servant— although he had no good reason to dislike Victor other than that he was a Securitron, Sam did find his radiant positivity obnoxious albeit insincere, he suspected. He had decided a while ago that nothing built or programmed by Mr. House could ever be trusted.

Yawning, he stretched out, slowly opening his sandy eyes to his surroundings.

Home sweet home, he thought sardonically, looking around his hotel room. In truth, this was probably the best place he'd ever lived in. It was huge, he wasn't fighting for personal space like he was when he was a kid in a cramped shack in Whiskeytown, or in the stuffy NCR barracks at Camp McCarran. He'd never felt a softer bed— true, he had lived a spartan-esque life, but even compared to the beds they had down in the brothels in Reno, these were a mile beyond. Every amenity was at his disposal, with a case stocked with books and magazines and a fridge filled with every kind of spirit available. Even the toilet shone brightly.

Sam realized that he was, for now, living better than 90% of the citizens in Vegas. But for some reason, he hated it. As pleasures go, this one felt so temporary— like a last meal served before an execution; like the fattening of a calf before a slaughter. He had no love for Vegas, after all.

Sam stood up from his bed, and walked to the window. He pulled the curtains apart, revealing the picturesque view of Vegas that he was so "fortunate" to have. In truth, Vegas was anything but picturesque. Vegas was a thin crown on an ugly head.

Someone once told Sam that Vegas was like a tar pit. Once you got in, you'd find it awfully hard to get out. And even if you did, it would always leave a black stain on you, to remind you of its scummy center. And if you didn't, you'd sink to the bottom of the pit, drowned and forgotten like so many unmarked graves in the Mojave desert. It was a fine metaphor, but one for which Sam thought was slightly accurate. No one ever willingly jumped into a pit of tar. Not like the countless tourists did every day. Not like General Oliver had, on the orders of President Kimball, drawn to Vegas like honey.

In truth, Sam thought Vegas was a spider web. A vast, intersecting maze of strings all leading to the center, the Lucky 38. And House did love it when the flies so willingly flew into his web. Like he had, thought Sam.

Working for Robert House was like working for God himself. He was everywhere, careful that you'd toe the line. Benevolent, if you served him well. Ruthless, when you disobeyed him. And he was constantly watching, either through the many security cameras posted on every wall in the Lucky 38, or through the patrolling Securitrons that roamed the hallways of their own hotel, fit to go to war at any moment.

Sam leaned over and reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out his "Earplug." To anyone who'd search through Sam's personal belongings, the object looked just like an ordinary cigarette lighter. But thanks to NCR ingenuity, it served a more valuable purpose.

Upon ignition, the lighter would temporarily knock out any small initiated electronics in the immediate radius for about six minutes. Perfect for deactivating any bugs Mr. House had surely hidden away in the small crevices of his room somewhere.

Sam held the lighter up, as if it were a torch being used in a dark cave. He flicked the flint wheel on the device, and instead of producing a flame, it made a small beeping noise. It had done its job, supposedly. Of course, as usual, he never had any reassurance that the thing had done its job. It's not as if he'd suddenly hear the slow chirp of a listening device deactivating. Perhaps the room wasn't even bugged at all. He'd never know.

All he knew was that so far, he wasn't strung up and dangling off the Lucky 38 balcony just yet, so he was definitely doing something right.

Sam looked at the electronic clock on his desk. Instead of showing the current time (which according to his own watch was an ungodly five-oh-one in the morning), its digits were locked at "00:00." That wasn't much reassurance for him, but it would have to do, he supposed. He walked to the bathroom.

The bathroom was even nicer than the bedroom, in his opinion. As far as commodes went in the wasteland, your choices were limited. Even in the NCR capital of Shady Sands, city-wide plumbing had yet to be instilled, and most poorer citizens were still doing their business in the open, in sewers and culverts. With its perfectly polished interior and warm, heated floors, Sam reckoned if General Oliver had seen the toilets inside the Lucky 38, he might not have surrendered to the Courier so easily that day.

Sam carefully lifted the toilet cover off of the tank, placing it down gently as he reached for an object inside: a bulky object wrapped in a plastic bag, floating in the water. He never felt more vulnerable than when he did this. It reminded him of when he was a child, and he and his brothers would try to sneak cookies from the kitchen, carefully on a lookout for their mother.

He grabbed the object from the water disdainfully, ignoring the gordian-like knot on the bag that he had tied to keep water from leaking in, and instead ripping it directly open. Sam still wondered if they'd ever get suspicious that he was taking so many plastic bags from the supply closet. Reaching into the plastic, he pulled out his prize: his radio. He grimaced. Unlike the lighter, Sam knew there was no explaining this if someone had kicked the door down. Having this anywhere near him was a death sentence; a date with House's personal executioner.

He decided he'd talk fast then. He turned it on— as it was only made to call and receive from one location, he was connected to a channel right away. Sam held the radio up to his mouth, and quietly began to talk:

"Breaker, breaker, come in Phoenix, this is Einstein. Do you read me?"

There was a moment of pure, silent static. Sam frowned. Someone must be asleep at the wheel. Before he could say anything else, a voice finally answered him:

"We read you Einstein. Standby."

Sam groaned. It was a young voice. Probably a green-around-the-gills clerk straight out of basic training. Last thing he needed right now was to talk to somebody with zero clearance.

"Phoenix, please go for secure line Grizzly One, I authenticate: channel six one nine dash three, over."

"Erm… okay… standby…"

Sam frowned. This was a new guy. Things were getting sloppy back at home, and the thought of that made Sam worried. After a few seconds of rustling and hushed conversations through static, a new, yet familiar voice suddenly came on the line.

"What advice did one bear give the other bear?"

"Two heads are better than one."

"That's a copy. Good to hear from you, Gordon. What's your window?"

"Likewise Grizzly," said Sam. "About four minutes, so I'll make this quick. I just got the go-ahead: Phase Four is currently underway."

"Goddammit," sighed Grizzly. "What's your current status?"

"Got the heads-up call a few minutes ago. They're expecting me down at Site Bravo any minute now."

"Copy...standby." Sam heard the rustle of paper and pens being gathered, and someone screaming orders in the background. He'd dropped quite a bomb on their heads. "Please relay your last known information regarding the primary objective."

"Phase Four has been ascertained to be a highly classified operation put together by designation Monarch, the exact scope of which is currently unknown. I have learned that Monarch has suddenly decided to initiate Phase Four after two years of inactivity; I was put on notice for the project's revival only yesterday. Phase Four involves the use of the prototype molecular relay that I had been hired to work on. Though the technician team has been kept mostly in the dark, it is common knowledge that Monarch's molecular relay prototype will be used to transport the individual known as designation Copperhead to the following coordinates— standby."

"Go ahead, Einstein."

Sam walked back to his bed, reaching into the bed frame of his mattress, retrieving a small torn piece of paper with numbers on it.

"The coordinates are as follows— 42.3601 degrees North, 71.0589 degrees West." There was a short few seconds of the sound of furious writing.

"Copy that."

"Consulting pre-war maps, I have determined the location of these coordinates to be the city of Boston, in the New England Commonwealth. I recommend pulling files from the last scouting reports of that area. If I remember my middle school classes correctly, I'd say… Laurie Party, 2246?"

"'Out east, we found but more of the same.' That'll be a fun read. What exactly is Copperhead supposed to do in Boston?"

"That, I can't say," said Sam. "The only one privy to that information is our friend and head scientist, Dr. Reeves, and she's made a big show of keeping her mouth shut. The rest of us just keep guessing. Speculation ranges from simple scouting, to retrieval, to assassination… we can't say for sure, but from the way Monarch talks about it, Copperhead won't be back for a while. It is important to note that Monarch has personal history within the area, from pre-war records."

"We'll look into that, Einstein. What about Project Butterfly? Is the prototype still functional?"

"Well, it's doing what it's supposed to, which is flinging a mass of molecules from one point to another. Keeping them intact and sending them to the right place, however, is a different story. There were many trial runs with live subjects early on that ended with the said subject dead, insane, or just plain missing— god knows where. There was an accident involving Copperhead's arm a while ago, I believe I've briefed you on that already, but we think we've identified the problem since then. We've also improved the prototype's latent accuracy. Last night, we shot a Bighorner to the coordinates I just gave you. While the tracking beacon did confirm that it arrived in Boston, there was no way to track the subject's vitals from that distance. All in all, its still probably the best teleporter the wasteland's ever seen."

"But is it viable?"

"Can't say. I wouldn't hop in it, that's for fucking sure."

"So how will that affect the operation?"

"Well right now, we're estimating a 70% chance that teleporting Copperhead to Boston won't rearrange his DNA or scramble his brain. This has been deemed an 'acceptable margin' by Monarch."

"Roger that. Any activity from Copperhead?"

Sam felt his eye twitch.

"Not that I've interacted with him thus far. He's not exactly a fan of the technician team, having killed a co-worker for the arm incident. From what I gather however, he found out the same time I did that Phase Four was being revived."

"Can you objectively supposite as to the sudden urgency?" (What does this mean?)

"Again, therein lies the question, Grizzly," said Sam. "I can only guess that this is all happening because of something that Monarch learned only yesterday. And now, with him reactivating the molecular relay...it just seems so...decisive…… Grizzly, are you there?"

He waited for a reply, but only silence answered him. Ten seconds passed by, and still, no Grizzly. He held his ear closer to the radio, trying to piece together what was happening over the static. He thought he could hear a faint discussion occurring.

"Grizzly, are you there?" he repeated. For a moment, an icy cold wave of fear shot down to his balls as Sam considered that House was jamming his signal, with a team of Securitrons ready outside, waiting to breach his door. But then, a new voice suddenly came on the line.

"Agent Gordon?" the voice asked. It was an old, tired, familiar voice.

"Who is this?" he asked brusquely.

"This is Eagle."

Sam raised an eyebrow. Yes, he did know this voice. He hadn't spoken to the head of NCR intelligence since the man personally recruited him to the program.

"Sir."

"We hoped to have a clearer picture of House's 'Phase Four' by now, but it seems as though gathering information is not feasible anymore. Whatever Phase Four is, we cannot let House's plans to develop any further."

"Sir, with all due respect, attaining information, technical or otherwise, is still feasible. There's still plenty to learn besides Phase Four," said Sam.

"What House plans on doing now is potentially critical. The fact that he is willingly allowing the Courier to leave his side implies great significance to this operation. Ipso facto, it can't be allowed to continue if we are committed to weakening his position in the Mojave."

"As of now, your new mission is to sabotage Phase Four by any means necessary. And that includes using the nuclear option."

Sam froze. "...Sir?"

"We need to end this, agent. House's tyranny has gone on long enough. Taking out Phase Four is one thing. Taking out House all together is another."

Sam sighed. The moment had come then. "I see…"

"It's time to take the mask off, son," said the General. "If you can make it to the safe house before nightfall, by all means, make like the wind and godspeed. We will have evac waiting for you if you do. But if not...if you're made before then...you know what to do."

"Yes sir, I do," said Sam somberly. "I understand. God bless the New California Republic."

"God bless it, God bless you. It's been an honor, Sam. Hopefully, the next time we talk will be in shadier sands."

"Likewise sir. Give my regards to the people of Whiskeytown. Tell 'em the Gordon brothers got theirs in the end," Sam said firmly. He glanced at the bedside table. The clock had switched back on. The bright red numbers stared him dead in the face.

Sam almost shat himself, wasting no time and grabbed the radio with both hands. Forcing all of his strength and will, he barely heard the other voice respond before he snapped the radio in two. A bright spark popped in his hands, but that was it. His only way of communication was now dead. It didn't matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore, he supposed. Except for his mission.

So it's come to this, thought Sam, taking a moment to collect himself. His heart was pounding. He found it almost a hypnagogic moment, like the few seconds of deliriousness before you wake up from a dream. Two years spent spying on the greatest threat to the NCR since the Legion. Countless days putting together scraps of information. Numerous hours on the radio, in hushed conversation with his handlers back home. Now his radio was dead. And he wouldn't know if he'd ever spoken to another NCR citizen again after today.

He was the last of them. He had survived the longest. Colleagues came and went, and usually, they all went the same way. His coworkers dangled by their necks outside, and usually only came down when the flesh and sinew had rotted away, leaving nothing for the ropes to hold. If he strained a little bit, Sam could see their bones drift in the wind outside his window. Sometimes, he tried to count them all. Sam would never have guessed he of all people, as of now, would be the last. That the collective mission of every man and woman that hung outside now fell on him to complete.

And though he found it all so surreal, he wasn't bitter. In fact, he was almost… excited. Completed. At last, he could tear off his mask and give House and his Courier exactly what they deserved. Finally, his purpose in Vegas had been realized. There would be no need for an evac team, he decided. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.

He jumped up onto his bed, standing tall above the hotel room that was his mini-kingdom. Today, he was king, not House. Sam started rapping his knuckles on the ceiling, searching for that hollow echo. When he found it, he carefully pushed inwards on the ceiling tile, sliding it slowly out of the way. As he did, what he had been searching for spilled out of the ceiling onto his bed. Bricks of orange putty, carefully taught and encased in saran wrap. He had a small mountain of these things.

It had taken years for the pile to get this big. Every month, waiting for dead drops, collecting what he could. A pinch here and a fistful there. Every month, scraping it into stolen test tubes, soda bottles, and even condoms. Some of it, he'd manufactured himself through the strength of his own ingenuity. This was an even more arduous process, stealing the necessary materials and chemicals from the research labs— again, a pinch or so at a time. He'd mix it under the cover of darkness, in safe houses and drug dens, far from the watchful eyes of his employer. Soon, he'd think to himself, he'd have enough. And now, as of today, he just might.

Sam carefully picked up a pack of Semtex, weighing it in his hands, calculating the numbers in his head. One placed on House's prototype— he'd burn down all the progress he'd made over two years in one day. A few more pasted onto select load-bearing spots; he'd been studying the blueprints of the Lucky 38 ever since he arrived, so he knew exactly where to put them. Though there was no possible way to access the antechamber where House's body was kept, he could blow the floor above it, burying the despot in rubble.

Five is all I need, he thought. Five packs, and the House goes bust. And if he had to stay behind to make sure it blew, what of it? It wasn't every day that you got to kill a tyrant. It was only fitting that you went with them, to provide testimony to the devil.

But there was still the question of how would he kill the Courier, he wondered. From all his wildest fantasies, such a method would probably be suffering, bleeding him little by little till he died a slow, painful death. Sadly, that likely wasn't possible now. He'd have to take him by surprise, of course. Sam carefully weighed the brick of plastic explosive in his hand. Then, as if a sudden epiphany came to him, he placed it against his chest. The sixth kills the sixth.

Hello, Courier Six, Sam thought. He mimicked extending a hand in welcome. My name is Sam Gordon, and I'm a spy for the NCR. I was sent here by my government to personally ensure that you go to hell. He'd then pull the man in close, leaving little space between Six's body and his. Then, in one last vengeful embrace, he'd activate the charges. And the Courier would die.

And when he met Jay and Rob again on the other side, wherever they were, they'd draw up a chair and watch together as the Courier burned in front of them.

"You know what you are, Beancounter? You're a slave."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Wasn't meant to be an insult: it's the correct description of your job title. If you can even call it that."

Six stood in the Lucky 38 penthouse: his bosses office, and strangely for the first time in a long while, he found himself wanting to speak to his boss. Instead, what was presented in front of him on House's usual display monitor was the image of a nebbish, officious looking man wearing a visor and spectacles. This was Beancounter. Where Victor was meant to be House's artificial intelligence and liaison for all security and diplomacy related matters (that was, until House hired the Courier, moving Victor down to dealing solely with the interior security of the Lucky 38), Beancounter was meant to be a more numbers-oriented liaison— a computer program that House could order to sort and calculate the logistics and expenditures of all odds and ends while he could daydream and scheme.

Beancounter was not meant to be a diplomat. He was not made for long meetings with casino bosses and foreign generals and the Courier. In a nutshell, Beancounter was made to crunch numbers, not talk to people. Six was now learning this the hard way.

"Regardless of what you are, I'd appreciate it if I could talk to the actual brains behind the operation. Or operating program." Six smiled at his little joke. "I got decisions for him that only he can make.

"I'm sorry, but Mr. House is currently preoccupied," said Beancounter, rather pompously. "I have been uploaded with his latest memories, allowing me to properly represent him while he is indisposed.

Six shook the rolled-up scroll of paper in his hands at Beancounter.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked.

"Negative."

"This is my list of conditions for— hell, I'll say what it is, my list of demands for the Phase Four job. Or the Boston job, or the whatever-you-want-to-call-it job" Six stated, talking slowly. "Point is, there are things I want in exchange for me doing said job. And if they're not met, we've got a problem."

"Understood."

"Which is precisely why I'd like to square things away with House before he shoots me off to the other side of the goddamn country, not his artificial errand boy."

You're just like him, you know, said the Right Brain. Just another one of House's robots.

Do me a favor and take a mentat, will ya? said the Left Brain in response. Don't let the other guy mess with our paycheck.

I wrote most of that list myself you motherfu—

"I'm sorry. As I said before, I have been uploaded with House's latest memories. In it are his last instructions regarding your compensation for the Phase Four mission. I will do my best to negotiate on Mr. House's behalf." Beancounter's nebby little face winked, and it made Six want to throw up.

"Where is he?" Inquired Six. "What the hell could he even be doing?"

"Mister House has been stockpiling reserve power needed to properly operate the Mark III Molecular Teleporter, in an effort to ensure you reach your destination safely. This involves disabling many superfluous programs, and Mr. House has seen it upon himself to temporarily deactivate all non-essential mainframe activity. Regardless, his last memories before he went offline have already been saved to my database. That is to say, even though House is not here, I speak with his voice," explained Beancounter. Six scowled.

"Tell me, in his last memories, did he specifically think about purposely avoiding negotiating payment?"

There was a short pause from Beancounter.

"No."

"Are you saying that because he ordered you too?"

Another short pause.

"No," stated Beancounter. "Shall we discuss your compensation?" Seeing no way out of this, Six let out a long sigh, and broke out his list.

"Whatever. So here's what I want…" began Six, unrolling his list. "60,000. Thirty now, the rest upon completion."

"Approved," said the robot.

"I want a 5% increase in my current benefits plan— medical, disability, life insurance, retirement, PTO— all of it."

"Approved for 3%."

"Fine. I want to double my shareholdings in the Casinos, and I want a firm lock on casino privileges. Let's get it officially in writing."

Beancounter hesitated for a moment— the systems in his head whirring, double

"Doubling your shares is approved, casino privileges are approved for one."

"One?"

"Just you."

"That's fine, I guess, let the other guys sort themselves out," mumbled Six, returning to his list. He can't believe he even let them take a look at his list. As far as he was concerned, if no one else's molecules were being shot across the continent, all compensation should be primarily for the Courier. "Speaking of which I'd like to order some renovations, pre-paid of course, for the Presidential Suite."

"You are unsatisfied with your current lodgings?"

"I want a hot tub. And an expansion for the common rooms. It's getting a little cramped in there."

Beancounter whirred.

"Approved."

"Thank you. Oh, and the pool needs to be renovated too, for once and for fucking all. I'm tired of hiking down to the Tops to use their pool."

"Approved."

Six cleared his throat. "Okay so, speaking of which, I need a room set up for Lucy as she… uh… has her kid."

"Please clarify for 'Lucy.'"

Six cleared his throat. This was going to be a hard sell, he thought to himself. Unlike Lucy, House (or Beancounter, he supposed) probably couldn't be swayed by stomping on a few Deathclaws. And also unlike Lucy, House played it safe. That was probably why this particular condition made the list in the first place.

"Lucy McKenna. Uh...also known as Red Lucy? I'd like her to be roomed in—"

"DENIED," blared Beancounter.

"—the Tops. Jesus Christ, man," bristled Six. "That's what he wants, right? He doesn't want any girls taking up here, besmirching the good name of the Lucky 38. Put her in the Tops, and he can forget about her."

And where you can forget about her too, right? inquired the Right Brain.

She ain't dying. Not your fault she's insane and wouldn't let you cover up, said the Left Brain.

And where you can forget about your kid… your other kid, that is. Poor Sarah. Least she didn't have to do it where there's Deathclaws drooling over your afterbirth.

That's why we're doing this, dummy. And I don't see your point. Our dad ran out on us too and we're doing fine.

Are we though?

Beancounter whirred for what seemed like a full minute. Six was just about ready to drop the clause completely, until the robot finally spoke up.

"Approved," Beancounter said finally. "Temporarily."

"She won't like the sound of that. How about indefinitely?"

"Temporarily."

"Okay, I want majority ownership of the Tops."

"Denied."

"Now hold on. Ever since the previous GM bit it, the Tops has suffered a drop in visits, correct?"

"... This is true."

"That's because there's been a vacuum in leadership since Benny died, and they're all so fucking confused— you're welcome by the way— they don't know what to do. Let me wrangle in the Chairmen. I'll put Swank under my thumb, and trust me, you're gonna see the Tops at the top again."

In truth, Six had no intention of bringing the Tops back to its old glory. He had no intention of putting anyone under his thumb. The Tops and Swank could both blow up the next morning for all he cared. But becoming the majority owner meant one thing, and that was that Six could finally erase his predecessor's legacy. Soon, the only thing that Vegas would remember about the late head chairman would be that of his slowly rotting corpse, tied to a crucifix.

There was a long, long pause. Longer than the previous ones. Six frowned. For a second, Six was sure Beancounter had checked out and stopped counting his beans.

"Approved on one condition," said Beancounter finally.

"What?"

"Retrieve Project ADAM, and the moment you return, you will own the Tops."

Six's lips curled into a wicked grin.

"Beancounter old buddy," said Six with a sly wink. "You can count on that."

"I heard he walked into Nelson...killed every legionary there and burned it to the ground."

"By himself? That can't be true."

"It is true. I was across the ways at Camp Forlorn Hope. The men stationed there were about to launch an assault to help him, but when they reached the other side of the canyon, Nelson was already gone... as well as all the NCR captives they'd been holding."

"Scorched fucking earth… Jesus. I heard he took Hoover Dam practically by himself, but I didn't believe it…"

"There were Securitrons with him, but from what I hear from people who fought there— at least on the NCR side— the robots mostly got in his way."

"They say he killed Legate Lanius."

"The Lanius?! Impossible!"

"Well, no one's seen the Legate since, not in Arizona or anywhere else. Either he killed him, or shamed him into defeat… which is more impressive, I can't say."

Sam exited the elevator, stepping into the antechamber of the Lucky 38's basement, where the rest of the Project Butterfly were in deep conversation. A group of about fifteen able-minded scientists— geniuses, really, all things considered, from all across the Western American wasteland...though primarily from the NCR.

His senior and lead scientist, Dr. Reeves, looked up from her clipboard to him. Gloria Reeves was an NCR migrant (some would say traitor) and was formerly one of the greatest minds of the Office of Science and Industry, and possibly all of the Republic. Her reputation in the field of quantum and molecular physics was far beyond the scope of anything the wasteland had ever seen. Sam often wondered how the NCR let her go so easily. Although from the way Reeves conducted herself, he suspected that she had been demanding checks the Republic likely couldn't write. House, on the other hand, had no such issues.

"There you are. And just where have you been?" fumed Dr. Reeves, turning the attention toward Sam.

"Sorry, Doctor," said Sam.

"I hope you have a good excuse, because you were supposed to warm up the collider ten minutes ago."

Sam shrugged. "I have no excuse, it was a mistake. Won't happen again' he said. Although this was a flimsy deflection, it was better than the truth. Sorry, I was busy planting these explosives on key locations in the building. Oh yeah, forgot to mention, I'm an NCR spy. Slipped my mind. Actually, if things were to go tits up— like today, for example, my orders are to kill you, Dr. Reeves. Anyway, let me on through and I'll plant another pack of Semtex on the teleporter and we can all die together. Sound good? For some reason, that didn't sound like it'd go over well.

"I'd surmise that Gordon may have gotten lost," smirked Technician Figgis. "It's a biiiig building after all." Of all the people that Sam was most excited to let die in an explosion, Bert Figgis was probably the third name on that list after House and the Courier. A migrant from Dayglow, Bert Figgis had graduated at the top of his class from his time with the Followers of the Apocalypse, and he wasn't afraid to let you know that. He was a pretentious, smarmy, obnoxious know-it-all. He was also the biggest coward in the room; his big mouth immediately shut, and he became a quiet mouse of a man whenever the Courier entered the room. Figgis was smart enough at least, to fear him.

"Well, I do spend most of my time in my room," said Sam. "Unlike some people, who spend most of their time at Gomorrah." Figgis reddened.

"That's enough," snapped Dr. Reeves. "Thanks to Gordon, we're behind schedule. I've got a meeting to attend. I want everyone in gear and at their stations in two minutes. Durham, you're on terminal duty. Establish a beachhead on those coordinates. Sam, you're with him."

"Sorry, are we not doing a dry run?" asked Technician Durham. Durham was one of House's first hires, snatched up from Arizona shortly when the late Caesar decided to purge his lands of anyone that had intelligence beyond tribal. That was, before a brain tumor did him in. Ironically enough, in addition to being a nuclear physicist, Durham was also a qualified brain surgeon. "We already have the live subject prepped. We could see if our accuracy has improved," said the Arizonian.

"Are you insane?" snapped Reeves. "If you want to waste more time and resources by teleporting more sheep, I'd say you don't fully understand your orders. Unless you need someone to remind you."

"No, I understand ma'am," said Durham quickly. "Just...spitballing."

"Clearly," grimaced Reeves. "In case the rest of you don't get it by now: this is what we've been hired for. Every simulation we've run, every schematic we drew up, everything we've worked so hard for: all that effort has been for today. Today is the day we earn our paychecks." The rest of the team nodded in agreement.

"So that being said, if we fuck up now in any way— it won't go well for us." Reeves almost sounded a bit nervous as she said that. Though she had good reason to be. Reeves had replaced Dr. Kenneth, one of OSI's former head scientists and a once-in-a-generation bonafide genius. He had single-handedly saved the NCR from crisis after crisis.

And yet for all his genius, he still couldn't construct a fully functional molecular teleporter, maiming one of the live subjects during a trial run. And unfortunately for Dr. Kenneth, that live subject happened to be the Courier. So for his crimes, he was murdered. His second in command, Dr. Reeves, shortly took his place as lead scientist. Now the crosshairs were on her, and if the Courier didn't make it one piece, she'd likely be the first person he'd come to with complaints. Luckily for Dr. Reeves, this also happened to be the day that the Lucky 38 and consequently every member of House's technician team blew up in a fiery explosion, so she didn't have to worry about that anymore.

"Everyone, get dressed and get to your stations. Thirty minutes until launch."

The team dispersed to their separate changing stations, as the men filed into one room and the women into another. Sam noticed the hurried attitudes of his coworkers— each of them, anxious to finish their jobs.

"Sam? You're going to get changed, aren't you?" asked Durham.

"Sure, in a moment," said Sam, setting down his bag, in which two packs of plastic explosives were figuratively burning a hole in. He'd wait until the rest dispersed. Then, he'd get properly dressed.

"These are the last reports of the area," said Victor, handing Six a dossier full of files. "You're a lucky son-of-a-gun, partner. Normally our scouting probes signals are too weak for satellite imagery."

Six scoffed quietly, taking the dossier from Victor while he poured over the pictures on the table. House had sure gone to a lot of trouble to get these. Because Victor was right. Normally he never had intel this good. A lot of resources were being poured into the retrieval of Project ADAM; Six would have been lying if he said he wasn't feeling any pressure. He studied the pictures closely— aerial images taken from overhead probes, canvassing the entire Boston area. Looking at them, Six felt as if he was taking in the sights from above, as a bird would.

"Victor…" began Six. "How does a city take a direct nuclear hit and still have this many buildings standing?"

"Don't rightly know," said Victor. "And keep in mind, they didn't have House shooting down as many missiles as he could."

"I don't like the look of this," muttered Six, pointing to a vast, dark shape on one of the pictures. "This looks recent. Is this the Institute crater?"

"Correct."

"Someone must've really wanted these guys gone," he muttered, shaking his head. "That's a full payload; thing's practically glowing. Are we sure they made it out? Doubt I could barely salvage a lab coat from this."

"Well, the EM readings we've been doing have shown a large spike in electrical-wave data since yesterday. Air's practically thick with it."

"And so 'ADAM' lives, huh?" mused Six. "Christ, this one is even bigger. Is this a crater too?"

"In a sense. That's what the locals call 'the Glowing Sea,'" said Dr. Reeves, who was standing next to Six. "In simple terms, it's a hellscape of an uninhabitable highly-radioactive wasteland. Don't worry, we'll be landing you as far away from there as we possibly can."

Six-pointed at the labeled triangular-shaped mass on the map. "This looks like a giant stadium. What's 'Diamond City?'"

"That's the largest settlement in the area, and it just so happens to be a stadium. Giant population center. Major trading hub. There's more information in the file. They even have a bar or two, you'll love it," joked Victor.

"Yeah, I'll bring you back a t-shirt," said Six sardonically. "A settlement this big will be easy to blend into. Chances are, if anyone knows what happened to the Institute, they'll be in Diamond City. I'll start there, then."

"We'll be dropping you in on Main Street, here," said Dr. Reeves, pointing to a location on the map. "You'll be right on top of the crater. Mr. House reasons that there should be nothing left there to investigate, but there's no harm in looking. I'm told that you don't have a problem with radiation due to your Monocyte Breeder implant?"

"I do have a problem with it," frowned Six. "Just because I can regenerate cells faster doesn't mean I appreciate them dying off."

"Well in any case, be warned for high levels of radiation in that area. From here, you're about a miles walk away from Diamond City."

"Alright," sighed the Courier. "Victor, I'm gonna need you to cough up some extra supplies. Stimpaks, Radaway— some extra ammo too. Radiation I can handle, but I'm not too stoked to meet whatever's living there."

"Done and done!" said Victor cheerily. "Will you be taking the Bozar with you?"

The Courier chuckled. "Trying to play it subtle, Vic. Gimme' Maria and the Lil Devil. I'm sure I can salvage something along the way if I have to. Besides: if anything, this could become a diplomatic mission."

Victor's screen buzzed for a moment, as he began to relay orders to his Securitron network. "Already on its way up from the armory."

"Thanks Victor. Alright then, Project ADAM. What do I do once I find it?"

Reeves turned to her Securitron companion. "Victor?" Upon her cue, Victor wordlessly produced a holotape, ejecting it out of a small slot underneath his display screen. Reeves took it carefully.

"Upon location of Project ADAM's files, you'll need to insert this holotape into whatever terminal it is being stored on," instructed Reeves. "Then, once it's in, you need to run the "System Scan" operation. This will copy any and all files on the terminal onto the holotape. When it's done copying, run the "System Takeover" operation. This will allow you to erase all data left on the terminal. You might want to write this down."

"What if it's not being kept on a terminal?"

"Unlikely. It's a lot of data to not have electronically stored. In fact, Mr. House ascertains that any terminal used to hold Project ADAM will be of considerable size."

"As in… big?"

"Mister House currently stores his programming on a MAELSTROM C-M5 supercomputer— the kind you see in his penthouse. He reasons that if the Institute is truly working off his old schematics, the terminal used will be a similar model. So yes, quite big. In any case, do not lose this holotape," said Reeves, carefully handing it to Six as if it was made of glass. "It's very valuable."

Six took it gingerly, raising an eyebrow. It sure didn't look like a standard holotape— it was twice as heavy and jet black, with the patented words "LUCKY 38" engraved onto it. He slipped it into one of the pockets of his suit vest.

"I'll take it you're satisfied with the prototype ballistic armor vest I made for you?" intoned Victor.

"Fits like a glove, and made with love. I feel like a kid on Christmas morning, Vic," said Six sarcastically, patting his chest pockets. However, his appreciation was genuine. Though it looked as if Six could blend in easily with the snappy suit-wearing gangsters of Vegas, his suit vest differed in that it could protect him from a grenade blast at point-blank range. "Got any other goodies for me?"

As if on cue, a cart was wheeled into the room by another Securitron unit, as Victor made a presenting gesture. "Well, we got your standard travel kit— your canteen, some stimpaks, and anti-radiation drugs, 10mm and 9mm rounds, your "medicines," a handful of grenades (smoke and frag), your usual selection of knives… and we got this." Victor pointed to one of the items on the cart. "That there is a brand new state-of-the-art Pip-Boy. It's equipped with a two-way radio, uploaded with maps of the Boston Commonwealth, and has a few other tools you'll find useful. And of course, Maria and the Lil' Devil."

Six began packing away his supplies into his pack, and affixing the brand new Pip-Boy to his wrist. He took the two pistols in both hands, testing their weight and balance. They had become his favorite tools for clandestine operations like this. Especially Maria. She was a star-studded beauty glittering with jewels; an old flame of his. They'd met under different circumstances. She was the one that had brained him after all. Maria was a fickle woman, once in the hands of a bad man that didn't treat her right. Six, on the other hand, knew just how to handle her. He strapped the two carefully into his shoulder holsters.

Six motioned to one of the items on the cart: a bundle of steel darts with glowing blue tips. "What about those?"

"Those, partner, are whistling birds," Victor said proudly. "One of Mr. House's designs, made to counter situations where you're outnumbered. You load them into that new Pip-Boy of yours. You ever find yourself with your back against the wall surrounded by varmints, all you gotta do is just push that little button on your Pip-Boy, and the birds will do the rest."

"Victor, I get this weird feeling that you're sending me off to war," commented Six, loading the tiny darts into his Pip-Boy. "Again, if anything, I feel like this will be a diplomatic mission."

"True… but if I know you— and your operating record— diplomacy doesn't tend to last too long before breaking down."

"Heh. Fair point, I guess," smirked Six. "So how the hell am I supposed to get back after the jobs' done?"

"Ah, well. I'm afraid that our current prototype is only made to send, and not receive," said Dr. Reeves. "That is to say, we have no way of automatically fixing your location from here and pulling you back."

Six rolled his eyes. "You're kidding."

"Unfortunately so. Such advancements, I imagine, would only be available through what we learn upon the retrieval of Project ADAM."

"So what? I'm supposed to navigate my way across the entire continental United States to get back to Vegas?" snapped Six.

"Hopefully not," said Reeves, digging into her lab coat. "We do have a few options at our disposal…" She produced a rolled-up manuscript, handing it to Six.

He carefully unfolded it. Carefully sketched diagrams and blueprints beyond his comprehension covered the vast pages, with different lists of instructions that Six knew he wasn't patient enough to read.

"Mr. House reasons that the increased spike of electrical wave data he's been reading from the area more or less confirms the existence of a fully-functional molecular relay. If you can locate and secure it, you'll need to build one of these…" She pointed at the diagrams on the manuscript. "It's a transmitter that will…" She deliberated, searching for the right words to explain it to the Courier. "...connect their teleporter to ours. Once you build one, you can attach it to the relay, and we'll be able to pull you back."

Six felt his heart drop. "I have to build all this shit? I can't make heads or tails out of this goddamn novel."

"It is...complicated, but we are confident that you'll be able to manage. That being said, we are prepared for a contingency in case you're not able to construct the transmitter."

"And what would that be?"

"Well...I'm told there's a certain ghoul here that knows his way around machines. And a former Brotherhood scribe that has experience with advanced technology. If all else fails, they'll be able to communicate with you."

Six grumbled. Added company usually meant a smaller paycheck.

"Tell me something, Dr. Reeves..." began Six, tucking away the manuscript into his suit. "Why should I trust anything you R&D bastards make anyway? You don't exactly have a great track record."

Reeves huffed resentfully. "With all due respect, we've done the best we can. We've accomplished more in the last few years than the entire wasteland has in a hundred."

Six flashed his metal arm at the scientist.

"See this?"

"... Yes."

"This means that you can do better. Call me a perfectionist, I don't know— if your inventions keep mutilating the people that use it, I doubt you're hitting your peak."

"I understand your reservations, and I assure you that we've made some significant strides in its efficacy. This prototype is just as we've come a long way since… well… uhm…" Dr. Reeves trailed off awkwardly, trying not to stare at Six's arm.

"Since you mutilated me, I remember," sighed the Courier. "Fine. We'll just wait and see how far you people have come. I just hope you're prepared to deal with the consequences."

"Y-yes I… I understand."

"Good," said Six. "How long 'till we're ready to go?"

"Twenty minutes," said Victor.

"Good," he repeated. "Who's got a cigarette in here?"

The weight of the Semtex against his chest felt Herculean; it was no more than five or four pounds, but right now it felt as if he had a Bighorner strapped to his body. It was strapped to a rig on his chest that was connected to the detonator, taped to his wrist. The nervous perspiration did nothing to help the secureness of it, as he could feel it slowly slip down his chest, inch by inch. He'd cross his arms frequently, miming deep concentration as he stood by the collider, while making sure it stayed in place. As for the one tucked between his thighs, Sam didn't even want to think about it. The bulge of the plastic explosive would be well hidden by the bagginess of his lab suit, but it wouldn't make it any easier to walk. He sighed in frustration.

He spent four years studying with the Followers of the Apocalypse. There would have been another four Sam would have spent getting his doctorate in nuclear physics, were it not for the war in the Mojave. Then it became eighteen months of ranger school. Two years on the Mojave campaign, which proved to be all for nothing. Then he was recruited by Eagle, and spent another eighteen months training to be a spy for the Office of Intelligence. This ultimately led to two years working for Mr. House.

Now here he was with Technician Durham, standing at a terminal fixing the coordinates for the mission of one of his primary targets, eighteen minutes until launch, and somehow the wait seemed longer than all eleven years put together. His patience was wearing thin, and he could feel his nerves start to get to him.

And he still had one more pack of explosives that he had to plant. The teleporter itself. Though it stood guarded by two Securitrons, and it would look strange if he decided to approach it out of the blue given that it was not his station. Sam decided he'd have to find a way to distract the room before he could get his hands on the prototype. Once he had planted it, all he had left was to find the Courier. Then it was a simple press of a button.

"Alright, coordinates are fixed. That's our job done. Now all that's left is to flip the switch," said Durham. His eyes drifted away from his workstation. "Oh Christ…"

Sam looked up. "What is it?"

"He's here."

Sam glanced towards the lift. Striding into the basement, an air of impunity following him as always, was the Courier himself.

Dear Miss Gordon,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to inform you of the loss of your son, Ranger Jason Gordon, who perished in the line of duty on the 3rd of February in New Vegas.

I know that the passing of a loved one is one of life's most tragic moments, but sincerely hope you will find some measure of comfort in knowing your son served his nation with honor.

Due to the nature of your son's duty within the Ranger Division, we regret that we are unable to disclose further details on Ranger Gordons' death.

That burned Sam up the most. It hurt that they wouldn't give a poor old woman closure. On the other hand, maybe it was better she didn't know. Better Maryanne Gordon lived the rest of her short life oblivious, taking small comfort in the fact that Jay's death was likely heroic, and at the very least quick. In truth, it was nothing of the sort.

It was a failed assault on Nelson that got him. They had tried to take the Legion by surprise. Turns out, the slavers were dug in better than they had thought. Jay was captured, and because he happened to be a ranger, he was strung up by the Legion; crucified and put on display, his agony shown bare to his fellow soldiers across the No Man's Land. That was the other falsehood of the letter. Jason Gordon was tied to the cross on the 3rd. He died twelve hours later, on the 4th.

That's when the Courier was sent to Nelson, to succeed where Sam's brother had failed. He did his job too well, burning the Legion camp to the ground. When the NCR soldiers reclaimed the camp, they found that even the captives hadn't been spared. Each man received their own bullet to the head before they were set alight. The charred, smoking bodies still strapped to their crosses, faces taught in suffering were proof of the Courier's "mercy." Perhaps he was vindictive. Probably, he was just lazy. And in spite of his crimes, he was rewarded for his efforts in helping the NCR and even given a firm handshake by Major Polatli. To this day, Sam still couldn't rationalize why the Courier couldn't have cut his brother free.

It was fun to pretend that the Courier was on their side. Fun and stupid. Sam was the youngest of the Gordon brothers, but in many ways, he was the wisest. The family had grown up dirt poor in rural farm town Redding, and Sam's genius had always shown brightly amongst the rest. While Jay and Rob repeated the twelfth and eleventh grade, Sam was apprenticing with a philanthropic group of researchers. Maryanne was pleased. At least the boys weren't lowly miners or doing jobs with the Van Graffs.

While Jay and Rob donned their uniforms at the recruitment center, Sam studied nuclear physics with the Followers of the Apocalypse. While Jay had finished Ranger school, he was writing his dissertation. It was only until the first battle for Hoover Dam that Sam realized that his brothers could very well die. And Sam did so love his brothers that he decided that if anything, they'd die together. And so it wasn't before long that Sam swapped out his books for a rifle and joined his brothers in the desert.

He was in Camp McCarran when he got the news that his brother died. Come to think of it, he was in McCarran both times. He really did hate the thought of that place now. The second time he heard the news of his brother's death was the night before the Great Betrayal, with a brand new letter to give to Maryanne Gordon. She died the day after reading it.

Dear Miss Gordon

It is with a heavy heart that I write to inform you of the loss of your son, Lance Corporal Robert Gordon, 5th Infantry, who perished in the line of duty on the 7th of May in New Vegas.

I know that the passing of a loved one is one of life's most tragic moments, but sincerely hope you will find some measure of comfort in knowing your son served his nation with honor.

LCP Robert Gordon was killed in action, defending a vital substation from falling into enemy hands. His sacrifice will not be forgotten.

At least there were no mysteries there.

"Who's got a smoke in here?" asked the Courier out loud to the room. "Come on, cough 'em up. I'm looking at you, Figgis." The timid scientist cowered in his place, only replying very shakily that he quit smoking, and thus could not provide the Courier. In fact it seemed as if the whole room of scholars, scientists, and geniuses did their best to feign busywork, desperate not to meet his eyes.

Except one. Sam Gordon focused on his target intensely. Every calculation he had made was failing him now. All his plans, all his scheming for this very moment— he was coming up blank. All Sam could imagine was the sky— bursting into flames, full of hatred.

His sacrifice will not be forgotten.

"Nobody's got a cigarette in here?" called out the Courier once more. "No one?"

"I've got one."

The entire room looked up to see Sam Gordon, standing to face the Courier.

"Thanks," said the Courier politely, as Sam leaned over to light his cigarette.

"Ah…" Sam shook the lighter in his hands apologetically. "Out of gas. Sorry, hold on, I got another."

"No problem," replied the Courier patiently, cigarette between his lips, dipping down once more to meet the fire of Sam's second lighter. As he came up again, breathing smoke, he frowned at Sam. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"You mean, outside of us working for the same boss?" Sam joked. "Nah, I don't think so."

"Heh. Fair enough," said the Courier, continuing to smoke in silence. He blew a small cloud into the air. In the background, Dr. Reeves was complaining that her targeting systems were offline.

"You know I…" began Sam. "You know I've been waiting a long time to meet you. Personally, you know."

The Courier raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. I heard a lot about you, you know," said Sam. "You're a legend back where I come from." Behind him, he could feel many eyes on his back, judging him and weighing his sanity. You didn't just make small talk with House's right-hand man. At best, you spoke when spoken to. But no one had ever struck up a conversation with the guy. Even the Courier himself seemed surprised. Maybe even a little confused that Sam was still talking to him.

"And where is that?"

"Whiskeytown, Redding," stated Sam, defiantly. He had admitted to no crime. Almost every member of the technician team was from the NCR. In fact, the Courier himself…

"No shit," said the Courier, surprised. "I'm from Redding too."

"I know," said Sam, with a knowing smile. "We've all heard about you."

The Courier nodded, a smile of his own growing. Surely, Sam thought, he was reveling narcissistically in that fact. Though it was true. He was well known, for many things.

"Well shit. What have you heard?" he asked, curiously inspecting Sam.

Sam leaned in close, keeping his voice low, with an oblivious tone.

"I heard you killed Cook-Cook. Is that true?" Sam whispered.

"Woah." The Courier smiled, impressed. "You did your research. Yeah, I did. Got a nice bounty for it too, though I did have to carry his head in my bag the whole day. Guy smelt worse than his brahmin."

"Wow," said Sam, feigning surprise. "That's incredible man. Back when I was still in the NCR, I used to read all about you taking on the Fiends in the Daily Ranger. Hey speaking of which, is it true you took down a whole squad of Rangers by yourself?"

"Which time?" The Courier snorted. "Rangers ain't so tough. Genius like you should know by now that those guys like to buy into their own press releases."

"But you did, didn't you?" asked Sam.

The Courier smiled guiltily, shrugging a little. "Yeah, I took down one or two. I also paint houses and do construction work. I'm a busy guy."

Sam looked at him closely. The Courier looked closely back at him.

"You take out any near Nelson?" he asked quietly.

"Ah. This again." The Courier shook his head, ashing his cigarette.

For a moment, Sam was confused. "What?"

"No, just I usually get this kinda thing asked of me, you know. Some people get upset. I get it. You know, a lot of people think that they can't have a rational discourse with me, and it's not true. I'm open to discussing it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Nelson captives," replied the Courier simply. "A lot of people were upset with me because, well, they didn't make it out. And you know, on one hand, I'm inclined to agree with them, it's a shame they were up there in the first place. Maybe if the situation was different, I would have helped them out but that's not how it happened."

"People don't understand, I was working with the NCR on orders of our mutual employer. It was important, at the time, that we maintained 'healthy relations' with our neighbors (as it was explained to me), and this meant lending a hand doing this or that. On loan, of course. Bounties, you know, Cook-Cook and the others? I don't know, it doesn't matter. You know, you people forget, I saved your fucking President. Although to be fair, probably would have done you a favor if I'd let him die. You know what I mean."

"Anyway, when it came to Nelson, I was instructed to assist this guy— Major Polanti or some shit. Says it'll do good to clear out our mutual enemies. Whatever, right? So I go to this Major in this shitty camp— he tells me he wants to assault Nelson, take it back once and for all. And he wants me to lead, you know? He's got maps and everything drawn up, he's going into detail. And I said, well shit, you know, if you really want this done, just give me an hour, hour and a half. Don't wake your guys up, you know? So he thinks, yeah, no sweat off his back, if I die I die, his guys get to nap. I name my price, he lets me do my thing.

"It wasn't a rescue mission, you understand? If he told me, 'Six, you gotta help me get these guys out, we need to save these guys,' those guys would have been saved. All he told me was that he was going to cover his ears and look the other way. If they're in pain, you know, make it fast. So whatever, I have carte blanche."

"I have my own problems with the Legion. I won't get into it, but they owe me a favor, which has since gone unpaid. So I made sure that… you know, my displeasure was heard. When I'm done, I look up, and those guys are still on the cross, and I won't lie to you, they don't look too good. One of them's crying, begging for his mother, begging for water. Trust me, I know the minute he got on that cross for more than an hour, he was a dead man. Anyway, three guys, three bodies to drag out of there, I figured it wasn't worth the backache."

He stopped to take a drag off his cigarette. The entire room was silent. Dead silent. Listening closely. Sam could feel his skin begin to crackle and roast.

"Besides, nobody said it was a rescue mission," finished the Courier, unapologetically.

Sam extended his hand. The Courier eyed him curiously.

"Thank you," said Sam. "For being honest with me."

To his surprise, the Courier took his hand.

"Don't sweat it."

"Is there anything else you want to say?" Sam felt the weight of the detonator under his sleeve grow heavy.

"Yeah, I do actually," said the Courier. "I think you need to buy a new lighter."

There was a loud explosion, and all was finally quiet.

"Why would you do that?!" cried Technician Figgis. The man was beside himself, weeping like a frightened child.

"Calm down, Figgis. He was a spy," explained Six, spitting out his cigarette onto the floor, crushing it with his foot. The fact that he was drenched in blood did little to calm anyone else down. He holstered a still-smoking Maria.

"How could you know that?!" demanded Technician Durham. "The guy did nothing wrong!"

"Nothing wrong? Wrong. He did do something wrong. See this?" Six said, holding up a small, bloody object. Figgis recoiled, looking entirely green.

"What is it?" said Dr. Reeves.

"This…" Six began, taking a second to wipe Gordon's blood off the item. "...is a small-wave electronics jammer. A mini EMP." The Courier tapped his forehead. "I'm twenty-five percent goddamn small-wave electronics. The moment he flipped this thing on, I blacked out for three seconds."

"The targeting system…" realised Reeves slowly. "It shut off just now!"

"That and my radio. Luckily, I got plenty of backup power," said Six. "By the way, has anyone else here ever heard the name Cook-Cook?"

He looked around the room, which was completely silent. The rest of the technicians were gathered around now.

"Nobody? No one from California?" asked Six. "Figures. Because they never released the names of Fiends leaders in the Daily Ranger, last time I checked. They didn't want civilians knowing about that kind of shit. I figure that kind of information is only available to, oh I don't know, NCR stationed here during the Mojave occupation and maybe… NCR intelligence? Oh, and then there's this…"

Six knelt down to inspect the fresh corpse. He took Gordon's limp arm, pulling back the man's sleeve. Taped to his wrist was a strange black device that looked eerily like a detonator, with a wire leading towards the rest of his body.

"Your friend had a little ace up his sleeve," announced the Courier. "I spied it on him when he shook my hand. And it leads to…"

He eyed Sam Gordon. The optics enhancer was kicking in now, he was beginning to see the wire underneath, long and snakelike, leading to a black mass in the middle— a bit damp, thanks to the bullet in his belly, it was hard to make out the shape. With one hand, he ripped the man's suit open. Strapped to the man's chest and abdomen was a rigged vest, strapped with a large, bulky package. Six gave it a tentative poke, feeling it's plastic consistency.

"Semtex," declared Six. "Perfect. And all of you geniuses were working with him the entire time?"

The gathered scientist stood with their mouths agape, clearly with nothing else to add. Six turned away from them, to Victor.

"You let a spy this close to the operation," accused the Courier, spitting vehemently in the Securitron's face. "You endangered everything you were trying to accomplish. You put my life in this little rat's hands. You're not as smart as you think you are, are you? Or is there something you're not telling me?"

"Beg your pardon, partner, but I don't think I was involved in personally hiring Mister Gordon," said Victor apologetically.

"I'm not talking to you, you cunt of a machine," raged Six. "I'm talking to you."

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. The research team frightfully looked on. The Courier waited defiantly, standing his ground. Still, for a moment, there was nothing. And then, Victor's display screen flashed.

"Yes, Mister Gordon was indeed an NCR spy," declared Mr. House. "How clever of you to finally figure it out."

"So you knew."

"Of course I knew, you imbecile," seethed Mr. House. "I knew from the moment he stepped foot into Nevada that he was a damned spy. Yet he was knowledgeable. Possessed the necessary skills for the task. And he was compliant enough to do anything I asked so as to not blow his cover. All the information I let him gather was calculated, and deemed acceptable losses. Everything he reported back to his superiors was listened to."

"And all this time, you didn't tell me," fumed the Courier. He waved the bomb in the Securitron's face. "Did you know he was planning to kill me? Huh?"

"I knew he was planning to kill all of us," replied House plainly. "Mister Gordon had been manufacturing explosives for years now, no doubt with the intent to one day bring the Lucky 38 crumbling to ruin on behalf of the NCR. Today, he planted four different bombs on key parts of the building. They were detected and neutralized within seconds."

"How nice of you. Meanwhile, you risked my goddamn life, letting this guy in— putting him in charge of shooting me over to Boston—"

"I am aware of the threat Mister Gordon posed," stated House unapologetically. "I doubted that he'd last long under your… careful eye."

Six spat. A large glob dripped down Victor's screen.

"You insolent little worm," growled House. "Do you think you can intimidate me?! I've lived countless lives, a thousand times more than you. I've predicted apocalypses and wars. I created the greatest martial force this planet has ever seen. I am a god! DO YOU THINK YOU CAN THREATEN ME?!"

"Here's a threat for you, Robert," spat Six once more. "I'm not doing this job. Fuck you and your martial force."

Before Six knew it, seven more Securitrons were suddenly around him. They had been deployed within seconds, all coming out of his blind spots. He tensed. Two Securitrons were a hassle enough. Five were too many. Eight… House wasn't in the mood for playing games.

"You will be a good Courier and do as you're fucking told. You WILL do this job, and you WILL retrieve Project ADAM, and you WILL NOT DISOBEY ME." House was yelling now— a deep, shattering scream that rose from the depths of wrath. "OR I WILL RIP OUT YOUR BASTARD'S HEART FROM HIS MOTHER'S CORPSE!"

And within another second, House was gone, and replaced with Victor's winking cowboy. Six wasn't having it. He put both hands on the robot's chassis, shaking it violently.

"You slimy little bitch! Just wait till I get my hands on you, fuckhead! You want Project ADAM? I'll shove that holotape up your fucking cunt, you dead man. You're nothing without me, you hear me?!"

"STAND DOWN," ordered another Securitron. "OR WE WILL SHOOT."

"Umm… s-sir?"

"What?!"

The technician team were huddled together, terrified. The one who had called out to him shakingly pointed to the blood on the floor. In absence of a corpse, was a vast puddle of blood. The rest of the puddle streaked across the floor, leaving a messy trail towards the teleporter. A fragment of intestine was smashed against the floor like pâté. There was a loud thud as Figgis fainted behind him. Gordon was still alive, and he was reaching towards the teleporter.

Six immediately released the robot, cocked his gun and walked over to his quarry, pushing the rest of the onlookers out of the way forcefully. He reached Gordon just as the dying man lay a bloody handprint on the teleporters base. Six put his foot down on the man's back. A gurgling groan of pain escaped the man's lips, and a puddle of blood grew from underneath his belly as Six laid his weight on Sam Gordon.

"Sorry pal. This ride's not for you."

A gurgle. A low groan. Sam was trying to say something.

"What's that?" asked Six. He held his pistol at Sam's face.

"Long live the New California Republic," gasped Sam finally; every ounce of will needed to deliver that rebuke as it came with a mouthful of blood as if to emphasize his loathing. Though the Courier could read it plainly on his face.

"Uh-huh," intoned Six. "Think they'll save you from this?"

He pulled the trigger.

The next thing Gordon knew, there was a bright flash. For a fleeting second, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his forehead, but it disappeared almost immediately. He then felt a powerful, driving force, permeating him, running through him like a freight train. Confused, he wondered what had just happened, until it suddenly dawned on him. His head had exploded.

In the few milliseconds that his consciousness currently lived in, a strong rush of emotion shot through him. A blind, seething hatred that burned white-hot. A nuclear fire that destroyed everything it touched. And yet, it only existed for a fraction of a half-second before it slipped away into blackness. Sam died with hatred in his heart.

He slumped to the ground, the last images in his mind being a smoking barrel, a wide, mad grin, the bloody remnants of his brains splattered all over the floor, and a sky on fire.

It took a few minutes to remove Gordon's body from the testing chamber and revive the faint scientists before the program was back on schedule. The Securitrons dispatched to the basement, however, did not leave, keeping a watchful eye on their subject, Courier Six.

He had only needed a few minutes to get ready. Mental preparation, as he called it. It looked as if he was fighting people inside his head. Clearly there was some pent up emotion left over from the incident that had just occurred. But the Courier maintained that he was fine and that he was ready to go.

The Courier entered the glass circular chamber, slowly stepping over the threshold. The prototype itself was a raised circular platform of sleek black metal. Thousands of different cords and cables trailed from the device, so it resembled something of a tree stump with many roots firmly planted into the ground. Raised above the platform like watchtowers were three, curved constructs, pointing to the sky, giving the whole prototype a trident-like appearance. In the middle of the circle, a surgical chair was set, ominously awaiting its user.

The teleporter hummed in monotone, welcoming his arrival.

"Please assume the seated position," said Dr. Reeves, reading from his clipboard. "When the procedure is initiated, we will release the anesthetic gas into the chamber, which will render you unconscious. Remember, it is vital that you inhale the anesthetic. You must be asleep for the procedure."

"What happens if I'm not?" asked the Courier, strapping himself into the surgical chair. He wasn't scared of much. It took a lot to unnerve him. This was unnerving, he thought to himself.

"You… you don't want to know. Please just… inhale the gas," said Dr. Reeves.

Six reclined on the chair, looking straight up into the chamber's ceiling. It was strange. Above him, a clear, blue amorphous color was forming. It was like looking up at the sky. He squinted into it. It seemed to go on forever— a deep blue that permeated through the roof of the Lucky 38 all the way into the stratosphere. For a while he said nothing, only staring at the blue above him. He didn't even hear the voice counting down. The procedure had begun.

For a second, Six panicked. Every muscle in his body was begging to be free of this machine. He felt like he was caught in a trap, and he was a minute away from biting off his tail like a rat and running back up to his penthouse. The blue simply hummed in silence.

"That's normal," said Dr. Reeves, reading his mind. "The zeta field is unraveling, it's...getting ready to pull you apart at the molecular level"

You're going to die in here, he heard a voice say. You're going to DIE IN HERE like a rat in a trap. You died the second you walked into this thing. You're GOING TO DIE. YOU'RE GOING TO DIE, it screamed.

Six didn't know what was worse. The fact that he was hearing this, or the fact that he couldn't tell if the voice was that of the Left Brain, or the Right Brain.

"Doc, is this safe?" he breathed, staring into the deep blue. It seemed to be staring back at him. He couldn't see their faces anymore, but he could still hear Reeve's voice. Gas was starting to fill the room, and a cold wave of fear echoed down his spine.

"Trust me Six, this is completely safe, I'm sure of it."

"Are you sure you're sure?" asked the Courier. "Because you should know, your predecessor was pretty sure of himself too. You remember him right? Kenneth?"

"... I do, yes."

"Really confident guy. But he was terrible at not having his throat crushed. By me."

There was a small, momentary beat of silence.

"I understand that. I guarantee you, you'll come out of this intact," she reassured once more.

"Good. Because if I get there and I'm missing another limb, when I get back, I'll kill you," warned the Courier, unblinking. "And you'll die, screaming."

The Courier took in a deep breath, letting the gas fill his lungs as much as possible. He strained to resist the urge to cough. It felt ticklish in his throat, if not slightly irritable, and smelled vaguely of noxious fruit. Nevertheless, he continued to breathe in as much as he could, as his eyes slowly dimmed. He felt himself drift, and drift, and drift until the sky was gone. Suddenly there was no more blue, there was nothing in front of him and the world was black in slumber.

And when the Courier woke up, something disastrous had happened.

The sky was on fire.

Just letting you know, I will probably be changing the title of this story to something better upon the next chapter. Not a big fan of the current one. So don't panic if you can't find the Paperclip anymore, it'll still be there, just under a different name. Following and favoriting the story may help, but ya know ya do whatcha gotta do.

Please leave reviews. Reviews feed my ego, and my ego drives my creative process, thus producing these stories faster. In all seriousness, your feedback is more than appreciated and valued. It's blowing my mind how many follows and favs I'm getting for just two chapters so far. I love you all. Please stay safe and wash your damn hands.