Chapter Text
"Any crimes you have committed against the Legion are hereby forgiven," drawled Vulpes Inculta. "Caesar will not extend this mercy a second time. We will be seeing you at Cottonwood Cove in very short order, I hope."
Arcade tried to remain discreet as he compulsively clenched his fists in his pockets, his nails, untrimmed from weeks away from the Followers camp, digging into his palms. He was not the one being addressed, of course—the Legion met him with a cold indifference on account of his relatively pacifistic nature, despite his position with the Followers. Rather, Vulpes Inculta was speaking to Rory, who stood with confidence at Arcade's side, despite being secretly unnerved by the sudden appearance of the Legion spy. Arcade anxiously studied her face, awaiting her response. One wrong word and they could both be shot dead right there on the Strip. Another two dead bodies in front of the Tops Casino , Arcade thought, Nothing unusual .
"Yes," she answered quietly, "You'll see us there. We will try to be prompt."
"See that you are," commanded Vulpes Inculta. He turned on his heel and swiftly fled from view.
Rory let out a long, slow breath that she didn't know she'd been holding in, closing her eyes as she did so in an attempt to ground herself. She was vaguely aware of her friend's comments on the ominous nature of the Legion spy's visit, which denounced the Strip's security systems and questioned House's morals (which, to be fair, had always been questionable). They sounded like they were coming from a distant room, though Arcade was right beside her.
Arcade and Rory's friendship was largely founded on their mutual hatred for the Legion. Their shared interest in the common good, as well as their matched intellect, had made them fast friends following Rory's arrival at the Old Mormon Fort, the site of the Followers' Camp where Arcade had been stationed.
Arcade recalled how Rory had stumbled into the Camp a couple of months earlier looking worse for wear. Her hair was caked with Mojave dust, her outfit was blood-stained and torn, and she was reacting badly to a fresh Nightstalker bite: her left leg dragged behind her, swollen, her cargo pants rolled up to the knee.
"Um," she'd said as she approached Arcade, who was doing guard duty near the gate. Her eyes were unfocused, her movements ataxic. "I, uh…" She gestured at her worn-out body. "I could use some…uh…patching up." She let out a feeble, tired laugh.
Arcade grimaced. "Sorry, I'm just a researcher. Hang on a second. Dave, cover me for a minute. This young lady is in bad shape. I'm going to take her over to Julie."
"Thanks," murmured Rory, before slipping out of consciousness.