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The Courier hadn’t thought much of the Legion patrol. They came over the horizon, hidden by the uneven rocky landscape. Sand whipped into the air from the breeze over the dunes, masking the soldiers with dark clouds. They had size enough for a full raiding party, nearly a dozen if his eyes weren’t misleading him. It was Legion territory, after all. It’d been three years since they took the Hoover Dam and claimed the Mojave for the Caesar. It’d be strange not to see skirtboys marching around the wastes.
What the Courier hadn’t expected was for those Legionaries to surround him and force a search of his goods.
“You know who I am, don’t you?” he’d asked, bewildered. The Legion offered couriers total amnesty. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Especially not to him.
“Surrender to search and seizure or be detained, by order of the imperial consort,” replied the Decanus with the tone of retail monotony.
“The who the fuck?” The Courier squawked bewilderedly. Hey, it wasn’t the first time he’d been caught running shit he shouldn’t be. But that was with the NCR or back when New Vegas was free. Legion boys didn’t take bribes, and certainly weren’t too fond of sweet talking. So the Courier dropped his satchel before the soldiers with an irritated huff. It was suicide to argue with a squad of Legion boys with their fingers on their triggers and the Caesar’s brahminshit in their heads. Back in his prime, maybe he could have taken them, ten against one. But that was when he was hyped up on chems and vengeance and looking for blood. Not after he’d grown weak and docile over the years of easy deliveries under the relative safety of the Legion. No more raiders ransacking caravans, no more homicidal competition, and the dangerous wildlife was culled with beautiful efficiency. Now, the Courier wouldn’t even be able to draw his iron before getting shot full of holes. He was utterly fucked. He may have had brain damage, but he wasn’t a moron.
“Shit.”
So he watched, consigned to his fate as the Decanus nosed through his fat satchel of Jet and booze. Bottles clinking around all damningly as the man silently tallied his sins against him. The liberties given to couriers didn’t protect them from carrying substances, especially not within the lense of delivering it. Spreading toxins through the heart of the Legion.
The Decanus hardly offered him any delusion of due process. He barked for his men to take the bag for evidence, and to tie up the Courier for breaking the emperor’s law.
“You’re lucky I was the one to find you, degenerate,” the Decanus added. “The newer recruits would hardly know who you are.”
“Gee, thanks,” the Courier says. Legion boys sure knew how to make a man feel wanted. “So, you gonna string me up or what?”
“Lord Caesar will want to know of your crimes, you will come with us to face your punishment.”
And that’s how the Courier finds himself being held prisoner in the Strip. The Legion had taken New Vegas as their new capital, the gateway into the east and the barrier holding back the dissolute, as they called it. The neon lights and opulence of the Strip had survived the change in ownership, though the casinos had not. The Gomorrah was now a slave trading den, so not much of a change. The Tops was demolished and replaced with a proper fighting pit. The White Glove, however, operated much the same. The alcohol was replaced with sparkling water and juices, the gambling tables cut down and used for wood, though the cannibalism was still going strong. The Lucky 38 was left largely untouched. It still served as a landmark beacon, but was otherwise vacant.
Of course, the NCR buildings were destroyed and now housed the Legion’s barracks.
The Courier is led through the security checkpoints manned by bored recruits with machine guns. They pay him little mind, well accustomed to taking in droves of prisoners and slaves at a time. Maybe it's true that he was lucky. Hardly anyone is sparing him a glance, let alone a second one. He used to be the name on everyone’s lips, now he’s nothing. Just another courier.
Past the gates, the Strip largely feels the same. Sure, there’s a bit of a stylistic difference, but the streets are still crowded with soldiers and civilians alike. He can hear them hollering in that stupid language that he can’t understand. As he’s pushed further he can see slave women lining the entrance of the Gomorrah, their modesty only protected by strips of red cloth wrapped over their breasts that reached down to their knees. They dance and try to draw in wandering eyes while baking in the hot sun, their tanned skin glistening with sweat. A few men are idling about, just watching them. Two recruits guard the doorway with rifles, making sure no one gets too carried away without paying. It takes the Courier a moment to register that one of those guards is a woman, judging by the pretty face and bulge in her chest armor. Huh.
The legionaries kick him forward, barking out insults in bastardized Latin. The Courier guesses they think he was staring at the slaves. They lead him further into the Strip, away from the entertainment area and into the militarized section. Several tents are sat in a circle around a significantly larger one swathed in red. The Courier immediately recognizes it to be Caesar’s from his time running back and forth for the man. Time spent both making deliveries and making heads roll. Though, the last time had been shortly after the Legion’s conquest of the Mojave.
Much to his surprise, Caesar’s tent isn’t where the legionaries’ destination lies. Instead they march him past it, towards a small unsuspecting structure constructed from scrap and rubble but sturdy in appearance. The door looks like a heavy metal with a barred window in the center of it. The Courier doesn’t like it one bit.
Then the flaps of Caesar’s tent are pulled open, revealing a pair of praetorians and a man wrapped in pure white.
The Courier freezes in his steps, and in response the soldiers escorting him hit him with the butt of a rifle. His shoulder immediately blossoms with pain at the harsh contact, but it’s miles better than a bullet. He hardly notices, in all honesty, he’s far more preoccupied with the ghost that just crawled out of the pulsing heart of the Legion’s capital.
Arcade Gannon’s glare is brutal, watching the Courier with undiluted disdain. He strolls up to meet him casually, like he isn’t tightly concealed fury in the shape of a man. And it’s a damn shame, because he looks fine. Better than he remembers him, and that’s saying a lot. Arcade always sticks out among the wastelanders with his Old World bearings and magazine worthy face. He’s well groomed, clean shaven and his hair is styled in its typical fashion. The Courier half expected the man to be draped in rags and chains. Instead, he wears his Followers coat with a formal shirt and trousers beneath. By some miracle not a single speck of dirt or grime tarnishes that white coat of his. He’s even wearing a new pair of glasses.
“Six. So what Vulpes said was true,” Arcade says. He eyes the Courier analytically, paying special attention to the rope binding his wrists and the new scars that litter his skin.
“Hell, Arcade. The fuck are you doing here?” the Courier laughs. He can’t keep his eyes off of him.
Arcade’s lips draw into a flat line. “Have you suffered another bout of retrograde amnesia, or are you just-” Arcade cuts himself off with a sigh and runs a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know, man. You just took me by surprise. I mean, look at you,” the Courier whistles.
“Watch your tongue, degenerate,” one of the soldiers detaining him growls. They’re eyeing him like he just called their Caesar a right bastard. Maybe it’s just ‘cause they ain’t too fond of confirmed bachelors, but there was something real defensive about it that made the Courier shut himself up quick.
“It’s fine,” Arcade says, making a dismissive hand gesture towards the legionaries. They lower their hackles just slightly. Arcade smiles at the men almost fondly, like he's looking at a bunch of idiot kids. “Valeatis. I’ll take care of him.”
And to the Courier’s astonishment, the legionaries reply with a curt “vale” and disperse. The Courier watches them leave with his mouth hanging open in awe. He’d half expected to be executed in that little shack. How the fuck had Arcade gotten them to go away so easily? The last time he checked, he was a slave of the Caesar. Why in the hell would those soldiers listen to his orders?
Well, he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Arcade, you look as bright as a new pin,” the Courier grins, hyped up on adrenaline. He curls his fingers, wanting to reach out and give the man a hug or something like it, but is unable to thanks to the rope.
“Nunc iam nulla viro iuranti femina credat, Nulla viri speret sermones esse fideles; quis dum aliquid cupiens animus praegestit apisci. Or shall I say, no thanks to you,” Arcade says coldly. He places a hand on the Courier’s injured shoulder and not so subtly guides him inside of Caesar’s tent. The touch makes the Courier wince, but he doesn’t complain.
“Listen, I didn’t mean anything by it, selling you to Caesar. I swear. He needed a doctor, and I sure as hell ain’t one. He demanded I find him a way to fix his melon, so I did, okay?” the Courier blurts out. The excuses sound like shit even to his own ear, and Arcade is a much smarter man than he is.
“Do you think there’s anything you could say to me that would make me hate you less, Six?” Arcade asks.
The inside of the tent is just about what the Courier remembers. The praetorians along the sides silently watching them enter give him the creeps, like they always did. He expects to see the mighty Caesar himself seated in his throne, but apparently the man of the house is away, as it sits empty. There’s still the dining tables set off to the edges with two dozen seats, and the furs cushioning the ground. Arcade walks confidently, like this is his own home. The Courier supposes it technically is. The praetorians greet Arcade with ave ’s as he manhandles the Courier into Caesar’s bedroom. He lets the tent flaps fall behind them, acting as a makeshift door to offer them some privacy.
“Er, not quite, no.”
In the middle of the space is a massive bed. The thing was big enough to fit a couple super mutants. The Courier looked around, curiosity getting the better of him. He expected more… panache. The space was mostly utilitarian, almost cozy. The floor was covered in animal pelts, soft and thick beneath the heel of his boots. A cushioned sofa and a pair of armchairs sat around a coffee table stacked with ceramic mugs. A tall bookcase was off to the side of the bed, its contents overflowing onto the floor. Next to that was a desk covered in papers with a small lamp illuminating the enclosed space. Between the gaps of the fabric shelter minimal daylight bled through, leaving the sole light source as that lamp. It was dim, almost romantic. It highlighted the angles of Arcade’s face in a rather flattering way.
The Courier expected more chains and slaves. Some trophies of war.
“Do you even care?”
The Courier turns to look at Arcade, his expression is pinched. He knows what the man is asking, without quite asking it. Do you regret it? Did you miss me? Did the time we spent mean anything to you? “Course I do, I was sweet on you.”
All that does is piss Arcade off even worse. His handsome face goes bright red, his teeth bared in a grimace. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He turns away to plant his hands on the desk. His elbows shake.
The Courier stays where he is, arms tied and way too uncomfortable to do much else. He’d not used to seeing Arcade like this. The man was always hiding behind dry humor and sarcasm. He never lashed out with real anger. “It weren’t like I was hiding it, ‘Cade. First thing I fuckin’ said to you was a pickup line.”
“Six. You sold me like I was cattle. Do you seriously think I want to hear you talk about how you wanted to fuck me? That doesn’t come across as a poor topic of conversation to you?”
That wasn’t what he was saying, but now he doesn’t know how to say it. The Courier bites his lip and looks down at his bound hands. The rope bites into his skin as he clenches his fists leaving criss crossing red burns.
“I’m sorry, alright? By the time I realized what I’d done it was too late… I couldn’t exactly take down the whole Legion to get you back.”
Arcade takes a seat atop that desk, the wood creaking beneath the weight of him. He has his legs crossed like some lady, all dainty and nice. His arms are braced behind his back, crinkling the loose sheets of paper. “You were running drugs,” Arcade says matter-of-factly, instead of commenting. What’s done is done.
“What, are you my interrogator now?” the Courier inhales, near enough to a laugh to make Arcade sigh at him. “That don’t seem like your style. ”
“Video meliora, proboque, deteriora sequor. Did you think I came to show you mercy?”
Yes, actually. Like a guardian angel. Arcade was always saving him, patching him up or raising hell with that little plasma gun of his. He was too good for the wasteland. The Courier wondered how he lasted out here with all that hope in his heart.
Well, looks like the wasteland finally got to him after all.
And what was with all that Legion shit he was saying? Couldn’t he talk normal anymore?
“I don’t know a single thing about what you’re doing, if I’m bein’ honest, honey. You seem to be ruling the roost. I know that can’t be right,” the Courier shuffles awkwardly. He doesn’t know if he should sit or stay where he is.
“You don’t know? Really? You’re in Legion territory,” Arcade raises an eyebrow judgmentally.
“I pass through. I’m not bound to one nation, and the patrols ain’t exactly talkative folks,” the Courier says.
“Caesar has granted me… privileges,” Arcade pauses. He seems flustered all of a sudden. The Courier’s mind goes south real quick. He knows what the Legion likes to do to slaves, didn’t think it would happen to a man of Arcade’s age, though. If he thought they would, he’d never have handed him over.
The thought of it alone makes him feel sick.
“They hurt you?” the Courier whispers.
“No.”
“You don’t need to lie to me, Arcade.”
Arcade crosses his arms. “You don’t know anything. It’s kind of amazing. I thought you’d at least bother to check up on how I was doing, you know, after what you did. Most people would feel guilty in your place.”
“So, what? Tell me. If everyone else knows it ain’t a fuckin’ secret,” the Courier raises his voice, on the verge of shouting.
“I’m not a slave anymore… really. It’s complicated. Caesar still owns me, but in a more traditional way. He didn’t like putting me down, after, well…everything.”
“The fuck does that mean?” How do you own a person and it ain’t slavery? The Courier sure as hell didn’t miss this part of Arcade. The man loved to do a lot of talking while saying next to nothing.
The anger has left Arcade’s features and something more perplexing has taken its place. Embarrassment. Arcade is looking down at his hand all thoughtfully, and that’s when the Courier sees it. There’s a band of gold on his left ring finger, and the Courier knows that ain’t for vanity.
“No way in hell,” the Courier gasps.
“It’s complicated, like I said,” Arcade twists the offending jewelry thoughtfully.
“How’s that complicated? You married the fuckin’ Caesar?!”
Arcade scoffs, defensive now. “You thought he was raping me, how is this more upsetting to you?”
“Because you hated his guts, the hell?! You bitched every minute I spent around him when I was after the chip,” the Courier shakes his bound arms exaggeratedly in Arcade’s general direction. “Guess you warmed up to him real quick. What, you Arcade Caesar now? Don’t sound real pretty.”
“I’m not one to abuse my authority, so I’ll remind you that there’s a tent full of armed guards just out there,” Arcade points to the main area of the tent currently concealed by the closed flap. “That will gladly execute you for speaking ill against me, let alone Caesar.”
Hell. The Courier takes in a deep stabilizing breath. He needs to focus on what matters, getting out of this alive. If Gannon is all vengeance and fire, then he needs to get Caesar here to offer him a pardon. He can sweet talk the old bastard, remind him of the deeds he’s done for his Legion. How he helped win him the Hoover Dam. And apparently, how he got him his new trophy husband.
But Arcade wasn’t like that. He was bluffing, trying to flaunt off how good he was doing without the Courier. Arcade was bitter and sardonic, but he wasn’t cruel. He wouldn’t kill a raider unless they shot first. He used to be a damn sweetheart. He hated having to hurt people. He wouldn’t crucify the Courier over their personal issues.
Then again, the Arcade he knew would never willingly submit to Caesar, so maybe he didn’t know him at all.
“I don’t mean it like that, ‘Cade. I’m just real confused right now. What the hell happened?”
“After the surgery, I spent most of my time by his side. For the entire first month after, really. A craniotomy… well let’s just say the recovery was slow and very hands-on. When I wasn’t taking care of him we were talking. And he wouldn’t stop until he was so tired he had to rest. I realized, ‘wow, this egotistical tyrant is actually desperately lonely.’ Even after I gave him leave to go back to his normal routine, all he wanted to do was keep me around to talk to me,” Arcade snorts.
“That’s kinda pathetic,” the Courier remarks.
“I know. He’s built himself into something more than human, so much so that he’s left himself totally isolated.”
“I hear you, but that don’t explain why you’re fucking him now,” the Courier says crudely.
Arcade glares at him, but continues. “He grew extremely attached to me over time. Started offering me ‘gifts’, he would bring me books from traders and raids. Clothing, cosmetic items. He even got me these,” Arcade gestures to his wire framed glasses. “When my other pair broke. I have no idea how he found my prescription in the wasteland.”
“So he was treating you like a proper dreamboat?”
Arcade shrugs. “Sometimes. I didn’t exactly set out to get involved with him, it just sort of happened. One night instead of sleeping on the floor, I climbed into bed with him. I knew if I made him love me, he’d give me more freedom. It was obvious he was waiting for it, with the way he looked at me. He didn’t want to force me. He said he wanted it to be real,” Arcade laughs at that dryly. “I said a slave could never consent. I told him to prove that he loved me by offering me my freedom. So… he did.”
The Courier pauses in surprise. “You didn’t run the first chance you got?”
“I was about to, trust me. Then I thought about all the other slaves who weren’t so lucky. The people suffering under the Legion’s subjugation. I’ve always sought to make the world a better place, while being strictly anti-authoritarian. Of course, I despise it here. But if I ran, where would I go? The NCR would hunt me down, imprison me for the crime of being born to the wrong people. I knew if I stayed, I could do something. Influence Caesar into reforming his laws. He’s agreed to allow women a place in his forces, elevating them socially. He also decriminalized homosexual relations when we… got married.”
Yeah, that made sense.
“You must be a damn good lay,” is all the Courier can think to say. Christ. That explained the female soldier he saw guarding the Gomorrah.
“Not good enough to get rid of the slavery,” Arcade sighs. The Courier fears that Arcade might be making a joke. He’s not going to laugh, but he does smile at that.
“Well, good on you for tryin’. If I were you, I would have ran for the east coast first thing. ”
“That’s not surprising. I can’t imagine you know what it’s like to stand up for something you believe in,” Arcade says flatly. “Or to believe in something in general.”
Now he knows Arcade is just being mean on purpose. Making digs at him to feel better about himself. “Ouch,” the Courier says.
Arcade abruptly stands up from his perch, coming closer to the Courier in order to speak to him in a hushed whisper. He curls one of his hands around the Courier’s bicep, slender fingers digging into his muscle. “The Legion needs me, now. Do you know who would inherit if Caesar were to die?”
The Courier tries to remember the name of that behemoth he fought alongside at the dam. The one with the horns and the golden armor. “Lanius?”
Arcade nods. “He’s a nightmare compared to Caesar. If he were to run loose, he would raze the wasteland until someone stopped him or there was no one left to kill. He’s killed over a dozen of his slaves since I’ve gotten here. He would kill me.”
“So get Caesar to name a new heir, or better yet, have him make a kid so Lanius can’t question his decision,” the Courier says.
“Well, funny thing is I’m not exactly capable of getting pregnant. And I’ve tried, believe me-”
“To get pregnant?! The fuck you tellin’ me this for?”
“To have Caesar name an heir!” Arcade blushes. “Keep your voice down, Six.”
“Sorry, shit.”
“I’ve brought women into our bed, but nothing has stuck. I fear it’s a combination of the typical low fertility rates of wastelanders, his age, and the undue amounts of stress most women under the Legion experience.”
“So what’s your plan? Get Vulpes Inculta to take Lanius’ spot? He’s hardly an improvement.”
“I plan on making myself emperor de facto. Caesar’s tumor is gone, but he's getting old. In a decade he’ll need to rely on me, in another he’ll either be dead, or be incapable of doing much at all. Historically, it’s a common precedent. Caesar will still stand as the true emperor, but I’ll make his decisions for him, and travel where he can’t.”
“Damn, Arcade. You’ve planned this all out. So that’s why you started sleeping with him, then? To usurp his empire?” the Courier asks.
“I…” Arcade looks away, twisting his ring again. “Never thought I’d be able to get married. To a man, I mean. I don’t…”
A significant empty silence stretches between them.
“Six,” Arcade begins again, louder now. “You know the Legion’s law. There’s no question of your guilt.”
The Courier shifts uncomfortably, ropes biting at his wrists. “I know.”
Arcade slides his hand up the Courier’s arm until it's sitting on his shoulder. The Courier can’t tell if he’s just being friendly, or if it's something else. He’s not sure if he’s interested in something else, given Arcade’s relationship with the big man. “If you tell me who you were running for, I can have Caesar waive your punishment. Otherwise, he’ll get the frumentarii to beat it out of you. And they won’t stop until they do.”
“Why would you help me, after what I did?” the Courier asks, suspicious. When he first saw Arcade standing there, he thought he looked a bit like an angel. Maybe he was going to save him after all.
One last time, for the road.
“It’s against my principles as a person, for one,” Arcade smiles gently.
“That’s true enough, I guess.”
“Two, eliminating the circulation of drugs in our territory would be a positive change, even if it’s a losing battle. Criminalization doesn’t stop dealers from dealing, but there’s far less junkies in Freeside than there used to be. Which means less people crucified just for getting high,” Arcade says indignantly.
The Courier considers his options. He’s not normally one to snitch when it comes to a job. It’s bad for business, and he has a reputation to uphold. But he can’t keep his career if he’s tied to a cross.
“I was meeting someone up north, along the Grand Canyon. Some former Great Khan, I think his name was Atlas. I was just the first leg of the delivery. I have the note on me, inside my boot. I’d get it for you, but I’m a bit tied up.” The Courier sticks out his right leg and wiggles it a bit to entice Arcade into grabbing it.
Arcade does just that, bending down and reaching underneath the leather. He has to snake his fingers around until he finds the thing folded up into a little square. He straightens himself up, stepping back and reading the note. His eyes skim over the thing as fast as lightning.
“Six-” Arcade begins.
“Vir meus. Audivi te.”
The Courier jumps in his skin, whipping around to see Caesar himself striding into his bedroom. He looks between the Courier and Arcade with an easy smile. He places an arm around Arcade’s waist, then leans in to kiss the side of his neck. Arcade responds by putting his lips on Caesar’s.
“Veni, et vide. Nemo auditur propriam turpitudinem allegans, ” Arcade says. The Courier doesn’t understand a lick of it. But Arcade is handing the incriminating note to Caesar. “Hoc est, pro vobis.”
“Carissimo. Amor vincit omnia,” Caesar says as he looks over the paper.
Arcade laughs playfully. He curls into Caesar’s touch and kisses his cheekbone. The Courier is starting to feel like he shouldn’t be seeing this. “Facile erat. Sex stultus est.”
“It’s been some time, hasn’t it?” Caesar looks over the Courier appraisingly. He makes his way across the room to settle on to the sofa with an audible groan. Arcade follows him without hesitation, sprawling himself over Caesar’s lap like he's a leg rest. Caesar’s hands rest just beneath Arcade’s ass where it meets his thighs. He strokes there in small circles as he speaks. “It’s a shame we had to reunite on these terms. You could have been a great asset for my Legion.”
The Courier’s heart stops beating. That wasn’t a good start.
“But I’m not blind to the service you’ve done for me. For that, I will be lenient,” Caesar offers a warm smile. The same sort that the folks in the NCR would give before handing him a shit job or cutting his payout.
“I’m awfully grateful, sir,” the Courier bows his head, considering whether he should kneel or not. “You know I have nothin’ but respect for you. It was a stupid decision-”
“Volo videre petitionem Sex,” Arcade says quietly, leaning into Caesar’s shoulder. The Courier can barely hear anything but the low and sensual rhythm of Arcade’s voice speaking Legion. He trails a finger down Caesar’s bicep, and this time the Courier knows it's meant to be sensual. “Carissimo…”
“Misereor. Donum dedit mihi. Tu,” Caesar says huskily.
“Fac ei servum tuum,” Arcade purrs. “Reddere potest pro peccato suo.”
“Audio.” Caesar turns his eyes back to the Courier. “You have been instrumental in helping me claim the Mojave. You have also given me the means to save my life through vir meus, my husband. However, the crime you have committed against me cannot be overlooked. Still, my sentence will be generous. You are a man of many skills, skills that would go to waste if you were to be crucified or made a tent slave. With that in mind, I have decided to conscript you into my forces.”
The Courier takes a moment to wrap his head around everything the Caesar is saying. “Like, as a legionnaire, you mean?”
“Exactly. You will be a proper member of my Legion. You will be expected to abide by my laws and submit to my will without question. First, you must be retrained, but that can wait until tomorrow,” Caesar says dismissively.
Well, that wasn’t exactly his ideal career, but it sure as hell beat becoming a lawn ornament. He’d done enough fighting with the Legion to expect what his future entailed. He wasn’t entirely pessimistic, especially since Arcade told him all about how he intended to improve things.
Still, he’d miss the freedom being a courier brought. He was never one for settling down in one place, or with one person. He’d see how it went, and if he hated it, he’d run the first chance he got.
“Thank you. For your mercy, I mean. I ain’t ever been a military man, but I’ll try my best,” the Courier says.
“Good, I look forward to seeing your ferocity again,” Caesar nods.
Arcade slinks off of Caesar’s lap like a cat, strolling over to the bedroom entrance. He pokes his head through the flap and calls out, “Veni ad me, Vulpecula.” Then he backs away, a smirk on his face as Vulpes Inculta and several praetorians march in at his behest.
“An old friend of ours has decided to join us,” Arcade says to the men. “Take him to the barracks. Make sure he doesn’t run. Have whatever instructor available take him on.”
“Don’t be too rough, I don’t want to scare him too much,” Caesar adds with a laugh.
“As you will it,” Vulpes bows and plants his hands on the Courier’s shoulders. Vulpes studies him curiously, his pale blue eyes inspecting him like a piece of hardware. He leans in enough to whisper into the Courier’s ear. “You’ve fallen far. Let us hope you will prove useful, for your sake.”
“Goddamn, I’m not that out of shape,” the Courier whines.
That last thing the Courier hears as the soldiers take him away is Arcade speaking more of that Legion nonsense. “Nihil est nisi ultio.”