Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Doc Mitchell resurrected the young person that Victor dug from that shallow grave, he didn’t know what he was expecting. The person he brought back from the dead single-handedly was an unusual fellow, that was certain. The streaks of white in their hair that had presented during their recovery were startling, and he was astounded that their frail body managed to get them back onto their feet. But they were apparently a lucky sort if their vig-o-matic was anything to go by, and sharp as a scalpel to boot. Charismatic, good with guns, good natured, perhaps a little violent. Named themself Maxwell, probably on the spot.

They were a bit unsteady on their feet at first, and they had a curious habit of digging through his medical kits before delicately putting everything back in the tin boxes. They had a sort of glassy look to their eyes, like they were trying to recall something long forgotten. When they started asking the most basic questions about life in the Mojave, however, he realized they probably were trying to remember something. They left his home with their revolver and promised not to get themself killed before making a beeline to Victor, the securitron having just decided now was a good time to mosey past his home. Doc Mitchell returned indoors to unwind and read a little something.

They returned two hours later requesting medicine for an incoming fight with the Powder Gangers. 

“Now why in god’s name would you want to be doin’ that?” asked Mitchell in what he thought was a rather reasonable tone. Maxwell smiled, a bit of menace in their eye.

“They’ve been causing trouble around town. I’m hoping to drive them off before it gets out of hand.”

Dr. Mitchell frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Yes, I hear ya, but why help our town in the first place? You don’t owe us nothing.”

Maxwell shrugged easily, like they weren’t discussing facing down a gang of ex convicts. “I know that, but I thought I’d help you out, sir. Seemed like the right thing to do.”

He gave them the stimpacks after that.

Strangest thing happened, though, right after the fight. Sunny Smiles came rushing into his home, looking more distressed than he had ever seen her. “Doc! The new guy, they got downed! They’re bleeding out, I’m sure of it, come quick!”

Dr. Mitchell was quick to get to his feet, rushing down the steps and out to the street where the fight had taken place. Dead Powder Gangers were littering the road, and in the middle of them was a thoroughly dead Maxwell, their chest riddled with bullets. He was at their side immediately, checking them over for any sign of life, but there were none. 

“Are they alive?” asked Sunny bluntly, concern coloring her voice.

Dr. Mitchell’s mouth was a tight, thin line. And right after they had promised to not get themself killed.

And then Maxwell started coughing and gasping and showing every sign of having a punctured lung. Doc Mitchell immediately fished out his last Stimpack to use on them, but they got onto their feet all on their lonesome with little warning, gasping like a drowned man.

“Good grief!” exclaimed Sunny, alarmed. Maxwell’s green eyes were wide with panic.

“Holy fuck! Did anyone else see that?” exclaimed the twice death-shy courier, turning to Doc and Sunny.

Doc Mitchell frowned. “Saw what?”

“The giant fucking army of robots!” they said, gesturing wildly. Doc Mitchell and Sunny gave each other concerned looks. Mitchell turned back to Maxwell carefully.

“Now look, son, I don’t know what you saw, but perhaps you should have a lie-down. You’re riddled with holes that I’m sure I can’t patch with you standing.”

“I am?” asked the courier, tilting their head as they frowned. They looked down at their chest and jumped. “Oh shit! I can’t feel any of that!”

“That’s - that’s not a good sign,” commented Sunny hesitantly.

Indeed, thought Doc privately. Perhaps I missed a bit of shrapnel during surgery. 

Maxwell began hesitantly poking at their chest, seeing if there were any holes. They didn’t seem to find anything, even when pressing their palms flat against a wound in their stomach. “Excuse me Dr. Mitchell, what exactly did you patch me up with?”

“Nothing too unusual,” he said, stroking his chin. “Some stim packs were involved, but it was a pretty standard surgery.” For brain surgery, yeah.

“O… okay. I think I’m going to. Loot these corpses.”

“You’re going to what?! ”

Chapter Text

Maxwell didn’t know shit. Maxwell knew nothing about everything, except whatever Doc Mitchell and Sunny told them in the roughly fifteen minutes Maxwell spent talking to the folks from Goodsprings. But Maxwell did have a handful of something that felt like memories - staring down the barrel of a fancy silver gun toted by some asshole in a checked suit, burning a bit of mesquite tree to stay warm during a cold Nevada morning, standing dumbstruck in a casino, nearly having their head taken off by some idiots dressed in roman armor, seeing a man on a cross, and staring down a rifle toted by some helmeted guy in a leather duster. One character in their strange memories stood out to them - someone they now recognized as a securitron of some kind. A big grin, sarcastic attitude, and a vague feeling of fuzziness rang in their mind like a great bell, calling them to it. Whoever they were, whoever he was (they felt like a he, strangely enough), Maxwell had to find him. And Maxwell had the feeling that they’d find him in New Vegas. 

They could see the lights of New Vegas like a beacon in the night from where Maxwell stood in their own shallow grave, hands on their hip. They had died again, at least that’s what they were calling it, after they had their ass handed to them by a swarm of bloatflies, and woke up here feeling right as rain. It was… well, on one hand, it was terrifying, this feeling of weightless undeath and the vision that accompanied the two times they had collapsed into a meaty heap after having their body torn to shreds, but on the other hand, Maxwell didn’t really give a rat’s ass. They knew it should be driving them to madness, but they also didn’t have time for that kind of breakdown. They had to get to New Vegas.

They bought all the ammo they could for whatever criminals and critters lay outside Goodsprings, having a feeling that they’d be seeing company out there, and headed straight north along the highway. 

The first thing they encountered was a town of miners and their giant mole rat, which was an extremely pleasant surprise. They wrapped the mole’s leg as best they could, tried to head North, and were stopped by a stranger who warned them thoroughly about some creatures known as deathclaws. “Deathclaw” was, admittedly, a name one would only give to a creature known for its terrifying power, but Maxwell paid the warning little heed, assuming that a deathclaw was just some kind of overblown scorpion. 

They weren’t scorpions.

They marched along the Western side of the road, heading North towards the beacon of light at the center of Vegas. They knew that if they kept a good pace and marched on through, they might’ve been able to make it to New Vegas before the checkered man would. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t get a very good start on it.

They kept their eyes trained on the ground around and beneath them, looking for signs of poisonous critters lurking in the underbrush, head swiveling like a hawk’s. Eventually, the road opened up to the west, and they turned to get a better view. They noticed that it was cloaked in dust, and there were large humanoids wandering in the miasma. They decided to stay low in case the humans were feeling a little murderous and snuck towards the road. Unfortunately, they were spotted.

Maxwell had just noticed an interesting chunk of broken green stone when they heard claws scraping dry earth. They turned their head, black ponytail brushing against their leather armor, and made direct eye contact with a hulking demon of a critter. Their green eyes widened with abject horror. Oh FUCK , they thought, and then they screamed, finally leaving their crouch and dead sprinting for the train tracks. Maxwell found out quickly that they were a fast runner, but that a Deathclaw was a much faster beast. They felt its claws raze their back, and there was a bright burst of pain that left them in an instant. They turned, raising their 9mm pistol, but that was ripped from their hands as the beast’s flaming eyes met theirs again. Maxwell grit their teeth. They remembered that in nature, most animals died eaten alive. The Deathclaw lunged its serrated jaw for their head.

Maxwell was standing on a ridge overlooking the city of New Vegas. They stared out at the breathtaking beauty of the neon lights contrasting their dusty brown surroundings. The night was just beginning to fall, the sun setting to their left and the moon rising to their right, the stars dead ahead twinkling like lightning bugs. It was breathtaking. They stared at the scene, drinking it all in. It felt like they had waited a long time for this kind of peace.

They heard the sound of wheels rolling over gravel and dirt. Victor, thought some distant part of them. They turned their head to their left and saw a securitron chassis rising over the ridge. Before they could see its screen, they burst into a coughing fit, prone and lying on their stomach. Wait, weren’t they just standing?

Maxwell came to beneath an outcropping of rock they had passed on their little excursion on I-15, lying in the dirt. They were bleeding from the scar Doc Mitchell couldn’t quite patch right, coughing from the latent dust in the air. A bit of drool had pooled beneath their mouth and stained the earth. They got to their knees, careful to not hit their head on the stone above, and looked out onto the road. I-15 stretched North and South from them, the rail doing the same a little further East. There was a tin shack that looked rather abandoned that they hadn’t really noticed before. Maxwell coughed again and began patting themself desperately for signs of remaining injury. There were none - they hadn’t even torn their armor or lost their weapons.

They crawled out of the outcropping, shakily getting to their feet. They wiped their mouth with their sleeve as they surveyed the area - there. There was a splash of blood from a struggle they couldn’t remember marring the road ahead. 

Maxwell wasn’t a wise wastelander, but they knew better than to try that again.

They knew they should walk along the rail this time.

Chapter Text

So the rail was a bust. Maxwell met a very nice gentleman named Neil who also just so happened to be a supermutant, and after being given a patient explanation of what a supermutant was and why you don’t want to play hide-and-go-seek with a bunch of invisible ones they decided to turn around. Just kidding. They turned around after roughly three more attempts. It just seemed like whoever that securitron they were seeing in their… dreams? Well, he seemed very important, and he seemed to be in the direction of New Vegas. 

Regardless of his importance, Maxwell wasn’t going to get to the neon city any time soon. They were now a day late on finding the bastard who put what felt like a golf ball sized hole in their skull and had to go the long way to catch him. It’d be a miracle if they managed to get close to the guy. They picked off some geckos as they marched South towards Primm, harvesting the steaks from their bodies as they got close, rifle on their hip. They noted that their aim was shockingly true so long as they weren’t aiming for something with wings. 

They arrived at the outskirts of Primm just as the moon rose to its highest point in the sky, and were quickly interrupted by a soldier type. Something about his clothes seemed familiar, like they were a uniform they had seen before.

“Hey! I wouldn’t go any further,” warned the man.

“Why not?” replied Maxwell. The man looked at them like they were eight kinds of crazy.

“Primm’s been taken over by outlaws, that’s why not. The NCR is trying to get a handle on the situation and we don’t need another civilian tromping in and getting themselves killed. Have you been living under a rock?”

Maxwell briefly considered mentioning that not too long ago they had woken up under one, but decided there were more pressing questions. “No, did get shot in the head though. Mind telling me who the NCR are?”

The man grew even more flabbergasted. “The New California Republic. We control the Western side of the Mojave. You’ll see our flag at various outposts and camps. How long have you been in the Mojave? New here?”

Maxwell shrugged. “Not sure. Think I’ve been here a bit, but I can’t say. So, you’re with the NCR, and the other guys… ?”

The man appeared to barely resist rolling his eyes. “They were with the Powder Gangers from over at the NCR Correctional Facility, but they seemed to have split off to take over Primm, which means their supplies are cut.”

Maxwell chewed their lip, frowning. “So why haven’t you gone in yet?”

The man huffed. “You seem to like questions. Listen, talk to Lieutenant Hayes at the camp a little further ahead. He’ll fill you in on the situation. I’m not supposed to be chatting up civilians, anyways. Just stay out of Primm if you want to keep your life.”

Maxwell bit their lip. “Alright, if you insist. Say, does the camp have a spare bed?”

“Considering how we haven’t received any goddamn backup, yes. Now stop talking to me.”

“Right. Okay.” Maxwell quietly shuffled away.

They arrived at the camp shortly, and after making direct eye contact with several of the stationed NCR officers, laid down in a bedroll. There was a tense few minutes as they laid there, armor digging into their shoulder, wondering if any of them were the type to take advantage of a sleeping fool to take their caps or their life, but they decided quickly that their life was probably not going to end anytime soon and that the caps weren’t a necessity anyways. They slept soundly. 

They were roused in the morning by the feeling of a steel toed boot nudging their shoulder blade. They rolled onto their other side and were met with the sight of two pairs of boots awkwardly standing before them. Maxwell yawned, sat up, and finally looked up at the gentlemen officers who had awoken them. 

“You wouldn’t mind explaining what you’re doing in an NCR camp, would you, civilian?” Maxwell glanced at the tent flaps. It was morning, alright - whoever these two were, they had waited at least a handful of hours before disturbing them. How polite.

“I was…” okay, telling whatever military folks that they were ‘sleepy’ probably wasn’t a great way to make an impression. “Never mind. Would one of you happen to be Lieutenant Hayes?”

They glanced at each other. One met Maxwell’s eyes and cleared their throat politely. “That would be me.”

“You still haven’t answered our question, civilian,” said the other.

“Ah. Okay. Well, I was just exhausted. It was a long trip over here, you know? And I saw you had spare beds, so I just… took one. No harm done, right?”

Maxwell’s laissez-faire attitude seemed to be throwing the two men for a loop. Lieutenant Hayes spoke. “You wouldn’t happen to be the fella telling everybody you were shot in the head?”

Maxwell’s face turned a little pink. “I haven’t told everybody. ”

The lieutenant laughed. “Alright, I see how it is. Get up, kid, we’re not The Followers.”

Maxwell got up and rolled their shoulders. “Who are The Followers?”

“God, he wasn’t kidding, those bullets must’ve done a number on ya. Listen. Right now you’re sitting in the middle of an NCR camp. The NCR is a big country West of here, where California used to be. That’s why we’re called the New California Republic. You wandered into a real pickle of a situation, kid. We’re trying to help out the town just across the freeway, Primm, because they’ve been taken over by convicts, but we don’t have the supplies or backup. I suggest that you get on out of here before you wander over into town and get yourself killed. Does that all make sense?”

Maxwell squinted. “It does, ‘cept… why haven’t you tried helping the townsfolk? I don’t get it. There’s, like, twelve of you. There can’t be that many convicts, right?”

The Lieutenant was beginning to look miffed. “I just told you - we don’t have the men or resources.”

“But you’re not going to even try?”

The second man huffed. “Alright, that’s enough backtalk. Leave the camp and be on your way, civilian.”

Maxwell brushed themself off before walking out of the camp with stiff legs, nearly being escorted out by the two officers. Turns out an ancient mattress on 300 year old concrete isn’t exactly comfortable. They exited the tent and looked across the camp. Primm was just across a little bridge covered in… little orange pucks? With little lights on top. Weird. They stared out at Primm as the camp got ready for a new day, the night watch turning in for the morning and the day watch coming out. 

They approached the bridge, staring down at the pucks. Primm needed help. And the NCR wasn’t going to give it to them. How long would Primm have to wait for someone to lend a hand? It wasn’t right, leaving people hanging like that. Doc Mitchell and Victor hadn’t left them in the soil of their own grave, so why should they let these people rot in their own city? No, it wasn’t right at all.

Maxwell was going to help these people, too.

Maxwell took a determined step forward, only for a woman’s distressed “No!” to interrupt them. They took a step back and turned towards the shed constructed on the bridge. Her eyes were wide, and she was leaning over the edge of the window, a sniper rifle on her back.

“What are you, stupid?! Those are mines! You could have gotten yourself killed!”

OHHHHHHH so that’s what a mine looks like. “So these are the little bombs you step on?”

She looked immensely confused and possibly a little ill. “You are not supposed to step on them.”

Maxwell looked down at the mine. They hadn’t meant to nearly step on it. Sheesh. Little thing was dangerous. They crouched down to get a good look at it. 

“How do I deactivate them?” they asked. 

-=-

Maxwell walked across the bridge with a surplus backpack full of ammo, caps, deactivated mines, a pistol, and a few cooked gecko steaks wrapped in cloth. Maxwell could've sworn there was more in their bag than the thing had volume, but it all seemed to fit anyways. They spotted some dumpsters dotted behind the buildings, and after sifting through them for caps, sunset sarsaparilla, and a few fresh rounds of ammo, they finally noticed two tin shacks sitting primly next to the fence. They headed towards them at once.

In the first one, they noticed the scent of something rotting and festering, but were too excited by the clearly abandoned state of the shack to pay it much heed. They found ammo for their guns, though they left the shotgun and its shells for whoever was going to live in this place next. They rooted around in the fridge, pulling all soda into their bag and pilfering any fruit without noticing that these were all signs that this place had been occupied not so long ago. And then they turned their head towards the last room, the bedroom.

Oh.

On the bed laid the corpses of two people, a man and a woman, both decapitated. Their rotting heads lay at their sides.

Maxwell came closer, brows furrowed. The smell of death grew stronger.

They were both dressed in pajamas, the woman in an old slip and the man in a shirt and boxers. Whoever killed them had done so while the two slept, but there were signs that the woman had woken up judging by the bruising on her arms and blood under her nails. Maxwell felt sick.

Maxwell left quickly. There was nothing they could do for the dead. They just hoped there were some people still alive in the town.

They went to the next shack. It was blessedly empty, but they had a bad feeling about stealing from it. Probably because there wasn’t a corpse lying in this one’s bed. They exited after only a few minutes. 

They snuck around the sides of the buildings, keeping an eye out for any convicts, but they had a feeling they weren’t doing a good job of it with their leather boots crunching gravel underneath their feet. Then they spotted something - the Mojave Express. That’s where they had worked before getting shot in the head, wasn’t it? There was a dead man slumped against the door, peppered with gunshot wounds. Yikes. They hoped they wouldn’t face a similar fate. 

They attempted to cross the road, only for a bullet to miss their face by mere inches. Jumping up from both fear and their barely existent self-preservation instinct, they whipped out their pistol and fired in the general direction the shot came from. The bullet struck their attacker’s arm, causing him to curse in pain. Damn, maybe Doc Mitchell’s vig-o-matic thing was right, that was lucky.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just him out on the road. Another gunshot sounded from behind them, and grazed their thigh. It didn’t really hurt, but it nearly gave them a heart attack. They shot at the first attacker, aiming for his head, as they turned their body so that they could see both enemies. The first man crumpled like an accordion.

The second had a better rifle than them, they could tell that much, but it didn’t matter. Maxwell had spite, luck, and what was probably a form of immortality on their side. He shot them through their stomach, but their bullets aimed true, and he crumpled after a good three shots. Damn, but their aim was decent. 

Maxwell panted, bleeding heavily from their stomach, and as an afterthought covered it with their hand. They stumbled towards the freshest corpse and began rifling through his pockets and gear. Caps, drugs, tire iron, a few stimpacks. There. They stabbed themself with the stimpack near the site of their wound, hoping it would heal them faster. They couldn’t tell if it made a difference, but it sure felt that way. They took a shaky breath. Okay. Not dead this time. They turned and marched towards the other corpse. No caps, but some drugs and a pocket knife. Good enough. They left everything but the caps and the meds behind.

They turned back to the Mojave Express and started walking again. They checked over the man’s corpse - more caps, and a note. He was another courier, just like them. Was delivering a pair of dice. Both of them were supposed to get paid handsomely, or at least as handsome as it got out in the wasteland. They sighed, a puff of air through their nose. Poor guy got the same treatment they did, in the end.

They entered the Mojave Express itself. Once inside their eyes immediately locked onto something extremely fascinating. On the counter where the mail would be handled was a little robot, about the size of a bighorner’s head, with a little sticker on it naming some school residing in who knows where. Very, very gently, they lifted it from the counter and examined it. It was heavy, they could barely hold it without their arms getting tired, but there weren’t any legs or wheels underneath the little guy, and they were too complex to roll. They must be some kind of flying buddy, then. The barrel of some laser weapon did not deter them from labeling the robot “possible friend”. Something about them tugged at Maxwell’s mind, telling them that this robot, too, was important. But they definitely couldn’t lug this poor guy around the wasteland. They took a closer look.

It looked like something was wrong with their internals, something Maxwell wasn’t quite sure how to fix without damaging them further. They recognized some kind of backup power and a complex system set up so that they could reroute the battery, but Maxwell decided against fiddling with their system. Maxwell gently placed them back on the counter, and, feeling a bit bad leaving them cold and defenseless, looked around and found a canvas bag to throw over them like a blanket. They then patted the top of his chassis.

They left the Mojave Express feeling a strange sense of solitary melancholy but decided to move on. After all, they had to help the townsfolk out. They walked over to the building that caught their eye - The Bison Steve. Looked like some kind of hotel. If the townspeople were staying somewhere, it’d be the place with all the food and beds, right? They decided to head on in. 

They walked through the door as though there was no chance that someone armed might see an easy target, thumbs in their belt loops as they surveyed the room. Unfortunately, someone heard them open the door. Maxwell barely had time to react before someone with a machine gun was upon them, a man backing her up with a rifle. They were dead in moments.

-=-

Maxwell was standing in a tent somewhere, without their rifle or their pistol, before an aging man with his white hair cut neat and close to his scalp. His eyes were hard and steely, but had bags underneath them. There was a set in his jaw that told of a constant pain and frustration he could do little about. Surrounding them were strange men in football pads, holding rifles. One of them raised his rifle level with Maxwell’s head as Maxwell watched, eyes widening. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion as he pulled the trigger.

Maxwell woke up face down in some kind of kitchen, cheek pressed uncomfortably against old linoleum. Their hands were tied loosely behind their back as they laid there, loosely enough that it seemed like more of an afterthought than a precaution. They opened their eyes only to meet the eyes of a blond man in leather armor with a little star badge - wait, was that a sheriff? He seemed just as shocked to see them as they were to see him. 

“Holy shit,” whispered the man with some sort of cowboy accent, “You’re actually alive !”

Maxwell coughed slightly. Their lungs were kind of sore. “Uh, yes, I sure am,” they whispered back. They rolled onto their side and then got into a sitting position, looking around. They were in a small kitchen, so they were right about that one, and there was a closed door in front of them and a hallway to their right. The two seemed to be alone, and Maxwell’s backpack had its contents scattered on a countertop. “You wouldn’t happen to be some kind of sheriff, would you?” they asked.

“Deputy. I-I’m a deputy,” he said. Right. It probably disturbed him that they had just gotten up after being turned into swiss cheese. “Deputy Beagle, sir. Ma’am? I don’t mean to offend, I just -” Maxwell squinted, genuinely confused. “I can’t really tell whatcha are, y’know? Not that it matters!”

Maxwell shrugged. “You’re right, guess it doesn’t.” Maxwell proceeded to quiz the poor man about their situation, and when he explained that they were both taken hostage after the death of the Sheriff and his sister ( oh , thought Maxwell, the bodies ) and that Maxwell had made a terrible mistake regarding locale, Maxwell sighed and began to work on their knot.

“You’re not scared?” he asked, sounding a little frightened himself. Maxwell frowned, looking at him. 

“No? I have bigger things to worry about than these jokers.” They started counting on their fingers. “I’ve gotta rescue this town, find out about some loser in a checked suit who shot me in the head, find said loser, and eventually get to Vegas. These guys are going to be the least of my worries if I continue along the road.”

Deputy Beagle swallowed. “You know, I have some information on a fella in a checked suit, if you’re interested. You’d just have to untie me.”

Maxwell’s frown deepened. “Of course I’m going to untie you.”

“Oh thank the gods of this hellhole,” he said, slumping with relief. “I’m gonna be free!”

Maxwell got a weird feeling about what he said. “You’ve still gotta help me clear this den of clowns, though,” they said, looking at him out of the corner of their eye as they finally gained some purchase on their knot.

“Like hell I will! You think I’m gonna go on a suicide mission to fight these men? I’d rather drink legionnaire piss!”

Maxwell turned towards him, glaring. “You’re going to help me deal with these freaks or I’m going to leave you here to rot next to the puddle of my own blood so help me god.” There was a certain growl to their voice they didn’t even know they had.

The man’s face paled except for a few pink blotches. “Alright, whatever you say, ma’am, I’m your man.”

Maxwell’s glare hardened.

“Sir?”

“Stop guessing.” They finally untied their own knot. They got up and sorted their weapons on the table and into their pack, loading their varmint rifle. They turned to Deputy Beagle and walked behind him, making quick work of his knot before handing him their 9mm. “You stay with me and you’ll make it. Despite the fact that you’re an absolute coward,” he flinched, “this town doesn’t need more death. Now get up.” He did.

Maxwell turned towards the main door, opened it a crack, and peeked through. There were a lot of them out there, probably six or seven, milling about. One of them had some kind of flame thrower. This was going to be tricky. They raised their varmint rifle like it was a sniper rifle instead, looking down the screw that could barely be called a sight. They took their shot, aiming for the head of the person carrying the flame thrower. They went down in a spray of blood, and the convicts began to panic, looking between each other and then towards the door Maxwell was standing behind. They stepped behind the wall as the door was riddled with bullets, only to see - 

Damn it. The deputy was heading down the hallway to their left, gun in hand.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” shouted Maxwell above the din of the initial gunfire. The enemy seemed to run out of bullets quickly. Beagle scampered off quickly like the chastised dog he was. Maxwell grunted and threw the door open, firing into the bandits.

They heard a shout behind them followed by exchanged gunfire, but they were a little occupied, taking down the bandits one by one while barely having any cover. They got three of them before the remaining three reloaded, and they ducked for cover again. Someone from the skirmish behind them seemed to survive, and they aimed their rifle at the opening of the hallway.

Deputy Beagle stepped through, panting as he clutched his stomach and leaned on his uninjured leg. 

“Get back in the fucking hallwa-!” Deputy Beagle snapped his neck to look at Maxwell, but his eyes quickly fell upon the convict approaching the door. He stumbled back, but she took her shot, then another, then another, and two of the three were true to her aim. Deputy Beagle fell.

Fuck. Maxwell whipped out their pistol and shot through the crumbling door frame at another bandit who had made the same mistake as Deputy Beagle, getting far too close to Maxwell’s line of sight.

The firefight didn’t last much longer. The convicts were either too bold or too stupid to go behind the little cover they had, and Maxwell had woken up from Doc Mitchell’s with a skill that proved most useful in the mojave: great aim. They didn’t come out unscathed, their chest had a hole in it and probably a pair of shattered ribs, but it didn’t bother them unless they moved suddenly. Once the last bastard was dropped, they turned their head towards Deputy Beagle, fishing a stimpack out of their pocket.

They crawled over and saw that his eyes were glassy, his skin had a light sheen of sweat, but that he was swallowing, heaving, bleeding. They shoved a stimpack in him immediately.

“C’mon, man, I can’t have you fucking die on me,” they grumbled, watching his breath hitch as the medicine worked its way through his veins. His eyes turned towards Maxwell. “I don’t need you to fucking die on me, for fuck’s sake, come on…”

He slumped the last few inches he was holding himself up to, the light rapidly leaving his eyes. Maxwell cursed. 

Their legs were soaked in the man’s blood as they stood, their ribs screaming in protest as they moved. They shoved one of their last stimpacks into themself as they turned to survey the damage they had caused. 

They picked through everyone’s belongings, and gained things from caps to a few stimpacks to more ammunition. They then turned towards the weird flamethrower. They hadn’t seen it in action, but it seemed… exciting. Burning to death may be a horrible way to go, but it wasn’t like they had a lot of options for ammo and the person who had carried it had a good stock of fuel in the corner. They lugged the heavy gun over to Deputy Beagle, setting it in the doorway before picking through the man’s belongings. There was a blood soaked recording device in his pocket, and they wiped it off on their leather armor before plugging it into their Pip-Boy. The man spoke for a moment, talked about seeing a man in a checked suit and where the townsfolk were holed up. Bingo.

Maxwell got up again, lifting their beautiful new gun. They inspected it thoroughly, noting a little metal stamp on it. Incinerator . They took a deep breath. They should check for more convicts, clear out the town. It might be a good deed, provided there were still townsfolk left to protect. They stood, holding the giant gun near their thighs. Okay. They could do this.

-=+=-

Reeking of death, burnt blood, and smoke, Maxwell stumbled out onto the street that spanned between The Bison Steve and The Vikki and Vance Casino. They had managed to clear out the convicts, though their rifle had broken halfway through a firefight. Turns out the Incinerator was a terrible way to go, provided you survived the initial firebomb. Maxwell felt sick if they thought about it for too long. They had taken one of the convict’s rifles, but the Incinerator was consistently faster at close range.

They killed the flame on the weapon when they saw they were alone, and made it across the street to the casino, pulling the door open. They were immediately met with the sight of a rifle barrel.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” demanded an older gentleman. Maxwell blinked slowly, exhaustion beginning to wear them down. 

“Maxwell. I came over here after I found the NCR to be unhelpful, so I took out the convicts for you guys.”

He hummed. “We heard that firefight across the street. You got any friends with ya?”

Maxwell fought a yawn. “No, just me. Deputy Beagle, he uh, didn’t quite make it,” they said. The man lowered his rifle.

“You’re plumb tired, aren’t ya? Fought hard?” He asked. Maxwell nodded. “Well, I suppose we’ve got room for the hero who saved our asses from that little roving gang. Come in, kid.” Maxwell nodded again as the man let them through.

Through the door there were 30, maybe 40 people, all milling about, a quarter of them armed with rifles that were slung over their backs or carried. Two folks, a man and a woman, rushed up to the gentleman guarding the door, and a few others sent Maxwell suspicious glances. Maxwell wasn’t worried about them though, not so much as they were worried about when they were going to rest. It looked like there was a room in the back where people had set up old cardboard boxes as beds, and Maxwell didn’t care enough about their own comfort at that moment to even consider seeking out a real mattress. 

When they entered the room, they noted several children playing in the corner and laughing. They waved minutely at them as a frown wormed its way onto their face. How long had these children been forced to hide in this casino? How long had the NCR been waiting, hesitating to help these people? They removed their pack and weapons, placing them next to their bed and turning on the safety as they emptied the ammo. They then laid down, worry consuming them before they fell asleep.

When they woke the next morning, things were quiet. They looked around to see the majority of people asleep. They quietly got to their feet and walked out onto the main floor, making sure their leather boots didn’t click against the linoleum. There were a few people keeping watch near the door, but they looked exhausted rather than alert. The older man who had let them in was still there, flicking an old lighter that didn’t seem to work. Most notably they spotted a black robot with a little cowboy hat on its head. They approached it quietly, tilting their head.

“What’s your name?” they asked. The robot’s hands began to twist back and forth. Fascinating.

“Why, I’m Primm Slim, pardner! Authentic cowpoke and official spokesbot of the Vikki and Vance Casino and Museum!” The robot spoke at a volume that could be considered a whisper. He seemed to be aware that there were sleeping folks nearby. 

“What kind of robot are you?” they asked. Primm Slim whirred.

“Why, a Protectron, of course! One of RobCo’s finest, to boot!” Maxwell smiled genuinely.

“Neat. Hey, can you tell me about Vikki and Vance? I’m curious about them.”

He proceeded to talk their ear off about two centuries-dead humans, and when he was done Maxwell had noted that someone had hacked him and so that he would register the artifacts as still in their cases. They would fix that if they knew how… just needed to practice on some terminals first, and there was one waiting for them in The Bison Steve. They made a note for later. But they needed to get a move on. That weirdo in the checked suit, he was still out there, probably blowing another poor fool’s head open, and someone needed to catch his ass. They decided it was about time someone did that. They approached the man who had let them in.

“Hey,” said Maxwell, hands tightening their grip around their backpack’s straps. “Is everything going to be alright? Is there anything else I can do for you folks?”

The man turned and raised his brows. “Kid, you’ve done more than enough. I’d ask you to become Sheriff of this little town after the show you put on, but it looks like you’re itchin’ to be somewhere else. So unless you have a friend just like you who’s lookin’ for a career change, we’ll survive just fine.”

Maxwell breathed out a sigh of relief. “Good. Maybe I can find somebody for you… but you’re right. I’ve got to go.”

He smiled. “Right you are. Good luck on the trail, and I’ll warn you, there is a good nest of giant ants along the road to Nipton. Once you’re there, though, someone oughta point you in the right direction. Good luck, kid.”

Maxwell smiled. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

Chapter Text

Vulpes Inculta threw the last body onto the pyre, privately enjoying the solid thud of the corpse landing upon the others before sizzling in the flame. The scent of burning flesh and flowing marrow wasn’t considered pleasant to the common profligate or slave, but to him the smell was invigorating. It was a sign of a job well done, of a mission fulfilled. He gave the signal to let the fires burn, and the few men still tending the searing fires followed him into the municipal building. He could still hear the incessant whooping and cheering of the lottery winner outside through the thin door. 

“That is everyone, correct?” he commanded, speaking to his immediate subordinate.

His subordinate nodded. “Yes, sir. All of the disgusting whores of this city, the profligates and the convicts are dead.”

Vulpes smiled, something sharp and canine. “Very good. Let us return to camp. I have much to do, and I do not wish to waste any more time in this den of filth.”

“Of course, sir. I will rally the men. And we will be leaving the dogs here?” 

Vulpes felt the urge to roll his eyes. “If I ever hear you ask such a stupid question again, I’ll give you to Lanius myself. Yes, we are leaving the dogs as a trap for any of those foul vultures known as Prospectors come through.”

The man was visibly struck with fear, which pleased Vulpes to no end. “Of course.”

It would be a short minute before everyone was ready to head back to Cottonwood Cove. The moment they stepped outside, though, Vulpes could smell someone on the wind, hiding at the corner of the municipal building. He sent a warning glare to his subordinate, something that communicated clearly This better not be a survivor, before stepping out and heading over to the corner. There he saw a tan young woman with a ponytail wearing poorly cobbled metal armor, aiming her pistol for his heart. He grinned. This could be useful.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said. The girl glared at him.

“Really? I didn’t get that feeling.” Her aim stayed true.

“It would be a waste to kill you when you can still provide some utility to us,” he reassured. 

She squinted. She clearly didn’t trust him, and as logical as that was, it still irked him. She was wasting his time. But something in her seemed to shift, to change her mind, and she got up, pistol in hand. He led her out to stand before him and his men, arranged in front of the municipal building. 

“So,” said the woman, “what happened here?”

Vulpes felt his eye twitch before he explained. How dare she speak out of turn to a Frumentarii? He told her about how the town was filled with debased whores and people who would sell both themselves and everything they had for a few caps, how the profligates and the convicts both frequented it for pleasure. The woman seemed to get only more and more upset as he spoke, like she was too stupid to realize the gravity of the situation, of what had happened here, and she was only catching up now as she was surrounded by the dead and dying. He told her of the lottery, and her trigger finger twitched.

“You killed innocent civilians?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes, a childish gesture but necessary nonetheless. They weren’t innocent, and he told her as much. Women are so controlled by their emotions… Her face was twisting itself into a most unattractive grimace.

“I don’t get it,” she insisted, and by god, she really was beyond stupid. “You killed them. Why? What benefit is there to killing civilians?”

He very patiently explained the concept of striking fear into the heart of the enemy with cruelty, and her eyes slowly gained the fire of hatred. Good. She would spread the word so long as she felt strongly about what they did. Though he wished he could take that fire out of her in one of his preferred methods.

She grabbed her backpack and dropped it on the ground, and his men tensed. He summarily told her that if she was going to try anything she would be freed from her emotional turmoil swiftly. Still, it was a waste of an opportunity. And then she pulled an incinerator out of her bag.

It was chaos, immediate and effective. His men began firing rounds, charging at her, but she did not seem cowed in the least, slowly stepping back as she launched a fireball into the center of his formation. 

Vulpes’s only thought before he was set ablaze was that he would now have one thing in common with that traitorous Burning Man. He screamed as he was set ablaze along with most of his men.

He could see through the flames as he tried to stop the burning that she was taking shot after shot like it didn’t harm her in the least, and he realized he had attacked a creature far more dangerous than any he had fought before. And then everything went black.

-=#+*+#=-

When he awoke hours later, he was lying in a pool of his own blood. Everything was either agonizing or completely numb, and it felt like he had fused to the earth beneath him. He screamed as he pulled himself up off the ground, pulled his skin away from himself. He wasn’t going to survive this.

The scream attracted someone’s attention. Likely one of Caesar’s men came to clean up the mess. He looked and realized belatedly that the armor this person was wearing wasn’t that of a Legionnaire, rather it was the same metal armor the woman had been wearing. She came closer, incinerator slung over her back, before crouching down in front of him. God, he wanted to claw that blankly disinterested look off of her face.

“Vulpes?” she asked, like she was a slave-mother checking on her child. He growled, but the noise caused him agony and it ended in a whimper. “Vulpes. You are going to do me a favor,” she said, pulling out a stimpack. “You are going to tell something to whoever’s in charge of you.”

She stabbed him with the stimpack, and he cried out as his skin began to heal, his blood began to clot. “You are going to tell them that if they ever encounter me again, I will kill them. That I cannot and will not be stopped, and that if any of your Legion make an attempt, I will end their lives. I am dangerous, and I am angry. And I don’t want to have to do it, because you’re a waste of ammo, but I will not hesitate. Got it?” She pulled out and stabbed him with another stim pack. Vulpes cried out as he stabilized, but nodded just to appease her.

“I hope you remember this,” she said with a certain threat beneath it. “I hope you feel this burning for the rest of your life to make up for the burning the people here felt when you threw them on the pyres. I hope you know the same agony as you live that they felt as they died.” It was like some kind of oath, like a prayer. She stood.

“I’d wish you luck, but I honestly hope you get stung by a cazador or scorpion on your way to whatever cave you crawled out of. Fuck you,” she said in lieu of any coherent goodbye. She kicked him in the ribs, and he screamed again. He was so weak, so fucking weak, but he’d turn it around on her, he’d make her suffer as he had suffered.

And then she was gone.

Chapter Text

When Maxwell finally managed to drag themself to Novac, it was late at night, and they were exhausted. They had skipped the last NCR encampment as a place to sleep, and they certainly were regretting it now. Maxwell spotted a motel and hoped they’d have a vacant room that no one would notice them sneaking into. And then the dinosaur caught their eye. It had a door.

Maxwell knew they needed sleep, needed it desperately, but damn if they weren’t curious. They stumbled up the stairs, backpack weighing heavily on their shoulders, and opened the door. The room was filled with smaller dinosaurs and supplies, but the more noticeable things were definitely the dinosaurs. They all seemed to be based on the very dinosaur they were standing inside, and in a moment of barely lucid hysteria Maxwell burst into laughter. They sobered quickly once it gave them a headache. Good to know they weren’t a night owl, they supposed, but now really wasn’t the time for their body to point it out.

Maxwell hauled themself up the steps of the final staircase and opened the door to find a man pointing a sniper rifle at them. They put their hands up in a sign of peace before getting thoroughly distracted by the beauty of the thing.

“Who the hell are you?” asked the man holding the marvelous weapon. Maxwell finally looked at his face.

He was somewhere in his thirties, blond hair and sunglasses and a little red beret. His hair was cut close to his scalp, and he seemed significantly more world-weary than Maxwell. And Maxwell could not shake the feeling that they had seen him before.

“Maxwell,” they said simply, “Have we met before?”

“I don’t know where I would have seen a fella with a white streak in their hair before,” he pointed out, “But you need to get out of here. I’m waiting for someone.”

Maxwell cocked their head. “Who for?”
The man gritted his teeth. “I don’t see why I should tell you,” he said.

Maxwell blinked, before pointing to the weapon still pointed at them. That thing would do a lot of damage at this point blank range. “Hey, can you put that away? I’m getting a little uncomfortable.”

The man lowered it.

“I’m up here because I was curious about the dinosaur,” they offered. “I didn’t know this was a snipers’ nest.”

He grit his teeth. “You seem like an earnest guy. I need someone like that right about now. Name’s Boone.”

He proceeded to tell Maxwell the most horrific story they had ever heard.

“So you’re telling me,” said Maxwell slowly, “That the Legion kidnapped and enslaved your wife, and someone in town helped them do it?”

“That’s correct,” said Boone gruffly.

“Who killed her?” they asked. Boone’s jaw tensed.

“Doesn’t matter. What matters now is finding the son of a bitch who sold her. I need you to ask around town - people are more open around folks they think they’ll never see again. Find out who did it, and once you do, bring them out in front of the T-Rex. Put on my beret,” he said, handing them the red hat, “and I’ll know it’s them.”

Maxwell stared down at the hat. It felt like the fabric was weaved from lead. “What if I bring out the wrong person?”

Boone glared. “You’re going to have to be certain, then. Don’t screw this up.”

Maxwell swallowed. “Okay. Okay.” They took a deep breath, then, “Do you know a place I could crash for free?”

“What?” asked Boone.

“Like, a bed roll out in the desert or something. I’ve been walking all night and I need a place to stay.”

Boone frowned. “I - what?” He seemed to catch up quickly. “You don’t have a plan for this sort of thing?”

Maxwell shrugged. “I’m kind of new to this whole wanderer thing,” they said honestly. “Got shot in the head like, what, two and a half weeks ago? I’m operating mostly on vague recollections, my charms, and luck at this point.”

Boone seemed ill. “What have I gotten myself into… Alright, listen, since I’m on night watch anyways you can go crash on my couch. No funny business, no looting, no putting your boots up on the furniture.”

Maxwell had stars in their eyes. “Really?”

Boone’s frown hardened. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

“Aye aye,” said Maxwell. “Where is it?”

-=#+*+#=-

Maxwell woke up that morning sore from the springs in the couch and thoroughly grateful for it. They blearily opened their eyes to see Boone stumbling in through the door before collapsing face first into his bed. Maxwell decided that now was a good time to get out of his room.

They ate some cactus fruit while sitting on the concrete outside his door, watching people give them odd looks before acting like they hadn’t even noticed Maxwell, like they were a ghost. The people here seemed to keep to themselves. Maxwell tried to read people for guilt, but that was kind of hard considering Maxwell had no experience with that sort of thing. Maxwell eventually got sick of people watching and got off their ass to start their investigation.

They started by opening all the doors to the motel rooms. Some of them were locked, but most had somebody behind them. They met some nice people, and when they tried to subtly ask about Boone, and then when they mentioned her, his wife, people opened right up. They made it sound like Boone’s wife was some kind of big city girl looking for a better life, but also said that they were deeply in love. Maxwell made good acquaintance with the guitarist and a former NCR ranger, learned how to kick someone to the ground, and then they took a break to drink some purified water they found on one of the Legionnaires.

The oxymoron of a cosmopolitan girl wanting to break free while deeply loving her country husband was not lost on Maxwell, and they had half the mind to accuse the whole town of being in on it. But they got up. Time to continue their investigation.

When they entered the office of the Novac motel, they were greeted warmly by an older woman at the front desk.

“Hello dearie!” she greeted. “Did you just come in from out of town? If you need a place to stay, my motel might just do.”

Bit hard on the sell. “Who’re you?” asked Maxwell, shifting from foot to foot.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I was so busy trying to make a good impression that I forgot my manners! I’m Jeannie May,” she said, holding out her hand to shake. Maxwell shook it with a smile.

“I’m Maxwell. I just came in last night.” They let go of her hand. “I noticed the dinosaur last night. Does he have a name?”

Jeannie May grinned. “He sure does! Dinky the Dino. The thermometer’s broke, but he makes for a good tourist attraction. Nothing like The Vikki and Vance or The Lucky 38, but he does make our little town stand out.”

“He’s cute,” said Maxwell honestly. “I went inside to check him out last night, though, and I nearly got my head blown off. What’s up with your sniper?”

Jeannie May frowned. “That’s Boone. He’s been jumpy and suspicious ever since his wife left, he’s convinced that the Legion took her. As I see it, she was just itchin’ for a better life, preferably lit in neon over at New Vegas.”

Maxwell frowned to match. “That’s terrible. Thanks for telling me all that. I feel a bit bad for him.”

Jeannie shrugged. “That’s just the way of things in the wasteland. You love and you lose.”

Maxwell took mental note of that and wormed their way out of the conversation. They then wandered around town. Most people didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass what happened to Boone’s wife, much less know anything about it. One couple even told Maxwell that they never really talked to her. Most of their search was fruitless. And then they met Noonan at sunset.

“You’re something,” he said in lieu of a greeting, eyes glazed. Maxwell grinned.

“I sure am. I’ve heard about you around town,” they said.

“Have you? They’re talking about me again…”

“Yeah, people tend to do that,” replied Maxwell, nodding. “I’ve spent this whole day talking about Boone.”

“The sniper? He’s out to get me,” said Noonan, glancing around. “Are you with him?”

“No,” lied Maxwell, “But why is he out to get you?”

“He wants my essence!” declared Noonan. “He wants my essence, they all want my essence. You want my essence?”

Maxwell blinked. “Uh, no. Not interested.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Well, about Boone,” they said, “What do you know about his wife?”

“His wife?” Noonan made eye contact with Maxwell. “His wife. Taken late at night, from the room at the motel. Lizard men swarming the place.”

“Lizard men?”

“Scaly, big red scales. Look a bit like a gecko,” he clarified. Ah, Legionnaires. “Saw them take her. One went inside Jeannie’s office.”

“Oh! Did, uh, did you notice anything else?”

“He stayed for a bit, then fled with the rest of those cowards. I could smell lizard shit all over them. I stayed inside, watched from the distance. Didn’t want to be taken too.”

Maxwell nodded. “Well, thanks. I think I know what you’re talking about. Hope to see you again,” they said honestly. Noonan nodded, looking elsewhere.

Maxwell arrived back at the Motel after Jeannie May had left, and they began their search. They looked through the books and financial documents she had left lying around before the toe of their boot got caught on the lip of the in-ground safe. Maxwell nearly jumped, before crouching down and observing the lock. They could pick this.

Upon opening it, they shoved all the caps into their bag. The bag was definitely holding more junk than could fit inside of it, though it weighed enough to trick even Maxwell. They shoved the pre-war cash into a second pocket before spotting a little slip of paper.

A bill of sale. After reading it, they felt nauseous. How could Jeannie May have done that and lived with herself? Boone’s wife, she was pregnant. She was fucking pregnant and Jeannie sold her.

Maxwell knew what to do.

Waking up Jeannie may went better than they had expected. They must have had a frantic look in their eye, because Jeannie May asked Maxwell in her most sympathetic voice what the matter was. Maxwell told her that there was something they needed to show her in front of Dinky, something urgent. Jeannie put on her shoes and followed Maxwell out front, but despite Maxwell’s urgent pace, she lagged behind. She didn’t seem particularly worried about whatever Maxwell was doing. That was likely a good thing.

Maxwell tugged on the beret and gave a thumbs-up to Boone, who they couldn’t see. And then Jeannie May turned the corner.

“Now what’s the issue?” she asked.

“You’re a monster,” replied Maxwell.

“What? What are you talking about, dea-?”

The BOOM of the shot hurt Maxwell’s ears, and they rang as the spray of blood and viscera coated their armor. They coughed, breathing in some atomized blood, and doubled over. Fuck. Below them was Jeannie May’s corpse, completely without a head.

Maxwell gagged and quickly corrected their posture. They then checked her pockets for caps.

When they went up to Boone, the man looked pensive and a little disgusted. “Sorry about the gore,” he said.

“Sorry about the whole situation,” replied Maxwell.

“How’d you know it was Jeannie May?” he asked.

Maxwell frowned. “There was a Bill of Sale.”

Boone took a shaking breath, and it didn’t sound despairing so much as enraged. “That sounds like something the Legion would do. Can I see it?”

Maxwell shook their head before they even realized it. “Maybe later, but right now you might get more upset than is safe. I’m not sure you’ll ever want to see it, really.” They took another breath. A drop of blood and spinal fluid mingled on their face before sliding down their cheek.

“What are you going to do now?” they asked.

“I don’t know,” he said after a pause. “All I can think about right now is killing Legionnaires and taking their ears to the NCR.”

“That’s fair. You wanna… travel with me to do it?” they asked hopefully.

“What?”

“You seem like a good shot,” they explained, “And I’ve killed a lot of Legionnaires since waking up from my coma. They’re kind of organizing to hunt me for sport, and I could really use some help not getting cornered by them. And I think I’ve seen you before. Like, in a past life or something,” they said, cringing even as the words came out of their mouth. “Probably while I was still a courier, I think. I think - no, I know we could be useful to each other. And I want to keep an eye on you.”

“Why the hell would you need to keep an eye on me?” demanded Boone.

Maxwell winced. “I just. I wouldn’t be able to handle all of this, I know that. I would need someone to help me stay out of my own head after all this. But! The important thing is being useful, I think. I need someone like you.”

Boone was silent for several long seconds, his face a stoic mask. Then he cracked. “I suppose. Snipers work in teams, after all.”

“Right!” said Maxwell. “We’ll be a team!” They hesitated. “Also, I need a place to sleep, and I can’t find a room key on Jeannie.”

Boone tensed before bursting into painful laughter. “You’re still couch surfing?”

Maxwell’s face burned. “It’s not like I have a lot of choices!”

Boone nodded. “Right, right, you’re a drifter. Where are you heading, anyways?”

“New Vegas. I think there’s someone there I need to meet, and if I can find the guy who shot me in the head on the way there, that’d be great.”

“Ah,” he said, “I had almost forgotten you’d been shot,” and was that sarcasm? Maxwell grinned.

“I’ve forgotten a lot more than that. Let’s head to bed. I’ll continue looking tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Maxwell awoke the next morning with a crick in their neck that took a few minutes to massage out. It didn’t really hurt, but the tension was weird. Boone was still asleep, and he was whimpering. Maxwell realized that it was probably a nightmare. They padded over quietly, trying not to startle him, before gently shaking his shoulder. The next thing they knew, they were pinned on their stomach, arm pulled behind their back, and on the ancient carpet with Boone on top of them.

“Oh, shit, Maxwell?” he asked, sounding concerned. He got off of them.

Maxwell rolled onto their back, a little dazed. “Hey Boone. Good morning.”

Boone frowned. “Why the hell did you do that? I could have killed you.”

“Noted,” said Maxwell. “You were having a nightmare, and I thought I’d get you out of it.”

Boone looked bewildered. “Maxwell, I know you don’t know me well, which is exactly why you shouldn’t try to wake me, or anyone else, up from a nightmare. It just pisses people off.”

Maxwell frowned, brows furrowing. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

Boone pinched his brows. “It’s fine, Max, you didn’t know better. I’m going to get back in bed.”

“Of course,” said Maxwell awkwardly. They got up from the floor. They surveyed themself. They were still coated in blood, but they had a change of civilian clothes that would probably terrify the people of Novac a little less. Their ponytail was coming undone, so they adjusted that before going into Boone’s bathroom and changing.

They didn’t know who had owned the bright red dress before them back in Nipton, but they appreciated how clean the owner had kept it. It was some kind of satin, and Maxwell personally thought the combat boots went well with it. 

Maxwell slipped out of the motel room, closing the door silently as the morning sun warmed their skin. They walked over to Dinky, entering the dinosaur and walking up the steps to the sniper’s nest. This time when they opened the door they were not greeted with a barrel.

“Good morning,” said Maxwell. Manny Vargas, the other sniper, raised his brows.

“Good morning. You were hanging out with Boone last night, weren’t you? I see that, uh, you did some damage last night. Jeannie’s corpse got dragged away by some geckos. Can’t say that I tried to intervene, because it seems like you two did it for a reason.”

“Yeah,” said Maxwell uncomfortably, “I’d explain it to you, but that seems like Boone’s right. But I heard that you know something about the guy in the checkered suit?”

“I do,” affirmed Manny, “But if I’m gonna tell you anything, I’m going to need a favor from ya.”
Maxwell frowned. “Are you sure you can’t just, you know, give me the information? I’m kind of on a time crunch and I’ve already lost a few days.”

Manny shrugged, rubbing at his neck guiltily. “I’m sorry, but no one else has been available, and it’s important. You know about RepCONN?” Maxwell shook their head. “It’s the rocket factory a little ways from here. The town goes there to collect scrap and sell it, it’s basically the whole way of life here. Well, some ghouls settled in over there, and now we can’t get shit. If you could take care of the ghouls…”

Maxwell raised their brows. “What’s a ghoul?”

Manny began to look uncomfortable. “You know, the guys whose faces are melting off? Half of them are driven mad by radiation?”

“Oh,” said Maxwell, “That sounds unpleasant.”

“Yeah,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. “I don’t care how you take care of them, just make sure they’re gone, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“‘Kay,” said Maxwell. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Really? I mean, thanks, that means a lot.”

“Mhm,” they replied, before turning on their boot heel and heading down to exit the dino. 

Waiting at the gate of the Motel was Victor, the cowboy securitron. A grin immediately spread across Maxwell’s face as they trotted over.

“Victor!” they cheered. Victor looked down at them.

“Maxwell! My, what a coincidence! You look mighty fine in that there dress. What are you doin’ in Novac?”  His cheerful disposition immediately brought a smile to their face.

“You know, just trying to get to New Vegas and, if it works out, get the guy who shot me. What’re you doing in Novac?”

“Oh, you know,” said Victor vaguely. “I just got an itchin’ to come here, I suppose. I’m glad I found you here, partner!” 

Maxwell frowned slightly. He either didn’t know why he was following them, or he was hiding the real reason. The former concerned them far more than the latter, which probably wasn’t a good sign regarding their self-preservation. 

“Well,” said Maxwell awkwardly, “I have to get going. I just met a nice man named Boone and we’re heading over to some kind of rocket factory. I’ve got to clear out the ghouls over there, so wish me luck with that, I guess.”

“I will!” said Victor emphatically. “Have a good time, Max.”

Maxwell smiled. “Thank you. I’ll try.”

With that, they headed back to Boone’s room to wake him and don their armor.

-=+=-

Boone and Maxwell were halfway up the road to RepCONN by the time they encountered their first ghoul. Maxwell practically jumped half a mile into the air as the man with deteriorating flesh charged at them, but Boone took care of it deftly. Maxwell calmed down quickly, approaching the body and checking what remained of its pockets.

“Never seen a feral ghoul before?” he asked, voice carefully neutral, as Maxwell observed the body curiously.

“No,” said Maxwell honestly. “What’s the difference between a ghoul and a feral ghoul?”

“Ghouls are just people with a little too much radiation in their system,” he explained. “Feral Ghouls are what happens when that radiation drives them mad. Usually, you can tell by whether or not they’re wearing a full outfit. Or their posture, if you’re too far away. Wouldn’t recommend taking the shot in that case, but I’m not your boss.”

Maxwell toed the body curiously. “Alright, thanks. Wouldn’t want to kill a person without good reason.”

As they made their way up to the RepCONN facility, they picked off various feral ghouls, and eventually discovered the bodies of ghouls in robes with plasma rifles and laser pistols. Maxwell snatched those up immediately, and found that while the sight on the rifle wasn’t great, their aim was still true. By god, the gun was bulky. But the ammo was plentiful, and so were the caps, which Maxwell couldn’t complain about. They were beginning to feel a little bad, though, that they were probably going to have to fight these guys. Their numbers were clearly down if the aftermath of this battle was anything to go by.

As soon as Maxwell stepped inside of RepCONN, the two wanderers froze. There was a large purple mutant laying on the floor before them, with another ghoul corpse nearby. Then someone came on over the intercom.

The voice sounded impossibly rough and dry to Maxwell as it spoke. He commanded them to head up some stairwell, and Maxwell immediately forgot which direction he said it was in. They turned back to Boone to ask, but then another ghoul was upon them. 

That was the pattern for the entire building. Maxwell would discover something or have a question for Boone, get attacked by a ghoul, and then promptly forget their question. They made a lot of glowing green piles out of the ghouls. They pieced together some interesting tidbits from the past about a retirement and a shipment of something called “stealthboys”, and when they finally got a question in about them Boone explained that Maxwell already had five on them. Maxwell immediately turned themself invisible and started scouting ahead to kill ghouls, but it ran out quickly, so it ended up being a waste. Besides, Boone griped that he was half sure he’d shoot Maxwell due to how hard it was to see them. Eventually the building was cleared, every room explored, and only then did Maxwell realize that the staircase was in the big metal room.

They got in easily enough, and were greeted with a human calling them “smoothskin”. Maxwell blinked before squinting at him. 

“Why’re you calling me that?” they asked the man.

“Because,” said the man like it was obvious, “You’re not a ghoul, smoothskin. You’re very human.”

Maxwell tilted their head as Boone held in a chuckle behind them. “So you’re a ghoul? You don’t look like the rest.”

“Recently turned,” he explained. “Too much time around my vault’s reactor. You’re lucky to look the way you do. Humans don’t tend to show kindness to anything that’s not exactly like their little group.”

“Oh,” said Maxwell. “Sorry?”

The man, Chris, rolled his eyes. “Don’t apologize, you aren’t a  martyr for human cruelty. Jason Bright is upstairs. Stop wasting my time and go ask him what he needs.”

“Okay,” said Maxwell as Boone burst into a fit of giggles. They turned, surprised, and sent him a hesitant smile. Boone waved them off as he contained his humor.

“What’s so funny, smoothskin?” demanded Chris, the not-ghoul. 

“Nothing, I swear,” said Boone, sobering rapidly and looking like he had never found something humorous in his life. Maxwell nearly got whiplash from the change.

Chris just narrowed his eyes. Maxwell awkwardly squeezed past him and up the stairs.

Jason Bright turned out to be a glowing and highly radioactive ghoul, which surprised Maxwell mildly. Turns out all the ghouls were a part of some sort of peaceful cult, and there were “demons” downstairs. Maxwell needed to go downstairs and get rid of them, and then the Ghouls would get back to their strange religious plan involving the facility. Maxwell thought that was fine enough, as the sooner Jason and his “flock” completed their ceremony the sooner they’d probably leave. Boone took them aside as soon as they were out of the top floor.

“The demons, they’re not something you want to mess with,” he stressed. “They’re Nightkin. Supermutants that use stealthboys to turn invisible. They’re all driven mad by those things.”

Maxwell blinked. “Oh, yeah, there were a few of them downstairs. I’ve got stealthboys, too, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Boone looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. “They’re really, really dangerous, Maxwell. We should just turn back and tell Manny that we can’t do this.”

“Well, maybe we can’t do this,” said Maxwell thoughtfully, “But I can do it alone.”

“What?”

Maxwell shrugged. “I’m tougher than I look. And I don’t want you getting hurt. You should just stay behind the door in case I come rushing through with a Nightkin on my tail. 

“Maxwell,” he said, pleaded, “You may be tough, but you’re not supermutant tough. You’re going to die.”

“Maybe,” said Maxwell honestly, “But it’s better than you dying.” Boone looked ill, so Maxwell patted his shoulder. “I’ll be fine! I’ll avoid them.”

“They’re invisible, Maxwell.”

Maxwell shrugged again. “I’ve got good eyesight.”

Boone looked even sicker. Maxwell headed down to the basement.

-=-

Boone stood guard at the door as Maxwell had asked, and they opened the basement. They decided to see how far they could go before turning on their stealthboy, and were nearly scared out of their skin by a roaming shimmer of a supermutant. They slammed down the button for their stealthboy, and while the mutant turned his head towards them, he began muttering to himself about how “you’re wrong, voices, there’s nobody there”. Maxwell let out a breath they didn’t know they were holding as soon as he turned his back.

That was a mistake. The nightkin turned at once and charged at them, and by fucking god their hearing must be supernatural to find Maxwell that quickly. Maxwell stood and turned, rushing to the door, but the nightkin was faster. They felt him break their legs beneath them with a swing of his rebar club, and they collapsed with a terrified scream. Another swing, and they felt a moment of extreme pressure on their head.

They were sitting on the edge of a concrete wall overlooking a river, a massive lake behind them. They kicked their feet idly, looking over the ledge with passive interest. They heard something roll up behind them. They turned their head and were met with a securitron with a smiling face. It registered as extremely distinct to them.

“Enjoying the view, Maxwell?” he asked.

“Yeah!” replied Maxwell automatically, and they felt that they couldn’t control what they said at this moment. It didn’t bother them, strangely enough.

“I’m glad! You know, it wasn’t so long ago I was casting General Oliver over the side of the dam,” he said.

What?

“Haha, yeah, that’s true,” said Maxwell, kicking their feet harder. They felt a warm smile form on their features, but for some reason, their teeth felt loose. They touched their tongue to one, and noticed that it was shattered.

They jolted awake, head resting awkwardly on the stairs just before the basement as their teeth reformed. Someone took a breath of relief.

“I don’t know how you did that,” breathed Boone, “but I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Gnh,” said Maxwell. Boone was leaning over them, almost smiling down at them.

“Your head was completely caved in,” he pointed out. “I only dragged your corpse up here out of a misplaced sense of dignity. You were dead.”

“Mh, mhm,” replied Maxwell, still recovering from both their brutally violent death and their strange dream. They brought their hand up to their forehead, which was soaked with blood. They groaned.

“Does anything hurt?” asked Boone.

“No,” replied Maxwell, teeth fixed, “nothing hurts. I haven’t really hurt all that often.” 

Boone frowned slightly. “Is that normal for you? The whole painless death thing?”

“I don’t know,” replied Maxwell honestly, sitting up. Boone gave them some space. “I don’t remember anything before that guy shot me, really. The weirdest part is the dreams.”

“What? What dreams?” he asked.

Maxwell shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess I just keep having these dreams with Securitrons and Vegas in them.”

“That sounds important.”

Maxwell huffed. “Maybe. I’m not sure. But right now we have to get these Nightkin out of there, preferably without killing them.”

“Already killed one,” said Boone.

“Well, let’s at least keep those numbers low. I’m going back in.”

“Not alone you’re not,” said Boone, standing and holding out a hand to help Maxwell to their feet. “I’m going in with you.”

Maxwell shook their head. “I’m pretty much immortal and there’s only enough stealthboys left for one person. I cannot emphasize enough how much I don’t want you to die,” they repeated. 

“I won’t die,” said Boone, as though the very notion was insulting. “And I won’t kill anyone unless it’s necessary. Let me come with you.”

Maxwell frowned, standing with Boone’s help. “I won’t let you come down there. I’m fucking serious.” Boone’s brows raised mildly. “Please don’t.”

-=-

Boone came down there with them, trailing behind a good fifteen feet with a stealthboy active. Maxwell was openly pissed about it, but it was hard to glare at someone when both of you were invisible. Maxwell began their infiltration, which could more accurately be described as random wandering.

They immediately walked up to a nightkin next to a skull. They quickly gained the belief in supernatural entities after the skull was able to warn Davison, the nightkin, about their exact location. Davison began talking about his desire to kill Maxwell, which Maxwell was decidedly not looking forward to, when the skull blessedly changed Davison’s mind. Davison then gave them a key and asked them to clear out a ghoul still living down here. Maxwell quietly walked backwards out of there and bumped directly into Boone. Boone, for his part, didn’t so much as shift. Damn was he a good sniper.

“What’d he ask you to do?” whispered Boone.

“There’s a survivor down here,” explained Maxwell in a whisper. “We’re gonna go rescue him.”

They continued to wander around, went the complete opposite direction from where Davison told them to go by accident, and were grabbed by a very angry Boone after they almost walked directly into a nightkin. They arrived at the correct door, which was practically right next to Davison’s room, and were spotted immediately by the ghoul.

“Come here you big, ugly…” Maxwell flinched as the rifle the ghoul carried was aimed right for their head. “Huh, you’re a little short for a nightkin. What’re you doing down here?”

Maxwell swallowed. “I’m here to get you out of the basement. The Nightkin are scared shitless of you and if you leave they’ll probably get out of here, too. They want to search this room for stealthboys.”

“Well, there definitely aren’t any stealthboys in here,” said the ghoul, “or else I would’ve taken one and gotten the hell out of here. Well, after I found Miranda, that is.”

“Miranda?” asked Maxwell.

“Yeah, she’s a fine looking ghoul and a good friend of mine. She ran the wrong way when the nightkin came in, and I don’t know what happened after that. I was plannin’ to go looking for her when I got cornered here. It’s a good defensive spot, and I’ve got a number of traps, but uh… who am I kidding. I’m trapped. And I’m not leaving ‘til I know what happened to her. It’s probably not good, but…”

“But?” asked Maxwell. 

“But I need to know before I just up and abandon her. Find out what happened to her, bring her back alive if you can, and I’ll come with you. Otherwise I’m comfortable where I am.”

“Right,” said Maxwell hesitantly. I have to spend more time in this god-awful basement? “Don’t die while you’re in here,” they added.

The ghoul cracked a laugh like one cracks a whip. “Aw, aren’t you polite! You poor thing, you probably got sent down by Bright, didn’t you?”

Maxwell swallowed. For some reason, his compliment warmed their face. “Ah, yeah… and some guy named Manny sent me here first.”

He laughed. “Wow, you sure have a lot of people ordering you around. My bad for adding to that.”

“It’s no problem,” said Maxwell honestly. “I’m gonna go find your girl.”

“Good luck.”

Maxwell turned tail with a strangely warm feeling in their heart. 

-=-

Unfortunately, Maxwell and Boone returned with bad news. Maxwell shifted from foot to foot as their stealthboy ticked down to zero battery. 

“So? You found her?” asked the ghoul. Maxwell nodded hesitantly, then realized he couldn’t see them.

“Yeah, but…”

“Spare me the details,” said the ghoul, sounding as dead as he looked. “Thanks for trying, I suppose. By the way, what’s your name?”

Maxwell blinked. “Maxwell. Boone’s the guy with me.”

He laughed. “You’ve been keeping backup with you this whole time? Don’t tell me, he’s also wearing a stealthboy.”

“I am,” grunted Boone behind them.

“Well, shit. I’m Harland. I suppose I can introduce myself after making you run around this hellhole.”

Maxwell silently mouthed his name, then spoke it aloud. “Harland.”

“And don’t you wear it out. It’s not every day that I make nice with a smoothskin. Say, what do you look like?”

“I’ll show you after you get out of here,” promised Maxwell, “But right now you really need to fucking go.”

Harland waved a hand dismissively. “Alright, alright. Careful not to step on the twenty or so bear traps I left lying around.” With that, he descended the stairs in a sort of jog. Maxwell stepped out and ran ahead of Harland to ensure that no nightkin would kill him, and they just barely managed to get the timing right. Harland exited swiftly.

Maxwell turned back and began setting off the bear traps in Harland’s room so that they wouldn’t accidentally wander into one. They eventually found a terminal and scanned through the data - there . An invoice saying that they shipped back the stealthboys. Maxwell sighed. This wasn’t going well.

They reported back to Davison, Boone hiding in the doorway as the very last seconds of their stealthboys ticked away. Maxwell became visible after they admitted to the distinct lack of stealthboys at RepCONN, and Davison openly laughed at them, calling them “puny”. Maxwell narrowed their eyes at the nightkin, which only made him laugh harder.

Maxwell turned heel and headed upstairs, Boone keeping watch behind them. They both arrived at the top floor, and Maxwell irritably told Jason Bright that the basement was clear. Maxwell then followed the Bright Brotherhood down to the basement. Harland trotted up along Maxwell’s side as Boone watched, glaring.

“You look better than I thought. So,” said Harland, “How’re you taking the whole cult schtick?”

“Not well,” grumbled Maxwell. “Jason Bright sure knows how to push me around, and the whole “redeemer of humankind” thing isn’t making up for it.”

Harland threw his head back and laughed. Maxwell turned and watched. “I get the feeling you’re not impressed!” he said, smiling. It wasn’t a very pretty smile. Maxwell thought it was stunning. “Yeah, I’m not into it either.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to join them for the launch?” asked Maxwell, jumping down the sewer grate.

“Nope,” said Harland, landing after them. Boone lagged behind. “I was only here for the ghoulettes. I don’t have to tell you there are some fine looking ones in Bright’s little flock. Or maybe I do…”

“I think you look nice, at least,” said Maxwell a little too honestly as they jogged after the cult. Harland smiled. It was crooked and charming.

“Aw, shucks, you’re a sweet thing, aren’t you? And you don’t look so bad yourself,” he replied.

Maxwell flushed. “Ah, thanks.”

Boone caught up to them and grabbed them by their upper arm, dragging them along. Maxwell turned and frowned, but Boone didn’t react, face as stoic as ever.

“What are you doing?” whispered Maxwell as Boone dragged them into the control room for the rockets. Chris, the human who thought he was a ghoul, was there, fiddling with controls in a way that implied he knew what he was doing.

“The ghoul’s flirting with you,” said Boone plainly

Maxwell blushed. “Oh. So what if he is? He’s kinda cute.”

Boone’s brows raised in disbelief, his eyes still narrowed in disappointment. “He’s several times your age, Max.

Max shrugged Boone off of them. “And he’s nice. And so what if he’s flirting with me? His lady friend just died, so its not like he’s going to go after some random human.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, seeing as I’ve known you for a total of two and a half days, but if you’re calling people “lady friends" you are not equipped for whatever he’s suggesting.”

Maxwell rolled their eyes. 

“Are you two done arguing?” asked Chris as Harland arrived in the room, Chris leaning against one of the consoles. “We have shit we need you to do.”

Maxwell could have groaned, but they were politer than that. “What now?”

“Wow, you seem enthusiastic,” Chris intoned sarcastically. “I need the fuel for the rockets, and it should be in the irradiated wastes out east of here, the one with big concrete pylons, can’t miss it. Then I’ll need the stabilizer rockets. Those should be at some scrapyard in Novac, so you’ll probably have to buy those off whoever’s got ‘em. We’re not exactly liquid, so that’ll come out of your own caps.”

“But-” Maxwell sighed. “‘Kay, cool, I guess I’ll spend all of my caps. Right. Let’s get out of here, Boone.”

“Mind taking me with?” asked Harland as Maxwell turned to open the door and, incidentally, to face him. “I feel a bit useless as the guard right now, seeing as you managed to clear out the majority of the nightkin before I could even blink.”

Maxwell looked at him with wide eyes. “Uh, sure.”

Boone sighed, a put upon sound.

-=+=-

They all returned two hours later with the fuel and the rocket stabilizers, the latter of which Maxwell managed to get off Old Lady Gibson for free by accidentally looking extremely pathetic. Maxwell was kicking around a fallen bit of scrap metal as they waited for Jason to monologue to them about the next thing, when they noticed something on the shelf.

A space suit.

Maxwell picked it up immediately. The helmet went on perfectly, though perhaps a little large for them, and they looked down at the suit itself. Harland snickered behind them as Chris rolled his eyes. Boone looked put out.

“Please don’t change in here,” said Boone. Maxwell nearly jumped. 

“Oh!” Shit. “Uh, I’ll step out for a moment. Excuse me.”

Maxwell left for a moment, donned the space suit, and came back in. It was cool, practically climate controlled, and the only issue they had with the fantastic garment were the large shoulder pads. They stepped through the door to enter the room as Jason Bright did, and the cult leader did a double take.

“You’re not planning to join us on our great journey, are you, human?” he asked.

Maxwell shook their head vehemently. “Nuh-uh, no. I just like the suit.”

Harland broke down into giggles. There was a vein popping out of Boone’s forehead. Chris looked vaguely irritated.

“Alright,” said Jason, “Then may I pull you aside? There’s something we need to discuss.”

“Sure,” said Maxwell.

As soon as they were out in the weird sewer-like tunnel, Jason began talking about how Chris wasn’t a ghoul, obviously , and that he couldn’t come on the Great Journey. The launch pad was highly radioactive from a leak, so much so that it would kill Chris within minutes regardless of how much gear he wore, and the place they were going was allegedly even more radioactive. Maxwell mused that perhaps the Bright Brotherhood were launching themselves into the sun. 

“Aren’t you going to tell him?” they asked.

“We’ve tried,” explained Jason. “But Chris has the gift of ignorance. We will not forget him as we go into the Great Beyond, neither will it be a thankless service he is performing. We are greatly indebted to both of you, and it is clear the Creator meant for us to cross paths.” Maxwell nodded uncomfortably. “But we cannot take Chris with us. We will venerate him as a human saint who assisted us in our journey.”

“But what should I tell him?” asked Maxwell. Jason seemed surprised.

“You would break his ignorance?” he asked.

“It’s the kind thing to do. I think.” Maxwell shifted uncomfortably and finally took off the ridiculous helmet. “He deserves to know why he can’t come with. You guys are so important to him, yaknow?”

Jason smiled. It was kind, but in a distant way. “Of course. Do as you wish, so long as you continue to do it kindly.”

-=-

Telling Chris was hard, and the man headed off towards Novac as soon as Maxwell suggested it as a possible future life for him, which they kind of regretted. Then they were all alone to figure out the controls, and as they ran up to the launch pad with a concerned Boone and an amused Harland in tow, they arrived at a console. Maxwell gave it a look. Something was nagging at them, a sense that the Bright Brotherhood’s coordinates were off. When they checked, the current coordinates were set to land them absolutely fucking nowhere, so they corrected the coords and launch parameters. That should help. 

Maxwell took a deep breath as their hand hovered over the launch button. Harland watched them with mild curiosity and Boone with concern as Maxwell considered what they were about to do. What if they all died before they even got into the air? Wouldn’t Maxwell be responsible? And they were almost definitely going to die once they landed. Ghouls weren’t immortal, that was clear enough, just long-living. Maxwell was kind of killing these people. But maybe that’s what they want, thought Maxwell. Maybe this is the afterlife they’re seeking. 

“You’re thinking too hard about this,” said Harland as he watched idly. “They may not entirely know what they’ve signed up for, but they’re happy enough to sign up for it in the first place. Now somebody’s gotta send them off, and it sure as hell won’t be me.”

“Right,” said Maxwell. Their hand didn’t move.

Harland sighed, before stepping forward, his front to their back. Maxwell promptly forgot the magnitude of the situation, and Harland placed his hand over Maxwell’s, gently pushing them towards the button. “Listen, I’m still not gonna press the goddamn button, but you’ve gotta do this. Think of it as a favor, if you’ve gotta.” 

Maxwell nodded, lowering their hand with trepidation. They looked out towards the rockets before finally giving in, slamming their hand down on the button.

And then their pipboy was playing Flight of the Valkyries as the rockets began to blast off. They were quickly airborne, but it wasn’t exactly a stable lift-off - the center and right rocket spun around each other for a moment, nearly crashing, and the other made a wild dip that nearly scraped the hull against the earth. Maxwell covered their mouth to prevent a scream as Harland wrapped one arm around their middle before he waved the rockets off. Boone watched on in mild irritation.

“Goddamn, if it isn’t too bad to see them go,” mumbled Harland as the rockets blinked out of sight in the light of the sun. 

-=#+*+#=-

When Maxwell returned to Manny Vargas, they had quite the tall tale to absolutely butcher, and every time they looked over at Boone as they prattled on and on about RepCONN he looked more and more tense until he smacked the back of their head and told them to get to the point. Maxwell proceeded to ask where in god’s unholy name the man in the checkered suit was. Manny provided, and soon enough all three of them were on their way to Vegas, Boone, Maxwell, and Harland as a temporary tag-along. 

Chapter Text

If you asked Boone, he could not tell you what compelled him to follow the kid. Maybe it had something to do with Maxwell’s age - they were only in their early 20s at best despite the white strands in their black hair, and it showed through everything they did, from the way they fought without fear of death to the way they planned things with no concept of the long-term. Maybe it was that innocent, trusting look in their eye, the one they gave him as he pointed a rifle at their heart for their crime of interrupting his brooding. Maybe it was Maxwell’s carefree grin, or the fact that they had clearly taken a few bullets to the head, or that they were an honest, earnest fellow who gave trust just as much as they expected others to give it, but pinning it down to just one thing felt impossible. For the most part, Boone was walking with them for a little bit of every reason. And he was regretting it.

Maxwell was clearly smitten with the ghoul fella they’d picked up from the Bright Brotherhood, all smiley and dopey and literally skipping as they walked god knows how many miles down the road. Harland was lapping up the attention, cracking jokes and occasionally playful shoving Maxwell or slinging an arm around their shoulder. And it made Boone’s teeth grind and a headache slowly form behind his eyes.

He was not attracted to Maxwell, full stop. They were practically half his age and way too bubbly and distracted for his liking. However, he did feel a certain level of protectiveness towards them. He used to feel that protectiveness towards everyone, it’s what pushed him to become an NCR First Recon sniper in the first place, but that had all died with the Khans at Bitter Springs, and its corpse burnt to ashes by Carla’s death as well. But Maxwell was undeniably a happy person, which was breathing new life into the idea of protection. And Harland was exacerbating it by flirting with the goddamn kid.

Eventually Maxwell spotted a gas station that Boone had pointed out to them a few minutes ago, and they rushed down the road straight at it without hesitation. Boone scowled, half expecting the kid to step on someone’s rabbit trap or the building to be crawling with raiders, but nothing went horribly wrong. Harland laughed and went running after them. Boone stayed behind.

When Boone caught up to the two, Maxwell was poking at a fire pit with a stick, cocking their head at it as though they had never seen a fire before. Boone wouldn’t be surprised if it really was their first interaction with fire. Harland, for his part, was shaking out some old bedrolls left there by the last drifters.

“This is probably someone’s idea of camp,” pointed out Boone irritably. “We should keep moving and find somewhere else to sleep.”

Maxwell looked up at him with their too-wide green eyes. “Judging by the fire pit, this place hasn’t been occupied for, like, a month. We should be safe here for the night, though apparently there were giant bugs here.”

Boone frowned. “How the hell do you know that?”

Maxwell dug around in the ashes for a moment before pulling out the burnt husk of a radroach’s foot. Boone felt nauseous. 

“Put that thing down, kid,” he commanded. Maxwell dropped it and wiped the ash on their spacesuit. “And maybe change into something a little less conspicuous.” They nodded.

“Sure, ‘kay,” they replied, before walking over to the gas station and wrenching the door open. The buzzing of wings could be heard from the inside, and Boone got his rifle into position immediately as Harland turned his head before two gunshots could be heard. “I got it!” called Maxwell. “Just some mantises!” They closed the door behind themself.

Boone breathed a sigh of relief. He half expected an army of radroaches or, worse, a single cazadore, but he knew by now that Maxwell was a decent shot when it came down to the wire. He glanced at Harland with ire.

“I’m going to go get some firewood,” he said irritably, “Don’t think of doing anything with that kid.”

Harland laughed, dry and raspy. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he assured Boone.

Boone narrowed his eyes before stomping off to find some branches.

When he returned, the sun was low in the sky and painted the Mojave brilliant crimson. It was a gorgeous sunset, though the sky likely represented a fire somewhere out West. He set the wood down in the remains of the oil barrel, grabbing his lighter he had gotten from Carla and setting the contents ablaze. He turned to call Maxwell and Harland over when he noticed Maxwell’s bag set outside the gas station entrance. Boone’s brow furrowed, the sniper immediately becoming suspicious. Where in god’s forsaken name had the two gone?

His question was shortly answered when Maxwell stumbled out of the gas station, laughing as Harland pressed a kiss to their cheek.

Oh, that motherfucker . Boone pinched his brows in frustration as Maxwell pointed out his presence to Harland. Harland laughed again and sauntered over as Maxwell grabbed their pack.

“Well, someone’s unhappy,” commented the ghoul dryly.

Boone glared up at Harland through his shades. “Really?”

Harland’s lips quirked into a wry smile before he sat down. Maxwell came over soon enough and rifled through their bag. They produced a leaking sack of grilled meat wrapped in cloth that was half the size of their bag and tried to set it in the dirt. Boone quickly grabbed it from them.

“Kid, gross,” he commented.

Maxwell shrugged. “Dirt’s good for you, I think. I read about it over in Nipton.”

Boone frowned. “The town that practically got burnt down by the Legion?”

Maxwell nodded. “Yeah, I was rifling around people’s houses. I needed supplies.”

Both men paused at that, and Maxwell grabbed a makeshift metal camp stove from their bag before setting it up over the fire. Maxwell watched the old grate heat with mild interest.

“You can’t just steal from people’s homes, Maxwell,” said Boone. Maxwell blinked before looking away from the fire.

“But they were dead - they didn’t need their things anymore. And I basically only took stimpacks and caps.”

“You stole people’s money?” Boone pressed. Harland seemed to be holding in laughter.

“Well, it’s not stealing if they’re dead, right?” they said, cocking their head as they frowned. “And I needed a good bit of medicine - there was a survivor from the Powder Gangers who had his leg broken by the Legion.”

“Those people died two days ago,” insisted Boone, distressed now. 

Maxwell nodded, confused. “Right. They’re dead.”

“And you prospected their stuff immediately?”

Maxwell frowned. “It’s not like I sold it. I just took the stuff I’d need to keep going to New Vegas.” Harland burst into laughter. 

Boone shot him a glare before shaking his head in despair. “Kid, that’s… whatever. Try not to do that again.”

Maxwell grimaced. “No promises.”

Harland doubled over.

Chapter Text

When Maxwell awoke the next morning, Harland was gone, leaving behind only a note. “ You’ll do great things, kid, I can just feel it. But I’m not a part of that destiny .” Maxwell held onto the note, though they didn’t know why. Maybe they just found it reassuring that someone believed they’d be able to pull off this great hunt for the checked suit guy and a securitron, even if Harland didn’t necessarily know about that. But for all Maxwell knew, Harland left that note for every guy and gal in the Mojave. Maybe Maxwell just liked him.

Maxwell began packing, leaving Boone to sleep on the roll, but he woke up on his own soon enough. As Maxwell eyed the fire to try and figure out what to pour on top of it, Boone spoke.

“He left, huh?”

Maxwell nodded. “Yeah.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he said gruffly. “Thought he might be the type to take off in the night. We still have all our stuff, right?”

Maxwell frowned. “Hey! We do, thank you very much. Well, except for like two cactus fruits, but I have about 12 of those so it’s really not an issue.”

Something that could have been a smirk wormed its way onto Boone’s face. “Sure thing, kid. Now put on some actual armor. It’s going to be a long hike and I can’t have your head be taken off by raiders.”

Maxwell smiled. “Right.”

-=+=-

The trek to Boulder City wasn’t too arduous. Maxwell had managed to walk everywhere without a single stitch in their side or strain in their calves, and maybe it was their youth and former career as a courier, or maybe it was the fact that they couldn’t feel pain, but hiking all the way over to the next town didn’t do them one bit of harm. Boone needed to rest every once in a while, flagging them down, and they’d sit beside him as he ate through Maxwell’s food.

“Where’d you get all this soda?” he asked as Maxwell as they both ate their lunch, Maxwell knocking back a sunset sarsaparilla as Boone ate through the last of the Gecko meat. 

“The hotel back in Primm,” replied Maxwell easily. “I like the sugar.”

“You realize you’re knocking back five a day?” he grunted.

Maxwell shrugged. “I need the calories, probably. And hey, you’ve eaten through, like, half my banana yucca!”

Boone sent them a look. “I’m a bigger man than you,” he pointed out, “I need more cal-whatevers.”

Maxwell flushed an indignant red. “Hey! It’s not my fault you’re built like a securitron! And at least I can hide in small places.”

Boone furrowed his brows. “How is that an advantage?”

Maxwell widened their eyes comically, staring Boone down. “When they come for you, you will wish you were as small as me.”

Boone’s mouth cracked into a small smile, which he crushed in an instant. “Who are ‘they’?”

Maxwell waggled their eyebrows, taking another sip of their sunset sarsaparilla. 

-=+=-

When they arrived in Boulder City, Maxwell spotted an NCR soldier at some kind of concrete memorial. They approached immediately, being a chatterbox by nature.

The NCR soldier raised one of his eyebrows, put off by the kid with the white streak in their jet black hair and the scar clearly marring their temple. “You here for the memorial too?” he asked.

Maxwell glanced at the memorial. “Whatsit for?” they asked as the soldier spotted the First Recon sniper behind them.

“It commemorates the Battle of the Hoover Dam. The NCR led the Legion’s finest into Boulder City and blew it to kingdom come. There was a tough battle afterward, of course - my brother died making sure the wounded could escape.”

Maxwell blinked, looking up at the soldier. “That’s awful. Was the town occupied?”

The soldier frowned. “It was, but we evacuated most of the civilians.”

“Most?”

“Some refused to leave.”

“Oh,” said Maxwell. “Well, I’m sorry about your brother.” The soldier’s eye twitched.

“We did what we had to defeat the Legion,” he grit out. “Your First Recon over there would know about that.”

Maxwell turned to face a glaring Boone. “What?” they turned back to the soldier. “I know you’re probably not responsible for what down in Boulder City, I didn’t mean to imply-”

The soldier ground his teeth together. “Would you rather the Legion had won?”

Maxwell frowned, shaking their head. “Of course not!”

“Then shut your trap. You know nothing of sacrifice,” he ground out.

Maxwell was about to retort or apologize or something , but Boone grabbed their shoulder. “Maxwell, let’s just go,” he growled. Maxwell sent the soldier one last glance before following Boone. 

Maxwell looked everywhere for the Khans Manny had mentioned, starting in a dead saloon and ending at the entrance to the ruins. There they encountered Lieutenant Monroe, who proceeded to warn them that the very Khans Maxwell was looking for had taken hostages from the NCR and were now pinned like a bug inside the ruins.

Maxwell nodded along where appropriate before chiming in. “I can probably get the hostages back,” they said.

“Normally I wouldn’t even entertain this idea from a stranger,” he said, “But we’re out of options and a third party could work. Just know if they fire on you, we’ll rush ‘em, but it’ll probably be too late for you.”

“Noted,” said Maxwell.

“Hold on,” said Boone, who had been watching this exchange, “ Maxwell . You can’t seriously be thinking of doing this.”

Maxwell turned to face Boone with a smile. “I negotiated the same thing between a bunch of nightkin and ghouls, surely this can’t be too hard.”

Boone grimaced. “You have no idea what you’re walking into, kid. You could die.”

Maxwell shrugged. “I’ll get better. You wanna come with?”

Boone paled. “I think I’ll keep a lookout here.”

Maxwell frowned. “... alright. Stay safe.” And then they were gone, heading through the gate and into the ruins.

Maxwell considered hiding briefly, but they decided against it. TMaxwell marched out in front of the NCR soldiers lying on their stomachs and beelined towards the most intact building, where the soldiers had been pointing with their rifle barrels. 

Maxwell encountered the first bewildered Khan shortly. “The fuck are you doing here?” she hissed, before her eyes widened, stepping back. “Are you-!?” Maxwell blinked before it clicked into place in their head. Oh. They had forgotten for a moment these were the same Khans that cornered them with checked suit guy. This woman recognized their face.

“Yeah,” said Maxwell softly, “It’s me.”

The woman took another step back. Maxwell kept walking.

There were far more Khans than NCR soldiers here, oddly enough. Checked Suit must have brought a lot of Khans with him to corner them. Maxwell frowned. They remembered bits and pieces of that night as they walked past the Khans stationed near the building, remembered Checked Suit telling the Khans that he looked a man in the eye before killing him or something, but seeing all these people now… Checked Suit was a coward.

They opened the door to the main building. Everyone inside froze, eyes landing on their face.

“Holy shit,” breathed one of them, a man with a mohawk and a bandana over his brow. “You’re the courier.”

Maxwell nodded, made somewhat uncomfortable by the aw-struck staring. “Yep. And, uh, I’ve been looking for you guys.” Everyone in the room paled, and Maxwell raised their hands in a show of peace. “Not to murder you! If I wanted you dead, I could just wait for the NCR to screw you guys over!”

“We’ve been screwed over enough,” growled the man in front of them. “Benny, that bastard, left us here to die at the NCR’s bloody hands.”

Maxwell smiled. “See, this is what I wanted to talk to you guys about! Benny’s the guy in the checked suit, right?”

The man nodded. “Absolutely.”

Maxwell began to rock back and forth on their heels. “Great! What do you know about the guy?”

The mohawked man Maxwell was talking to looked at the other Khans in question. “You really have no idea?”

Maxwell gestured to the scar marring their temple. “A shot to the head doesn’t do much for memory,” they joked. One of the Khans rubbed at the back of their neck, sheepish. 

“Benny’s a Chairman - one of the men in charge of The Tops, a hotel and casino on the Strip. The Chairmen are one of the Three Families, the big dogs that Mr. House keeps on a leash. Pretty sure Mr. House gave you that package, but that’s only conjecture - Benny didn’t tell us shit about the job.”

Maxwell cocked their head. “So he hired you to help collect my package?”

The man smiled. “Right on, little lady. Say, what’s your name?”

Maxwell snorted. “Maxwell, and you?”

“Jessup. Listen, kid, he cheated us out of a lot of caps and potentially our lives. You seem sharp. Would you do the Khans a favor and get us out of here?”

Maxwell nodded at once without hesitation. “Absolutely. I think something can be negotiated. If you release the hostages, I’m certain I can get the NCR to let you leave, hell, even escort you. Does that sound good?”

Jessup smirked. “Consider it done, kid.”

Maxwell nodded with a beaming smile. “Great! I’ll make sure you guys get out of here.”

-=-

“What do you fucking MEAN, the NCR gave you orders to kill the Khans?! I just got you your hostages back!”

Lieutenant Monroe winced. “It’s from the top. We’re to rush in and kill the Khans, hostages or no.”

Maxwell’s eye twitched. “But you have what you wanted! All they want in return is to go home! Is that not allowed?!”

The lieutenant glanced aside, nervous. “I can’t just go against orders, right?”

Maxwell threw their hands in the air, jumping up and down in anger. Multiple soldiers stared at the ridiculous sight. “You absolutely can! You’re the lieutenant ! If you have a shred of honor or compassion or whatever flowery word you’d use, you should let them go!”

Lieutenant Monroe swallowed. “Alright, alright, kid. We’re gonna let them go.”

Maxwell turned toward him with a snap, jabbing their pointer finger into his chest. They knew that he couldn’t feel it through his armor, but they didn’t care about that right now. “You fucking better. If I hear anything about this going south I’ll fucking - I don’t know, set myself on fire in your capitol.”

Lieutenant Monroe balked. “You’re not serious.”

Boone, who had been silently watching in horror, walked up and grabbed Maxwell by their arm. “Kid, you’re getting emotional. Time to go.”

Maxwell huffed. “Watch it, Monroe,” they warned, and then they were off.

-=-

“I can’t believe you intimidated a lieutenant into letting the Khans go,” said Boone as Maxwell marched back onto the highway. “I also can’t believe that Khan gave you a lighter.”

Maxwell flipped the silver lighter open again. “I’m just hoping the Khans will be okay. They seemed nice enough.”

Boone stopped walking for a moment, before starting again. “They’re drug manufacturing assholes,” he said.

Maxwell’s eyes widened marginally. “They are!?”

“Yessir,” said Boone.

Maxwell considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Oh well. Not everyone can be perfect.”

Boone glanced at them, brows furrowing. “And you are?”

Maxwell laughed. “Absolutely not! Gosh, if I was perfect humanity would be in a real pickle.” Boone stopped, squinting at something in the distance. Maxwell stopped walking as well. 

“Does that look like a bar to you?” he asked, sounding rather confused.

Maxwell blinked. “Oh, huh. I guess I do see some light over there.” They walked a little further. “Must be some kind of camp.”

“I’ve heard of the NCR wanting to put down a post here, but a bar?” muttered Boone.

Chapter Text

When Maxwell and Boone arrived at the 188 Trading Post, it was late afternoon. There were a good number of people there, both on the bridge and in the underpass, and Maxwell grinned as Boone hung back. Maxwell hadn’t seen many folks since Novac and Primm, and they were happy to see such a bustling place. On the bridge there was the bar and an NCR encampment alongside a rusted old bullet trailer filled with mattresses like a little inn. Below that there was a pile of cars made into a makeshift shelter guarded by three heavily armed men, and finally, there was a kid sitting alone in the underpass, picking at the fur of a pre-war teddy bear. The whole place had maybe six people milling about who weren’t in some kind of armor, two of which were seated at the bar and talking. Maxwell threw off their pack and set it down next to the bar before taking a seat. 

The woman serving at the bar, one who looked the same age as Maxwell, raised a brow at the metal-clad wastelander as the two men at the bar laughed at each other’s jokes. “Hey, kid. What’s your name?”

“Maxwell,” they replied, “And you?”

“Michelle,” she replied, “Whaddaya want to drink?”

Maxwell smiled, kicking their feet. “A sunset sarsaparilla, please.”

“Ooh, he has manners!” laughed one of the men next to them.

“And a pretty face!” laughed the other.

Maxwell turned towards them with a befuddled expression. “What? Leave me alone.”

“Seriously, fellas, give him a break. Wouldn’t want to lose me a customer, would ya?” She handed Maxwell a bottle of sarsaparilla. “That’s ten caps,” she added, and Maxwell forked over the money immediately. “So, how’d you come by the 188?” she asked.

“Yeah,” added another female voice, “How did you?”

Maxwell turned to see a woman in burlap robes smiling down at them, arms folded across her chest. Her brown eyes glinted in the light of the afternoon sun. She was the same age as Maxwell, too.

“Oh, uh, you know,” said Maxwell, forgetting what they were going to say, as this woman, too, seemed awfully familiar. “Uhm. I got shot in the head.”

This seemed to be a great thing to say, for everyone burst into snickers. “Really?” asked the woman in the earthen robes. Maxwell nodded vehemently.

“Really! God, I forgot to take off my helmet, hold on-” they pulled off the motorcycle helmet they had taken off a Jackals member. Their black-white hair fell to their shoulders immediately. Maxwell pushed a lock of their hair behind their ear, exposing the scar marring their forehead. “See?”

The woman in the robes’ mouth quirked as the others stared in stunned silence. “You’ve been through hell and back, haven’t you?”

Maxwell nodded, a humored smile forming. “Yeah, sure have. It’s been quite a trek out.”

She laughed, and so did Michelle. The burlap woman held out her hand. “I’m Veronica.” Maxwell took it, giving their name in turn. “I know. Hey, why don’t you come over and chat with me? I don’t think you want those two old farts bothering you while you drink, right?”

Maxwell nodded, and Veronica pulled them to their feet with little effort. Veronica brought them to the center of the bridge, in front of the bullet trailer full of beds and containing a single Boone, and sat on its edge. Maxwell joined her, swinging their legs over the ledge.

“So, where’d you really come from?” asked Veronica as Maxwell smiled dumbly at her. 

“Oh, I’m not sure. I woke up in Goodsprings, I guess.”

Veronica’s brows furrowed, but she stayed smiling. “You don’t remember where you’re from?”

Maxwell shrugged. “Yeah, but it isn’t a big deal. Can’t miss what you don’t know about, right? Besides, where I’m from could be pretty bad - I could be Legion .” They shuddered, and Veronica followed suit in her own dramatic fashion. “But after I got shot in the head by a guy named Benny, I woke up in Goodsprings, and I’ve been chasing the guy down ever after.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait, you’re the Courier from Goodsprings?!”

Maxwell frowned. “Yeah? Why?”

She laughed, an amazed sound. “You won’t believe this, but you’ve been all over the radio! Mr. New Vegas wouldn’t shut up about how you got up from the grave!”

Maxwell blinked. “Mr. New Vegas? Is he a radio host?”

Veronica laughed again. “You have a pipboy! How have you not heard him?” She grabbed Maxwell’s arm, and Maxwell let her as she tuned their device. She released, and Maxwell took it back. It was softly playing some tunes Maxwell didn’t recognize. A voice came over their pipboy shortly as Boone returned from unpacking, standing behind them impatiently.

“ A hostage crisis between the NCR and the Great Khans was resolved peacefully, when a third party negotiator successfully secured the hostage's release ,” said a smooth-voiced man. Maxwell blinked as Veronica raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“That one’s new,” she said, and Boone grunted in displeasure, startling both Veronica and Maxwell. 

“I just did that,” said Maxwell, “Earlier in the day.”

“YOU DID WHAT?!” exclaimed Veronica as Boone smacked Maxwell on the back of their head. 

“Don’t tell everyone where you’ve been,” hissed Boone.

“Oh, uh,” said Maxwell, “Well, it’s not like it matters. Veronica won’t kill us, right?”

Veronica, still a bit in shock, muttered “absolutely won’t do that, Max, promise.” Maxwell nodded, gesturing at her to Boone. 

“See? She’s cool.”

“And what exactly gives you that impression?” growled Boone.

Maxwell winced. “Uh, well, I got the same impression from you when we first met, despite the whole sniper rifle in the face thing, like we’ve… met before? I don’t know, I just think it’s likely that she won’t stab us in the back for the crime of talking to her.”

Veronica squinted at the Courier. “Wait, what did you say about Boone and a sniper rifle?"

“Long story,” said Maxwell, as Boone said, “It’s private.” Boone sent Maxwell a glare.

Veronica began to smile. “You’re the adventurous sort, aren’t you, Maxie? Say,” she started, glancing at Boone, “I ran into this group a little while ago calling themselves the Brotherhood of Steel. Have you ever heard about a group like that?”

Maxwell cocked their head. “No, can’t say that I have. Did they hurt you?”

Veronica dismissed the question with a wave. “Nah, they didn’t hurt a hair on my pretty head. Say, you didn’t mention where you two are heading, did you?”

Maxwell opened their mouth to answer when they felt Boone pull them off the railing of the bridge. Maxwell turned to follow him, frowning as he pulled them behind the bullet trailer.

“Boone, what’s going on?” they asked, and Boone crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at the Courier.

“Maxwell, you can’t just tell a stranger everything, no matter how familiar they seem.”

Maxwell’s frown deepened. “What’s the worst that could happen? She seems nice enough, and I can’t be killed anyway. We can make sure she doesn’t kill us or take our stuff easily enough, if it comes down to it.”

Boone bristled. “Easy for you to say, whatever kind of immortal wastewalker you are. She’s got a powerfist on.”

“And?”

“And that means she’s useful in close-range combat where I’m not. She could kill me, take our stuff, and run off faster than you’d wake.”

Maxwell shook their head. “No, she couldn’t. I wouldn’t let her.”

Boone’s eye twitched behind his sunglasses. “It doesn’t matter what you’d let her do, Max.”

Maxwell puffed up their chest, standing on their tiptoes as they mustered every ounce of those 8 Charisma points. “Trust me.”

Boone narrowed his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re trying to intimidate me.”

Maxwell deflated. “Yeah, sorry-”

“Whatever, kid. She can join us.”

Maxwell looked up at Boone in shock before a grin spread across their face. “Hell yeah! I’ll let her know!”

-=+=-

Later in the evening, after Maxwell had buddied up with Veronica, Maxwell was exploring the rest of the 188 Trading Post. They got bullied by the three men huddled around the pile of cars, men who called themselves the ‘Gun Runners’, and eventually left without trading anything. Assholes. Maxwell then turned to the kid, Veronica following them.

“Hey,” said the kid as Maxwell said “Hi!” The kid smiled as Maxwell laughed. Maxwell took a look at what the kid had around him - toys and books and food fit for a nine-year-old. Something fit together in Maxwell’s brain.

“Where’re your parents?” asked Maxwell.

“I don’t have parents anymore,” he said simply, “I can see them when I take off my medicine, but they can’t stay. I’m used to being on my own.”

Maxwell blinked. “Huh. Are you alright here, all by yourself?”

The kid smiled softly. “I’m alright, sir. Or ma’am? I’m not sure which one to use.”

Maxwell thought about it for a moment. “I think I like the masculine one better,” they said gently.

The kid smiled. “Sure thing, sir.”

Maxwell smiled back. “So, everybody seems to be selling something here. What do you sell?”

“Oh, I sell thoughts, sir.”

“Thoughts?”

“Yes. Some people say it’s a gift, the thoughts, but others say it’s the kind of thinking anybody could do if they watched and listened enough. I don’t know which is true. I guess that I do hear a lot, see a lot, at the 188. There’s a lot of thinking to do.”

Maxwell blinked. “How much do they cost?”

Veronica laughed. “Maxwell, please don’t blow all your caps here.”

Maxwell thought back to their stash of caps in their bag. “I have over one thousand. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“What?!”

The kid glanced between the two adults. “It’s a hundred caps,” he said with confidence.

Maxwell shrugged. “Well, I’ve got some questions anyways.” They pulled a pouch of caps from their pocket. “There should be two hundred in there, I know it doesn’t look like it, but there is.”

“I believe you,” said the boy simply. Veronica came up next to Maxwell, elbowing them gently in the ribs.

“You should ask about you,” she suggested, and Maxwell nodded with a shrug.

“Sure. Hey, what are your thoughts about me?”

The kid nodded, raising his hands to unscrew the metal contraption wrapped around his head and under his jaw. He set it aside and took a deep breath. “You’ve been here before, but only now. You live in the present yet have a history not even you can see for what it is. Your past self, selves, are lost with each breath you take. You seek not fortune or fame, but something you’ve lost, something that will lead you down those paths anyways. Forecast: Hazy with rapidly changing conditions.” The kid picked up his red headgear and tightened it once more, wincing. “Ouch. Sorry if I said anything weird - you have a lot to think about.”

Maxwell didn’t respond for several moments, considering. Then, “Huh. You’re good, kid,” they muttered, and Veronica turned to raise a brow.

“Are you sure he’s good? I’m pretty sure he just implied you’re some kind of time traveler.” Veronica smirked wryly.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Maxwell, and Veronica frowned, considering the courier. “Hey, kid, do you know anything about a securitron? One with a big grin? I see him a lot in my, er, dreams, and I’m not sure what to make of it.”

The kid frowned as he thought it over. “I’ll see,” he said, before taking off his headgear once more. He closed his eyes, brows furrowing. “There is a securitron, one that is beyond control yet controlled. His grin is a permanent cheshire scar across his screen. You will want to bring him freedom, but that is now - what about then? Forecast: An earthquake will rock the desert.”

Maxwell blinked before frowning. “I’ve met him before? In another life? And I didn’t help him… that can’t be right.”

The kid shrugged, tightening his headgear. “Gah, that one hurt. I don’t usually think about things I haven’t seen for myself. Sorry if that wasn’t quite right - I’ve never seen a securitron like that.”

Maxwell nodded seriously, beginning to pace in front of the kid. Veronica watched them with a furrowed brow. “You’re alright kid, I don’t really doubt you. I guess I’m just frustrated. Why wouldn’t I help him?”

Veronica shook her head in disbelief. “You don’t seriously believe the kid, do you? He’s just stringing random words together.”

“He’s not,” insisted Maxwell as they paced, “He’s really not. Everything he said…”

-=-

Veronica and Maxwell eventually left the kid alone, and Maxwell bought some food off Michelle and her father Samuel for the rest of the trip to New Vegas. They returned to the bullet trailer, sitting down next to the fitfully resting Boone. Maxwell hesitantly began to wake him.

“Boone?” they asked, shaking his shoulder. Boone shot up, their arm gripped by him in a hold that threatened to break it. He relaxed after a moment.

“Oh, it’s just you.” He released them, and Maxwell shook their arm out as Veronica watched with raised brows. 

“We, uh, Maxwell brought food,” she pointed out, passing Boone a sunset sarsaparilla and some fried iguana on a tin plate. 

He took it. “How many caps did you blow on this?” he asked. 

Maxwell shrugged. “I spent, like, 70 on food and water for three days’ worth. It should be enough for everyone. And tonight the food’s special, because we deserve something better than old gecko meat.”

Boone wrinkled his nose in distaste. “How old was that Gecko meat?”

Maxwell winced. “Just eat the iguana, Boone.” Veronica laughed. 

Maxwell began to make idle chatter between their own bites as Veronica and Boone ate. “Y’know,” said Maxwell conversationally, “I’d do anything for some deep-fried dandelion heads.” They took a bite of iguana.

“What the hell’s a dandelion?” asked Boone.

“When have you even had those?” asked Veronica.

Maxwell shrugged as they swallowed their bite. “A dandelion is a big yellow flower with, like, a billion tiny petals and a lot of pollen. And I don’t know, a while ago, I guess.” Maxwell took another bite.

Boone raised his brows as Veronica’s brows furrowed. “Dandelions don’t grow here,” said Veronica. “I didn’t even know there were any left outside of a pre-war book.”

Maxwell blinked, before taking another bite. They swallowed. “Well,” said Maxwell, “I must have had one before Benny shot me.”

“Who the hell is Benny again?” asked Veronica.

Maxwell recapped their whole adventure until now to their two companions.

“So you really remember nothing?” asked Veronica as Boone licked his fingers.

“Not a thing,” said Maxwell. “It’s not so bad though, I guess.”

“You’ve said that before,” she said with a sigh. “Do you even have a clue where you came from? I mean, there certainly aren’t any dandelions out west.”

Maxwell shrugged. “Guess I’m from another direction, then.”

They had all finished eating by this time. Maxwell grabbed all three people’s trash and stepped out to throw it away in the little garbage can by the bar. They returned a few moments later to hear their two companions talking. Maxwell ignored the opportunity to listen in and stepped right back into the trailer, silencing their companions.

“What?” asked Maxwell, looking down at their seated companions.

Veronica waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s nothing. Hey, why don’t we head to bed for the night?”

Maxwell shrugged. “Sure.”

Chapter Text

When Veronica woke up that next morning, the sun hadn’t even bothered to rise with her. She could hear the sound of someone shuffling in the dark, fabric on metal and glass, and nearly bolted upright before remembering that she wasn’t traveling alone anymore. She relaxed back into her mattress. It wasn’t like Maxwell was already packing up for the road at this hour, after all. She could relax as the little cryptid did whatever it was they were doing.

And then Boone got up, right as Veronica was about to drift off. There was hushed conversation she could clearly hear between the two wanderers.

“Are you gonna wake her up?” asked Boone gruffly.

She could hear fabric shift as Maxwell shrugged. “I mean, she’s basically all packed, right? We don’t need to get her up.”

Veronica curled in on herself, wishing that the two would stop talking and let her rest.

“I’m gonna wake her up,” declared Boone. Veronica cringed.

“Wait! Don’t do that-”

Veronica rolled over. “I’m up, I’m up, good grief,” she whined, rubbing at a crick in her neck.

“Oh. Sorry,” said Maxwell, a little sheepish.

“Good,” said Boone, not at all ashamed.

“What time is it?” she mumbled, sitting up fully. Maxwell turned on their pipboy’s light, prompting a hiss from Veronica.

“Uh, 5:37 AM.”

Veronica groaned. “You’re not serious. Why in the hell would you need to wake up this early?”

“Discipline,” replied Boone on Maxwell’s behalf.

Maxwell stared at Veronica in the dim light for a moment, before adding, “I just normally wake up this early. And also, I think the Legion might be looking for me.”

“ What ?” hissed Veronica, as Boone glared at Maxwell.

“Maxwell, don’t say that so loudly. They place bounties .”

Maxwell paled. “They do? Shit, then we really do need to get a move on.” Maxwell stood at once, stumbling around the train car and looking for whatever miscellany they had dropped. They picked up the plasma rifle they had probably gotten from the Bright Brotherhood, slinging both it and their pack over their shoulders. Boone quickly packed his things, and Veronica was left scrambling. She knew damn well she was fast, but seeing as one of her companions lived as a spec ops soldier for a long time and the other was a fast-moving courier, she took about a minute longer to pack. Still, she had far less stuff than the both of them.

Maxwell helped Veronica to her feet when she was done like a gentlethem. At least, Veronica was pretty sure they were a ‘them’. Maxwell smiled as the barest hint of sun became visible through the windows.

“Let’s go,” said Maxwell. Veronica yawned, stretching.

“Sure thing, Max.”

-=+=- 

By late morning, they could see the spire of the Lucky 38 in the distance as more than a thin shadow haloed by neon. The light didn’t contrast against the Mojave sky during the day, and Maxwell’s head stayed tethered to it no matter which direction they were walking like it was an unlit beacon. Boone led the way, apparently having been to New Vegas at some point before, and Veronica hung back with Maxwell.

“So,” said Veronica conversationally, “Why are you going to Vegas, anyway? Is it a part of that whole grudge you have to settle? That’ll be exciting.”

Maxwell turned to her, smiling. “That’s part of it, yeah. All signs point to Benny being there.” They glanced over to a billboard they were all passing, one advertising the gambling den Gomorrah and a hatred for the NCR. “I mean, most of them.”

Veronica snickered. “What’s the other part, then?”

Maxwell turned back to look at the spire of the Lucky 38. “I think I need to meet that robot there.”

Veronica’s easy smile grew puzzled. “What, the one from your dreams?”

Maxwell nodded. “Yeah. He seems… really important.”

Veronica’s puzzlement only grew. “But he’s in your dreams. You’re not a psychic, Maxwell - that securitron probably isn’t real.”

Maxwell frowned. “Yeah, well, I-” they clearly couldn’t think of a response for a moment. “They’re not normal dreams.”

“We’ve got company!” shouted Boone from the front of the trio. Maxwell slung their plasma rifle into their hands and looked around, Veronica dropping into a crouch beside them as Boone began firing into a red gaggle of indistinct things in the distance.

Shit. Legionnaires.

Veronica took a step back behind Maxwell, knowing she was useless at this distance, while Maxwell turned one of them into glowing green goo. Shots whizzed past the two of them as Maxwell fired again, hitting a legionnaire twice before he crumpled. In turn, a shot lodged itself in Maxwell’s lower ribs. They didn’t even flinch, sidestepping the next barrage, and Veronica kept pace with them. The Legion was almost close enough for her to charge them, she knew this, but before she could launch herself into the foray Maxwell was shot in the chest. They remained standing for a moment as a bullet burrowed right where their lungs or worse, heart, would be, but as the blood left them like a fountain they began to stumble.

Veronica shoved them lower by their shoulders as Boone picked off the last of the legion assassins, forcing Maxwell to lie on the ground as the fighting came to an end. Maxwell looked around as though they didn't know how they got into that position, and Veronica began to look through their bag. She couldn’t see the inside of it due to some kind of trick of the light, but when she shoved her hand in she felt the smooth barrel of a stimpack immediately. She pulled it out, hands shaking a good bit, but by the time she looked back at Maxwell, they were gone.

Their eyes stared glassily at the Mojave sun, dully glinting in its light, jaw slack and skin pale. Boone came to join Veronica in her staring, the corners of his mouth turned down in a mild frown as Veronica felt cold shock well through her.

“That kid has to be the frailest thing this side of the Mojave,” griped Boone, and that snapped Veronica out of her staring.

“What?” she asked, voice wavering. “Maxwell just died, and that’s your response?”

Boone grimaced and scratched at his cheek in apparent embarrassment. Before Boone could respond, there was a sputtering and choking breath from Maxwell. Veronica turned in shock to see Maxwell roll over on their side, coughing up a lungful of blood.

“Fuck,” they groaned after a moment, apparently done. They rolled onto their back, squinting at the sun. Their armor was covered in fresh blood, what felt like enough blood to fill a bathtub surrounded them, and there was still more dripping down their chin. 

Veronica weakly offered the stimpack. Maxwell took it curiously, before gently placing it back in their bag as they sat up.

“Maxwell’s immortal,” offers Boone weakly as Veronica gaped at the sight of her companion getting to their feet like it was nothing.

“But-” she protested, Maxwell turning to make eye contact. “How? How are you able to get up after that?”

Maxwell winced. “I just kinda do. I’m not sure there’s any science behind it.” They poked at the new hole in their armor, and their finger didn’t sink into the wound like Veronica was expecting it to. “I think I’m fine, though.” They walked forward and began to sift through the belongings of Legion corpses.

Boone cleared his throat, turning away from the scene of Maxwell scavenging and to Veronica. “They’re, uh, a little careless,” he pointed out. “I’m not used to it yet, but Maxwell seems fine with it.”

“They just died ,” emphasized Veronica.

Boone nodded. “Happens sometimes.”

-=+=-

Veronica spent much of the next two and a half hours trying to wrap her head around Maxwell. Was their immortality what the forecast kid was talking about, them being “here before”, them “losing past lives with each breath”? It didn’t make sense at the time, but it was beginning to make sense to her now that she had seen them die. She thought back to her conversation with Boone last night. He had told her that Maxwell was “a little unusual” and that “strange things tend to happen when traveling with them”, but she could have never predicted this . 

Maxwell and Boone were chatting ahead of her, Maxwell apparently cracking jokes and attempting to banter with the gruff man, who played along on occasion and, even more rarely, cracked a small smile. Maxwell had made an attempt earlier to do the same with Veronica, smiling and joking, but all Veronica could do was glance between their vibrant green eyes and the holes punched through their armor. 

As Veronica, Boone and Maxwell approached the edge of the Vegas suburbs, the three of them spotted a rusted tin shack with roasting brahmin meat over a fire. Maxwell headed right in without a care, talking to a woman in a cardigan and floral print dress who seemed not at all surprised to see the blood-soaked courier. As Boone sidled up next to them, Veronica trailing behind, Maxwell handed over some caps and the two people received a cutting of rib off the brahmin. Veronica arrived, and the woman handed her a rib as well. It smelled fresh, which is more than Veronica could say for any of the meat at the 188 Slop & Shop.

“Welcome to the Grub n’ Gulp,” she said with a small smile. “You folks on your way to Vegas?”

Boone ignored her, electing to eat the fresh food Maxwell had graciously bought him and Veronica, but Maxwell nodded. “Yeah, we’re on business,” said the courier.

“What kind of business?” she asked politely. Veronica eyed the blood soaked leather that Maxwell was dressed in and wondered where this woman got the guts to ask.

“I’m a courier,” said Maxwell simply. “I’ve got a package, is all. Nothing too fancy.” Veronica noted that Maxwell had probably learned from Boone to not share everything with everyone.

“Well, that’s good. Does it take the Mojave Express three people to deliver a package now?”

Maxwell laughed. “No, my friends here just wanted to see the strip for themselves, so they’re tagging along.”

“Well, be careful in Freeside,” warned the woman, “And watch your caps.”

Maxwell smiled. “Will do.” They walked over to the fire by some cardboard boxes laid out like bedding, and Boone and Veronica followed.

Maxwell ate carefully, like they were savoring the food and not at all hungry after what must have been ten miles worth of walking, while Veronica dug in. It was messy, but Maxwell’s hands were remarkably unsoiled afterwards. Perhaps Maxwell used to be a White Glove , thought Veronica with some humor. And then Maxwell looked Veronica dead in the eye, face completely blank. It startled Veronica.

“I’m sorry I died in front of you,” said Maxwell, tone surprisingly serious and firm. “I don’t really understand how upsetting that is, and I didn’t mean to.” Maxwell winced. “I mean, obviously I didn’t mean to. I should probably have moved around a little.”

“I’ll say,” grunted Boone. 

Veronica huffed something close to a laugh, surprising even herself. “It’s fine, Max.”

Maxwell shook their head, beginning to look distressed. “No, it’s not. It’s not good.”

Veronica frowned. “What? It’s not like you were trying to get yourself killed.”

Maxwell shook their head again. “I need to be more careful. I need to be able to watch out for myself and others, because I’m useless dead.”

“You’re not useless, kid,” grumbled Boone.

Veronica thought of the 900 or so caps and supplies for three days of hiking Maxwell had stored in their bag. “Yeah, I have to agree with him. You’re more competent than most other Joe Schmoes wandering the Mojave.”

Maxwell’s frown wasn’t gone, but it had lessened, and they weren’t denying their words. Still, “What if I had been alone? I didn’t even pull out my incinerator, I would have died alone without you guys.”

Boone shrugged. “But that didn’t happen.”

Veronica took it a step further. “And you probably would’ve woken back up before they could even loot your corpse or take your thumb for a reward.”

Maxwell blinked. “They take thumbs?”

Boone grumbled, taking another bite, as Veronica explained. “They usually take NCR dogtags, but yeah, if you’re unaffiliated with the NCR they’ll usually take your thumb.”

Maxwell shuddered slightly. “I’d hate to lose one, I really need those to shoot.”

“Really?” intoned Veronica with humored sarcasm.

“I had no idea,” added Boone.

Maxwell smiled, eyes crinkling with suppressed laughter. “You know, maybe I will head to Vegas on my own.”

“Absolutely not,” mumbled Boone between bites. Maxwell laughed.

-=+=-

They were on the very outskirts of New Vegas now, walking alongside the wall guarding the city at every chance. Maxwell was blabbering excitedly to Veronica, talking endlessly about everything that came to mind, from Deathclaws to rapid evolution to how, exactly, they had pissed off the Legion so bad.

“You burned one of their Frumentarii?” she asked after Maxwell had explained the bit of latin in the title.

Maxwell nodded. “Yeah, he was a real asshole. Wore a coyote hat and talked down to me like I was a rat, in addition to murdering a whole town.” Maxwell wrinkled their nose. “It’s bad enough that he killed all those people, but then to not even pretend to want me to actually spread the word?”

Veronica raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips. “If he’d been polite about it, would you have told everyone about the Legion’s great deeds?”

Maxwell snickered. “No, I would have still killed them.” Maxwell seemed completely unremorseful, but seeing as it was the Legion they were talking about, Veronica wasn’t surprised. “But I let the Frumentarii guy live.”

Both Boone and Veronica stopped in their tracks.

“You let him live?” Boone asked, voice terse, shoulders tense. Maxwell seemed to realize their mistake.

“Well, not in a very nice way. I left him a living burnt husk. I’m pretty sure he was half-fused to the dirt by the time I was done with him.”

Veronica felt ill for two reasons. “Why the hell would you do that?” she hissed.

Maxwell paled. “I… wanted the Legion to know to not fuck with me? I mean, I’ve killed every Legionnaire I’ve met since, I’m basically their worst nightmare at this point. It’s been, like, around 25 dead? That’s a big number.”

Boone took a deep breath, calming himself. “If he wasn’t taken back in by the Legion, you should be fine. If he was, however…”

Maxwell shrugged. “It would explain the assassin squads, I guess.”

Boone looked like he was about to strangle Maxwell. Veronica decided now was a time to smooth things over so that her new traveling buddy didn’t get their head blown off. “At least you made sure he was unable to hurt anyone else, right?”

Maxwell winced. “I mean, I burned off most of his skin and gave him a total of two stim packs to keep him alive. I doubt he’s coming for me.”

Boone facepalmed, stopping and standing in place. “Have you heard of The Burning Man?”

Maxwell cocked their head. “Who?”

Boone sighed. Veronica turned to him, listening closely. “He’s the Legion’s bedtime story boogeyman. He used to be the Legate of the Legion before Lanius. When he failed to defeat us, the NCR, he was burned alive. But he lived and rumor has it he is hiding in wait to get his revenge on Caesar.”

“Sheesh,” replied Maxwell.

Boone removed his hand from his face to glare at Maxwell. “You’re taking this too lightly. The Legion holds grudges about this kind of stuff. If he’s alive, he’s gunning for you.”

Maxwell shrugged, proving Boone’s point. “Well, I kicked his ass the first time.”

Boone rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to stop traveling with you just because you’re an idiot, but for the love of god, make sure you finish the job next time.”

Maxwell looked hurt at that. “Okay.”

Veronica elbowed Maxwell as they all began walking again. “It’s alright, Maxie. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s three against five and we have way better weapons and an immortal on our side.”

Maxwell nodded. “I guess that’s true. And it really did take no effort to kill him. I didn’t even die.”

Veronica laughed. “That’s the demented spirit!”

Maxwell smiled up at her, eyes sparkling. “Thanks, Ronnie.”

Veronica couldn’t help but smile back. “‘Course, you short little weirdo.”

Maxwell gently punched her in the arm with a giggle. 

“We’re here,” called Boone from up ahead. Maxwell’s eyes lit up as they looked forward, seeing a gate decorated with painted sheets of steel.

“Oh my god, we made it!” they cheered, running up ahead. Veronica kept pace easily.

“You didn’t think we would?” she joked.

“I just thought it’d take longer! This place is huge!” they replied, laughing.

The men in the black leather jackets under the hot Mojave sun stared at the three travelers. “How far’d you guys walk?” one asked.

“Furthest point I took to get here was Nipton,” commented Maxwell idly. The man balked.

“Isn’t Nipton burned to the ground?!” another exclaimed.

“You wouldn’t believe it, but we were just discussing that!” joked Veronica.

Boone sent them both a sharp glare. “Are you two done chatting? It’s almost evening.”

Maxwell smiled. “Sure, Boone. Let’s head in!”

Veronica couldn’t help but smile in turn.

Chapter Text

When Maxwell stepped into Freeside, they couldn’t help but grin as they took in the sight of it all. This, of course, was ironic, because Freeside was a bombed out shell of a place, but they were delighted regardless. They swapped out their plasma rifle to their .357 revolver they’d looted off some corpse or another, trying to appear a little less threatening, and proceeded to sprint freely down the pockmarked pavement. Boone shouted something after them, and they could hear Veronica laugh as she gave chase, Boone reluctantly following along. 

Maxwell was soon nearly run over by a woman in leather clothes who was being chased by a man brandishing a knife. She clung to Maxwell, using them as a barrier between herself and the knife-wielder, who only seemed to grin wider as he approached, eyes bloodshot in a startling way. Maxwell drew their revolver at once.

“Hey, uh, what-?” they asked, and the man plunged his knife into Maxwell’s stomach. A moment’s pinch was all the pain Maxwell felt from it. Maxwell blinked as the man attempted to pull it out, raising their revolver level to his forehead and firing. He collapsed back with a grunt of shock, spasming on the pavement. 

Maxwell frowned. That was not pleasant. The woman gasped, stumbling away from the bleeding courier.

“Are you - are you- ?!” she seemed stuck.

Maxwell looked over their shoulder at her as their companions caught up, Veronica staring at the butterfly knife sticking out of Maxwell in shock. “I’m fine,” said Maxwell simply. The knife didn’t really hurt, and Maxwell knew better than to pull it out. Besides, they could probably just walk it off. “You’re welcome.”

The woman looked up at Maxwell, nodded, and ran off.

“Did you seriously just get stabbed? In the first five minutes of being here?!” Veronica seemed genuinely worried, glancing around them in case there were any other knife-wielding maniacs.

Maxwell shrugged. “Yeah, ‘guess the lady was right. Freeside seems a little dangerous.”

Boone coughed behind his fist to cover his surprised laugh. “Alright, kid, let’s take you to the Followers.”

Maxwell cocked their head as Boone grabbed their elbow, leading them away. “The who?”

Veronica followed along as all three of them beelined for an ancient brick building. “Oh! I’ve never met the Followers, but they seem like some amazing people!”

“They’re anarchists,” grumbled Boone, “but nice. They’ll patch you up, no questions asked, and for free.”

“Oh,” said Maxwell, “Cool.”

-=-

When Maxwell arrived in the Old Mormon Fort, they were immediately swarmed by people in lab coats. Maxwell’s eyes lingered on the red embroidered patch on their shoulders in the shape of a cross, like on the pre war first aid kits. The followers dragged Maxwell off to an empty tent, one of them applying pressure to Maxwell’s wound as another went out to fetch a medkit as Maxwell winced. A third, who was in the tent before the two others dragged Maxwell in, groaned. This caught Maxwell’s attention.

“Do you guys seriously have to use my tent?” he grumbled. His hair was a striking blonde wave, and he seemed terribly familiar to Maxwell.

“Do I know you?” asked Maxwell as Boone stepped into the tent. The blonde man’s brow furrowed at the sight of the NCR first recon stepping into what was apparently his tent. 

“Seriously? Get out. The patient doesn’t need people crowding them, there’s enough doctors on them already.”

“I’m their advocate,” said Boone simply.

The blonde man’s brow furrowed in further frustration. “I don’t care what you are, you’re in their way. Get out.”

Boone did something he often did to Maxwell, which was stare this strangely rude doctor down as the two others weaved around him. Maxwell allowed themself to be distracted by the actual medical procedure.

One doctor, a middle-aged woman, smiled gently at Maxwell, her curly hair framing her face. “I’m going to remove the knife now, okay? My partner’s gonna keep the pressure on, so you’re not going to bleed out.”

Maxwell blinked. “I don’t think it matters, but alright.”

The woman patted Maxwell’s head. “It’s not so bad, kiddo. We won’t let you die.”

Maxwell frowned. They better not die again. It hasn’t even been a day since their last collapse. The other doctor, a man with dark hair and thick glasses, pressed the cloth into their ribs further. Maxwell finally slumped back into their mattress as the two doctors operating spoke.

“Doesn’t seem to be feeling pain - must be shock.”

They felt the pull of the knife, slow and methodical, and it came loose easily enough. A stimpack was injected near the sight, they could feel that, and another drug they did not recognize by feeling alone. Maxwell watched the top of the tent as their wound closed in moments.

“The patient will need stitches,” commented the woman. “Would you be willing to grab the needle and catgut, my dear?”

Oh, that’s sweet, the doctors were in a relationship. 

“That won’t be necessary,” commented Boone dryly.

“We’ll determine that, thank you,” said the man.

“Kiddo, do you mind if we take off your jacket and armor?” asked the woman. 

Maxwell sat up immediately to do it themself, unbuckling their armor with ease. “Sure,” they said, but were grabbed by the shoulders and supported before they could do much more, the woman now pressing the rags to their healed wound with a wince.

“Sweetie, you’re in shock. Please let us help you.”

Maxwell blinked. “I’m not in shock,” they protested gently, “I’m fine. My wound’s closed, if you look.”

The woman shook her head with a smile. “That’s just the stimpack getting to your head. Why don’t you relax and let my husband and I take care of you?”

Boone huffed. “Seriously, people, they’re fine. We just needed to make sure they didn’t collapse from the wound.”

“And I thought I had bad bedside manner,” grumbled the blond doctor, who seemed to be providing no aid. Boone glared at him.

☆✭✮★⍟★✮✭☆

The woman pulled Maxwell’s blackened leather jacket and blood stained white shirt to reveal their flat chest, two crescent moon scars under their pecs. They had a thin sheen of tacky blood over their torso, but there was no visible wound, not even a scar. Maxwell was not surprised to see this - they had not been scarred by a single injury since they woke up in Doc Mitchell’s house back in Goodsprings.

There was a moment of stunned silence from the three doctors in the room, and Boone crossed his arms over his chest in an ‘I told you so’ gesture. The blond man broke from it first.

“So, you’re from out East?” he asked with ease.

“Maybe,” replied Maxwell cryptically. “What makes you say that?”

“Most people with those scars are women who come from Legion territory,” he said simply. The two other doctors turned to glare at him, and he held his hands in the air in a sign of peace. “It’s true. It means you don’t want the Legion to take you alive, right?”

Maxwell cocked their head. “What? I mean, sure, I don’t want to be captured by the Legion, but what? I just…” Maxwell struggled to find a way to articulate that they had just woken up like this and assumed it was perfectly normal.

☆✭✮★⍟★✮✭☆

“We have more important things to discuss, anyhow, right?” he pointed out, and Boone stiffened.

“Absolutely not,” said Boone and at the same time as the other doctors glanced at each other.

“Kiddo, do you know why that stimpack fixed you up so quickly?” asked the woman doctor. 

Maxwell grimaced. “Stroke of luck, I guess. My SPECIAL stat for that is, like, ten.”

The two doctors treating Maxwell glanced at each other. “That could reasonably explain it,” offered the man. The woman turned back to Maxwell, concerned.

“We’ll let you rest, kiddo. Stay right here, okay?”

Maxwell frowned. “Really? I feel fine, and I need to get into the Strip.”

“You’ve got two thousand caps?” asked the familiar blonde, expression flat.

“No? I have, like, a little over nine hundred.”

“That’s a good amount,” he agreed, “But you’re going to need two thousand to pass the credit check at the gate. May as well take a nap in my tent.”

The female doctor smiled down at Maxwell. “Stay safe, alright? We’re going to go deal with some other patients.”

Maxwell sunk back into the mattress. “Alright. Can my friends at least come hang out with me?”

The two doctors glanced at each other in silent conversation. “Sure thing, kid,” said the man. And then they were gone, quickly replaced by Veronica, who sat at Maxwell’s side. Maxwell smiled at her, and she returned the expression.

“So, are any of you capable of explaining what just happened?” drawled the blonde.

Maxwell was sick of calling him variations of “blonde man” at this point, so they decided they’d take it from here. “I’m Maxwell,” they said.

He raised his brows. “Maxwell, huh? I’m Arcade Gannon.”

Maxwell nodded. “Like Arcadia? The domesticated wilderness utopia thing?”

Arcade’s brows furrowed. “You know about that?”

Maxwell shrugged, coming up to sit on their mattress. “Yeah. I seem to know a lot of things. I read a lot of books from Nipton, anyhow. And you’d be surprised what you can find on a terminal’s hard drive.”

“Didn’t take you for the type,” he commented idly. “You seem a bit more point and shoot.”

Maxwell frowned. “I’m smart. At least, I think I’m smart.”

Veronica frowned alongside them. “And what’re your accolades, anyways? You don’t seem like a medical doctor.”

Arcade huffed. “You’ve made your point. I’m a researcher - trying to make stimpacks and med-x out of barrel cactus and banana yucca. The Followers can’t raid hospitals forever and are in need of an alternative. It’s not like it’s gonna work, but hey, the aspiration’s noble and I need something to do.”

Maxwell blinked. “Can’t you just use an antiseptic and a blood pack? I mean, cleaning the needles is a pain, but they’re not that hard to make.”

Arcade blinked before frowning. “What? That makes no sense.”

Maxwell shrugged. “If you don’t trust me, you don’t trust me.”

“Who taught you that?”

Maxwell frowned, making a genuine attempt to remember. A woman with black hair flashed in their mind, but she was indistinct. For all they knew, they were thinking of themself before the white streaked through their hair. “I dunno, I guess it comes from somewhere, though.”

Arcade turned to Veronica, apparently done with both Maxwell and Boone. He looked both bored and irritated. “Do they have amnesia?”

Veronica winced. “That’s not my story to tell.”

Maxwell nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad. I got shot in the head twice back in Goodsprings, and I haven’t really remembered anything from before that. But I’ve kinda stopped dyi-” Boone shot them a glare, and Veronica shook her head in mute horror. “-ng… Uh. You didn’t hear that.”

Arcade raised his eyebrows slowly. “You think you’re immortal.”

Maxwell frowned. “I know I’m immortal!”

Boone facepalmed as Arcade rolled his eyes. “Likely. Listen, I’ve spent enough time entertaining your tangents, Maxwell. I just wanted to know how your wound closed so quickly - do you have any genetic mutations in your family you know of?”

Maxwell huffed, flopping back angrily on their mattress. “I am immortal. I mean, probably. I haven’t been vaporized or blown up yet.”

“Surviving a gunshot wound doesn’t make you immortal, Maxwell.”

“You haven’t seen it!” protested Maxwell. “I get smashed through my skull or razed by a deathclaw or swiss-cheesed by a machine gun and get up in a matter of minutes or even seconds! I’m a walking anomaly!”

“Really?” challenged Arcade. “Prove it, then. I’m not a fan of people who inflate their own importance or abilities. If you’re so tough, why don’t you show me?”

Maxwell stood at once, and Veronica tried to tug them back to the ground. Maxwell resisted as Boone gave up and sat on one of the other two mattresses. “Alright, I’ll prove it, motherfucker! Come with me out into Freeside, and I’ll die! And if I don’t come back, you’re right, I’m a total fraud! But if I get back up, you have to admit that I’m a medical anomaly!”

Arcade rolled his eyes, groaning. “I’m sorry, okay? Can you just drop it and take a nap like a normal patient?”

Maxwell dug around in their bag, pulling out their spare red button up they’d gotten in Nipton. They threw it over their shoulders and wore it unbuttoned before snapping on their revolver. “No! You’re very rude, and I’m going to show you exactly what I am!”

“Maybe not so publicly,” said Veronica with a wince.

“Not very publicly!” Maxwell tacked on.

“And are you sure you want to die again?” added Veronica.

Maxwell turned to her with a frown, one that indicated a general concern rather than frustration. “It doesn’t hurt me, Ronnie. I’ll get right back up. But if you’re worried, do you wanna come with?”

She nodded with a falsely put-upon sigh and a smile. “Sure thing, Max. It’ll only be twice in one day.”

Arcade crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s nearly eight o'clock at night and you seriously want to wander around Freeside? You’re just going to get stabbed again.”

“Precisely the plan,” said Maxwell, “Though I don’t really want to wander far in an unfamiliar city. We’ll just go behind the Fort.”

Arcade punched the bridge of his nose before pushing his glasses back into place. “Alright, alright. If this is a trick or some kind of trap, though, I’m not going down easy.”

Maxwell cocked their head. “I won’t kill you . That’s not the point.”

Arcade gave them a dirty look. “Very reassuring.”

-=-

Once Veronica, Arcade, and Maxwell were out behind the Fort, Arcade glanced around with a critical eye. 

“What?” asked Maxwell as they watched him.

“Are we just waiting for someone to try and mug us?” he asked. “Because I’m sure there is enough Psycho floating around to get someone high enough to think they can take on three people behind the Old Mormon, but it’s probably gonna be a good wait.”

☆★♠🂡♠★☆

“Oh, no, I’ll take care of it,” said Maxwell.

Veronica frowned. “What? Wait why are you PULLING OUT YOUR GUN-”

☆★♠🂡♠★☆

Maxwell woke up in a bed far more plush than they thought anything could possibly be. They opened their eyes, rolling out of bed and onto the floor in a heap of blankets. They felt a little disoriented, and something smarted on the side of their head, but it was very manageable. They got the feeling that they had felt this way many times before.

They were in a room, a lavishly decorated one. On the wall there was a checked suit framed behind glass splattered with blood that struck them as awfully familiar. Benny’s, their brain supplied. Huh. 

Wait, this was one of their dreams. They were dreaming.

Maxwell looked around more carefully, taking everything in. The hairbrush filled with black and white hairs, the handheld mirror that was remarkably clean, the silk pajamas in their favorite color that they were wearing. This seemed to be their place, and boy howdy, was it lavish, not to mention that the carpet was unstained, there wasn’t a smidge of grime on the real wood furniture, and the wallpaper wasn’t even peeling. 

They had a feeling they were supposed to leave the room. They walked towards the door and spotted a clawfoot tub in a tiled bathroom before continuing right past it. They opened the door.

They were in some kind of round room hundreds of feet from the ground, and they could see into the distance for miles and miles. Maxwell’s eyes widened as they stepped over toward the balcony, breath taken from them. Vegas neons danced below in the dim morning sun, and they were standing in the heart of it. Was this that big tower they had been seeing?

“Enjoying the view?” asked a voice from the ceiling. Maxwell jumped. “I’m surprised you make the time for these sorts of things! I thought you were a busy, busy person!”

Maxwell looked around. That voice rattled around between their ears as something strikingly familiar. They spotted a speaker installed into the ceiling. 

“Who are you?” they asked.

There was a moment of silence, then, “Why, if I didn’t know any better I’d say that the bump you took rolling out of bed made you lose your memories a second time! But what do I know, I’m just your humble PDQ-88B Securitron servant!”

Maxwell’s eyes widened. “Securitron?”

“Do you… not know what that is? Maxwell, why don’t you come down to the monitor.”

Maxwell nodded, knowing that if he saw them fall out of bed he was clearly able to see them elsewhere. They headed down the stairs and walked around the circle until they arrived at a large monitor displaying the face of- of–

“It’s you !” Maxwell exclaimed, rushing at once to the bottom of the monitor. “Oh my god, it’s you !”

The static face didn’t change, a perpetual grin on a green-tinted screen, but it did flicker. “It sure is! Are you sure you’re alright? You’re bleeding.”

Maxwell waved it off. “I bleed all the time. What’s your name? Who are you? Why do I keep dreaming about you?”

There was a longer pause than the last. The screen flickered, and a Securitron whirred to life to the side of the monitor and approached them. He was wearing the same face as the one on the monitor, and rolled up in front of Maxwell. He then gently extended an arm and brushed aside their hair, right over their scar. He rolled back slightly, offering his claw to Maxwell. There was a streak of blood.

Maxwell stared at it. “Oh. Sorry if I got any blood anywhere.”

The robot waved his unbloodied hand dismissively. “I’m sure we have enough hydrogen peroxide to get it out if you did. Maxwell, are you… feeling well? You don’t seem to be, uh, remembering much.”

Maxwell looked up to him before taking his claws in theirs. “I keep having dreams about you,” the emphasized, “Just like this one. Where I’m somewhere I haven’t gone yet, and you’re there by my side, helping me. And I can- feel-” they gently pinched his claw between their fingers, “I can feel everything ,” they emphasized, gently rocking the joint back and forth, “Like it’s not even a dream at all. Like I’m really here. And I’m going to have to leave soon, but before I go, I just want to know - who are you? Where do I find you? Do you need help?”

Maxwell could hear the sound of the securitron’s cooling fans kicking on, white noise that gave them a strange feeling of comfort and contentment. “Well! How can I say no to that ! I literally can’t!” he agreed. Maxwell looked up at him and smiled. “My name is-”

“-MAXWELL!”

Maxwell bolted up, knocking foreheads painfully with Veronica, who had apparently been leaning over them. Their cheek stung like someone had struck them. Maxwell flopped back onto the pavement and into a pool of their own blood. That got them back to the present.

“Maxwell!” said Veronica, cupping their cheek. Maxwell looked up at her in shock.

“Are you crying?” asked Maxwell. Veronica punched them, and Maxwell held their nose.

“Of course I’m crying! You shot yourself in the head and didn’t get up for more than a minute!”

“That’s pretty fast for a head wound, though!” protested Maxwell.

“That doesn’t matter! It was terrifying !” exclaimed Veronica.

“Wait, they’re alive ?!” Arcade's voice had risen several octaves.

It seemed that Arcade had not run off after Maxwell’s violent death. He came and crouched down next to them, grabbing their face from Veronica and turning them every which way before grabbing a penlight from his pocket and flashing their eyes. When he stopped, he stared down at them with a furrowed brow.

“I’m sorry I died, ‘Ronnica,” said Maxwell with a wince. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Veronica sighed. “It would have been better if you’d gotten up immediately. I’m not sorry I hit you, but I’m not gonna stop traveling with you or anything no matter how much of an idiot you are. Well, unless you go full Legion.”

Maxwell smiled wryly. “Well, I suppose I’d understand in that case.”

Arcade was still looking down at them with that puzzled expression. He cleared his throat, getting both of the wastelanders’ attention. “Are either of you going to explain how Orpheus here came back from the dead?”

“Oh, like the musician guy?” asked Maxwell as Veronica replied, “Absolutely not. Total mystery.”

“But I had another dream!” exclaimed Maxwell, carefully scooting back and sitting up so they wouldn’t knock into Veronica or Arcade. “The Securitron was there, and this time I was aware it was a dream, and I talked to him! I woke up right before I got his name, though.”

Arcade frowned. “You weren’t conscious for a single moment of that, and you didn’t enter REM at any point.”

Maxwell blinked. “That’s weird. Maybe it wasn’t a dream.”

“What else would it be?” asked Veronica, frowning.

“Maybe…” said Maxwell, hesitant, “Maybe it was something that’s going to happen. I was up in the Lucky 38 - at least I think I was - and I could feel everything. When I’m actually sleeping, I can’t feel anything, but I remember all the textures and smells and stuff perfectly. I was wearing red silk pajamas and the carpet was almost soft, and everything smelled like electronics. It was so real… it didn’t feel like a dream at all.” Maxwell laughed nervously. “But it was one, right?”

Arcade threw his hands in the air as Veronica stared at Maxwell in shock. “This is insane,” he complained, “I’m not going to deal with this. I did not ask for an immortal prophet to walk into my tent.”

“I didn’t even walk,” protested Maxwell. Arcade shoved a pointer finger into their chest.

“You! You drag us out here in the middle of the night-”

“It’s eight.”

“And you commit violent suicide and you are just so casual about it! What is wrong with you?”

Veronica sent Arcade a glare. “Hey! There’s nothing wrong with them.”

“He might have a point,” said Maxwell.

“See! I- goddamnit,” he grumbled, seeming to realize that he just agreed with Maxwell. “Let’s just go back to the Followers, alright? Wouldn’t want you to die again .” He stood and brushed off his lab coat, as though that would get rid of the two hundred or so years of grime on it. 

Maxwell, feeling an awful lot like a chastised child, nodded as Veronica got up and pulled Maxwell to their feet. Maxwell followed the doctor back into the Old Mormon Fort as the sun finished setting, the sky turning a dark and dusty blue.

Maxwell arrived back at the tent to see Boone cleaning and maintaining his sniper rifle as he sat on the least stained of the four mattresses strewn about. Maxwell sat down on their own bloodied mattress that they assumed was theirs now, though it appeared the Followers had made an attempt to clean it in their absence. Veronica took her place as the doctor passive-aggressively sat at his work station. Maxwell laid down, barely noting the minimal amount of blood drying on their skin. 

“Do you really have to clean your gun in here?” asked Arcade.

“Do you have to be such an ass?” asked Boone.

Maxwell closed their eyes.

Chapter Text

Maxwell was the first to wake in their little posse, shifting on their mattress uncomfortably before getting to their feet. They quietly stepped out of the tent, heading out into the courtyard of the Old Mormon Fort. There were a few doctors and guards awake, but most seemed to have shuffled to their beds for the night. The light of the sun was dim but still present, and the neon gate nearby flashed colorful light into the fort. As Maxwell stepped out, they spotted Arcade alone by one of the walls. They dithered for a moment, not sure where they stood with the doctor after last night’s debacle, but approached him regardless.

“Hey,” they said as they sidled up next to him. His eyes remained fixed on the sunrise. Maxwell was unsure of what to say for a moment, but decided on, “How are you?”

“Could be worse,” he replied, and that was a start. Maxwell smiled lightly.

“Well, that’s good. I think.” Maxwell turned to face the sunrise, mulling their next words over. 

“You know,” said Gannon, unprompted, “If I was still religious, your party trick last night would have scared the shit out of me.”

Maxwell blinked, turning back to him. “Why? I mean, I get that death is supposed to be scary, but…”

Arcade smiled wryly. “Someone who can die and come back, someone who can have visions of the future? Whole religions used to be founded on those abilities.”

Maxwell paused, thinking carefully. “So… you’re saying that you would have believed me to be something I’m not.”

“I would have believed you to be the second coming of Christ or some other Messianic figure.” Arcade laughed bitterly, scratching at the nape of his neck. “Now? I’m just afraid.”

Maxwell frowned. “Of what?”

“People are going to start following you like a pack of stray dogs, Maxwell,” he said. “If you keep doing your little Easter Sunday demonstration, you’re going to be quite popular. And very dangerous.”

Maxwell’s frown deepened. “You think I’m going to gain power.”

“I know you will,” said Arcade with certainty, turning to look at Maxwell for the first time since the conversation started. “And power corrupts.”

Maxwell frowned, considering his words. Then, very carefully, “What if I had someone to keep me in check? Make sure I stopped dying, keep me from getting too powerful, letting everything get to my head.”

Arcade frowned. “What are you-?”

Maxwell screwed their eyes shut. “What if you came with us? Made sure that I don’t become something I don’t want to be? Even just for a day, I’m sure you could help us. And we could help you, too. You’re bored, and you’re lonely, and we’re not. We can be good for each other.”

There was silence for several moments, and Maxwell opened their eyes just enough to peek at Arcade between their lashes. Arcade looked… confused.

“You can’t be serious,” he protested. 

“I am. We need a doctor, someone with even a little medical knowledge at least, anyway. You can help me keep Ronnie and Boone safe, and in turn I can try to help you. Because…” Maxwell huffed, struggling to find the words. “I think you’re important. Not just because some vision said so, or because of a nagging feeling… You seem like a good person. And I need as many good people around me as possible, if what you say is true.”

Arcade didn’t respond for several moments. Then, “Just for a day. And make sure your sniper doesn’t blow my head off.”

Maxwell looked up at him, shocked. “Really? I mean, yeah, I can definitely do that!” They began to smile. “I’ll make sure you don’t regret it, dude.”

Arcade grimaced. “Don’t call me dude.”

Maxwell nodded seriously. “Right, not dude. Okay.”

Arcade groaned into one of his hands. 

-=-

About fifteen minutes later, Boone and Veronica joined them, and Arcade led the three over to the tent where Followers were serving food. Maxwell watched their friends Veronica and Boone eat heartily as Maxwell and Arcade handled their bent forks delicately. They were joined by Julie Farkas shortly, and Maxwell turned to her with a curious tilt of their head.

“Hello Julie,” they greeted. Julie, who had been paying most of her attention to the meal in front of her, swallowed and looked up at Maxwell expectantly. Maxwell continued, “Do you need any help around here?”

“I thought we were going to Vegas,” grumbled Boone. Veronica made a noise of agreement between bites.

“We are!” protested Maxwell, “But we need caps in order to get in! Maybe we can get a job!”

Arcade face-palmed. “Very subtle, Max.”

Julie Farkas’ lips twitched in a sort of half smile. “We’ll take any help that we can get, though we can’t repay you in caps. However, we can discount any medical services you and your friends require in the future,” she said.

“Deal,” said Maxwell with a smile. “So, what’s the help you need?”

“Are you sure you wanna help out someone who’s not going to pay you, Max?” asked Veronica between bites.

Maxwell nodded. “Yeah! These guys are cool, plus we’ll probably need the medical discount after everything that happened yesterday.”

“The kid has a point,” grumbled Boone half-heartedly. “And since when has the doctor joined us?”

“So Arcade is joining you,” said Julie in a remarkably even tone.

“Since the ‘kid’ asked me to,” argued Arcade to Boone.

“Is that true?” asked Veronica, looking over at Maxwell.

Maxwell nodded. “Yeah, it is. He seems like a nice guy.”

“That’s a stretch,” replied Boone.

“So about the help we need,” began Julie, before telling Maxwell about the state of Freeside.

-=-

♠

After searching through abandoned buildings with Arcade, Veronica, and Boone in tow, Maxwell had found Bill Ronte hiding out in a bombed shell of a place. They turned to their friends as the other three caught up to Maxwell.

“I think I should go in alone,” said Maxwell.

“Why?” asked Boone flatly as Arcade doubled over to catch his breath.

Maxwell shrugged. “I think it’ll go better that way. Besides, I’m betting you wouldn’t want four strangers to walk up to you while you’re at your lowest, right?”

Boone grunted in response as Veronica flashed Maxwell a bright smile. “You’ll do great, buddy. I know it,” she said.

Maxwell turned a pleased pink. “Thanks, Ronnie. I’ll be back.”

Maxwell slipped through the doorway and walked up to Bill Ronte, who looked up to them balefully. Maxwell took a seat near him.

“So,” said Maxwell casually, “Julie Farkas talked to me, and she wants you back with the Followers.”

Bill Ronte’s eyes lit up immediately. “Julie? She’s such a sweetheart, you know when I was working on that water pump she walked right up to me and put a hand on my shoulder, told me I was doing a great job.” He began to tear up. “Do you know how rare compliments are these days? I just choked up, couldn’t say nothin’.”

Maxwell nodded, wrapping their arms around their knees. “Yeah, she’s a really kind woman.”

“She’s a saint,” emphasized Bill.

Maxwell cracked a smile at that. “Really? I thought all those guys went with the apocalypse.”

Bill shook his head. “Not Julie. Julie might just be the last of ‘em.”

Maxwell considered it for a moment. Then, “Would you get clean for a saint? She needs you.”

Bill turned away from Maxwell, unable to meet their eyes. “I can’t. I’ve tried, but the stuff Dixon’s giving me tastes like paint thinner and has worse effects when you get off it.”

Maxwell blinked, then, “Dixon.” They didn’t speak for a few moments. “I’ll see what I can do for you, comrade. It won’t be like this forever.”

Bill shook his head mutely.

-=-

“So Dixon’s got you too, huh?” asked Maxwell as they spoke to Jacob Hoff. Jacob laughed bitterly.

“I can’t argue with that,”  he replied. The sun was rising over the shell of the apartment building that once stood where they were. “If you wanna get me some chems, he’s probably waiting across the street. Whaddaya say?” he asked.

Maxwell nodded seriously. “I’ll get something from him if I can, yeah.” They stood, brushing off the crumbs of concrete clinging to their leather chaps and jeans. “I’ll be back sometime today,” they added. Jacob waved them off pleasantly.

♠

Maxwell stepped over the rubble and over to their friends, who seemed to all be engrossed in some kind of demonstration Boone was giving about his rifle - well, Veronica seemed engrossed, and Arcade was mostly just staring at Boone’s bicep. Maxwell cleared their throat, getting everyone’s attention.

“Have you magically cured everyone yet?” asked Arcade dryly.

“Or convinced them to just head back to the Followers?” added Veronica.

“Not quite, but I’m getting there. Uh…” Maxwell chewed their lip anxiously. “Actually, I was hoping you guys would make sure I don’t get stabbed when I talk to their dealer.”

“I didn’t know you cared about that sort of thing, considering your last run-in with a blade,” commented Arcade.

Veronica laughed, punching Arcade’s arm. He flinched, rubbing the spot she struck as she spoke. “Of course, Maxie! I’m sure he’ll mind his manners with all four of us confronting him.”

Boone sighed. “With Freeside types, I wouldn’t be surprised if he still found a way to attack you, but yes.”

Maxwell smiled. “Great. Uh, hopefully we don’t scare him off.”

“I don’t think anything scares Dixon,” grumbled Arcade.

Maxwell snickered and walked over to the infamous dealer with their friends in tow.

Dixon raised his brow at Maxwell’s arrival but said nothing more as Maxwell approached. Maxwell politely put their hands behind their back and rocked back and forth on their heels.

“You don’t look like you’ve had a good time in your life,” he commented dryly. “What’re you trying to buy? Fixer? I’ve got Fixer.”

“I could use some Fixer,” said Maxwell thoughtfully. “But I’m here about something else. I need you to stop selling to Bill and Jacob.”

Dixon’s lips cracked into a jagged smile, and then he doubled over, laughing. “You think I’m going to stop selling to two of my best customers ‘cause you asked nicely? That’s cute!”

Maxwell blinked. “I wasn’t asking,” they said, voice perfectly even. “I’m telling you. Stop selling to Bill and Jacob. The Followers need their help.”

Dixon took some deep breaths, doubled over and clutching his knees. He got up quickly enough. “I’d ask if you’re high, but you seem more straight-laced than an NCR officer. Getting those two addicted to my shit has been funnier than watching a brahmin and a bighorner mate, and that shit’s hilarious. Those two NCR fucks deserve it.”

Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re trying to kill your customers?” Something struck Maxwell, a sort of trick. “You’re taking drugs from the NCR to keep Freeside down? Is that it?”

Dixon paled, which was a difficult thing to see through all the grime on his face. “Whoa! You can’t make shit up like that! Cool your jets, girl, I’ll stop selling to those bastards.”

Maxwell’s eyes were narrow slits of disgust. “Give me two doses of Fixer and some Psycho and I’ll keep my big fat mouth shut.”

Dixon narrowed his eyes in turn. “Now, you can’t go around demanding free chems,” he warned.

“Consider it blackmail, then,” they replied. “Give me your shit or I’ll tell every single bigshot here just who you’re working for.”

Dixon gulped, before fishing through his pockets and handing over the goods. “Don’t know what you want the Psycho for,” he commented as his hands shook. 

Maxwell swiped the goods from his hands. “Not my problem,” they seethed. “Rat bastard.”

They turned their back and stormed away from Dixon, their surprised friends following them.

“That… was awesome!” cheered Veronica. Maxwell turned to her, still scowling from the previous conversation but noticeably less hateful. 

“I didn’t think that could work,” added Arcade, seeming to be confused by the turn of events.

“Good job, kid,” added Boone.

“Thanks, guys,” said Maxwell, sounding a little worn out themself. “Let’s just get these guys back to the Followers. I don’t want them suffering any longer.”

-=+=-

After Maxwell had accompanied Bill Ronte and Jacob Hoff to the Followers of the Apocalypse, they were sent back off to see if they could work a second miracle and get someone to trade medical supplies with The Followers. After spending more than half their caps repairing their Incinerator at Mick and Ralph’s, Mick told Maxwell that they couldn’t provide anything useful to the Followers. Mick kindly redirected Maxwell to The Atomic Wrangler instead, which they promptly walked over to.

Freeside was busy that day. The streets were teeming with people. From civilian travelers from the NCR with their guards to people with no caps and no hopes, the array was diverse. Occasionally a man in a leather jacket and a pompadour would run past or be found leaning against a decrepit building without a care, and Maxwell made silent note of them. When Maxwell opened the door to The Atomic Wrangler, they were met with yet more people. There were guards, men and women without armor with a few ghouls among them, dealers and gamblers in the back hall, and the sound of a bed creaking could be heard from upstairs. Maxwell glanced back at their friends to see Veronica with stars in her eyes, Boone looking as aloofly displeased as he always did, and Arcade wrinkling his nose in distaste. Maxwell couldn’t help but smile, charmed by their friends’ different reactions. They turned back to face the interior and walked up to the counter.

A woman with a distinctly chiseled face wearing a white suit looked up at Maxwell, though she glanced briefly at Arcade, recognition sparking in her eyes. “Hey, kid. Are you looking for something to drink?”

Maxwell shrugged. “I’m kind of low on caps right now, but I do have something I need to ask you.”

“Oh, so now you’re too low on caps to blow them?” challenged Veronica with mirth. Maxwell snickered, but sobered up quickly for the sake of The Followers.

“Yeah, yeah. Uh,” they turned back to the woman at the counter, “Do you happen to be one of the Garret twins?”

Her lips quirked in an amused smirk. “I sure am - Francine’s my name. What’re you looking for? If you can’t afford a decent beer we’ve got slot machines for that.”

Maxwell felt their interest pique and shoved it down. “The Followers of the Apocalypse were hoping you would be able to help them with medical supplies.”

She smiled. “Aw, you’re a good-hearted kid, but you’ll have to talk to my brother about that.”

Maxwell nodded. “Sure, where is he?”

She laughed. “Hah! Eager, huh? He’s sleeping right now since you’re bugging us so early in the morning,”

“It’s eleven?”

“But he’ll be up in an hour or so. In the meantime, enjoy your visit to The Atomic Wrangler.” With that, she walked over to another customer at the bar and began to serve him.

Maxwell stared at her for a moment before getting to their feet and brushing themself off needlessly. Maxwell turned to their companions. “Well,” they said, “I think it’s time to check out the slot machine.”

“No,” said Arcade flatly, looking down at Maxwell in disappointment. 

“I’m with him,” said Boone, crossing his arms over his chest.

Veronica laughed. “C’mon, Max! These two don’t know what they’re talking about! Let’s gamble!”

Maxwell grinned. “Hell yeah. It’s my hard-salvaged caps anyways, what’s the worst that could happen?”

-=-

Maxwell, having a Luck stat of ten, proceeded to gamble for all of fifteen minutes before earning a thousand caps, which they then spent two hundred of on the best food and drink for their friends. Arcade was grumbling under his breath about the unfairness of high luck while Boone knocked back beer after beer and Veronica pretended to understand the bouquet of wine, playing sommelier. Maxwell was grinning from ear to ear, Sunset Sarsaparilla in hand, when a man dressed identically to Francine Garret came out of the room behind the bar. He lifted the divider and came out, walking up to Maxwell and their friends with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“You done robbing the casino?” he asked, a hint of humor to his tone. 

“For now,” assured Maxwell, far more amused than he was. “Hey, I was wondering if you’d be willing to help out The Followers-”

He smirked. “My sister already told me all about your little proposition. We can provide The Followers with as much Med-X as they’d like, but we’ll need something in return. They have the know-how to fix up and maintain our stills, and that’d be a huge help around here. Better stills means better alcohol means better customers, yaknow?” When Maxwell just looked at him blankly, he continued. “We may not seem like it, but we’re grateful to The Followers. They’ve stitched up our boys more times than I can count. Not to mention that with better alcohol, we’ll be able to provide the excess to them for disinfectant.”

Maxwell considered a moment before nodding. “That seems fair to me,” they said honestly. “I appreciate you not charging them.”

He smirked. “What do I look like, the Crimson Caravan? No, we’re rolling caps enough as it is - at least, we were until you won your little prize. Enjoy your meal, kid.” With that, he returned to the bar. Maxwell turned back to face their friends.

“I can’t believe you set us up with the Garrett twins,” complained Arcade as he picked at his plate.

“I’d say I’m surprised that you got them to help out the Followers, but you got Arcade to help out us , so…” added Veronica.

Boone took a swig of his beer. “Good job, kid,” he said.

Maxwell couldn’t help but feel pleased.

-=+=-

After everyone finished their food and drink, Maxwell and Co. headed back to the Followers of the Apocalypse to tell Julie the good news. After a bit of messenger work, they were all able to finish helping The Followers before the sun set. As Maxwell unpacked for the night, setting out the satin dress they had taken from a house back in Nipton as a pillow and unfastening their armor as a tipsy Veronica and sober Boone relaxed behind them, Julie entered the tent. She smiled kindly at Maxwell before casting about the room for someone else - Arcade. Arcade looked distinctly nervous, but he followed Julie out of the tent at her gesture.

Maxwell sent a look back to Veronica and Boone. Veronica raised her brows into her hairline. “What do you think that was about?” she asked.

“They’re probably gonna kick us out,” mumbled Boone.

“That seems unlikely,” said Maxwell. “These are good folk.”

“Good folk are exceedingly rare nowadays, Maxwell,” argued Boone.

“Please, girls, stop fighting,” joked Veronica. “He’s probably just getting fired for galavanting about with us today.”

“Galavanting?” asked Boone with visible confusion as Maxwell gasped in horror.

“They can’t take Arcade out of The Followers! What will he return to if I fuck everything up?”

Veronica snickered. “Maxwell, I’m joking.”

“Oh,” said Maxwell.

After a few minutes Arcade returned, looking haggard. Maxwell looked up from where Veronica was playing with their pipboy. Arcade sent them a glance before collapsing in his steel chair.

“Hey, uh, are you alright?” asked Maxwell.

“I basically quit my job, but yeah, I’m alright,” he replied.

Maxwell hesitated, breath caught in their throat for a moment, before saying “Well, you’re one of us now. I hope you like walking.”

Arcade groaned into his hands, but Maxwell liked to think he was amused, too.

Chapter Text

When Arcade woke up that morning, it was to the sound of chatter between Maxwell and Veronica. He absorbed their conversation about deathclaw near-death experiences with his eyes closed and face pressed into his mattress, a mattress he knew damn well he’d never see again, and savored it as much as he could. He was used to being woken up by strange sounds in the morning - from a patient with a hangover retching, to the screams of a surgery with too little Med-X, to other generally unfortunate noises that you’d hear in a Follower’s outpost set in the city of vice. He took a deep breath and relaxed into his mattress, sending a silent prayer to no god in particular that they all would be allowed to sleep in on Maxwell’s schedule.

He woke up again about twenty minutes later as Maxwell gently shook his shoulder. “Hey,” they said, “Breakfast is starting and I don’t want you to miss it. Get up.”

“Not even a ‘good morning’?” he griped.

“Good morning,” said Maxwell pleasantly. “Do you want breakfast or not?”

Arcade supposed that not everyone had manners, especially whatever Eastern raider band Maxwell likely came from. “Alright, alright, I’m getting up.”

Maxwell made some vague hum of acknowledgment before shuffling off.

When Arcade arrived at the mess hall, the other three in Maxwell’s merry band were already eating the grits and ground Brahmin slop the Followers made most mornings. Maxwell looked up and waved as soon as Arcade entered the tent, and he sat next to them, preferring their basic respect for manners.

Arcade began to eat, and Maxwell shot him a genuine smile between bites. Arcade raised his brows. He noticed a commotion at the gate of Old Mormon Fort, and a few doctors got up from the table and rushed out, but he knew well enough that he wasn’t much help before he left The Followers and now would be no different. He kept eating as the camp settled back in, and soon enough Julie was approaching them. He racked his brain, trying to think of anything else Julie could need help with, but he couldn’t think of anything.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said to the group, arms crossed in front of her. Was she angry? She didn’t seem angry. Maxwell waved politely, mouth full, and Boone hummed a greeting while Veronica sent Julie a stunning smile. Arcade just nodded. “Maxwell, how are your wounds?” asked Julie.

Maxwell shrugged. “I don’t have any,” they said between bites.

Julie smiled, not at all surprised by their blunt answer. “That’s good. You all have done wonderful work for us, especially you, Arcade - but I have an important question. We just received five patients, three of which in critical condition, and had to commandeer your tent. We can, of course, still find sleeping arrangements for you all, but I was wondering if you could find somewhere else to stay until this is sorted.”

Arcade could have groaned if it weren’t for his tattered sense of politeness. Maxwell looked to the other members of their little posse.

“I can rent a hotel room or two, unless you guys have other ideas,” they said.

Veronica wrinkled her nose, swallowing. “A room from the Atomic Wrangler? Eugh. Sounds unsanitary.”

Boone cleared his throat, swallowing as well. Maybe they both had better manners than Arcade thought. “I know a place we can stay, provided they’re still friendly.”

Maxwell perked up. “Oooh, with who?”

“The Kings,” he said simply, like he wasn’t talking about cozying up with a violent gang.

Arcade paled as Julie nodded along. She spoke next. “You are all, of course, very welcome here, especially if you need to come back. I appreciate you all finding a place to stay, at least for the next few nights.”

Maxwell nodded with a strangely genuine smile. “Of course! It’s no trouble.”

Arcade noted his heart sinking with a clinical sort of distance before continuing to chew his grits.

-=+=-

Maxwell had insisted on “sightseeing” around the rest of Freeside, which Arcade could not fathom the logic behind, and were only satisfied once they had stared at the New Vegas gate for a few moments, making what Arcade considered the most intense eye contact one could have with the mindless drone of a Securitron. They eventually seemed satisfied, and the group followed Boone to the doorstep of the Kings. Maxwell stared at the neon signage for a moment before taking the lead into the King’s domain, and Arcade watched Boone surreptitiously tucked his First Recon beret into his pocket with a grimace as the rest followed Maxwell in.

The King members stared at the strange group that were intruding on their territory, and although they likely couldn’t tell Veronica was a Brotherhood scribe, they could certainly see Arcade’s Followers’ lab coat and Boone’s sniper rifle slung across his back, and Maxwell’s streak of white hair against the remaining black was like a neon sign screaming look at me. Arcade recognized a good few of the Kings from their various visits to the Followers’ Outpost, and they gawked at him in turn, but others seemed stuck on Boone’s apparent reappearance. Seemed like what Boone said was true, that he had been here before. Maxwell beelined towards the stage room without having to be told, which was being guarded by a visibly irritable Pacer. He looked down his nose at the outsider in their red button-up flannel and leather chaps over jeans, and Maxwell looked back up at him with a similar sort of determination.

“I need to ask the King something,” said Maxwell plainly.

“Is that so?” replied Pacer. Arcade could already tell this wasn’t going to go anywhere.

Maxwell frowned, looking more confused than anything else. “Yes, it is so. Can I speak to him?”

Pacer smirked. “Depends on how much it’s worth to you,” he replied.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“No way,” protested Veronica, “Maxwell, do not hand over our caps to this newt.”

“Newt?” echoed a scandalized Pacer.

“She’s right,” chimed in Arcade with a bored tone. “He’s just being an ass. We can come back another time.”

Maxwell huffed. “And go where? Hold on,” they said, before slinging off their backpack and digging into its contents and pulling out a sack of caps. They counted silently as Veronica face-palmed.

“Maxwell, we can’t afford to keep giving caps away if we want to get into Vegas!” she chastised.

 “She’s right,” added Arcade, just in case that might change the stubborn courier’s mind. “But we can just go back to The Atomic Wrangler and gamble, right? You like gambling.”

“Don’t patronize me,” replied Maxwell. “And I just like the winning part.”

Arcade laughed, surprising himself with the sound. “Everyone ‘just likes the winning part’, Max.”

Maxwell chuckled, before standing up suddenly and holding out a sack of caps to Pacer. “This is 50 caps. Are you happy?”

Pacer laughed. “Damn, I suppose that’s acceptable. Go on ahead, the King doesn’t wait for anyone.”

Maxwell stood, slinging their pack over their back once more. They glanced back at their companions before opening the door to the room guarded by Pacer. Maxwell slipped through, and Arcade followed them with a little trepidation.

Standing one a stage at the front of the room was a random member of The Kings doing an impression of their deity-like figure, mumbling in an accent no one here was truly familiar with and saying rehearsed lines about dolls and dames, and seated at a tiny little table in front of the rickety wooden stage was the King himself. Arcade recognized him by his white blazer and striking features, and it appeared that his attire set him apart from the other Kings enough for Maxwell to recognize him too. Maxwell marched towards him with Boone in tow as Veronica snickered at the young man doing his impression. Arcade hung back so that when this all blew up in their faces he’d sustain the least damage, though he was close and nosy enough to overhear the conversation.

“Hello,” said Maxwell, making no effort to actually introduce themself. Arcade heard Boone let out an exasperated sigh.

“Hello, kid. Who might you be?” asked the King. Arcade raised his brows in mild surprise - that was polite for a gang leader.

“I’m Maxwell,” they replied, “And my friends and I are in a bit of a pickle. We were staying with the Followers of the Apocalypse, but a bunch of patients came in and we had to move out. We’re looking for a temporary place to stay while I work on getting us into the Strip and, hopefully, out of your hair. Do you happen to have a few beds available? Boone said you guys were kind to him in the past.”

“Hold on a minute,” said the King, “Boone?” he turned to look at the sniper. “Why, I haven’t seen him in ages! You still taking good care of Carla?”

Boone tensed uncomfortably. Arcade had noted Boone’s wedding ring earlier, had assumed something happened between him and his wife for him to not be with her, but apparently the King had not come to the same conclusions.

When Boone took a second too long to answer, Maxwell stepped in. “Carla… she had a run in with the Legion. She’s not with us anymore, though she’s not with them, either.”

The room went dead silent as everyone processed Maxwell’s words. Arcade knew something had happened between Boone and his wife, but he hadn’t expected the Legion to be involved. Despite Arcade’s indifferent facade and Boone’s gruff attitude, Arcade felt bad for the sniper. Even Veronica hissed between her teeth in sympathy.

The King’s face screwed up as though he were in pain. “Carla? She was a good friend of ours. Never thought she’d have a run in with those bastards.” He scrubbed at his eyes for a moment, but soon enough he was putting on his own facade of The King. “Said you need a place to stay? I’d offer, but I don’t know most of y’all too well. Boone’s welcome for as long as he needs, but the rest of y’all - well, I might need you to do a little work for me. It’s rough times out here, you know, and if you get it all done I’d owe you one.”

Arcade rolled his eyes, but to his surprise, Maxwell said yes. “Sure thing. What work do you need us to do?”

-=-

Maxwell had elected to leave Boone with the King and was now dragging Veronica and Arcade out into Freeside. Veronica was the kind of person who Arcade could tell would never get sick of the outside world. It didn’t help that she was still wearing the Brotherhood Scribe robes - seeing a woman in a pretty dress compared to those burlap sacks could absolutely spark a desire for city life, regardless of what a bombed out shell said city was. Maxwell weaved their way through the crowds, dead set on doing the first job of what Arcade feared would be many, which had something to do with using the caps the King gave Maxwell to buy a bodyguard to take Maxwell across the city.

“Why don’t we just take the money and gamble?” asked Veronica. Arcade snorted at the thought of Maxwell taking a gang leader’s money and fleeing to the strip.

“That’s wrong, Ronnie,” said Maxwell, who kept moving forward even as Veronica and Arcade struggled to keep up. “We’re not thieves.”

“Oh really?” challenged Veronica, voice light. “Boone was telling me you looted houses back in Nipton.”

Arcade paled.

“They were dead!” protested Maxwell. “It’s not like they could use the caps.”

“Wait, you were in Nipton?” managed Arcade through his shock. “That seems like something worth mentioning.”

“Oh yeah, we’ve been over that,” said Veronica dismissively. “Maxwell’s all over the news.”

“I think Mr. New Vegas mentioned my trip to Primm, too,” said Maxwell casually, thoughtlessly.

“When the hell were you in Primm?!” exclaimed Arcade.

“Uhhh,” said Maxwell elegantly, “I don’t know when, maybe a little over a week? But I killed a lot of powder gangers there.”

“Oh my god,” said Arcade as even Veronica paled. “We’re traveling with a mass murderer.”

Maxwell laughed, throwing their head back with mirth. “Listen!” They pleaded, “They were threatening the townspeople! They killed the sheriff, his wife, and his deputy. I was just cleaning up where the NCR wouldn’t.”

“Not an NCR fan?” asked Veronica carefully.

“Don’t see why I should be,” replied Maxwell easily. “They’re kind of useless.”

Veronica let out a fluttering of giggles, and Arcade burst into laughter that he was not expecting. Maxwell turned, surprised, and Arcade stopped laughing abruptly, clearing his throat.

“So,” he said conversationally, “You’re an anarchist, too?”

“Something like it,” said Maxwell thoughtfully. “Maybe something like the NCR if it worked instead.”

Arcade frowned. “If you’re not pro-NCR, and you’re not an anarchist…”

“Well I’m definitely not a Legionnaire,” said Maxwell with a sharp-toothed grin.

Arcade smiled, though it was slight. “I didn’t think you were.”

“Guys,” said Veronica with impatience, “Are we going to hire this bodyguard or not?”

“Right,” said Maxwell, “Bodyguard. Right.”

“You already said right,” intoned Arcade.

Maxwell flipped him off.

-=-

Arcade already didn’t like this bodyguard. He was taller than Arcade, which was already a horrible start, he was covered in the tackiest “wastelander” armor Arcade had ever seen, and he smelled like burnt oil and chems. He made the Kings standing next to him seem like gentlemen by comparison, and while Arcade supposed that was the point, every NCR citizen wanted a big strong wastelander to protect them, it didn’t sit right with Arcade. Maxwell had taken off all their weapons, shoving them into a bag that could not possibly have that much space in it, and as Arcade’s head spun trying to explain that to himself Maxwell made themself look pathetic in front of the guard. They were very “oh, I’m just a poor little citizen looking to get into Vegas” to the man, and they left Veronica muffling giggles behind her hand as they spoke.

“Well, it’s two hundred caps if you want to travel with me,” said the man (Or-something?) with a gentle smile that was somewhat ineffective due to his terrible breath. Maxwell smiled back, chin tucked, arms behind their back, and shoulders hunched inwards in the universal gesture of shyness and weakness.

“I’ve got the caps, sir, and thank you so much. My friend recommended you to me, and I just knew I had to go to you,” said Maxwell, voice sweet and soft and completely unlike themself.

“One of those friends?” asked Organ or Oregon or whoever he was, pointing at Arcade and Veronica.

“Oh, yes! Arcade said you were the best of the best!” they exclaimed.

Arcade was about to protest, to tell them he wanted no part in their scheme, but he remembered himself in time, shooting Or-whoever a smile that closely resembled a grimace.

Oregon seemed satisfied. “Well,” he said, turning back to Maxwell, “Why don’t we just mosey on down to the Strip’s North Gate, huh? Promise you’ll be safe with me,” he said, and was he coming onto Maxwell? Arcade couldn’t tell, but he was uncomfortable regardless.

“Oh, thank you so much!” said Maxwell, handing over a sack of caps. “This means the world to me!”

Oregon smiled gently. “Of course,” he replied, and took their arm. Definitely coming onto them. Arcade wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Boo,” said Veronica under her breath. Arcade turned to her, surprised, and Veronica gave him a look that conveyed a high level of disgust. Oh thank god, he wasn’t the only one.

Arcade and Veronica followed after Maxwell, all the way down to damn near the Kings’ domain itself, before anything of note happened. Arcade saw them before Veronica and Maxwell did - squatters, four of them. Oregon (Orris? Maybe Orris) let go of Maxwell, pulled out his pistol, citing that he “senses a bit of trouble.” The squatters sprung forward, but Arcade didn’t bother flinching, and Veronica only clenched her fist in anticipation. Three shots fired and four men “dead”. This guy wasn’t exactly bright, was he? Orris came over to comfort Maxwell, take them the rest of the way to the North Gate, and Maxwell asked the man a question.

“How come you only fired three shots?” asked Maxwell.

“Because my aim is true,” he replied easily. “It’s not so hard once you get to know your way around a revolver.”

“Then how are four of them dead?” they asked.

Orris visibly began to sweat, but he put on a good show of bravado. “Well, I was cunning enough to aim the bullet between two of them, of course. Wouldn’t want to have to charge you for extra ammo, would I?”

Maxwell laughed. “No, of course not!” Something about the line of their shoulders was tense.

“Right, miss. Well, why don’t we make it the rest of the way down to the gate?” he suggested, clearly wanting to get a move on.

“Oh, yes please!” begged Maxwell, and the four were off again.

-=+=-

“So let me get this straight,” said the King, “Orris was hiring lowlifes off the street to play dead for customers?”

“Yes, that is precisely what he is doing,” replied Maxwell.

“They weren’t even doing a good job of it,” huffed Arcade, and Maxwell turned back to give him a smile.

The King nodded. “Well, in that case, y’all’ve certainly earned your keep for the night. You’ve just brought back some good revenue for us.”

Maxwell smiled. “Thank you!”

“But the day isn’t quite done yet, doll,” said The King. Arcade would have groaned in exasperation were it not for their very tenuous housing situation. “A few friends of mine got into a bit of trouble, and I need your help sorting it out.”

“Why me?” replied Maxwell, which Arcade considered to be their first rational question since the day began.

“‘Cause we’re in need of a neutral party to sort this all out,” and oh no, thought Arcade, I know where this is going, “You see, the locals in Freeside have been a little wary of the newcomers to the area, squatters and the like, and in return those newcomers, most of which are coming from the NCR, are a little sick of us, and sometimes that tension between us turns to violence.” The King gave Maxwell an apologetic little smile, and Maxwell softened up like brahmin butter left out in the Mojave heat. “I need you to check in on my friends and find out exactly what happened. You should be able to find them at the Old Mormon Fort.”

Maxwell smiled, a deceptively easy thing for them to do. “Of course, I’ll get right to it.”

The King grinned. “I like that enthusiasm, doll.” The King seemed to think something over for a second, probably using that pretty head of his for the first time in months, and said, “By the by, do you mind being called doll? Or are you more of a cowboy-type?”

Maxwell snickered, like the question was particularly funny to them. “I don’t mind being called doll, so long as you don’t mean much by it. But yeah, I guess I’m more of a cowboy type.”

The King laughed, apparently also amused. “Alright, I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, doll.”

Maxwell gave him a polite “you’re welcome!” before jogging off to head downstairs and back to Old Mormon. Arcade and Veronica followed.

As soon as they were outside, Arcade grabbed Maxwell’s elbow and hauled them out of sight as quickly as he could, Veronica skipping as she followed the two of them.

“Hey!” exclaimed Maxwell, tearing themself away from his grip with a scowl. “What’re you doing?”

A brief flash of guilt in Arcade’s gut was quickly subdued. “Maxwell, are you crazy?” he demanded. “Are you seriously going to continue running errands for the King for free?”

Maxwell continued to glower. “He said he’d owe us a favor, so it’s not for free!”

Arcade scoffed. “Really, a favor? The King’s all talk. You’re working with a dangerous man, here, and no favor could be worth it.”

Maxwell puffed up their chest in indignation. “You don’t know that! The King has been perfectly kind to us so far, and I don’t see any reason why I can’t just help him out!”

“The King’s sending you to fix relations between Freeside and the NCR,” explained Arcade in his most patient tone, “Do you really think that in one day you can do what the Followers haven’t in seven years?”

Maxwell leveled Arcade with a gaze that would make any man cower. “I can certainly fucking try,” they growled, and Arcade took a step back. Maxwell seemed to recover from their own anger much more quickly than Arcade ever could, only frustration apparent in their features. “I’ve been able to do a lot of things on my own that others couldn’t. I don’t see why this is any different.”

“Your luck is going to - to run out eventually, right?” said Arcade, sounding much less certain than he would have liked.

Maxwell’s frown deepened. “I mean, maybe,” they said, “But it’s still worth a shot. If I can help someone else, then it’s worth it to me.”

Arcade couldn’t argue with that. Maxwell turned and began walking back to Old Mormon, and Veronica nudged Arcade with her elbow as she walked past.

“You’ve been a real nice guy today, Arcade,” she cheered, all false sweetness. “Maybe you should be more condescending!”

Arcade huffed. “Look, I’m sorry, but I just don’t think this is a good idea.”

Veronica scoffed. “That doesn’t mean you have to explain it to Maxwell like they’re a child. And maybe try apologizing a little more sincerely, specifically to Maxwell if you’re going to be dense about it.”

Arcade muttered something impolite under his breath as they passed through the train car and into the other half of Freeside, and Veronica elbowed him hard enough for him to nearly double over. Arcade recovered after a brief coughing fit before sending her a glare.

“Apologize,” she ground out, and she was promptly ignored.

-=-

Maxwell sauntered right into Arcade’s old tent like they knew exactly who was in there, and while Arcade suspected they were some kind of psychic he was pretty sure they weren’t that finely tuned. Veronica skipped in right after, and Arcade was the last in, keeping a healthy distance as always. As soon as he was in a tent, he saw Maxwell standing across from an old man, a teenager eyeing Maxwell and Veronica warily with another teen lying prone on the mattress.

“Can’t you see I want to be left alone?” griped an old man, mouth set in a thin line as he stared down Maxwell.

“Sorry, I’m just trying to help out the King. You wouldn’t happen to be friends of his, would you?” they asked sweetly, and the man seemed to reconsider his position.

“That changes things, I suppose,” he agreed easily. “What do you need to know?”

Maxwell’s pleasant smile softened, and they began their very polite interrogation. “When and where did this happen?”

“My friends and I had just gotten done at the Atomic Wrangler last night, and we were walking through what apparently was the wrong alley. Filled with squatters, and by the time we were halfway through this big fellas cornered us, demanding to know if we were locals.” The man took a deep, aggrieved breath. “Well the kid, he’s about as proud as a local gets. He started yelling back at the guys, and that’s when everything went to hell.”

“They attacked you?” clarified Maxwell.

“Yes,” he said, “But I don’t know much else. I didn’t see the men or nothing, just their boots. Wayne over there knows more, he saw most of the action.”

“Thank you,” said Maxwell with a kind smile, and the older man let the standing teen, Wayne, now that Maxwell wasn’t going to bite his head off.

Maxwell turned to interrogate the kid, and Arcade tuned it out, leaning against the wooden pole of the tent. He turned to Veronica, who seemed a bit preoccupied with the other conversation, and tried to get her attention. She glanced up, made eye contact, and decided to glare and stick out her tongue for good measure. He almost did it back before he remembered that he is a thirty-two year old doctor, not a toddler.

“Okay guys,” said Maxwell, turning back to Arcade and Veronica with clasped hands and a sunny smile. “It’s the NCR.”

“... What?” managed Arcade, disbelieving that the NCR would really stoop that low. They stooped, sure, and stooped often, but seriously?

Maxwell shrugged. “Do you know of any other group that has lieutenants?”

-=-

After a brief trip back to the King’s place, Maxwell, Arcade, and Veronica arrived back at the Followers’ fort, because everything apparently led back to Arcade’s old job. Arcade awkwardly stood behind Veronica, who stood next to Maxwell as Maxwell chatted with Julie.

“Elizabeth Kieran?” echoes Maxwell.

Julie nodded once. “Yes. She’ll let you in, and you can talk this out with her. She’s a good person. If she holds out any information on you, mention my name, and she’ll loosen up.”

Maxwell nodded. “Thank you, Julie. I’ll see you later.”

“You’re welcome,” said Julie, and then, “Have you found a place to stay?”

“Yeah,” said Maxwell, and after visible consideration, they said “The King is giving us a place to sleep for the night.”

“Mhm,” replied Julie. “Did the King send you to ask?”

Arcade face-palmed, and Veronica literally elbowed her way into the conversation. “Maxwell’s just trying to calm things down between the NCR and the Kings, ma’am.”

Julie almost smiled at the title. “That’s noble of you, really. Just be careful, Max.”

Maxwell nodded, showing no reaction to the use of the familiar nickname. “I will be. Thanks again,” and with that, they turned and exited with Veronica and an apologetic Arcade in tow. Instead of heading straight to the location vaguely described by Julie to go and find Major Elizabeth Kieran, Maxwell turned and walked around to the back of the fort, the same place they had died two days ago.

“Where are we going, Maxwell?” Arcade asked, voice a little on edge for his own taste.

“I think I saw a camp back here, and The King said to check with the squatters for more information,” they said simply.

“But we already have the information we need,” he deadpanned.

“We could always have more information!” cheered Maxwell, and Veronica sent Arcade another glare over her shoulder.

The trio arrived shortly at the camp Maxwell mentioned, carefully ignoring the puddle of blood soaked into the asphalt near it. There were a few people here now, and most of them were asleep, save a man with an NCR dog tag stoking the fire in the barrel. Maxwell waved at him, and he sat up a little straighter as they approached.

“Hey, do you know where I could get something for my friends and myself to eat?” they asked.

“Are you and your friends NCR citizens?” asked the man right back, eyeing Arcade’s Follower lab coat with particular ire.

“Of course we are,” lied Maxwell easily, a carefree smile crossing their face. “We just spent most of our caps on hotels for the past few nights waiting for our caravans to come, but they haven’t yet, and we’re pretty much out of money. We were hoping you could help us find a meal…”

“Okay, okay,” said the man guarding the camp with mild exasperation, clearly displeased with someone as well fed as Maxwell taking advantage of his resources. “All you need to do is prove that you’re an NCR citizen. Can you do that?”

Shit. Arcade sent a panicked look to Veronica, who passed it on to Maxwell, who seemed completely nonplussed. Maxwell shrugged and turned back to the man. “Okay, hit me,” said Maxwell.

The man smiled, though it was stiff. “Who was the most popular president in NCR history?”

Maxwell blinked, and Arcade immediately began to spiral. Maxwell was from the East, for God’s sake, not to mention the fucking brain damage! It was a miracle enough that Maxwell knew anything about the NCR. Even simple questions like this one were going to be impossible for the kid.

“Tandy,” they answered easily.

What?

“And what was the original name of the NCR’s capitol?” he asked.

Okay, there have only been four presidents of the NCR anyway (five if you count Aradesh), and Tandy by far reigned the longest. It was an easy guess so long as you knew her name, and anyone from the West did. Maybe Maxwell had overheard something, but there was no way word of Shady Sands travelled to Maxwell before the capitol was renamed–

“Shady Sands,” they said. Arcade balked.

“And what is the name of the animal on the NCR flag?” he continued.

Maxwell hesitated this time, but they answered soon enough. “Do you call it a yaoguai or a two-headed bear?”

“Both are acceptable,” agreed the man easily. “You can head right on over to our soup kitchen.

Maxwell grinned, bright and sunny. “Thank you!” They skipped away like they had just won some happy little contest and hadn’t just lied to a man’s face. Arcade and Veronica were quick to follow.

“How did you know that?” demanded Arcade, catching up with them as they skipped toward the soup kitchen.

“I don’t know,” said Maxwell, continuing to prance along. “Probably something to do with those visions, I think?” They stopped abruptly, frowning. “It’s not like I’ve dreamed about that…”

“Arcade, could you stop grilling our friend every five seconds, please?” asked Veronica, false cheer in her tone.

“He’s fine,” protested Maxwell meekly. “He just doesn’t trust me yet. I get it.”

Okay, he felt a little bad about that, but, “Are you seriously able to see the future about minor shit like that?”

Maxwell shrugged. “That, or I was well educated, wherever I came from.”

Arcade felt his eye begin to twitch.

Maxwell’s frown deepened. “Does it matter? It’s useful, isn’t it? I don’t know why it’s happening, but that doesn’t mean it’s dangerous…”

Arcade sighed, weary and put-upon. “It does matter, Maxwell. There must be some kind of cause for this, or some kind of answer to how it happens, and until we know what it is everything is uncertain. How far do these memories go into the future? How much can you remember about the past? Will you gain more memories? What if it suddenly stops? And what if one of the time when you “die”, you don’t get back up? What if everything so far has been a fluke?”

Maxwell shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. Veronica stepped in.

“I agree, Arcade, that’s all important,” said Veronica carefully, clearly still holding some ire for him, “But we don’t have time for it. We’re just going to have to trust Maxwell, that they know what they’re doing, that they can survive the Mojave. They’ve made it this far without issue, after all.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” grit out Arcade.

“Enough!” barked Maxwell. “Would you two stop fighting!? Veronica, I appreciate you trying to defend me. Arcade, I understand that you don’t trust me. But could we please focus on getting shit done?! We need to find the man that tried to kill me, which, mind you, is the same man that almost succeeded! And in order to do that, we need to get as much social credit and caps as we can!” Maxwell began to squeeze themself by crossing their arms over their chest, twisting and rocking side to side. “I’m not some bloodthirsty child seeking revenge, and I’m not some genius psychic who knows exactly what they’re doing! Fuck!”

Arcade stared, and then he looked. Really looked. Maxwell was upset, that much was clear, but the mannerisms he had initially mistaken for childishness may have pointed to something else. Veronica glanced nervously between Maxwell and some point in the far distance.

“I think there's a reason we’re going after Benny, the suit guy,” they said, sounding exhausted and refusing eye contact as they stared at the ancient pavement between their boots. “There’s something bigger going on here than me, than us.”

“But you don’t know what it is,” said Arcade, not accusatory but not understanding, either.

“I’ve got most of it,” they said, sounding weary. They lifted their head and met his eyes, their own expression weary. “I know that the guy who runs the Lucky 38, some Mr. House, he sent for a bunch of couriers to deliver him packages, and that only one of those packages held what he really needed. The rest were red herrings.”

“The rest?” echoed Arcade weakly.

Maxwell nodded. “I had the real thing, the thing Benny wanted. I don’t know why it was so important, but I do know that it is. It’s something that probably matters to everyone - to the NCR, to the Legion, to Mr. House and The Strip. It’s some kind of ace, some kind of trump card, and whoever holds it holds the key to the Mojave.”

“Shit,” said Veronica. Arcade couldn’t help but find the sentiment accurate.

“And there–” Maxwell frowned, their brows deeply furrowed as they stared at the ground beneath them once more, “– There are all these dreams, and they point to things that I haven’t even seen yet. My first vision, the first time I died, was of an army of securitrons fighting out in the desert. The first time I died in front of you, Ronnie, I saw a huge flag flying from the spire of the Lucky 38, one that was neither Legion nor NCR. And there’s that robot, always that fucking robot, and I just know that something’s coming. Something bigger than the last Battle of Hoover Dam.” They sighed, slouching into their own small frame. “I’m scared, but not as much as I should be. Something’s happening, and I’m about to be at the eye of the storm.”

Veronica sent Arcade a significant look, one that strongly communicated “We are so screwed if we let this kid down.” Arcade could only send back a “Fuck, I know,” before he stepped forward and gently clasped Maxwell’s shoulder.

“Are… are you okay?”

Maxwell stood back to their full height at once, straightening their posture. They looked up at him and nodded, expression serious. “I’m fine,” they said, “It’s the Mojave I’m worried about.”

Arcade considered them. Looked deep into their eyes, tried to get a read on their soul. All he got was a vague sense of determination, and he sighed. “I’ll try to have a bit more faith in you, kid,” he said, and Maxwell nodded once.

“Thank you.”

-=+=-

Major Elizabeth Kieran was a kind woman, despite the fact that Maxwell had to politely elbow past the guard at the door of the soup kitchen. Once Maxwell, Veronica, and Arcade were inside, however, Arcade could (privately) admit he was impressed. There was more food available there than there was at the Followers’, and it was being handed out for free, rather than the nominal charge the Followers usually required. Of course, it was only being handed out to NCR citizens, but Arcade could appreciate a functioning charity when he saw one. Maxwell innocently sweet-talked their way into rations for Arcade, Veronica, and themself, and just as Arcade was about to turn and exit, Maxwell began to break character.

“I don’t mean to sound critical,” they said, far too much sincerity to their tone as they looked up at Major Kieran, “But if you don’t mind giving out food to my friend from outside the NCR, why can’t you do it for everyone?”

Major Kieran made a sympathetic face, but she remained guarded. “We shouldn’t discuss that.”

Maxwell blinked. “I’m not just asking for myself. Julie Farkas sent me.”

Major Kieran’s expression changed to one of pleased surprise. “Oh, Julie? Not all of us NCR folks see eye-to-eye with the followers, but Julie’s something special. Listen, about the supplies - even if I wanted to, we don’t have the rations. When this all started, I sent an officer over to speak with the King, sort something out for the community.” Here eyes hardened at once. “The man was beaten half to death. When my superior got word, he nearly stopped providing aide entirely. It was only because I demanded it that he let us get what we have now.”

Maxwell nodded along, their brows furrowing as Major Kieran continued, and when she finished Maxwell was frowning deeply. “I... understand,” they said, and Arcade could tell they didn’t. “I’ll fix this.”

“What?” asked Major Kieran, looking confused.

“Just – give me a little time. I’ll fix it,” replied Maxwell adamantly.

“That’s very kind of you, Maxwell,” she began, sounding more bemused than anything, and Maxwell’s frown deepened, “But I suspect it’s more complicated than you think.”

Maxwell hummed noncommittally, thanked Major Kieran one last time for the meal, and marched out of there. Arcade and Veronica were quick to catch up.

“Maxwell,” began Arcade awkwardly as Veronica glared daggers at the back of his neck, “Listen.”

Maxwell stopped, impatience in every line of their body. “What?”

Arcade scratched at the nape of his neck. “Maxwell, I just think-” he closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. “Maxwell, while I appreciate your altruism, you don’t need to fix everyone’s problems for them.”

Maxwell’s frown greeted Arcade as he opened his eyes. “If I’m not going to do it, who is?”

Arcade would have laughed if Maxwell hadn’t asked with such sincerity. “Maxwell, people can solve their own problems. That doesn’t mean they will, but it’s not your job to fix every issue for other people.”

Maxwell blinked, their frown deepening. Still, they said nothing, and Veronica walked up to stand beside Arcade.

“As much as I hate to agree with Arcade,” she said, sending a subtle glare his way, to which he relented and rolled his eyes, “He’s right. You don’t need to save everyone, Maxwell.”

Maxwell looked downright bewildered by their words, if not a little hurt. Still, they said nothing, turning and jogging back to the King’s.

-+-

Halfway through Maxwell’s explanation of the finer points of local politics, specifically in regarding the NCR, the King and Maxwell were interrupted by a Kings member, explaining that there was a shootout involving that recently extorted little shit Pacer. The King instructed Maxwell to diffuse the situation and offer his cooperation if the NCR could just spare Pacer. Arcade privately thought that by now Pacer deserved whatever he got, seeing as the man tried to extort Maxwell when they arrived, fucked up the supplies meant for Freeside, and then proceeded to extort Maxwell once more on their way back to the King, but nevertheless.

Maxwell turned on their leather heel, clearly determined to head back out and solve the crisis at once, when Veronica grabbed them by the shoulder.

“Can I sit this one out?” she asked with a grimace, and Maxwell blinked, surprised.

“Sure,” they said. “What’s wrong?”

Veronica leaned in and whispered something to them, and Maxwell nodded, grabbing Arcade by the wrist as they hauled the only somewhat willing doctor out the door.

“Stay behind me,” ordered Maxwell as they sprinted down the street, passing the dimly lit storefronts and weaving through the rapidly thinning night crowd.

“Wouldn’t dream of anything else,” agreed Arcade.

Strangely enough, Maxwell honed in on the train station Major Kieran had been posted at, and as they got closer to the sound of bullets ricocheting off ancient concrete and rebar, Arcade put together why. He scowled. That little shit had done it again – he’d run off to start a (losing) fight with the NCR as revenge for Maxwell ratting him out. He pulled out his plasma pistol as Maxwell charged forward, letting go of his wrist and sprinting over to the nearest Kings member corpse, checking his pulse. They stood and ran to the next, and Arcade followed behind, taking a second look at the one they had abandoned. Dead. Pacer had really fucked up this time.

Maxwell ran right up to Pacer like it was nothing, not even bothering to take full cover as bullets whizzed past them, apparently satisfied with standing behind the bench Pacer cowered under. Arcade joined them.

“Pacer, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” they demanded, green eyes flashing.

“The King sent you?! Fuck right off !” called Pacer right back, using his shitty little pistol to fire a few rounds back at the NCR.

There was a moment where it appeared that Maxwell had half a mind to press their own Colt to his temple, but they took a deep breath and turned to the NCR. Arcade took cover behind them before Maxwell stepped right out into the line of fire.

No one stopped shooting, obviously, but Maxwell didn’t seem to have a care in the world, marching through the exchange of lead like it was nothing. Obviously, it wasn’t, if the bullet that connected with their stomach was anything to go by, blood soaking through their red flannel shirt, turning bright cadmium to dark crimson. Some of the soldiers stepped off, seeing that Maxwell had not pulled out the Colt on their waist, but the ones at the tower kept firing on Pacer, who was busy glaring at Arcade.

Arcade took one look at that asshole and ran to catch up with Maxwell.

“What in god’s name do you think you’re doing?” Arcade hissed as they marched forward.

Maxwell’s scowl deepened, and Arcade rolled his eyes, rooting around in his bag as quickly as possible for a stimpack. They’d need it.

Major Elizabeth Kieran stumbled back when she saw Maxwell, whose jeans and leather chaps were now soaked with blood, but she quickly recovered with a stern expression. “I don’t have time to talk right now, Maxwell, I-”

“Pacer’s an asshole,” they said, stopping only a foot or so away from Major Kieran, looking up to her. Despite being a whole head shorter than the woman, Maxwell still cut an imposing figure. It was probably the blood, Arcade figured, and the general charisma the kid used far more often than any weapon in their arsenal. “The King sent me. He says he heard nothing about the man you sent to negotiate. Your man was intercepted before he even made it to the Kings.”

Major Kieran narrowed her eyes. “We know he made it into the Kings’ domain.”

“And I have a sneaking suspicion that someone from the Kings did his very best to make sure their leader never caught word of it,” they said, their own eyes glittering with determination. “The King is willing to cooperate with you, and he wants peace in Freeside as much as you do. He’s not an idiot, Kieran.”

Kieran looked down at Maxwell for one more moment before calling out to her soldiers to cease fire. Miraculously, Pacer let up as well. Kieran looked like she had something to say to Maxwell, but Maxwell spoke first.

“Thank you,” they said, before promptly collapsing.

Arcade swooped in and grabbed them by their armpits before they could break their skull on some piece of rubble or another, and quietly situated them in his lap as he administered a stimpack injection in their wrist.

“Are they alright?” asked Major Kieran, some of her compassion entering her voice.

“They will be,” Arcade grumbled.

-+-

Arcade was nervous to be sleeping in the same building as Pacer, but he was more nervous about Maxwell’s lack of responsiveness since their collapse. Certainly, they were alive, he had nervously checked their vitals enough times to know that, but one of Kieran’s men had to help drag the kid back to the Kings. At least it gave the NCR an excuse to finally have a proper conversation with them, and an excuse for Arcade to have a proper conversation with Veronica. After things were cleared up – no, Maxwell wasn’t dead, and yes, Arcade was also very worried as to why they weren’t waking up – he sat down with Veronica (and Boone, who appeared to have been cleaning his gun all day).

“Listen, Veronica, about earlier...” he began. Veronica simply raised her dark eyebrows to her hairline, so Arcade continued. “I’m... not used to trusting people. Especially not strangers. When Maxwell asked for me to join, I half suspected I was going to be some kind of medically trained pack mule.” Arcade quirked his lip to show that he was joking, but Veronica continued to stare impassively at him. “I... I didn’t mean to be such a jerk. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” said Boone, which nearly caused Arcade to startle. He turned toward the stoic sniper to see the man reassembling his rifle without so much as glancing up from what he was doing. “I didn’t trust Maxwell at first, either. They’re not like other wastelanders. Weird kid.”

Veronica gave the quiet sniper some more time to speak, and when he didn’t, she piped up. “Maxwell does what they can to make it easy to like them, but that doesn’t mean it works flawlessly.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “I can’t really blame you for being wary. Boone’s right. Maxwell is unique, but that doesn’t make them trustworthy.”

Arcade said nothing for a few moments. This left an opening for Boone.

“You still shouldn’t have been such an ass,” he said, and Arcade couldn’t help but laugh.

Chapter Text

Things were blurry for Maxwell. They remembered getting shot by one of Major Kieran’s men, and they remembered negotiating with Kieran for them to cease fire on Pacer, but little else. As they blinked awake, they found themself lying on a mattress in the bombed out shell of some building or another, tucked into a leather duster the color of wet desert soil and emblazoned with a 6. Maxwell was crowded into a corner, the ceiling of their shelter having fallen away long ago. It was the very earliest hours of the morning, the sky brightening from a deep navy to something like periwinkle. A desert sunrise.

Maxwell sat up and carefully considered the possibilities. Either The King had turned his back on Maxwell and their friends and sent them out into the streets of New Vegas, or they were having another vision. Seeing as they were alone, they suspected the latter. They found a long black sniper rifle with a beautiful scope by their side, one even more exquisite than the one Boone carted with him, and their colt next to their head. Were they really alone out here? It had been what felt like ages since they were last left to their own devices, unprotected while they slept. It unsettled Maxwell, but it also brought them a certain kind of calm.

Maxwell stretched to fix the cricks in their neck and back before pushing off the leather duster and finding themself in a pair of hand embroidered jeans and cowboy boots, a red western-style shirt over their chest with matching machined embroidery. They must be rather wealthy in the future, as the jeans very much seemed to be custom and the shirt was in excellent condition for something so old-world. They stretched again, took one final look at the dim blue of the sky, and began looking for the stairs. They were on the top floor, and they found the staircase leading down. It appeared that they were in an apartment building or a hotel. Once they had made it to the first floor, they followed the hallways out to the entrance.

There was an open doorway with a blue sky and orange earth lying outside it, and Maxwell made their way forward. They stepped out into the chilly desert morning air to see a massive lake in front of them and a Securitron disappearing around the corner. They blinked, took in the beauty of the water, the cool breeze coming off of it, before following after the Securitron.

They heard the sound of gunfire on the opposite side of the hotel, and they began to run, worried for it’s safety. They knew, distantly, that it wasn’t guaranteed to be the Securitron, but so long as it didn’t turn and fire on them, they wanted to help it. The robots had grown on them a good bit.

They skidded to a stop as they nearly ran into its dusty blue chassis, spotting a dead gecko riddled with bullets nearby, and were steadied by the arm of the unknown Securitron. As they lifted their chin to look up at it, they could have jumped for joy.

It was him.

“Maxwell!” he chirped, face frozen in a perpetual cheery smile, and Maxwell grinned back at him.

“It’s you!” they exclaimed, and he froze for a second. As the silence carried on for a few too many moments, Maxwell realized their error.

“Oh! This is, uh, this is a dream!” They exclaimed, before their face fell, a frown beginning to form. “I mean, it’s a dream for me, not for you... I don’t know, yanno, exactly what’s happening, I just...”*

“You’re not dreaming!” stated the Securitron in a cheery voice. “This is all very, very real, Maxwell! Did you happen to take some Psycho last night, or...?”

Maxwell shook their head, reconsidered, and then shrugged. “I don’t think I did. I don’t know,” they admitted.

They got the distinct feeling that if the Securitron could change its expression, it would change it to something that adequately expressed its confusion. Alas, it was stuck on a static smile. “Maxwell, are you sure you’re alright? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the brain damage from those shots from Benny is finally kicking in! Ha, ha...”

Maxwell realized in their typical belated fashion that they were making the Securitron uncomfortable. They did their best to rectify it. “Oh! No, uh, I meant...” they began, a wave of confusion washing over them like a dizzy spell. They frowned, looking down at their cowboy boots. “I meant... vision... he said it was a vision...”**

“Maxwell?” chirped the Securitron, as cheery as ever.

“Hm?” they looked up at him, but they must have moved too quickly or something, because they overbalanced and stumbled backwards. They made a surprised hum, but otherwise didn’t react as gravity seemed to twisted and tumble beneath them.

Things stopped moving and were rather dark, and for a moment Maxwell was worried they had died within their death and were in some kind of purgatory. That confusion faded, too, and they realized they had simply squeezed their eyes shut. They opened them, and the world was rather bright, now, wasn’t it? A searing pain lanced through their right temple, and the sound of a panicking yet cheerful Securitron was slowly differentiated from the blood rushing to their ears.

“-axwell? Maxwell, you’re bleeding!”

Maxwell blinked, still squinting against the sunrise. Did they have a migraine? It felt like they had a migraine. Maxwell looked up at the Securitron, who seemed to be... bent over them?

Oh, no, that wasn’t it. He was slightly bent, but it was more accurate to say that Maxwell had been caught – and at a diagonal to the solid earth beneath them.

“Where’m I?” they asked, memories and visions blurring together. “Where’s ‘Ronnica and Cade?”***

The Securitron’s screen flickered. “Veronica and Arcade? They’re at the Lucky 38 right now, just like you asked them to be-”

“They’re in the what?!” exclaimed Maxwell, eyes widening from their pained squint.

The Securitron hesitated a moment, before straightening Maxwell with one arm still around them to steady them, the other carefully brushing against their temple. The metal was shockingly cool, and Maxwell really wanted it to stay there, but he pulled it away.

“Maxwell,” said the Securitron with what seemed to be either very strained or very genuine patience, “Veronica and Arcade are at the Lucky 38, where you three live. That is our base of operations. You are the leader of the Strip, Freeside, and the surrounding Vegas Metropolitan area. You killed Mr. House a month ago. Does any of this ring a bell?”

Maxwell’s eyes grew wider. “Whoa. I killed Mr. House? Isn’t he, like, super powerful?”

The Secruritron’s screen flickered. “Yes and yes... That whole brain damage comment isn’t very funny right now, is it? Ha ha. I’ll message Arcade.”

For reasons unknown to Maxwell, the thought of bringing Arcade into this shot them full of adrenaline. “Wait!” they yelped, clarity rocketing through their aching skull. The Securitron shifted, but otherwise did not react. “Oh, oh my god – I’m so sorry, this has never happened before – Agh! These – these aren’t dreams, they’re visions! This is going to happen later, right?”

The Securitron didn’t seem very convinced by their sudden lucidity. “Okay, I’m still calling Arcade-”

“No, stop that!” Maxwell wiggled out of his hold, stumbling to their own two unsteady feet. “I’ll be fine in a moment! I’ll probably go back to, like, future Maxwell in two minutes! Please, I just need to talk to you-”

Something in the robot’s demeanor seemed to shift, because he went from hesitant to, “Well, as much as I think you’re about to have some kind of hemorrhage, sure! I’ll hold off on calling Arcade! I trust that you in your vast medical knowledge can outdo an actually medically trained doctor while maybe possible currently dying!”

Maxwell blinked, trying to puzzle out what the fuck that meant. “... What?”

The screen completely flickered over to static before going back to that perpetually smiling face. “What did you want to talk about, Maxwell?”

Maxwell frowned before squeezing their eyes shut to recall their memory of the last time they saw this guy. Hadn’t he said something... about not saying “no”? Like, he couldn’t not take orders? Was that a thing? They opened their eyes again, and their vision was a bit blurrier that it just had been.

“Please don’t call Arcade until five minutes have passed, or I’m normal again,” they said, their vision seeming to tunnel in on the Securitron, darkness swimming around his dimly lit screen. Fuck, were they going to pass out? “Once either has happened, do that. But I need to talk to you.”

This made the Securitron pause. “... Okay. You’re the boss!”

He still sounded... upset? But not nearly as much as before. “Okay. Okay. I don’t have amnesia.” Maxwell looked deep into his eyes as they said this, trying their best to make the statement ironclad. “This is a future event for me.”

“Okay!” said the Securitron agreeably.

So he didn’t believe them. Fine. “Before I... I don’t know, throw up and pass out, I just need to know some stuff. Like your name.”

The Securitron’s face flickered very briefly to static before going back to his default smile. “Yes Man!”

Maxwell frowned. “Yes man? What?”

“You asked for my name!”

“... Yeah?”

“That is my name!”

Maxwell blinked, squinted, and fought off another wave of confusion. “Yes... Man...”

“Don’t wear it out! Or do, I’m not your master!”

Maxwell wrinkled their nose. “I hope neither of us are each other’s master. Okay, so you’re Yes Man. Where did we meet?”

“The Tops!” he said.

Maxwell’s eyes glittered with satisfaction for a moment, before a lancing pain shot through their head once more. “-ugh, shit,” they said, curling in on themself a bit.

When it passed, they found themself being held upright by the Securitron once more. They looked up at him and gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome!” he replied, and they couldn’t tell if he was being, uh, passive-aggressive? Or sincere.

They looked up at Yes Man, the grimace their face was trying to form still forced into an all-too warm smile. They liked him, they realized, and the thought warmed them. “Are we friends?” they blurted, and they thought his grip may have tightened, but they couldn’t tell.

“Haha! You’re very funny, Maxwell.”

Their heart broke a little bit.

There was a moment of silence between Securitron and human, wherein Maxwell felt an increasingly crushing sense of failure. How were they not friends with this guy? Did he not like them? They liked him! Well, they liked pretty much everyone who wasn’t a legionnaire or Benny, but they really liked him. He was charming, and mean, and nice. Those were, like, Maxwell’s three favorite personality traits!

He must not like them very much. At least, in the future.

Maybe they could fix that.

“Can I ask you a question, Maxwell?” he asked, and that got their attention.

“Oh, yeah, of course. Shoot.”

“Ha! If only you knew how ironic that was. Okay, so if you’re from the past, but you can see the future, I have to ask: Do we win?”

Maxwell blinked, confusion settling into them – not enough to completely annihilate their focus, but enough to make Yes Man’s inspecific phrasing incomprehensible. “What?”

“I just have to know,” said Yes Man, sounding oddly flat for just a moment. “I put all my chips on one bet, you know! All on six, heh. I just– did I do the right thing?”

Maxwell looked up at him, finding his camera in their narrowing vision. They wanted to give him a grand speech, one of their loyalty to their friends and allies, one of how they would always stick by the side of someone who stuck by them. Or maybe a speech about the wonderful visions they had of a future Mojave, or of battles won, or of the flag flying over the Lucky 38. What they most wanted to do was tell him the truth: that Maxwell marched around the southern tip of Nevada on foot just to find this Securitron, that they had made this death march to find Yes Man, wherever he was, and that they had put all their chips on something similar. That they had already killed for him, and that they would continue to do so.

Instead, Maxwell said, “Yeah,” before promptly blacking out.