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It’s not a friendly thing, or a truce, or anything outside of the mutual observation two predators will share while deciding whether to attack or leave. Now that he knows of the potential eyes on his patrols, he can see the small figure moving along the shadows and rocks, barely visible. He moves through the Strip more often, through the dens of degeneracy and vice, seeking information. Caesar took his report with severity, understanding the potential threat moving through the desert. Not that anyone really thinks he could manage much more than embedding some thorns into their heels. He selects the tool he needs for the task of figuring out this threat, and he selects Vulpes.
It’s a bigger issue than he’d thought. The man moves through the Mojave, allying not just the few remaining tribes, but the settlements, the backwaters, ingratiating himself with the NCR forts and outposts.
But Freeside— that’s the heart of his territory. Drifters and thugs and addicts wandering the streets, living in their own filth. Begging for chems, caps, anything that could take the edge off their plight. The man moves through, hands outstretched with food and water. He’s gotten the NCR woman to open her soup kitchen to all, and is flooding the doctors’ outpost with supplies. An army of beggars and thieves is still an army. And they worship him.
He remembers a cliff face with a figure painted on it. A woman in white, wearing armor and pointing west. He sees a crumbling wall painted with the figure of a man in a ragged jacket and beat-up shoes pointing to the old Mormon fort.
Where Freeside worships this ragged courier, the Strip sees him with neutrality, potential respect, and, in the case of the White Gloves, masked disdain. He ingratiates himself with outstretched hands ready to help, and for that they tolerate him. His actions are a wedge driven between the people and House, and Marshal holds the hammer.
He finds the man in the Mormon fort, wearing gloves and treating someone’s wounds. A gunfight, looks like. Marshal turns, spotting Vulpes where he’s looking through the stock of stimpaks and healing salves they sell. He almost doesn’t expect the man to recognize him, but the narrowed eyes locked on his answer that easily. He goes back to work, ignoring the spy in the heart of his territory in favor of pulling bullets out of a body.
He remembers the man’s statement, that anyone would be allowed in his kingdom so long as they shed their uniforms and moved as civilians. He supposes he’s already perfected that part.
The settlements outside New Vegas, moving from the NCR farms outward, all are loyal to the courier. He fixed the water supply, gave out resources, helped bring in crops, and treated diseases and injuries. Several people in Novac-- there had been a woman here, who had sold one of the residents; he doesn’t see her when he enters the gates-- were just happy with the small chores he’d done, and the willingness to talk. That man in the ‘dinosaur’ was near tears when he talked about the strange man that came in and bought his entire stock of Dinky the Dinosaurs. He moves on, the patterns he’d somehow missed so obvious when laid out in front of him.
He does have enemies. The Powder Gangers hate him, as do the raider gangs that haven’t been destroyed yet, though the Legion has no use for the pack of convicts and their explosives, and those other gangs are far too volatile to even try subjugating. The Omertas are the group on the Strip that are the easiest to set off, pulling on their leash to see how much force it’d take to break free. NCR higher-ups are watching him closely, just as suspicious as the Legion, but somehow are still so willing to give him chores, stretched far too thin as they try to beat off threats on all fronts. They haven’t noticed the threat directly under their noses that helps solve their problems, it seems.
“You won’t find movement plans or battle strategies.” Marshal says. He’s sitting on a wall, kicking his legs while cutting open a pear.
“I’m not looking for those.” He narrows his eyes at the chunk of fruit offered to him.
“So what are you looking for?” He rescinds his offer and eats the chunk. Cuts another off. His knife is clean.
“My lord Caesar asked me to determine how much of a threat you are.”
“So what’ve you found?” It’s conversational. As if this is a normal conversation. Given their last one, Vulpes is inclined to think it is.
“You have many allies. So long as you continue handing out gifts.”
“You really think people are that fickle.”
“Why shouldn’t I? When pushed to the flame, they will gladly turn on you to save their own skins.” He says, now looking incredulous as Marshal offers him another chunk of pear. This time he takes it. Begrudgingly. He absolutely does not enjoy his enemy’s gift. Marshal merely seems contemplative.
“Maybe. Maybe they’ll be strong, and resist.”
“Nipton had every chance to resist. They chose to cower in their shame and sin.”
“Nipton was already willing to destroy itself to survive.” He bites into the core, snapping part of it off and eating that. Vulpes curls his lip.
“Is that supposed to be a show of dominance?”
“No, it’s a pear.” He spits out seeds.
“How do you differ from Nipton?”
“I’m not cutting a deal with the Legion. I’m not begging to be spared, or offering other people to die instead.” It’s matter of fact, calm. He keeps eating the core.
“Why are you doing that.”
“What, not begging? I don’t need to.”
“No. The— why are you eating the core.” Marshal’s expression seems actually confused, as if he hadn’t thought of that aspect.
“Oh, because it’s still edible, and I don’t want to waste food.”
“Do you act this way in front of the Families?”
“No, I don’t deal with them in person that much. Someone else does.”
“Surprising that you’d split your power.”
“It’s called delegating. People that are better at dealing with higher society do that part, and I’m able to do my other jobs.” It makes some sense. Caesar is the absolute ruler, but he delegates some responsibilities onto his tools. “When is Lanius’ campaign ending?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“So far I’ve given you more than you’ve given me.”
“This isn’t an exchange, I don’t owe you anything.” Marshal tilts his head, looking at nothing.
“What about as a favor?”
“Soon. His campaign ends soon. I couldn’t give you a date even if I wanted to.”
“Thank you.” He looks like he’s putting a puzzle together in his head.
“Answer a question of mine, then, as a favor.” It’s buzzed in his head, the mystery of this man’s willingness to just talk, rather than fight. Not even debate, just explain his view, some of his actions, and to listen.
“Okay.”
“Why are you so willing to speak so openly with the frumentarii? We report what we know to Caesar.” Why are you so willing to speak so openly with me? Marshal hums, a few notes in a loop, before looking at Vulpes. His expression is too open.
“You’d figure it out eventually. Frumentarii are clever.” He looks like he heard the unspoken question. “It’s easier than fighting. I told you, a fight isn’t the first option.”
“Neither is just talking.”
“Maybe.” He tilts his head. “It hasn’t stopped you from answering.”
“It’s easy to gain information when we can just ask you.” There’s a hint of a smile, a glint in his eyes, and Vulpes recognizes that expression. He’s seen it in his men, when they know the other party is at the disadvantage. He’s not sure why Marshal thinks he’s got the upper hand.
“Has it helped at all?”
“Yes. It’s becoming easy to predict you.”
“It shouldn’t have been hard.”
“What, are you so sure of victory that others knowing your plan wouldn’t hinder you?”
“I don’t have big plans or a bunch of strategies, I help people and people help me. Also don’t use big words, you sound pretentious.”
“You really are simple.”
“Yeah. And you’re dense for only figuring it out now.”
“How so? Because your insistence on ‘mercy’ as the only option is so unbelievable?”
“That’s most of it.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It’s not mercy, it’s basic empathy. There’s a difference. The only way we can survive long-term is by protecting each other.”
“The only way we survive is through a strong ruler.”
“Do you know what Caesar’s basing his empire off of?” Marshal tilts his head, birdlike, always so curious, and when Vulpes doesn’t grace him with a response he continues, “there used to be an empire long before the war called Rome. They had Caesars, too, and he’s copied all the different parts of that empire to make a new one. Nihil sub sole novum and stuff.”
“If he truly did base his empire off something else, it must have been powerful.”
“It was until it collapsed into little pieces. And then it was forgotten. People moved on and built new empires, and those fell too. Empires and Republics died with the old world when the bombs dropped, trying to recreate them will just cause the same problems all over again.”
“Stop equating us to the Republic. We are nothing alike.”
“Aren’t you? A strong leader beating tribes into line, and you both want the Dam. I think you’re plenty alike.”
“If you weren’t wanted by Caesar, I’d strike you down here and now.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you like these conversations—”
“No I do not—”
“— you like this game—”
“This is no game, degenerate boy—”
“— and neither of us can win, but that’s part of it, right? Neither of us can out-maneuver the other.”
“And why would I enjoy that, since you know so much?”
“Because.”
“Because?”
Marshal just smiles, apparently proud of his ability to get under others’ skin, “bye, Vulpes. Talk to you soon.” With that, he hops off the wall and walks away, leaving Vulpes to watch, for once dumbfounded.