Work Text:
MONKEYS GONE TO HEAVEN by THE PIXIES
Vulpes was seated at the bar of the Atomic Wrangler. He adjusted his bowtie for the millionth time, smoothing out his lapels and collar as he carefully avoided eye contact with the Garrets. As long as he averted his gaze, they couldn't care who he was or what his business was at their Casino. As long as he bought a drink and kept to himself, he was certain he'd quickly become their new favourite patron.
He was waiting for that Profligate, Archer. The one Caesar had him set his eyes the moment he'd gotten word of this supposed 'Dead Man Walking' making his way across the Mojave with nothing more than a pistol and a plan for revenge.
It was Nipton where they'd first met.
Vulpes remembered it clear as day.
The lottery cage had rolled, and the Powder Gangers as well as every other degenerate in that cesspool town laid dead or crucified. The Nipton Lottery, a great atrocity sure to capture the attention of their foes from the West.
As they were gathering their bearings to leave, a newcomer came rolling through.
Vulpes recalled every moment, the slight limp in the profligates gait but the confident strides he took that slowed to a halt when he saw the atrocities the legion had committed. He recalled approaching him when the Profligate lingered on the crucified degenerates, and how he didn't react till the very last moment of his approach.
"Don't worry, I won't have you lashed to a cross like the rest of these degenerates. It's useful that you happened by." Vulpes greeted coolly, looking up at the Powder Ganger who groaned in agony before his eyes fell to the man in front of him.
He was tall and broad, attributes while not rare, certainly uncommon amongst locals. He was no Legate Lanius in stature, but he was certainly imposing. His face obscured by a ratty old scarf, goggles, and a cowboy hat. What little skin that was visible was dirty and smudged, and his duster was spattered with blood much like his pants. It wasn't a rare sight to see a drifter in such a state.
"I had a funny dream like this once..." The man said, pulling down the scarf and off the glasses.
Under the protective layers, the drifter bore a strange expression, like he was smiling except half his face didn't respond to the command. It remained neutral drooping while the other side appeared to function as normal. He spied the scar on his temple, still fresh with crusted blood along the edge. The drifter's hair was uneven, one side shaved only in the front, remaining long and wild otherwise. His face was clean shaven and smile lines appeared when the one side crinkled into what would appear to be a friendly expression.
"Except I was the one on the cross. Hope you make good of that promise... not throwin' me up there." He added, with a southern drawl.
"That all depends on what you choose to do next." Vulpes replied calmly.
The Profligate took off his glove and extended his hand, maintaining that lopsided grin as he spoke. "Name's Archer Caddel. Nice to make your acquaintance."
"I am Vulpes Inculta, of Caesar's Legion."
Vulpes had expected for him to disappear into the desert sands and never hear the name again, but he was proven wrong in only a few weeks time. Archer Caddel. Courier 6. The dead man from Goodsprings. He'd managed to gain a reputation and name for himself in such short time, and soon enough Caesar was even interested in the man.
It wasn't long before he was tasked with keeping an eye on the Courier's movements. That's how he found himself sitting in one of these degenerate Casino's, waiting on his estimated arrival.
Archer had been granted the privilege of Presidential suites in every casino he'd entered. This he knew. What he also knew was he never returned to those Casino's outside of work purposes. He knew this because Archer hardly stayed in any of these places long enough to get roped into the tantalizing allure of the Vegas life style.
He was always on the go, he hadn't spotted him taking a rest once.
Until he found out where he truly frequented.
If the Tops, Gomorrah, and Lucky 38 were the epitome of a cesspool, then the Atomic Wrangler was ground zero.
He didn't think it could get more depraved than Gomorrah, but even he could be proven wrong.
News traveled fast through word of mouth. Freeside praised the Courier's actions and it all traced back to the atomic wrangler where he was still seated, waiting for Archer to make an appearance. He didn’t wish to linger longer than he had to, as that cowgirl ghoul was giving him a strange look as though she was ready to pounce and eat him.
He idly swirled his drink, a sunset sarsaparilla mocktail. The legion frowned upon the indulgence of such vices, but he did what he must to blend in. That was the job of the Frumentari, do or die.
Just as he was getting ready to leave, the door swung open and the Courier entered. His eyes blazed something ferocious, and as they briefly scanned the area Vulpes knew they had landed on him, but the vacant expression on the other mans face told him all he needed to know… that he’d essentially saw through and past him.
Archer dragged himself over to the stool next to Vulpes and sat down, rapping his knuckles twice against the counter.
“Whiskey please, Francine.”
“That’ll be 6 caps Archer.” Francine Garret said, grabbing him a glass.
The drifter was different now than how he was at Nipton. The scar on his temple had healed into a pale mark that dipped inwards, partially covered by his hair that had grown longer, enhancing its unevenness and he’d grown a rough stubble over his chin. He had a few new scars peaking out from under the collar of his shirt as well.
The Wasteland had been far from kind to him in the last couple months, that was certain
Archer had a hardened expression on his face as the cup was slid over him in exchange for the bottle caps, guaranteed the first drink of many that night.
"I hate that number." He’d muttered, words as bitter as absinthe as he brought his cup to his lips.
"Are you superstitious?" Vulpes piped up, almost amused by the prospect.
"Let him take it... let Courier six take the package..." Archer continued nonsensically, as though he hadn't heard Vulpes' question. He just leaned back in his seat and threw back the rest of his drink. The moment his cup hit the counter, was he already knocking the bar for another. "Six, six, six... the doggone devil's number!"
Another cup was in his hand just as fast and Archer threw down a handful of caps that James Garret swept up this time as he walked past, nodding to him.
Vulpes sipped his own drink, eyeing him curiously. He wouldn’t ask what happened, he couldn’t care less what kind of wasteland hell Archer was subjected to moments before arriving. However if it meant loosening his lips for the sake of information, he wouldn’t mind spending the caps to help speed up the process of getting the drifter into the throes of his vice.
He flagged down the Garrets and purchased a few bottles of their whiskey then shifted to fully face Archer, refilling his drink when his head was bowed, hidden in the palms of his hands.
“The devils number… what’s your lucky number then? A gambling man such as yourself should have one…” Vulpes asked, finally.
Archer lifted his, looking Vulpes up and down before he straightened his posture. His expression read like he was sifting through a fog to grasp what was in front of him, seemingly thinking of how to answer the question.
It wasn’t scrutinizing the way he looked down at him, no. Vulpes would compare it to someone hard of seeing the way he scrunched up his face..His silence never malicious, Archer was truly taking the time to remember or understand. The price of this was, more often than not, Archer getting attacked before he could fully comprehend what was going on before him.
Vulpes had watched this happen at least 3 times prior to their current meeting.
“I ain’t a gambler… it’s all luck and my luck is shit.” Archer muttered, taking the glass again.
“But you must have a lucky number? Even we do in the…” Vulpes trailed off, the slightest chuckle in his voice as he prepared to change the subject. He understood now. Archer truly didn’t recognize him in this disguise. “My lucky number is 5.”
There was a pause, Archer shifting in his stool to be fully facing Vulpes.
“85.” Archer replied, taking a more polite sip of his drink.
“Why 85?”
“Well why 5?”
Vulpes closed his eyes, finishing his drink, which was nothing more than watered down soda at this point, and tapped his index against the thin handle of the glass.
“There is strength, in the number 5. It is how many… men I take with me on expeditions.” He spoke carefully, his expression thoughtful as he wove in the reasoning to the made-up statement. Quick on his feet he was, as usual. “Five fingers, five toes, five limbs…”
“The head ain’t a limb.” Archer interrupted.
“An extension of the body, the head is an appendage. It is a limb.” Vulpes responded a little too quick for his own liking. He smoothed out the front of his jacket again, which hadn’t even gotten a mere crinkle in the fabric. “The point being, 5 is the natural order of being.”
Archer scoffed and leaned back into his seat, seemingly ruminating on the concept.
Vulpes managed to refill his glass two more times before Archer spoke again.
“Man is five, I guess that makes sense... makes the devil six." He decided out loud, running a finger around the rim slowly.
Vulpes could see Archer’s eyes were now glazed, his pupils dilated, and jaw relaxed. From their proximity alone he could feel the vibration of the other man humming along to the music of the nearby radio. The tremor in his hand seemed to have left too as the alcohol ran its course. He wondered if Archer knew when to stop, or if he would drink as long as the tap was flowing until he drowned himself in his vice.
"Now you have to tell me why 85 is your lucky number. What’s the significance?” Vulpes said while topping up Archer’s glass.
“Nothin’ to it.” Archer answered. “Just see patterns… it always follows me so I figure it must be important somehow.”
He reached into his pocket and after some rummaging pulled out three items. The chip, a lighter and an oviod shaped metal container.
Archer, although he didn’t speak, pointed at the number on each one. The chip, a token from the Lucky 38 of course, had an 8. It took everything in his power to not reach out and take the chip the moment it hit the bar and run out the door, but he couldn’t do that. Caesar wanted to meet the dead man walking himself, see what drove him to pull himself out of the ground and march to hells gates. He had to follow the plan… even if the chip was right there, it would fall into their possession soon enough.
He turned his attention instead to the lighter, which had Archer’s name and last name inscribed on it and on the very bottom read 85. The last one on the top had an inscription in the exact same font saying ‘Home is where the heart is’
Nothing on there was a number.
It was as though Archer had read his thoughts. His movements were sluggish as he picked up the item, and reached into his shirt where he pulled out a key attached to a chain. When he inserted it into the key hole and twisted, the lock released and the top part lifted.
The moment it opened, it started playing a haunting little melody, some notes sounded off and others went unplayed. Inside was a compass, its arrow spinning wildly without rhyme or reason. It would stop for a moment, then start spinning the other way before repeating the cycle.
Vulpes was nearly mesmerized by the movement, almost missing the 51 engraved on the inside of the lid, and underneath was a star.
Out of all these items, Archer had combined 85 to be a pattern. It sounded ridiculous, making him scoff. The whole conversation was ridiculous from the start.
“Wanna hear about the dream I had?” Archer asked, shutting the compass which abruptly cut off the music.
Vulpes watched as he picked up the chip and shoved it into his pocket with the compass. Archer took the lighter into his hand, flicking it open and closed with his thumb.
Over, and over, and over.
“Why not.” Vulpes replied after a moment of hesitation, watching the courier fidget with his lighter.
“Think it was another warning… I had a really bad headache before it happened.” Archer began, igniting a flame. “Didn’t see Christ that time… but I was in a field. A big, green field, with cat tail weeds ticklin’ my finger tips. I was all by myself staring at the empty field, the sun to my back.”
“Any wastelander would kill for a moment of peace like that.” Vulpes grabbed Archer’s cup and pushed it closer to him.
“You’d think… but I couldn’t relax. I was cemented to the ground and paralyzed… I felt eyes on me from every angle, and my heart was poundin’, beggin’ for me to move.” Archer accepted the glass, sparing Vulpes a glance with a strange expression on his face, an express he couldn’t quite name. It didn’t matter cause Archer clearly didn’t have a reason to refuse the drink, and down the hatch it went in one gulp.
Amazing, like a bottomless pit.
Clearing his throat, Archer continued.
“Then a little fox came out of the bush, the details were all kinds blurry. It weren’t a red fox, it was white. Can’t remember the doggone word for it, but it’s an illness. That little fox stared at me with it’s big ol’ eyes and I felt just about the same way I did when I was face to face with a death claw.”
“But a fox cannot hurt you like a deathclaw can.” Vulpes reasoned, uncorking a second bottle of whiskey. Before he could fill Archer’s glass, the other man covered the cup with his hand and shook his head.
“Don’t matter what’s real or not. A dreams dream, means it ain’t real. It’s got meanin’, and that little fox sure as hell meant more than what was bein’ seen.” Archer added. “That sensation wasn’t just a memory, it was as true as could be. I have no damn clue what it meant, but it meant somethin’.”
Archer flicked the lighter closed, snubbing the flame as he scooted out of his chair to stand. “Course I knew it was one of them visions… woke up several miles from my last pit stop in a ditch with a sunburn… I wouldn’t call it sleep walkin’, but when the headaches are bad enough I end up blackin’ out then surely it’s a warning.”
“What on earth could you possibly need to be wary of?” Vulpes scoffed, mimicking the pretentious drawl many gamblers used. He understood the concept of omens well enough, having his fair share of them.
Archer didn’t need to know that.
To Archer, he was just another gambler on the cesspool that was the Vegas strip.
Just another face in the crowd.
And tomorrow? A different face.
The fox in the tall grass, with the presence of a Deathclaw.
“I’ll figure it out. I always do.” Archer grunted, pocketing his lighter then tossing a handful of caps onto the bar. “Thanks for the drinks.”
Vulpes turned on his stool, watching the Courier saunter his way up the stairs and down the hall towards the room, a certain sway in how he walked as the drinks clearly had done their job.
Too little, too late.
That didn’t matter in the moment. Soon Archer would make his way to the cove , and until then Vulpes would keep an eye on him.
Always five feet behind, watching, and listening.