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Chapter Text

2276

“What’s taking him so long?” Carla hissed, “We’re going to lose our reservation.”

Carla’s family had always lived in Vegas. In the Vault beneath the city, secluded and content. They had all been equals down there, but her father often spoke of the old money they were born from. The high penthouses of Las Vegas. They were rich once. But Vault 21, along with the atomic war, had proved a great equaliser. But it did not stop Carla from dreaming of those pre-war days. It hadn’t stopped her from practising her etiquette. From consuming every book and holotape on old-world finery.  

She had rehearsed the fine dining experience many times. As a child in the Vault, in her hotel room last night, in her head as she waited. 

And she was not about to let some surface-dwelling squatter like Manny Vargas ruin it.

They'd been standing outside the monorail station for twenty minutes now, on the sidewalk of the New Vegas Strip. Neon lights hummed all around even as the sun beat down on the tourists below. Vegas as it was always meant to be, a luxurious and hypnotising cocktail of colour and lights. Like the posters and postcards from inside the vault. A place that Carla would give almost any excuse to spend more time in. Manny was not one such excuse. 

Craig Boone sat on a bench not far behind, his blazer folded neatly in his lap. He cupped a hand over his eyes to shield the sun as he looked up at his girlfriend, “Getting his boyfriend through security?” 

“Well they could have just stayed on the Strip last night like we did,” Carla tutted, tapping her heel on the newly resurfaced concrete below, “Then he wouldn’t be late. Like he always is.” 

“You know what he’s like.”

A pain in Carla’s neck, that’s what Manny Vargas was like . It was almost as if he were doing it on purpose— another way to spoil her fun. Carla had been waiting for months to get a table at the Ultra-Luxe. Months! Since before it had even opened! And now Manny was going to ruin that just like how he ruined Holotape night. And for what? Just because this was supposed to be his and Craig’s boys' night on the town? How crude. Then he’d gone behind her back to convince Craig to let him bring his boyfriend so he wouldn’t be alone. As if he couldn’t take the hint and just leave her and Craig to it.

“I don’t know how you put up with him. Don’t they value punctuality in the army? Do you not get disciplined if you are late for dinner?” 

Craig chuckled, “Do you wanna sit down?” 

Carla sighed. Her heels clicked on the sidewalk as she turned and approached the bench, tucking her dress behind her as she sat as gracefully as one could on a stone bench in the blistering heat. Craig rested his arm along the back of the bench and Carla cuddled into him.

“Do you know anything about this--,” Carla hesitated, searching, “ Other half -- of his?”

“Not really.”

Carla paused, “He’s a Khan , isn’t he?”

“Probably.”

The Khans ruled Vegas before Mr. House did, just over a year ago. Carla did not remember their reign. She was safe under the city, tucked away in Vault 21. But even though she’d never met a Khan, she saw their marks on the city when she first emerged. Months were spent just scraping their garish graffiti from every marginally flat surface. And the smell of their smoke and engines hung in the air for weeks after they’d been driven out. Mr. House had worked so hard. Carla smiled at the glittering lights. No raiders playing like kings could make the city as beautiful as this. If Manny’s little boyfriend had a problem with that, well--

… Well he probably wasn’t little at all. He was likely some big bruiser Manny had picked up just to prove to Carla that he could seduce men far more impressive than her Craig. Big and noisy and muscles for brains. Or worse still, someone with no table manners to speak of. Oh yes, she could imagine it so clearly; Manny picking out a man with the sole intent of annoying her.

Carla sighed through her nose, deflating into Craig’s arm, “Well he’d better behave himself.”

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Craig said, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Carla frowned at that. Manny’s big stupid boyfriend hurting her hadn’t crossed her mind until Craig mentioned it. Being robbed by a Khan and inviting one to dinner were two very different things.

A sharp whistle pulled Carla from her thoughts. She lifted her head in the direction of the sound, only to be filled with anger once again. Manny. At the top of the monorail station staircase, waving with a big nasty grin on his face.

“There he is,” Craig the sharp eyed sniper pointed out.

Manny bounded down the stairs as Craig slipped out of Carla’s embrace and stood to greet his friend. The two soldiers collided with a thud and began slapping one another on the back, laughing. Carla’s brow furrowed as she glanced around for this raider boyfriend of Manny’s. For a moment there seemed to be no-one, and she wondered if perhaps Manny had come alone in a bid for pity. Then she caught sight of the man trailing down the stairs after Manny.

He was noticeably bigger than Manny, but not the hulking raider Carla had been expecting. Taller than Manny yes but only by half an inch. With square shoulders but a soft round face and long, well-cared-for black hair that fell in loose curls behind his head. The suit he wore was not new but it was clean and helped him blend in with the other Vegas locals. Black and simple, with a crisp off-white shirt with the top three buttons undone. The suit didn’t fit him perfectly, it sat a little too high on his ankles and wrists. Borrowed or stolen, if Carla had to guess. 

As he passed he squinted suspiciously at the NCR soldiers posted outside the station, and then again at the glamorous gamblers chatting nearby. He ran a hand through his hair as he stared up at the flashing neon lights, then down at the floor as he fiddled with his cuff. Carla started feeling sorry for him. He looked out of place. Uncomfortable. This poor little raider Manny had dragged out of Bitter Springs, stuffed into a suit and dropped on the Strip. 

Carla glared daggers at Manny, who was chatting with Craig and not even attempting to acclimatise his love to this strange new environment. Fine! Carla would just do it for him. She trotted up to the Khan and smiled politely as he watched her as suspiciously as he had the soldiers. 

“You must be Emmanuel’s companion,” She said, trying hard not to let venom seep into her voice as she spoke Manny’s full name. She considered offering her hand, but decided against it, “My name is Carla Montague, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The raider blinked at her and Carla watched his dark, near-black, eyes study her face. He smelt like a campfire, like how Vegas used to smell, Carla noticed. That, and something sweet. A flower of some kind. Perfume, Carla realised. His expression relaxed into an easy smile. 

“Well met,” He said so politely Carla almost forgot he was a raider, “I’m Sun.” 

“Sun? You mean, sun like…” Carla gestured skywards. 

Sun smiled, revealing even white teeth, “Not exactly. It’s an old family name. Like yours.” 

She should have been insulted. That this raider, this symbol of barbaric wasteland that almost swallowed the beautiful city of Vegas, would dare to compare himself to her. But she wasn’t. Whether it was his smile or politeness, Carla wasn’t certain. He seemed perfectly normal. Of course some raiders could blend into regular society, but people like Manny had the excuse of being born in the city. 

“You’re not what I expected,” Carla said absently.

Sun laughed for the first time, the sound surprising Carla. It was light, airy, almost shy, hidden behind his fingers. She noticed then that his middle finger was entirely missing, amputated at the first knuckle leaving only a shiny pink-red scar and black stitches. It was rude to stare, and Carla tore her eyes away. It was the first marker of his wastelander status, and one difficult to hide.

“Do you think I want to be shot?” He asked, and though he was smiling, Carla still sensed his disbelief. Like she’d insulted him.

That only asked more questions than it answered, but Sun’s little laugh seemed to pull Manny to his senses. He appeared beside Sun and wrapped an arm around his broad shoulders, slapping him playfully in the chest. Manny didn’t look at Carla, but positioned himself between her and Sun, his eyes on Craig. A bid for control over the conversation, Carla noted. Even as Craig crossed the space between them and hooked a protective arm around her waist.

“I told you all about Sun, didn’t I Boone?” Manny asked Craig.

“Some,” Craig said in that tone Carla hated, how he talks in the army. Flat, serious. Like he was accessing a target. Carla swatted him lightly but he ignored her.

“And Sun, this is my spotting partner, Boone,” Manny continued.

Sun didn’t say anything, he just glared at Craig for half a second then nodded in stiff greeting. It seemed that Manny was expecting slightly more than that, he glanced up at Sun and gave him a little squeeze. But Sun held fast, not giving an inch. It was almost respectable if it wasn’t so childish. 

Carla cleared her throat to clear the awkward air, “I believe we have a reservation that we are about to lose so, I suggest we head to the Ultra-luxe.” 

Manny glared at her, which only made her smile more genuine. His boyfriend frowned and tilted his head to Manny's ear to whisper. 

“ Who are they?” Carla read Sun's words on his lips.

“Ultra-Lux uh, I dunno who they used to be,” Manny offered unhelpfully, “Must have been South of Vegas I guess.”

“They're run by the White Glove Society,” Carla chimed in, flexing her superior knowledge earning her Sun's attention and Manny's glare, “One of Mr House's Families. The best cooks in all of Vegas, House hand picked them.”

Sun sucked his teeth, looking unconvinced, “If you say so.”

It was an odd response. Carla couldn't decide if Sun thought there was better cooking elsewhere, or if he didn't believe in their origin. She wondered if Mr House had approached the Khans before kicking them out. If they even knew who he was. 

“They're not Slither Kin, though,” Manny said, squeezing Sun's shoulder again with some reassurance, “That's the Gomorrah. We'll stay away from them, yeah?” 

Carla wrinkled her nose. It was poor taste to use the Family's old names. They didn't suit the Vegas of today, but she resisted the urge to argue as Sun nodded. Those primitive names were more familiar to these raiders types, she convinced herself. It's not worthwhile to try to change their minds.

“The reservation,” Craig's words shook her from her thoughts. 

“Right! The reservation, follow me,” Carla marched away before anyone could argue with her. Craig followed swiftly behind, always her second. She slowed only for him, and gave him her hand. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Manny was watching.

Manny was not watching. He was linked arm in arm with Sun, ambling in their general direction as he pointed up at The Tops casino with a grin on his face. Sun followed his gaze with a strange look on his face. Thoughtful, almost sad. Carla had to wonder what this place looked like under Khan rule. Whether he could truly appreciate the good House had done.

Chapter Text

Dinner in the Longhouse was loud. Raiders crammed onto a bench, legs tangled with the Khan opposite. Noise always filled the air, the scrape of knives, the bang of hands slapping the table, and the sound of laughter or singing. Dogs whined for scraps and men snapped at them. Sun would chew on fatty meat listening to arguments of politics, of advisors bickering with each other over expertise, only to be soothed by Papa Khan. He would listen to the wastelanders and traders who came to beg Papa for safe passage through Bitter Springs, and he would jeer alongside the other Khans when the tribute they offered was much too small. 

Here, everything was quiet. The couple at the next table practically whispered to each other. Only the clink of cutlery could be heard, and even then it was shamefully hushed. Sun glanced around. He fiddled with the metal Manny had affixed to his cuff. He played with his buttons. He picked at the stitches in his finger. He glanced around again. Somewhere far away strings whined a soft melody. The four of them sat in silence.

Not that Sun minded. The strange battle of wills between Manny and Carla was odd to say the least. Last night it was all Manny could seem to talk about. This Carla and how much he would surely hate her. Now that he’d met the woman and sure, she was abruptly honest and utterly clueless about the Vegas of last year, but she wasn’t unpleasant. She’d made an effort, and Sun could appreciate that.

The table they sat at was immaculate. A white sheet draped across a round shape, forcing Sun to sit awkwardly between Manny and Carla, and directly opposite Boone who was watching him coldly across the table. Sun pressed a hand on the white cloth and flattened his palm against the surface. The fabric bit against the months-old scar where his finger used to be. The cloth wrinkled under his hand, but the surface beneath was smooth and cold. Unlike the Longhouse and its rickety table riddled with the grooves of sharp knives. Perfectly round plates glistened as white as the high sun, surrounded by crystal glasses and glittering silver cutlery that reflected Sun’s face back at him. He smoothed out the tablecloth again. Everything was placed so precisely he dared not touch any of it. 

What puzzled him most of all was the sheer number of items on the table, none of which were food. Before each of them laid five forks, three knives-- none of which sharp, two spoons, three empty plates and four empty glasses. 

“Why are there so many forks?” Sun asked quietly.

“Just this new new Vegas brahmin shit,” Manny said dismissively as he ran a finger around the rim of one of his many glasses, “They love wasting stuff. Water, food, power, forks .”

In vague terms, Sun knew Manny was right. The water fountain outside this place seemed an awful waste to Sun, but one he understood. A simple but effective method of showing power. Papa had taught him similar techniques when it came to raider alliances. To lavish guests in fruit and finery as if they were nothing at all, intending to make those guests feel small. To make them realise that you do not need their one brahmin because you have enough to slaughter twenty for a feast. That their offer is laughable. That they need you more than you need them. That Vegas had enough water to waste on pretty fountains while most of the Mojave suffered drought. 

But the forks? It was too specific. He glanced sidelong at Carla, who seemed to be the only one who knew what she was doing, but she only glared at Manny. He watched her still as she set her thin fingers atop the furthestmost pieces of silverware to adjust them. Sun looked at his own silverware, the furthestmost fork, then back at Carla. 

“Greetings and salutations,” The smooth voice made Sun jump in his seat, and he glanced up to see a masked man in a suit, “I will be your waiter and humble servant for tonight here at the Ultra-Luxe. I trust that the set menu has been delivered to you in good time…"

A lot of words that meant nothing to Sun. He looked down at the man’s shoes. Pointed, shiny black leather. Ordinarily, Sun would have heard shoes like that on a tile floor in a silent room from miles away. But not here. The shoes had soft soles. They had to for the man to have snuck up on him like that. Sun glared up back at the man’s masked face. Blue eyes flicked to him and held fast for seconds longer than necessary. The hairs on the back of Sun’s neck stood on end. This man was dangerous. 

“Yes we did, thank you,” Carla said, her hands in her lap, either to stop herself fiddling with the cutlery or because it was the right thing to do, Sun couldn’t decide.

“Excellent,” The masked man said, “We will begin shortly.”

The man padded away as quietly as he had arrived. Sun watched him from the corner of his eye until he disappeared from view. One of the old Vegas gangs had been chewed up and spat out into-- whatever that was. Sun knew as much because the same offer had been made to the Khans. An offer laughed at as if Mr House had offered them but one brahmin. How little they all knew. 

White Glove Society was what Carla had called them. There were no such White Glove Societies back in the Khan's time. Not even Manny knew who they were supposed to be, and Sun was pretty sure he was the noisiest man in the city. If they eluded the sharp eyes of one of the Khan's best young snipers that meant they were hiding something. 

The back of his neck still tingled, and Sun could only resist the urge to turn around for so long. The Vegas wars were barely over. Only what, a few months? The spot where his finger used to be burnt. He’d lost that in the war. Maimed by the enemy , Papa Khan had said. By an enemy Sun did not know the face of. He peered over his shoulder in the direction the masked man had left. There were at least three identical men on the opposite side of the room, each sweeping between tables with silent ease, none of whom Sun believed to be the one they’d just spoken to.

He knew he should never have agreed to this. These people were his enemy not six months ago and now he was letting them serve him food. How many masked men were soldiers in House’s army? How many had killed Khans in his name? The Silther Kin led the charge, but the Boot Riders got their digs in too. Not knowing who the White Gloves used to be made them even more a threat. 

A warm hand on his thigh immediately provided a pleasant distraction from the strange men in masks. Sun tucked a lock of hair behind his ear as he turned his gaze towards Manny, smiling in a way he knew was coy.

“You look good in a suit, babe,” Manny said in a low voice, his syrupy brown eyes peering out under those thick eyelashes. 

Sun hated the suit. But he loved the attention. 

“So do you,” Sun replied in a whisper, “How long ‘til we can get out of them?”

“Let's at least try the food, how bad can it be?” 

“Lotta caps, huh?” 

Manny’s lips twisted, “A whole damn paycheck, mama’s gonna kill me.”

Sun snorted a laugh, “Maybe we should swipe a few forks, make up the cash.”

“Melt ‘em down for the silver, pawn ‘em off. Hey, that’s a good idea,” Manny joked.

“They’ve got enough of ‘em.”

Manny picked up the fork closest to him and spun it between his fingers. Sun saw Carla glare at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I got us a room too,” Manny said.

“A room?”

“Hotel,” Manny glanced up at the ceiling, pointing with his eyes, “Upstairs.”

“How long are you planning on staying?”

“The night, maybe?” 

Sun frowned, “Hey, this is cute and all but I’m not staying after dark.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“We don’t even know who these guys are.”

“The other two were after you guys, it’s all good,” Manny said, tossing the fork back on the table with a noisy clang, “And I’ll be here.”

“Manny, I'm not staying on the Strip,” Sun said, trying to keep his voice even and quiet, “You know I can’t.”

“You don’t have to stay the night,” Manny’s hand squeezed his thigh, “C’mon, I need to get the she-demon back for keeping me up all night last week.”

Sun rolled his eyes. Of course, it all came back to her. He was getting bored. Bored of this place and bored of Manny and bored of Manny’s shit. Sun did not care about Carla and he did not care about whatever spat Manny had with her. This was a dangerous place for him to be as a Khan, and to be used to annoy a woman he had no quarrel with felt like Manny didn't care about the sacrifices it took to get here. He shifted his heel and shook Manny’s hand from his leg.