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Although Arcade didn't often venture out of the Old Mormon Fort, he still had to live in Freeside. He still went for walks, now and then, around the little community, and knew most of everybody who hung around. Mick and Ralph, he knew quite well, the King and his gang members were almost impossible to miss, and the folks at the Atomic Wrangler seemed to be the same ones, every time he went by there. He noticed the occasional tourist come to lose all their money on the strip, new people who'd come in and out to donate medical supplies to the Followers. Though he wasn't much of a people person, sometimes he would help treat patients, when the influx became too much for the regular doctors to handle.
There was one visitor, as of late, who stumped him, however. A man (he presumed) who was very skinny and frail looking, kept his face mostly covered at all times, and wore the type of clothes that very much looked like he'd plucked them out of a bin labelled 'disguises'. There was something noticeably off about him, just as a whole.
It was on one of these days where Arcade was out for a stroll among the streets of Freeside, streets too dangerous for such a leisurely act, that he noticed, from afar, that very same visitor he'd been keeping an eye out for. His clothes, loose and unusually baggy for a man his size, hung awkwardly off his limbs, his hat pulled far down over his face. The way he walked, seemingly anxious, looking over his shoulder every so often, glancing at his own shadow every so often, before looking away with a sort of scowl on his face, like he didn't like what he saw.
Though the prospect of talking with another person, especially one of the Freeside crowd who was no doubt bound to be high off something or completely incoherent, was not appealing to him, Arcade found himself watching the stranger, carefully. There was something off putting about him, and something, at the same time, his medical curiosity was drawn in by.
He made the typical rounds of Freeside, absentmindedly following the stranger around. There really wasn't anything special about him, from what Arcade could see. He wasn't stumbling, even, and he wasn't anxious about the environment, specifically, by the way he moved. He barely looked up, when people passed by him, and he didn't twitch at the typical sounds of Freeside - gunfire, sudden drunken yelling, or members of the Kings talking loudly to eachother, patrolling the streets, their voices laughably similar. The man didn't seem to notice any of it. He was lost in his own mind, anxious about something invisible, something Arcade couldn't begin to guess.
Strange. He didn't seem to notice Arcade following him, either. Very strange.
After following him for a long while, watching him anxiously move about the streets, without being able to determine what he was so anxious about, Arcade finally determined that he was being a creep. His burning desire to figure out what was making the guy tick had not diminished - if anything, it burned brighter than before. But, now this was just too far. He certainly wouldn't like it if some guy he didn't know stalked him through the streets of somewhere he wasn't familiar with. Yeesh. What was he thinking?
Arcade, when he had walked as far as Cerulean Robotics, just quietly, slowly trailing the mystery man, turned right back around. Truthfully, he was a little ashamed of himself. Stalking a stranger was not the behaviour of a member of the Followers of The Apocalypse. It might've been normal in his previous organization, but not here. He had been disgustingly open about the way he conducted himself, too - if the stranger didn't know he'd been followed, it would be a miracle.
Arcade shook his head to himself, as he walked. This part of Freeside wasn't especially familiar to him, though the usual cracked roads and ruined sidewalks were consistent with the rest of the area. The grass was growing in, slowly, on the boulevards still brown and half dead from the lack of water. One day, it could be green again - based on Arcade's best guess from studying adaptation and biology, however, that day would be long after he was gone.
This street felt.. unusually quiet, for Freeside. Arcade was about halfway down the road, in the dim light of the evening, and he slowed, his head tilted up, like he was appreciating the sight of the moon in the sky, just barely visible, though the sun hadn't set. He was keeping his ears alert - Arcade felt like there were eyes tracking his every move, that somehow he was now the one being followed.
It was rather unnerving, to say the least. He remembered being taught what to do if you were being followed, back in his much younger years. Keep walking the same speed, don't turn back, and take an odd path, acting as calm as you possibly can about it, to eventually have the opportunity to go on the offensive.
Offense wasn't exactly an option, here. This was simply a taste of his own medicine. Plus, he shouldn't have been thinking about this as he was told to do by a fascist organization, by definition always on the offensive.
Arcade snapped his head around to look behind him, disregarding his teaching. He expected to see a head poking out from behind a corner, or to hear somebodies fast steps, dashing for cover. Instead.. he felt a bone chilling unease wash over him. There was nothing. Nothing, and nobody. Not even a stray squatter, or a typical local junkie; not even a crushed tin can, rolling down the street with the wind. There was no wind.
Something about the ice cold silence felt deadly, the stillness of the broken streets quietly terrifying. Like everyone else had the sense to run to safety, while a predator lurked near. A dangerous one, clearly. Arcade's breathing caught in his throat, as he stared at the empty street.
Arcade looked ahead, then nervously looked back, paranoid. A feeling of unease had swallowed him whole, still feeling as though there were eyes staring holes into him. From above? Behind? Maybe even in front of him - Arcade didn't want to stick around to find out. Fuck going on the offensive, or sticking around any longer. Thankful he was still physically fit, at least somewhat, Arcade took off as fast as he could, sprinting the short distance back to the Old Mormon Fort. The unease and feeling of danger didn't lift from his shoulders, not even when he crashed through the doors of the Fort, quickly shutting them behind him.
Arcade panted, for a moment, leaning there against the door. Some of his fellows gave him an odd look, but didn't pay much attention beyond that. His eyes landed on Beatrix, sitting by the door, as usual. He quickly moved over to her, taking the empty seat next to her, sitting with his eyes to the doors he'd just rushed through. He sat, arms by his sides, staring blankly, catching his breath.
She looked at him sideways, chuckling. "What's wrong, kid?"
Arcade couldn't think of a way to answer, other than looking at her, then back at the doors. "Uh.." He murmured, his head nervously snapping back and forth. "Nothing.. tangible."
"Oh, yeah?" She tilted her head, looking at the door, then back at him. "You look scared outta your skull, kid."
"I.. uh, felt like I was being, uh.. followed." He quietly said, blushing in embarrassment. He probably sounded just like the junkies did around here, paranoid and overdramatic.
"Really?" She asked, staring at his face for a few moments until she determined he wasn't lying. "Huh. Wonder who'd do that, 'round here."
"Oh, well, I'm sure it could've just been my imagination getting the best of me.." Arcade nervously laughed, his eyes darting down to check his holstered weapon. "Maybe. Probably."
"Kid, let me tell ya somethin'. If you had a feeling so strong, you came crashing through the doors, sprinting as fast as you could, it was probably a right feeling. But you're safe now, mmkay?" Beatrix reached over and pat his shoulder. "I gotcha, kid."
The unease didn't completely go away, with that, but Arcade felt his muscles relax, anyway. "Thanks." He murmured, his voice a little weak from the idea she was right - he really had been followed.
***
That night, it took a long time for Arcade to fall asleep. He was still uneasy, from the day. Maybe it was just the guilt of stalking that poor man hanging over his head - he had no call to do that. More annoyingly, he didn't even have a satisfying diagnostic answer. Whatever was causing the stranger's anxiety had been affecting him for far longer than he'd stalked him for. It would be nice to know what it was.. but he'd probably scared him off. Whatever.
His bedroom was a dark little nook, in the Old Mormon Fort. One bed and one lamp, on a rickety little nightstand with two drawers that were hardly sturdy enough to hold a damn thing. It was dusty, old.. quiet, peaceful, and out of the way. Nobody bothered him too much, back here. He even got a door.
Arcade suddenly awoke to the sound of a snap in his face, his eyes opening to the dim light of his lamp. A hand was clamped over his mouth - Arcade looked up, eyes wide. He was met with intense, but lovely, brown eyes, staring down at him, the hand belonging to a familiarly scrawny arm. That same sense of unease washed over him, the hand over his mouth much stronger than he'd expected. He watched his eyes, carefully. There was a sort of smirk on his face, looking at Arcade like a prime catch of fish.
"I will admit, Doctor Gannon." He smoothly, quietly started, letting his out of place smile creep into his voice. "When I first noticed you following me, I had to applaud you. You were rusty, to be sure, but I could recognize the techniques in you almost reminiscent of a trained espionage agent."
Arcade kept his face as stoic as he could, not daring to move an inch. He didn't exactly have the upper hand, at the moment. The man laughed at him.
"Don't be so frightened. I don't intend to harm you. This is simply.. a personal call, if you will, darling. It just so happens I've been looking for the chance to.. discreetly visit a doctor. Circumstances, you understand. If you do not, that is not my concern, as they're not relevant to the matter I wish to see you about, Doctor." The man watched Arcade process his words, and when he nodded, slowly began to release his hand from his mouth. "So.. lets trade, shall we? My silence about your stalking me, for your silence that any conversation between us ever took place."
Arcade took a moment to slowly sit up, cough, clearing his throat. He slowly nodded. "Okay.. depending on what you're wanting me to do here. Are you looking for a check up? Consultation? Some first aid?"
"Consultation. Or a diagnosis, if you can." The man shamelessly sat himself on the edge of Arcade's bed, right by his feet. "So long as you promise, this doesn't leave the room."
"I'm already bound by my Hippocratic Oath. Yes, I can promise you, this doesn't leave the room. That's kinda the point of it." Arcade nodded again, taking another look over the tall, scrawny man, looking over his baggy clothes, his pale skin. "So.. ahem, what seems to be the problem?"
This time, the stranger, who'd seemed largely self confident and comfortable in his domineering role, sat back, trying to think for a moment of the right words to say. "I.. feel constantly.. wrong, somehow. Not to say that I do wrong, or that I believe that I shouldn't be alive, but that I, myself, am wrong."
"Wrong." Arcade repeated, nodding his head. "Okay. This sounds odd, but I was following you because you looked consistently uncomfortable. But you weren't affected by the environment. Not the gunshots, not the people on drugs, not the broken roads.. you kept glancing at your shadow, and scowling like you didn't like what you were seeing. Is that what you mean? Are you uncomfortable with your own self image?"
The stranger vigorously nodded. "Yes, exactly. I just.. am wrong, somehow, and it doesn't make any sense to me. I feel the need to wear bulky outfits that cover up my body, and my face, uncovered, is just.. and my, ahem.. pelvic.. region, is something I detest being visible. There is only one outfit I've ever worn that feels remotely tolerable."
"Which is?" Arcade tilted his head, gesturing with his hand for the stranger to go on.
The stranger hesitated before going on. "..a red dress. Kind of. It's padded to fit nicely around my hips."
Arcade nodded again. "And that is the only thing you can wear that you don't mind other people seeing you in?"
"Yes.. I suppose so." The stranger nodded.
"So long as you're covering your hair and face?" Arcade continued, and the stranger nodded. "And if somebody is looking at you.. and they see your legs, your skirt, and can't quite see your face or your hair, you feel most comfortable? Does being tall and, no offense, pretty bony and skinny bother you, too?"
"Not while I'm wearing that.. ah, dress. Other times, yes, being so unmistakable is.. unpleasant."
Arcade nodded. "Unmistakable. Okay, unmistakable as what? We're getting somewhere."
"Unmistakable as.. myself, I suppose. I don't know what to say to that. Being perceived, perhaps?" The stranger didn't seem to be putting the pieces together.
"From what you're describing, you seem to be saying that you're most uncomfortable when your masculine features are being perceived. Your jawline, your hair, your.. ahem, pelvic region. And you seem to be most comfortable when your feminine features are accentuated." Arcade had fascination in his eyes, wheels turning in his mind. "Would it make you uncomfortable if I called you a handsome man? Or a muscular man?"
The stranger twitched, his face grimacing in discomfort, but he didn't respond. "What's the diagnosis?" He simply demanded, glaring silently at Arcade.
"Well.." Arcade shrugged. "I've never heard a more textbook case of gender dysphoria, except maybe from an actual textbook."
"Gender dysphoria?" The stranger quizzically repeated.
Arcade nodded. "The most effective treatment would be to start living as a woman. Your brain perceiving yourself as a woman is causing your discomfort with your body, and being externally perceived as a woman would solve your discomfort with.. well, being perceived, by yourself, and society."
The stranger silently stared him dead in the eyes, their expression intense, like they were trying to convince themselves Arcade was lying. They looked almost hurt, in a way, like he'd insulted them. Their hands clenched at their sides. "Do you want to try again?"
"Try again?" Arcade frowned. "Do you have more you'd like to add to what you said? Because with the information you've given me, that's my final diagnosis. You are a woman. Or, a different gender than strictly male, rather. Congratulations. You can try a new name, more feminine clothing, getting on estrogen or progesterone.."
"Congratulations?" The stranger's face grew red, their eyes losing any sense of warmth. Arcade stared at them, unsure what to say, not understanding what was wrong, getting nervous. They looked unreasonably angry. "You.. you're lying to me! Tell me the truth!" They harshly demanded.
"You asked for a diagnosis! I don't see how anything else could.. gah!" Arcade grabbed the stranger's deceptively strong hand as it settled around his throat. Always the cocky bastard, Arcade actually managed to smirk at him, while he panted for breath. "Your reaction tells me.. I'm right. You just.. hnngh.. d-don't like it.. get the fuck off me, you fuckin.. fuck!" He gasped, as he managed to rip the strangers hand from his throat.
He swiftly backed up, pressing himself against the wall behind the bed, and actually had time to grab for his plasma defender while the stranger stared angrily at him, apparently still processing. "Get out." Arcade panted, aiming the weapon at their head. "That's my final answer. Get out right now, and nobody will find out you were ever here. You already snuck in here, and I didn't say anything, but I won't put up with this shit. So, out. Now."
"Fine." The stranger sneered at him, angrily getting up and hurriedly breaking for the door.
"Oh.. you know I'm not wrong, don't you?" Arcade reasoned, as he watched the stranger bristle with rage, but remain silent, unable to deny a word of it. "Why are you so angry? You finally have an answer. You're a grown adult, there should be nobody to prevent you from living as a grown woman."
"Tace, aut iugulari te faciam." The stranger sneered at him, their accent somehow finally very recognizable. 'Shut up, or I'll slit your throat'. Legion! Arcade recognized them all at once; this was Vulpes Inculta.
Before he could say another word, they darted away, slamming his door behind them, no longer caring about being quiet. Arcade could hear their heavy steps as they sprinted away, leaving him in the darkness of his room, plasma defender in his shaky hand. The blood in his veins had turned ice cold, and he sat, facing the door, knees pulled to his chest.
He must've remained there, guarding his own door, for what felt like hours, his heart beating out of his chest the whole time. Holy shit, holy shit.. no wonder he'd felt like he'd been stalked by the grim reaper. A man.. or, a woman, he guessed, like that was bound to send a cold chill down anyone's spine.
Arcade grappled with the thought, for a brief moment, that he'd unknowingly aided someone who self identified to a profoundly evil organization. But, then again, it didn't matter so much. He doubted Vulpes would simply stop committing atrocities, like their recent one in Nipton - just that maybe they'd choose to go by Missus Fox, next time. Who knew.
When Arcade could see sunlight peeking through the door, and began to hear the sounds of other Followers moving about the Fort, preparing for the day, he put his weapon down. Who knew how many hours he'd been awake.. he certainly didn't want to count. Arcade settled right back into the pillows and closed his eyes, putting a pillow over his head to muffle the noises around him. Who gave a fuck about his research.. after what he'd been through, he needed to sleep.