falloutkinkmeme_backup | Fallout Kink Meme Part IV: Closed to prompts, open for fills.

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Fallout Kink Meme Part IV: Closed to prompts, open for fills.

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Her hair, Charon realized as they headed towards the bar, had been left messy to hide part of her face. He could still see the ragged line that ran across her mouth, but she seemed to feel better with her eye and collarbone covered, so he let it be.

At the front door, Elle stopped and Charon almost ran into her.

“Is everything okay?” he asked hesitantly.

She didn’t respond at first and seemed to be bracing herself. When she spoke, her voice was shaky.

“Yeah, I just… needed a minute.”

Then she pushed through the door. The bar was packed with its typical late-night crowd. Elle didn’t seem to have expected this, and she froze in the doorway.

Charon placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“We don’t have to stay.”

Elle shook her head and walked forward, heading for an empty barstool in the corner. Charon followed and took his usual place at her side, leaning against the wall. He eyed the crowd for anyone checking her out, but thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed their arrival. Gob was the only one to spot her, and Charon realized at once that he had to warn him in some way before he made a mistake.

Gob was wiping the counter down as he sidled over, so Charon couldn’t get his attention until it was too late.

“Hey Elle, what can I get-”

Gob’s voice hitched as he looked up and took in her appearance. His forehead creased in concern and Charon knew that he was about to make a comment, so he stopped him with a quick shake of his head.

“-you?” Gob finished lamely. He made a valiant effort, but Elle had noticed.

“Just a beer, please,” she muttered, her shoulders hunching up towards her ears.

Charon shut his eyes and let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Great. It had taken Elle days to work up the confidence to even leave the house, and the first person she encountered tore it right back down.

Gob set a bottle on the counter in front of her and scooped up the small pile of caps before hurrying away. Charon watched as he approached Nova’s side and whispered into her ear, stealing a glance back in their direction. Charon couldn’t read their lips but he could imagine their conversation all too well.

“Don’t look now, but Elle’s got a nasty scar across her face. Haven’t seen her in a few days. Hope she’s okay,” he imagined Gob saying. Nova, of course, couldn’t help herself and looked over her shoulder towards the bar. Her eyes widened at seeing the scar in question, but Elle was staring glumly into her beer bottle and didn’t notice.

“Don’t say anything,” Gob warned her, but Nova shot him a look.

“Well no shit,” Nova hissed, folding her arms across her chest. When she glanced at Elle again, however, her face had softened with pity, “Poor girl.”

Charon clenched his fists angrily. Poor girl, they didn’t know the half of it. The attack didn’t just leave a physical scar, it had nearly killed her and he was sure she’d show some signs of emotional trauma when they eventually headed back into the wasteland. A near-death experience would traumatize anyone, let alone someone with a bodyguard who thought they were safe.

Guilt began to rise in his stomach, but before he could start feeling sick from it, Charon realized that people had started noticing Elle in the corner. They first spotted Nova and Gob whispering to each other, then their eyes followed the sight line to Elle.

The raucous peals of laughter faded away gradually and were replaced with muttered conversations as more and more people stared at them. Whether or not Elle had noticed, Charon didn’t know but he wanted to get her out of the bar as soon as possible.

“Hey, let’s get out of here…” he muttered, urging her gently from the barstool. Elle complied without a word. So she had noticed.

They were almost to the door, feeling eyes on their backs, when a loud voice stopped them.

“Jesus Christ, Elle, the fuck happened to your face?”

Elle froze with her hand on the door, and Charon was about to take her by the shoulders and make her continue walking when the voice spoke up again.

“Ain’t so pretty anymore, huh? Damn shame, I’ll have to take you off my list…”

Charon didn’t think twice. He spun around and threw his elbow into Jericho’s throat, pinning him to the wall. The bar had gone silent apart from the man’s gasping and sputtering.

“Why so defensive, zombie? That bitch on your list too?” Jericho gasped as his fingers scrabbled at Charon’s arm.

Charon had expected Elle to scream at him to stop by now, but he heard a sob and a bang and realized she had run out the door. His heart plummeted but he turned his attention back to Jericho as a feeble kick connected with his shin.

“Come near her again and I’ll fucking kill you,” he snarled before slamming his fist into Jericho’s nose.

There was a sickening crunch before the man dropped to the floor, blood pouring from between his fingers as he clutched at his face. Someone gasped, but Charon wasn’t waiting around for the consequences. The sight of the blood had conjured up the memory of Elle’s lifeless body beneath the towering Deathclaw, and Charon’s vision began to blur around the edges. Jericho’s pathetic whimpering sounded muffled in his ears. He needed to get out.

Charon ran out the door, letting it slam behind him, and headed for the house. She had to be there. He couldn’t imagine her being anywhere else right now.

Sure enough, when he opened the door, he found Elle on the stairs. She was curled up against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees and her face hidden.

“Elle?” he tried, but she didn’t move.

He approached cautiously and lowered himself onto the stairs beside her. Charon placed a gentle hand on her back, glad that she didn’t shrug it away. This whole comforting thing was new to him. He had no idea what she wanted to hear, but luckily, she spoke before he had to come up with something.

“He’s right,” she said, her voice muffled, “It’s so ugly. No one’s going to want me. Not even Jericho, and he’d fuck a Super Mutant if it was wearing enough lipstick.”

Charon chuckled in spite of himself, but stopped quickly when Elle’s body began to shake with new sobs.

“Elle, you’re so much more than that,” he murmured, and began to rub small circles into her back. “Someone is going to fall in love with you, regardless of a scar.”

Someone already has.

“They’d be ridiculous not to.”

Elle raised her head. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, but she was looking at him with a peculiar expression. Charon swallowed hard, wondering if he had said too much, but she continued to let him rub her back.

“Let’s get out of here. Go on the roof. We’ve been in the house too long,” he said decidedly. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but the house felt too depressing to continue the conversation.

Elle nodded and raised her arms, a silent request for him to help her to her feet. She looked so small curled up on the stairs, and a wave of protectiveness overcame him. She was battered and broken; he was supposed to protect her. He was the only one she was letting in, and he needed to do something about it.

Charon reached past her outstretched hands to slide an arm behind her back and another under her knees, and with a yelp from Elle, he lifted her and stood in one smooth motion. She quickly latched onto his neck, and Charon felt a surge of pride when he looked down and saw that she was smiling from ear to ear.

Carrying her close to his chest, he kicked open the front door and headed to the side of the house. A few weeks ago, they had stacked half a dozen crates in a way that gave them access to the roof. It was Elle’s idea; after nineteen years in a vault, she confided in him that she wanted to see the stars as often as possible.

Charon carefully climbed the makeshift staircase, making sure to hold Elle securely against him. When he reached the flattest part of the roof, where it had been reinforced to hold their weight, he set her down gently. He noticed, before she stepped back, that her arms lingered around his neck for a moment longer than needed.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, with an uncharacteristically shy smile.

She walked to the edge of the roof where she sat and let her legs dangle. Charon joined her, watching as she fiddled with the Pip-Boy on her wrist. He would never figure out how to work the device, but after a few seconds, the soft sound of the radio began to play. Elle slid the Pip-Boy from her arm and set it behind her before leaning her head against Charon’s shoulder.

“I broke his nose,” Charon said after a minute or so. Elle lifted her head to look at him with wide eyes. He continued casually, “Two black eyes and a smashed nose? Yeah, no one’s going to get in bed with him for a while.”

Elle’s face split into a grin before she leaned into him again.

“Damn, and he was such a looker, too.”

He was making her smile. Finally, he didn’t feel so useless.

There were a few more minutes of silence as they sat there, listening to Three Dog share the day’s news while they watched late-night stragglers wander through town back to their homes.

“And now, it’s time for a nice slow one, for all you lovers out there tonight,” the DJ crooned before the next song’s violin opening began.

“I say I’ll move the mountains

And I’ll move the mountains

If he wants them out of the way…”

Charon wanted to make her smile again. He got to his feet and extended a hand to Elle, a strange electric courage coursing through his veins.

“Dance with me?”

The request hung in the air between them as the music continued to play. Elle’s eyebrows knit together in confusion as she looked at his outstretched hand.

“I didn’t take you for much of a dancer,” she said, a hint of a smile appearing on her lips.

“It’s been a while,” Charon shrugged. That was a bit of an understatement.

Elle took his hand and stood up. He pulled her gently towards the center of the roof before placing his other hand on her waist. She rested her palm against his chest as they began to twirl slowly to the beat of the music.

“Crazy, he calls me

Sure I’m crazy

Crazy in love, I’d say”

Elle had gotten closer as they moved. She took her hand from his and stretched her arms around his neck. With her head now resting on his chest, Charon feared she could feel his heart pounding. The last time they had been this close was before the attack. He wondered what would happen this time.

“Did you mean what you said?” she asked quietly. “About someone falling in love with me?”

There was no point in avoiding it any longer. He had broken a man’s nose defending her feelings and they were slow-dancing under the stars. If she didn’t figure it out soon, she never would. On top of that, almost getting killed outside their front door had given Charon a new gratefulness for every day that he was with her.

“Elle, you are the most amazing girl I’ve met in the two hundred years I’ve been on this earth.”

She looked up at him, doe eyes shining in the moonlight.

“You are kind-hearted and giving and everything that this miserable wasteland doesn’t have. You can gun down Super Mutants three times your size and blow off raiders’ heads in cold fury, but you’ll drop everything to help someone who needs it. You’ve done some incredible things without ever asking for anything in return.”

“Charon, I-” she started, but he kept going. The words had been bottled up inside of him for so long now that he didn’t think he could stop even if he tried, now that the dam was broken.

“You’ve shown me kindness that I didn’t think I deserved or would ever see again.”

Charon raised his hand and gently traced his thumb along the scar on her forehead.

“And you’re so beautiful, Elle, god you’re so beautiful. Scars, bruises, nothing is going to change that.”

He slid his fingers down to stroke her cheek and he could feel the heat there. Elle breathed his name, but he barely heard it. Nothing existed anymore but her. He felt like he was moving in slow motion and yet everything was happening so quickly. The fingers on the back of his neck tensed as she pulled him gently down towards her. At the same time, Charon moved his hand from her waist to her lower back.

Elle’s eyelids fluttered closed, and before Charon could think about what it would mean for them, he closed the distance and kissed her.

Hi all - this is happening so fast! I wish I was updating slower, only because writing has been my coping mechanism since the flood and I didn't want this fic to be associated with a tragedy. For more information, see the past chapter's notes. Thank you all for supporting me during this incredibly difficult time. My parents had to go apply for food stamps today and it's been heartbreaking to see having to do what they've worked my entire life to avoid. If you can spare anything, please donate to the EC Partnership to help everyone who was affected by the flood.

Thank you again for reading, and don't worry, we're almost there :)

I'm dying at this hilarity. Thank you for sharing, anon!!

She's two turns from the slaughterhouse when the man pushes off the wall, steps into her path, and makes it clear she's supposed to stop.

“It’s been a long time, Lucia,” Cloelius says, grins wide and easy.

“I’m on my way to work,” she says, doesn't look at him, doesn't look at anything.

“Why are you back?” he asks, steps forward, turns as she does so he stands at her side. He drapes his arm across her shoulders and she fights to keep from going stiff under him.

“Because my last job ran out,” she says, voice neutral.

“Did you fuck it up?” he asks, starts walking without removing his arm, steers her into the nearest house, his house.

“No,” Lucinda replies.

“Good,” he says. “Because you owe me, and if you fucked it up you owe me even bigger.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” Lucinda says. Cloelius kicks the door shut behind them, and it thunks shut. Lucinda tries to focus on her knives--bowie strapped to her leg under her boot, pocket knife tucked into her bra. Still tries not to recoil from the arm over her shoulders.

“I’d say you do.” He stops, turns, puts his hands on both of Lucinda's shoulders, looks her in the eye. Keeps his mouth and eyes soft, his eyebrows raised, looks like a disappointed father when he speaks. He stinks like sweat, like he hasn’t bathed in too many days. If they weren’t having this conversation, if it was five years ago, maybe she wouldn’t mind. Now it just sticks in the back of her throat. “I got you that job, and you owe me for that.”

“I didn't ask for the job,” Lucinda replies, looks him in the eye. Can he feel the hatred? Has he heard the rumors? Does he believe the rumors?

“Sure you did. I thought you hated this place and your husband.”

“But I didn't ask for you to get me sent away.” She takes a step back, finally, shakes him off, bares her teeth, and crosses her arms over her chest. She inclines her chin, looks down her nose at him even though he's taller. One of the floorboards gives under her toe, how long until it gives permanently and he goes through the floor? It’s what he deserves, after this. “I didn't ask you to do anything for me, so I don’t owe you anything in return.”

“I gave you that opportunity because I thought you wanted it.” He takes a step closer, pulls himself to his full height, and Lucinda takes another step back. Something animal and loud blares a warning in the back of her skull, and she can feel her face twitch before she goes still again “I thought you said you wanted out of this dog-stench hole of a city, and away from your dog-stench husband and too many people crammed in your house and away from everything here. I gave you a way out.” He steps closer, and Lucinda steps back again, finds herself pinned against the counter without enough space between them for comfort, can feel the same animal fear burning its way up her throat, clawing out through her hands so she wants to gouge at his yes, kick him in the balls, start running until she’s free of this city again.

“I owe you nothing,” she snarls, instead of giving in to the impulse. “I’d owe you if I asked, but you gave it as a gift. I don't owe you for something I didn't ask for.”

“I risked my career for a way to get you out, and now this is how you act? Maybe I should tell your husband who you’ve been fucking behind his back.”

“Drag your own name through the mud?” Lucinda replies, voice quiet. Is that a threat to him? It would be a threat to anyone else, but he’s already leveraged it as a threat against her. “Cloelius, who decided to use another man’s property without permission.”

“Oh, no.” he leans in. “I know you fucked others. Holy shit, with a little work I could probably dig up a whole list.” He steps back, then, half-sits on the table and crosses his arms over his chest. “I bet everyone would believe me, too.”

“They probably would,” Lucinda agrees. What does she lose, if he drags her name through the mud? The Legion already wants her on a cross, wants her team dead, wants everyone to see what happens when a woman steps out of line. Called her Minerva on the coin, drag who she really is through the muck, crucify her, destroy the coins and--print someone else on them. Strix, probably, since he was there too, the pure and incorruptible man to her eminently corruptible woman.

“I can pull some strings,” he says. His shoulders loosen up, and she can see the play for what it is. How he looks is all relative to how he did look. “I can keep you out of prison and off a cross.”

“I don’t owe you anything and I don't want to owe you anything.” She knows herself, though, is already planning what she would do, what she could do with further freedom, knows that she could get--

No.

She needs to leave here, needs to get back to the rest of the team, get them on their way so they can get as far as they can before this comes back around to them too.

“You're an ungrateful little--”

“Don’t insult me,” she snaps, considers for half a moment before she steps into his space, instead of shrinking--curls her hands into fists at her aides, squares her shoulders, tilted her chin up. Makes herself bigger, more, the way Old Vulture taught her after teaching her to shrink. “I’m not the one who’s stuck in this dog-shit town even with connections high up in the chain of command, am I?”

“Well you are now,” he snaps, mirrors her own posture back--fists curled, shoulders square, but his bottom lip stuck out in that almost-pout, face crumpled like a child who just had their favorite toy taken away. Can she keep him on the defensive? Even if she can, she's going to be late for work. Anatolia will understand, though.

“How long do you think they can hold me?” she asks, lowers her voice. He’s never seen her do this, never seen her get mean. He still thinks she's going to roll over and beg for him. “If the NCR rangers can't hold me, what makes you think this dog-shit town can?”

“We want you deader than the NCR does,” he snorts. “And were better at killing.”

They do, and they are, and she knows both as facts.

“And you think that will keep me here?” she asks. She leaves it at that, steps around him, and the table, and walks towards the door.

He watches her go.

***

She's one turn from the slaughterhouse, smell of meat and blood in the air, when she recognizes Strix.

He still has the dog, lying obediently at his feet, watching the street. She doesn't even react when Lucinda turns around the corner. Lucinda gives no indication of recognition either, doesn't want to disturb dog or handler and have to wriggle her way out of this conversation too.

She ducks into a back alley, decides to take the long way around.

She’s laughing with Mila--Legion-named “Octavia”--when the three legionaries step through the door and start looking for Anatolia. Anatolia intercepts them three steps in, before they're anywhere near any of the rest of the women, and especially the girls, at the far end of the line.

Everyone goes carefully quiet--not silent, silent looks like you're guilty, but quiet like they're being polite. Maintain the facade in front of the legionaries, just in case one might catch on. If one catches on, someone--no guarantees who, or why--will end up in trouble, and trouble is the last thing they need.

She keeps her head down, glances at Mila to her right and Soledad--Lucretia--to her left. Both of them are intent on their work, eyes straight ahead, mouths unquirked, but their heads tilted just so to catch any snatch of conversation they can.

“Lucia,” Mila says, when the legionaries break from Anatolia, who bustles after them, scanning the line. “They're here for you. Good things lead your way, bad things fall behind.” She doesn't look up from the meat she’s cutting.

“Thank you,” Lucinda says, keeps her head down, bites her bottom lip as a chunk of tendon refuses to cut easy. Tries to look absorbed in her work as four sets of footsteps approach.

“Lucia,” a man says, snaps his fingers at her. His voice is deep, she doesn't recognize him, and when she turns to follow his command, she sees his head is shaved like a new acquisition, his cheeks hollow like he's been hungry too long. New legionary, probably. Some man finally judged loyal enough to do… whatever he’s going to do.

She doesn't say anything, and no one else says any more. she doesn't recognize either of the men flanking her, now, either--they look like they've been loyal longer, even though they're younger, barely more than boys. Raised to it, most likely, born loyal. They’re maybe a year or two older than Aeliana’s oldest.

Anatolia stands in the doorway as they leave, circles under her eyes more prominent than ever.

They march her down the street, and after they pass the first block--a half dozen women peer out from behind curtains, a dozen men standing in the street, talking, a handful of children too small for responsibilities playing in the gutters--after the first block, dozens of pairs of eyes studying her, she raises her chin, sets her shoulders back, strides instead of just walking.

The women stop watching, only cast glances before looking away.

They know it's a gallows-walk too.

“Strip,” the deep-voiced legionary orders, settles behind the ugly painted-metal , pre-war desk. The two younger men lean against the wall behind him, and one pulls out a pocket knife and proceeds to flip it open and closed. Deep Voice doesn't look as she unbuttons her dress, steps out of it, stands in her undershirt and legging. He glances up when there's no further noise of fabric hitting the floor. “Naked,” he clarifies. “One of you, get her something else to wear.”

The legionary not playing with a knife pushes off the wall, opens a locker, tosses a rough canvas tunic at her. It feels like it might have been a potato sack, once. She pulls it on, says nothing.

“All your belongings will be removed from your husband's possession and redistributed, including your most recent clothing and anything your…” He hesitates, squints at his paper. “Anything your contubernium holds for you. You’ll hang on a cross as soon as we have the paperwork in order.” He shuffles a few papers, looks her in the eye.”If you're a praying sort, start now. You don't have more than a week to start begging someone for forgiveness.” He waves at his two subordinates, and they herd her away from Deep Voice.

She refuses to drop eye contact with him, says nothing, keeps her lips pressed close.

The cell is re-walled in adobe, with a bench against one wall and a bucket against the other. Down the hall, there are another five cells on her side--two with people, the other three empty-- and six on the other side-- all empty.

The people in the other cells are quiet, and Lucinda says nothing when the two legionaries lock her in.

The legionaries leave, and lock another, more solid door behind them.

The hall is silent for a long, long few seconds.

“What did they put you here for?” a voice far down the hall asks. Old, feminine, tired.

“Got too good at my job,” Lucinda replies, leans her shoulders and chest into the bars. She studies the cell across from hers. The floor is stained like someone ignored the bucket and shit on the floor instead. It's not pretty.

“Didn't we all,” says a different voice-- male, younger, less tired.

“Also fucked a couple men who weren't my husband.” she sighs, pats through her hair to check for bobby pins. Usually she keeps them in her pocket, or clipped onto the band of her bra, but neither of those would work now.

“Were they any good?” the old woman asks, laughs.

“Until he started blackmailing me, the one was halfway decent. The other wasn't.”

The old woman laughs, the man is quiet.

“You have a name, girl?”

“Call me Lucia.”

“You're one of the dog wives, aren't you? I recognize that name.”

“I'm a frumentarius and a tribal, don’t call me a wife,” Lucinda replies. There are no bobby pins in her hair. She starts considering how she’ll be removed from the cell. Probably the same way she was brought in, but with a lot more pomp and circumstance.

“Of course, my apologies,” the old woman says. She doesn’t apologize more, or sound miffed at the correction. Small mercies.

“What about you?” Lucinda asks.

“NCR,” the woman replies.

“How deep did you get?” Lucinda asks.

“Too deep to be allowed to live.”

Lucinda snorts, reaches one arm out of the bars. She can’t stretch even halfway across the hall. She didn't expect to be able to.

“What are they gonna do to you?” Lucinda asks.

“Cross, if they’re feeling mean, hard labor if they're feeling kind. You?”

“Cross.” She doesn't qualify it. That's her only option, here, outside of escape.

“How long did they give you?” the woman asks.

“A week.” She pulls her arm back into the cell, starts pacing. It’s not enough space, and she doesn't have a window. She misses her bird, wants to run her fingers over her feathers, scratch under her chin, watch her roll through the dirt trying to open a toy capsule to get at the cricket inside. “He told me to start praying.”

“Do you pray?” the old woman asks.

“Not to any god he’d recognize,” Lucinda replies. “And not any god that's done me any good so far.”

“So you don’t pray,” the man says.

“Got a girl I wanna get back to. Might pray to that.”

“Best thing to pray to,” the woman says. “Hope you get back to her.”

“Thanks,” Lucinda says, sighs, and retreats to the back wall of her cell. She settles on her bench, crosses her ankles, folds her arms across her chest, and starts studying the texture of the walls.

She wakes in the middle of the night, so cold she's shivering, and she folds herself as tightly as she can, clutches her arms across her chest and draws up her knees.

She doesn't sleep the rest of the night, stares at the concrete wall with wheels spinning in her mind. She runs the same thought in circles so many times she’s nearly nauseous by the time dawn breaks and a jailer swings open the door--creaky hinges, no good to sneak out of if she can make it out of the cell--and walks down the hall. She doesn’t roll over to look.

“Oh.”

The voice is soft, small, the voice of a girl. Lucinda still doesn't roll over, but hears the girl’s footsteps stop in front of her cell, hesitate, and then move on.

“How are you this morning?” she asks the man.

“I’m doing well enough, given the circumstances.” He sounds like he'd be winking at her. Fucking lech.

“That's good.” The girl’s words sound so painfully blank and forced they make Lucinda cringe. The man doesn’t seem to notice.

“How are you?” he asks, and Lucinda hears the bars creak like someone is leaning on them, and the girl take a step back across the hall. Lucinda rolls onto her shoulder, braces her hand on the edge of the bed, behind herself, so she doesn’t roll over all the way, unfolds one leg but keeps the other tucked up close. She stares at where the wall and the ceiling meet.

“I’m doing well,” the girl says, and there's the clink of a tin plate on the floor, and a thankful noise from the man, and the girl’s footsteps retreating further down the hallway.

“How are you?” Lucinda hears, tone more open, more interested, less polite and distant and more familiar and curious.

“Still alive,” the old woman says, and there's the sound of someone taking a tin plate, the shuffle of skin on metal.

“That’s all you can hope for, day to day.”

“Sure is,” the old woman agrees. “Is there any news from the men in charge?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then the old woman grunts. “I figured. Are the crosses still full?”

“I think one comes down today, and a couple more in three.”

“Which of us will hang first?” the old woman asks.

“I don't know,” the girl replies. The old woman hums.

“Thank you, at any rate. Good to know what's coming.”

There's another moment of silence, and then the girl returns back toward the door. Lucinda sits up as she gets closer, watches.

The girl stops in front of her cell.

“Sorry I don’t have any food for you,” she says. “They didn’t tell me last night that there were any new people, or I would have brought you some.”

“It’s alright,” Lucinda replies, tries to measure the girl more completely now that they're looking at each other. Plain, brown hair, brown eyes, maybe a little too thin. “As long as you’re not trying to starve me to death.”

“Oh, no, ma’am, the Legion doesn't starve its prisoners.”

Lucinda snorts.

“If you say so.” They may not starve prisoners but they will starve slaves, and now that she's here, that's all she is to anyone who has any power.

“I’ll bring you something at lunchtime, maybe a big meal if it's been awhile since you ate?” the girl sounds concerned, genuinely, like she missed the tone of Lucinda's response.

“A day or so,” Lucinda agrees. “I wouldn't mind a big meal.”

“I think my aunt is making stew, I’ll bring you some and maybe some bread, and bighorner cheese, and--”

“That would be plenty of food,” Lucinda murmurs. “I’m only here for a few days anyway.”

“How do you know?” the girl asks, casts a glance at the door. She looks fascinated. Maybe they've never paraded her in front of the crosses with the threat of “this is what happens to slaves who don't obey.” She was probably born to this, never needed the fear beaten into her.

“I’m too inconvenient,” Lucinda replies. “And the faster I die, the quicker things fall apart.”

“What did you do?” the girl asks, leans in.

“I’m the Courier,” Lucinda replies. “I’m the one that crippled the NCR.”

“Oh, wow,” the girl murmurs, eyes wide. It doesn't look like an act.

The man snorts.

“Do you think I’m lying?” Lucinda turns her head toward the wall, bares her teeth. He can't see, but he should be able to hear it in her voice. “What are you in for? Get too friendly with another man’s wife, and she outsmarted you, made it your fault? You need to act like you're the biggest, baddest one here because you ain’t done shit worth hanging you for?”

He’s silent, then.

“So what did you do?” Lucinda asks, laces it with a snarl.

“Tried to desert,” he says.

Lucinda snorts.

“Two deserters and a spy.”

“I thought you were loyal?” the girl says, tips her chin down, looks up at Lucinda, eyes full of concern.

“I'm not now,” Lucinda replies. “As of this moment, I’ve deserted.” She looks the girl in the eye, and the girl almost, almost blinks.

But she doesn’t.

Down the hall, the spy laughs.

“I didn't think I would ever hear a courier desert,” the spy says. “You folks have it pretty good, from how I’ve heard it.”

The moon has sunk below the horizon, Lucinda guesses, the guards gone silent out in the front room, the deserter asleep and snoring faintly, snorting once in awhile when his snores get too loud.

“It was nice,” Lucinda agrees. She digs her chin into her forearm, where it's wrapped across her knees. She watches the empty hall, keeps the entry door in her peripheral vision. “Born to something like it, hadn’t done it for…” she trails off, tries to do the math. “Almost eight years. I didn't realize how much I missed it until the blisters stopped. I hated it as a kid.”

“I never got the hang of it. Too much time alone.” There’s a rustle of fabric, like maybe the spy is shaking her head. “Always thought you folks were crazy.”

“Might be,” Lucinda agrees, just loud enough to be heard. The silences between them stretched long and undisturbed, and it feels sacrilegious to talk too loudly even now. “I met some odd birds out there while I was working.”

“You have any good stories about them?” the spy asks. There’s a rustle of cloth, the sound of skin on adobe, and a sigh.

“Met someone, she was a--Owl, I guess, maybe a Mockingbird because she was a ghoul, too, or starting toward one, which is a Vulture thing. Owl-Vulture. Met her in a bar out in the desert, one of those shitty little waystations with three bunk beds and a water pump out in the yard and enough moonshine to start the whole desert on fire if you weren't careful.”

The spy hums, low and soft.

“She said she had fourteen siblings, all but two younger than her, said she’d seen some things out in the desert. A deathclaw that talked, ghosts with no eyes that gave her water and a package to carry, a herd of brahmin trampling through the sky in front of a storm. You meet a lot of weird ones out there.” Lucinda shakes her head, sighs, stretches her legs out in front of herself. “I was probably one of them.”

“You don't spend--how long?”

“Five years,” Lucinda says. “Five years as a courier, but thirteen years as tribe before that.”

“Don’t spend eighteen years walking, and five of it alone, without getting a little odd,” the spy says, then laughs a little to herself. “I can do lonely, but I can’t do alone.”

“I’m ready to have a people again,” Lucinda says, soft, and the spy says nothing more.

She’s still eating the meal the girl brought--bread, and bighorner cheese, and brahmin-carrot-potato stew--when Cloelius saunters into the hallway. She catches sight of him from the corner of her eye, doesn't look up, but turns her back to the cell door and hunches further over her food. The girl stands next to the door, watching, not moving, her hands folded behind herself as she waits for everyone not finish their meals so she can collect dishes.

“Hello, Lucia,” Cloelius says, leans on the bars, judging from how close his voice is. “How are you doing today?”

“Nicely, actually,” Lucinda replies, sits up but doesn’t turn to face him. “I got stew, and bread, and cheese, and it’s better than anything you or my husband ever provided.”

Cloelius snorts.

“How did you sleep last night? Your wooden bench and shit bucket comfy enough for you?”

“Slept on worse,” Lucinda replies. “Slept like a baby.”

“What did you dream about?” Cloelius asks. “Your husband? One of the other men you’ve fucked?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lucinda snorts. She shoves the last of the heel of bread in her mouth, chews loudly so he knows she’s eating.

“What about the one you ran through the Mojave with? He any good?” He pauses, waits for her to say something , acknowledge what he’s saying. She won’t give him the pleasure, keeps chewing even as she narrows her eyes at the wall. “Talked himself up an awful lot.”

Strix.

Strix put her here, whether he meant to or not.

Strix.

Strix.

“Shit in bed, and frustrating as hell to order around out of it,” she finally replies when she finishes chewing. “Worst subordinate I’ve ever had.”

“He talked like he was the best frumentarius the Legion had, that he got put with you.”

“Is that what Vulpes told him?” Lucinda asks. Tries to reserve another snort. “He was shit at it, and that’s why he ended up with me. Cinderblock tied to my ankle before they push me over the edge and tell me to swim.”

“Oh, he couldn’t be that bad.”

“You obviously never worked with him.” She finishes off the cheese, next, makes sure her chewing is loud and sloppy and obvious on this too.

Cloelius says nothing.

“So is that why you're here?” Lucinda asks. “Are you done? You have anything to say that I don’t already know?”

“Well, I did, but I'm not gonna tell you if you’re gonna be a--”

Lucinda laughs.

“You don't. You really, really don’t. Stop wasting our time and leave, Cloelius, just...leave.” The stew is getting cold, the base congealing into a globby mess that makes her want to gag just to look at it. The brahmin chunks in it look good, at least.

CW: Violence

Cloelius stays silent, then turns on his toes--grind of dirt under his boot--and stalks back out the door. Lucinda tips up her bowl and tries to shake the stew into her mouth without utensils.

“Who was that?” the girl asks, when the door slams shut behind Cloelius.

“Asshole I fucked too many times,” Lucinda replies. “Didn't realize the mistake I was making until I got away.” She turns back around, pushes her dishes forward for the girl to take. “Check out the guys you’re gonna sleep with before you sleep with them, and make sure they aren’t gonna do that.” She nods at the now-closed door, lowers her chin and keeps her face empty as she looks back to the girl.

The girl nods, and something hard flashes behind her eyes.

***

The deserter is quiet all day, and so is the spy.

So she lays on her bench and studies the ceiling and thinks.

Strix, Vulpes, Cloelius, her husband, Lanius, Caesar, each of them rolling behind her eyes. It’s easy to think of some of them dying--Vulpes with his limbs taken off, bleeding out, fed to the coyotes like he made that fucking hat from; her husband fed to his dogs; Lanius burning on a pyre, unable to do anything but scream and beg and bargain; Caesar, hung from a cross in view of all the slaves he would have had hung, Cloelius shamed, stabbed in the street, pinned to a wall with knives until he bleeds out into the gutter.

Strix fed to Aphra, as Aphra does tricks, does as she's asked, turns circles and speaks and tears into him as he screams, screams, screams, as he knows what it's like to be afraid.

She dozes in and out of that daydream all day, smile on her lips and eyebrows pulled down.

They come for the deserter before the girl arrives with breakfast.

He walks past, arms behind his back, hands clenched into fists. He would've been good-looking, weeks ago, before his cheeks had hollowed out and his hair got shaggy and the circles under his eyes grew.

Now, he looks like the rest of them, empty-eyed, tired, walking forward to his death because there is no other direction left to walk, or run, or crawl.

None of the guards who walk him out look at her as they pass.

She lays back on her bench and listens.

The crowd gathers, notes of fear, excitement, boredom drifting through the halls, faint after its journey through most of the building.

The noise gets louder, then recedes, then disappears entirely.

If she listens closely she can hear sobbing.

***

The girl doesn’t come alone, this time, but she’s carrying only one tray--the woman behind her is carrying two, one balanced on each arm. She looks like the girl, but older, grayer, sturdier.

The girl trots down to the spy’s cell, but the woman stops in front of Lucinda’s, offers one tray.

“My daughter won’t stop talking about you,” she says, and Lucinda takes the tray. Lucinda takes a few steps back, sinks to the floor, settles the tray in her lap. Bread, corned brahmin, a canteen of water. She drinks the water first, waits for the woman to continue. “So I supposed I should come see you myself.”

“Here I am,” Lucinda agrees.

“I know you,” the woman says, quiet. She doesn’t turn her head to watch the door, but tips it just enough to keep an ear on it. She sets the extra tray on the floor, leans one shoulder on the bars, crosses her arms. “I saw you with the healing women, once in a while.”

“My husband's first wife was with them more,” Lucinda offers. “She brought me along as an extra pair of hands, sometimes.”

“Aeliana, yes?” the woman asks.

“Yeah.”

“She delivers babies, most of the time. She brings the oldest girl along now, instead of you.”

“Valeria,” Lucinda says. She takes a bite of the bread--stale, at least a few days old, but it’s food. No grounds to be picky now. “She’s a good kid, learns quickly ,she’s smart.”

“I saw you a few times alone, too.” The woman leans in. “I never saw you deliver a baby then.”

“Sometimes a woman doesn't need a baby delivered to her arms,” Lucinda replies, quietly, into her heel of bread. “Sometimes it needs delivery elsewhere.”

The woman nods.

“I heard you did other, smaller things too. Broken bones, stitches, the like.”

“You fill in where you can.” Lucinda nods, turns her head to look at the woman from the corner of her eye. “Why do you bring it up?”

“We heard about what you did in the Mojave, if the stories are true.”

Lucinda nods, and the woman nods back. Down the hall, the girl laughs at something the spy said.

“And we heard about what you’ve done after.” She pauses a moment, blinks slowly, but doesn’t look away. “Most of us don’t--like the towns going like that, but.”

“Legion is Legion,” Lucinda says, nods again. She takes another bite of her bread.

“But we heard about the women, too.”

“Who told you?”

The woman snorts.

“Rumor got around about who you said you wanted picked, and then rumors got around about how they got treated. Heard you delivered a couple babies, got into a fight with someone, now I heard you bought your entire team. If you’re like Aeliana and Tatiana and the woman some of the rumors make you out to be, you didn’t buy them to bring them back here.”

“No,” Lucinda agrees. “And they’ve more than earned their freedom, by now, but I was called back here before I could actually pay out their wages to them. I’m going to do it when I get back.”

“When you get back. Do you have a plan?” The woman raises one eyebrow.

“Not yet,” Lucinda replies, scoops up her first bite of corned brahmin with the last bite of her bread. “But I’m working on it.”

“You have three days, including this, to come up with something.”

“How do you know that?”

“Oh, they switch people on crosses like clockwork. She goes up tomorrow, and you go up the day after. Simple.”

“Thank you,” Lucinda says, sighs, shoves the brahmin and bread into her mouth. “I appreciate the warning.”

“Of course. Now.” The woman pushes off the bars, then leans forward so her face sticks between them. “If you want to trade favor for favor, I could arrange some things for you.”

And she feels something animal crawling up her throat again, different than with Cloelius, a desire to grip the bars and lean forward, beg for a chance out of this concrete block of a room, away from this dog-shit town, back to the road, back to Siri, away from all of this. She stays where she is, but maybe the woman sees, because something twitches in her face, too ,something that might be a smile, if she let it be what it is.

“What favor are you asking?”

“Life for a life. I let you out, you remove someone for me without getting me or any of my family implicated.”

“Who is it, before I agree.”

The woman beckons Lucinda forward, and Lucinda stands, steps closer.

“Caesar,” the woman says, voice low. “Don’t need him dead immediately, but you make sure that hellspawn dies. Slow, painful, knows what he did to all of us.”

Lucinda leans back so she can look the woman in the eye, then nods.

“Good. You come up with a plan then, I’ll bring your dinner tonight, and we can talk then.”

Lucinda steps back again, settles down behind her food, and nods.

“I'll see you then,” she says. The woman nods.

“Hey, either of you want the extra food here?” she asks, calls down the hall so the spy can hear.

“I’ll take the bread,” the spy requests.

“I’ll take the meat,” Lucinda says, after a moment's hesitation.

The woman nods, portions the food out according to request as her daughter collects the trays. Lucinda crams as much of the meat into her mouth as she can at once, cups the rest close to her chest.

“I’ll be back tonight with news,” the woman says, before she opens the door,and her daughter follows her out.

The door locks shut again.

“They're going to crucify you tomorrow,” Lucinda says, after she swallows a second bite of her corned brahmin.

“Damn well earned it,” the spy replies. “Knew this was the price of the job before I agreed to do it, made my peace with the idea last week, finally.”

Lucinda snorts.

“If you say so.”

“If she could behead the NCR, she could do it to the Legion too.” The trays are washed and replaced in their stack, and her daughter sits in the corner, hands in her lap and mending a pair of pants, listening. There are eight of them around the table, most with a child at their breast, a couple with a child at their feet, only the one with a child old enough to sit unattended.

“The NCR made missteps all along the way. Who sends their president to the last piece of land you hold between you and your enemy? If they wanted him to stay safe, they should have sent him to somewhere heavily fortified. That she managed it was luck, nothing more.” The woman holds a baby to her breast, works beads into a pattern on the decorative bag she’s making.

“And do you have a better pan?” Delivery Woman asks, raises her eyebrows.

“We wait it out. Old man can’t have too much longer to live.” Bag Decorator shrugs.

“And then Lanius takes over, and we’re worse off than we started.” Another woman, this one with a dog tattooed across her forearm and deep circles under her eyes.

“He would take over if she kills Caesar too,” Bag Decorator replies.

“You heard about all she killed at that one camp, along the Colorado, for the, ah--Dead Sea, that was his name. You heard about that, right?” This woman with a toddler crawling into her lap, waving a pre-war plastic toy dinosaur.

“I heard about it, and I think it’s bullshit, and a bunch of unprepared NCR officers is not the same as the top brass of the army, who are apparently expecting her to come for them since they want her crucified and derided, and not just quietly disposed of.” Bag Decorator snaps, sets her stitching down and takes a few deep breaths before picking it up again.

“She said she would do it,” Delivery Woman says, quiet.

“And I think she’s trying to save her own skin,” Dog Tattoo says.

“Even if she’s just trying to save her own skin, if the end result is the same, what does it matter?” Toddler Woman asks. Her toddler settles into her lap, places the dinosaur on the table. She rearranges the dinosaur so it faces back at them.

“If she gets us locked up or killed, that’s what matters!” Bag Decorator replies. A couple others around the table murmur in agreement.

“She won’t. We’ll be safe, she has enough of a reputation as a single actor when she does things. They’ll think she smuggled in--what does she want us to give her?” Toddler Woman looks to Delivery Woman.

“Depends on what she asks for.” Delivery Woman shrugs.

“This is a stupid, suicidal mission. You don’t even know what she wants yet. You’re going to get us a killed when she wants a gun,” Bag Decorator snorts.

“We die, no matter what she does, with this at least there's a chance maybe we both benefit and die a little later than planned,” Toddler Woman points out.

“Those are literally the only factors that make this a reasonable plan,” Dog Tattoo groans and runs her hand back through her hair.

The whole circle is quiet.

“Ask her what she needs, and we’ll try to get it to her tomorrow. If we can’t get the actual thing, we’ll do as close as we can,” Toddler Woman says, soft. The others look between themselves, a couple snort, and then they all nod.

“So, you’ve had all day to think, you have a plan?” the woman passes the tray through the bars, and Lucinda takes it, settles on her bench.

“Get all the things they confiscated from me when i came in, keep them somewhere I can find them, and bring me a screwdriver, four bobby pins, and my knife in the holster. That’s all I need.” She shoves her mouth full of bread. “Bring me that, make it look like I could have gotten it off of any of the guards, and we’ll be in the clear.”

“I can swing that, or something close enough. I can get the knife and your things into a locker out there,” she jerks her thumb at the closed door, and behind it a guard laughs at something another said, “But I think the best knife or screwdriver I can get you is a shiv that can double as both.”

“A long as it has an edge and I can turn a lock with it, that'll be fine.”

“Good. Expect it sometime tomorrow.” The woman nods, steps away, leans against the wall until Lucinda and the spy pass their trays out the bars. She sweeps out, doesn't look back. Lucinda turns to the wall, and starts working through what she remembers of the floorplan.

***

“You weren’t born Legion,” the spy says. She sighs, shifts.

“No,” Lucinda agrees. They’re both quiet. “Tribal, to the southeast,” Lucinda finally says, when it’s clear the spy is waiting for more of an answer.

“What tribe?’ the spy asks.

“Birds, most people called us, never had a real name for ourselves outside of that.” She stretches her arms out to her sides, can't quite reach the walls of the cell. She curls her hands into fists, studies the dark ceiling. “I have a girl I want to get back to, and a raven that’s depending on me, probably.” She tucks her arms back across her chest, holds her upper arms in her hands. “I tried to teach her to forage on her own, but I worry.”

“You all keep birds like that?”

“Yeah,” Lucinda agrees.

“It sounds nice.”

“Until they shit all over you and try to steal your food, it is, yeah.”

The spy laughs.

“Why a raven? Why not something like--I don’t know, a bluejay? Or a sparrow? Or a hawk?”

“Because that’s my name, in the tribe. That’s what I do. I’m smart, I’m a leader, however you want to phrase it. So I have a raven.”

“Is your girl tribe too?”

“She’s not. Not yet, at least. I’d like her to be, and I think she’d agree to it.” She lets that hang for a moment, breathes loudly to fill the silence and keep the spy from saying anything more. “I have some things I need to do first, though. That’s the other reason I need to get out of here.”

“We all have shit we want to get done.”

“If my things arrive in time, I can get you out of here too. You don’t have to accept it.”

“Oh, I know I don’t have to accept it.” The spy sighs. “I wouldn’t get out, though. I know you think I could, but I couldn’t. I’d slow you down.”

They’re both silent for another long minute, and Lucinda sits up, scoots over to sit against the wall.

“I’ll be your distraction, though, if I can.”

“You don't have to,” Lucinda says. “I can get out on my own.”

“Are your chances better if I distract them?” the spy asks.

“Probably,” Lucinda agrees. “You don't even know me, you don’t know what I’ve--”

“You’re a raven right? You said it yourself, a smart bird, a leader bird. Someone out there can use you. You got this far and--god, I feel like I’m an inspiring monologue in a novel.”

Lucinda laughs.

“You go do whatever that woman wants you to do, you get other people out. I can rot here, and that's alright, I’ve done my piece.”

“I’m not a raven anymore, though,” Lucinda says, tail end of a laugh trailing into somber tones. “Shrike, not raven, after some of the shit I’ve done.”

“Well, I can tell you straight away that if you’re getting a shiv, you won’t be leaving this place without bloodshed. That's what a shrike was, right?”

“Butcher bird,” Lucinda agrees.

“Lanius, huh?”

“I’m aware,” Lucinda says. “The first time I met him, I thought he would be a shrike, but here I am, with no room to talk.”

“Just because you have no room to talk doesn’t mean you're not right.”

Lucinda grunts, then goes quiet.

“When they come to get you, two guards, do you think?” she asks after a long minute of silence.

“Most likely.”

“So we hope they don’t come until after breakfast. I can take two of them, especially if you're being distracting.”

“Got it. Put up a fight, you come in and stab a couple of the bastards.”

“You got it.”

“Good. I’m ready.”

“I’m glad. Should sleep, though. Need to be well-rested for our breakout.”

The spy laughs, and then there’s the sound of a creaking bench, the shuffle of fabric.

Raven. Shrike. Which does she need to be here?

Raven can think her way out of the prison, slide her way past the guards with charm and a smile and careful timing, knows exactly how to twist things just how she needs them.

Shrike knows her battles, sees no problem in spilling blood, feels no qualms about going through a dead mans pockets for denarii and cigarettes and ammunition.

Needs both, for this escape attempt.

Needs both, if this is going to become something bigger than herself, if she’s going to kill Caesar, if she’s going to do right by the people she’s done wrong by, if she’s going to spit in Caesar’s and Lanius’s and Vulpes’s eyes.

Needs something bigger than either, needs something that’s both.

Needs a name made out of fear.

The guards do not come for the spy before breakfast.

There’s a sharpened piece of metal in her bread, no wider than her finger, four bobby pins in the bottom of her stew bowl. She shoves them inside her tunic, eats quickly, and passes the tray back without a word.

The woman doesn't meet her eyes, just sighs and looks bored.

***

Dredge settles on the lawn chair next to Siri.

“You're moping,” she says, grins wide enough Siri is almost, almost surprised her face doesn’t split. Amost.

“No I’m not,” she replies, and moves her bookmark forward before closing her textbook.

“Yeah, you're,” Dredge replies. “You've been moping since the boss left.”

“I am not moping.” She glares at Dredge, and Dredge just grins back.

‘Sure are,” Dredge disagrees. “Husband did it all the time, I know what moping looks like.”

Siri rolls her eyes and opens her book again.

“My wife said I did the same,” Runner offers, from across the fire, grins too when Siri glances up to glare at her. “It’s definitely moping.”

From their chairs, Birdy and Photo giggle.

“I’m not moping, I’m nervous. Without her around, we’re likely to be split up again.” She closes her book again, sighs.

“I say we leave,” Twist says, low. “There’s nothing keeping us here, except that the boss promised to come back here.”

“She told me to keep her things safe.” Siri meets Twists eyes across the fire. Twist shrugs.

“You could do that on the road too.”

“We’re too hard to find on the road.” Siri shakes her head.

“Doc, and I mean this in the nicest way you can take it, but the boss ain’t coming back from Dog Town.” Drummer shakes her head and all eyes turn to her. “That ain't how this shit goes. Woman goes somewhere else because someone high up in the Legion says she should, and she doesn’t come back.”

“She will,” Siri says, quietly. “She will, she always has before.”

“First time for everything,” Drummer says, shrugs.

“Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to fool around with a married woman?” Runner asks, rolls over onto her back, laughs. “Mine sure did. Never ends well.”

“I’ve made worse decisions in my life,” Siri sighs, and opens her book, again.

“I’d say the Boss is actually about the worst decision a person could make, no offense intended, Doc.” Dredge laughs. Siri gives her a sideways glare. “I’m sure she’s lovely past all the murder.”

“I could make commentary on your choices in romantic entanglement too, if you’d like,” Siri offers. “How long has it been since you were separated from your husband?”

“Well, he’s dead, and even when he wasn’t, wasn’t like he owned me and tried to make me have his babies. All in all, I’d say Twist is probably a better idea than an officer’s wife.”

“You might be right,” Siri sighs, closes her book again. “I think I'm going to go to bed.”

“Seeya in the morning, Doc,” Drummer murmurs, and the others around the fire nod in silent agreement.

CW: Violence/gore

They come for the spy just before dinner.

She hangs to the back of her cell, yells at them, protests, goes limp when they try to usher her out of the cell, makes them drag her.

Lucinda swings open the door--creaky, but they have bigger problems right now, as the spy starts yelling louder--and sprints down the hall, shiv held ready in one hand.

She stabs the first below the ribcage, through his back, dances backwards as he shrieks and spins, tries to clap one hand over the wound and grab his machete with the other. She stabs him again, this time through the throat, and kicks him in the stomach.

The other one drops the spy, who hits the floor with an oof, and he takes one step forward before the spy latches onto his ankle and drags him down.

Lucinda stands over him, and stomps on the back of his neck until she hears a snap.

The spy lets go, scoots backwards on the floor, and covers her mouth with one hand. She stares at the corpse in the middle of her cell.

“There are a lot more left,” Lucinda says, quietly, and takes the machete off the guard whose neck she broke. She doesn’t look at the spy. “I can get my things from the locker, if they haven't already destroyed them and that woman put them there, and then I need to be on my way. I can get you out with me, if you’d like.”

“Can I take a minute?” the spy asks.

“You can have as long as it takes me to check these two over for anything useful.”

The spy nods, tears her eyes away from the guard, studies the wall above the cell door instead.

Lucinda turns out the broken-necked guard’s pockets, takes the coins he has and leaves them in a pile.

“On second thought, I’m going to go get my things, and then I’ll be back to deal with these two. If you want, you can go sit in my cell, you won’t have to look at their bodies then.”

The spy nods and slowly gets to her feet. Lucinda watches her as she steps out of the cell, walks through the puddle of blood in the hallway, and heads toward her cell instead. She waits until the woman is inside to follow her up the hall, and then kneel in front of the door with a bobby pin and the flat end of her shiv.

The spy makes a noise that might be a strangled sob.

The lock pops easy, and she stands up, readies her stolen machete before she pushes it open.

The room is empty, a deck of cards tied up with a rubber band, two bottles of moonshine open and set on the table, a pile of denarii and caps in the middle of the table. The lockers on the wall are still closed and locked, and she checks to make sure the other door is closed before going to get her things. She leaves the tunic on, pulls on her leggings and boots, the gaiters, then her dress over all of it, then the coat over that. She straps her knife--still in its sheath, still untouched--to her leg, and checks through her pockets as she turns back toward the cells. She pauses to shovel all the money from their betting pot into her pockets.

The spy is still sitting in the cell, though she's on the bench and not the floor, and she's still not looking at anything in particular. She’s rocking just the tiniest bit.

Lucinda ignores her, for now, and goes to search the bodies.

She takes a machete from one, empties his pockets of money. She leaves him facedown in the cell, drags the other over with an awful wet sound as he continues to bleed out--the sound of leather, skin, slopping through blood across the adobe floor, the sound of metal scraping on adobe and setting her teeth on edge. This one has some sort of jerky in his pockets, and she shoves it into hers--it’s going to be a long run without time to stop, she needs to keep what food she can.

She leaves the smaller knife on him.

The spy is still sitting, silent, when Lucinda steps into the cell.

“Are you ready to go?” she asks, and the spy nods, slowly gets to her feet. “I’ll go ahead, you follow behind.”

“How much more death will there be?” the spy asks.

“Maybe a lot, maybe not much,” Lucinda replies. “I don’t know.”

“Alright,” the spy says, takes a deep breath, closes her eyes. “Lead the way.”

Lucinda swaps her machete for her bowie knife, leaves the shiv behind, takes out the head guard--Deep Voice--in his office, and then two more door guards, so she’s covered in blood, but still unharmed. The spy won’t look at the corpses.

They stand in the alley, outside the prison, as the spy changes into a slave uniform.

“You can come with me, if you’d like,” Lucinda offers, wipes her knife on the back inside of her dress, where the stain won’t show so much. The dress is really a total loss at this point anyway, but it feels right to try to hide any more blood.

“I can get out, from here,” the spy says. “I’m plenty capable of getting to where I need to be now that I’m not in a locked room without a lockpick or a weapon.” She tightens the belt on her potato sack.

“Will you be able to get along without a weapon?” Lucinda reaches for the machete--it’s too big, too slashy for what she might still need to do, no use hauling the extra weight now. The spy shakes her head.

“I do better without one, but thank you for the offer.” The spy nods, scans the street past the alley.

“Good luck getting back to the NCR.”

“Thanks. Good luck to you, in whatever you plan on doing.” The spy turns, without another word, and trots down the alley, disappears around a corner. Lucinda waits for a long minute before going the opposite direction.

She makes it ten steps out of the alley, down the street, before the freedom hits her all at once, and a raven circling above her--maybe hers, maybe wild--reminds her.

Strix.

Strix made this happen, and now she’s unbound by the Legion’s rules and regulations.

She tries to map where he would be, and where she could get him alone, and she takes off down a side street.

CW: Violence, gore

Strix is sitting out on a bench in the park near the barracks where he would be assigned to sleep. He’s watching Aphra, who is nosing around the grass, trotting from one tree to another.

He doesn't look up as she approaches. He does look up when she whistles at Aphra and Aphra looks up, comes bounding over.

Lucinda tosses a scrap of jerky she stole from the dead guard into the air, and Aphra catches it, swallows it, and continues over. Lucinda squats, ruffles the fur of Aphra's neck, and doesn’t look at Strix.

“They said you were going to die,” he says, wonder in his voice.

“Not yet,” Lucinda replies. “Not for a lack of them attempting.” Strix doesn’t move from the bench. She had hung out in alleys, in crumbling buildings, until dark had fallen and he was more likely to be alone and she was less likely to be seen. No one had seen her, and he was alone in this park, so it had been some sort of success.

“Why are you here?” Strix asks, stands up from his bench, steps closer. He fidgets as he gets closer. She glances over, doesn’t turn her head, and continues to pet Aphra, who has sunk down into a sit, and who is slowly sinking lower, panting happily.

“Follow me on a walk,” Lucinda says. “Aphra, stay.”

Aphra obediently plops the rest of the way to the ground, and Lucinda fishes out another chunk of jerky for her.

Strix trails after her as she walks away, Aphra watching, out into the dark of the park, away from the sodium lights bolted to the buildings, out among the dying pines.

He follows her, silent, until they’re in the dark.

She feels for the coils of rope around her waist: stolen from a warehouse, cut into two lengths--one long, one short, the sort of rope the slaughterhouse uses, The lengths she figured to tie someone's feet and hands and sling them over a tree branch, or a sturdy light post, or whatever she can find that could support a grown man’s weight.

“Do you think we’re friends?” Lucinda asks, feels for the loose knot at the end of the rope, just to reassure herself it is where she left it. She shuffles through her coat for her knife, covers it by digging out another piece of the guard’s jerky and tossing it into the air, catching it with her mouth.

“I--I would like to be, but you’re--”

“Slated for crucifixion, what was it, tomorrow?” Lucinda asks. “I’m sure they’re looking for me and my escape partner right now, but you all never learned to hide, so you don’t know where to look.” There’s a burnt-out light post, and a park bench, close together. The park bench is bolted down, like some asshole tried to steal it at some point and someone decided that the bench would not be moving. “Why do you think we're friends, Strix?”

“We--you slept with me! I thought we were at least friendly!”

“So you went and told all your friends, hm?” she asks. “Or just enough friends that someone who hates me finds out, figures he can get me crucified for it. And now you still think we can be friends?” God, dead things don’t bleed as well as live ones, but if she tries to hang him alive he’ll scream and someone will come for him.

“I thought we were--” he starts, and she doesn't let him finish, yanks out her knife and spins and stabs him through the stomach, shoves him back off the knife while his eyes bug out and his hands grasp at empty air. He clutches his stomach after a moment, blood dribbling over his fingers, and he makes a tiny choked noise. His eyes go wide, and his mouth moves, and she thinks she can make out the words “I didn’t know--” before he stops and his mouth gapes like he can’t get enough air. She slams the butt of her knife into his cheek and sends him toppling over with a louder, still choked noise.

She rolls him onto his stomach, yanks the smaller length of rope out from her rope-coil belt, and ties his hands behind his back as he makes a soft gurgle.

CW: Violence, gore

“We aren’t friends, we never were, and honestly at this point I hate you.” She rolls him onto his back, yanks the longer rope out of its coil, and ties his feet together, tosses the end of the rope over the lightpole, drags the free end down until he drags across the ground, gasps for air, groans as she hauls him off the ground.

She ties the end of the rope to the bench, which creaks, but doesn’t move.

He’s not making anymore noise, but he is still breathing.

The closest open intersection is back in Aphra’s direction, and she sheathes her knife, looks between the puddle of blood growing under Strix--drip, drip, drip, getting faster as the blood pools lower--and then back to circle of light under the streetlight near Aphra.

She drags her hands through the mud and trots to the circle of light, begins the outline of a raven--head, beak, neck, then she has to go get more blood, continues on to the wings, the pinions, more blood, the feathers, the body, the splayed legs, more blood, the tail.

She steps back to look at it, considers.

More than a raven.

Needs something more than a raven.

More blood, comes back, paints the markings--a stripe across its eye, a border for a lighter underside, borders streaks of white in the wings, on the edge of the tail, colors in the end of its beak.

Steps back.

Pauses a moment to look at it before going for one last handful of mud.

She comes back, and writes underneath the bird.

THE RAVENSHRIKE COMES.

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Page 255 of 257

Fallout Kink Meme Part IV: Closed to prompts, open for fills.

Re: Heavy In Your Arms - Part 6a/?

Re: Heavy In Your Arms - Part 6b/?

Re: Heavy In Your Arms - Part 6c/?

Author's Note

RE: Thank you, Dr Usanagi - 1/1 - Microfill

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (95a/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (95b/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (96/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (97a/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (97b/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (98a/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (98b/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (99/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (100a/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (100b/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (101a/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (101b/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (102/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (103a/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (103b/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (104/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (105/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (106/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (107a/109b)

Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (107b/109b)