My Kingdom of Rubble

To any normal passerby on The Strip, it seemed that the city was the same as usual. The harsh, Mojave sun was setting over the horizon, the soldiers came stumbling out of the casinos after spending their entire paychecks on liquor and slot machines, the Securitrons wheeled around the streets just waiting for the moment that someone decided to cause trouble, and the whores outside of Gomorrah danced to the pleasure of both men and women alike.

Yes, to anyone without a trained eye, today seemed to be business as usual.

Of course, no one seemed to notice or care for the presence of the modest gentleman walking up the stairs towards the Lucky 38 casino with a manilla folder in his right hand.

As the man approached the door, the Securitron took note of the man, down to the smallest detail. His face bore a look that showed that this man could blend into a crowd, or could lead that crowd into battle at the drop of a hat. His brown eyes and hair were hardly distinguishable to anyone who did not know who he was. The brown suit and hat which he wore was common amongst the gamblers and bystanders of The Strip, fabricating a guise that he was a nobody.

Except he was different in so many ways. This man has burned entire communities at the stake, all in the name of a tyrant. He has charged into battle against NCR rangers, sometimes with nothing more than a machete. As he approached the Securitron, he raised his left hand and held up his pointer and middle finger, forming a "V". The Securitron's programming recognized the symbol, and spoke with a monotone voice.

"IDENTIFIED: INCULTA, VULPES. ACCESS GRANTED. WELCOME TO THE LUCKY 38."

The doors behind the Securitron slid open with the sound of metal forcibly grinding against itself. Vulpes moved passed the sentry, still clutching the manilla folder firmly in his hand. The sound of construction greeted his ears, as he took note of the renovation that was occurring inside the Lucky 38. Securitrons, hired workers, and even an Eyebot or two could be seen repairing or dismantling one of the many components that complete the casino. It was no secret to the majority of The Strip that the Courier wanted to re-open the renowned casino. With the addition of a fourth casino on the strip, the revenue gained from it would be exponential, and the Courier knew this would be a boon for him.

Working his way past the ongoing construction, Vulpes hit the button to summon the elevator. With a pleasant tone, the elevator doors opened, and he stepped inside. He knew that at this time of day, the Courier would more than likely be unwinding with a drink. Vulpes hit the button for the cocktail lounge, and the elevator doors closed behind him.

Vulpes took a moment to reflect on the contents of the folder. Of course, he was under the threat of execution should he discuss the contents of the folder with anyone except the Courier or his trusted associates, but that didn't stop him from imagining what the Courier's reaction to the contents would be. How would the man react with the news that his plan was working better than he had hoped? This is the man that, seven years after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, has transformed New Vegas into a shining beacon of promise in the Wastes. Seven years, the now revered Courier worked meticulously to ensure that New Vegas was a sovereign nation in the Wasteland. Through cunning, negotiation, and a fair amount of violence, the Courier was recognized as the Hero of New Vegas, a title which he humbly accepted.

Regardless, this was the Courier that was in question. A man who built his reputation off of being unpredictable. Anyone who personally worked with this man knew that if there was one irrefutable fact about him, it is that the thoughts and inner workings of the Courier were an absolute enigma.

That, as many people came to realize, was just how he liked it.

The DING of the elevator shook Vulpes out of his rumination, and the door of the elevator opened. As he stepped out, he was still astounded by the view that the cocktail lounge boasted of. Few had ever seen this level of the Lucky 38 from the inside, and Vulpes silently counted himself lucky to be amongst those who had. With that thought, he set out to locate the Courier hidden amid the couches and throw pillows.

As he worked his way around the bar once, twice, and a third time, Vulpes finally gave in and admitted that he had no clue where the Courier had gone. Giving up and heading towards the bar, he took notice of a single abandoned drink: a small shot glass with what smelled like whiskey inside. Vulpes knew that the Courier was one to indulge himself when he saw fit, but never one to abandon perfectly good alcohol. As he contemplated this, a figure stood up from behind one of the couches and tiptoed his way over to the confused runner.

Vulpes barely had time to register the sound of quiet footsteps before he felt the cold barrel of a gun on the back of his head. This was not the first time that Vulpes was in this situation, but it still put him on edge. He knew that the Courier was known for being paranoid, but this was just a little much.

"You realize that I am not here to kill you, don't you, Courier?" Vulpes spoke, enunciating every word and syllable in a proper yet calming tone.

"I know, but I'm just testing you. You're getting slow, Inculta. Three years ago, you'd have the gun in my face and I'd be on the floor," The Courier said, pulling back the gun from the other mans head. "And you know I like to go by Ozzy." His voice was monotone, and gave away no emotion when he spoke. Vulpes turned around to get a better look at the man. Now facing him, Vulpes saw that the Courier had not changed in the slightest from when they last met.

Ozzy, more commonly known as The Courier, stood at an impressive six feet and three inches tall, towering above a majority of the citizens of the Mojave. His face was marked with three scars, one on the left side of his face starting at the temple, curving away from his eye, and ending at the top of his chin. The second one started near the middle of his forehead and ended near his hairline. The third scar intersected with the second one, starting at the top of his hairline, and coming down to end on his right cheek, forming an obtuse angle between the two. His brown eyes showed that he was a very passionate person, feeling the extremes of any emotion when he allowed himself to or was bombarded with an overwhelming amount of pressure and emotions.

His hair was auburn red and of medium length, slicked back on his head to show that he possessed semblance of style. He was slightly unshaven, letting just the beginning of a full beard creep out from his jawline. His skin, for as much time as he spent under the harsh sun, was slightly paler than most who ventured into the wastes. The slight impression of muscle under his suit exhibited that should negotiations of any kind fail, he would be prepared for a fight. This fascinated most people, but then again, Ozzy was a commodity residing in the wasteland.

Everything about Ozzy was just a slight deviation from the norm. Where most adventurers wore some type of armor, Ozzy wore an old world suit for most business affairs. Where most people have some notion of feeling and emotion, Ozzy was unfeeling and calculating. This proved to be his greatest weapon against most of his adversaries. Ozzy knew how to manipulate a situation to not only assure his victory, but to completely drain the morale and hope from the opposing side.

The stories and rumors surrounding the man were also captivating. Stories of one man marching into a Deathclaw-infested Quarry Junction and completely purging it so that workers could resume the duties. Rumors of a single man facing hordes of Super Mutants and feral ghouls, all with a manic grin upon his face. Stories of that same man who, when faced with less than pleasing odds, would turn into a fury of death and destruction, most distinguishable by the difference in voice and mannerisms.

It goes without saying in the Mojave that there were many reasons that Ozzy was in the position of power that he currently held.

Putting his thoughts aside, Vulpes brought forth the matter which brought him back to New Vegas. "Well, you'll want to look at this. Reports from the front lines in California." He stated, a small inkling of pride seeping into his voice. He held out the manilla folder towards Ozzy, who set his firearm down on a nearby table. He opened the folder to begin inspecting the plethora of papers, a myriad of battle reports, plans, casualty lists, and statements on how the NCR would be exterminated by the end of the year.

"Good. Now, has Lanius been behaving himself out there? No more crucifixions and mass burnings?" Ozzy said, waiting for Vulpes' response. Vulpes slightly lowered his head in a bout of shame, and spoke. "We had one incident concerning a small town of NCR citizens who refused to surrender, despite our constant explaining of how their situation would improve should they become citizens of New Vegas. The Legate grew impatient and ordered his men to torch everything. Everyone who did not die in the fire, the Legate decapitated and left their heads on fence posts. There were no survivors."

Upon hearing this, Ozzy's face fell to display his disappointment. He sauntered toward the bar and took his shot glass in his hand. "Vulpes, remind me how I'm supposed to convince everyone that the NCR are the bad guys when Lanius keeps making himself out to be one?" Ozzy downed the whiskey in one shot, then set the glass back down on the bar. "I mean, we've been at war with California for, what, almost two years? I sent Lanius to crush the bastards while I've built this place into the crown jewel of the Mojave that it is today. I can't keep turning people against the NCR, then have my army be a bunch of marauding psychopaths!" Ozzy extended his arms outwards, as if expecting an answer from Vulpes. After receiving none, Ozzy let his arms fall back to his sides.

Ozzy rubbed his forehead. "Vulpes, I like you. You're my best scout and message runner, but I need you to try and control the Legate. He really is nothing more than a dog that I let off the leash, but you have to be the one to speak sense to him. Think you can do that?" He stared at Vulpes, waiting for the man to conjure up some form of response. "I will try, but I make no promises. This is what you get for not listening to me and killing him," Vulpes replied.

Ozzy shrugged. "Fair enough. Anything else?" Ozzy refilled his shot glass, then sauntered towards one of the large couches, with Vulpes a few steps behind him. "We received word from one of the other scouts, this one from Oregon. Apparently, he uncovered a large bunker underneath a warehouse named EG-14 that bears the Enclave symbol. Inside, he found many advanced weapons and gadgets, the likes of which we have never even seen." The two men sat down on separate couches, a table separating them.  "I would suggest sending a squad of the Brotherhood out there to garner more information." Vulpes looked out the large window, towards the Long 15. Thoughts of his turbulent journey to the oasis city in the desert entered his mind, but left as quickly as they came.

Ozzy contemplated this news. "That won't work. I've sent the Brotherhood to strengthen Lanius's defenses, and I've got the tribes up north fighting all of those other savages." Vulpes looked at the Courier with confusion. "What tribe? The Kahns?" Ozzy turned his gaze toward Vulpes, setting his glass down on the table in front of him. "Let me explain.  The Brotherhood is a no-go, and when I say 'tribes'," Ozzy lifted his hands to make air quotations, "I mean the Powder Gangers, the Kahns, the Dead Horses, the Sorrows, and whoever else swore fealty to me. That entire group is being led by big Papa Kahn himself, under my order. I mean, fight fire with fire, right? Fight raiders and tribals WITH raiders and tribals." Ozzy leaned back into his couch, letting that information sink in to the former Frumentarii.

"How did you manage to convince the tribes from Utah to join your ranks?" Vulpes questioned, growing increasingly more curious with the details of the Courier's plan. "Well, after I saved their asses from the White Legs, I called in a favor with your favorite boy, Joshua Graham." Ozzy picked up his glass, swirling the drink around in his hand. "After explaining the situation to him, he agreed, but his holier-than-thou counterpart wouldn't allow it." Ozzy drank the contents of the glass in one heartfelt gulp. He shook his head to clear the blurriness from his vision. "Well, how did you persuade this pious imbecile?" Vulpes asked, waiting for the Courier to answer.

Images of violence, smells of gunpowder, and the sound of a human skull being crushed with a rock flashed through Ozzy's mind, reminding him just how he achieved his goal. He liked Daniel, but the poor fool got in his way, and that is unhealthy for anyone. "I managed to show him the error of his ways." Ozzy let those words hang in the air, letting Vulpes' imagination fill in the blanks. "Regardless, if we are short handed to investigate this bunker, then we will have to put that on the back burner of our priorities," Vulpes stated.

Ozzy stood from the couch and walked toward the window. "I mean, I don't see why I could't go myself. I've been cooped up in here for too long. I think some fresh, irradiated air will do me good." Vulpes stood from the couch and walked next to Ozzy, reflecting on this plan. "Who would handle affairs here while you are away? This city cannot run itself." Vulpes looked to Ozzy to see the face of callous command that Ozzy wore well. "The committee can handle things while I'm away. They've proven themselves before, I just need to explain what's happening." Vulpes nodded at these words, returning his gaze to the desert.

"Very well. I'm sure you will make the right decision. If that is all you need of me, I shall rest here for a few hours, then make my way back to the battlefield." Vulpes turned and walked toward the elevator.

"Vulpes." Ozzy called, still facing the window.

Vulpes stopped in his tracks and faced the Courier. "Tell Lanius that if I hear about anything else that might damage our reputation," a devilish grin appeared on Ozzy's face, "I"ll tie him to a cactus and leave him in the desert. I assure him." At this, Vulpes nodded, then headed back towards the elevator. After leaving the room, Ozzy reflected on the current status of his growing nation.

I should give him some time off. Lord knows that he's earned it. Ozzy turned toward the table and set his glass down. How the hell did Caesar manage to control that brute Lanius?

You know I could. Let ME talk to him. I'll make that pseudo-macho man squeal.

A sharp pain formed in the Courier's head at hearing those words. Ozzy lowered his head, driving away those thoughts. He couldn't let Him cloud his judgement. He had a goal, and he would not let his inner demons dissuade him from accomplishing it.

Tomorrow, he would set out for Oregon.