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milosaweirdguy · 7 days ago

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Fallout secret Santa gift for @milosaweirdguy

Benny fic below cut (there is two endings, the first is happy, the second is not)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66711403 (ao3 fic link)

Reflections

Now that he is here, with his knees digging into the rough ground and hands uncomfortably twisted together, he can’t help but wonder if the platinum chip really could have been the diamond kitty cat success he had seen it as.

He had been sat in his chair, cigarette in hand, smoke drifting out of the window as he gazed at the bright, old world lights of New Vegas. His checkered suit reflected their glow, bathing him in an ethereal red. Swank had been talking about the old days. Their tribal days. He scoffed, watching the ash drip onto the carpet, a small puddle forming. He didn’t understand the obsession with how things used to be.

It was better now. In Vegas, with the bright lights, dreams, and the taste of ambition in his throat. He swilled his whiskey, and took a sip. Vegas gold.

From his seat, high up, the top of the Tops, baby, he watched all of the Las Vegas Strip. He was tracking- not tracking, but observing them all. Most importantly, observing the Lucky 38. Observing House, Mr Not-At-Home.

House. He had been the one to forge Benny, the one to build the Chairmen, turning them from savages with bare ideals of honour into the very pinnacle of New Vegas.

Vegas had been the best thing for them all, even if some of the group wanted their out-of-Vegas glory. They could have it, fall at their own swords, die on the pedestal of faux-honour. Benny, however. He wasn’t a fink, not like that singer, and not like what he knew Swank has been thinking of late. House may have made Benny, made their Chairmen, but Benny was going to send House to his Maker.

He wasn’t a fool. He’d felt the unrest amongst the Chairmen, the run of “bad luck” Tommy had been having with his acts. He knew that nobody was happy with how much time he spent away- he knew his men were comparing him to Mr House.

But, how could he expect them to understand. From where they stood, he seemed like a goddamn idiot, neglecting the Chairmen and letting them slip back into Tribal ways.

He scoffs, and winces at the harsh ground under his knees. He wonders if the ways he tried so hard to sweep under the rug would help him now. He doubts it. These Legion bastards are worse than the Fiends.

Swank had been talking more and more about their old ways of late. He was the only one of the Chairmen Benny bothered to speak to, always diverting his attention to Yes-Man and his project. Even Swank wanted to be a tribal again.

Benny had gotten Swank to dispose of some fink-chem-addicted singer who Tommy had hired. He wasn’t pleased with his task.

“Boys weren’t happy to hear it. They liked the guy.”

Benny had simply reminded him, reminded him that if the singer had stayed clean, that if he’d understood the glory of Vegas and the nature of the Chairmen, then he would have stayed.

But no, that wasn’t Swank’s problem. Swank really had been more of a problem of late- Benny’s Chairmen had been listening to him more and more, whispering to each other about the “old days” and “Vegas finks”. Benny hadn’t had time for it.

Swank had been stupid, honestly, bringing up their old ways twice in one conversation. First the trail -Benny had to stop himself from spitting at the memory- of cigarettes on the floor, and then out right saying it, “the way we handled it back when riding the Mojave.”

Benny had never understand Swank’s dangerous obsession with their past. He had made sure that the man was loyal to the Chairmen- if he had wanted to explore the glories of the world outside Vegas, he would have had a sizeable amount of fink-tribal allies. From Benny’s Chairmen. Nevertheless, Swank was easy to contain. He liked the Vegas luxuries, despite his rose tinted glasses on their past.

Benny couldn’t shake the feeling that Swank had thought him a fink, a disgrace, a betrayal. Swank and Benny had not been close, but Swank had held a majority of their Tribe under his sway- it was natural to offer him the role as second in command. He would control their more unruly members, and Benny would control him. Just like that saying. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Benny could appreciate some of their tribal wisdom after all.

He is able to appreciate the irony of the situation. His 18 karat run of bad luck. Here he is, kneeling with his hands bound, his fate in the hands of a once civilised man, who had become worse than even the finks they had faced back when they rode the Mojave. It reminds him of the situation that got him the chip in the first place.

The Khans were loud, obnoxious, crazies. They made him infinitely glad that the Chairmen had got to join the glowing lights and power of Vegas. The world that he had believed would soon be his.

They had done their job though, the Courier was unconscious and Benny had the chip secured. Not that he was going to pay them for their troubles. Khans liked to say that Vegas Gold had no meaning to them. Benny would soon see.

Swank would probably have called him a fink, a fink for leading the Khans on, letting them die to even-crazier Fiends, and a fink for not paying them.

Benny just called it business. One didn’t get diamonds- or platinum chips- without cutting a few out. House had taught him that.

Funny, wasn’t it. Using House’s own lessons in order to destroy the man.

House had told him about using your enemies strengths to your own advantage, which was how he won Vault 21. Stack the cards to your advantage, count them, and never let anyone find out. You have to be one step ahead. House compared it to a chess set, but for Benny? It’s always been poker.

Like the chip. He clenches his fingers around themselves and feels his knuckles go white as he remembers his predicament. He should have checked if that Courier was dead. Should never have trusted those damn sons of bitches Khans with anything. Should have taken some Chairmen with him, even if he was running the risk of reminding them of who they used to be. Should never have been so recognisable. Should have sent someone in his place to the fort.

Funny, how death made him think. He wonders if this is how that Courier felt, as Benny held his gun to their face.

He had seen them coming round, they had heard him, “I ain’t a fink, ya dig?”

He had spoken to them- that Courier was gagged, whereas he still had use of his mouth. Not that he was running that risk.

Really, both him and that Courier were unlucky. Who survives a bullet wound, chases the man who shot you across a desert, and then you see him, and fall for a trap.

Following a trail. Like Swank complained about his cigarettes. Like he had done tracking the Courier, the Chip, tracking down a Follower to establish a weak link. It seemed that all he had been doing was following trails. A trail had led him to the bright glow of Vegas, a trail had led him to House and the Chairmen.

And now the trail he left behind was followed.

He didn’t believe for a second that the Chairmen would mourn him. Swank would probably do a piece for the radio, something about him swinging with the Pussycats upstairs. He had told him once, when Benny had just found Ortel and it was going up. Benny had asked, asked Swank what would happen if he died. He wasn’t planning on it, but he wasn’t a fink, or a fool. He knew that trifling with House was a one way ticket up into the clouds. Swank had told him that they would stay in Vegas, that he would hire some new acts for Tommy- the singer hadn’t died yet, but the man was slipping- and that he would speak on the radio. Benny couldn’t remember his exact words, but at least he wouldn’t be swept away in the winds of the Mojave.

They used to do that. Remember their dead. The forgotten dead was believed to curse you. Ridiculous, merely a tribal superstition. They used to have a ritual- a recitation of all their dead. Benny had banned it once they became the Chairmen. Vegas Glory didn’t come from the past. He knows that they still do it. Benny had seen groups of his Chairmen, meeting up. He had seen Swank once, but the man had denied it completely. He couldn’t help but hope that they would… that they would recite his name.

Foolish superstitions, he knows. However, people cling to those in times of trauma. His gun had a Holy woman, his Maria. He didn’t need old tribal superstitions. Maria was a symbol of the glory of Vegas, overtaking his need for old superstitions. Still. He hoped that Swank would recite his name. He hoped that Swank’s message for him would go on the radio. He hoped that House would let it play on, and on. Even if the House always wins, Benny wouldn’t be left entirely in the dust, to fade away like their old tribes. The three tribes, the three tribes who were once so wild, and now breathe Vegas glory. Not that they could even reach the heights of the Chairmen. The Omertas were harlots and the White Glove Society- well, everyone knew the rumours. The Chairmen were the only ones who truly understood the gift of Vegas lights. Benny was working for that. Benny would die for that.

Swank may think that he is a fink, who ditched their history for a quick buck- or cap, but Benny did everything for his Chairmen. His glory over the Strip would help them finally cast off the past, and the Vegas lights would be theirs.

He hears footsteps coming up. The heavy tread of boots, with strong contrast to the far softer steps of barefoot Legion Slaves, and the procession walks of Caesar’s own guard.

“Awe, true to Caesar,” one of the Centurions greeted the stranger. Benny looks up, seeing a face he never thought he would see again. That goddamn Courier. The one he had shot, the one who had hunted him. The Courier spoke with Caesar, hushed voices within a secretive section of the tent, before they emerged.

They bend down to speak to him, “Benny. Benny, Benny, Benny. Your fate is in my hands now. And, I ain’t a fink, ya dig.” They laugh, mocking the familiar words Benny had said to them that night. Luck is for losers, and someone is always pulling the strings. Benny can’t help but feel that it is House, and that he and this Courier are simply cards on a table.

He watches, as a hand dips into their back pocket, and he sees Maria’s face…

Ending 1: Escape

His Maria. The Courier had winked at him, slipping the gun into Benny’s bound hands as they sliced the ropes in twain.

A whispered instruction, “Stay still unless they get near.”

The Courier reached for Maria, firing off six shots in quick successions. Benny could hear the thuds of Legionnaires falling to the ground. He looks up, watching a- is that an NCR sniper? Lift a rifle, a bullet slamming dead centre in Caesar’s forehead, “Thumbs down,” huh. Benny didn’t think those NCR bastards bothered to read that far. Not like the snipers had the dignity to look their victims in the eyes. Then again, Benny wouldn’t want to be hunted by the Legion… if he made it out of this one.

He watches as the Legionnaires fell one by one, corpses falling to the floor stained the same red as the armour that failed to defend them.

The fight felt like it extended for days, yet also a mere second. Truly, he had not been expecting survival. Luck doesn’t factor into calculations, just the odds and some good old stacking of them. Maybe this Courier baby was more of a gambler than he had foreseen.

The Courier stands before him, towering over his kneeling form, with their NCR guard dog looming just behind.

“Well then, it looks like I had more luck than you. May as well leave while you can. We’re on cleanup duty.” They laugh, and before Benny can even respond, the two leave, followed only by a trail of bloodstained footsteps.

Ending 2: Fates

His Maria, barrel pointing to his skull.

He understands what they meant now, more than he ever had while kneeling. Your life flashes before your eyes.

The Mojave sun seemed to shine into the tend, dust whipping up around him, their glory days of riding the sands with no gods, no masters. Vegas lights twinkled to the left of his vision, like a smooth whiskey flowing down his throat.

Angels. Angels like his Maria.

He swears that he can see his blood trail mixed in with the ground, before the bullet even fires.

He collapses, a corpse among shifting sands.

#AAAAA #THANK YOU SO MUCH #OMG ONG THIS IS SO COOOOL #THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!#WEEEEEE!

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