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Best Served Cold

Vulpes Inculta x Courier reader/female!courier.

Warning: Violence, derogatory language, slavery, allusions to SA.

Master Post

They lined the walls of New Vegas like sick dark pearls on a string. The crucified, the severed heads, the dismembered limbs and black flaky remains of burnt bodies.

It stank still, you never got used to the smell of death, a rotting rose encrusted with sugar.

Acrid smoke filled your lungs, and an inferno burned outside New Vegas.

Julius was -once again- pulling you along. Vulpes marched on ahead, his blond waves shining gold in the rising morning sun.

Your throat burned, every step was a trial with the round nestled in your thigh muscle.

Poor Arcade, he had it worse. Burnt to a crisp, parched, with not one -but two- arrows stuck in his leg still, not to mention the bullet wound in his shoulder.

You were ignorant to medicine, how the human body worked. You didn’t know how the body would be poisoned by infection by foul necrosis.

But Arcade knew. He knew how quickly he would die if he didn’t get the right attention, and the Legion weren’t known for their progressive ideas for treatment.

The gate still stood tall, russet and flaking, but instead of two broad shouldered securatrons, there stood sentry two bored guards.

A stream of slaves in their red “x” tunics filed out of the city, as the red flag of the Legion bull flew overhead.

They were laden with tech, documents, old-world posters and modern medicine, which was thrusted upon the hellish pyre.

It reeked of cooked meat and your stomach turned. You had no doubt they were burning people too, you knew the stench from Nitpon.

The ash in the air was once a person, that person once a babe.

“Ave Domine,” one with a feathered helmet, goggles and a face covering saluted them both. “Who is it you bring to New Rome, more slaves? We could use them for work.”

Vulpes pulled you forward, lurching Arcade also, he stumbled with his ruined leg. Vulpes gripped your filthy face and wiped the dirt off of it.

“Don’t you recognise Courier Six? A tough little brute to track down and capture, but capture the profligate I did.”

“Today is a glorious day Domine,” the other unmasked guard smiled with crooked teeth, his voice that of genuine jubilation at your capture. “Caesar will be most pleased that the degenerate has been captured. And with a new slave too. You out-do yourself, Domine.”

“I am the head of the Frumentarii,” he said plainly. “Failure is never an option for me.”

With a wave of his hand and a nod from the soldiers, the grand flaking and rusted gates opened up to you, crying from its edge with a squeal.

All to reveal New Rome, rather than New Vegas.

Slaves, former Freesiders, were being meticulously watched by the hawk-ish legionaries, whips dangling in hand.

They were arched-backed, hunched over, their hands grey with wet cement as the roads were cobbled.

Some were chased by soldiers, hauling impossible loads of rubble on their backs. They were forced out into the desert, no doubt to dispose of the decimated buildings in some grand pit.

As you walked, you saw some painting over old graffiti with dazzling white, the sun bouncing off it shrinking your black pupils.

All remnants of the old world were to be destroyed, no lampposts, no old world posters, nothing.

This was your home. Was. Was with all its faults and junkies, yours with its crooked ruined buildings and strange smells.

The Followers… what would have happened to them? What of the slaves freed by you?

Did they escape or would you find them here in the devastation? Were they thrown upon the fiery pits outside as well?

What what what? Your mind was a tempest of uncertainty, borne of your soft pink heart and grief of possible loss.

You hoped they got out, Caesar was a Follower once too, you thought, perhaps his heart is not so calcified as to put them to slavery or death.

“Stop gawking courier,” snapped Julius, yanking you along as some stared. “You have a meeting with my lord father.”

“The courier,” one cobbling slave whispered.

“They caught him? How?” Said another painting a wall.

“Maybe he’s come back to save us? Maybe he has a plan?”

“Shut up! That talk will get us killed. Keep painting!”

You were dragged with Arcade to the gate of the Strip, and your heart fluttered with trepidation and melancholy; of guilt and condemnation.

The Strip. The last time you saw it it stank of booze and hooker’s perfume. NCR troopers lined the streets cap-less, dancing, vomiting up their vodka and topless.

Loose men were being tantalised by looser women at Gomorrah. Glamorous brahmin barons flocked to the Ultra-Lux.

Now as you, Julius, Vulpes and Arcade met the greater gate… You squeezed your eyes shut.

The great gate creaked open.

You tripped some, in your blackened vision. But you must look upon the fruit of your mercy.

You were Proserpina, new consort of Pluto, dragged into the underworld for the first time from the land of Spring.

The Strip was in the process of legionising. More slaves cobbled the holey streets while others erected statues of Mars and a mighty looking young Caesar.

“Looks nothin’ like you, old man,” you thought, looking up at a marble statue of a square jawed distinguished man, thrusting a gladius into the air.

He didn’t look like that when you met him for the first time.

You thanked Whoever was in the sky that Vulpes wasn’t there for your first meeting with Caesar. The cat of your true sex would be let out of the bag -so to say- the moment you stepped in the incense reeking tent.

At the time, Caesar was not what you expected. He was gaunt, frail, drooping eyed and stinking of decay. You, in fact, noticed a wooden cane discreetly hid behind a leafy plant when you first encountered him.

Vulpes’ breath and words were a feather in your ear drum.

“Remember this? There look! I longed to kiss you there, how you blushed in the light, you were lovelier than the fairest of the daughters and concubines.”

“Should you be sayin’ that about the future ball and chain? I’m a Vegas mongrel, remember?” You grumbled.

Julius hit you up the side of the head, rustling your short hair.

“Now now Caesarculus. Don’t damage what may become valuable property.”

You ground your teeth to powder, and looked back at Arcade mournfully, he was shielding his gaze, his jaw flexing in pain as he limped.

The great white building appeared in the distance, a troop of legionaries lined the steps. It was impossibly large, grand and bold, all columns and harkening back to the real Rome of the emperors and dictators.

The top, still maintaining all of its letters throughout the years read, “Caesar’s Palace”.

“How tacky can you get,” you thought, looking at it, unimpressed.

The soldiers bowed before Vulpes and Julius as they entered. You couldn’t imagine Arcade’s pain as you both limped up the steps, if you were having trouble, he undoubtedly was too.

More guards bowed before Vulpes and Julius and the door was opened.

The lobby was echoing with a thousand words, centurions lounged on cushions and were fed by former Freeside girls, now clean in red tunics.

Columns stood tall and your boots stained and echoed the glossy tiles. Some nudged the other, and pointed at you.

When Vulped came with you and Arcade, the room fell silent.

And at the top of it all, upon his gaudy golden throne was him.

Caesar.

He was even thinner now. Despite his weakness, he still stroked the thigh of a red draped woman who was sat upon the arm of his throne.

There was another on the other side, and yet another again, rubbing his boney shoulders. The others lounged like bored petted cats.

The red tyrant leaned forward, his dull green eyes twinkling as he wore a foul, lopsided smirk.

His clothes were baggier than you remember too

Vulpes bowed, climbing the steps he kissed Caesar’s red gem ring.

“Courier Six,” Caesar shooed away the women who scurried away, leaning forward with a grin.

“Or Lucky, what ever your stupid fucking name is. I couldn’t believe Vulpes when he told me,” he stood with difficulty, an arm steadying him on the throne.

“You really are a pain in the ass you know, but strangely, without Mr House’s right hand man in the picture, things got a lot easier for us,” he grinned at you. You scowled and said nothing, swallowing your anger like bile.

“Still, we had to delay the invasion of the Hoover Dam because of you and your degenerate band. My top strategists, slaughtered. My mole in Camp McCarran, executed. You directed power from Helios One to Freeside, and Cottonwood cove…”

He unsheathed his gladius with a grunt, and pointed it at your throat.

“I should kill you for all you have done to my Legion but…”

He removed the gleaming blade.

“Your leaving Mr House really did wonders. I should really thank fair Veronica as well for softening your profligate stone heart. Vulpes, Julius, bring them to me.”

Caesar turned and disappeared behind a red curtain, leading to a separate room. There was a round table with a map of the Mojave in the centre, and Legion banners adorned all over.

“From what I hear, you have been hiding something from me,” he sank into a plush red coach, sweat pilled on his shaved head.

He was causal, agitated in his manner.

“Julius, unclothe him.”

“What are yo-”

Cutting you loose, you were took weak to do anything else. But then, they tore off your beige poncho, leaving you in your baggy white shirt. Unceremoniously, this was torn from you too.

Despite the coolness of the shelter you were in, your skin burned in shame.

You were left in your bindings, red and almost teary. You could feel the Bull’s acid eyes burn through you.

Of course, you felt Julius’ gladius climb up your spine, cutting away your bindings. You were left bear. Shamed. When you would have grabbed one of their weapons before, you sheilded yourself from their foul view. You were flushed, and almost teary.

“Bad injury, courier?” he sneered. “Or have you been lying to me, Vulpes told me you have.”

You’d rather there be starving wolves here than men. The worst thing a wolf would do is eat you.

You said nothing, looking everywhere but his eyes. You saw his jaw clench. He delivers a heavy back hand to your aching jaw, causing you to fall to the marble floor below.

He looks down at your, his eyes hated. Like that he turned away.

“Send her to the healer,” he growled. “And put her in a cell. I want that bitch broken before she’s put to work. Can’t let a decent womb go to waste.”

“You mother-”

Like that you are dragged away by Julius, you call out for Arcade who looks at you with the most fear you have ever seen in a man, and you have seen a lot.

“Stay strong Lucky, you’ll be okay,” he lied before Julius punched him in the jaw. “We’ll get out of this!” Another blow.

“I think I know this mouthy straggler… You were with the bitch of Vegas when she came to Cottonwood Cove for the first time.” His croaky voice grew faint as you were dragged away. I

“He is a gift my lord,” Vulpes answered. “He is a skilled medical practitioner and healer, he can cite Cicero, Marcus Aurellius, the poetry of Ovid and Virgil. He will make for a semi-suitable intellectual sparring partner.” His voice fades as you are taken away.

Away from your best friend.

The halls were lined with beauty, so sickening to be wasted on the red mould that now grew within it.

The carpets were clean, and marble columns lined the walls, statues of old gods look down on you with contempt, their soulless eyes gazing on your sorry self.

“In here whore,” hissed the son of Caesar the Dying. “I don’t understand why my lord father would see that you were healed. I would have you thrown-”

“-to the dogs?” You finished his sentence. “C’mon you’re a smart cookie, think of somethin’ more creative.”

Another backhand. It hurt. He’s good at that, you have to admit. Every strike rattled the scared brain in your skull.

The room where you shoved in smelled clean, of faint incense and herbs.

There was a crisp white bed in the centre with cabinets of medicine sitting in colourful vials.

A woman with dark brown skin stood hunched over her work, she was tall, skinny and draped in a rough white linen tunica. Her long black hair swung at her tailbone as she moved, humming.

“Woman.” Julius stated firmly.

She turned around.

She was beautiful, older with creases around her long, small, hooded black eyes.

“This woman once spent her life smiling,” you thought.

Her lips were thin like burgundy rose petals, and her nose was high and proud as her cheekbones were.

She had delicate tattoos, which had faded to a dark grey in the sun. They were six faint thin lines on leading from her bottom lip to her chin

She gasped when she saw you, dropping her tray of vials. They crashed to the ground with a smash, fracturing across the white tiled floor.

She saw you, and saw a banshee, a foul spectre come to haunt her.

Did you kill her horrid Legion son? Did she hear tales of the infamous Courier Six and was struck with fear to know “he” had been captured?

You could not contemplate the reasoning for any longer, before Julius put an end to your mental questioning.

The healer -you presume she is anyway- pants, her small chest fluttering as she held it.

“Hurry up, and tend to the whore’s wounds, woman.”

She is silent, merely sweeping up the broken glass.

“Yeah, he’s not too nice to me either.”

She looked at you, her onyx eyes awash with horror.

“You know, I’m not as scary as him.” You said as she led you with trepidation to the bed.

She motioned, miming taking off her trousers and folding them up. She pointed at you.

“Ah you noticed, 9mm’s been in there since last night.”

She looks into your eyes for a moment, her mouth hanging open.

Now you know why he hasn’t said a word. Her tongue, they cut off half of it. Bastards.

Black chips looked into you, she reached out to grab your shaking hands, hands were worn and warm.

Teary eyed, she looked away again, fetching a linen cloth, vinegar and water from her station.

Julius eyed you, if a gaze could burn, you would be wrapped up in a blaze.

The unnamed woman returned to you, and began to dab the wound clean with the clear brown liquid. It burned, but you needed the sting of cleanliness.

The wound will scar, you knew that. It was red, starting to form orange crystals around it as it tried to pucker to a close. It was angry as it swallowed the 9mm round.

And this woman would need to remove it.

She sighed and fetched some threatening looking sharp nosed tweezers.

You swallowed, you have done this before, Arcade has done it for you too, but you dreaded it all the same.

She noted your trepidation, and gave you… a branch?

She held it to her mouth, and mimed biting it with her teeth.

This isn’t going to be fun.

Wrapping your teeth around it, she looks at you, nods and digs the tweezers into your thigh.

You swallowed your scream and gripped the sheets, your nails sinking into the soft white fabric.

After her digging, she hit something hard, pulling it out you sighed in relief, your teeth having bit past the bark.

She wrapped your leg with fresh bandages after dousing it with some of the solution along with healing powder.

She looks you up and down. Her eyes widening as she looks at you again.

“I got a kickin’ in my ribs,” your voice was strained with agony. “Vulpes wears big fuckin’ boots so I won’t be surprised if they’re broken. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Still trembling, she set about her work station. She ground some herbs together, and put it in a small sack, she poured clean water into a cup, and thrusted it before you.

You sniffed the herby solution carefully.

She made a motion as though she was breaking a bone and putting it back together, she shook her head. Then rubbing her sides as though she was in pain, she gave a thumbs up.

“Huh, won’t heal me, but it’ll stop the pain.”

She nodded.

You drank down the verdant concoction greedily, and wiped your mouth.

“How long till I heal up?”

She holds up six fingers.

“Six days?”

She shakes her head.

“Are we done here woman?” Julius cut in.

She wasn’t allowed to motion an answer before Julius dragged you off the bed. Your neck went scabbed and unclean.

You looked back at the woman, who looked towards you mournfully.

- You were stolen out of the palace, and taken to an old police station. Already, several guards lined it. It smelt dusty and you fought a sneeze as it filled your sinuses.

A legionary sat at the desk, dipping a quill into an ink pot, he scratched on a piece of beige paper.

“Name of prisoner?” He grumbled, bored.

“Fortuna” Julius answered, spitting the name out like tobacco.

“Age?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Nature of crime?”

“Anti-legion activity. Caesar deems her suitable as a breeder so she shall be put in a cell until she learns her lesson.”

Breeder, the word, all two syllables of it, made you feel sick.

“The solitary cell is the only one free, throw her in there.”

Walking you along the lines of battered criminals. All dirty faced and missing teeth and tattoos.

Some whistled, made lewd comments, as you walked through bare chested. You knew why dad preferred you to dress as a man.

Your cell was a cell within a cell, blocked off from the view of others.

It was as grim as your grave back in Goodsprings, with a singular small barred window that caused some light from above to stream in.

You were shoved in again, and the door closed with a thunk.

Scrambling up, iron bars met you. Slamming the great cast iron door. You were left alone.

Alone with nothing but dirt and a square of birthing light.

You didn’t know how, with the worries in your bisected mind ladening you with trouble, but sleep found you and you dreamt of nothing.

Your nose twitched with the stench of raw meat being seared. The foul cooking seeping in from your only window.

You grunted as you stood, the pain-killer the tattooed woman gave you starting to fade, and looked out into the small rectangle of night sky.

It gagged you with foulness, this stench of death.

You thought of Arcade. You heard of Gods that people had, but you never had one or many yourself. But you caught yourself praying for the first time.

There it was again, the voice of a serpent in a God-crafted haven garden of leaves and flora.

“Enjoying the view, dulcissime?”

Vulpes.

“Where’s Arcade?” You hissed, throwing yourself at the bars despite your agony.

“He’s safe. Caesar needs him, he is indispensable. He is fed and watered, that’s all you need to know.” He leaned on the bars, close to your face. “How are your ribs?” He smelt like smoke and sunlight.

“F-fine,” you pulled yourself away from the bars and folded your arms, grunting in pain. His face was a fire, and you hated being close to its loveliness.

“Courier Six is dead.”

“Yeah yeah, well fuckin’ done with the metaphor,” you said, waving your hand, dismissive.

Vulpes started to walk along the cage, his white finger brushing against the metal.

“Courier Six is dead -as in- they think you are dead. Don’t you smell the smoke? Like cooked meat, is it not? Surely you must remember Nipton?”

Your stomach turned. You did.

“You really are an evil thing,” his voice was velvet. “A slave boy bearing your resemblance was put in your tomboy rags. Flogged and threw upon the flames. You really are a heavy sleeper, for he screamed. He died for you, though he certainly didn’t want to.”

You swallowed bile.

“You sick twisted fu-.”

“You should be thanking me, if I never told Caesar that you were a woman after our little date… you would be thrown to the fire not him.”

“You’re keeping me cause I-”

“You’re a woman. Yes.”

“You sick bastard! I won’t do a fucking thing any of you tell me! I’m telling you know I swear it I’ll cut off your cocks I’ll-” You raging was interrupted yet again. Lifting his white hand, he silences you.

“Won’t need to do a thing. You will remain untouched, as you are.”

Your face burned.

“You really are a damn weirdo,” your voice wavered in your shame.

“A lifelong crossdresser posing as a Strip girl, one who wouldn’t even kiss at the end of an evening, even to keep up a ruse? Come on.”

Once again, he leaned in, your face contorted with blushing, shame and disgust.

“You my dear are Minerva, maiden of war, fair as you are ferocious in battle.”

Truth is, you could have had men and women if you wanted, but you had no interest in sex.

Women of Vegas, you confused them, they took you for a man. Gomorrah prostitutes would flock to you when you walked by, even before you were well known on the Strip.

In short, you made a handsome man, and a beautiful woman.

You remembered the first time your boys saw you in that black dress. How Boone stuttered and looked away, sheepish.

“Que linda, hija!” Raul complimented. “You clean up nice enough,” Arcade teased.

And when you un-sexed yourself, putting on your masculine gown, serving girls at bars would blush when you thanked them for your drink.

“I wish I could get the ladies as easy as you Six,” you recall Veronica teasing you one day.

“Yeah but I don’t want ‘em.”

“Well some of the men look at you too,” Arcade had huffed.

“Don’t want them either.”

You were awash with confusion; uncertainty as to your fate in the Legion. If you were not to be a vessel for them to use use use, then what was to be your sordid fate?

“Why the hell am I still livin’, since you aint makin’ use of me like that?”

“Caesar deems it that you are left here for an indefinite time… To let you think about what you have done.”

An emerald is flicked into your cell, beautiful and twinkling. It tinkled and sighed as it bounced on the filthy floor.

“You can submit to me now,” his face was flint and serious, Neptune tempting Vesta to be wed to him.

“I will not treat you badly,” he reached his veiny arm into your cell, his eyes burned with emotion.

“Submit, and I will make the queen of my life. You will be a goddess, draped in silk and adorned with gems, all you deserve, columba. I will build temples in your name, take the stars out of the sky.”

He strokes your arm.

“You will have no fear with me in your bed. You will have not to worry. I will even let you see your friend Arcade, all you need to do is submit to me, be my sweet lady.”

You paused, a statue made at his request.

The cell was filthy and dark, and you ached so from the journey and the beatings.

You looked at his carved face, his slightly broken perfect pale nose, and sapphire eyes.

And.

You threw the gem at his broad chest.

“Get fucked,” you spat the curse out. “In here’s lookin’ mighty fine all of a sudden. Would rather that than be your damn whore.”

He picks up the gem.

“Very well,” he glares at you. “I’ll take that as your answer for now. Be warned, Lanius has expressed a claim for you, he will not be so generous or merciful. He will pluck those pretty little emeralds right out of your head.”

He stormed out, defeated and you felt some pride in his anger.

The shard of light shrank as he disappeared.

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