Chapter Text
The best thing about Vegas is also the worst thing about Vegas. You can’t get away.
It’s something that Benny understands. He’s standing on a hill, in the middle of the night, in the shade of a dead tree, overlooking a dingy little town. But out of the corner of his eye, past the glow of his cigarette and the darkness of the hills behind him, he can see it. Patterns of white and gold, cleaving the horizon. Spotlights arcing into the air. That damn ivory tower – The Lucky 38 – looming above it all.
The city of New Vegas lights up the desert like an electrical oasis; any shmuck with a half-decent pair of snakes can see it, no matter how far across the Mojave he’s standing. All you have to do is turn around.
For his part, Benny isn’t normally in the habit of looking away. As a matter of fact, a lot of the work he’s done these past few years has involved making sure that his Chairmen don’t look away. They’re a Family now. Not tribals. It’s a better way of life, but the boys don’t always see that. And when they don’t…
Benny exhales smoke. Maudlin train of thought. He’s already in a maudlin place; he doesn’t need it.
Over the noise of Khan spades digging into the dirt, he leans back, hand in his pocket, and looks up at the sky. Fools with his lighter. Ignores the lights of the city in the distance, right behind him. Tries to remember what the hell was playing on the last ham radio he listened to. They’d passed through the saloon down in town, briefly, before setting up here. Maybe they’ll stop in for a drink on the way back.
“You’re listening to Radio New Vegas, your little jukebox in the Mojave Wasteland. I’m Mr. New Vegas, and I’m here for you…”
Mister New Vegas. Benny scoffs. He thinks the name’s rich. He knows more than most, and he knows that the voice on the radio is nothing more than that. One of House’s little puppets. An echo of some schmutz from before the war – at least, so the man says. Benny’s sceptical of that, if only because Benny’s also sceptical that the old man really was there when the bombs dropped. Sure, he says that he was there, two hundred years ago. But what – they’re all just supposed to take his word for it? Believe the man behind the screens, the man that none of them have ever even laid eyes on?
…Nah. House’s systems may be sophisticated, but Benny’s onto him. Especially since he got Yes Man into the game. The screens are a flogger, and one of these days, he’s going to find out what’s underneath.
“…We’ve got some news for you, coming right up. Traders from California are being turned away at Mojave Outpost, where the NCR is concerned about dangers along Nipton Highway and I-15…”
Night air is thick with heat. Benny takes another drag of his cigarette, relishes the sitting-down feeling, tries not to think about the sweat that must be staining his shirt right now. The Khans probably thought he was crazy, some headcase wearing a suit out into the desert. They don’t get it. There’s a style in lifestyle. And if there’s one thing that Benny can do – aside from cut a jugular – it’s commit.
The grave is almost done. The body of the courier, bound and restrained on the ground beside it, twitches. It is clad in the innocuous plaid shirt and dungaroos of a caravaneer. One of the Khans has left a lantern, lit, at the head of the grave, to light the work. Its glow is stronger than the glow from his fag, but it’s less warm. More pale, almost ghostly. Radio New Vegas continues to play through in his memory, like a record going in the next room over.
“…In addition, NCR Correctional Facility is now under prisoner control following a successful riot. Locals should avoid anyone who looks like they’ve done time…”
A smile fights the corner of Benny’s lips for a heartbeat as he remembers that particular headline. NCR, locking people up and then giving them dynamite? A recipe for fireworks. He’s almost sorry he missed the show.
Still, it bodes well for his future plans. If the people running the Republic are so thick that they hand their prisoners all the tools they need to break out, instead of even making them glaum the stuff, then maybe it’ll take less than he thought to get them out of the Mojave. Which still leaves those Legion freaks, of course, but hey. They seem the superstitious types. Maybe all the maroon they’re wearing’ll end up ironic.
He takes another drag.
“…Those were our top stories. Gonna play a song for you right now. It’s about that special someone you only find once… in a Blue Moon.”
It's the echoes of that Sinatra crooner’s song that are ringing in his ears when the Khans prop up the courier on their knees before him. The hat has been left on the dirt ground, lost to the shadows, and the courier’s head lolls as it slumps down from between a pair of thin shoulders.
The men step away, but slowly, like they’re not sure if the body is going to stay upright without them. Like it’s dead already, which wouldn’t be surprising after the dry-gulch it’d been subject to. It’s not – Benny can see the telltale rise-and-fall in the chest – but it won’t be long now.
McMurphy, the professional bellyache, stands to his right. That mug with the carrot top and the mohawk – a combo that Benny’d call brave if he weren’t so sure the man was just plain stupid – is on his left, clutching at the shovel in his hands like it’s a weapon. This was the number who’d complained about killing a courier in the first place – “Khans don’t kill for Vegas caps,” he’d ached, “not like this” – but he was all too happy to watch, was that it?
“You got what you were after.” That’s McMurphy, right on queue. “So pay up.”
It’s only the light of the lantern illuminating his face that stops Benny from rolling his eyes. He may be sick of the Khans’ shit, but for today, they’re his Brunos. Not that he plans on paying them at all – but they don’t need to know that.
“You’re crying in the rain, pallie,” is what he tells McMurphy in the moment. Even if he wasn’t planning on stringing them out, why would he pay them for a job when the job’s not done? He waits just long enough to the see the logic of things flash in McMurphy’s gaze before he returns to the main centrepiece of tonight’s event: the figure in front of him, now fully waking up.
He can see the reality of the courier’s unfortunate situation dawn piecemeal. First there’s the bleary shake of the head. Then, there’s the inquisitive wrist-twist, followed by the realisation that said wrists are tied – finally, there’s a tug against the rope so strong that he can see the attempting arms shake underneath the gloves and flannel.
“Heh. Guess who’s wakin’ up over here.” Mohawk sounds like he’s enjoying this.
Benny privately remarks on the Khan’s flippancy – finks, the lot of them – before taking one last drag of his cigarette. When the courier’s head fully rises, and he’s hit with a demanding stare, he sighs the smoke away, dropping the fag end on the ground and quashing it with his heel. Bush fire’s the last thing they need, now. “Time to cash out.”
He’s maybe a step and a half closer to the courier when McMurphy butts in. “Will you get it over with?” he whines. Benny’s not looking at him, but he can sense the man’s wide eyes on him, all the same.
Khans. Always flip-flopping. Victims, villains. Noble savage bluenoses who won’t kill for caps, and blood-hungry thugs who are always just itching to blow one down. Even if they knew how to work a roulette wheel, there’s no doubt in Benny’s mind that none of them would ever be able to pick between red and black.
There’s going to be a reckoning between them, he thinks, once Vegas is his. He can’t wait to chase them out of their stupid canyon. Maybe he’ll build a hash house on top of their tents.
It’s this spur of self-belief that prompts him to respond to McMurphy by stopping and raising a finger.
“Maybe Khans kill people without looking ‘em in the face,” he says, staring at the courier all the while, before finally breaking eye contact to address the Khan directly, “but I ain’t a fink. Dig?”
McMurphy doesn’t respond.
Benny turns back to the courier. It’s not that he feels bad. More like weary. The Chip is what he wanted – all that he wanted. But with the way House is liable to sniff around, he can’t let his involvement in its disappearance be known. And to that end, he can’t let the courier live. It’s a simple sum, and he’d do it again, but it doesn’t mean he’s without sympathy.
Digging into his coat pocket, he withdraws that very same Chip. Nestling it between his forefingers, he holds it up so that it catches the light of the moon, and of the lantern. So that it catches the courier’s slightly glazed eyes.
It’s only right, he thinks. If he was dying this way, he’d sure like to know what he was dying for.
“You’ve made your last delivery, kid,” he tells the courier, before putting the chip back safely above his heart, and withdrawing something else – something sleeker, bulkier, and altogether more deadly. “Sorry you got twisted up in this scene.”
Maria is a piece in more ways than one. Gold-accented trigger, mother-of-pearl grips, satin nickel finish. The patterns and the grip images are based on art from almost a thousand years ago – ancient history, long before the bombs even dropped. For a man who’s all about the future, he liked the irony of carrying a piece that looked so much like something out of the past.
She shoots true, though. And that’s all that really matters right now.
Nursing Maria in his hand, Benny thinks – almost to his surprise – of The Tops. Of the singer. Of vials of psycho, and of an unhappy right-hand man.
“Just saying a straight kill would’ve been honest.” The words echo in his ears.
Alright, Swank, Benny thinks, you want an honest kill? Get a load of this one.
“From where you’re kneeling,” is what he says, out loud, to the courier he’s about to knock off, “must seem like an eighteen-carat run of bad luck.” He raises his arm. Just the one – his tribal days may be long behind him, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten how to shoot a gun. Doesn’t mean that he’s forgotten the primal thrill of an execution.
The courier is one more meaningless face that’s going to get killed in the merciless expense of the Mojave. Benny watches the eyes staring down Maria’s barrel widen, and understands that now, they both know it.
“Truth is?” he says, no longer even sure if he’s still trying to console the courier or just musing out loud to himself, “the game was rigged from the start.”
There’s a final hitch of breath in the courier’s chest.
Benny shoots twice. Maria’s a beauty, not a heavyweight, and he’s not leaving this up to chance. The first bullet hits the courier square in the forehead, above the right eyebrow, sending the head snapping up like the jaw’s just taken a knockout blow. Then, when the head jerks back down again, the second shot sends a small blast of viscera flying out of the courier’s eye socket. The body collapses without so much as a sigh, folding over on itself and crumpling into the dirt of the Goodsprings cemetery. As good a place for it as any.
Benny senses an uncomfortable shuffling of weight from the Khans at his sides, and snaps his fingers.
“Get on,” he tells them, jerking his head, and the move quickly, if sloppily. Two of them grab the courier’s body and half-carry, half-push it into the yawning mouth of the grave behind it. The others grab the shovels, and begin to pile on the dirt.
Muzzling and holstering his best girl, Benny reaches for another cigarette. The chip feels heavy in his breast pocket, and not just because the last person to carry it’s now a stiff. This little number – it’s the House edge. The key to something. He hasn’t figured out what, yet, but he’s on track. On the trail, as Swank might phrase it.
He sighs. Swank, he thinks, and his fucking nostalgia.
The smoke fills his lungs as he takes a deep breath. It floods every cavity, pushing out the grit of the dust-filled air – and drowning the unmistakable tang of iron.
Without a dream in my heart, some part of him hears the old crooner sing. Without a love of my own.
Benny shrugs his shoulders. Adjusts his jacket, settles in to another few minutes of watching the Khans wave spades around. Lets the song fall out of his memory. That’s one more thing in the past, now, and he’s got other places to look.
Finally, after feeling them on his back for so long, he turns all the way around. Looks out over the dark hills, and the bone-pale desert, towards the lights of Vegas.
The lights of the future.