The man slept in the dark recesses of a shadowy tower, overlooking his kingdom. A kingdom he had not founded, but seized and built upon. Vegas, the crown jewel of the Southwest. It would be here that he would begin to seize all things.

In his crypt, deep within the heart of the Lucky 38, he lay dreaming. But his dreams were not of yearnings and desires hidden in the abstract subconscious. They were of pure ambition and scheming, running numbers and calculations, constantly plotting the next play.

The man - his name was once Robert Edwin House: a multi-billionaire business magnate and a respected innovator. In his time, he was a god amongst men. Wealthy, influential, a pure genius, one of the greatest minds of his generation. He was powerful, yet mortal. All efforts to achieve a higher state of being was hindered by his insignificant, human form.

The bombs changed that. They changed everything. They came down like a cleansing rain, wiping away all the weakness and incompetence - all the mistakes of the old world that House had come to know and loathe. As the bombs came down, the mistakes were culled. The wheat detached from the chaff, and only the strong remained.

And House had never been so strong.

In his time, he was a god amongst men. Now, he was a god amongst all things. He was pure, raw data carrying information of a bygone era in a broken world. He was everywhere, watching and controlling. He commanded thousands of loyal soldiers, all with his mind. He was limitless and constant - he was perfect.

There were those that wore their paper crown, those that pretend to know true power - Caesar, the NCR, the Brotherhood of Steel: he despised them. If they only knew what he alone - one man - could achieve, they'd fall on their knees in front of him and crown him king.

And yet they resisted. They clung to the follies and false ideals of the past while House looked toward the stars. If only they knew...they'd fall in line like the rest of Vegas.

But that didn't matter now. Now, everything was about to change.

Run it again, he ordered.

The various systems whirred and spun. A voice appeared.

It's the same as before, the voice said. It hasn't changed since yesterday.

Run it again, he repeated, more forcefully. The systems whirred once more.

Three point six… no… five point- no, it's climbing now. Nine… Thirteen… Wait...

House smiled.

It's… it's eighteen point two.

Which can only mean? asked House.

They're alive. They are there, and they are still alive.

The man in the crypt felt his face curl into a triumphant smile.

Victor, he called out into the void. Summon my Courier. It is time to begin Phase Four.

The smile— though vaguely felt, grew wider, as long-forgotten muscles pulled in the darkness. Soon he'd have it - everything he sought after, everything he hoped to achieve. And once he had it...he'd be unstoppable.

Then the void called back.

Uh, sir? He won't answer your call.

The smile disappeared.

"There, that oughta do it."

"...Yeah, that'll definitely do it, soldier. You know I ain't fixing that."

"Wasn't asking you to."

In the far corner, the phone lay broken on the floor, sparking, smoking wreck. In truth, Raul had half a mind to do the same thing - the damn thing was making a racket, and the ghoul was nursing a terrible hangover. But rules had been set a long time ago in the Presidential Suite, and one of them was to never fire guns inside. Sure it was broken almost every night, but Raul was sober now (more or less), and he figured common courtesy would inhibit such things.

The culprit, the moody sniper known as Craig Boone, had just broken the household rule, the barrel of his rifle still smoking. He sat there, across the table, polishing the recently fired gun, occasionally pausing to take sips of coffee. He claimed to like the feel of smooth burning metal running through his hands. Of course, Raul figured that Boone didn't have much going on inside, feeling wise. The guy didn't feel pain.

They'd been sharing the common rooms of the Presidential Suite for a while - him, Boone, Cass, Veronica and the Courier. They were a rowdy bunch and they had more fights then most housemates, but Raul figured it was decent living these days. He knew Cass definitely felt suffocated within the Lucky 38, often crashing god knows where most nights. But Raul figured that compared to sleeping in a rusty shack or having hungry super mutants as housemates, the Lucky 38 wasn't all that bad. At least Boone didn't snore. Come to think of it, he never saw Boone sleep.

"You know, you could have just unplugged the phone," said Raul, breaking the silence.

"That's why people carry these things," said Boone, motioning to his rifle. "So they don't have to get up close to do the job."

"So you're just lazy, is that it?" said Raul.

"No. Just efficient."

"That right?" said Raul. "Well your efficiency made the whole room smell like gunpowder."

"I like the smell. Covers up the stench of ghoul."

Raul sighed. "Well, you get to explain to the head honcho why nobody's been picking up lately."

"Yeah, like he ever comes down here."

And it was at that moment that the doors flew open.

"YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED."

"Pinche puta!" groaned Raul, covering his ears. "I said, he's not here!"

"YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED. SU PRESENCIA SE REQUIERE."

"Oh, how nice. He really thinks of everything," muttered Boone, not looking up from his rifle.

Raul hated robots. He liked machines, but he hated robots. Machines didn't make a fuss when you cracked them open. And machines rarely came with high powered machine guns, missile launchers and blaring loudspeakers like a Securitron did. Especially this Securitron. The robot towered over him, blaring House's message in his face with the stern glare of the policeman fixed on the screen.

"See, now this is a good time for the gun!" said the ghoul.

"I thought you were good with fixing things? Just turn the fucking thing off," snapped Boone.

"Yeah, brilliant idea. And maybe you can help scrape the little pieces of ghoul off the wall after this thing decides to use its missiles on me."

"YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED. YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED."

Boone threw his gun down in surrender. "Alright. Call the guy," he relented.

Raul sighed and turned to the noisy robot. "Let me speak to House."

The Securitron suddenly stopped blaring. "I'm sorry, but I do not understand your request," said the robot calmly, with an almost apologetic tone.

"Ay Pendejo," muttered Raul. "Err, command override. Vocal audio House, Robert. Access source code. Gamma three...uh, delta tango cinnamon."

The screen on the Securitron suddenly fizzed, and the policeman was gone. In a split second, another face appeared - a well-dressed man with groomed hair and a sly grin.

"Only two people know that access code, and I've never told a soul," said Robert House. "Tell me where you learned it or I'll skin you."

Raul shrugged. "Your man's a shitty card player, and he likes to bet weird things. And it's a lot of fun to say," the ghoul said with a chuckle. "Delta tango cinnamon."

"That's a class one breach of security, and a felony against the state. I should have your tongue ripped out just for saying that code," said House.

"Well that would make things a bit quieter around here," muttered Boone.

Raul scratched his head. "Yeah, speaking of which...the presence you requested ain't here, boss."

"Preposterous," spat House. "It's a Saturday morning. No doubt he's asleep, passed out in a puddle of his own shame in the bed that I gave him.

"Well, he ain't. We all started drinking here, yeah. But we eventually drifted off to other places. Cass said something about going up to Montana. I went down to the Wrangler. Boone here hardly leaves home base. And Veronica and your guy went off who knows where."

"I couldn't care less about any of that," said House, a touch angrier. "If you don't tell me where he is this instant, I'll evict all of you from the premises - and you'll exit through the window."

Raul shrugged again. "Well, you answered your own question already, chief."

"What?!"

Boone sighed and stood up from his breakfast. He got up close to the Securitron, staring House down through his shades.

"It's a Saturday morning," said the sniper, cryptically.

House was becoming impatient. "And?!"

"Which hotel is always complaining about messes every Saturday morning?"

There was a short silence as House realized what Boone had meant. Suddenly, the screen on the Securitron blinked, and in another moment, House was gone.

"You're welcome," grumbled Boone.

"Least he didn't ask about the phone."

It didn't matter on the time or the season. Night or day, winter or summer, Gomorrah was the busiest hotel in Vegas. Cachino liked it that way. Sure, it meant more money in his pocket, but that was a given. It also meant that everyone was too busy to chase him down to fix something or ask for something, and he could dedicate his time for his personal affairs - namely enjoying his own merchandise in the comfort of his private suite.

The Tops had gone to shit after Benny bought the farm. The Ultra-Luxe had lost its pull after certain members of their White Glove Society were outed as cannibals. Treachery and savagery - at least Gomorrah was honest about the vice it sold. And it sold nothing more than pure sin - gambling, chems, booze, snatch, all was yours for a very good price. And these days the hotel was pulling in more caps than ever. Gomorrah was now the premier tourist destination in Vegas.

Cachino sat at the counter of the bar of the main stage, absentmindedly drawing chicken scratches in his journal. He found that it gave off the impression to his subordinates that he was busy, and should not be disturbed. In truth, he was not. Cachino made it a point to do as little work as possible and enjoy as much as he could. As he sat at the bar, chicken scratching with one hand with a glass of whiskey in the other, all he could think about were the two girls up in his suite and the weapons-grade potent Jet he'd been saving in his desk for over a year. He figured he'd make them play around with each other, then fight for the Jet.

His bawdy daydreams were interrupted suddenly, as one of his subordinates tapped his shoulder cautiously. Cachino's mood instantly soured.

"What the fuck do you want, dipshit? Can't you see I'm busy?" flashed Cachino.

"Sorry boss, but…" began the Omerta. He looked nervous.

"Well? The fuck is it?"

"And they've been there how long?"

"Ten minutes boss."

"And you're just telling me fucking now?"

"Well, they haven't been doing anything. Trudy's been keeping them busy, but...they just keep demanding entry to the hotel."

Cachino swore loudly. This was the last thing he needed. A troop of Securitrons taking up space in his lobby, demanding entrance. No warrant or nothing.

There were six of them, almost taking up the entire Lobby room, pushing guests aside. People were pointing and whispering among themselves. Yes, Cachino thought. This was definitely the last thing he needed. With the Tops dead and the Ultra-Luxe shunned, the last thing he needed was for Gomorrah to be flooded with law enforcement chasing away the money.

"What do they want? I mean, are they here for somebody? Something?" asked Cachino. And what can I hide away before they find, he thought.

"They've just been repeating the same thing boss, you know, 'don't get in the way of executive business and all that pizazz. Should I get Goon?"

In the corner at all times, like a silent shadow in the casino, stood Goon - the hulking Super Mutant bouncer that House's lackey had hired for the hotel. Goon was huge, green, ugly, and mean, like all of his ilk - but unlike other Super Mutants, Goon was special in that he was not motivated by murder or war. Instead, Goon was interested in the collection of the "shiny plastic circles" that humans used. He was paid well, relatively, compared to most other super mutants. Luckily the mutant hadn't learned the concept of haggling, holding out, or reading the fine print yet, so the contract Cachino wrote him was deliciously profitable. Although he did often wonder what he'd do if the mutant decided to renegotiate. Probably relocate to Freeside for a while. Let House's boy take care of it. After all, he set the damn thing up in the first place. The only problem with Goon was that Cachino never felt comfortable giving him orders.

"Forget Goon," barked Cachino. "We don't need Goon. I'll handle this."

He gave the club a few practice swings, whipping it through the air, as he walked through the casino floor to the lobby. It felt good. It felt light. It felt like it had tasted blood before. Cachino had bought it off House's boy - apparently, it belonged to Driver Nephi, the raider with a penchant for beating NCR soldiers to death. Cachino hadn't used it for much besides decorating his office, but he was willing to give it's other uses a shot.

"Alright tin cans, here's what I want to know!" Cachino called out to the Securitrons, flexing the golf club over his shoulders. "What the hell is local law doing in my reputable hotel?"

"Make way. You are obstructing us" said the Securitron. "Allow us entry, or you will be forcibly moved."

Cachino had to laugh. "Me? You're gonna remove me from my hotel? That's rich - I didn't know - what, you got some kind of comedy enhancer in there or something?"

"Gomorrah. General Manager. Designation, Cachino. Do not interfere with executive business," blared the Securitron.

"Oh that's what this is, eh?" said Cachino angrily. "Cause your executive business is interfering with my casino business. So why don't you scram, tin can? And you tell your boss he wants to conduct business in my hotel, he comes through me first."

Brave words, Cachino thought. But he figured that if the robots were going to force their way in, they would have done it by now. Besides, Cachino was still thinking about the two girls and the Jet in his suite. And every minute he was spending away from it dealing with House's robots was just making him increasingly angry.

Silence. The tin can stood there, angry policeman staring silently back at him.

Cachino frowned. "You hear me? You defective or what?" he said, rapping the Securitron firmly on its side with his golf club. "Get it through your fuckin' Motherboard, you metal piece of-"

The Securitrons face blinked. Suddenly the policeman was gone, and a handsome man with slicked black hair appeared. It turned to regard Cachino.

"If you so much as dent my Securitrons…" began Robert House. "If you even get a scratch on me, and I'll have you torn apart. Limb by limb."

"M-Mister House?!" stammered Cachino, turning a pale white. All bravado he had mustered seemed to vanish at once as he dropped the club like it was white-hot. His voice went up six octaves, turning into a high, obnoxious squeak.

"Apologies sir. Didn't know it was you, sir. Thought the robots were intruding in my business sir. Not you sir. You can intrude all you'd like sir, please. Didn't mean nothing by it sir, begging your pardon…"

"I was told one of my employees had made ample use of your services last night," said House, cutting him off. "I'd like to speak to my employee."

"Absolutely Mr. House sir. No worries. And let me apologize again for my, uh, how you call em, threats against you, I'd never vandalize your property sir."

"Bring me to my lieutenant, and I'll forget your existence entirely."

"Yes sir. Of course sir. Right away sir."

Imbecile, House thought to himself. It was because of people like him that House ever considered expanding his hired personnel beyond machines. The last thing he wanted to do was to spend a day negotiating with gormless mooks like Cachino about casino business when he could instead focus on more important matters. Having a mouthpiece allowed him the convenience of conveying his will without actually having to be in the same room as such people. On any other day, House would have had the Courier collect Cachino's tongue; teach him how to hold it properly. A shame it was his own Lieutenant that House was searching for. House wondered who he could hire to collect his tongue once House found him. Although he doubted that many could. He stored the idea back into his data banks, under "continuity plans." That folder was growing at a concerning rate as of late.

As Cachino led House and his host through the casino, the guests stared and whispered amongst themselves. House? Here? He could never be. I thought he never left the Lucky 38. Some other gamblers were already clearing the floor, rushing towards the exit, leaving empty tables behind with chips ripe for plunder. They'd have learned by now. When Securitrons came knocking at your door, it wasn't because House was making social calls. Someone was in trouble. And nobody had ever gotten in the way of House's judgement and lived.

"They'll be in the V.I.P room, sir. Eh, Joanna's old place…" said Cachino, leading House and his securitrons through the hotel. "...Err, if I could trouble you with a, uh...small matter sir?"

House said nothing - for he cared not for small matters. But Cachino spoke anyway.

"…Well, I know you let them have free run of all the casinos but...a-and I know, yeah, it's well deserved after what they did, but...they've practically been living here, drinking all the booze, enjoying all the merchandise - you know the Tops and the Ultra-Luxe, they don't have the amenities that we have, so I can understand why they like it here, but uh… well, booze and cooch aren't cheap, is all I'm saying."

"You want me to suspend their casino privileges, is that it?"

Cachino nodded meekly.

"I'll consider it," said House, honestly meaning it. If it meant not having to hunt them down for work ever again, he saw no reason why they should keep enjoying their privileges.

Cachino knocked for the third time. No answer.

"Well either they're dead in there...or no one's home," said the hotel manager.

They were standing on the upper balcony of the Gomorrah courtyard, where the "higher-priced" merchandise was usually found. The lower level was essentially a flesh pit, a free-for-all of decadence, where business was done in public view, and where orgies were not uncommon. The upper levels were more discrete, offering a more relaxed service to higher paying customers.

The VIP room had been formerly occupied by Gomorrah's number one attraction, the lovely Joanna, until the prostitute disappeared one day. That cost a surprisingly large dent in revenue. The new "elite class" he had bought from an Arizona slaver to replace her were not entirely on Joanna's level, House was told, but they soon would be, with the right "encouragement". A hulking super mutant named Goon was hired shortly after - there had been zero issues with the newest batch ever since.

"Well?" demanded House. "Don't you have a key?"

"Well, uh, sir...it's hotel policy, you know...we don't interrupt guests privacy...especially when they're...busy, you know…" said Cachino nervously.

A silent stare from House was all Cachino needed.

"Point taken, sir. Let me see what I can do…" he said, digging through his pockets, retrieving a large silver key and quickly unlocking the door. He turned the knob once. Twice. Three times, pushing inwards.

"The door is, uh...barricaded, sir," Cachino said meekly.

"Get out of the way," House ordered impatiently. He sent a signal to his accompanying Securitrons.

Break it down.

The Securitrons busted down the door. Inside the room on the bed were two women as naked as the day, one of them buried face down between the legs of the other.

"Oh j-jeez…" stammered Cachino.

One woman was buried face first between the other girl's legs, spread open like a newspaper, her naked behind on display to the world while the other moaned her approval quite loudly. Both seemed to be totally unaware of their recent visitors. And if the two were shy, they definitely didn't look like it.

Ages ago, when he was still flesh and bone, such a sight might have excited Robert House, but not anymore. He was far beyond such trivial cravings as arousal. To him now, human sexuality was alien to him: he viewed it as disgusting animals not being able to control their carnal impulses. Of course, he had his female companion program, Jane. But that was more about spite than sex. Jane was an actress that had once rejected a young House when he was still foolish enough to fall in love. Now, she could reject him no longer.

"Ahem," House cleared his throat loudly. The girl with the free tongue looked up.

"Ooh, Veronica!" exclaimed the girl, a prostitute by the looks of it. "You didn't say you were inviting the boss to play!" she teased, her voice as sweet as honey.

The customer looked up and turned around. Her brown hair was tangled and unkempt. Her face was flushed and sweaty. Under her eyes were the sallow bags of someone who'd been getting slashed all night. She was drunk. Or high. Likely both. Clothes, empty bottles, and stray pills littered the floor.

"Do I need to fucking explain the meaning of a closed door in Gomorrah?" shouted Veronica Santangelo. Her wandering bloodshot eyes finally settled on House's face. Inside them were flames of pure spite. "Oh, look. It's the man on T.V," she spat.

Mr. House narrowed his eyes. House and Veronica Santangelo shared little love for one another. It was House after all, who ordered the destruction of the Mojave Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel. It was Six himself who flipped the switch that blew that tiny bunker in the hidden valley into a million pieces.

The former scribe had not taken the Brotherhoods destruction well. She knew who had ordered their destruction, of course, even though House never told a soul. But she never learned who had committed the deed. All she knew was that her home, her closest family, had suddenly been blown sky-high, wiped from the map of Vegas because a vicious bureaucrat wanted them gone, and that there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. Ever since, the near virginal Scribe had taken to the finer vices that Gomorrah offered.

"And just where might Six be?" demanded House.

"What, you think he was here? I don't share meals, buddy. And he ain't the kind of type I take sloppy seconds from," spat Veronica. "Don't you have a monorail to fix? Get the fuck out already!" And the former esteemed Brotherhood Scribe spat one last time at House before turning back towards her quarry; and like a rabid predator, she dug into her prey.

And then Cachino spoke up - "Oh wait… you're looking for the Courier?"

House spun around in anger. The doddering manager looked sheepish.

"Missed the boat, I'm afraid. He left last night-"

In another split second, Cachino was suddenly hanging by his legs over the balcony handrails, held up only by House's arm. The fall wouldn't kill him. But it sure would hurt.

"JESUS CHRIST! P-PUT ME DOWN!" yelled Cachino, his face quickly turning blue. Onlookers from the first floor were gasping and pointing up at the spectacle.

"You have wasted my time enough already," snarled House. "And hotel managers are a cap a dozen."

"I THOUGHT SHE WAS YOUR EMPLOYEE! YOU WEREN'T SPECIFIC!" Cachino exclaimed desperately.

House began to loosen his grip.

"Woah, woah, woah WOAH WAIT!" Cachino's leg began to slowly slide through House's robotic claw. "I know where he is! I KNOW WHERE YOUR GUY IS!" he wailed.

"Where?!" barked House. "WHERE IS HE?!"

On the grimy street corner of the shithole that was Freeside, The Courier lay defeated, not by any conventional means, but by his own hand. He'd been defeated by his number one enemy yet again: the drink.

There was a steady, throbbing vein on his temples as his brain fought back against the waves of the substance-induced pain that followed. His head was beating like a line of steel pans playing a tropical tune. He didn't remember much about the night before. He'd gone down to Gomorrah with Veronica...he had insisted on playing the tables before he visited the girls…someone was caught cheating and there had been a fight… he remembered getting pretty angry… hang on...was he the one who cheated?

You should write a book, Six heard in his brain. A dull echo. He was starting to wake up.

His eyes did their best to flicker open. The sharp pain of morning dust on the inside of his eyes made him quickly shut them down again. Six had managed to catch a glimpse of his surroundings though.

He was sitting up against the wall of a ruined building, across the street where Mick and Ralph's was located. Empty bottles surrounded him. His clothes were torn, drenched, and soaking wet. He was in fact, covered in different fluids; Alcohol, sweat, vomit, blood, piss, and something that he just hoped weren't feces, painted his clothes. Whatever he was sitting in, he just hoped it wasn't him, but it sure was wet. He wanted to say that he reeked, but the hangover had left him completely congested. So with a blocked nose, crusty eyes, and ringing ears, Six was essentially blind to the entire world. He gripped his fingers, feeling something hard and slim in his hand. He shook it blindly, and heard the sound of splashing liquid. His last bottle.

It wasn't essentially prudent to be blind in such a dangerous place like Freeside, even these days. True, Mr. House's "reforms" to Vegas had brought a certain amount of economic prosperity to the land. The casinos pulled in more caps than ever before. Tourism was at a record-breaking high. More and more places in New Vegas began to acclimate to the new order. Raiders were leaving the state in droves, and the roads were starting to look safe again. But as House proved, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. The class difference was greater than ever, and the poor were still as poor as they were before. Freeside continued to be the lawless ghetto it was famous for. If you could get past the "Dirt Strip," as the locals called it, into Vegas, you were safe. If you couldn't, you'd quickly be cut down by the roving gangs of thugs that patrolled the streets of Freeside, and you'd die as another dumb tourist in a big city.

But Six chanced the gangs were smart enough to leave him alone at this point. Regularly cleaning out Freeside of it's filth was like a second hobby to him nowadays. Anyway, he didn't need to see to kill someone. Or be sober for that matter.

Here's to Freeside, he thought, pulling back blindly on his last bottle of whiskey. He had a hand in it after all. He was the one who helped House take over Vegas when no one even thought he was still alive. He helped orchestrate the defeat of both the Legion and the NCR at Hoover Dam. He was the one who drove the NCR from Vegas on House's orders, and sent them packing back to California. Now House ruled Vegas through his vast, ever-increasing army of Securitrons. The Free Economic Zone of Vegas wouldn't be possible if it wasn't for Six, and he made sure House didn't forget it.

He was a hero; or at least, that's what would be written in the books years from now by historians, carefully bought for and threatened. Those that drew breath currently however might have had different views. To some, Six was a paragon, a wasteland ranger, leading the way to a better future. To others, Six was the architect to some of their worst days on earth. They called him the Courier - a term of endearment more than anything. It had been years since Six handled goods for the Mojave Express. They also called him the Prince of Vegas, the Wildcard, and Robert's Right Hand Man. In Arizona, they called him the Child of Pluto, the Pale Lord of Death. The Daily Ranger of New California had a less flattering name for him: "the Houseboy."

Nobody knew his real name, not even House. Not that they ever would. He'd been "Six," ever since the day he rose from the grave in Goodsprings. He had a real name of course, but that was long forgotten once the bullet entered his skull. That was his rebirth. Six he was born. Six he would die.

You should really write a book, he thought, once more. It was that voice in his head again. He knew that voice. It was the same one that had once told him to chase down his would-be killer through the Mojave desert. It was the same one that made him save a beautiful girl he once knew, reuniting her with her lover. It was the voice that kept him awake, kept him entertained. It was passion and enthusiasm, raw feeling, sense of fun and adventure and creativity. It was pure driving motivation urged by natural emotion. It was deep, wrathful anger and hell-bent revenge. It was love and joy. It was the voice that Six referred to as his Right Brain. And right now, his Right Brain was telling him to write a book.

Yes, a book. What about? Well...you of course. Your story. You probably have a story worth telling. Maybe two.

He held the bottle up to his lips. The liquid inside was warm and sour. Tasted bitter and metallic. Must have gone bad.

The Adventures of Courier Six, I'd call it. Or is that too on the nose? Something more poignant would sell better.

There was a knock on his frontal lobe, a quick ratatat. He held his ear to the door and heard thus:

What the fuck are you talking about, writing a book? You don't know how to write a fucking book.

That was the other voice. Six called it the Left Brain.

For every foolish idea or notion the Right Brain sent through the Courier's mind, the Left Brain stood over like a quality inspector on a factory line, picking out bad ideas and terrible moves before they could be put into motion. Sometimes, something would slip through the cracks, and Six would curse himself later, wondering where that other voice had been. The Left Brain was logical, unfeeling, cold, and efficient. It was the moneymaker behind the madness. It was the light in the mist. The Right Brain kept him going. The Left Brain kept him alive.

They fought constantly these days. They'd been fighting ever since Six returned from his short stint in the Big Empty. He had gone there seeking riches and power, with an intact, cohesive mind. He left, however, slightly less rich and a mind constantly at war with itself. Six had the pleasure of being probably the only person on earth that had his brain successfully removed and live. He was definitely the only person who had a chance to speak to his own brain. While it was outside his body.

As you might have guessed, having your brain removed, and then shoved right back into your empty cranium might create some extraneous issues. The whole Big Empty ordeal itself had left Six a bit peeved once he got back to Vegas, but he never thought he'd suffer the effects long afterward.

Six was no stranger to neurological damage. One could probably write an entire doctoral journal on the things that had happened to his head. But even a bullet to the skull hadn't affected him as much as his trip to the Big Empty had. Since his departure of the Sink, the Courier was cursed to have a dual-mind. One of logic and reason, and one of passion and feeling. Two voices in his head. And they never stopped talking.

Six hit the bottle and chems a bit harder ever since. He was never one for such vices, but these days it was a necessity. It was his way of drowning out the chatter. Whiskey was the best way to silence the Left Brain. A few drinks down the hatch and only the Right Brain would remain, making Six fearless and passionate the whole night. The Left Brain was for the morning, who'd come back in spades, ready with scolding regrets. On the other hand, Mentats would bolster the Left Brain while choking out the Right Brain. Six would become robotic and unfeeling, capable of pulling off any mission without a hitch, any job without scruples, any task without distractions. He'd once tried to take both at the same time. To his surprise, both voices would shut off completely, leaving Six in a drooling, almost catatonic state. So that little cocktail was saved only for emergencies of sanity.

And yet they continued to argue. His brain was the one enemy Six couldn't simply put a bullet into, though there were times where even he was sorely tempted.

You taught yourself to operate power armor. You taught yourself how to strip, clean, and fire an anti-material rifle. You taught yourself how to kill. How is this any different?

Who's buying books nowadays? Who can even read?

We can do it in pictures then. Easier for people to understand. Kids would love it.

You don't know how to draw either, idiot.

Six groaned. His head was literally killing him. Besides the two idiots dueling it out in his head, his cranium felt like a super mutant was going to town on it with a rocket-sledge.

I told you you'd feel like this, didn't I? I always do. If you spent as much time being productive as you are emptying bottles, maybe you could learn how to write a fucking book.

Maybe he didn't want to hear your nagging for a while. So what? He rather listen to me than you. Least I'm fun.

It's not supposed to be fun, dumbass. Wait...is that blood he's sitting in?

Six felt the ground beneath him. Wet and warm, thicker than piss. He brought his hand up to his nose to smell. It was blood. But not his own.

He forced his eyes open. Dead bodies littered the street, all killed in various, messy ways. There was more blood: it caked the sidewalks and the walls of the ruined building. Empty smoking shells and various weapons were strewn around like discarded toys. He was surrounded by corpses - Freeside thugs. They hadn't wisened up after all.

This is why you shouldn't drink anymore, said Left Brain.

Rather this than spend more time with you, replied Right Brain.

"And I suppose this is your idea of community outreach?"

Six frowned. He was sure that the last voice wasn't his. Was he still hallucinating, he wondered?

"Get him up, and bring him back to the Lucky 38. Then find the King and bribe him: tell him whoever committed this massacre, it wasn't us."

Six opened his eyes.

The pale green face stared back at him, slicked black hair, self-satisfied smirk and all, superimposed on the screen of a Securitron.

"Oh. It's you," Six groaned.

"If I were you, I'd keep my mouth shut. You don't want to know how much trouble you've cost me already," said House.

There was the third voice in his life. The voice of his overbearing employer, Robert House. Where the Right Brain went right and Left Brain went left, House was the everlasting drive onward.

"You know why you're here, don't you?"

"I know it wasn't to offer me a drink," Six grumbled, rubbing the sand out of his eyes. He grimaced. The more sand he rubbed out, the clearer his vision became, letting the blinding green light directly into his retinas, searing them like steaks. The big man liked to keep the display brightness cranked up to eleven. Made for a good negotiating tactic when doing business, he supposed. After all, how can you swindle someone you can't see? Not that anyone would dare to try. The heavily armed Securitrons flanking House at all times prevented that. Besides, nobody had ever set foot in front of that screen besides Six, and Six's predecessor. And Six wasn't the swindling type.

He was in the Lucky 38 penthouse - the "boss's office," as it were. He was sitting in front of the giant screen, House surely staring a hole right back at him. Someone had gone through the trouble of washing him up and changing his clothes. He shuddered, only hoping it wasn't Jane. There were some lines even he wouldn't cross.

Six glared up at his employer through squinted eyes. The green face of Robert House stared him down right back. Six hated that damn face. Not only did it never change, leaving it impossible to discern what the man was thinking at any time, but Robert in his infinite genius, had somehow managed to program the most shit-eating, smug, self-satisfied avatar Six had ever had the displeasure to lay eyes on. But he wasn't stupid. He knew that wasn't what the man really looked like.

He wondered sometimes why he didn't just burn the House down, so to speak. He knew how to do it. He'd seen the terminal, the elevator leading to the crypt where the true Mr. House lay like a slumbering vampire. He wondered why, whenever House decided to chew him out or treat him like hired help like he was right now, that he never stormed down to that room and smashed that withered corpse's semi-alive brains in.

That was all Right Brain. Right Brain would propose it's plan, asking, "Why don't we kill him today?"

And then Left Brain would go, "What about the armed Securitrons and the small fortunes he keeps paying us?" And then the discussion would be tabled for a later date where the same thing would happen again. Being hired help had its perks, after all.

On paper, Six's official title was "Chief Security Officer." As CSO, he answered straight to the board of directors - of which House was the only member. House even had special business cards printed out for him, all with that title. But they both knew Six's job scope went far beyond security these days. If he had to be given a job title, a "doctor" was more appropriate. Six was there to remove any aches or pains that House suffered. "Pains in the neck," such as they were. If there was a problem, the doctor made them go away. And Six sure knew how to make House's problems go away.

The "corporate" life, such as it was, wasn't exactly what Six had in mind as a career choice. But it did come with its benefits. A luxury suite at the Lucky 38, access to an impressive arsenal of advanced weaponry and technology, free run of the casinos, and more bottle caps then Six knew what to do with. House had made Six a very rich man. Why stop now?

"So for what possible reason could you imagine why I summoned you?"

"'I don't know. Did you hear I have another snow globe to sell you?" Six asked sardonically.

A tense silence followed. Six sighed.

"Let's be honest. The only times you ever call me up here is either you got a job for me, or I'm in trouble."

"Succinct as always. So you know why you're here then," said House.

Six let out another deep sigh. "Alright, fine!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in defeat. "I'm the one who shot the damn sheriff of Primm."

It was the wrong answer. The screen practically exploded. "You killed Sheriff Meyers?!"

For once, Six was caught off guard. "That's not what I'm up here for?" he asked dumbly.

"NO!" House boomed. "You bumbling fool! So it was you that spoilt that whole venture! I should have you hung from the damn balcony!"

Six winced. Someone must have cranked up the volume lately. He could feel his entire head vibrating. That, or he was still hungover.

"I put a four hundred cap bounty on the man who undermined my appointment of Sheriff. I promised to hang the miscreant off of the open window of the cocktail lounge. And it turns out the man responsible for this entire COCKUP was under my nose all along?!"

"You may be overreacting, sir."

"OVERREACTING?!" The room shook. Six felt his ears pop.

"Weeks of negotiating, planning, bargaining, leagues of effort put into place so as to install a compliant administration in the town of Primm, and you manage to kill him just a night into his inauguration. And what do you do to amend the problem?" House sneered. If the face could change, it'd be sneering too, Six thought. "You appoint a damn robot as Primm's new Sheriff."

"Robots are plenty compliant. Send a technician down there to reprogram it," murmured Six sleepily. God, his head was throbbing.

"Do you honestly think a damn Protectron of all things makes an efficient spy?!" House sighed. "Hopeless. You and your lot are all, utterly hopeless."

"My lot?"

"Your lovely companions. In fact, I had the pleasure of conversing with them today while I was searching for you. They take after you, you know. Each of them possessed the same lack of respect for their betters. Or themselves," said House.

The Courier sighed. "Here's the thing, sir. You pay me, I pay them. You want them to fall in line? I need the cash. I need the work. So let me tell you this: don't think that I haven't noticed you pulling operations without me lately," Six said with narrowed, accusatory eyes. "I don't appreciate being cut out."

"Do not presume to tell me how to run my business," threatened House. "You've been unreliable as of late. Ever since you got back from your 'vacation,' you've either been buried in a bottle of whiskey or strung out."

"These past ten years have made you complacent. Where has that Courier of old gone? The one that single-handedly took the Hoover Dam from both the Legion and the NCR? The one that I didn't have to search through the entire city for whenever I had an assignment for him?"

"I'll ask him when I see him."

House sighed. "We could have been something you know. Paragons of the Free Economic Zone of Vegas. Instead, you spend your days killing whores and fucking ghouls. Or was it the other way around?"

Six snorted. "Well, if we're talking about last Saturday, then you'd be surprised, because the Atomic Wrangler has this one girl who-"

"Spare me the tales of your debauchery. I don't have the stomach for it. I shudder to imagine what decadent pastimes you degenerates come up with," replied House.

Six rolled his eyes. Mr. House did use to talk about how much he hated Caesar but he sure did talk like him. Pretentious jabberers, both of them. Six wondered how much House knew that he was not so unlike Caesar as he would have liked.

"And if you roll your eyes at me one more time, I'll crucify you in the damn fields and let the birds feast on them," House fumed.

All he's missing is that stupid feathered cloak, Six thought. "Beg your pardon, sir. Still got sand in my eyes," he said, pretending to rub them clean.

"Well, get the shit out of your ears while you're at it, I require your full attention," House barked.

Then, his tone suddenly changed. "I have a job for you. A job of utmost importance."

Six raised an eyebrow. "Another spy?" he asked. Hunting down NCR spies had become his main job nowadays as Head of Security. And Six was very good at his job. From detection, to capture, to execution: all of it was done with aplomb. He was collecting NCR flags as easily as he was collecting his bottle caps. Occasionally he bagged a Legion Frumentarii, but those were rare for two reasons. One, the Legion had reportedly all but given up on Vegas. According to House's own spies in the Arizona territories, the leadership had broken down into a ruling council, all with different motivations, more interested in fighting among themselves than becoming the conquering empire that Caesar has envisioned (House had made it a point to show Six the reports; he wanted to show him what happened to a nation when rulership was divided). Suffice to say, a Legion invasion was the least of Vegas's worries these days. And two, unlike NCR spies, hunting down Frumentarii actually came with a degree of difficulty. They knew how to blend into their surroundings, unlike their rivals. And so, the men and women that usually hung from the balconies of the Lucky 38 were mostly that of the Californian variety.

"'No. The NCR has reportedly scaled back on such activities, focusing their 'manpower,' as it were, on ending their famines. I don't think we'll see another Californian for another year or so, unless they're refugees," said House. "This is more important than that."

"Okay. Then what is it?" asked Six. "And if you want me to do more lab tests for those eggheads down in R&D, you can stick that up your hard drive."

House spoke firmly. "The Institute has been destroyed."

"Oh…" Six's eyes widened in realization. "Oh. It's time, huh? Your special project?"

"Yes. The stars are in our favor and the time is right. Everything we've worked so hard for has been leading up to his moment," said House. "It is time to begin Phase Four."

Six perked up. It had been a long time since House had talked about anything regarding the mysterious Phase Four. Six didn't know anything about it, besides the fact that whatever it was, House was anxious to have it done as soon as possible. Too anxious. That intrigued the Courier.

"You'll recall the Institute of course. I believe I briefed you about them a while ago?" asked House.

"Yeah...the Institute." Six scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Some wacko scientists hiding out in Boston somewhere. Advanced technology, sinister intentions. Am I getting that right?"

"A long time ago, I sent a small scouting probe to the Commonwealth. I didn't expect to find anything of value: I had sent scouts to every corner of the United States and found nothing. Why would this be any different?" said House.

"When my scout arrived, it found nothing but ruins - ruins and small pocketfuls of survivors, just like the rest of the country. Just when I was about to recall my scout, that is when I discovered something. Strange energy readings, mysterious and very advanced signal interference all across the EM spectrum. The air itself: it was thick with electrical wave-data. Do you know what that means?"

Six shook his head. "Your robot was busted?"

"Not quite. That much signal interference could only mean one thing: someone was using very, very advanced technology capable of canvassing the entire Commonwealth with its trace signatures. Does that sound familiar to you?"

"No…" said Six slowly. Then it dawned on him. "Wait…you're not saying…?"

"Someone, somewhere, had perfected the Molecular Relay. The very same thing I had been working on ever since I resurrected our research sectors," said House.

"The Institute!" Six exclaimed.

"Precisely. I sent more advanced scouts back to the Commonwealth shortly after, to interrogate the local settlers. The subjects all fearfully spoke of the same, mysterious, and technologically advanced cabal of scientists haunting the Commonwealth: the Institute. It couldn't have been a coincidence."

"Of course you already familiar with our sustained investment in molecular teleportation research. The prototype we've been working on for years."

"Am I ever…" scowled Six.

"It's come a long way since its inception. But, while it is advancing in its latent stages, it still cannot fully support a full molecular relay, leaving the whole thing a bit...shall we say, incomplete." If House could smirk, he was surely smirking now. "You'll forgive me, of course."

He was referring to Six's arm: a fitted cyber prosthetic. After consenting to be one of the first lab rats for House's prototype, a little accident had occurred during testing two weeks ago. In one moment, Six was flung through time and space, the clean confines of House's lab disappearing from view, racing past like a steam train. A second later, he found himself half a mile south of Vegas, on the designated target location...missing everything below his right elbow. It had been lost in the molecular transfer.

The replacement was fitted shortly after. A state-of-the-art cybernetic limb, capable of carrying and gripping ten times the normal human strength. Six tried not to feel sour about his lost arm. After all, this wasn't his first cyber implant. He, in fact, had eleven different implants plugged away in different parts of his body. Sub-dermal armor, optics enhancers, a hypertrophy accelerator; the list went on and on. He wondered how many it would take to not even be considered human anymore. Sometimes, he wondered if he passed that threshold a long time ago. Still, though, he made a point to discreetly kill the technicians anyway. That arm had been with him for some of the best parts of his life. It was only fitting that it got its revenge.

Six sat in front of House now, scratching in between the hard titanium plates of his arm. "What's an arm between friends, eh?" he said soberly.

"I'll assume your satisfied with the replacement then?"

"Well, it makes for good bar conversation," Six said dryly. "And I can crush a man's throat with one grip, so there's that."

"Well, my team has been making great strides on the prototype so far, or so I'm told. Senior Technician Kenneth is supposed to be giving me a report any minute now."

"Don't think he'd tell you much."

"And why's that?"

"Because I imagine it'd be hard to talk with a crushed throat."

A tense silence followed. "What happened to 'an arm between friends?'" House asked angrily.

Six shrugged. "He wasn't my friend," he said simply.

House made a sound similar to a very disgruntled sigh, before powering on.

"Needless to say, I was quite curious how this 'Institute,' had managed to do what even I could not. So I went digging through some very old files - I still have access to the databases of the old Commonwealth Institute of Technology."

"I'm not familiar. Must have been ancient," said Six.

"Very. In the databases, I found some old schematics - incomplete notes mostly, all of the various projects. One of which, outlined a raw construction of the process of molecular teleportation, titled 'Project ADAM.' Written by a former student. His name was Robert Edwin House. Yours truly," he finished pompously, obviously expecting Six to be impressed.

"Very clever," Six said, trying not to sound too bored. "So if you have the notes, why can't you finish the prototype?"

"Because they are incomplete, you dunce. I never got around to finishing these projects; they were all just theoretical. And yet, it seems that someone has finished what I started."

As they often do, Six thought to himself. He could feel the Right Brain perking up again with murderous intentions.

"The fact that the Molecular Relay is being used in the same city where I wrote those notes so many years ago leads me to believe that the old CIT and whatever group spawned this current-day Institute are one and the same."

"So let me guess. You want me to steal back your old research?"

"I want everything the Institute has. If they've been working off of my research, everything they are, everything they've done, everything they have, has been solely because of me. Which makes whatever they currently have rightfully mine," House fumed. "But...yes. If nothing else, I must have their molecular relay technology. Imagine what I could do with just five working teleporters, stationed strategically across the Mojave."

"Would make commuting between jobs easier, sure," remarked the Courier. "But why do this now? You said the Institute was destroyed. How could anything be recovered?"

"Two years ago, all signal interference I had found on my first scouting had suddenly vanished. I sent along yet another scout. It came back with grave news. The Institute had been destroyed, blown to the heavens, supposedly, by its enemies. For two years, I put a moratorium on Phase Four. I was this close to scrapping it completely…until the signal waves were detected once more, yesterday. Weaker, not as widespread, but still there. The Molecular Relay lives on; so too, must the Institute. So this is what I require of you."

"Go to the Commonwealth. Locate the Institute, or whatever remains of it. Gather everything they have to offer, and kill anyone who gets in your way. And remember…" House spoke firmly. "Project ADAM must be retrieved at all costs. Is that understood?"

Six was still curious. "Who blew up the Institute? Should we be worried about them?"

"Who cares?" House snorted. "Idealistic groups like these blow up all the time. If you don't believe me, ask your friend, Veronica. Although, you should know, after all."

Six had to hold his tongue at that. "So how am I getting there? Because I sure as hell ain't huffing it on foot all the way to the Commonwealth," he asked.

"No. Time is against us. Considering the Institute's recent demise, any survivors are sure to be in hiding, being hunted by their enemies. Every day we waste, the smaller our window of success becomes."

"Alright then, so what do you want me to do? Grow some wings?"

A beat. House spoke matter-of-factly: "I thought it was rather obvious."

It dawned on Six what House was talking about. He groaned and anxiously scratched his cybernetic arm.