Standard disclaimer: Places and characters such as Caesar, Aurelius, Butch, etc. in this story are not mine, but are instead the property of Bethesda Game Studios. No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.

Author's note: Okay, so this is it: the first chapter of Part I of my Fallout 3/Fallout New Vegas crossover. This entire part is written already and I will be posting it as it is betaed. I think this is kind of a boring part, mostly setup, but it's written and I wanted to get it up so here it is. Parts II and III are probably each about half written, but I'm just getting this one up now. Enjoy.

"In spite of all
The things that were
I started to
Believe in her … "

-Chris, Miss Saigon

PART I

The dented, battery-operated camp lantern on the washstand was almost dead, judging by its weak flicker. Tapping it produced no improvement: the light blinked out for a second before feebly coming on again. With a grimace, Arcade abandoned the attempt to get any sort of steady illumination from the thing; he peered into the cracked mirror and set the safety razor-all that Caesar would allow him-against his throat. The razor was very dull; he'd already nicked himself twice. In the background, the radio he'd been given was on, its tinny sound filling the tent; Arcade let it play, half-listening, as he struggled with the razor:

"-Threee-ee-ee Dog, comin at ya live from the downtown DC Ruins, here in beautiful Post-Apocalyptia. And I've got some great news for ya, boys and girls; that's right, as you can hear, GNR is back on the air, thanks once again to the timely intervention of our very own home-grown hero, Little Miss Vault One-Oh-One. *chuckle* Of course, maybe I should stop calling her that by now; after all, she's no longer little, and-if the news I have out of Tenpenny Tower is good-not even a 'Miss' anymore. That's right y'all, the sound you hear is the sound of hearts breaking wide open all over the Wastes tonight. A big congratulations to the former leader of the Tunnel Snakes, Mister DeLoria, for finally winning the hand and the heart of the Capital Wasteland's own most eligible bachelorette. If it doesn't work out, One-Oh-One, well, you know where to find me. *chuckle* Just kidding, folks; seriously, we're wishing you two lovebirds every happiness."

The razor slipped again, and Arcade cursed softly as a trickle of blood began to snake its way down his throat, toward the gleaming metal ring of his collar. Dropping the razor on the washstand, he fumbled for the antiseptic as Three Dog went on in the background:

"Wow, folks, can you believe it's been fifteen years since One-oh-One climbed out of the Vault and devoted her life to making the Wastes a better place? Where does the time go? For those of my listeners who are too young to remember, the Wastes were truly a mess back then: Raiders were everywhere, slavers holed up in Paradise Falls, feral ghouls infesting the underground metro, Super-Mutants in Downtown DC, Deathclaws in Old Olney-you couldn't walk from Megaton to Springvale without taking a chance of eating some lead. And now look at the place! Clean water for everyone, thanks to the success of Project Purity; regular caravans from Rivet City to the Republic of Rosie; the roads are clear all the way out to Vault 87, and a new settlement in Tenpenny Tower, with ghouls, humans and super-mutants all living together in peace and harmony…and it's all thanks to her. The Hero of the Wastes. The Last, Best Hope for Humanity. The Messiah."

The antiseptic stung, and Arcade winced as he dabbed at the cut. Outside, he could hear the guard growing impatient.

"Two more minutes, doctor, and then you're coming, ready or not," the guard called in roughly.

Cursing again, Arcade picked up the razor.

"In the years since she joined us, there's been Enclave, Supermutants, slavers, Talon Company, Enclave again, Commonwealth, Outcasts, Raiders, more Enclave, and yet every time we've beaten them all. And now, from the West, here comes this new racket: 'Caesar's Legion,' they call themselves, claiming they're like those ancient Romans. Well, I'm here to tell y'all, my loyal listeners, no matter how they may try to dress it up, underneath it's still the same old Brahmin shit. It's all part of the same fight, boys and girls: the Good Fight. I know you've all heard me talk about the Good Fight before-the fight for the little guy, for the people who are just trying to get by, to make it day to day in the world we live in, and against anyone who would make it harder on those who have it hard enough as it is. Well, it's no less true now. And it's no less important. Have no fear, boys and girls; if we stand true, if we stand together, we'll send these clowns packing just like everyone else. We can do it. And we've got our beacon, our shining light, our Messiah, to guide us. 'One-Oh-One is my shepherd, I shall not want.' My brothers and sisters, never fear. Have courage- We will beat them."

"On les aura," Arcade muttered bitterly.

"Little Miss Vault One Oh One, my hero, this one's for you. Your favorite song. Bob Crosby's 'Way Back Home.'

"Don't know why I left the homestead
I really must confess
I'm a weary exile
Singing my song
Of loneliness…."

His mouth twisting, Arcade shut off the radio with a snap. He stared at himself in the mirror.

The man looking back at him from the cracked glass was not the slim, handsome young man who had been sold to Caesar so many years ago. Time and servitude, suffering and indignity had taken their toll. The bright blonde hair that had been his secret pride had dulled and was shot through with streaks of gray; his eyes were haunted, his face gaunt and haggard. He was no longer young; he was approaching forty-six, but, he thought, he looked at least ten years older.

The guard looked in through the tent flap.

"Time's up, doctor. Are you coming, or do I have to drag you?"

"I'm coming, I'm coming." With a sigh, he stepped out of his small tent, following the guard out into the Legionary encampment.

The command tent was only a few steps from the small tent Caesar had given Arcade; as he entered the audience room, he saw that everyone else was already there. The imperator's praetorians lined the room's walls, ballistic fists at the ready, along with the chieftains, Alerio, Aurelius of Phoenix, Vulpes Inculta, and the rest. Caesar himself was sprawled on a camp chair in the center of the room.

As harsh as time had been to him, Arcade had often mused, it had been absolutely brutal to his master. Caesar was no longer the rangy, whipcord thin fighting man he had been when Arcade had first been sold to him, so many years ago. He had grown immensely fat, so obese he could no longer fit into armor; his bulk threatened to overflow the confines of the chair in which he sat. He turned to look at Arcade as he approached, and the good side of his face twitched.

"Iuvenis,"Caesar slurred. "Took s'long, w's won'rin 'f you 're comin 't all."

You took so long, I was wondering if you were coming at all,Arcade mentally translated. Caesar had suffered a stroke seven years ago that had left him with severely limited mobility on the right side of his body; Arcade had done his best to restore function – which wasn't much, given his severely limited resources. He sometimes wondered, with little interest, whether things would have been different if Caesar had not had the stroke; he doubted it though. He moved to take his customary place behind Caesar-

"Stop." Caesar reached out one hand; his left, for his right hand was nearly useless. His one good eye narrowed dangerously. "No. You - go there." And he indicated the ground by the side of the chair.

Arcade understood at once: Caesar wished him to kneel. He supposed distantly that Caesar must still be displeased at him, for "contradicting" him in front of the chieftains three days ago. Arcade had meant no contradiction, but Caesar had taken it as such, and nothing he'd said had been able to retrieve the situation. Caesar was touchier than ever, since Lanius's death; no one-no one-dared cross him. In any case, there was nothing to do but obey. And it could have been worse; it had been worse, before.

Carefully, he lowered himself to the ground, clasping his hands in front of him. The ground dug into his knees, and he shifted slightly. Peripherally, he saw the corner of Vulpes's mouth lift in a cold smile. It didn't matter, though; Arcade sometimes thought he was beyond truly feeling anything these days. The shock collar was cool against his throat.

Now, his master turned to Vulpes Inculta. "Heard…th' news," he slurred. "C'ngrat'lations. Son, I take it?"

That's right, Arcade remembered distantly; Vulpes's slave "wife" Vipsania had been pregnant, and very near her time. He had not been allowed to treat her, of course; Vulpes would not permit any man that kind of access to his wife, even if Caesar would have allowed it. The slave midwife Siri had been caring for her, and he'd seen enough of Siri's work to know that she was extremely skilled. It had been Siri that had tended to him, after…. After.

The thin-faced praetorian shook his head. Something flickered on his narrow features behind his dark glasses. Arcade knew that Vulpes had an eye condition that made it difficult to face bright light without blinking - one reason why he wore his sunglasses in places where others of his rank might not. "Only a daughter, my lord."

Caesar gave a rough laugh. "Ah well. Better luck nex' time. Leas' now we know th' bitch c'n breed, 'm I right?"

Again, that flicker. Vulpes Inculta nodded. "We shall see," he said, taking up his usual position behind Caesar's right shoulder. Caesar chuckled and glanced over at Alerio.

"An' you, 'lerio," he slurred. "Y' haven' been 'roun in a while. Tha' new young scribe o' y'rs keepin ya busy?"

Alerio went very still. "What do you mean, Lord Caesar?" he asked carefully.

Caesar gave a rough laugh. "You know. Havin t' show 'im the ropes, get 'im up t' speed on 's duties an' all that. How's he coming along?"

Arcade watched Alerio's face closely; Alerio hesitated, then evidently decided to respond as if the comment was as innocuous as it seemed. "I think he's mostly learned now. I hope my performance of my duties has been satisfactory during this time."

Caesar gave that laugh again. "Ya got nothin to worry 'bout, 'lerio. Nothin at all. Y' been doin … fine job. Never fear."

Alerio subtly relaxed, as did the rest of the room. Arcade had been around long enough to understand why.

One thing that had really surprised Arcade when he was first enslaved - though it shouldn't have — was just how rampant homosexual relations in the Legion were. He'd heard the rumors but discounted them as clumsy propaganda by the NCR, especially knowing that the Legion outlawed such relations on pain of death. Yet he quickly realized that the stories were true. While there was almost no intercourse between Legionaries themselves, just about every one of the chieftains had his puer, or "boy," as did most of the centurions, and even the decani. These pueri were all supposedly pages, scribes, orderlies and so on - but once you knew what to look for it was obvious, almost blatantly so.

Arcade was unsure to what extent Caesar was aware of all this. He often came across as oddly disconnected from the day-to-day business of the army; although at times he would make comments that suggested he knew far more than he was letting on. Arcade eventually decided that Caesar knew on some level but had decided to turn a blind eye to it except to the extent that it was politically useful to keep his subordinates off balance. He himself had no such "boy," and though Arcade had been afraid at first, Caesar had never approached him for such services; nor had anyone else-Arcade suspected his status as Caesar's "pet" protected him. In any case, Arcade knew, if there was one thing Caesar was undoubtedly a master at, it was hanging onto his own power.

Now, Caesar leaned back in his chair and turned to the problem at hand. "So, this girl, this Samantha…." Again, his eye fell on Alerio. "Alerio. Y'r frumentarii. What d'….d'they have t' say 'bout her?"

"We have a great deal of material on her, Lord Caesar," the man responded crisply. "She is a widely-known and recognized figure within the Capital Wasteland, and her fame has even reached surrounding areas. She's known as far away as the Pitt, and Point Lookout. It is clear that to the Profligates who live in this forsaken place, she's something of a hero."

"A hero?" Caesar frowned, the good side of his face contorting; the bad side remained frozen, the mouth sagging, the eye set in an inane, meaningless glare. "If she's…hero, sh'mus'…ha' some kin' a p'litic'l power. Wha' land 's she hail from?"

Alerio consulted some notes. "From what we've learned, she began life in one of the Vaults, Vault 101; perhaps seventeen years ago, her Vault experienced a crisis of leadership that forced her onto the surface. Since that time, she has contacted and become accepted by perhaps every major group in the Capital Wastelands: groups such as the Brotherhood of Steel - "

"Ah. Them," Caesar slurred disparagingly. Alerio continued on.

"Hm, the Regulators, Reilly's Rangers … forgive me, the list is quite extensive," he demurred, looking up from the papers he held. He gestured sharply and his scribe came forward: a young, pale-looking boy with large, dark eyes that had seen far too much suffering. Arcade looked away as Alerio passed the sheaf of notes back to the child. "She apparently lived in Megaton for a time - Megaton is the settlement closest to her Vault; it's what passes for a city in these parts, though it isn't a proper city, of course - "

"'Course," Caesar acknowledged, deadpan.

"-but in the last ten years she seems to have devoted herself to establishing a new settlement in Tenpenny Tower, which is a large, prewar skyscraper in the Southern Wastes. The settlement appears to be thriving under her guidance," he added. "This Samantha is clearly a person of enormous energy. All of this, of course, is even more unusual taking into account that she's a mere woman."

"Heh." Caesar laughed again. "Soun's li… s'far in 'vance 'er sex … 'most 's g'd lea'r 's man 'd be."

Alerio looked up, blinking. "I'm - my apologies, Lord Caesar, I didn't understand that."

Caesar made a rough sound of impatience. Arcade knew what was coming and tensed; the other man clouted him a powerful blow on the shoulder. "Iuvenis," he snarled.

Arcade wet his lips. "'It sounds like she's far in advance of her sex, almost as good a leader as a man would be,'" he relayed.

Alerio did not spare him a glance; none of the legionaries ever did, when he spoke for Caesar. Instead, the chief of the frumentarii spoke over his head. Arcade had hated that, once; it had made him feel as if he were invisible. "She is, Lord Caesar," Alerio said.

Caesar laughed again, a short, hacking sound that sounded as if he were being strangled. "So. Tha's this ... this S'mantha. An' sh'll be here ... how long?"

"We scheduled the meeting for noon, Lord Caesar," Alerio said.

"Noon. Righ'. So." He swept his uneven glare around his chieftains. "Tell me. Wha' you all think ... think 'bout this place? 'Bout the Capital Wastelands? Wan' y'r thoughts on the ... the situation. Anyone?"

That baleful glare toured the confines of the tent, dim in the light that filtered through the roof and the vents. His chieftains - Arcade knew the correct term was tribunes, but it was hard for him to think of them as anything other than they were, chieftains of a warlord - all shifted uneasily, not wanting to speak first. Their silence and diffidence obviously displeased Caesar; the warlord's drooping, deformed face pulled into a scowl. One finger stabbed out at Alerio. "You. 'Lerio. Tell me - wha' you think."

Put on the spot for the second time in near as many minutes, Alerio blinked uneasily. "While these Profligates may be somewhat organized, and have their hero Samantha to lead them, I do not see that they can put up any resistance to us. Should you wish to destroy them, Lord Caesar, I'm sure we can easily do so."

Caesar gave that hacking, strangled laugh again, which Arcade supposed - and Alerio too, he could see - meant that he was not displeased. "Good. You, 'Relius?"

He turned now to Aurelius of Phoenix. Aurelius was a big brute of a man, with a blocky face divided by a nose as thin as a razor blade; he was the most vicious of Caesar's tribunes, though far from the most intelligent or dangerous. Aurelius had never been good at the game of politics; however, Arcade supposed Caesar kept him around because he was very, very good at dishing out violence. Almost as good as Lanius had been, he mused.

Aurelius shouldered forward, wrapping one hand around the stock of his hunting rifle. "These Profligates are weak and pathetic like most of their kind," he said, snorting in disgust. "We will have no trouble crushing them all and making them bow to the will of the Legion. All you have to do is say the word, Lord Caesar."

Caesar made a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh. "Man al's ... al's knows wher'e stands wi' you, 'Relius." Aurelius drew himself up proudly at Caesar's words, taking them for praise. That single bright eye roamed, settling on Vulpes Inculta.

"An' you. You, Savage Fox. Tell me ... wha're yer thoughts?"

No expression showed itself on that thin, pallid face behind the dark glasses Vulpes wore. "Our army is ready to move when you so order, Lord Caesar," he said. "Give the word, and as you command, we shall do."

That's it, huh, Arcade mused. Vulpes always played his cards close to his vest when it came to Caesar. He wondered what the Savage Fox truly did think about their chances to overcome the Capital Wasteland. He settled back on his heels, considering, and as such missed Caesar's words to him until the imperator's heavy hand landed on his shoulder - right across the knotted scar tissue there.

"You. Iuvenis. Didn'- didn't ya hear me? I 'sked you. Wha're yer thoughts? Any?"

Damn it, damn it - damn it! The burst of pain that accompanied Caesar's blow ripped him out of his thoughts. As his eyes jerked up to his master, Caesar slurred, "I asked y' a quest'n, iuvenis. Didja hear me 'r no?" His drooping face contorted into a scowl, an expression given more weight by the paralysis on his right side. "Wha' d'ya think? C'n we beat this S'mantha 'r not? C'n we beat th' Capital Wasteland 'r not?"

His thick fingers contorted, crushing Arcade's shoulder still further, making him gasp.

"Are-are you asking me?"

"You know I am," Caesar growled. Aurelius of Phoenix was watching with outright pleasure, while a thin smile crossed Vulpes's lips; only Alerio looked on calmly and with little interest. Again, though, it didn't matter; Arcade had long since stopped caring - or perhaps lost the ability to care - about anything anymore.

He looked up at Caesar warily. A long time ago, he had decided - perhaps at the beginning of his captivity; but it sometimes felt as if he had made the decision even before that, as if his captivity had been eternal and his decision just as eternal - that he would always speak his mind to the man He would never lie or dissemble to please him. It had been extremely difficult to hold onto that promise, but it was one he had largely managed to keep; and in keeping it, he felt he had managed to hold on to some vestige of himself. It had also, he knew, allowed him to earn Caesar's respect in a way that almost nothing else would have done. Now he drew a breath.

"Don't ask me my opinion unless you want me to give it," he warned.

Caesar's one good eye narrowed dangerously; he was losing his patience. "'f I didn' want yer 'pinion, I w'dn't be asking ya. Y'gonna tell me 'r no?"

Arcade steeled himself, wondering inwardly whether and how much this was going to cost him. "Of course I am not privy to the information you are, Lord Caesar-" amazing how the title that had burned his tongue when he was first enslaved came easily to him now "-but I have to say that taking the Capital Wasteland may not be the simple matter some here seem to think."

Those thick, stubby fingers tightened. "Th' 'll d'ya mean by that, iuvenis?"

Arcade shifted slightly, trying to ease Caesar's grip on his shoulder. I will tell him exactly what I think, I will, I will, I will- "Consider it objectively," he began. "At first glance the Capital Wasteland seems like other areas we've conquered in the past: several small, isolated settlements ripe for the taking by a unified, disciplined force." He did not say that Caesar's Legion was no longer as unified and disciplined as it had been in the past; that's not dissembling, he told himself; that's just not relevant to what I'm talking about right now. Perhaps a small distinction, but one that allowed him to keep what small rags of self-esteem he possessed. "However, just based on the report Alerio's given us, there seem to be a network of links involving trade and exchange between the settlements with this Samantha in particular as a nexus between many different and distinct groups. We may be looking at a region on the verge of unifying into a more complex society, and we ignore that at our peril. Now does that mean that we won't be able to overwhelm them? I honestly don't know; I've never pretended to be an expert on military strategy, Lord Caesar. But I do think that if we try, it may well cost us a lot more than some here seem to expect." Again, he didn't say-and didn't have to-that Caesar's Legion was not what it once was. The long retreat from the NCR territory had definitely taken its toll.

Aurelius of Phoenix gave an outraged growl. Alerio kept a still face, almost impossible, even for Arcade, to read. Vulpes Inculta's expression could have been anything behind his dark sunglasses, but Arcade thought he saw the man's pale lips twitch slightly.

"I've never heard such insolence!" snarled Aurelius, and Arcade felt the familiar tightening in his stomach. "He's insulted our Legion, he's insulted our fighting capabilities-he's insulted our intelligence, believing that a woman might be the key to defeating our fighting Legion-Lord Caesar, will you put up with this from him? You allow this slave too much leeway-"

Caesar's fingers tightened dangerously on Arcade's shoulder, yet the cold glint in his one good eye was aimed at Aurelius. "You ques'nin' h'w I run the Legion, Aurelius?" he asked softly.

Even one as thick as Aurelius realized when was a good time to shut up; the blocky, brutish features contracted. "No, Lord Caesar," he said, sounding afraid – with good reason. Since the disastrous retreat, and even more so since he'd had his stroke, Caesar had become much more unpredictable, even dangerous. It was only to be expected, Arcade supposed; after all, as external circumstances turned against him, Caesar had had to crack down even harder to hold onto his own power, to suppress any possible thought of revolt.

"No, Imperator," Aurelius said again, fervently. "I would never question you. Caesar does not wrong."

"Damn righ'," Caesar slurred. "And don' you f'rget it, 'Relius. Nor any o' th' rest o' ya." He glowered at his other tribunes, who all had the sense to avert their eyes. Just as Arcade was beginning to breathe a sigh of relief, thinking he had escaped the storm, Caesar's fingers tightened again on his shoulder, driving spikes of pain through his back.

"And you, iuvenis," he growled in that thick, slurred voice. "I don' like th' way y' said th't t'me. An' don' try tellin' me y'were bein' respectf'l either. I know better'n that, I do."

Arcade ground his teeth against the cold ball of fear in the pit of his stomach, trying to avert his mind from what could happen - what Caesar could make happen. "My Lord Caesar, if you found anything disrespectful in my tone-"

"I did. And y'll make up for it. I 'spect a public apology and criticism, iuvenis. Tonight at the banquet f'r this S'mantha person. Y'understand?"

"As you command, Lord Caesar." Inwardly he was relieved to have gotten off so lightly. The penances Caesar had demanded from him in the past had been worse; much worse. This-a public self-criticism-he could do.

Caesar glowered at him, and seemed about to say something else, but the flap of the command tent was brushed aside just then, and one of the scouts looked in.

"Lord Caesar," he cried, pressing one fist to his chest and bowing. "Scout Decius reporting in. The Profligate woman and her escort have been spotted on the road to the castrum. She should be here any minute now!"

"Well. Th'r she is," growled Caesar. "Wha're y'all wai'in f'r? Le's go 'n' greet this Samantha girl."

Leaning hard on Arcade's shoulder, he levered himself to his feet. His tribunes stood aside, following him out of the tent, as they went down the dusty lane of the encampment toward the parade ground. Despite everything, Arcade could not suppress a wave of excitement, as he realized at last he was about to see her.

Who is this Samantha?

Caesar and his tribunes took position in the center of camp, on the parade ground. The hideous chair Caesar called his throne dominated the dais at the head of the parade ground. He'd lugged that throne all the way with him from the Mojave, holding onto it almost in despite of reason, most likely because it was almost all that was left of his earlier conquests after the long, disastrous retreat from Hoover Dam. Now he heaved his ungainly bulk into the chair with a groan. A rough snarl and curt gesture of his hand, and Arcade understood he was once again to kneel at the side of Caesar's chair, rather than being permitted to stand; the cold light in Caesar's eye made it clear that the Imperator was more, rather than less displeased with him.

He asked me, Arcade thought churlishly. He asked me what I thought. Of course, he knew that that didn't matter, not with Caesar. Not anymore. He sank down on his knees beside Caesar's throne, trying not to think that this Samantha would see him for the first time in the humiliating position of kneeling at Caesar's side. It doesn't matter, anyway, he told himself distantly. The slave collar was heavy on his neck. Caesar's tribunes ranged themselves on either side of his chair: Legate Vulpes Inculta, Alerio, Aurelius of Phoenix. Others. They stood with arms crossed and stern expressions as Caesar's Praetorian Guard took up positions alongside. Together, they formed a solid, formidable Imperial wall, waiting there for Samantha's arrival.

They heard her before they saw her. A low, whining, drone came to their ears, almost inaudible at first, but rapidly growing into a powerful hum. There was something strangely awful about that humming sound; it was as if, Arcade thought, he were hearing it through the bones of his skull, as if it resonated at frequencies not quite made for human ears. That strange humming grew and grew, followed by a heavy clanking sound – one very, very familiar to him. The sound of Power Armor.

What in the -

Heads turned and a wave of murmuring filled the air, as the troops lining the aisle leading to the parade ground strained get a look at the newcomers. She's here. She's coming into view. And Arcade shifted, desperate, all of a sudden, to see this Samantha, this Lone Wanderer, this Messiah.

The first thing he saw was the source of that strange hum. There were two of them, robots made from a gleaming copper metal, hovering above the ground triangular bases with triangular heads attached above them. The heads had each a single, central yellow light which Arcade assumed functioned as an eye. Each robot bore an extension somewhat like a drill, glowing whitish-blue. Arcade had to restrain himself from openly staring. What are they? He had never seen a drone of that size with hovering capabilities; they had no discernable thruster jets, and their technology seemed completely alien. Caesar's minions were just as confused as he was, if the low murmurings running through the crowd were any evidence.

The two drones moved forward into the open space in front of Caesar's throne, and then split, each going off to one side to make way for the rest of the procession. And it was then that Arcade got a nasty shock; for when they split apart they revealed a figure in armor that he hadn't seen in decades: Enclave Tesla armor. It was an older model than the type he had worn so many years ago, but there was no mistaking the green arcs of energy and the dragon-like helmet. He shivered, drawing back instinctively; an overwhelming impulse to hide came over him.

The Tesla-armored soldier stepped to one side also. With a crack, the helmet came off, revealing a male, maybe in his late 20s or early 30s, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. His face was crossed with healed scars that made Arcade wonder. Next came a woman, also perhaps in her 30s, maybe a little older than the man.

Could this be her? he wondered. Yet somehow he didn't think so.

The woman was lean but wiry, her body corded with muscle; the combination gave her a jittery, unfocused, on-edge air. Her reddish brown hair was raised in two spiked fans, one over either ear; Arcade had seen the style on some Raider bodies and had heard it called "Fallen Angel." She wore a set of armor consisting of little more than a metal brassiere with an attached shoulder guard over a quilted skirt that looked like it had been made out of a bedspread, with sandals under metal shinguards. Her eyes were ice blue, and she looked on the legionaries with a sort of arrogant sneer that Arcade knew well. He had seen the look before on the Fiends he had known so long ago back in the Mojave - a sort of drug-addled contempt for everyone and everything. The way she moved, the way she carried herself, bespoke a familiarity with violence that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

A Raider of some sort, but what is she doing here? Could this be Samantha? He dismissed the thought immediately. This woman could not do the things and inspire the heroic admiration that the voice over the radio - the voice known as Three Dog - ascribed to Samantha.

The next woman made him wonder: she was a dark-skinned woman wearing heavy Power Armor, with light gray hair shaped into a buzz cut. Her armor was Brotherhood Power Armor, Arcade estimated it as T-45, and at her back she carried a Super Sledge as if she were familiar with it. Could she be Samantha? Yet somehow she was older than he had expected Samantha to be; he would put her in her late forties or even early fifties ...

Then as that armored figure stepped out of the way, he saw her.

A bulky form appeared, another woman. She wore what looked like a variant of the Brotherhood T-51 armor, colored a light whitish gray. Her helmet was off and hanging at her hip. At her side, she carried a strange looking pistol, and at her back, a metal mesh half-tube that he recognized instantly. A Fat Man.

Her hair was a brightish blonde, as if bleached by long hours in the sun, and her face was deeply tanned. The tan made the blue of her eyes stand out. They were cornflower blue, deeper and darker, but there was something about them that made him think of another pair of blue eyes, one that he had known many years ago, in another place ...

This is Samantha. It has to be. She had such tremendous presence and poise, he would have known her any time, anywhere. The force of her presence was enough to rival Caesar's himself, when he had been in his prime; even as their party progressed through camp - brought up by two more of those strange drones at the rear - he saw the heads of the legionaries turn to follow her. Her face bore an open honesty as fresh as a clean breeze - yet there was no trace of naivete in those deep blue eyes; instead they held a sharp, keen intelligence, as if she were alert to all happenings around her, constantly storing and recording everything. Her natural charisma was almost intoxicating; she was vital, someone who mattered, and for the first time in a long time, Arcade felt the sting of his position - an inward cringe that she would see him so.

So many women, he mused sardonically. The legionaries won't like that ...

Then Caesar's fingers tightened on his shoulder, and he bit his lip, hard as Samantha and her entourage came to a halt in front of Caesar's throne. Their audience was about to begin.