The walls of the Atomic Wrangler were thick with grime, some unidentifiable grease that rivaled cloud residue in its toxicity. Six had half a mind to take a sample of it for experimentation; undoubtedly she would discover a hundred practical uses for the stuff: an adhesive for when Wonderglue just wouldn't stick, a shellac substitute, a cure for male pattern baldness… the possibilities boggled the mind.

Six took a deep breath of the viscous air, the odors of stale beer and vomit mingling in her nose, and then placed five chips on red. Anson the dealer winked at her and spun the roulette wheel. 26 black. Of course. The Courier smiled and put five more on red.

This had become something of a ritual for Six. She would doll herself up and trek out to Freeside, where she'd lose a little at roulette, drink a little whiskey, and tinker around with FISTO the sexbot. Usually Cass would come with her, though the caravaneer hated Freeside. That had been her excuse for bowing out this week. It suited Six just fine either way. The Courier just needed an easy good time after the hell of the Sierra Madre.

"Gambling is a dreadful vice," murmured a voice in her ear. Vulpes Inculta. Cass had called him a handsome devil when they'd met him outside the Tops, and that he most certainly was. He wore a black suit and a fedora, and as he spoke, he ran a slender finger down the length of Six's unclad arm, raising goosebumps on her skin. The proximity of his bewitching voice to her auricle sent a shiver up Six's back, and to her dismay, a shot of sensation to her sex.

She hated the reaction this man produced in her body, a primal combination of fear and lust. The Rough Fox was dangerous; if the Courier believed in the concept of evil, he would fill that package deliciously. And now she was thinking of delicious packages. Perfect.

"All things in moderation, Mr. Fox," she said as the ball landed on black again. "Speaking of which, buy me a drink?"

"Of course," he said, motioning away from the roulette table. "Do you ever win?"

"Yeah, I won five caps one time," Six smirked. "Highlight of my week. See you later, Anson."

"Keep the wind at your back, Miss Six," the roulette dealer said with a wink.

Fox led her to a table in a dark corner of the bar, and motioned to Garret. The proprietor, glaring all the while at the disguised Legionary with an expression of contempt and suspicion, brought a fresh bottle of whiskey and two tumblers to their table. Fox glared right back.

"You need anything else, anything at all…" Garrett said to Six, placing his hand on hers.

"I'll holler," the Courier replied. "Thanks, James."

Garret nodded, and backed away from them, his stare piercing into Fox until Bill Ronte distracted him with a request for "more liquor and a half-decent whore."

Six opened her bottle and poured some whiskey into each glass. "Just a warning," she said, sliding one glass across the table to Fox. "This is my turf. Try anything funny and those fine-lookin' gentlemen with the big guns will be up your ass quicker'n a deathclaw in heat."

"That's pretty quick," Fox replied with a small smirk.

"Better believe it," Six grinned. She sniffed at her whiskey and took a sip. "Now, let me guess. 'The Lord' has a plan for me."

"Indeed, he has," Fox crooned. His gray eyes gleamed with something resembling mirth. "We've missed you in 'Zion,' Courier. I lost track of you for quite some time. Where have you been?"

"Elsewhere," Six stated.

She did not want to talk about the Sierra Madre. Not with Fox; not with anybody. She had told Veronica as much as she could without breaking down, but the nightmares were all too real. The pinch of the slave collar around her neck, the Cloud thick in her lungs, and the glow of the Ghost People's unholy eyes haunted her every time she laid her head down to rest. Needless to say, she wasn't sleeping much these days.

"Interesting," the Frumentarius said, pretending to sip his whiskey. "And did you learn anything on your excursion to this mysterious 'elsewhere'?"

"I learned how to run real fucking fast," the Courier retorted.

"A useful skill in your line of work," Fox remarked. "Skills that are wasted among this filth." He gestured around them. "Sticky floors and cheap rotgut, and men who see you as a means to an end. A hank of meat to temporarily sate their ravenous hunger…"

Six could not hold back a laugh. "Oh, that is rich, coming from the likes of you!"

"Say what you will about my people," Fox said quietly. "We exist only to serve our Lord."

"All hail the mad tyrant in the sky," Six smirked. "Supplication to his whims is better how, exactly?"

"Look around, Courier. Does anyone here seem happy?"

"No, but neither do you."

"And what," Fox drawled, "would the wise and well-traveled mail-lady suggest I do to increase my happiness?"

Six shook her head. "See? You condescend to me just as bad as those ravenous men you deride." As the Courier spoke, her fury increased, but her voice remained low, so as not to attract undue attention. The ire was apparent in her coal-black eyes. "At least they're honest about their avarice. They don't delude themselves that the fucked-up, hypocritical things they do are for the greater good. Maybe they see me as a means to an end, but they never, ever tried to convince me otherwise."

"My goodness," Fox purred, leaning over the table and resting on his forearms. "You are beautiful when you're angry."

"Fuck. You."

A rare thing occurred then. Vulpes Inculta cracked a smile. It was among the most terrifying and arousing things Six had ever seen. Her breath caught in her throat and her mouth went dry. She had never wanted any man more than she wanted this one at this moment, and it disgusted her.

"You want to talk about self-delusion?" Fox sneered. "Fine. Let's talk about the way you pretend you are not a slave."

"E-excuse me?" Six stammered. This had to stop. Now.

"Your culture perpetuates the ridiculous notion that without authority, you are free. But what is freedom? Look at old Bill Ronte, over there. He drowns his sorrows in drink and chems. What little currency he is able to earn when he's not sick with inebriation, he throws at the nearest whore in exchange for the artifice of companionship, of love. Is he free? No. He is a slave to his base desires, to his addictions, to his thinly-veiled illusions. The man is an engineer, a genius by most standards. Were he my Lord's subject, his abilities would be put to use."

"To enslave others," Six pointed out. Somehow, she was managing to get her voice under control.

"To liberate them," Fox countered, "from the lie that any of us is ever free."

"Wow," Six grinned. "That is some top-notch bullshit you've got going there, Fox. Color me impressed."

"And you," Fox continued, undeterred. "You like to think that because you only gamble twenty chips here, ten there, or because you take chems only in the direst of circumstances, or because the whore that fucks you is made of steel and rivets rather than flesh and bone, that you can avoid the downward spiral consuming this place. It's important you understand, Miss Six, that the golden mean will not save you. Only my Lord can."

"My goodness," Six sighed, mirroring Fox's posture and bringing her face close to his. "You are handsome when you're sanctimonious."

They stared across the table at one another for a long moment, neither blinking. Six could stop this. She could just finish her drink, thank Fox for a fascinating conversation, and excuse herself to her suite. He wouldn't follow. Or maybe he would, but she didn't have to answer the door. And she wouldn't, no sir. She'd tell him to fuck off, and he would pick the lock and come in anyway and trap her in there. And maybe she'd go for the pistol under her pillow, but he would be faster, because she'd let him be…

No, he'd pick the lock and come into her suite, but she would already have the pistol out and aimed. She would shoot but miss, and he would rush her and tackle her. They would fall onto the bed, and in the subsequent skirmish over the gun, his pelvis would grind against hers and…

"Fuck," Six muttered.

"Problems, Courier?" Fox asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, not really" Six lied. Problems didn't begin to cover it. She had to be away from him for a minute, clear her head, get back into business mode. "I forgot… I've cooked up a new product your people might be interested in. It could be useful in your struggle against the 'White Legs'. Let me go get you a sample and I'll be right back."

As Six rose, Fox rose with her. "I'll come with you," he said. "We can discuss terms in a more… private setting."

Fox motioned his head to where Garret stood behind the bar. The proprietor occupied his hands washing glasses, but had resumed glaring indignantly at Fox. The glass in his hands began to squeak loudly at the friction from the towel he had been using to dry it for the last three minutes.

Fox leaned in to whisper conspiratorially in Six's ear. "It seems that he is rather fond of you."

Six waved her hand dismissively and moved toward the staircase. "Nonsense. He's just got you pegged for a bastard. Which you are."

"Nevertheless," Fox replied, following her, "I'd rather not be left alone with him."

Six whirled around and put her index finger in his face. "Deathclaw. In. Heat," she warned.

"Noted," Fox replied as they climbed the stairs to Six's room.