Chapter Text
Cooper is gone.
For the past two months, he has been at the edge of her vision, like a flickering black dot when you’ve been staring too hard at the sun (something she still forgets not to do—how can something be so fudging bright?). Sometimes he strides far ahead. Sometimes he lags behind, circling her perimeter like an animal stalking its prey. But most of the time he will walk companionably beside her, so close that she could reach out and swipe the dirt off his duster. Not that she would ever do that. Because it’s dirty, and also, he would probably cut off the rest of her hand if she did.
The point is that he’s always around, and rarely gone for more than a few hours at a time, and never without prior notice. He’s very particular about that. Which is why it is disconcerting to realize that he is not coming back. Lucy is completely alone, for the first time since leaving the Observatory.
They’ve just reached New Vegas. Cooper and Dogmeat left early that morning to get ammo, and she waited at the hotel for eight hours before she decided to brave the city herself.
She inquired, implored, and even threatened the people she met for information, but it’s not until she gives up the most precious thing she has left, her trustworthy Pip-Boy, that a toothless man leans forward and mouths the word Flavius.
”They do ghoul shows on Fridays,” he wheezes, and Lucy has to hold her breath, because the stench of urine is overwhelming. “If you’ve lost a ghoul around these parts, well, that’s where he’ll be.”
Lucy is still rubbing the uncomfortably naked skin around her wrist when she spots a building that matches the old man’s description. It’s less conspicuous than its neighbors—heavy drapes and a closed gate instead of flashing neon. There’s no signage at all: they must rely on word-of-mouth advertising.
She supposes that it makes sense. From what the man told her, Flavius is some kind of brothel—also famous for its roach races, or was it cockfights? Either case, it sounds like the kind of place that likes to fly under the radar.
She enters with some trepidation, but is pleasantly surprised. Compared to the other establishments she’s been to across the Mojave, to buy Cooper’s chems or trade for valuables, it’s remarkably clean. The stuffed armchairs and dainty tables are intact, there’s no pool of dried blood on the floor, and several of the customers are wearing actual suits, rather than filthy rags. Okay, the suits are in need of a good pressing—but considering the state of the world, Lucy appreciates the effort. Here are some people who strive to uphold civility, she thinks, even in the post-apocalypse!
Her optimism is crushed when a bouncer grabs her roughly by the arm and spits out: “You sellin’ or buyin’?”
“I’m just browsing, sir,” Lucy says.
“Whaddya wanna see? Fightin’ or fuckin’?” he snaps, like she’s holding him up from someplace he’d rather be.
“Oh, um, I would like to see your manager, actually. Whoever is in charge of this place.”
That was apparently the wrong thing to say. His entire body clenches like a fist. “What the hell for? If you ain’t sellin’, what the hell do you want with the boss, huh?”
Lucy glances at the many weapons attached to his person, and recalibrates.
“I am selling, actually,” she says. “Decided to try out a life in sin. Time to earn those caps! It’s the world’s oldest profession, after all,” she adds with a wink, trying to lighten the mood. The man doesn’t even bat an eye. Tough crowd. “So yeah, I’m here to talk to your superior about possible employment as a prostitute. Lead the way, please.”
“Drop the guns by the door.”
Without another word he turns and thunders down the hall. Lucy follows quickly, after dispensing her rifle and handgun with another guard.
She keeps her flaying knife tucked inside her boot, because technically, he only said to leave her guns.
The manager is a prune-skinned woman in her fifties, dressed in a sequined dress with a thin silk shawl draped around her neck. She’s smoking a pipe when Lucy and the bouncer enter her office.
“New girl,” he barks before leaving, slamming the door closed behind him. He’s apparently as rude to his employer as he is to potential clients.
“You’re pretty,” the manager remarks with a smile. She has a tinkling, girlish voice, at odds with the ruthless look in her eyes. “And a vaultie! Been a long time since we had one of those. You’re gonna be popular with the fellas.”
Lucy shifts on her feet. “Actually, I’m not really here to work. I’m looking for somebody.”
The woman’s amiable expression drops at once, replaced with exasperation. She exhales a perfectly round swirl of smoke, drifting slowly towards the ceiling before it evaporates.
“Lemme guess. Runaway sister? Your dear childhood friend? Everybody at Flavius is here because they wanna be, sugar—that, or because I own their sorry ass, and I’m not in the business of giving up what’s mine. You’d better crawl back into whatever hole you came from. You’re not gonna see your friend again. Maybe in the next lifetime.”
Lucy remains where she is. “What do you mean, own them? Do you keep slaves?”
“Indentures. They work to pay off debt. Most of them come straight from our casino across the street—do swing by before you leave. The Goldmine. Big yellow sign, can’t miss it."
“So what?” Lucy demands indignantly. “If they lose money and can’t pay you back, you force them to work at your bordello?”
“Ha! Not everyone is as gorgeous as you, and who would pay to watch Smelly Joe do a striptease?” The woman tilts her head, as if amused by Lucy’s nescience. “We’ve got other jobs. Other shows. People will pay to watch almost anything in this town, as long as it’s a good show. Something they’ve never seen before, or something they can’t get anywhere else. We cater to all tastes here.”
Lucy’s skin prickles, tendrils of unease reaching the base of her skull. This woman isn’t talking about roach races. What did the bouncer say? Fighting or fucking?
That’s when it hits her. Her high schoolers did a paper on it, just a few months before she left the vault. The Flavian dynasty, lasting from 69 to 96 CE, was the second dynastic line to rule the Roman Empire. The reign of Titus Flavius saw several historical events, like the destruction of Pompeii, the invasion of Jerusalem, and… the unveiling of the Flavian Amphitheater, better known as the Colosseum.
“You make people fight each other?” she gasps, horrified.
“To the death,” the woman confirms, still smiling. “We’ve got a beautiful arena on the top floor. Marble statues, velvet seat cushions and all. Started out a little backyard fight club—now it’s one of the most prestigious venues in town! Only the richest in Vegas can afford my shows.”
If Cooper is here, he’s obviously not a willing new addition to these shows. This means that either the woman is lying, and they do snatch people off the streets, or else he owes her money from a past encounter, and she’s merely collecting her due.
Unfortunately, given his expensive habits, Lucy can easily believe that to be the case. Gambling for chems, then bolting instead of paying, and now it’s come back to bite them both in the ass.
”That sounds very, um, exclusive,” she says. ”But your most recent indenture is a friend of mine, and I really need him back. We’re on a very important mission.”
The woman’s smile widens. “So that’s your friend? The Ghoul? I didn’t know he had friends. He doesn’t have any in these parts, that’s for sure! Killed and swindled folks left and right last time he was in town. A right menace.”
“How much does he owe you? I’ll pay it back for him.”
“Oh, you can’t afford it, baby. That zombie piece of shit is gonna live out the rest of his days here with us—well, the few that are left. And good riddance.”
Lucy’s heart is thrumming hard and fast. How dare she?
“He’s not a zombie. He’s a person. And I’m not leaving here without him!”
“Then I guess you’re not leaving.”
Lucy tries to control her breathing pattern. Anger clouds one’s judgment, and she needs to think clearly. Cooper’s life may depend on it. She recalls what that old man said: they do ghoul shows on Fridays. She didn’t know he meant that the ghouls were gladiators. It’s absurd. It’s disgusting. But it also makes some kind of horrible sense, in this city where anything’s for sale, even a person’s life.
“Okay, how about this? You wanted me to work here, right? Maybe we can strike a deal.”
That earns her a disbelieving laugh. “You wanna work off his debt?”
“I’m thinking we can do something together,” Lucy says, thinking while she speaks. She’s not willing to whore herself out to the general population of New Vegas just to save Cooper from his past mistakes, but there are other options. “You said your patrons want a good show, right? Something spectacular that they’ve never seen before. How about a ghoul and a vault-dweller, being—uh, intimate? Wouldn’t that draw a crowd?”
The manager leans forward so fast that her chair creaks, the pipe forgotten in her hand. The look in her eyes makes Lucy think of vultures, ravenous for flesh.
“Oh my,” she says. There’s a revoltingly breathless quality to her voice now. “You’d let him fuck you? The zombie?”
“I mean, yes. If the alternative is him fighting another person to the death.”
“Oh, not just one. Not for him. I wanna make it a fair fight! No, I’m bringing in something special this week. Ferals, a whole gang of them that we found over by the Strip. Normally they don’t go for other zombies, but we’ve got this chem spray that confuses them—makes them quite rabid. Then next week—if he survives—I’ve got a super mutant lined up. But of course, if you’re willing to do that… Get down and dirty with a ghoul… Oh, yes, that would be a good show. That would be a headliner.”
Admittedly, Lucy has not really thought this through, but she also can’t think of any better solutions at such short notice. She won’t be able to overpower them—the place is too well guarded, and she doesn’t even have Dogmeat for backup. Nor can she let Cooper face down those feral ghouls on his own, most likely getting torn to shreds in the process. She needs him. They’re finally in New Vegas, with all the answers they’ve been searching for within grasp—he can’t die now.
While the idea of having sex in front of an audience is somewhat off-putting, at least it’d be with Cooper. Someone she knows and trusts.
“Alright. How many shows would we need to do to get him debt-free?”
“Ohhh, let’s see…” The woman closes her eyes, though it is unclear if she is calculating the cost or merely gloating. “Five, let’s say? If the show is good enough. I want people to come back for more, week after week.”
“We’ll make it memorable,” Lucy promises. She can imagine what these sorts of people are after. She’s read Grognak the Barbarian, as well as the unofficial adult issues, snuck into her unit by Steph. “He could, uh, ravish me? Like a rape scenario? And I, the poor vaultie virgin, beset by a monstrous ghoul. Then, next week, I’m slightly more eager—sort of corrupted—like I’ve gotten a taste for it. Then we’ll just get more creative from there.”
Before she’s even finished speaking, the woman’s holding out her hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal, baby.”