Ratcig - Mentally Disturbed

Best Served Cold

V

Vulpes Inculta x Courier reader/female!courier.

Warning: Allusions to SA, self harm mention, sexual comments.

The rock was a faint weapon in your hand, once, it had been a tool of your brief freedom in the desert. 

With that, you used the remainder of your strength, you stand to score your twenty-first tally into concrete wall, the pale grey dust falling at your worn boots. 

All you had for company was a grim lavatory, a sink that dripped with poisoned water, and piles of empty water bottles they rolled into your cell. 

No food though, they didn't want you to die in here, only suffer. 

Your stomach cried with hollowness. The only thing that kept you company were you memories and the hollow plastic bottles. 

You had nothing but the remainder of your clothes, and the rays of sunlight that would trickle in from the small rectangular slot. 

You had initially fought, you did press-ups, sit-ups, high knees, tension exercises all to try and keep your muscle mass. But now, with your shrinking skin, you had only the strength to delve into your memories for company and sleep. 

You thought of the Big Empty, those strange gaggle of scientists who blessed you with your memories back, albeit unintentionally, when they put your brain back in your head. 

You could have kept their augmentations, yes, but Dad found a human baby, not some strange cyborg. 

“W-wait, really?” You recall Dr 0’s response when you requested to go under the knife for your viscera back. “You’d rather have your old parts back? You sure? they're so… breakable, squishy, not to mention the scar in your brain.”

“Oh course she would want those beautiful squishy visceral organs back. To have them, inside you. I am happy to perform the surgery,” said Dr Dala. She made a groan you'd rather forget the sound of. 

Drowsy from sleep, you had been woken by a ray of light, and kisses of heat on your dirty face, as you had been many mornings before. Your throat was dry and your stomach had long shrank to a peppercorn, you lean into the wall, your head awash with dizziness. 

Your wall, for these past three weeks,

Three weeks. Another and you may die. 

The strange thing was, in this stony hell, was that you no longer felt an appetite for food. At day five, you dreamt of it, of consuming.

But now, you only felt the sharp main of hunger, yet no desire to eat

Arcade spoke of it before when you tried to feed a freed Legion slave. 

“She hasn’t eaten in some time, but she can’t eat something like pork and beans just yet. Her stomach, it has shrunk.” He told you. 

The trousers you had on were held up to the last belt loop. You didn’t want to know how much fat and muscle you have lost, your muscles were no doubt eaten away too by the hunger. 

This was the longest you have went without being fed. 

The cell lit light yellow, to orange, to purple then black and had done so twenty-one times already. 

They rolled a water bottle in before slamming the door shut.

Scrambling to it like a dwarf to glittering gold, you drank it down greedily, the tepid water, a balm to your empty stomach. It rolled down your chin, leaving clean marks.

The only thing you could feed yourself was your memories. You recalled times of power, of when you were in control, of times you were safe, any time you were not here. 

You ate the Big Empty, inhaled the red miasma of the Sierra Madre once again. 

And feast on those diaphanous memories you did.

You sat cross legged in the centre, and felt your fingers fizz as you breathed deeply. 

As you feasted on a memory that tasted like wood ash, you longed to be anywhere but here.

-

It had been the first time you wore heels. Black with red soles that Mr House told you was “all the rage” back before the war. It was a year or so ago, an epoch far gone. 

Loeee betons? Looooieee Bestons? You can’t remember what they were called but Mr House assured you they were expensive.

They ate your feet and elevated your frame, made you walk graceful and slow. 

You loved them, in truth, their glossiness, the chic lick of red at your sole. Veronica was playfully jealous of you.

Jane gave you some tips on how to “seduce” a man, to get what you wanted from them. The tips were given in clipped quotes as she led you down to your room. 

It seemed that Mr House had fancied you to be a femme fatale, rather than the ragged tomboy that entered the penthouse suite. 

“There could be something lovely underneath all of that filthy Wasteland dust and radiation. Jane will take you to your room, help you get cleaned up.” 

And help you she did. 

You were scrubbed raw and smelt of caramel and coconut, two things you would never have the pleasure of eating. 

Standing spotless and wrapped in a white towel, Jane rolled in, a silky black dress in her meaty metal arms. 

“Mr House says that this should fit you perfectly, its Chanel darling, 2055, very vintage now!”

She giggles and turned around as you slipped the fae fabric on. You were shaved for the first time too, so you felt truly naked, especially without your man’s clothes. 

Slipping on your heels, you cleared your throat. Blushing. 

“Wow sugar! You look just the bee’s knees, I’ll have to keep an eye on you in case Robert starts looking elsewheres,” she let out a tinny robotic laugh. 

“Don’t think I’m enough metal for him, if I’m honest,” you thought. 

“You just sit right there, and the beauty-atron will do your make up for you. Not that you really need it sugar, you sure do look lovely all cleaned up!”

In truth, you loved it, being a woman, being pampered, looked after. It was something you never experienced before. 

A few piercings later, and a string of pearls around your throat, you were sent before Mr House. Who approved -you thought- a bit too much. 

“That should do nicely. You should have no issue getting the Chip from Benny like this. Has Jane taught you how to speak to a man yet?”

“Uh, yessir.”

“Hm good, you know what to do," his frozen green face glared down at you. "Get me my Platinum Chip.” 

When you walked into the Tops casino, it was like you were a wide eyed water nymph from that old painting you saw back at the Sierra Madre.  Beckoning men to their watery doom. 

“Woah woah woah baby-doll,” a well groomed dark haired man had pulled you behind the counter, halting you in your red pursuit of your killer.  “Now I have never seen you around here before. I know ‘cause I’d remember. Name's Swank baby."

You swallowed, seduction dying in your throat like a blue winged butterfly in a radioactive vacuum. 

“Cat got your tongue, I’ll happily put mine in your mouth honey baby.”

Your throat closed up. Before your emerald eyes could narrow into a disgusted squint, you stopped. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you baby.” You said, your voice airy and lilting. “Mr House sent me for Benny you see…”

You brush your clean, soft, jewelled fingers down his shirt sleeve. 

“A gift for his hard work thus far," you grinned, hiding your disgust at yourself. Orders were orders. 

“You sound like a dick, Lucky,” you thought to yourself. 

“Hey now, ain't that one lucky bastard, say, what’s your name?”

(Are real men really this easy?)

You gave one, a stranger's name you heard years ago, the name of a girl you don’t know. 

“Pretty name for a pretty face, come on, I gotta show the boss his prize. Lucky bastard.”

The casino was the ring of greed and gluttony, and you suspect Benny’s suite was the ring of lust and wrath. 

You remember worrying, the switchblade in your clutch bag burning a hole through the shiny leather, the fool, Swank, was too enamoured to even check your bag.

“Yo Benny,” Swank unlinked with you, gently gesturing you to Benny. 

He was cleaner this time, free from the filth of the Mojave, His chequered black and white square suite was dazzling. His skin was tanned and clear, it was threated veal leather in its smoothness, with a straight delicate nose. 

Inhaling white smoke and exhaling, Benny had turned with his men. 

“Yeah? What is i-”

His chocolate brown eyes met your own and he was speechless. 

You remember how your heart tightened in your chest, how dry your mouth grew and sweaty your hands became. How on earth did he recognise you? 

Then he grinned, dazzling white. 

You hated him, the surgical scar Doc Mitchell made, which wrapped around the left side of your head, itched even more so than usual. 

“Now who’s this swinging pussy cat?” He grabbed you hand and kissed it, You feigned a giggle as you gave your “name”. 

“Cute name, but I think I’ll call you pussycat, seems more fitting if you ask me.” 

He cocked his head at Swank, gesturing him to leave. 

“Mr House sent me…” You technically weren’t lying. 

“Really? The old man sends me some Gomorrah girls from time to time, how come’s I never seen you yet. I’d remember, sweetheart.”

“I’m new you see lover,” you answered smiling. “He wanted you get…” You wanted to gag (“Keep it together Lucky!”) “the first taste.”

“Well,” he purred, stubbing out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray “No complaints from me here.”

He smelt of aftershave, of cinnamon, spice and death. 

“How abouts we go somewhere, private pussy cat," his hot breath against your ear made you shrivel. 

You had filed through your memories for entertainment, times where you were in control, times of happiness. 

As you sat and starved, you meditated on them, recalling every smell, every wrinkle as Benny grinned, every gap in his stupid white teeth. 

You kill him in every dream you have of him, decapitation, emulsion, poisoning, drowning, every death you dreamt was never as satisfying as his real one. 

You could never let go of what he took from you then. Dooming you to a life of some elf that sprouted from the dead tree above your grave. Simple, existing, borne of the cancerous Gaia below. 

You recounted this memory a hundred times before. What number were you at now? You had to in this cell, explore and mourn what you once were, before you went insane. 

Your heels were made for carpets, that much you remember as you revisit your thoughts, they weren’t made for where soldier’s boots would trod, lest you chip the red soles. 

You were a statue in the elevator, his arm around your waist, caressing your soft flesh. 

His suite was gaudy, and he had tried to kiss you, pressing a hand to his lips, his brow furrowed. 

“What gives baby, cold feet? I ain’t no Legion creep. Leave, I don’t care I’ll get another girl. I've killed men for hurtin' girlies like that in my Vegas."

The switchblade burned in your bag. 

“Just like to put on lipstick first.” You said, fidgeting in your clutch. 

“Oh you still down pussy cat?”

He cut across the room, grabbing your face gently, as if he were holding a glass rose. 

“Your lips will be covered by mine baby, no  need to worry about no lipstick.”

Your manicured fingers curled around the blade. And you put it to his throat. 

“Now that, I shoulda seen comin’," he chuckled, barely flinching. ‘Specially since I have what House wants. By the looks of you, I have something you want too. You're too pretty for your own good, Swank didn't check you, stupid fink."

“Don’t you recognise me?” You pressed the blade into his tanned throat. “Game was rigged from the start.” 

Pulling back your fringe, you showed him your scar, an arm of it reached an inch down your forehead, with a length above your ear reaching your cheek bone, 

“How the in the goddamn?” 

He pulls back, you press the blade till you saw a red pearl on the silver.  

“I don’t remember shit thanks to you. So lemme cut you a deal. I can let you go if you tell me who I was," you lied.

A nervous chuckle from Benny, sweat rolled down his tanned flesh, his lacquered hair springing out of place.

“Listen… I don’t know sweetheart,” he said steadily, hands gesturing to pacify you, it didn’t work. 

“I just thought you were some kid courier. Didn’t know you from Adam, didn’t even realise you were a woman," his voice was littered with panic. Pure fear of being outplayed, falling for a pretty face. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah honest baby,” he reached behind him, no doubt grabbing for the gun that killed you in his trouser pocket. “Real honest.”

Lurching, you grabbed Benny pulling him back. Switchblade still at his throat you pulled him down. You were deceptively strong afterall. 

“Motherfucker, you’re gonna pay," you hissed into his ear, his cologne intoxicating. 

With that, you had your revenge, you opened his throat and watched him die on the floor of his suite. Clutching at his open neck as it stained the white carpets. 

You looked down, and felt... nothing. Just another outplayed man twitching and dying beneath you. 

There was neither a catharsis nor crescendo. For you, at that point, were a nothing child, borne of lead and evil. A girl-man with no past. 

As Benny died, you rifled through his expensive silk lined pockets. 

And there it was. 

The thing you almost died for. The Platinum Chip. You stole it away in your clutch bag.

-

You had left the way you came, they didn’t suspect a thing. 

The sun was drank down again, and the sky was purple. Some stars had peeked their way through the darkening veil while the moon was a ghost of herself.

“You dropped this, sweet lady.”

The voice of the Reaper, a skeletal beast of cold breath from the ashes of corpses drunk in. 

Vulpes Inculta. 

You felt you hair grow grey, your throat dried and you sweated icy saline. 

Shuddering you turn. To meet his cerulean gaze. 

He was sans dog-head. Dressed in a three piece suit and a white shirt and tie, his hat was tilted slightly as he slung his jacket over a shoulder. But you recognised him, there is no washing out the reek of a body burned. 

He handed you back your switchblade. A shaking hand you took it. 

“Th-thank you.” 

Did he recognise you? The “boy” who branded him monster?

“Sweet lady” was a mask to his sentence, a ploy to fool you into thinking he himself was fooled. 

“A young lady such as yourself is right to carry a blade in this city.” He covered your hand gently as he squeezed the closed blade into your palm. 

“Especially this city.”

“With men like you, you mean.” You thought. 

You swallow dryly and wet your lips. You nod frantically. 

“You are correct, good sir.”

“Asshole." You told the truth to yourself.

“I am pleased Vegas has some good men in it still," your voice was sweet and breathy, just like Jane taught. 

He smiles, it even reaches his sharp eyes. 

“If it pleases you, may I ask you your name?”

He brought your soft hand to his lips and kissed it; you had to pretend you weren’t kissed by Pluto’s cadaverous lips. Cold yet scorching acid.

You gave a fake name, the same one you gave Swank. 

“A lovely name indeed. I am Thomas, Thomas Fox. I’m here with a trading caravan and thought to see the Strip with my own eyes while I conduct business.”

“It is a sight to see,” you said meekly. 

Humming in agreement, he smiles again. 

“I, so happen to have accidentally double booked the Ultra-Luxe, it would please me if such a lovely young woman were to join me.”

He held out his clean hand, strange there were no damned spots on it from all the corpses he’s made. 

You thought, no turn and run, go back to Mr House with the Platinum Chip. What if he knew about it? Was he another Benny to come and slay you?

But…

Curiosity nibbled at you like a toothy molerat.

He had no weapons on him, and the Ultra-Luxe would not allow them inside. Your sneaky self could conceal a small pistol or a switchblade easily. 

If he tried anything you could take him, you’ve killed larger men before, despite the enchanting grace in which he carried himself. 

You could find out more from this Frumentarii head, something that Mr House should know for certain. 

Your hands were cold from nerves at seeing his face again. 

“That would be swell, Mr Fox,” you wore a winning smile.

He flashed his canines, you swore they were fangs. Fitting for a vampyre like him. 

“Call me Thomas, my dear.”

His soft lips were cold as they pressed into the back of your hand. 

-

“Trading in Arizona is quite fruitful, I have to say,” Vulpes held his knife and fork delicately as he cut into his bloody meat.

“I don’t agree with everything Casesar’s Legion does of course, but the trade routes have been incredibly safe.”

He said it. Seeee-zerrr. The sibilance of the dud name he gave, he must have swallowed the Kai and Zahr when the wore this skin in the Strip.

“All you gotta do is look pretty and smile sugar,” you recall what Jane said. “Men like to talk, they love to share their opinions. Some like it even better when you agree with them.”

Safe to say, you didn’t agree with him.

The aged wine (“Ah yes, it’s a pre-war vintage my dear, over 200 years old, untouched by radiation I assure you”.) was sweet and fruity. 

You liked it quite a bit, you have to admit you could get a taste for it. With your new healthy pay-check from Mr House, you’re sure you could book a few tables here for your friends. For the alcohol.

You watched Vulpes eat the meat. 

Perhaps you would choose a vegetarian option next time, with the rumours of what the White Glove society used to partake in. 

Your chicken was picked at, and the leafy greens blanketed it, you sipped the wine. 

“That’s what I heard,” you lie. “The Legion is a mighty foe, no raider would dare challenge them.” 

“You are the raiders” you thought to yourself. 

He dabbed his mouth and hummed in agreement, sipping the red wine himself. His hair was burning gold in the candlelight, a visage of Phoebus. 

In the light, your notice that his nose was slightly crooked, it had been broken at one point. 

Ironically, Boone’s was the same, a friendly punch-up with Manny one night while they were in the NCR army, he recalled to you over drinks one night. 

Boone Boone Boone. How you betrayed him for hating the thought of his memory. Betrayal by your sentiments, betrayal by the tip of your index finger. 

Perhaps you should take the steak knife opposite you and cut it off. Throw the bloody thing at Vulpes' stupid perfect face. 

So engrossed you were in this meditation to prevent your insanity, that you would bend space and time for your own catharsis. To mourn during a time when Boone lived.

But, unsevered your trigger finger remained, save your future hysterics when things finally sunk in for you. Perhaps.

“See, you think like a businessman, or lady rather,” he poured more wine into your glass. 

Despite your Wasteland wandering ways, you were quite a light-weight, much to the amusement of Raul. (“Pobrecita mija!”) 

You felt flush, no, this one would be your last, fuck him and his load of caps. 

“You see, I’m here on business, as you can probably tell since you are a smart young lady. I’m from the Southern Eagle Caravan Company, we’ve had some fruitful deals in Arizona yes, but Vegas…” He looked around, the lights twinkling in his pale eyes. “That is where the caps are.”

“Ask him questions about what he loves sugar, normally they love themselves.” Ja es voice echoed.

“What do you hope to get in New Vegas?” Playing in his false game. 

“Ahh, you see,” he leaned forward, the air fogged with secrecy. “I hope to get in touch with a young man. Courier Six.” 

You choked on the wine. 

“Have I shocked you dearest?” he said sweetly, his speech weaved with light laughter. 

“A little I must admit. Courier Six… Won’t he be hard to find?”

“Ahh,” he grinned. “I have my ways, I’m not quite wet behind the ears. He likes to think he is stealthy, but he often makes grand gestures.”

“Noted. Be less dramatic.” You thought again.

“He would make for a good caravan guard out here, he and his merry band, what with the war, raiders, fiends and God knows what else.” 

“Can’t say I’ve ever seen him,” you lie again, you could see him, the ghost of him, in the reflection of your dinner knife. “I’ve heard of some stories, about the rocket ship outside Novac.” 

“You are correct, but there is a lesser known fact about him that some don’t know. He has seen death, shot twice in the head and buried in a shallow grave. Yet, he lives.” 

The scar along your hairline itched.

The pain, the flash, the half-moon white smile of Benny, the black hole where your memories went. You swallowed, your tongue, a weight of damp sand. 

You try to meet his gaze, try not to give the game away, try not to jam your knife in his white throat and kill your second date tonight. 

“Sweet girl, you aren’t eating, is something not to your liking?”

You’re thankfully pulled from your ruminations. 

“In truth, I'm nervous,” you stammer. “I guess I never been on a…”

You neglected to say date. He laughed again. 

“Such a rare thing,” he clinked his glass against your own. 

"To Vegas maidens."

-

The moon shone down on you both, as Vulpes walked you back to your "motel". You had orchestrated a backstory for yourself on the fly. You were new to Vegas, and were an up and coming singer. You were quite good at it actually, if you do say so yourself. 

“That vault motel? Surely a lady such as you deserves far more than that," questioned Vulpes.

You went red, partially due to your lightweight nature. 

“It’s fine for me, just got to the city, figured I’d sing my way to the top… At the Tops,” you let out a nervous titter. 

Under the light of the lamp-post, he towered over you, all sinew and lean-ness. 

Looking down at you, you blush further. 

When Victor found you, you were in men’s clothes, a tradition you continued for your safety. That and Doc Mitchel only had a small woman’s vault suit for you to wear. Too small.

You assumed, and you would be correct, that you never even kissed a man before you were shot twice. And you weren’t looking to start tonight.

Grabbing your chin with feathered fingers, Vulpes forced your gaze to meet his. 

He leant forward. 

You shuddered. Oh to be kissed by Death. 

Then you felt something tickle your pierced ear.

A purple wildflower. 

Chucking like a little boy, he smiled down at you, playful.

“Ah pretty as a princess, purple is a royal colour you know. Saw it in the vase on our table, thought it would look better in your hair than dying at some restaurant.” 

“Th-thank you.” 

Kissing your hand again, he said your fake name. 

“Goodnight, princess.”

With a blink he was gone.

-

You had curled onto the floor, weak with hunger, your hair had grown a bit and you were filthy with sweat and dirt.

You were a Fresside orphan, slovenly and starving with a shrunken stomach. 

The clattering of your cage door failed to rouse you. Your lips were paler than your original colour, your skin, a grey hue and not like its original either. 

“Lucky?” The voice was faint. As the sun rose on your sorry self. 

Once again, strong arms lifted you. You smelt disinfectant and medicinal herbs. 

Arcade.

He always was deceptively strong. Your weak red heart fluttered at his voice, the warmth of his board chest, the medical smell of him. 

“Oh God… She needs fluids.” 

In the haze of your blurry eyes, you saw two dark legs, sandaled feet, with a white robe. 

The Healer. 

She rapidly moved her hands as Arcade watched her, her visage was knitted with concern, her intricate tattoos on her face waving with emotion. 

The patterns she made with her hands were purposeful, repetitive. 

“I agree,” said Arcade, though nothing was spoken. How can someone talk with their hands? 

He picked you up, cradling you like a poor orphan-child. 

Your sorry cell shrunk in the distance, and Arcade shielded your eyes as the dry heat of the Mojave greeted you again. 

sick of normal girls appropriating weird girl culture. you had friends in school you don’t get to reblog these posts

Here’s some of my favorite comic book Moon Knight moments

edit: It has come to my attention that some of these are fake but i dont care because they’re hilarious and very in character and make me love him more

jake lockley took one look at marc & steven, said bless this mess, and has been minding his own business since