New Vegas: Sheason's Story

After asking around, I found out exactly where I had to go: a place in the Ultra-Luxe known as the Conservatory. I'd never heard the word before, so I didn't know what to expect... and that meant that when I finally got there, I was in for a bit of a shock.

I opened the doors and was immediately in a sea of color. There were plants of all sorts in every direction, and in every color imaginable. I was a bit confused - what the hell were all these plants even doing here? - until I looked closer and realized that most of them were fake. Even though they were fake, the afternoon sun trickled in through the curved glass ceiling above me. It kind of reminded me of the greenhouses I'd seen in Vault City years ago.

I walked along a rough stone path, winding through the colorful garden of artificial flowers. At the end of the path was a large gazebo, whose only inhabitant was a woman sitting on one of the benches ringing the edge. She didn't seem to notice me at first, as she was looking out over the garden, and casually sipping on a glass of red wine. She looked maybe a few years older than me - a little on the young end of middle age - with wavy, shoulder length dark-brown hair. She was wearing a simple (yet deceptively elegant) lilac dress with only one shoulder, and she had a pair of earrings and a necklace that looked like... were those pearls? Whatever they were, they matched the color of the silky gloves she was wearing that went up just past her elbows.

"Uh... excuse me," I said, carefully stepping into the gazebo. "I don't mean to disturb you, but... are you Marjorie?" She turned and smiled at me, setting her glass of wine down on the bench next to her.

"Ah, yes, hello!" Her accent was... it was a bit odd. It sounded sort of... cultured and refined, but not quite. It was like she was trying very hard to maintain it. "I was wondering when you would find me."

"Really?" I asked, a bit confused. She just continued to smile, nodding slightly.

"My staff informed me that a man in combat armor and a duster was looking for the head of the White Gloves. Normally, I wouldn't deign to meet with someone dressed so... unfashionably," she coughed daintily. "But I think I can make an exception for the Courier. Don't you?" All I could do was smirk.

"You're good. Most people don't realize who I am until I actually say I'm the Courier."

"Well, your deeds both on The Strip and beyond have garnered quite a bit of attention. I pride myself on being a woman 'in the know,' as t'were. So, tell me - what can I do for you?" She gestured to the bench on the opposite side of the gazebo.

"Well, there's some business I think you and I need to discuss a bit later," I said, sitting down opposite Marjorie as she took hold of her wine glass, taking another sip. "But first, there's... something else. I'm looking for someone who went missing here recently." As soon as I mentioned the missing person, Marjorie paused mid-sip.

"This again?" She set down her wine glass, trying to hold back a grimace. "I thought all this was settled. I answered every one of that investigator's questions to his satisfaction and gave all the help I could."

Investigator? I thought to myself. Heck hadn't mentioned an investigator. It didn't seem like Gunderson's son had been gone long enough for him to hire one...

"I know our reputation hasn't always been spotless," Marjorie continued. "But that's all in the past now. How some people can't get over it is beyond me. For the last time: the White Glove Society has never, and will never consume human flesh for any reason. It's written in the charter."

"That's... a very suspiciously specific denial..." I said, taken aback by her matter-of-fact tone of voice. "So, you're saying there have been accusations of..."

"We don't do that sort of thing," Marjorie said forcefully. "We do not engage in cannibalism here under any circumstances, as I said. Though... we haven't always been the White Glove Society. There was..." Marjorie's expression fell. "... another time. A dark time, when we went by a different name..." She cleared her throat, and composed herself rather quickly. "But that's all changed now! We have evolved past such base impulses since settling into our new home. I've seen to it personally that those days are behind us."

"Alright," I held my hand up. "Enough. I get the point. I won't mention it again. Back to the disappearance - who did you talk to? Who was the investigator?"

"I don't really remember his name, but there was an investigator who came through here last week," Marjorie said, and the bottom of my stomach fell out in the way it always does when things are about to go sideways. "He'd been hired by a young man whose bride-to-be went missing during their stay here. Well, you can already guess what probably happened, can't you? It seems perfectly likely that she got cold feet and ran off. And that young groom just didn't have a clue, the poor dear."

"I'm actually investigating someone else," I said. "A man, not a woman. And he just recently went missing - probably in the last few hours." Marjorie froze, and her face seemed to lose all expression when I said that.

"A... a man?" She asked, almost incredulously. "Well then this... well, this can't be. Two disappearances in my hotel? This is absolutely unacceptable, what will people say? As soon as we're done here, you can be sure that I'm going to have a few choice words with my staff about security on the premises. Whether these people are found or not, our guests simply must feel safe in their own rooms."

"You do that. Is there any way I can talk to this investigator dude?"

"Why yes, I... I think so," This news had rattled her, if the slight stammer was anything to go by. "If he hasn't checked out yet, that is. I had our head concierge, Mortimer, offer him a complimentary room for as long as it took for him to be satisfied. You see?" Marjorie raised her glass to me, and smiled again, finally regaining her composure completely. "The White Glove Society remains the very picture of courtesy, even in the face of such impolite accusations. We have nothing to hide here."

"I'm sure you don't," I said as I got up, doing my best to hold back the sarcasm.

I'm not sure I was entirely successful.

Even though I hadn't been told specifically where to find him, or what he looked like, I had the distinct impression that I was looking at Mortimer right now. For one, he was one of the few people who worked here who didn't wear a mask. And for another, he was standing behind a large curved desk, with a clipboard in hand, underneath a sign reading "Concierge" in curved metal letters. Behind him was a wall full of tiny boxes, each with a tiny hook and a tiny metal placard. All of the hooks held keys, but only about half of them had more than one.

"Hi," I said, walking up to the counter; he immediately set his clipboard down, and I was able to get a decent look at him and holy crap this guy is tall. Or maybe that was just the top hat. No, wait, I'm standing straight up and my eyes are about level with his tiny mustache. On anyone else, that kind of mustache would just make him look pathetic, but for some reason... it didn't. In fact, when you took the whole package - the mustache, the tux, the top hat, and the gaunt, thin face, he managed to look both menacing and approachable. How does that happen?

"Welcome to the Ultra-Luxe," he spoke in a surprisingly deep voice. It wasn't particularly loud, but every syllable was enunciated very precisely. "How may I be of service, sir?"

"You're Mortimer, right?" He nodded. "I spoke with Marjorie a few minutes ago. She said that you gave a free room to a private investigator? Is that true?" Mortimer looked pensive and started stroking his chin.

"Private investigator... Ah," he snapped one of his gloved fingers. "Yes, yes. I remember the gentleman. This was about the missing bride, wasn't it? Such an awful thing. I do sincerely hope he finds her whereabouts. If I might pry, have you found something that will help his investigation?" As he spoke, I could feel his eyes staring at me. The longer he stared... the more it was making my skin crawl. I couldn't really explain why, but...

"In a manner of speaking," I said, shaking off the sense of unease. "You could say I'm on an investigation of my own." Mortimer's eyes narrowed.

"You are? Nothing so grim as his investigation, I hope." I shrugged.

"I'm not sure yet, but I believe the two cases may be linked. I'm hoping that we can help each other. Swap notes, you know - one private eye to another." Slowly, he started to smile and nod his head.

"Ordinarily, we wouldn't even consider handing out guest information. As head concierge of the Ultra-Luxe, such a breech of trust would besmirch my reputation among the other concierges in the Society of the Crossed Keys. However..." He reached behind him and pulled a key off one of the boxes, setting it on the counter and sliding it to me. "I think, given the circumstances, he'll want to speak with you. If my memory of the guest registrar is correct, then he hasn't checked out yet. You should be able to find him in his suite, room 413."

"Thanks for the help," I nodded, taking the key. Mortimer smiled.

"I certainly hope we can put this matter to rest, at last."

I stood outside the door to room 413, looking up and down the long hallway. Like the rest of the hotel, the walls looked like marble, the carpets looked like old money, and the lights bathed everything in a gold glow. But, for some reason, there wasn't anyone here. To be fair, the Ultra-Luxe wasn't exactly packed with people like some of the other casinos on the Strip, but this was a whole different kind of empty. And it was really making me nervous.

"Hello?" I said, knocking on the door. "Is there anyone in there?" No response. That sinking feeling grabbed hold of my gut and wouldn't let go. And as soon as I turned the key, opening the door to the suite, I knew why. I reached behind me, and pulled Roscoe out of the back of my pants - it was an instinctive reaction to the sight in front of me.

This place had been torn apart. It looked like it had been hit by a tornado, or ripped apart by a deathclaw or something. There wasn't a single piece of furniture that was undamaged or on its side. Pictures were hanging off the walls... hell, even the bed was askew.

Speaking of the bed, that's when I noticed a pair of feet sticking out from behind it. I rushed over, and found the body of a blonde man in a grey suit and sunglasses sprawled out on the floor. I set Roscoe on the ground, and knelt in close to get a good look at him. His face was covered in welts, and his sunglasses were broken. It looked like he'd been beaten to death. I cast a glance down, and couldn't help but notice that he had something clutched in his left hand -

WHACK

I saw stars. Something had hit me in the side of my head; it certainly stung, and everything was a bit of a blur, but whoever hit me hadn't followed through with enough force to put me down.

"You shouldn't be here," echoed in my ears. "Murdering an innocent man - we'll make you pay!"

I clutched at the side of the bed to steady myself, and forced my vision to stop spinning long enough for me to look up at my assailant: a man wearing a tuxedo, a White Gloves mask, and holding a dress cane above his head. And speaking of the cane, it came down, but my vision had cleared just enough for me to recognize which of the three images I was seeing was the real one - and I caught the cane mid swing.

I didn't hesitate. I just pushed off against the floor, still holding onto the cane to steady my approach, and slammed my fist into this guy's face as hard as I could. He staggered backward, just as I heard a noise off to my right. By now, my vision had cleared completely, so I could see another White Glove rushing at me with a cane.

He tried to strike me with the cane, just like the other one, but I deflected the blow with my Pip Boy - and countered his attack with a boot to the chest. He practically flew across the room and slammed into the back wall with a dull thud.

"Alright you fucks," I said as the two of them slowly got back on their feet. "You want some?" I reached behind me and slipped on my brass knuckles. "Get some."

The two of them rushed me at the same time. But they weren't fighters. They probably expected me to go down with the first hit. Honestly... it was a bit embarrassing. The whole thing was over quite quickly.

Of course, once it was all over, I realized that I may have made a bit of an error. One of them was laying in a twisted heap, halfway out of the bathtub, and the other was slumped in the pile of wood that used to be the dresser. It didn't really matter if they were unconscious or dead - either way, they wouldn't be saying anything anytime soon, and that meant I wouldn't be able to find out who sent them.

I bent down to pick up Roscoe, checked the safety, put it back in its hiding spot, and cast one more glance at the dead investigator. And then I remembered: he was holding something, wasn't he? I glanced over my shoulder quickly (just in case anyone else tried to jump me), and pried his hand open. Turns out, he was holding a matchbook from The Gourmand, one of the restaurants here in the Ultra-Luxe. I turned it around in my hands, and eventually flipped it open to reveal a handwritten note on the inside:

Steam Room, 4pm.

I pocketed the matchbook, and checked at the clock on my Pip Boy.

3:50 pm.

In a flash, I was out the door and running down the hall.

There was a massive indoor pool at the back end of the Ultra-Luxe. Like the conservatory, the ceiling was made of glass, but despite that it looked like it was held aloft by dozens of thick stone pillars. All around were dozens of deck chairs, and blue tiles lining every surface. The pungent, stinging smell of chlorine hung heavily in the air. If any place in this casino was going to have a steam room, it was going to be here.

I kept close to the wall, trying to stay out of anyone's way, and doing my best to stay (relatively) out of sight. It was surprisingly empty for a Sunday afternoon, but there were still a few people scattered around, lounging on the chairs or swimming in the pool. I checked my Pip Boy again. 4:01 pm. I needed to find this place fast...

I saw a door tucked in a corner out of the corner of my eye, and almost walked past it - but then I noticed the sign: OUT OF ORDER. I had a feeling I knew what was behind the sign, and checked. Sure enough, the door read "Steam Room." I checked over both my shoulders, and quickly walked inside, shutting the door behind me. Standing near the center of the circular room (which was, thankfully, devoid of steam) was a surprised looking black man in a tux. It was the same kind of outfit that most of the White Gloves wore, but unlike most of them, this man wasn't wearing a mask. Next to him was a small, waist-high box made out of stone, about three-feet across in every direction - the thing that made the steam, when it was working.

"Who are you?" he asked, utterly bewildered.

"I'm looking for someone who went missing," I said. This just seemed to confuse him further.

"So was the man I'm supposed to be meeting here. Where is he?" As he spoke, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the matchbook, tossing it his way. He caught it.. Eventually. He fumbled with it a bit before finally grabbing it.

"He's dead," I said. "He was holding that in his hands, that's how I knew to come here." As he heard the news, his eyes went wide and he gulped audibly.

"Oh my goodness me! They must know he was talking to someone on the inside. They'll be watching everyone closer now... I... I knew this was a mistake." He made a beeline for the door, but I reached out and grabbed hold of him, keeping him in place.

"Whoa, hold on there champ. Slow down. What's your name?" He stayed put and didn't struggle, but he looked very, very worried.

"Uh... er... Chauncey. My name is Chauncey. I-I'm one of the White Gloves."

"Yeah, I figured that out. I'm Sheason Fisher," I said. "Look, I might be able to help you. Who are you afraid of?"

"Mortimer!" he said, fear still evident in his voice. "If he realizes it was me the investigator was planning to meet, he'll have me killed!"

"Wait, Mortimer? The concierge?" And suddenly, my unease around him made much more sense. "So, he's behind the disappearances?"

"Yes," Chauncey said, finally seeming to calm down. "The White Glove Society strictly forbids eating humans. But we weren't always the White Glove Society. Before Mr. House gave us a new home, we were known as the Sawneys. When Marjorie took over, she changed all that. Changed our name, changed our... eating habits. Made us civilized. But Mortimer and some of the others have... regressed. Back to the old ways."

"And now they're eating people," I shook my head, trying to force the bile trying to worm its way up my throat back down. Chauncey nodded.

"They've taken many people over the last few months... but it's always been from secluded places. Back alleys in Freeside. Places where people go missing every day - where they wouldn't be missed. But it wasn't enough. Lately they've gone for tourists right here on the Strip - even in the hotel!" Chaucey shook his head and sighed. "I guess that's the hazard of a cannibal becoming a gourmet - it's harder to please a... refined palate."

"Okay, first things first: this is going to stop. I'll make sure that this ends today, you can bet on that."

"I'm absolutely in agreement there," Chauncey nodded, looking a little relieved. "Why do you think I wanted to meet with Crusoe?"

"Glad we're in agreement. Alright, next: I'm looking for somebody. Ted Gunderson." I paused thinking. "Hell, the woman the investigator was looking for, too. If she's still alive. Are they?" Chauncey's expression fell.

"I'm sorry to say, the woman is long gone. But the Gunderson boy is alive, as far as I know. They're trying to keep him... fresh. Mortimer has special plans for him."

"Special?" The pit of my stomach fell out. "That sounds ominous. What's he planning?"

"The White Glove Society has a banquet every night at 7. It's in the private, members only part of the casino. Mortimer wants to reintroduce humans into our cuisine. Since eating people is a crime we now punish by death, he's going to try and do it in secret."

"Secret?" I asked, confused. "How would he do it in secret? I mean... I would imagine human flesh has a very distinct... flavor." Again, I had to force the bile back down. I'd been witness to some pretty disgusting shit in my day, and plenty of horrific acts of barbarism besides, but for some reason the thought of a person eating another... person... just... ugh.

"It really isn't all that much different from veal, to be honest," Chauncey grimaced, letting on that he obviously knew what it tasted like. "It's slightly tougher than veal, but not quite beef, depending on how you cook it. Though, I've heard some describe it like the sweeter meats one would find in pork." He cleared his throat. "After everyone has eaten it, that's when he'll tell them. With no real way to punish everyone - in Mortimer's mind, anyway - their minds will be open to the idea of eating people as a delicacy."

"But Marjorie made eating people a crime punishable by death. You said so yourself." I said. "Wouldn't they just... I dunno, kill him, for setting the whole thing up?" Chauncey shrugged.

"They might. But to him, the legacy of returning to the Old Ways is worth even his own life. I don't think he expects it, though," Chauncey's voice went real low. "I don't, either."

"What do you mean, you don't?" That sinking feeling in my gut returned.

"Nothing is more important to the Society than to be on the cutting edge of New Vegas cuisine. Mortimer's idea will appeal to that need. He just has to get them over the taboo."

"But if we save Ted before they eat him," my mind was racing, trying to find a solution to all of this. "Then Mortimer's got nothing to go on, right? Do you know where he's being kept?"

"I don't know exactly," he said, shaking his head. "I wasn't in on it. I'm pretty sure some of them have stopped trusting me."

"You must have some idea, right?" I asked, racking my brain. This place was too large, too rife with potential hiding places, and I know I didn't have time to search the whole casino.

"They're probably keeping him near the Gourmand. Our head chef, Philippe, has an obsession with fresh ingredients. The entrance to the kitchens is back in the members only section, so you'll have to be careful. Don't be seen, and more importantly, don't let them see Ted in the open. It's guarded both at the lobby entrance and in the access tunnels leading from the main restaurant."

"Shouldn't be a problem..." I muttered, checking behind me to make sure - yep. Still had at least one stealth boy on me. "So, how do I get in?"

"I... could sponsor you as an honorary member. But I'm not sure it would work. To be honest, I'm not really sure who you are, and only those who have made a name for themselves on the Strip are even considered for honorary membership status - celebrities, philanthropists, and the like. Besides, I don't think they even really trust me anymore... Other than that, you'd have to find some way to get inside quietly. It won't be easy. And it'll be harder still to get him out."

"What about his father?" I said, continuing to rack my brain. "If he's influential enough to get one of his men to carry a gun in the casino, maybe he could have enough pull to get his son out?" At that, Chauncey seemed to freeze, a look of worry on his face.

"That may be true, but I wouldn't recommend it. He's built a reputation, and it isn't for calmness and impartiality."

"A reputation?" I asked. "What, like... The Courier?" I tried to hold back a smirk. "That kind of reputation?" Chauncey shrugged.

"In a sense... although, I don't think he's nearly as dangerous as that Courier who's been making so many waves across the Strip. At least, not personally dangerous. He may not be a fighter, but they call him 'Hurricane Heck' for a reason. The man built an empire by hiring mercenaries to drive off all his competition. Lately, he's been attacking our Brahmin suppliers so he can take over their business. That's why he's here in the Ultra-Luxe. He wants to fill a void that he himself created with violence! He's the sort to pound in a nail with a wrecking ball. If you gave him the whole story on this, he'd be liable to raze the entire hotel! And God only knows what he'd do to the rest of the Strip!"

"That won't happen." I said as forcefully as I could muster. "I wouldn't allow it." Chauncey looked confused, to be sure, but he didn't really need to know the particulars. "But that's still a fair point. Any other suggestions on how to get Ted out?" He started stroking his chin.

"Hmm. Well, they'll all be sampling a selection of red wines before the meal. Maybe it would be as simple as drugging them?" He shrugged, and then paused. "But... that wouldn't stop any future kidnappings. You'd have to expose Mortimer. But if he's going to confess anyway..." Chauncey snapped his fingers. "Wait! What if... what if his revelation were a lie? What if no one had eaten human flesh but him? If you could somehow replace Philippe in the kitchen and serve a convincing substitute instead, then you could walk Ted right through the middle of that room after Mortimer speaks! And then he'd have some serious explaining to do!"

"Preferably with a rope around his neck." I said with a smirk. This was starting to become a decent plan... at least, as far as my plans went, at any rate. "Alright, I'll give it a shot. It's the best we've got, anyway."

"Philippe has been trying to approximate the taste of human flesh for years. I'm sure he has a recipe somewhere and - wait." Chauncey paused, holding up a finger. "Do you hear something?"

I didn't get the chance to answer. There was a crash, and the door behind me burst open. I didn't think - I just dove for cover behind the brick podium. There were two muffled bangs, followed by a heavy thud; Chauncey fell to the ground next to me, a gunshot wound in his neck gushing blood. I grabbed Roscoe, flicked off the safety, and aimed around the brick pedestal.

The man standing in the doorway wasn't a member of the White Gloves, like the other's who'd come after me. He was quite clearly a gun for hire, covered in ammo, wearing an outfit that wasn't quite armor, and carrying a silenced .22 pistol in his hand. I slipped into VATS and fired. There was a flash of sparks, and the .22 flew out of his hands.

"Augh! Son of a -" the assassin was cut off mid sentence, as a bullet hole appeared in the middle of his forehead. He fell back with a thud.

The steam room fell silent. I shoved Roscoe back into its hiding space behind me, and rushed to the dead assassin as quick as I could. There may not have been many people at the pool, but there were enough - and the noise was bound to draw unwanted attention. I grabbed the freshly dead man by the collar, picked him up, and threw him as far as I could into the steam room. I pushed the button in the door handle to lock it, and shut the door as I left - making sure the sign clearly displayed "out of order."

I walked away, reaching into my duster for the packet of smokes and my lighter. The dinner was at seven, and I'd need to get there in plenty of time, but if I ran right now, I'd just draw unwanted attention to myself. By the time the cigarette was in my mouth, however, I saw a man start to approach me. It looked like he'd just come out of the pool, as he was dripping wet with a towel draped around his neck.

"Excuse me," he said, cautiously. It was obvious he saw the combat armor I was wearing - how could you miss it? - and he looked more than a little worried. "A few of us heard some strange noises coming from over here - one of us thought they were gunshots! Is everyone alright?"

"Oh yeah, don't worry about it," I lit the cigarette and snapped the lighter shut as I walked past him. "It's just some of the maintenance guys. They needed to let off some steam."