Author's disclaimer: I do not own Fallout:NV and will not profit in any way from this story.

2/11/2018: Chapter updated for quality and consistency. I've gotten better at writing since I started this gig.

The afternoon sun sifted through the dirty panes of the window, bathing Doc Mitchell's surgery with warm light and catching dust motes in its path. Glad of a reason to step aside from his messy experiments for a moment, Arcade Gannon leaned back in his chair, listening tolerantly to his young friend's chatter about the day's explorations. She did so love to talk, and he didn't mind listening, at least in small doses.

"...and then I followed a coyote pup for an hour, and guess what I found? New plants!" She held up a handful of dark green stalks, all oozing a greenish liquid from one end, for the doctor's inspection. "What's this one, Arcade?"

"Aloe verde. That's a good find. Once processed properly, it's useful as a burn remedy and a component in some creams. Nothing like hydra, of course, but without the risk of addiction." The doctor accepted the spiky plants and looked around for a bucket in which to store them until later. "Doc Mitchell mentioned that he could use something like that. If there's enough, I'll put up a jar for him before we go." Working with a mortar-and-pestle, a hotplate, and miscellaneous lab equipment, Arcade had spent most of his daylight hours in Goodsprings studying desert plants in search of new medical remedies. The girl, an irrepressible bundle of energy and good will, was only too happy to focus her daily forays into the desert on the task of finding him new materials to work with. More often than not, she delivered exactly what he asked for and more, somehow navigating the hazards beyond the town's boundaries with no worse injury than a little sunburn and an occasional gecko bite. He worried, but he didn't know how to teach her caution. So far, she had experienced no downfall serious enough to learn that lesson; he hoped that her eventual education wouldn't kill or permanently damage her. At least not more than she already was.

She beamed up at him - she might have been tall for a wastelander, but he was a head taller still - showing a full set of white teeth. They were the teeth of someone who'd been raised with good nutrition and some kind of dental care. Arcade still wasn't sure where she'd come from, but he'd eat his hat if she'd been born and bred in the desert. Though she was still thin from her recent convalescence, her bones were too strong, her skin too clear for that. Unaware of his scrutiny, she continued her itemization. "Good. It's all mixed up in the bag, but there's a lot of it in here. I also found several more xander roots and broc flowers, if you're still experimenting with the ratios on your alternative stimpaks." Moving with her usual, graceless speed, she turned out her gathering bag on the metal table, spilling tubers, stems, and blossoms everywhere, in addition to a large, dead lizard with a neat machete cut across its neck. Seeing her fastidious companion wince at the clutter, she awkwardly shuffled the plants into messy stacks, leaving the surface relatively clear, except for a dribble of blood from the dead gecko, which she stuffed hurriedly back into the bag.

He sighed, running a hand through his blond hair, and waved her away. "Don't worry about that, I'll clean it up properly. Thank you for the supplies. Did you have any trouble today?" He watched her movements closely now, concealing concern under a casual tone. His new friend was only four months removed from an early grave, and still carried the scars from her would-be assassination: occasional absence seizures (though those were growing less frequent as time went on), a slight weakness on her left side, and other, less obvious signs of brain injury, both physical and psychological. Arcade hadn't known her before her injury - and mental health wasn't his specialty anyway - but he suspected that her impulsivity and lack of an appropriate fear response to, well, everything was the result of the bullet to the head that had almost killed her, nearly four months before.

She shrugged nonchalantly, well aware of his concerns and constantly trying to downplay her own risk-taking to him. "Nah. I stayed pretty close to Goodsprings this time. Nothing worse than a few geckos. This young one will do for our dinner, along with a few jalapeños for seasoning. I'll skin and clean it while you work. Where's the Doc, anyway?"

"Napping. Last night's poker tournament wore him out. What time did you get back in, anyway?" Arcade was tired too, actually. His idea of a good time was an evening to himself with a book, and people drained him. All the same, the game had been fun. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd played cards with anybody.

She grinned again. "Well, me 'n Sunny's winnings were burning a hole in our pockets, so we went to Trudy's and split the cost on a bottle of whiskey and a couple of nuka-colas. Then she wanted to go target shooting up by the cemetery and we stayed up there talking for a while. Did you know she's from Arizona? Apparently it's even hotter there." Now she, too yawned, rubbing her eyes and getting plant juice and gecko blood on her face. "The last time I checked the time on my Pip-Boy it was almost 2:00 AM and I headed back here shortly after that. It was a nice time. I'd go so far as to say it was the best night I can remember. Which isn't saying much, really..."

"All that and you were up at dawn. Such is the vigor of youth."

"You talk like you're an old man," she teased. "You could have come out with us." She laughed at his exaggerated shudder, an innocent sound that made him smile. He turned away to hide this, shaking his head and sorting through the mess that she'd made of his desk.

"Someday, if by some miracle you live long enough, you'll learn the difference between twenty… or however old you are… and your late thirties. Notably, the value of a good night's sleep and just how bothersome a hangover can get when you're older. Now, get out of here with that lizard and let me work."

Later that night, with the gecko steaks eaten and the dishes washed, they adjourned to the living room for what had become a nightly ritual for them all. Doc Mitchell rocked in the corner, smoking coyote tobacco in a crude pipe, the young woman lounged on the couch, and Arcade sat in the armchair nearest the lamp, reading aloud from a book he'd found on the shelf. It was a new book for him, but one that he'd been quite gratified to discover in the older doctor's collection. Part history, part adventure story, and part travelogue, T. E. Lawrence's The Seven Pillars of the Wisdom had proved a fascinating and surprisingly poetic read. Arcade had always been a bookish man, yet he had seldom read out loud to anyone before coming to Goodsprings, and now found that he enjoyed the sound and taste of words shared with others. This was fortunate, as the task fell exclusively on him, night after night. He found his spot and picked up from where they had left off before:

"...We were fond together because of the sweep of open places, the taste of wide winds, the sunlight, and the hopes in which we worked. The morning freshness of the world-to-be intoxicated us. We were wrought up with ideas inexpressible and vaporous, but to be fought for. We lived many lives in those whirling campaigns, never sparing ourselves: yet when we achieved and the new world dawned, the old men came out again and took our victory to remake in the likeness of the former world they knew. Youth could win, but had not learned to keep, and was pitiably weak against age. We stammered that we had worked for a new heaven and a new earth, and they thanked us kindly and made their peace."

The girl interrupted him from the couch. "Who are the 'old men' he's talking about, Arcade? I forgot what the context for this passage was. I think I was asleep when you stopped reading last time." Her eyes were closed, as they usually were, but she was listening closely.

He paused and looked up. "I believe they represent the powers-that-be among the victors of World War I. The soldiers, the young men, fought for the principles they believed in, but found the actual victory hollow and the price in lives too high. This author felt particularly strongly about the way the British government had treated his friends and allies among the Arabs after the war."

She frowned and stared up at the ceiling. "What did Lawrence do after the war, then? Did he try to make the British more worthy of his principles?"

Arcade had read ahead and knew the shape of things to come. "The biography in the back of the book says he continued to advocate for the independence of the Arab people, albeit unsuccessfully. As a war hero, he had some influence, but one man can do only so much. He hated bureaucratic work and tried to reenter the army under a different name to escape his fame, but was quickly discovered. He died fairly young in a motorcycle accident, so we can only guess at what more he would have done had he lived."

Doc Mitchell spoke up from his chair, which was rare for the usually taciturn man. "I'll tell you. He would have lived to be a tired old man watching the world move on. That fella doesn't seem to have been mean enough to be one of the ones making wars and sending boys to die for reasons they don't understand. Sitting out the second World War on the sidelines would have killed him." He sprinkled more tobacco on his pipe, which had gone out, tamped it down with his thumb, and re-lit it. "This world chews up principled folks and always has. Whether it's the Nazis, the Enclave, or the Legion, there'll always be bastards with the power and will to shape the world the way it suits them, everyone else be damned."

They were all quiet for a moment, the girl either thinking or dreaming and the old man smoking contemplatively. Arcade looked over, sharply and inquisitively, at his fellow physician, wanting to ask something, but thought better of it. He reopened the book and continued reading until the chapter was over and both of his companions were asleep in their places. He supposed the prose was a little dense for a late night, but they had both agreed to his selection without complaint; next time, perhaps, he'd choose something a little lighter.

He had been a guest in Goodsprings for three weeks now, ever since he'd met the strange young woman who'd saved his life. On his first evening in the house, she had approached him shyly, asking if he could read to her a little bit before bed. He was tired and sore and desperately wanted some time to himself after his hellish experience, and had responded shortly, telling her to go read to herself. She'd blushed and apologized, but had gone straight to bed instead of the bookshelf. To his shame and dismay, he'd learned the following day that the bullet that had taken two decades of her memories had also robbed her ability to decode written language. Her vocabulary suggested some formal education, so she probably had been literate before, but now it was beyond her ability to puzzle out even the simplest of words, even though she could recognize individual letters and numbers. She understood the rules of phonics on some level and tried to apply them, but the effort hurt her head and strained her eyes.

Ever since then, he'd read to her every night without complaint, choosing books from Mitchell's small collection that he thought she'd like instead of the philosophical texts he preferred. It was refreshing to meet someone so genuinely interested in books, and if it had not been for her disability, he would have recommended her for a course of literature study with the Followers, preferably somewhere safely back in the heart of the NCR. As it was, her current trajectory suggested "mercenary" or "hunter" as a career path, and he lamented the fact that this life didn't suit a person with clear literary interests. Mitchell, whose eyes had become weak with age (a distressing trait in a practicing surgeon, Arcade thought privately), also seemed to enjoy hearing his own books read aloud.

Arcade replaced the bookmark, laid the book down on the lampstand, and turned the light off. She could sleep anywhere, but he wanted a bed when he could get one. The cot in Mitchell's surgery was surprisingly comfortable and he'd be sorry to leave it behind when the courier decided it was time to move on. He knew that would happen soon. She was restless, bored of Goodsprings, and wanted to see more of the surrounding area, especially New Vegas, whose glowing lights were visible even from this distance. He'd tried to tell her that it was a terrible place with terrible people, but she just gave him an exasperated look and said she wanted to see it for herself. She had another reason to go to Vegas, but they had settled on an unspoken agreement not to discuss it, him from disapproval and her from uncertainty. He worried about the day she would go somewhere he couldn't or wouldn't follow, or do something that he couldn't condone: a Followers doctor, especially one with his past, had no business getting caught up in the business of killing for selfish reasons. While she could certainly teach him a thing or two about courage, he hoped that he could help her see the merits of non-violent solutions and prudence. Unless she learned those, he feared that she wouldn't last out here… or, if she did, that she'd become someone unrecognizable in order to survive.

As far as personal assets were concerned, she had some inherent strengths. She had some kinds of intelligence in spite of the brain damage, was equal parts lucky and capable when it came to fighting, and a charmer when she wanted to be - in a lost puppy sort of way. But oh, this girl was distressingly naïve. She was not sufficiently afraid of the Powder Gangers lying in wait along the highway, the Legion patrols that occasionally ventured across the river, or the thousand other ways that a person could come to grief in the wasteland. He could just imagine her trying to appeal to the better nature of the first raiders she met and cringed at the image in his mind's eye.

He thought back to the day they'd met, a dull, hot afternoon in early August. His first words to her had been a scolding for risking her life and freedom to save him – a complete stranger! – from the Legion raiding party which had kidnapped him between Freeside's east gate and the Aerotech refugee camp. After watching, stunned, as the last legionary fell to her machete, he had begun shouting about the dangers – enslavement, rape, and crucifixion – but she'd only nodded, smiled sweetly, and answered...

"Yeah, yeah… you're welcome! My name is Megan Martin. At least I think it is. I'm staying in Goodsprings. Who were those guys? Why were you tied up - are you dangerous? What's your na-" Her stream of questions cut off mid-word as her vision fixed and her hand froze in the act of cutting his bonds.

"Uh… Megan? Are you okay? Can you hear me?" Arcade tried to take the knife from her trembling grasp, but only succeeded in knocking it to the ground, his arms awkward in the knotted ropes. He looked closely at her eyes and detected the tell-tale signs of an absence seizure: eyes rolled back, lids fluttering. His eyes moved to the ugly dent on her right temple, just visible under a ragged but clean crop of mouse-brown hair. His hands still tied, he felt helpless to examine or aid her properly but knew the incident should pass quickly.

"-ame?" she continued, as if nothing had happened, her face bright and awake again. She frowned, looked down at her empty hands, and bent to recover the dropped knife. "Damn it. Thought I was over those. It's been a week since the last one – that's the whole reason Doc let me go exploring today. Oh well, what he doesn't know can't hurt him. At least it didn't happen during the fight, right?" She laughed nervously. "Like, that could have been really bad. I'd be tied up with you right now."

Arcade stared at the damaged, cheerful girl. Now that he had heard her talk more, he heard a slight slurring in her speech. Though she had proved a whirlwind of death while fighting the five legion soldiers, hacking and bashing with wild abandon, her fine motor skills were lacking and her two hands grossly uncoordinated, as was evidenced by her accidently cutting her own palm while sawing through the thick rope. The bonds finally fell to the dirt and she stepped back, cradling her bleeding hand. He stood there, looking at her in disbelief as she danced with pain on the spot.

"Ouch! That stings. Are you okay?"

He finally roused himself to respond. "Yes, excepting some rough handling and rope burns, I'm fine, thanks to you. But you – you shouldn't be out here like this. Not alone." She scowled at him and started wrapping her hand with a filthy bandana fished out of her brahmin-skin coveralls. He took a deep breath and tried to be professional. "Hey, no. That could get infected. Let me –"

She sat patiently beside him on a nearby ledge while he carefully cleaned, stitched, and lightly bandaged the cut, using the travel-sized first aid kit from his coat that the legion thugs had thankfully allowed him to keep. She winced, but didn't move or pull away when the antiseptic and needle hurt her. When he was done, she looked at him with clear-eyed curiosity and a disarming lack of fear.

"Thanks. Who are you and why were you a prisoner? Where do you get off being so bossy? Aren't you grateful? I saved you just now, you know."

"If I'm 'bossy,' it's because your recklessness horrifies me." He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, trying to calm down. "I'm Arcade Gannon. But you can just call me Arcade. I'm a doctor with a group called the Followers of the Apocalypse, from Freeside. This band grabbed me outside of the city three mornings ago, and were trying to cut across the open country to get back to the river."

She started with realization and interrupted, "Oh, so this is the Legion that everyone's been talking about? I thought they weren't supposed to come this far west."

He nodded wearily. "They don't usually. The NCR usually keeps them on their side. But I suspect that some high-ranking Legion officer needs better medical care than their tribal medicine can provide." He didn't mention that he had overheard their leader say words to that effect in Latin. Having a reputation for knowing that language could be hazardous to one's health in the current climate. "I'm sorry I shouted at you. Really. When you jumped out with that peashooter, I thought I was about to see my would-be rescuer killed in front of me and that scared me. What these legionaries do to women is unspeakable…"

She looked a little offended, and said stiffly, "I appreciate your concern, but I wouldn't have attacked if I hadn't thought I could take them with the element of surprise. This varmint rifle isn't great, I know, and I'm actually not a very good shot with it, but my machete is great and I'm actually pretty okay with it."

Since said machete was currently buried in a legion soldier's skull, Arcade couldn't disagree with her there. But he wasn't going to let her put him off. "Your abilities aside, this could have ended really badly for you. And then, on top of that, you had a seizure and were immobile for several seconds, which could get you killed out here really, really easily. It distresses me that you exhibit so little regard for your own safety. I don't think you should be doing stuff like this on your own. That's all. No offense meant. I do thank you for… risking your life to free me. That was entirely unexpected and went far beyond your ethical obligation to act."

"Anytime!" she answered happily, adding reproachfully, "You're the one who should be more careful. Don't get caught again." Without another word, she stooped to begin looting the bodies. He shook his head, muttering under his breath about fools and angels and the paths they dared to tread, and wondering silently to himself how someone like this had survived as long as she had. Still grumbling, he began putting an antibacterial salve on his wrists where the ropes had cut into the skin. He wondered whether one of these goons was carrying his cherished plasma defender, or if they had left it in the dust where they'd grabbed him. He opened his mouth to ask the girl to look for it, when her voice broke in first.

"Do you know if anyone takes these coins in Vegas?" She was holding a handful of silver denarii, looking hopeful, her bloody machete already reclaimed in her belt-loop.

"Some shopkeepers will, some won't. Hardcore NCR supporters might look at you suspiciously, but most won't care. You'd get more purchasing power with them in Legion territory, but I can't recommend going there just to save money. Why do you want to go to the city, anyway?" He'd seen enough of Vegas and its spillover to last him a lifetime, and he didn't see this crazy person fitting in with the culture there all that well.

"It's the biggest place I've ever seen. You can see that big tower from the Goodsprings graveyard. It looks neat. Also –" here, she broke off and rubbed self-consciously at the raw scar on her head – "the guy who shot me in the head a few months ago was a Vegas Strip type, apparently. I don't remember. I don't remember anything from before, actually. Not even sure about my name. 'Megan' seems right when I say it, but the 'Martin' part doesn't feel exactly like me. It's close, though. I need to spend more time preparing, but I'm going to find him, and then – well, I'll talk to him. Ask him why he did this to me."

"Will you kill him?" Her answer to this question seemed important to Arcade, though he didn't know why. She had killed the five men now lying around them like it was nothing. Whatever her modus operandi was under all of the disarming weaknesses, she was clearly well-acquainted with death-dealing. He waited for her response with baited breath.

She considered a moment, speaking slowly and thoughtfully: "It depends on how he answers, I guess. He shot me in the head and threw some dirt over me before he left. Stole the package I was carrying for the Mojave Express. I was a courier… before… although the only way I know that is the papers Doc Mitchell found on me." She added bitterly: "I lost myself there. I should have died… and so maybe he should too. That's only fair, right?"

As a timely reminder of his own ability and willingness to kill - at least sometimes - Arcade spotted the handle of his weapon sticking out from the bag of of the dead soldiers' leader, who was now sprawled out with a 5.56 round in his eye. He reclaimed it and addressed himself to the girl. "Fair enough. If that's where you want to go, I'd like to help you get there, if you'll let me. I don't feel good about the vengeance part, but I do want to make sure the desert between here and Vegas doesn't kill you. I owe you that much, at least, for saving me from a life in servitude to Caesar." Answering the skeptical look in her eye, he continued, a little defensively, "I'm more competent in a fight than present circumstances might suggest. I'm also a really good doctor." No false humility from him. It was true.

She still looked uncertain and began cautiously, "I'm not ready to leave yet. I need to recover more and get stronger. You were right - I shouldn't have come this far from town by myself, not with the risk of more seizures. If you need to get back to Freeside sooner rather than later, you should just go."

He shrugged. "I'm in no hurry. My main job lately with the Followers is medical research. As long as Goodsprings has native plants to study, I can do my work anywhere. I'll send word with one of the caravans to let my colleagues know I'm alive." He felt strangely compelled to protect this girl from herself at all costs, and hoped he wasn't coming off as creepy or desperate. He didn't often reach out to people; afraid of closeness, afraid of rejection, he came across as an awkward loner most of the time. But something compelled him to take a risk on this one.

She smiled that sweet smile again and responded cheerfully, "Alrighty then. Let's go home. If Doc won't let you stay - though I think he will, he's nice - there's an bunkhouse where the single fieldhands sleep. There's not many of them around right now, so there should be a bed available." Then her face became stern. "Arcade, don't take this the wrong way. You're cute and all, but I'm not… looking for a boyfriend or anything right now. I only want to be friends. Is that okay with you?"

He smiled for the first time in days and answered smoothly, "That works perfectly for me. Lead the way, Megan."