Miles and miles of barren wasteland lay in either direction. A dusty trail was left behind him, and more of the same awaited the path he would soon cross. The crags, small boulders, and low bushes surrounded his lonely walk while the high sun beat down on his reddening face. Every so often a dip in the land opened up the possibility of some kind of refuge tucked away from the small road, but he would not risk such deviations. Searching for those things was enough to make a man go mad. He had plenty on him to get by.

He would occasionally wipe the sweat off of his clean-shaven face with one hand while keeping the other firmly planted on his holster. There was no telling what sort of creature – or human – he might trouble himself with out here on his own.

The Mojave was a cruel domain and worse yet, turned out even crueler men. One moment you could be enjoying your drink playing some slots and the next be gunned down on your stroll back to the station. Most everyone declared themselves a loyalty to some kind of organization under the desert sun. It did not really matter whether one was for or against them either, just that they were with them. No one really survived out here on their own. Not a soul. It was only a matter of time before the heat took your life; you were hunted down for something or other, or ended up a snack of the ravenous Deathclaws.

So what was he doing out here on this lonesome road, wandering toward nothing in particular? What did he hope to find, or was he searching at all? These were questions that had bombarded him since he first began his long walk. Every so often he would touch the patch on his breast, the letters protruding out with his name, Tommy Hall. As if this was to remind him of whom he was. Another patch was sewn on just above his name, the official emblem of the New California Republic. But that hardly mattered now.

Tommy considered himself a good soldier, maybe even a dedicated one. He had always performed his duty to the letter, and often received admiration from his superiors for his exemplary conduct. He had even performed that gruesome task, the one that kept his eyes open at night and a feeling of anxiety that he carried with him throughout the day. But no more, Tommy had decided.

And so, without a word to his captain, even opting not to hint anything to his close friends in the unit, he committed a self-discharge. He knew this would be immediate exile, but found no favorable alternative. The other way involved too many documents, meetings, and probably the rebuke of his fellow brothers-at-arms. No, it was best to slip out quietly.

Whether he was being chased or not he cared little to consider, since by his experience the NCR claimed a large jurisdiction but often times enforced nothing outside of a two-mile radius from their camps. His camp, Camp Virtue, consisted of a town house meant for the officers and a sea of tents surrounding it. The camp had a relatively relaxed day-to-day, which gave plenty of reasons to hand over the dirty work to their men.

Tommy shook his head as the questions came once again. But he had no answers, other than that he was running. He was running from what he did, and even more so, the fear of what he might become. He could not fault NCR for that, any more than he could fault a spouse turning away from her husband as he beat their child as punishment. NCR held responsibility for dropping the problem on Camp Virtue, but only Camp Virtue could be held accountable for how it was carried out. He refused to partake any longer, and so devised a plan comprised of one step: leave Camp Virtue. Everything else was an afterthought, one of which involved spitting in the face of his captain before taking leave. Oh, how he wished he had done that.

The hand not firmly planted on his revolver fumbled around in his pocket, assessing the contents. Though he was now considered a deserter, he was not reckless and had waited for his last salary before making the departure. Roughly five hundred caps would be enough to sustain him, even in the waste. The remaining items held far less value: a lock-pick - though his skills were questionable - a single stimpack, some meds, and a small carving knife. He cursed himself for not bringing his more personal items which included pictures of past girls and family, but such sacrifices were necessary.

The small sack casually thrown over his shoulder contained irradiated water and a few pieces of fresh fruit. He had hoped they would sustain him until he found…whatever was out there. The blinding sun made it hard to see anything past the shimmering mirages sprawling in front of him. The land unfolded in front of him, and he searched intently for anything human above all else.

Occasionally he would pass by a pile of junk, heaps of scrap metal along the path he took. That gave him some hope that a kind of civilization would cross him eventually. Ideally one would take the time to rummage for any valuables in those piles, but that would require some kind of camp to take them back to. All sorts of places popped into his mind at that notion. Vaults, houses, compounds, anything seemed pleasing enough to give him rest for his ever-tiring legs.

Tommy grabbed his water, took a swig, and lowered it to see a peculiar site. Had that really not been there a second ago? Figures in the distance, three or four of them he could not be sure, seemed to be moving rather wildly. Tommy picked up his pace.

He found that the figures appeared just over the crest of a small hill, and the slope gave him speed as he pursued the people. Now he could hear shouting giving him the sign to engage them cautiously instead of openly.

Closing the distance on them, he saw the reason for their wild movements. Three of them were kicking a fourth struggling on the ground. The assailants were all dressed in rather scant clothing, and lines of paint covered their face and back. One of them raised a rather large machete in the air, but was not using it. The man on the ground wore rather plain clothes; his hat lay nearby his bald head and blood dripping from his mouth down his great beard. Tommy grew disgusted by the situation as soon as he saw the poor man closing his eyes, wincing in pain. The others did not even seem to notice his approach.

The painted men all had rather bronzed skin, giving away that they were native to this harsh, barren piece of land. The man in pain was not, which came as a startling fact that Tommy could have been that man on the ground, had he only been an hour or so faster.

Quick as any gunslinger in the NCR, he whipped out his revolver and walked slowly toward the group. So intent were they on beating the man that they did not even turn to look until one of them felt the cool metal on the back of his head.

"Stop this nonsense and drop that weapon of yours," called out Tommy, making his voice sound authoritative. "I'm not gonna shoot, unless I have to of course."

The three of them stopped and turned to face Tommy making everything quiet, save for the beaten man gasping for breath. The man that dropped the machete stepped forward, his face much more pointed and stern than the other two.

"A boy tells three members of the Black Canyon Tribe to stop?" he said, looking incredulous.

"I'd listen to the man pointing the gun at you," said Tommy. "And in case there's any doubt in that painted head of yours, I've been trained by the NCR-"

"We know a drone from the NCR when we see one. But I'm afraid that association does you no good out here. You'll get no favors from anyone. So let it be known that I step away from this little scene not because of your title, but because, as you said, you're the man with the gun." He bowed slightly and flashed a smile before backing away.

"Did I say you could move? You think I'm going to let you walk away from a man drowning in his own blood and not have you say anything about it?" Tommy said, his temper rising.

The man looked down, expression showing more sign of disappointment rather than pity. "Shame you caught us before we could finish him off. I'm sure a couple of stims will have him back to normal."

"But…why?"

The man crossed his arms, looking into Tommy's eyes and his face showing his smugness. "Are you deaf? Or are you new around here? The Black Canyon Tribe only takes in a passerby should they agree to our way of life and kills all the rest. Well, except for this one time."

Tommy shifted uneasily. If he let these men go, they would sure enough come back for him in full force. If he killed them, their disappearance would not go unnoticed to the rest of the tribe. As if to read his mind, the man responded.

"The man with the gun seems to be only left with two choices here. You have my word though that letting us go will be better than killing us. I'll go back to my people, you help this pathetic man to his feet, and we'll both agree that this incident never happened."

Tommy nodded firmly to the terms. He did not want to begin his new life as hunted prey. He kept his gun raised as the man picked up his machete and turned to leave with the other two that were with him. They never turned back.

Once they were near out of sight, Tommy looked down at the man, who was now staring up at him, blankly. Replacing his gun, he reached out a hand to help him up. The blood still glistened on his beard and his nose looked broken.

The man did not move, so Tommy grabbed him by the shoulders and raised him to his feet. Fortunately the man stood well enough on his own as Tommy patted the dust from his clothes. He picked up hat from the ground, something of an old soldier's cap, and handed it toward the man.

The man reached out a mangled hand to grab it, his eyes darting from the hat and then to Tommy's own eyes. Cold, hard, blue eyes stared deep into his. His lips opened to speak.

"You should've let me die."