"Sierra, think about what you're doing. There ain't nothin' out there worth it!"

The woman sighed, turning the hat in her hands over, letting her fingers run over the rough fabric. Maybe if he'd tried that line a month ago it would've worked. But he was just desperate now, poking and prodding her will for weakness when her mind had been made up ages ago.

He always was a terrible fighter.

She turned to face him. He was holding the porch railing in a death grip, a wild look in his eye. It made her think of the animals they'd hunted together, trapped. They fought until they couldn't – and even then, their eyes darted and their knees were bent, still looking for a way to run and postphone the inevitable. It almost hurt to see him that way.

"Sorry, Wil. I just can't do it." She looked down again at the hat in her hands. Worn. Weather-stained. Ripped, here and there. "You know I've tried." Damn, but did she sound pitiful.

"I - !" Will threw up his hands, laced them behind his head and started pacing. He didn't leave the porch. "I tried, too, Sierra! When you wanted to leave the Crimson Caravan, I left too. I left my home, my friends, my family behind. For you. Don't tell me this is my fault."

"Of course it isn't!" Were those tears starting to form? She could see Wil about to make a retort – likely thinking she was being sarcastic. "It's my fault and I know it. I'm sorry. But this never would have worked."

"Then what was all this time we've spent together? Huh? We both know what it's like to live on the road. But now that I finally wanna settle down, it's too much? Is having a real home, a real lifestyle too boring for you? "

"Save it, Wil," she said, voice suddenly cold. "We've had this argument a thousand times." She put the hat on, pulled the duffel bag over her shoulder. "I'm putting an end to it."

His expression twisted. He looked like he was in genuine pain.

But he kept his grip on the rail, like he'd be pulled away into vacuum if he didn't.

"Goodbye, Wil."

He didn't respond. Sierra walked away, his stare boring a hole through her back as she left.

New Vegas was just a short walk north. From the sharecroppers' farms, Sierra could hear the noise and bustle of the city every night. Sometimes that noise included explosions – the result of some poor slobs trying to rush through the Strip's gate, she'd been told. She'd only been to Vegas a couple times, so she didn't really know.

The city just wasn't for her. It was all just one big charade, all of it. House, the casinos, the Three Families, the hookers, and even the NCR – they all wanted something, and they all had plenty to cover up. Everyone was doing what they could with the hand dealt to them and Sierra didn't even want to play.

So Vegas wasn't an option. She sure as hell didn't want to end up a prospector – her mother told her some awful stories of what she had gone through, and fumbling through mutant-infested caves wasn't very high on Sierra's bucket list. She couldn't go into the caravan business, either. She grew up with merchants and she knew how the business worked, but she was just too goddamn nice. She'd never be able to haggle and squeeze caps out of people. She'd probably end up giving half her goods away.

She was good at repairing things, though. She could be a wandering tinker. Join the Followers, and help other people for the rest of her life.

"Shit." Sierra ran a hand through her hair. "Maybe I should just be a hooker."

Any further thoughts on her future were soon disrupted. She spotted three figures in the distance, coming from the west. Either they saw her or they were just heading her way out of coincidence, but Sierra didn't put much faith in chance. She drew her revolver. If they had simply planned on shooting her, they would've done so already. She was in range.

"What do you want?" She asked coldly as the three came closer. The helmets gave them away as Fiends. No one else thought it was a good idea to wear stupid-ass Brahmin skulls on their heads. Thankfully, they seemed sober – at least, about as sober as a Fiend ever gets. Two men, one woman. All tried to put on a show of circling her slowly, eying her up.

"Looks like you got a lot to carry," the woman said. They stopped moving. Sierra kept her gun at her hip, but pointed it at one of the men. Maybe she could talk her way out of it.

"Not too much," Sierra replied evenly, watching the other woman take a long drag out of a cigarette. There was a combat knife at her hip. One man held a 9mm pistol lazily, while the other admired the brass knuckles on his hands. "Just the essentials."

"'Essentials,' huh? That's nice, doll, but me and my boys are runnin' low on, ah, essentials of our own." The two chuckled, but their leader only smirked.

"I'm just a farmer," Sierra lied. Just a short while ago and it would've been the truth. But just a short while ago, she could've prevented herself from getting in this situation. "A sharecropper under NCR protection." She added a bit of edge to her voice this time.

"That so?" The woman seemed amused. "I don't see any, uh, NCR officials around to protect you."

"I do." Sierra gestured to the road behind the woman, a hard smile on her face.

The woman snickered and turned to look; and Sierra pulled the trigger. One man crumpled, but the other gave Sierra a solid blow to the jaw. She reeled and aimed wildly in their general direction. She didn't hit any of them, but the shot bought her some breathing space. The woman came at her, knife raised in the air, which Sierra took advantage of. She ducked under the woman's arm and pressed the barrel of her revolver against her side and squeezed the trigger. Fiends had armor, but there wasn't much that could resist a .357 round so close. The man with the brass knuckles got in another hit – this time cracking one of Sierra's ribs. She fell to one knee, winded.

"Motherfucker. Jack wasn't even gonna kill you!"

The remaining Fiend all but tackled her, knocking her to the ground. The revolver flew from her hand and skittered a couple feet away. Sierra gasped for breath and he sat astride her, not even bothering to use his brass knuckles to pummel her. A few hits and her vision started to get blurry.

"Jack isn't even a girl's name," she rasped. He looked at her in confusion, bloody knuckles halted in midair. She then swung her own fist as hard as she could at his face, taking a rather morbid delight in his following expression. She squirmed out from his hold and grabbed her revolver, hesitating only to aim.

She had always been a good shot.

"Bitch," she heard someone whisper.

Barrel still smoking, she turned to face the last Fiend. He lay on the ground, hands naively trying to stop the blood from exiting the stomach wound. His pistol was by his feet.

Gutshot, she thought, leveling her gun at his head. He tried to scramble away using his elbows, but more blood leaked through his armor. The look of pain and loathing he gave her was one that would haunt her dreams.

"I'm just the wrong person to rob, you goddamn junkie. You all deserved this." She pulled the hammer back.

"Yeah, yeah, tell yourself that. I hope they all come back to fucking haunt you." He spat blood. "Murderer."

Sierra frowned, but didn't stop to look at the dead bodies forming an eerie triangle around her. She smelled the gunpowder still in the air, the blood, the reek of death. She felt the Mojave wind and it was freedom.

Never take your eyes off your target.

One last shot, and it was done. Sierra reloaded her gun and followed the road south.