Author's Note: This work takes place post-game and will feature one of Boone's bad end-game sequences.

Edited 3/30/17: A hearty thank you to Alexeij for the amazing feedback on improving this story. The other chapters will be edited in the coming days as time allows.

Prologue

2.13.2282

The aftermath was always worse than the battle itself, Boone's learned. Once it's all really over there is no quiet, no stillness. Instead of the tumult of bullets and blades against dented armor and yielding flesh, there is the muffled cries and wails of the still living. There is the buzz of hundreds of flies that appeared out of nowhere and the lonely caws of carrion birds that flap away with feathers and beaks slick with blood.

It's exactly the same as it was five years ago.

The Dam walkway was stained black and crimson, viscera and gore from Legion and NCR alike stuck to the soles of his boots. Securitrons lined the perimeter, forming a cold procession that was ready to begin disposing of the bodies as soon as they received the command. After his brief conversation with the Courier, House was impatient to get the Dam completely secure.

Ahead of him Six crouches once more, tilting a nearly intact head chin-up to check it closely. A sightless blue eye gazes up at the bright, empty sky and then directly at Boone as he comes to a full stop near her, casting his shadow over the legless corpse. Only a left arm remained attached to the torso and the body was still smoldering, the stink of singed flesh rising along with the faint smoke trails into the air. The Courier had insisted on carrying her missile launcher into battle this time, her trust in the NCR eroded. It had withered up after the trio of Rangers stopped them yesterday on their way back to the Strip, carbines unholstered as they gave her a deadline to fix things. If he was being completely honest with himself, it had probably disappeared after Camp Golf.

Squinting in the harsh sun, his gut is tied in knots whenever his thoughts stray to Hanlon and the entirety of the failure of the NCR in the Mojave. His confession to sabotage his own troops was a kick in the teeth, another shaky pillar toppled in Boone's dwindling faith.

Clamping an unlit cigarette between his teeth, he aches for the burn of something strong to drown in. Or something that would let him sleep for weeks on end. He doesn't much care which.

"You still collecting ears?" he finally wonders, bone weary. They've been here too long already, the merciless mid-afternoon heat of the desert roasting the torn bodies.

"I never liked that particular practice of yours," Arcade comments as he walks over to them, a strip of a torn-up shirt wrapped over nose and mouth, same as the Courier. But even with it covering half his face, Boone can make out the scowl the doctor's shooting at Six as she straightens up.

"You've made your thoughts clear, Arcade. And no, Boone. I've got no one to turn them into, anymore," the Courier shrugs, expression stony as she pulls her gloves off to take the clipboard Arcade hands over. She doesn't elaborate, becoming absorbed in the list of Legion dead and dying, turning the sheet over and then once more before finally looking up at the doctor. "This include the ones at the Fort?"

"You said to be thorough. I even listed the mutts."

Six shakes her head, dark brows meeting together in a frown. It's the first break in the empty mask she adopted since she began going through the bodies. "I hate killing the dogs."

"But hacking an ear off a human skull is less barbaric?" Arcade lifts a brow, tone condescending.

"Not the dogs' fault slavers owned and trained 'em."

Boone snorts but remains silent. It's an eradication process; Six had always treated it so. She was ruthless when it came to the Bull despite the soft spot she held for the mongrels. He'd seen it first hand with Silus at McCarran and there had been no mercy in either of them when it came to Cottonwood or The Fort or any other Legion raid camp they'd come across in their travels. They understood each other in that respect.

But in the months since he's joined her, he's also learned that she would share with them when she wanted. Six did things her way, at her own pace and lucky for him, she'd been relentless in their hunts. But there was no forcing anything out of her if she wasn't willing. The only one who ever got a positive reaction had been Veronica, and even that wasn't the case anymore.

He shakes himself, tells himself not to dwell on it. It's none of his business who she's slept with, whether it was Benny or the prostitute at the Gomorrah. Even if Benny had ended up dead before that fateful night was over and Gomorrah had turned out to be nothing but a spell of loneliness. Something he could understand, even if he wouldn't yield to the need himself. It wasn't like he'd seen Veronica and Six disappear together, either. But the affection had been there between them, obvious, easy as nothing he'd seen in the Courier except for the brutality they shared. When she was around the Brotherhood scribe, it was like she was a different person. She was bubbly, the smiles all real and the laughter quick and easy.

"Still missing a few," Six mutters, tearing him from his thoughts. She hands the clipboard back to Arcade and slips the gloves on again, heading to the rubble of one of the observation towers. Stepping over the crumbled mess she reaches a body so covered in dust and debris, it's hard to tell which faction armor its wearing with only a black boot and a bleeding arm peeping through the broken mortar. It doesn't matter in the end, though. Legion had infiltrated the NCR more times than the brass knew. It was safe to say that whoever she was looking for could've been wearing either uniform when they died.

Boone finally tires of waiting and heads to the Fort himself. The others are hovering near the massive body of the Legate Lanius, the final bastion of the Legion felled by a Courier with no name and her misfit crew of companions.

It isn't until later that night at the Lucky 38 that he finds the Legate's punctured helm on his bed. When he questions Six about it, she gives him a glimpse of who she had been when they first met, a gleam in the whiskey brown of her eyes when she answers, "It's your birthday."

Was it? It wasn't the first time he's forgotten. But he doesn't like that she's caught him off guard with it.

The feeling must show on his face because she pipes up before he can refuse the gift. "For Carla. For what they did to her. And to you."

She slips into the master suite, shutting the door before he can think of a response.

When he packs up to go a few days later, he leaves the gift behind along with his beret. There's no need to carry any of it with him anymore.

It isn't until he's a few days out from the Mojave Outpost, heading west with no specific destination in mind, that he thinks fleetingly about not finding out who she had been looking for among the bodies that day. But like everything else rattling around in his head, he finds he doesn't care. Not anymore.