Joshua Graham opened his blue eyes, looking up from his cross-legged meditation beside the campfire to the presence he'd felt before him. It was a familiar presence; one the fully bandaged man with the striking blue eyes had felt many times before. "Who are you now?"

"Mostly Lunchbox," the thin, nervous man standing in front of him said, his fingers twitching. His eyes were watery and pale blue, and his hair was light blonde. "Fading McGee. Ran into some Yao Guai, I couldn't…couldn't help it."

"Sit," Joshua said; not a command, though people who didn't know it would think it was, thanks to his deep voice, well used to barking out orders to Legionnaires a lifetime ago. Lunchbox sat a couple of feet away, his knees drawn close to his chest, resting his head on them. Joshua waited, patiently.

Finally, Lunchbox raised his head up. "Okay. I think he's gone."

"How long was he here this time?"

"Too long." Lunchbox allowed his legs to stretch out, resting his knuckles on the ground between his thighs. "About an hour."

"I am sorry."

"I know."

Joshua kept his eyes trained on the young man. Since the events of Zion, nearly six months ago, every few weeks he would come and visit, always alone and careful to always be himself. Lunchbox was plagued with another personality, what Joshua wagered had been a defense mechanism when he was young, perhaps triggered by abuse, that had never learned that he was no longer welcome (but he never talked about his past, so he couldn't be sure). Lunchbox was the host, McGee was the alter. And McGee was mean.

"I would like to meet him."

Lunchbox's head snapped up. "No!" He leaned over slightly, the ever-present layer of panic in his watery blue eyes brought to the forefront. "No, no, you do not want to meet him."

"Perhaps I could speak to him."

"Oh, Joshua," Lunchbox began fiddling with his hands. "You don't know. You don't know. McGee is so scary. Mean, and-and violent, and just—terrible. I hate him. I hate him." He pressed his knuckles into his temples. "I wish he would leave."

"The Lord doesn't give us any more than we can handle," said Joshua patiently. "You are a strong man, Lunchbox."

"Thanks," he replied with a hollow laugh. "I don't feel strong. McGee is the strong one." He paused, tracing tracks in the dirt with his fingers.

"Something's troubling you."

"He killed Caesar."

Joshua blinked. "McGee did?" Lunchbox nodded and Joshua sighed, very small. "I suppose it was only a matter of time."

"Yes. We…had a talk before he did it. Me and Caesar did. I told him how you and I had become…" he swallowed, hard, forcing the word out, "friends."

Joshua inched closer, trying to make sure he could be heard through the bandages on his face. "Yes. We have. Why is that upsetting you?"

"Because Caesar remembered me. And when I told him about you, about Zion and how you had become a-a changed man, he just—he laughed and laughed and laughed."

A lump of ice settled in Joshua's stomach and he inched closer. "Remembered you?"

Lunchbox jerked back, forcing Joshua away. "No, no, you stay over there." He drew his knees back to his chest, winding his arms behind his thighs, and stared into the fire. "I was a slave, Joshua. For seven years, when I was a child. Seven years of hell, and torture…it's where McGee came from, in that…fucking camp. McGee was a fighter, and Caesar loved that. He would come and watch the—the brutal fights. Between children. Children, Joshua." He finally looked back up at the older man, the burned man wrapped in bandages who'd been his mentor, who'd taught him scriptures and hope and forgiveness. "He'd watch with his friend, Malpais Legate." Joshua breathed in sharply at the mention of his old name. "The man who killed my family."

Joshua sat back, shocked by Lunchbox's statement. Killed his parents? But—how was that possible? He was certain he'd never met Lunchbox. "Oh…Lunchbox, I—"

"My mother was a Great Khan, and my father was an NCR soldier," Lunchbox continued, looking away from Joshua as he spoke. "And they were in love. They were traveling to the Strip with a couple more NCR soldiers so the Followers could help her during birth when her water broke, and they had to take shelter in an old gas station." Lunchbox's voice broke. Joshua jumped; he hadn't been aware how close to tears the man was. Lunchbox pulled on his vest, applying pressure to a sudden itch he'd felt on his back. "She'd barely had time to hold me in her arms before you burst in, you and a host of Legion soldiers, and you. Killed. Everyone."

"I—I don't remember, Lunchbox. I'm sorry."

"Yeah? That's because I wasn't Lunchbox, then. You renamed me. I was Ezekiel until I was seven."

Oh. Remembrance, and a kind of intense regret registered in Joshua's eyes. "You were—you're Ezekiel. Yes…yes, I remember you."

And he did. He remembered back when he was a whole man, as whole as a Legate in the Legion could be, traversing the wastes in search of NCR mongrels to put down. He saw them go into the gas station, thought to himself what an easy kill it would be. Like shooting fish in a barrel. And it was: four NCR soldiers and a woman, a Great Khan, beautiful, with dark hair and darker eyes, who looked like she was ill. He saved her blond mate for last, making him watch as he put a bullet in her brain, making him beg…and then Malpais Legate cut the soldier's throat. He could still feel the man twitch in his hands as he was lowered to the ground—could still feel the warm wetness of his blood as it drained out of the long cut on his neck. Slaughtered like a pig. Like an NCR agent should be.

Joshua remembered every death by his hands. He relived them constantly. But this one, this one he remembered specifically, because no sooner had the man rasped in his last breath that he heard a baby cry.

"You were small," Joshua said, his deep voice quiet but no less commanding. Lunchbox shuddered. "So small. I picked you up and—I thought, how easy it would be to snap your neck. To toss you to the ground like garbage. But instead—"

"Instead you killed my parents and took me with you," Lunchbox spat. He adjusted his bulletproof vest to try to alleviate the irritation on his back that had begun to flare up. "Wrapped in a Centurion cloak, not even an hour old."

Joshua was silent for a long while. He and the man, the boy, the babe he'd carried into Caesar's camp, reunited with their knowledge of the past for the first time in fifteen years, and he had no idea what to say. Instead he stared down at his bandaged hands, clenching them into fists and taking small pleasure when the skin cracked. "So that's how McGee…happened."

"Yes," Lunchbox whispered. "He…when Caesar would make us fight. When we where whipped, when we were broken. I needed someone to keep me safe. I had no one—and then I had him."

"How…did you meet?"

Another shiver rippled down his spine. "We didn't. Never have. I have…h-holes in my memory, yet I remember waking and b-being covered in blood, or with bleeding stripes down my back. And-and people would t-tell me that I-I-I was s-so goooood in the ring."

"Lunchbox?"

"I-I-I can't, Joshua, I can't, I can't—" Lunchbox shivered, found that he couldn't stop shivering, like he'd been dunked in the river and sat outside during a nuclear winter to dry. He could feel his teeth clattering together and he squeezed his eyes shut, his mind trying to shut down, to let the one who could deal with this stuff take over, but he wouldn't, he had to fight it, dammit, he would not let McGee come out! Not here, not now. Not around the tribals…not around Joshua. He felt an intense pain come over his back, was aware that a deep voice was speaking his name, but everything felt far away. And the ground rushed up to meet him.

Lunchbox woke in a cold sweat, memories that weren't his at his fingertips, and then gone. His vest and shirt had been removed, as had his shoes—he was suddenly aware that he wasn't in his bed. Where was he? He looked around and took in the dank smell, the dim light, the sound of rain very far away…yes, he was in Zion. In Joshua's room. In Joshua's bed. But where was—

"You're awake."

Lunchbox shifted, letting his pale blue eyes adjust to the dark and seek out Joshua's, bordered by bandages, like always. He sat beside the bed in a chair, arms crossed, one leg gracefully placed over the other. "I am."

"Are you yourself?"

"Yes."

Joshua paused. "You didn't tell me you were injured when you entered the camp."

"I didn't know I was." Lunchbox placed his hand over his chest, feeling the bandages that were wrapped around his torso.

"The yao guai had left marks down your back. Claws."

"McGee must have taken Med-X. I didn't feel it." He looked over at Joshua. "Thank you."

Joshua remained silent, his eyes far away. He seemed to be picking his words carefully. "How did you come by your name?"

"You named me."

"No, no—your new name."

Lunchbox stared at him for a moment, then sighed, realizing he might as well tell him. "You—maybe not you specifically, but the Legion—tried to send a group of slaves to a different camp. I think somewhere in Arizona. But they passed through Brotherhood territory. And they…didn't like that." Lunchbox clutched the thin blanket in his hands. "I made it out. A couple of other slaves did, too, but they ran as soon as the soldiers were dead. I didn't. I—I was terrified." He smiled slightly. "But they took care of me. A couple of scribes took me to New Vegas. Helped me. Found out about McGee and took me to the Followers." Lunchbox laughed a choking laugh, tired, but genuine. "The Followers asked for my name. I told them, and they asked if, since it was a slave name, I wanted a different one. Of course I did. I didn't want to be…attached to that place anymore. I wanted to be free. My own man with my own name."

"My own man with my own name," Joshua repeated, softly, like a prayer. "Like so many men in scripture who were renamed."

"Yeah…never ask a seven year old to name themselves," said Lunchbox, smiling to his knees. "I saw a lunchbox and decided that's what I wanted to name myself." Joshua laughed, soft and rumbling, as Lunchbox added, "It's lucky I didn't see a comic book lying around, or my name would be Grognak. Or—or Stimpak. Or something equally stupid." He rubbed his arm. "You know how the Followers are. I tell them I want to be called Lunchbox, they say, great, what a free-spirited name. I was seven. I didn't know anything about being free-spirited, I just wanted to be called Lunchbox. And it stuck. I've been Lunchbox ever since."

"It suits you. Much better than Ezekiel." At the mention of his old name Lunchbox flinched, curling up on himself. "I saw the scars when I was cleaning your wounds. Down your back, from the whip." He paused, waiting for Lunchbox's reaction. "I do not blame you if you want to sever contact with me. Or even kill me."

"I don't," Lunchbox whispered. "I—I thought I did, at the time. But you've saved my life, and I've saved yours. You're the closest thing I have to a human friend out here."

"Your companions—"

"My companions?" Lunchbox demanded with an ugly laugh. "You mean like Boone the whiner, or Arcade who keeps trying to study me? Cass who thinks I need a drink and a lay, and Veronica who just thinks I'm adorable."

"Raul and Lily."

Lunchbox sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I love Raul and Lily, I do. But they're not human."

"They once were," Joshua reminded him, gently.

"Dammit, Joshua," Lunchbox sighed, no true malice in his voice. "You don't get it. I don't like people. I never have. I like robots because they don't ask for your motivation, they just go with it. I like ghouls, and I like supermutants, because they have a sense of perspective that people don't have."

"That you do."

"Of course that I do! My mind is broken, Joshua."

"It's not—"

"Oh, save the well-meaning nonsense for someone who will believe it. I am broken. And if you live in the Wasteland, you cannot be broken, or you will find no one. People look at you like—like you're a freak! And I'm not!" He put his head in his hands and whispered, resolutely, "I'm not."

Joshua moved to sit beside him on the bed. "You're not."

"You can touch me, you know. I'm not contagious."

Joshua wrapped an arm around the thin man, the first time he'd touched him when Lunchbox was aware of it. "Remember who you speak to. I know you're not contagious."

Lunchbox leaned over, careful not to further injure the ever-present burns on the former missionary, but desperate for the warmth he radiated. "You were the first person I ever met who I actually liked." He was silent, forcing himself all the while to not bolt. This was Joshua, this was his friend, but something inside kept screaming 'NO BAD TRAP'. "Do you remember the parable of the two debtors?"

"Very well. Two men owed money to a certain moneylender. One owed him five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he canceled the debts of both. Now which of them will love him more?"

"The one who had the bigger debt cancelled." They were both silent. "The woman, the sinner, remember her? She cried on Jesus's feet, kissed them, poured perfume on them. And her many sins were forgiven, because she loved much."

Joshua shut his eyes, fighting the memories of the many murders he'd committed at the disposal of Caesar. "I have committed more sins than you know."

"But not since."

"I killed many White Legs."

"To defend your home."

"I would have killed Salt-Upon-Wounds."

"But you didn't." Lunchbox leaned to the side and straightened his back to look Joshua in the eyes. "I don't expect you to be pacifist Daniel. I don't like Daniel. I expect you to be you, but have the knowledge that I forgive you. You once told me that waging war against good people is bad for the soul."

"I did."

"I remembered. I drove the Legion and the NCR out of New Vegas, and I took it from House's thumb. The Mojave is free, because the good people I saw there were not soldiers." Lunchbox leaned back against the Burned Man. "You are forgiven, Joshua Graham. Caesar is dead. The Legion is gone. The Mojave is free. Now, you can rest. That's what I came to tell you."

Joshua remained silent for a long while after that. Finally, he whispered, in a gentler voice than Lunchbox had ever heard, "You are good. And I am undeserving."

"Don't say that."

"I have. I mean it." He released Lunchbox and laid him down, resting one hand on his shoulder. "Sleep, Courier. I will be here when you wake." And he was.