Note: Continuation from 'Almost Good as New' - Dean has been alone in the Madre for one decade too many, so naturally, any and every choice the latest tourist makes, must be somehow for the sole purpose of undermining him.

Or so he chooses to think.

Disclaimer: Fallout belongs to Obsidian & Bethesda

Chapter 1

The Sierra Madre is a mythical place in the wastes, a dead city surrounded by a poisonous cloud. Many travelers in the Mojave have sought it out after claiming to have heard a woman's voice on a Pre-War radio broadcast, only to never be heard from again. The Courier is lured to the Sierra Madre by that same broadcast advertising the gala grand opening.

Puesta del Sol

The cloud was as still as an old curtain, thick at places as it curled around columns and collapsed walls. With no wind in Sierra Madre, she had found it strange and unsettling at first. Even vaults had some kind of draft pulling on the old corridors, and the great outdoors of the Mojave could never be so utterly still. She licked her lips and ran her tongue across the rooftop of her mouth. God said the air tasted like copper. Old. Older than some of the vaults she had been in, and yet, this place still held the appearance of barely having seventy years on it. Admittedly, those had to be some rough seventy years, but she had seen vaults with more wear and tear on them. Oh sure, some walls and rooftops were torn down, makeshift ramps built in places where walkways used to be… little things like that, but she suspected those came from deliberate action - say, with explosives.

"Tourists..." She wasn't watching, but frustration would probably make the singer accompanying her throw his hands up in the air, were it not for fear that made him stick low to the shadows.

Dean's explosives, perhaps. Although, in ghoul's own words, other 'tourists' could have helped the reconstruction along the way.

"Just because the ghosts can't see further than their noses doesn't mean they won't find us if you keep lollygagging out in the open!" A petulant voice hissed from behind her. She ignored it in favour of her own musings.

A stage.

That's what this place reminded her of. To be looked at, and not touched. A production of such extravagance, it could have only been made a reality here, in the middle of the Nevada desert.

"Are you waiting for them to give you a standing ovation for eluding them this long?"

This stage even had its very own, living, breathing and very vocal, Old World celebrity.

"…would have gotten one myself ages ago…"

Of course, she doubted that Sinclair's original intent was to turn this into a ghost town - her lips quirked up, in more ways than one as it turned out to be - for the benefit of a single star to hold the audience captive.

The Courier focused her attention at the far end of the street. There was one of those ghost creatures there, near the small fountain. It shuffled, an eerie, sickly green glow of its mask leaving trails as it jumped a fair distance and, sniffed the air, she thought was the appropriate term. Focusing on the Cloud behind it she spotted several more pairs of irradiated green dots shuffling through the red haze. There was no questioning her tracking skills or her Pip-Boy's tracking program. A pack was on the hunt.

For all intents and purposes that path forward was blocked to them. So, unless those things spread out long enough for her to pass through the Cloud infested square, which also happened to be littered with traps, it was rooftops again. A relatively safe option, except she really wanted to get into that building they've taken to guarding.

The Courier watched them gather and go around setting traps when one raised its head in her direction. She was fairly certain that it couldn't see her - proved by the fact that she had already managed to move passed them in these tightly knotted streets - but this one kept focus on her location for longer than she was comfortable with. It was akin to a staring contest with a deathclaw. A deathclaw with a pack within an earshot should it suspect the contest was rigged in her favour.

In the Mojave, to survive one had to know when to stand down. Sierra Madre didn't seem to be much different in that regard.

Keeping low she pulled herself from behind the lonely bench under a lonely dead tree, and backed around the pillars to the entryway of the café, where the old ghoul waited near slightly ajar door. It was set in prime position for Dean to slip in and shut it tight at the first sight of a 'local' deciding to take a stroll down their ally with couple of 'friends'. It was only because of the shared bomb collars that she didn't need to question if his escape plan had taken her into account, as well.

Under cover of the Cloud they both slid inside and barred the door settling at either side of them, listening. Outside was deathly silence, interrupted only by a distant sound of heavy hissing breath, shuffling of large boots and an occasional clang of a bear trap being dragged against cobblestone.

Bear traps? Why did the Sierra Madre have a heavy supply of bear traps? The singer had no answer for her. No agreeable answer.

The thing moved next to café's door, stopped and abruptly sounds of metal against metal, and metal against stone were heard. The low commotion and tinkering, along with grunts and wheezing lasted for a few long moments before slowly disappearing down the twisting streets. Both Dean and the Courier shared a look, realizing that the Ghost People have probably left a few presents for them right outside the door - snares that would take away their legs in a single bite. The creatures knew they had intruders in their midst and had blocked another path. They were trying to box them in. Had been trying for a while now.

Smart. But the traps were outside and they were inside, and Courier Six at least, allowed herself a moment to catch her breath, and relax for a bit. Pale light of the hologram idling behind the counter reflected on Dean's sunglasses and her black helmet as they stared at each other. Dean quickly stood up pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his tuxedo. Smoke curled around his face and there was a sound of deep sigh, possibly that of relief but the former star would be hardly pressed to admit to it.

"That was too close for my comfort," he said and rested his hands on the counter, his shoulders tense under the weight of stress. It was the only place in the building with some decent light in it. It was also a small comfort that those creatures outside were afraid of, or venerated, holograms enough not to bother with checking which were the ones that could shoot lasers out of their heads.

"You're fretting, Domino." The Courier called from her place by the door, her voice muffled by that pitch-black helmet and her head bowed over her pip-boy as she tapped one button after the other. "You know better than anyone of us tourists how blind they are."

"I do. And I also happen to know that they outnumber us like a wasp's nest outnumbers a tarantula…" he paused, sarcasm losing its steam with the lack of a better analogy, "Or whatever that prey may be. This is not the first time your nose poking into every corner had me almost killed! What has possessed you to go through every brick like a starved hippo!?" His head turned, murderous glare behind his sunglasses at the nigh-invisible hunched figure in the black suit of armor, promising retribution for each quickened beep from the shitty collar decorating his neck.

He had to admit, highly unwillingly, that she had the talent necessary to sneak up to more than a few lone locals. And also disable them in a manner so brutal, back in his day a woman would have to take a few bottles of vodka and doctor's bag worth of chems to make it happen. He wasn't squeamish, far from it and even if he had been, the Sierra Madre had that sentiment thoroughly beaten out of him. Her acting the part of ol' doggy boy was most definitely ensuring Dean's own increasing survival rate.

His opinion of her might have changed just a tad. And not in the way he thought it would.

But in the back of his mind, it was just another stark reminder that the world outside of Sierra Madre wasn't standing as still as he might have liked it.

But returning to the matter at hand and re-focusing on the unflattering situation he was in...

He would not even be in this state had she not insisted to take the long way around, passing through every door not nailed shut or taped down, crossing every roof that looked marginally capable of holding her weight, making the damn collar beep by going on into the parts unknown, perusing her useless scavenger hunt… Oh, she had single-handedly invited death by explosion, Cloud poisoning, Ghost People dragging him away and a heart attack.

Almost like she was planning every single one of those and her own survival meant nothing to her so long as she got to see him jump!

His milky eyes narrowed in suspicion. The way things were going he just had to pick a lottery ticket and pray his death would be a painless one. But Dean Domino had not survived as long as he did in the Villa by taking the long way around if it happened to be littered with undying monstrosities from the depths of whatever place the Cloud cooked up. Or by letting some tourist yank his explosive leash left and right at her suicidal whim in search of-…

Were those paper scraps?

If he still had nostrils, they'd be flaring.

"Come on, Domino. The way you act, you could almost fool me into thinking that you've never went scavenging before," she said quickly pushing one such small scrap of such paper, creased and folded one too many times, she had found earlier, back into one of many pockets of her armor. Dean noticed immediately, both it and how she slipped past his question, and he was not pleased in the least. The tourist was up to something. He didn't know if it involved him - and for the sake of his own hide he decided to presume that it did - but he was not about to let it come that far.

"Puesta del Sol isn't in the top five list of my choices I'd go to even if I had to." He pointed at her accusingly, "It was your insisting on sticking out like a sore thumb that has us boxed in here."

The Courier waved her hand dismissively and settled on the opposite side of the counter, sliding through the silent seller. The holographic head played shadows and left quickly diminishing imprints on smooth surface of her black helmet - like a fake, always smiling face. It was needlessly creepy, and Dean had the guts to admit it to himself.

"We'll use the rooftops," she said with a shrug, "I'll get you to your stage in time for the main event. It's not like Elijah can start the show without you." Black helmet tilted to the side as she leaned over the counter and watched him.

"I suppose I don't have anything to worry about then, do I? Oh, except several hundred of Ghost People swarming this roof in droves once the band starts playing," he snapped spitefully already seeing the disaster for the 'odd man out' play out. He had no plans for letting that happen, let him tell you… When he looked up from his musings preoccupied with death and best ways to avoid it, she was not there at the receiving end of his complaint.

"Hundreds of Ghost People? You're stretching it," her voice, muffled as it was, came from below. He leaned over to see that the black suit was, in long respected tradition of any wastelander, rummaging through the cupboards under the counter. "Unless they can reproduce…"

This line of thought might have caused a collective shudder.

But the Courier didn't believe that the scientists of Big MT, even with their brains rotting away in mentats, had the foresight to install that kind of program in the Trauma Override Harness, "And from all your generously supplied information, more people seem to die a safe death out here," one hand peeped up, gesturing vaguely at the front door, "than get dragged away by them," her two fingers mimicked the walking along the counter edge before suddenly dropping into the abyss.

"An optimist," he drawled, not amused in the slightest. "I can already feel the hours of my life thick away-..." Some junk food, along with some tin cans plopped on the counter noisily, interrupting him.

"So unless the empty suits have mutated to the point they can breed," another collective shudder, "I don't think you have too much to worry about."

"Is that so? Sure glad one of us knows what you're doing." 'Thick with sarcasm' didn't even begin to cover the tone of his voice. He knew she was deluding herself because experience had taught him otherwise. What she had said might make sense - or indeed, would make sense, had they been trapped in any other place but here. But they were in Sierra Madre. And Sierra Madre had a life of her own, a rhythm, a beat one had to follow or die. This tourist had better learned to tap-dance to it fast or his head will be up for grabs along with hers.

"Now, how about treating me with some of that famous martini of yours?" She shook a foul smelling jug - when did she even have time to scrape that off the walls?!

There was something of a grin in her voice. He assumed so, since he couldn't see it. With a downturn of his lips he pulled a cigar hanging from the corner and snuffed it out in a nearby ashtray, before taking the offered pitcher.

"I'll have you know, I don't make a habit of serving drinks to others," his voice was flat, smoke still curling from his ruined lips.

"Then I'll treasure the experience. And won't cross the line by asking you to be nice again." Courier's voice, tingling with a grin and smugness as it was, didn't exclude the possibility of a 'much' following that sentence. One exposed muscle under his right eye took a moment to tic. This was already the longest heist of his life, but Dean was confident that he could endure a little more of this tag-along game, this… frustrating, slightly useful, creature that called herself, he snorted, the Courier - before the casino's vault laid sprawled open before him.

Dean Domino could be a very patient man when he set his mind to it.

Guilty: Level 40 Courier

Big MT - Zion - Divide - post game/Independent ending - Sierra Madre