STOP! Are you up to date on the 18 Karat Run series? If not, mosey on over to my profile and get yourself caught up!

Alright - the prologue is in written in my usual style, but starting in chapter 1, I'm going to be switching over to first person. After all, it's Boone who's telling the story. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint.

We're going to tackle a few things with Boone's story. This piece is going to be significantly shorter than the others - a total of seven chapters including the prologue and epilogue. Of course, that's subject to change should I decide to add new material or combine the topics of a chapter or two. But as it's planned out right now, seven chapters is what I'm working with.

For those of you interested, you can see the cover for this piece on my deviantart account. Link is on my profile.

Anyway, enjoy.

As they neared the Dam, two things stood out to the former recon sniper: foremost, the President's Vertibird was still nestled contently on top of the Dam's visitor center. Second, the entire Dam was quiet and empty – save a few patrols that paced back and forth along the wall in the dim moonlight. Atop the Dam's towers he could see lone snipers standing guard.

"Craig Boone?"

Boone slowed his pace. They were just outside the visitor center when the door had opened. A stern looking man with an eyepatch greeted them.

"Which one of you is Craig Boone?"

Boone stepped forward. "I am."

The gruff man studied him for a second then gave him a light hearted grin. "Name's Grant. Graham Grant, with the California Rangers…" He extended his hand. "I've heard of you, a lot of good things. Dhatri spoke highly of you. You're former First Recon, right?"

"Yeah," Boon answered him – but that was a lifetime ago.

"Well, I'm glad you're here to help us out. This is a delicate matter, and to be honest we need all the help we can get. From people we can trust." He turned his attention to the group at Boone's heels. "You brought company?"

"Yeah," Boone cast a sidelong glance to the group. "First Recon, and some close personal friends of mine."

"First Recon, eh? …we should definitely count our blessings then." Grant gave them a quick onceover, pausing briefly on Veronica. "Sierra Power Armor? Friend of mine placed an order a while back for a set, but it never showed."

Veronica's face flushed. "Huh? Really?" She curled her lip into a frown. "Couldn't imagine why…"

"Well, in any event, it's good to have you all aboard. We've got a helluva lot to do and too little time to do it in. The President's due to give his speech tomorrow afternoon…"

"About that…" Boone tilted his head to one side. "The speech was scheduled for today, why's the president still here?"

"It was scheduled for today," Grant nodded, immediately agreeing. "But your boss radioed in…whatever he said…" Grant chuckled lightheartedly. "He put a frown on Moore's face, that's for sure."

Boone felt one corner of his mouth creep up – Six, you son of a bitch.

"What I do know is I'm to integrate you and your team into President Kimball's security. You're to be debriefed and given full access to the facilities; supervised, of course. We'll cover everything in detail tomorrow morning. It's late…head down to the barracks. Get some rest, and I'll debrief you in the morning. See you bright and early, at oh-six-hundred hours."

Most nights he couldn't sleep. When he dreamed, he always dreamed of her. Of Carla. Even when he was awake, he could almost see her honey locks sweeping from her shoulders. Her smooth golden bronze skin and sea green eyes.

Tonight was no different. He tossed, turned, twisted, and writhed uncomfortably in the little military cot. Finally, he made his way to his feet.

Christine was the same; though the nightmares that plagued her were of a different sort. When her eyes closed, she could hear the drills; that terrible grinding sound in her head – the sound of buzz saws ripping through flesh and bone.

She lay still, feeling the warmth of Veronica's arms around her and watched him leave – or a dark silhouette anyway. He gently made his way out of the room, careful not to disturb anyone. He was unnaturally quiet. Had she been asleep, she'd never have known that he had left.

Minutes passed – they turned into hours. Still, sleep escaped her. So, quietly, she resolved to join him. He was perched at the edge of the Presidential stage when she found him. Staring intently at the mountain ridge, his arms crossed – a way of signaling to the world that his mind was one that had shut it out long ago.

"Can't sleep?" She asked him, making her way to his side.

He grunted, but didn't answer.

It reminded her of her first conversation with Six – though the roles had been reversed. "Me neither," she said. "Nightmares…"

What does she know about nightmares?

She traced the scars across her face. "Did I ever tell you how I got these scars?"

Boone shook his head and leaned back against a crudely erected wooden frame sporting lighting for the stage.

"I had tracked Elijah to a military facility in the Sierra Mountains. I had been tasked to put an end to his…"

Boone listened to her words – or at the very least the sound of them. All the while his mind was racing – bouncing around thoughts that lacked consistency or rationality. At one moment, he'd be thinking of Carla – then about how to protect the President. He'd even caught himself thinking back to the girl in Zion – about Kurisu. He wandered what she was doing now. How on that night when he left she had gently pressed her lips to his cheek. How he had told her that his heart belonged to another and that she waited for him back home. How he'd left her standing beneath the stars without so much as saying goodbye.

At least as far as he was concerned, he had not lied to her. He believed with all of his heart and soul that Carla and his unborn child were waiting for him on the other side. And wherever they were was home. Perhaps that's why death didn't scare him – it would finally reunite him with the ones he held dearest.

And, perhaps, that's why death had eluded him for so long. Why he had been able to take up arms against the Legion time and time again. Why he had been able to infiltrate so deep into White Leg territory and lived to tell the tale.

Life was his punishment – for the heinous crimes he had committed against the Great Khans. Against innocent women and children…his punishment was living on in this cruel world absent those he loved.

In that, he supposed, he wasn't too different than Graham – who lived his own hell every waking moment of every day.

"…I woke up in a medical facility, my face horribly scared…" Christine continued.

Of course, Boone didn't hear her.

"You're not even listening, are you?" Christine laughed to herself. "Seems we're all fighting our own personal little wars…not only with those inner demons, but with the ghosts of our past."

Another grunt from the man of stone. Christine reached up and placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Hey," she opined, "What's on your mind?"

How could he answer that? Could he tell her of the millions of thoughts that reverberated across the chasm of his mind?

No. His problems were his own – and they are not hers to bear.

He pointed to the ridgeline. "If I were going to attempt to assassinate the president, that's where I'd position myself…unless I wasn't worried about getting away. Then I'd situate myself atop that tower."

Christine felt her throat twist into a knot – he was deflecting, and she could tell. She admired him, she enjoyed his company despite how distant he seemed to be, and she genuinely cared about him. He was a good friend – and not just to her, but to Veronica, Cass, and to Six. But more than that admiration, she pitied him. She didn't know his story – no one seemed to know it. But she was familiar with those demons and ghosts that betrayed every thought and smile. What was it that he had said at the Sierra Madre?

He knew what it was like to lose someone he loved. Someone he never talked about. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders – and he never voiced a complaint.

"The anti-aircraft gun," She said, finally conceding to his silence. She pointed towards it. "It could be reprogrammed pretty easily…it might be a good idea to shut it down. And speaking of sabotage, it we should have someone look into the vertibird's flight systems…they're pretty easy to program too."

"Just as easy to plant explosives on them," Boone pointed out, nodding lightly. "Or the stage. We'll need to sweep it for explosives too."

"Is the speech open to the public?"

Boone shrugged. "Even if it isn't, there are techs here…it's easy enough to find a uniform."

"So we should tell them to frisk the crowd…"

"Or, at the very least, have dogs sniffing them out."

Christine nodded. "Everything will be fine," she said, removing her hand from his arm. "You'll see."

Grant nodded approvingly. "Seems you've got most of the bases covered…do you have anyone with the know-how to check the systems of the gun and the flight
control on the vertibird?"

"Yeah," Boone nodded. "Christine here," he motioned towards her, "is a real whiz with all things technical. If there's a problem with any of the systems, she'll find it."

"Good," Grant took a breath. "That's good. We have our own techs, but a second set of eyes never hurt anything."

"I want Veronica in the crowd…hand to hand, she's the toughest person I've ever met. If anyone sneaks into the crowd, she'll disarm and defuse the situation with haste and efficiency."

"We'll have a K9 unit in the crowd as well…" Grant ensured.

"I want Manny stationed atop the nearest tower with one of your men," Boone continued, as if Grant hadn't even spoken. "And I want Sterling and Bitter-Root on the adjacent tower. The trapdoors for each tower are to be secured from the outside. Betsy and Ten of Spades will take the ridge…and you and I will sweep the vertibird's landing pad."

"Right…" Grant turned to the crowd of NCR rangers that had gathered round. "You heard the man…I want you all stationed all over the Dam – watch the perimeter, watch the crowd. I want my sharpshooters in the key locations that you've already been assigned. The crowds are already gathering outside – we have a busy day ahead of us. Our plan is to get through the day without shit hitting the fan…you will answer to myself or Craig Boone. If he tells you to kiss his ass you damn well better pucker up. We do whatever it takes to get the President through this visit in one piece, am I understood?"

Uniformly, the rangers spoke – "Sir, yes sir."

"Is he here yet?"

Moore shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. President. House's ambassador has yet to grace us with his appearance."

"You told him I'd hold off until this afternoon?"

"Yes, sir."

Kimball – a tall, stern looking man with salt and pepper hair – checked the faded gold watch on his left wrist – it was nearly three. "House or no House, we're going on as planned. I'm not sticking around here long enough to be shot." He studied himself in the mirror – adjusted his blue and yellow striped tie and the collar of his white button-down shirt. "You know the Legion is planning something – I can smell it in the air."

"I understand, sir."

He fastened a pin decorated with the NCR's two-headed mascot to his worn out navy blue jacket and turned to Moore, gesturing his arms wide as if to inquire how he looked.

"Excellent, sir."

The sky was overcast – looks like rain – Boone thought to himself. They were definitely not going to wait any longer.

Boone had positioned himself above the visitor center, on the helipad. He could see Veronica in the crowd below – she had elected not to wear her power armor. She wanted to blend in – so she elected to borrow an old jumpsuit from the utility closet. Then she had tied her hood into a neat little head wrap. She never seemed to take that hood off…but he could relate.

Across the way, Manny gave him a wave. Boone threw up his right arm, and with his left he lifted an old walkie-talkie. "Clear. Bring him out."

Music filled the air – a fierce booming noise that rallied the crowd into cheers. Boone could see the President emerge from the doors below him; following a woman he recognized well: Colonel Moore. He was surrounded by men clad in Ranger Combat Armor. Their dusters billowing with every step – rifles swaying with their movements.

Colonel Moore took to the stage. She stood behind the microphone and tapped it once or twice. The sound reverberated across the Dam. She cleared her throat:

"Ladies and Gentlemen – citizens of the New California Republic. Four years ago we were tasked with the most vicious battle that the NCR has ever seen. When Caesar sent his Legate to take Hoover Dam, he counted on numbers and brute force to be the deciding factor in the battle. And that's exactly what they did. The Legion fell on to this Dam with numbers we had never before seen. Through their strength and sheer willpower alone, they nearly succeeded. But what they weren't counting on was the tactical resolve of the New California Republic. Chief Hanlon fell back into Boulder City, the Legion's infamous Legate gave chase. This would prove to be the decisive moment in the battle – soldiers like yourself secured the Dam and drove the Legion back over the Colorado. Today, we face their threat again – and so we must call upon you again to carry our great nation's flag. But you're not alone – the Republic is a family; the proud sons and daughters of California. Today, we have been given the greatest honor of receiving our President – who has come to rally behind you to show you that what you do does matter. That every person here has the potential and the ability to make a difference," she swung her arm wide gesturing to the man standing at her side. "The President of the New California Republic: Aaron Kimball."

Kimball graciously extended his hand, taking Moore's into his own. He shook it lightheartedly, a wide smile across his otherwise gruff face.

"Thank you Colonel Moore. And thank you, my fellow Californians, who have come so far to answer the call to service put forth by the republic. It is for you that I have come here, and it is because of you that I am able to do so. We enjoy our privileges because you take the greatest of risks and are prepared to make the most noble of sacrifices. It is because of men and women like Private First Class Jeremy Watson that Nevada and the New California Republic remain free and secure…"

Boone let the man's words fade out. He needed to concentrate. He scanned the crowd, the ridge, then the Dam.

Everything was quiet. There seemed to be no sign of the Legion. Of course, Boone knew that you didn't have to see the enemy for the enemy to be there. So often he had heard that old saying, 'What you don't know won't hurt you." A misguided proverb, to say the least.

Countless foes had fallen from his hands – the kick of his rifle the only thing he ever felt. They didn't even feel that.

That's what he told himself, anyway. That the deaths he had been responsible for were painless. Not because he cared for the souls of his enemies. Or for the fact that they felt pain. Contrary, he wanted to make the entire Legion feel the pain he felt every night.

But for her sake. For Carla.

For his child.

He hoped they felt nothing.

Across the Dam, something wasn't right. He could see Manny looking out over the crowd…but the ranger that was stationed with him was staring hard at Manny. Boone raised his rifle and peered through the scope – the man was slowly maneuvering towards Manny, his knife at the ready.

"Born in a tin shack on the outskirts of One Pine, Jeremy Watson never had it easy. His father worked as a caravan guard on the Short Loop, and his mother, like many Californians, braved the ruins of the Old World as a prospector. They suffered through water shortages, raider attacks, and the Brotherhood War." The speech continued, unimpeded.

Boone poised to fire but was struck from behind – his rifle tumbled over the edge of the building. He wheeled around to face his assailant. It was a civilian; an engineer – with dark hair and harsh eyes. The man struck again, his fist catching Boone's ribs. Boone stumbled backwards, but held his footing. He charged the man, lifting him up by his waist and slamming him to the ground. They struggled for what felt like an eternity before Boone was finally able to get around behind him. He wedged his knee between the man's shoulder blades and gripped his neck in the crook of his arm. He squeezed hard, blood trickling from his nose – spilling onto the man's white jumpsuit. He reached around with his free arm, looping his arms together, grasping his left bicep with his right hand and his opponent's head with his left. Then he snapped the man's neck backwards – he heard a vicious crack and the man's body went limp.

"When the republic called on the men and women of California to carry that fire across the Mojave, Jeremy Watson answered. You answered. Together, you carried the weight. And when PFC Watson's platoon came under attack at Forlorn Hope…"

Instantly Boone was on his feet scanning for his rifle – it was nowhere to be seen. The radio! He grasped it and felt the plastic give way beneath his fingertips. Fuck!

"…he took the greatest risk, not only for his fellow Californians, but for California itself. He was prepared to make the most noble of sacrifices, to defend the principles of our republic, even here, on Nevada soil."

Instinctively he reached for his sidearm. He took aim – he could see Manny struggling across the way, dangling from the edge of the building - the Legion man standing above him.

"His actions are a beacon to all of us who stand here today in tribute to his valor. Private First Class Jeremy Watson, on behalf of the senate and people of the New California Republic, it is my honor to present Private First Class Watson with the Star of Sierra Madre."

Boone took a breath – held it a beat. Before he fired, he saw the imposter stumble – the distinct sound of muffled rifle fire filled his ears. The Legion man toppled off the edge. Manny struggled to regain his bearings. Boone turned to the source of the sound – Christine. She lowered her rifle and gave him a nod.

"The vertibird's flight controls were scrambled. I told you it'd be a good idea to look into it." She checked the corpse of the engineer – wiring, the shell of an egg timer, a few bricks of C4. "Looks like he was going to plant a bomb on the vertibird."

"Private Watson, if you would just join me on stage."

Boone rested his arms against the concrete railing of the building. He took a breath and watched Private Watson make his way to the stage. The boy was next to the President now. The President reached into his blazer pocket and withdrew a small badge of valor. He pinned it to the boy's uniform, a smile on his face.

"That doesn't make sense…why wouldn't he just use a detonator?" Christine wondered aloud, holding the shell of the timer.

"Nervous?" The President asked. "I understand…no need to be though."

Boone felt the fibers in his body grow tense. The boy was nervous…visibly fidgeting with his helmet.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President…" The boy whimpered. The sound of his voice carrying out over the President's microphone.

Because the bomb wasn't for the vertibird.

"What's that?" The President asked, his voice instilled with confusion.

"Get him off the stage now!" Boone yelled down to Grant.

But by then it was too late – fire consumed the stage. Fragments of wood, fabric, and flesh littered the crowd.

He tapped the table and the bartender of the Big Horn Saloon brought him his seventh shot of the night. His red beret lay on the bar top beside of him. He lifted the shot glass, filled to the brim with two-hundred proof moonshine and studied it; mulling thoughts over in his mind as he twisted the glass between his fingers.

Underneath the shades he always had glued to his face were bloodshot eyes that struggled to keep focus on the world around him.

The door behind him swung open.

"Welcome to the Big Horn Saloon," The bartender bellowed jovially. "I'm Ike, I'll be serving you this evening. Have a seat anywhere you like, I'll be right with you."

"Well God Damn me, I just can't seem to get away from you, can I?"

Boone scowled. He recognized the thick accent that filled his ears. He cast a glance over his shoulder…Melissa was shaking her head.

"Every fucking where I go, there you are."

Boone didn't respond. He simply turned back to his now empty glass and tapped the table again.

"Didn't make it in time, did you?" Melissa asked. She walked the length of the bar and sat next to him. "Kimball bit the bullet, huh?" She asked the question with entirely too much glee.

"Can't you go somewhere else?" Boone asked dryly. He motioned around to all the empty stools and stalls. "You literally have your pick of the entire place."

She smiled. "And I picked…this seat, right here."

Boone grimaced. He stood – slowly – and grasped the bar for balance. He reached for his beret, but his senses and reaction time had long sense dulled. Melissa snatched it right out from under him.

"Nuh-uh," She waved her finger. "You have the balls to shoot unarmed civilians, you can at least buy a girl a drink."

Boone stared at her – his grip weakening on the bar. He blinked a few times then hauled himself back up onto the stool.

"Good boy," Melissa chirped.

"Why are you even here?"

"I'm meeting someone…not that it's any concern of yours."

"No. I mean…why are you talking to me?"

"Because you clearly don't want me to," She laughed.

Boone's scowl deepened.

Ike returned, bottle of clear liquid in his hand. He refilled Boone's glass and turned to the Khan woman. "What'll it be?"

"Nothing too strong," She replied. "I want to remember this face in the morning. Rum and Nuka."

Ike gave her a nod. As he turned to walk back down the bar, Boone grabbed his wrist. "Leave the bottle."

She looked back at Boone, absorbing his misery. "Now this…this a girl can get used to."

Boone didn't respond. He downed his shot and sloppily poured another.

"So what happened?" She asked him – her voice seemed somehow more sincere.

He looked up at her, still scowling, and shrugged. "President's dead."

"Legion?"

"Legion."

Ike once again returned and plopped a glass on the bar in front of her.

"Want to talk about it?" She asked, taking a sip of her drink.

"Nothing to talk about."

"Right!" She laughed hard. "Clearly…you're just the picture of mental health. Look, I'm not going anywhere…so the way I see it, you can either talk about what's on your mind or I can talk about what's on mine."

Boone waved his hand. "Talk away."

Her lips twisted to one side. She really didn't have anything to talk about. "Bitter Springs…tell me about it."

"Why?"

"Because I wasn't there…there are so many conflicting stories. Papa tells us one thing, Oscar another…the Mojave gives us yet a different version. But you…" She took a long drink from her bottle. "You were there. I'm a Khan...you owe it to us to give your side of the story."

"I don't owe you a damn thing," Boone snapped back.

"Maybe you don't," she shrugged, taking another sip of her rum. "But, I'll make you a deal…"

Boone looked up at her.

"You tell me what happened at Bitter Springs, and I'll leave you alone."

Alright. So that's it for the prologue. I'll try to have another chapter out for you all next week. Feedback is always appreciated.

Until next time.