Chapter 1: Better Strangers

I'm a thousand miles from danger if I make a better stranger of you

Zion. The valley sprawled out before Joan, as majestic as it had been the first time she set foot there. Nearly three weeks had elapsed since she left New Vegas, and she was still high from her victory at Hoover Dam. The Mojave—for now at least—was safe. The Fiends were spread thinner than ever, the Legion was back on their side of the Colorado and the Securitrons that patrolled Vegas now extended their reach into the furthest outskirts of Primm and the reconstruction of Nipton. Novac was resistant, but Joan would see them come around in time, ideally peacefully. Even Nellis Airforce Base hosted two Securitrons of its own; the Boomers had been less than enthusiastic about this change, but they would deal with it.

The time was ripe for Joan to get out and stretch her legs again. With the Mojave as safe as it had likely ever been since even before the Great War, there was no better time for her to slip away. She had promised Cass, Boone and Arcade that she would be safe, against their combined better judgment, and that Yes Man would do a fine job supervising the Strip while she was gone for a month or two. The trip up north had been relatively safe, even for a woman traveling alone. The occasional small band of raiders and gangs had been easy enough to evade, and she only had to defend herself a handful of times during the entire journey. It went by much faster than it had before, when she was with the Happy Trails Caravan.

The afternoon air hung thick with fresh rainfall causing Joan's glasses to fog as she descended into the valley. It looked exactly as it had a few months prior, spires of rock jutting from the ground under a sky so richly blue a prewar postcard would have been envious. The air was fresher than in Vegas, sharp sage combined with a deep salty earthiness. The only thing Joan truly missed was the hubbub of Vegas—Zion was deathly silent. No sound of children running, gamblers boasting their wins and sobbing their losses, Securitrons wheeling around trying to corral the lurching drunks that stumbled across the Strip. The only noises in Zion were the skittering of critters, an occasional distant Yao Guai roar, or if you were particularly keen of hearing, the light footsteps of a Sorrow. During her previous visit Joan could have sworn she could hear her blood pumping through her veins as she rested in the Dead Horse camp at night.

There were a few unfortunate things in Zion however, and Joan stood before them now—the desiccated corpses of Jed Masterson, Stella and the rest of the Happy Trails Caravan, dried and picked clean, badly preserved by the scorched desert air and rainfall. Joan swept off her black desperado hat as she passed them, mouthing a silent prayer. She thought back to her first day in Zion. It seemed a lifetime away now. What had initially been a breath of fresh air to distract herself from the looming threat of the Legion had crashed and burned as soon as it had started. She had felt cursed for a moment, feeling as though the poison of the Legion was destined to follow her wherever she went after she had met Follows-Chalk and he explained the White Legs to her.

Some time later Joan passed the small welcome shack that stood near the side of the main road, decorated with white handprints and still littered with cans and bottles, as if time had stood still since her last visit to the canyon. She wondered if Follows-Chalk had ventured forth into the world yet. If he still sought the civilized lands he could do a lot worse than the Mojave, she thought, that perhaps she could convince him to come back with her.

The rest of her walk passed easily—she only wandered off the path to the Eastern Virgin once, and she felt she had done a rather good job given that she didn't have anyone to guide her this time. Like the welcome shack, the road remained unchanged. The heads on pikes, to her distaste, were still present, their flesh rotting and matted with flies in the late evening sun. The smell alone should be a strong enough deterrent for anyone daring to visit, she thought, marching quickly past them with her hand over her mouth and nose.

During the course of her walk the sun had set further and further into the sky, receding below the looming red rock walls of the park and casting deep shadows across the belly of the valley. Joan approached the small dock that stood above the creek leading to the Dead Horse's camp, a hand painted sign perched next to it reading EASTERN VIRGIN, in tall thin letters. She looked up. The crude painting of Joshua Graham still glared down on her, its eyes burning red and bloody, arm thrust cruelly out over the small and helplessly depicted White Legs. She wondered how the Dead Horses had even managed to paint the horrendous thing, and what the man himself thought of his ghoulish depiction standing larger than life. She pulled her eyes away from it before kicking off her shoes, hoisting her pack firmly on her shoulders and hiking up her skirt as far as modesty would allow before stepping into the smooth waters of the creek, making her way up the final leg of her journey.

It was tricky navigating the waters at dusk—more than once she noticed a trap only just before planting her foot right into the middle of it. She hugged the canyon walls as closely as she could, shining the light from her Pipboy on the gently lapping waters, hoping to catch the glint of metal teeth before they caught her.

As she drew closer to the camp she felt a prickling sensation in her belly and dropped to a crouch, stalking—as silently as she could manage, laden as she was—toward the enormous natural arch that opened into the cove. She switched off her Pipboy light and silently withdrew her sniper rifle from her back, setting her shoes down in a dry patch of dirt near the canyon wall. The scope on her sniper rifle was far stronger than any pair of binoculars she had ever come across and it served her well; from this vantage point she could spy at last the Dead Horse's camp. Though the sun had set, they were busy: running laps from one end of the camp to the other, a few engaged in sparring matches, others performing rigorous pushups. They showed no signs of slowing down or stopping for the evening. Joan glanced at the time on her Pipboy. The days were growing longer and longer, she reasoned; it didn't seem unthinkable that they would make the most of the day. She swept the muzzle of her rifle further down the banks and her breath caught in her throat—Joshua Graham was sitting close to the fire with his head bowed, consumed with his bible. She didn't know exactly where she thought he ought to have been—the Angel Cave perhaps—but it caught her off guard that he was sitting openly, one leg drawn up, idly thumbing the pages of his bible. There was that strange titillating sensation within her again. She lowered her gun and replaced it in the holster she kept strapped to her back before quietly bending to scoop up her shoes again. It occurred to her that they likely had no idea she was in the valley; she hadn't seen any Dead Horses during her walk, nor had she spied any Sorrows. The fluttery buzzing in her stomach gave way to apprehension and she hoped they wouldn't open fire on her the moment she stepped out of the archway. She backtracked a few feet before splashing around as noisily as she could, stomping out into open cove, holding her skirt up with one hand and flailing her shoes around above her head with the other. She called out to the camp and prayed for the best.

Joshua Graham's head snapped up first, the Dead Horses following his lead immediately after. A bolt of panic shot through her as she saw his hand fly to his hip.

"It's Joan! It's me," she shouted. "Don't shoot, please!" She let her skirt and shoes fall to the water and raised both hands in submission. Even from a distance she could see confusion and then realization blossom on the narrow strip of Joshua's face that was unobscured by bandages before he visibly relaxed. He stood and gestured to the Dead Horses, saying something to them that she couldn't hear; they resumed their exercises as Joshua waited patiently by the water's edge. Joan retrieved her shoes before quickly wading through the rest of the inlet, stopping to wring out the hem of her skirt once she was on dry land.

"What are you doing here?" Joshua asked, more pointed and direct than she had been expecting. Joan hesitated, her hand darting to her neck to fiddle with the knot of her tie, self conscious.

"I… I wanted to see how you were doing. To check in after everything," she said. She let her hands fall lamely to her sides as Joshua stood before her. It struck her that this was an incredibly flimsy reason for making a three week long journey, alone, across nearly two-hundred miles, some of which had encompassed Legion controlled territory.

"That's very kind of you to check in on us, but it's a long trip from the Mojave," he said. Despite standing in the open cove Joan felt slightly smothered and resisted to urge to fuss with her tie again. She could feel the tips of her ears growing warm.

"But where are my manners. Please, come inside the cave, sit down. I'm sure we have some food and water to spare," Joshua said, stepping politely aside and motioning toward the Angel Cave. Joan walked quickly, passing through the entrance of the cave, glad that Joshua was behind her as she willed her face to return to a normal hue.

Once they had proceeded further into the cave Joshua passed in front of her, leading her to the table he worked at. It was clean this evening, a few guns stacked neatly beside a small oil lamp. Behind the makeshift desk was his usual cinder block seat, and he drew up another for her on the other side of the table. Joan smiled; she admired how simply Joshua and the Dead Horses and Canaanites lived. She adored the splendor of Vegas, but the valley felt like a small safe cocoon, isolated from the Mojave. She didn't think she could ever give up civilized life, but if she had to choose somewhere to live besides New Vegas she thought she could do much worse than Zion. She took her seat as Joshua rustled around in a sack, fishing out a few bottles of purified water and a loaf of bread, placing them on the table as neatly as he had placed his firearms.

Joan thanked him before tucking in. The two made idle talk as she quickly ate her supper; the sharp rise in temperature, whether her trip had been a safe one, finally rounding out to discussion of the Dead Horses.

"Follows-Chalk is gone?" she asked. Joshua did not mirror her disappointment.

"Yes. He took your advice and left to travel to the "civilized lands" a week or so ago," he said. Joan swallowed her bread, her stomach feeling heavy.

"I would have invited him to come along with me. He was good to travel with when I visited before," she said. "I could have helped him dip his toes in the water, you know?"

"He made his choice," Joshua said evenly. The uncomfortable feeling overcame Joan again and she couldn't resist twiddling the buttons at her cuff. Eager to turn the conversation, she decided it was finally time to discuss her other reason for this trip. She cleared her throat and allowed a small smile to cross her face.

"It's a shame, because it's very safe in the Mojave now," she began, "because I've taken Hoover Dam. Caesar is dead."

Joshua's eyebrows rose sharply at this revelation. Joan grinned.

"I saw to it personally. Lucius, his Praetorians, his entire camp, they're all gone. Lanius fell at the Dam," She sat straighter on her cinderblock slab, chin tilted high. "The Dam that I won. From both the Legion and the NCR." The only imperfection in her bubble of pride was the one man who had unfortunately escaped her massacre of Caesar's camp—Vulpes Inculta. She decided she would worry about him later though; she hadn't seen a trace of him since the night she had activated the Securitrons at Fortification Hill. He could be dead now for all she knew.

"I have to admit, it's hard to believe," Joshua said quietly, his expression turned somber and distant. Joan pressed on.

"It was hard, of course," she said, "They put up a hell of a fight."

"I'd be more surprised if they didn't," he replied lightly.

She regaled him with the story of the second battle for Hoover Dam, growing steadily more animated as she explained the highlights of the battle: the organized push into the Dam itself, Legionaries falling around her, the majestic sight of the Boomer's plane dipping low and dropping bombs. The thrill of taking out Centurions with her sniper rifle, the veritable hail of gunfire raining from every direction. A terrifying physical confrontation with a Legionary and how she'd managed to thwart him with only her knife. The final heroic break into the Legate's Camp and Lanius's final words.

"It was exhilarating," she reminisced fondly, propping her chin in one hand. Joshua had been watching her silently for some time. "I told him he had a nice mask—and how nice it would look hanging on my wall," Joan continued, smug. Indeed it hung there now, all the way back at the Lucky 38, displayed prominently in the Presidential Suite as her trophy, splattered with Lanius's dried and blackened blood.

"It gets better," she rushed on, spirited again. "After all that, General Oliver, Lee Oliver?" She didn't wait for Joshua to respond. "He had to gall to show up and try to take credit for everything I had done. Everything I had done for the Mojave, all the work that I put in. He wanted the Dam." She paused, her smile turning vindictive. "He told me I should be hanged for expelling the NCR. Can you believe that? I was willing to let them have their percentage of power output from the Dam, to continue to let their soldiers furlough on the Strip, and he told me he would see me hanged." She stared past Joshua, through the wall and into the day the Dam was seized. In her mind's eye she saw Oliver's corpse, broken and splattered at the base of Hoover Dam, Yes Man waving cheerfully down at her.

"I had to make an example out of him." For the first time in a long while Joshua sat forward and studied her closely, his blackened hands laced in front of him. "I had to show the NCR that I was a force to be reckoned with. I had him thrown from the top of Hoover Dam."

Joshua sat motionless.

"The NCR left after that. It's been a hit to the businesses on the Strip but," she shrugged. "I did what I had to do."

"I see."

Joan felt the unwelcome prickle of unease return. Joshua's pale blue eyes seemed to stare straight through her; she looked away. "I thought you should know what's been going on."

"I can only hope Arizona and the tribes don't suffer as the Legion falls apart around them," he said after a lengthy pause.

"You think they will fall apart?" she asked. Joshua turned pensive again.

"I do," he said. "The Legion falls with Caesar. Caesar…" He drifted off. "I still have a hard time wrapping my mind around it. After everything that happened, after all that we did together, after all that he did to me…" Joan studied him closely as it was now his turn to look through her into his own past; his eyes were distant and unreadable to her. Joan's stomach tightened and she clasped her hands together. A part of her longed to reach out to him. She thought of the conversation they had had before she left Zion; she saw the same vulnerability in him now as she did then, when he had explained the extent and nature of what Caesar had done to him, and the pain he still suffered to this day because of it. The tension in her stomach twisted as the terrible mental image came unbidden into her mind: Joshua falling, burning, into that dark chasm.

"What does it feel like to be burned?"

Joshua blinked, focusing on her again as if he were seeing her for the first time. His expression immediately darkened and something behind his eyes shifted. Mortification flooded over her and she turned a vivid shade of red.

"I'm—oh God I'm sorry, that was too forward," she stammered, drawing back sharply as she realized she had been leaning toward him. "I didn't mean to overstep—"

Her voice died in her throat as Joshua Graham seized her hand. His grip was tight and with no concern for her comfort, red fingertips digging in deeply enough to turn the dimpled flesh around them white. She seemed to step outside of herself and watch as a ghostly third party as he trapped her hand in the air before roughly dragging the oil lamp between them. Distantly she felt her fingertips turn icy and her breath stall as he pulled the chimney from the base, the thick cotton wick exposed. The flame danced in the cool air. He jerked her hand forward with enough force that the rest of her came too, half standing awkwardly as the edge of the table dug into the tops of her thighs. Her heart began to pound, not faster but much, much harder and her vision seemed to pulse with it. He plunged her forefinger into the flame.

Initially she felt nothing. The flames licked around her finger with no more discomfort than if she had drawn her hand under warm running water. Joshua stared into the fire with an intensity she had only witnessed once before, at the Three Mary's.

Then sensation returned and with a cruel jolt she felt as one with her body again. The flesh of her forefinger began to sizzle and her brow pricked with sweat as a geyser of pain erupted in her finger. She inhaled sharply and her arm jerked. Joshua held onto her steadfastly, crushing her small hand in his, red on white. Her back arched and she braced her free hand against the table, gritting her teeth as her heartbeat accelerated from a steady pounding to a galloping race inside her chest. The flesh of her forefinger began to bubble and turn white as a sickeningly sweet odor filled the air around them. She swallowed hard, feeling as though she couldn't draw enough oxygen into her lungs, suffocating in the stench. Her stomach roiled. The pain did not increase linearly, instead lunging deeper and harder into her, as if not only her finger were being seared but the rest of her hand, her arm, her entire body, burning bright in the darkness. She couldn't stop herself from whimpering in pain as she finally struggled against him, trying to wrench her hand away from his. He seemed utterly unfazed as he restrained her with cruel tranquility, breathing steadily as though he were doing nothing more stimulating than scouring the filth from one of his guns.

Sweat poured down Joan's brow and into her eyes, stinging them. She gasped raggedly in thin shrieks, feeling lightheaded. The flesh of her finger had turned from white to red and was charring black around the edges. She bore down hard enough on the table that her shoulder popped painfully and finally she cried out, humiliated by the break in her voice.

"Please!"

Joshua Graham's eyes flicked upward for the first time, meeting hers. Her eyes were wet, terrified and ringed red behind her glasses. His eyes dug into hers as he continued holding her finger in the flame for another eternal moment before loosening his grip just enough to quickly envelop her hand with his, his long fingers pressed around hers. He closed their hands together in a fist, trapping the flames between Joan's fingers and palm, starving the fire of oxygen and extinguishing it. Darkness fell in the cave around them and he finally released her.

Joan crashed backward, nearly falling off the ledge that Joshua's table perched on, immediately jerking her hand to her chest as she shuddered and gasped. Joshua seemed to stare through her, his gaze cold and impassive. Joan scrambled off the ledge and rushed to the mouth of the cavern, pausing to glance back at him. He was still sitting and staring forward, inanimate as a statue and her feet pounded the rough stone as she ran down the corridor of the cave, trying not to stumble and fall.

She slowed down to a fast walk as she reached the entrance of the Angel Cave. The cove was lit by moonlight now, the fire in the center of the camp reduced to dim coals. Several of the Dead Horses were finally winding down, their pushups sluggish, most of them wholly retired to their lean-tos. The few that were still active stared at her and they seemed unrecognizable to Joan. She wished Follows-Chalk hadn't left.

She made her way past the Dead Horses to the furthest edge of the cove, where the canyon wall met the slowly lapping waters of the Eastern Virgin. Joan fell to her knees and plunged her hand into the cold water, gasping with the fragment of relief that it brought her finger. It turned her stomach to look at it; glistening and swollen, the skin was peeled back and charred around the edges, gaping and deep meaty red in the center. Like a burst dam, fluid rushed from the wound. Her shoulders shook and her breath hitched in short painful gasps as she settled back against the wall, tossing her hat off and clawing into her jacket with her uninjured hand. Clumsily she withdrew a roll of gauze and a small metal case. She swallowed hard as she unwound the bandages as steadily as she could manage with one hand. Within the metal case was what she truly wanted: several gleaming needles lined up and filled with Med-X. She knew she wouldn't be able to properly apply the bandaging to her finger if she was high, and fear of dirt and infection outweighed her desire for relief. She worked quickly, wrapping the gauze as tightly as she could withstand around the entirety of her finger. It was sloppy, but at least it was done.

The pressure seemed to alleviate the pain somewhat, but she was eager for what would truly help. She hastily shoved the sleeves of her left arm up, not caring how much her suit was wrinkling. A series of familiar dots peppered the inside of her forearm. She popped the metal case open and withdrew the fullest needle, sighing with comfort as the tip of the needle delved into the cleft of her arm and she depressed the plunger slowly, taking in every last drop the needle had to give.

Within minutes all the aches and pains faded away: the tension in her neck, her throbbing shoulder, her stiff legs, and most importantly her finger. The digit was still uncomfortable, but it was significantly better than before. She leaned her head back against the canyon wall, closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.