It's dark now.
Boone is in a secluded area, his sharp eye focused intently through his scope and on the Legion camp.
The place is swarming. Just swarming. What seems like thousands of legion troops surround the camp and keep guard, though that doesn't even include the ones in the barracks. On the eastern side of the camp, he can see the cells and within them are multiple people: Men, women, children. Families. They look starved, gathered together and collectively shivering and trembling from the cold and pain of the collars fitted tightly around their necks.
Through the scope, he can catch the smallest glimpse of Carla, shivering, and huddled up with the others.
He hesitates.
Then, without another thought, he saves her.
The bullet rips through the air, a hot missile in an infinitely cold atmosphere, landing true to its mark between Carla's eyes. She dies immediately, then, blood splattering and pooling onto the ground around her. Instantaneously, the camp spurs into a panic, with the hundreds of troops looking around in confusion. The slaves and PoWs who had been near Carla scream out, some vomiting from the sight. Boone doesn't have the chance to put the others out of their misery. He rolls downwards to get behind the ledge he had been set upon in order to get out of immediate range of the Legion's snipers.
He then packs away the rifle, knowing that it was his best chance to get away, as it would only work to slow him down, although he can already hear the sound of Legion troops running towards him. Damn. So they knew where he was. Cursing beneath his breath, Boone grabs his things quickly and begins to run as fast as his legs could manage.
Of course, he's learned to accept his death. If he were cornered, he wouldn't bother begging or hopelessly struggling to stay alive. He understands this.
But he isn't cornered.
The legion tends to utilize melee or other close-range weapons, and the guns that they had were of poor quality. This and his distance were the only advantages he'd have.
So, he keeps running through the night, sweat and condensing water glistening on his skin as he sprinted through darkness, his NCR training still paying off. However, as he had learned when accompanying Six through the Mojave, these Legion troops had changed over just a few years. They were faster, more agile. Their common soldier was faster than most NCR troopers he's seen.
That's when he hears a click behind him. All too familiar. But a normal foot soldier wouldn't have a gun, would he? The thundering footsteps seem to close in by the moment, despite Boone's legs pumping as fast as they could manage, moving him as fast as they could.
That's when the first gunshot rings out.
It doesn't hit him. Hell, it's nowhere close, not that Boone can blame the soldier. It was dark. The second gunshot rings out seconds later, and he feels it whizz by his shoulder.
Go, go, go- his thoughts are screaming at him, legs becoming numb from the strain. The third bullet rings out, and he feels a sharp pain in his right knee as a bullet completely penetrates his leg, shattering his kneecap. He grits his teeth in an attempt to keep back the shout of pain, but fails and then stumbles helplessly into the dark void around him. Unable to see, he hopelessly searches for his things as the footsteps grow near and then surround him. He makes an attempt to reach for his pistol- Hell, anything that can kill him before the inevitable happens. But the steel heel of a Legion boot crushes his searching hand, sending waves of pain throughout his arm.
Looking up, he's finally able to get a look at the man who shot him. A veteran legionnaire.
"Well, then, what is it that we have here?" The veteran asks. Then, recognition grows into a disturbing grin across the man's face. "Oh, I see. Yes, Ceasar will be very pleased to see you. Take him," he says, addressing this last part to the rest of the group. The blueish moonlight is the last thing he sees before the butt of a rifle slams into his skull.
Well, this was certainly a rarity. Not many men can get the legendary Courier himself to giggle, even as the drunken mess he is now.
Together, he and Arcade stumble into the Lucky 38, still drunk from their stupid trip to Gomorrah where they blew probably over a thousand caps. Not that it mattered. And yeah, they were the worst kind of drunks.
The two manage to get into the elevator, ignoring the watchful Securitrons, who thankfully stayed away from the suite, which was where the two heading. "Oh my god," Six says, breaking out into a huge grin. "I still can't believe we did th- that," he says, words slurring together as they both stumble out from the elevator. "Me neither," Arcade admits, his voice for once not monotonous and sarcastic, but more full of life.
"Those people are still insane," he says. "Even with that other guy in charge." Six nods, then shrugs. "Well, at least we got a few chips to use."
"Which we immediately lost," Arcade adds, to which the Courier chuckles. "Yeah. But it was still worth it," he replies. The job was actually rather easy and only took a couple hours to take care of. Clearing up the road for Gomorrah's traders was practically child's play at this point. As the two continue their long ride up into the suite and chat, the Courier's Pip-Boy continued singing out, filling the elevator with a soft music.
Blue moon,
You saw me standing alone,
Without a love of my own...
Within a few minutes, the elevator finally arrives to the suit, the door dinging and then pulling open to reveal the empty suit. "Boone's probably asleep," the Courier murmurs as he steps (stumbles, really) out of the elevator with Arcade. They keep quiet, then, despite the fact that the sniper slept in a room that lies on the other side of the suite, and that he was a heavy sleeper. Quietly, they make it to the main bedroom and shut the door. The lights of the room were off, though the glittering New Vegas below makes the room visible, even from this height. The moon above added to the luminescence, giving the room a dim but blueish tint. As his eyes adjust, Six is able to get a view of Arcade above him, the moonlight reflecting off of his glasses, giving his face an honestly beautiful glow.
Before the Courier really realizes it, his lips are pressed against Arcade's, an arm draped across the taller man's shoulder, who doesn't at all recoil or seem even surprised. Instead, he accepts the kiss, bringing his arms around Six to pull the other man closer into his chest. At this, the Courier lets out a soft sigh, nearly already melting against Arcade. Without another word (one wasn't needed) the two drunkenly make it towards the bed, the door behind them already closed.
Breathing heavily now, Six feels himself pushed into the bed, Arcades palms planted against his shoulders as he leans down in for another kiss. He finds it simply impossible to hold back a small noise, one arm hanging lightly around Arcade's neck, the other draping off of the bed with a singing Pip-Boy, fingers grasping tightly on the sheets as another soft moan escapes the Courier.
Blue moon,
Now I am no longer alone...
The night continues blissfully, though neither of them had noticed the note left by a certain sniper on the table by the door.