(AN: so quick FYI to everyone before we get going. You'll notice that each chapter from here on out is written by a different character. Each of those characters are also going to be written by us three individual authors, to really give different voices and perspectives to Sole, Courier 6 and Wanderer. We're pretty excited to see how it goes and hopefully it's as awesome for you as it is for us. This does also mean that updates will be slow coming, so bear with us! Let us know what you think, we're always open to feedback.)

Of all the things in the world I thought I would miss, the Mojave was nowhere on the list. Sunset Sarsaparilla, yes. Boone, almost certainly. Even roving bands of mercenaries looking to play a rousing game of Ambush. But the actual Mojave? That confusing bitch mother of a hellscape with radscorpions spawning out of goddamn nowhere? With things called Nighstalkers in every single cave, a Vault with living plant people, and an underground city dedicated to fighting deathclaws? Hell no.

At least, that's what I'd thought. Up until i'd fallen into a radioactive puddle and woken up whatever mutated crab hellspawn that lurks in the goddamn forest.

"Son of Atom, Rex, maybe I should have listened to Boone." I calmly wipe my precious silver plated handgun on my already nasty raider pants. After bullets hadn't made a mark, I'd turned to just hitting the thing with Maria. Which had done approximately jack-all until Rex had decided to jump in.

Rex makes a huff of agreement, rolling his eyes in that precious doggy way that confirms how stupid I am.

"Why yes, I am the very best master you've ever had," I respond dryly, putting Maria away and checking my pip-boy. Shockingly, still on course to the central Commonwealth.

I'm just about to return to our certain death march when a deep rumble that shakes the earth itself starts up.

I'd like to say that I bravely faced whatever was coming, drew my shotgun and screamed obscenities into the face of whatever beast this godforsaken forest could spit out before dying an honorable death. But I instead dive behind a fallen tree, squeaking out a prayer. Like a badass, you know.

The rumbling subsides and Rex, precious robot dog, huffs again and nudges me, drawing my attention to the clearing ahead.

A man, not a hundred meters away, clad in an obscenely tight blue jumpsuit lined with gold, short blonde hair and obnoxious pre war glasses, looking vaguely horrified.

A vault dweller!

"Hey look at that nerd," I poke Rex, watching as the guy stumbles towards ruins virtually indistinguishable from the rest of the ruins surrounding us. Damn hellscape. I miss the Mojave. "You think we should follow him?"

Rex whines in a way that I would call empathy for the poor bastard looking more dazed than Arcade after taking Jet,if not for the fact that his oil needed to be changed twenty miles ago.

"No, you're right. We must continue onward and expand my overreaching control to the poor bastards of this overly blue land. Wouldn't want to be late for an appointment with mayor Hancock."

That settled, we continue creeping in the general direction of where my Pip-boy says the town of Goodneighbor is.

I suppose this is where I introduce myself and my whole tragic backstory instead of boring descriptions of trudging through a monotonous landscape filled with creepy British robots in some kind of greenhouse and garbage.

I'm Lucy Grey, fabled Courier Six and the queen of New Vegas. Shot in the head by some dipshit in a checkered suit, left for dead, the whole typical "hero faces adversity" backstory.

I've faced Boomers, Marked Men, the Legion and only pussied out once or twice. Maybe three times if I'm being modest. Even drove out the NCR from the entire Mojave with only rioting and general mayhem, not a single death. I've kept the peace for about seven years with only minimal incident.

So why am I here in this abysmal waste? I got it into my pretty little head to expand my influence and start trades and relations with the east. I've made worse decisions, but this one is at least in the top friggin' ten. So was the brilliant idea to head out without my usual sniper companion and trash lover, Craig Boone, formerly of the NCR Infantry. No Boone, I'll be fine. How bad can it be? I'm the most charming girl you know, i'll have them eating out of the palm of my hands. Certainly won't have to execute multiple Raiders like it's my fucking job. Or burn through my stimpak stash worse than Cass burning through our liquor supply.

The truth is though? I'm bored. Me and the crew, we can destroy any threats long before they get to us. And that's not how I live. I crave action, a bit of stealthy combat. I'm ready to stir up some goddamned trouble. From what I heard, nasty, bad trouble is exactly what the Commonwealth specializes in. Raiders, mysterious organizations, extra strength Deathclaws, exactly the kind of trouble I need and Boone hates. Won't even let me go out to kill assassin squads anymore. We singlehandedly took control of Hoover Dam but Atom forbid I try to leave the Strip and go shoot things.

But Boone had to stay behind and run Vegas for me with the very unwilling assistance of the King. So here I am, under the guise of diplomacy and treaties, ready to start the stealthy murder. Rex was ordered to stay with me and 'keep an eye on me'. Nice try, honey. If Rex didn't get distracted by things like shiny objects and hats, it would almost be a smart plan. Trust Boone not to think of that.

I tap the screen of my pip boy, biting back a grin. Goodneighbor, dirty, lawless, shifty Goodneighbor, here I come.

...,..,...

"Not for nothing, Rex, but maybe you should stop ripping throats out," I observe, nudging the dead body of yet another Raider covered in it's own blood. "Save some for me, at least. You can't be the only one engaging in murder, it messes up my whole mythos."

Rex growls, spitting out a piece of meat I decide not to look too closely at, before pacing ahead of me up the cobbled streets. It looks like he's following a red brick line. Which is stupid. He can't see red.

"Look it's fine if you want to kill things but I already have one Boone, I don't need a dog version, all silent and ignoring everything I have to say like I'm a babbling idiot. Besides, it's just a raider, don't waste your energy on mauling. I thought I trained you better than that," I skirt around a mole rat studiously ignoring me. "Do you even know where you're going?"

Kicking at the red line in the pavement, I instinctively drop into a crouch as I hear a Super mutant voice in the near distance. Something about dumb humans and a heartbreaking lack of green stuff I hate super mutants with a passion. But I suppose I can thank Atom there's no Nightkin. After a particularly noteworthy run in with one in a blonde wig and painted nails, I'm not inclined to meet any more. I'll probably never get over seeing it cry orange tears.

Blowing a piece of hair that escaped my beret from my eyes as the mutants continue a search, not coming anywhere near me, I fire off a shot from Maria into the air. And just like that, it starts. Shotgun in hand, taking careful aim at whatever mutant Rex hasn't dispatched, firing devastating shots into whatever limb is easily accessible. More than a few Mutie heads explode in a shower of green gore and yellowed bone chips. It's over in moments, and anticlimactic at that.

The street, moments before patrolled by seven foot tall green men and sadly bare of any blood, looks like a rabid Deathclaw was let loose. Chunks of shot of Mutie flesh spray out from the bodies they came from, blackish green blood starting to pool and coagulate into the cobblestone grooves that pass for a street in this city. It's beautiful.

"You think that vault guy is ok? He looked pretty fucked up in the head, like Boone levels of fucked up. Maybe we should have said hi." I put away both guns, stepping delicately over a stinking mutant corpse. Library, a sign above them reads, lit in the night by a trash can fire one of them had the presence of mind to start.

Rex licks his chops of blood almost contemplatively before whining, looking at the green hunk of meat before us longingly.

"I know, looting is fun. But I have to go meet this Hancock guy and damned if I'm going to be any later than the day and a half we already are. That's your fault, by the way. I could have made it here days ago if not for your fluids leaking, again."

A glowing neon sign meters away alerts me that our destination is, in fact, right ahead, a dismal alleyway leading to a boarded up door hiding the supposed den of debauchery known as Goodneighbor. Excellent timing, that.

I feel more than hear the crunching of footsteps behind me, and given my proclivity into diving behind shit at the first sign of danger, like a true badass legend, I almost don't see who it is. The leather armor, studded with metal makes a soft jingle, and the worn yellow helmet stands out like a beacon in the dark. But there's no mistaking the tall, lanky figure I saw pop out of the ground only four days prior. It's Vault boy, alright, looking indistinguishable from the raiders and gunners swarming the area. Even the flannel shirt and leather gloves look ripped off a corpse. Wasteland chic.

I decide to keep quiet, watching him as he slowly makes his way down the alley, pausing every few feet to glance at the pip-boy on his wrist. I almost don't notice the pistol strapped to his waist, or the heavily modded rifle on his back. Somehow, in the span of a few days, he got badass.

"What the hell," I hiss to Rex, so as not to draw Vault boy's attention. "Four days in the Mojave and all I had was my shotgun and some shitty leather armor. This kid is fucking packing."

The aforementioned 'kid' keeps creeping down the alley and out of my line of sight, looking like he's got places to be. I know the exact feeling.

So I unconsciously start to follow, keeping to the shadows and low to the ground. This guy is definitely trained, reminding me of the NCR rangers I used to follow around to keep my sneaking up to proper not getting murdered standard. But he also has the unmistakable air of inexperience with a Wasteland city, not staying close enough to the walls, not having a hand close enough to that pistol at all times. I watch as he pauses in front of a Super Mutant corpse I just pumped full of lead and quickly steps over it, moving along in a fashion that at least tells me he's met a Mutie. And recently, at that. I've seen that look of trauma on many a person's face.

I forget all about my meeting with Hancock, dropping all pretense of even being subtle about stalking this guy. But I'm sorely intrigued. Who the fuck is this guy? How did he get all this gear? Can't be just off of raiders. No raider would spend their precious time fixing up a sniper rifle when a sawed off shotgun does the trick just fine and doesn't require a steady hand not affected by a hit of Jet.

It's almost fun, following him past the pink-purple neon lights of Goodneighbor, around a corner where I know some of those wannabe Raider assholes are holed up. My hand creeps towards my favorite rifle, Dinner Bell, and no, you can't ask why, always strapped across my back. If newbie here can't handle them, me and Rex can.

I shouldn't have worried.

This newbie who not a hundred feet back looked like he could have easily been overtaken with a surprise ambush, drops behind an abandoned car, whipping out his pistol like he's done this a thousand times. Without any hesitation, he fires rounds into each Gunner wandering the area. Heads explode. It's fucking great. Not Boone great, or me with my Caravan shotgun great, but not bad, either.

Except for one. He just aims for the kneecap on that guy, blowing it out and dropping the figure to the ground, howling out a curse I file away for future reference just due to the creativity. Never heard of a Mirelurk claw being used that way.

Vault guy emerges from hiding, storming up to the guy and gripping him tightly by the shirtfront. He spits out some question I can't quite make out, looking half feral in the process.

I start to reconsider my notions of this guy. Maybe it's not Vault guy at all. Maybe it is a raider with an uncanny resemblance to him. Maybe Vaultie flipped out, it's normal for most of them. Maybe-

The Gunner doesn't answer satisfactorily, apparently, as Helmet head drops him onto the ground, pulling the pistol back out and shooting the poor dope point blank in the forehead.

Oh fuck.

What the hell.

Maria slides out of my hip holster and into my hands without a second thought, and I continue to follow after this maniac for another block. Fuck meeting him, fuck all of that. I don't like people who kill for fun. We had plenty of that misery with the Legion in the Mojave, and plenty more with the Fiends in Vault 3. I saw what a guy named Cook Cook did to a rival raider girl and it's not an experience I'm inclined to repeat.

He rounds the corner out of the back streets and out into a very open, very spacious area. No chance of a surprise attack, then.

A pond, eerily silent, surrounded by that red brick line I've subconsciously been noting the entire time, a strange spot of serenity in a city left to rot. No ghouls, no loud Raider boasting. Total silence. I couldn't have picked a worse spot to shoot a guy. Except for maybe Jacobstown. Gunfire pisses off Bighorners like nothing else. Stampedes and gored Nightkin for days.

But instead of stopping and acting overtly evil like I would clearly prefer, he walks towards the silent pond, towards a covered few steps leading to a pair of red doors which, in turn seem to lead into the earth.

Rex, hackles raised already, starts to creep forward with me, into the open space. I hate spaces like this more than anything. No cover, nothing to hide behind and take potshots at Vaultie. Fuck this guy.

We make haste around the bend of the pond to the doors without incurring the wrath of some hidden supermutant with a minigun, only to find the barrel of a rifle aimed straight at our faces. Er, snout, in one case.

"Want to tell me who you are and why you've been following me for the past block?" Vault boy's muffled voice asks, sounding not amused in the slightest.

Past four blocks, I mentally correct, before clearing my throat, stalling to think of a half decent excuse.

"I'm not in a good mood, answer me."

"Hold your radstags, buddy, pal, friend of mine" I chirp in faux cheer, laying the charm on real thick and trying to straighten from my crouch. He starts to pull the trigger, making me hastily rethink the whole moving idea. "I'm Courier Six, out of New Vegas, just here to deliver a package. Thought you were my contact." The lie sounds half believable to my ears. And I do have my Mojave Express bag on my other hip.

But he's not buying it. "I don't know what the fuck a courier six is."

"Part mailman, part...ah...mailman."

"So why were you sneaking after me if you thought I was your 'contact'?"

I cast him my snarkiest grin. "I like to play hide and seek."

Before I can blink, he's swinging the rifle butt at my head. I duck and roll, bringing Maria up to aim at his face, while Rex tries to leap at his throat. Vault boy knocks him away with the rifle butt, the ting of metal on metal echoing in the still silent area, before bringing it back to point at me.

"Last chance, bitch, who the fuck are you?"

"Who would you like me to be?" I spit out automatically.

"I think you're one of those people who killed my wife. And took my son."

This is unexpected. I blink at him quizzically, gun not wavering in the slightest.

His eyes meet mine, trying to dig out some implication, searching for recognition of whatever the fuck he's talking about.

"My son, Shaun." He prompts.

"Nice name. But I hate kids. They're gross and usually covered in some kind of rat dropping."

"You're not a raider."

"I'm not a raider."

His rifle lowers slightly, before coming back to attention. "So who the fuck are you."

With more than a hint of pride and maybe more than a dash of bragging, I turn the brights on yet again, ready for the recognition and awe that my very beret inspires.. "I'm head bitch of the motherfucking Mojave wasteland. That's who."

His eyes show about as much recognition as I'm sure mine did when he asked about Shaun.

I groan, dropping the Silver Rush showgirl worthy smile. Great. I hate when my reputation doesn't precede me. "I run shit in New Vegas and I'm following you because I saw you get out of that Vault a few days ago. I also saw you interrogate a Gunner and kill him in cold blood which I'm, quite frankly, more than a tiny bit disturbed by. So I was going to shoot you in the knee and then the forehead. Much like you did back there. I'm into poetic justice."

"I was asking him about my son."

"Gunners and raiders aren't going to take anybody's son, idiot, they kill kids. Kids are always their first target."

His rifle wavers again.

"Before you ask, I don't know who would take your son. I don't give a flying Brahmin fart about the Commonwealth so I have to tell you; my ear has not been low to the ground on rumors of kidnapped babies. You can let me stand up now."

Vault boy's eyes narrow, and he starts to speak, when from the right of both of us comes a strange, echo laden voice. The type of voice I have night terrors about, frequently. The type of voice that only comes from behind one thing. Power armor.

"Both of you raider scumsuckers stand still."

My blood runs ice cold, bringing me back to a very harried, very frantic exit from a certain bunker I may or may not have turned into a mass graveyard for personal reasons. Not at all helping is the gentle reminder from my brain that the bounty on my head has indeed increased exponentially this year, due to thinking it would be quote unquote 'hilarious' to mail a piece of power armor to the current stronghold.

The Brotherhood of Steel found me.