Chapter 3: The Sincerest Form of Flattery

John was getting tired of funerals.

Lt. Hayes had no authority to confine him to rest and John, for his part, had no excuse to turn down attendance when Johnson Nash, the town's mayor, asked for him by name outside the field hospital tent.

Doc Mitchell, the closest thing to a medical officer within miles, flat-out rejected the request. Then John tore away the bandages around his face, revealing scars where second-degree burns and worse had been not twelve hours prior. That silenced any further protests and caused quite a few jaw dislocations when he stalked out of the tent, wincing at the sun beating on his face and painfully aware of the Doc's eyes boring into his back.

After such a grand exit, he found himself with nothing to do. It appeared that the general consensus wished for him to attend, but regarded him fit for nothing but rest. They didn't ask him to wrap the bodies up in sheets or drag them behind a line of shacks, where the town graveyard was. Citizens of Primm and NCR soldiers bent over shovels together, taking turns in preparing their dead's last place of repose.

The convicts burned: their bodies were already heaped in a pile. John caught a glimpse of the flamethrower in passing and looked away, his face stiff, the grimace pulling at sore muscles and stretching the cicatrized skin painfully.

'At least I got rid of that bush on my face.'

John stood by himself as Primm mourned its dead, finding it hard to breathe, hard to swallow, hard to think. Sarah was conspicuously absent, and John hadn't seen – or heard – Sunny since the previous night. Doc Mitchell had told him she was 'helping around town', then bent over a wounded soldier. The woman's pained groans had ended their conversation.

The people the convicts had hung, their bodies exposed to the elements and carrion eaters for days, stank like hell. The sheriff and his wife, left to rot even longer in their shack at the edge of town, were even worse. There was a moment of awkwardness when their turn came, and the NCR soldiers who 'volunteered' as muscle for the rites hesitated, turning looks bordering on the pleading to their commanding officer.

John felt something lurch inside him at the sight of their greening faces, but he didn't budge from his spot. They cowed under Hayes' stony countenance.

Bar those long dead, nine more were interred. Five were soldiers, their graves marked with the dates on their dog tags: not one was older than twenty. John briefly considered them, but they'd died doing their duty, fighting for their nation in a backwater ruin in the desert. Soldiers knew the risks when they signed up. Others would remember them.

He tried to burn the remaining four's names in his memory, forcing himself to look at their faces, no matter how ruined, and hear their stories from parents and friends.

Anthony Beagle was the younger brother of sheriff's wife and the lawman's deputy. A soldier told John they found Beagle in the Bison Steve's kitchen, gagged and bound, still kneeling on the floor. The binds kept him upright even after the convicts shot him in the head.

He had no family or friends to mourn or remember him. Only John. And at the moment, he felt singularly incapable of the former.

Nora, Fortuna, and Delilah were found upstairs, playthings for the Powder Gangers just as Sarah had foreboded. Fortuna and Delilah were twins, believed blessed with luck on birth. John guessed their parents, sobbing wrecks holding each other now that their world came crashing down around them, would disagree.

Nora… Sergeant McGee begged John to spare him the retelling, but he'd been merciless. He would remember them, all of them. He needed to remember, so that next time, he'd be fast enough and good enough to save even one more life.

Trudy, Pete, Chet. Beagle, Nora, Fortuna, and Delilah. Another list, this one filling up faster than the other, but whose names would remain even after a job well done.


A brief talk with Johnson Nash later – right before Sarah Lyons sequestered him and another man into the Mojave Express's office with a smile on her face – turned John's attention away from the night prior and back on rails. Destination: Checkered Suit.

"Great Khans? Ah, I believe Beagle mentioned 'em a while back. Old men and memory are a bad fit. Poor sod noted down everything, always scribbling he was. You can check the sheriff's office if you can stand the smell. Take what you want. We'll probably tear it down in a few days, what with the NRC getting cozy. Oh, and stop by later."

Doc Mitchell had other plans.

"We need to talk," he announced, scowling darkly.

John looked around. The Doc planned it alright: out in the middle of Primm, soldiers and citizens alike milling around, the overpass a spitting distance away. 'Next time, torches and pitchforks.'

"We already did, last night. Thank you for patching me up, by the way. Don't you have patients to tend to?"

"Your concern is as touching as it is real. And we both know it's not me why your face looks almost new. Nor why you survived two bullets to your brain."

"Doc –"

"No, John." Mitchell shook his head, his expression wary, almost angry. His shoulders vibrated with tension. "I don't want an explanation or another bout of 'selective amnesia'. I don't care who you are, or what you are," he paused, staring him in the eye. "I want you to leave, and never come back."

John blinked. It was a slap in the face, but one he couldn't say he didn't expect or deserve. It was ironic, really.

'You were the first to welcome me to this world. You gave me a name. It's fitting you'd be the first to cast me away.'

But at the moment he was cranky, his head pounded like hell and he could feel the flesh in his face reknit and smoothing over as whatever kept him alive twice already alleviated the worst of his wounds. "You have no right to ask – no, command me. Or exile me."

The Doctor glared back from the moral high grounds of those who've lived far too long to give two shits about anyone else's opinion. "That's arguable. But I'll still do it. Finish your business here, then go. And don't take Sunny with you."

'Oh. So this is it.' "She's an adult. She can make her own choices. And she can survive out there longer than you could ever hope to."

"Right now, her choices will take her to an early grave. And you'd be handing her the shovel."

Silence. Ligaments popped as John's hands balled into fists. "Fuck you, Doc."

Mitchell sighed. "Don't mistake this for ingratitude. I am grateful John. I truly am. If not for me, for Sunny and Janine." John blinked again. Another sigh. "The girl. But you place yourself into the thick of things without hesitation, and you don't live an uneventful life. I won't ask you to change your ways: I don't think you'd know how and you've got the skills to live that life. Ultimately, it's your business. But leave Sunny out of it."

John shook his head, eyes to the sky, and for the first time, he felt like laughing. '

"I left her at camp last night. Just like you asked me."

"You did. And one hour later she was shooting at Gangers on the overpass, skidding among landmines. I have got one badly injured man at the tent because of that: he'll probably lose his leg." The Doc rubbed his eyes and coughed in his hand. John waited, injured pride silencing the concern for the Doctor's own health. "Do you know how much turbo she's taken already? She hasn't slept for days."

John exhaled violently, then passed an arm through his short cropped hair. "Then I'll help you tie her to a cot, dose her and flush the shit out of her system. Happy?"

"No," Mitchell said, matching John's disbelieving stare. "She looks up to you John, and don't deny what you shared the last night in Goodsprings. She was about to die, and you came to the rescue. You've killed raiders by the dime and saved people, a lot of people. Vengeance and heroism in the same package. What she wants to see herself as. But it's an image she can't take up. Maybe one day. But not in the condition she's in now."

"I'm no fucking hero, Doc!" John hissed through gritted teeth. "I thought you knew better."

"True, but you did more than most. The people in that casino owe you their life. And you showed up at the funeral wounded as you were, unlike that mercenary woman. Things like that tend to impress people. It's only a matter of time before she tries to emulate you. Last night was a testament to that, and it's gonna get worse the longer you hang around. And make no mistake: she's unhinged, and she'll die. And I'll never forgive you that."

John glowered, jaw set, fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically. Mitchell waited, unapologetic, but the scowl had disappeared, replaced by bone-deep weariness.

His mind flashed back to the conversation on the graveyard hill, the projects of vengeance, the alcohol, and Victor. The phantom scratches on John's back pulsed to obscure the pain in his face and hands. He remembered her wounded look, torn between anger, betrayal, and pleading when he told her to stay put in camp just the night prior. The way she absently caressed her rifle while deep in thought as the caravan shared gecko steaks and jalapenos.

The pressure on his chest reared its ugly head, squeezing his heart into mush.

John cursed under his breath and left, dropping the cowboy hat lower on his face. Mitchell watched him go for a moment, then rubbed his eyes and crossed the overpass to the field hospital, hand finding the photograph in his pocket.

Neither noticed the figure retreating from the balcony into Vikki and Vance Casino.


'God, the stench!'

John shut the door to the sheriff's house and office behind his back and exhaled violently, then sighed as fresh, only slightly smoky air filled his sore lungs. He coughed by reflex, then winced as his skin pulled. The peculiar smell of burning human flesh reached his nose as he contemplated the column of black smoke carving the sky in half just outside of town.

'Too bad the wildlife would come back for seconds if they let the bastards rot. What's worse, two days into the world and I'm already getting used to it.'

John pulled the duster closer around him and walked off, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the bowie knife across the back of his ammo belt. A couple of passing people did a double take when they spotted him, but John felt no shame in repurposing some of the late sheriff's belongings. The man's hat and tin star were clipped to his grave, and John would never take either anyway.

However, the duster was sturdy, good for camping in the cold desert nights and warding off the wind. The bowie would serve as a good backup weapon when things got hairy and one knife wasn't enough. The belt…

'Well, Fritz needs no ammo, but my gun does; any other weapon I find will too. Better with me than molding somewhere else.'

John looked at the sky from under the rim of his hat. The sun was halfway through its downward arch, but the Spring Mountains would cut off at least one hour of sunlight. The Doc's words echoed in his ears, but looking around he found himself unwilling to leave already and spend the night out in the cold, alone, when Primm would still be well within sight and memory in the morning.

'Ah, fuck it. Nash wanted to talk. Maybe the notes will stir his old man memory.'

He brushed the notebook in his pocket. Nash was right: Deputy Beagle was almost pathological in noting down his reports. The drawers of his desk were filled with stacked notebooks, a third of which still empty, if not pristine. Cataloged in that veritable maze of paper, John found the note he needed. His lips pressed into a grim line.

Checkered suit still had quite the retinue. Greased prick and his fashion statement were bound for Novac, but that was weeks ago. 'Seems though that Sunny's guess was spot on. Only way to reach the Strip now.'

Before his mind could trip him into thoughts of the once spunky woman, John halted in front of the Mojave Express office, just next door to the empty shop he skulked in the previous night, just before Lyons kicked the hornet nest. As if the turned off, big, neon sign screaming 'Mojave' wasn't telling, it was most impressively one of the few buildings two stories high with an intact roof atop it.

As he approached, the door swung inwards and the mercenary herself stepped out, talking over her shoulder with a broad, black man with short cropped hair and a courier bag slung across his chest.

'Now, how do I know that?'

The man chuckled at something she said, but John didn't hear that. Instead, his eyes widened as a spherical robot half a meter in radius followed them out of the office, bobbing softly up and down at shoulder's height. A profusion of antennae shot out of its body, pointing down, backward and to the side, centered around a grill that covered it's front.

Foreign thoughts took possession of his mind. 'That's an Eyebot. No, wait, not a regular one good only for info gathering and propaganda, that's the combat model! Laser gun, improved reversible thrusters and duraframe plating. What's a thing like that doing here?'

The Eyebot chirped, shaking John out of his daze. He realized Sarah was talking to him.

" –op daydreaming, John. You in there?" Her tone was back to the friendly one from their introduction, devoid of the cold, assessing dismissiveness of the night excursion. In the daylight her features, while still stunning, seemed less sharp than he recalled at night. Behind her, the courier shook his head.

"Yeah, sorry. The Eyebot surprised me." He edged closer around her, curious despite still reeling from the sudden onslaught of information and images trying to take root in his brain. "Where did you find it?"

"The Eyebot? Oh, you mean ED-E. On the office counter. Nash said a courier brought it in some time ago. Someone had used it for target practice and then left it by the road. Turned out it was just some minor damage to the energy dispenser." She arched an eyebrow at him. "You know what it is?"

John hesitated, then nodded. 'How? "Yeah. I think so, at least. It's a patrol and maintenance unit. They were mass-produced before the war, mostly for civilian use, but weren't really built to last. This one is a combat model. You lucked out big time, Sarah."

She held his gaze for a second, then shrugged. "I never say no to a bonus." Shielding her eyes, her expression turned sour. "The Lieutenant dragged out that conversation far too long. What do you say, Wyand," she said, turning to the courier now lounging to the side. "Up to head out while there's still light? We can camp at the Patrol Station and continue at dawn tomorrow without losing time at the checkpoint."

A small smirk played on the man's lips and he shrugged. "Fine by me, Sarah. The sooner we leave, the sooner we get there."

"Good." She adjusted the strap of her laser rifle across her chest and patted her pocket. Caps jingled. "We're off then. John, it's been a pleasure."

"Likewise," he said, shaking her hand. He offered a nod at the courier. "Safe travels."

"You too. Maybe we'll meet again. The Mojave is a sandbox."

John watched them walk away for a few seconds, chatting already. His vision was full of the woman's swaying hips, and he enjoyed the view for a few moments more. Then he shook his head and pushed the door.

A small bell rang above his head and John stopped to stare. The two men at the counter put down their glasses, brown liquid lapping at the rims, and Hayes motioned him forward.

"Ah, Mr. Doe. Come in, don't stand in the door. I was looking for you. Johnson here said you'd be stopping by."

"Hm, yeah." John took a moment to look around himself. The post office was large and well-lit by the light filtering through the opaque, cracked glass and a spinning fan lamp. A counter decorated with two glasses and a half-empty bottle of whiskey spanned the length of the front room, cutting off customers from the back-office space. One corner was dominated by a blocky, rusted dropbox that reminded John of a pre-war copy machine stamped with faded 'Mojave Express' prints all over it.

It was clear by the shelves covered in all kinds of cheap to decent goods that Nash tripled as the local tradesman; on cue, the singed leather armor started stinging under his duster. 'Beggars can't be choosers. Suck it up, John.'

"Drink?" offered Nash, producing another glass from under the counter.

"Thank you." He grabbed and downed it in one swift motion, relishing the burn of the alcohol down his throat and the heat as it nestled into his stomach. "So, who's first?"

"That sounds like a threat," said Hayes. "I wanted to thank you. We'd still be on the other side of Primm without you and that Lyons woman."

"And we owe you our lives," Nash said. "Them gangsters would have hung us all in a coupla days, once they got bored." Nash grimaced, rubbing his neck for emphasis. The web on his leathery face darkened in grief. "It's a goddamned shame for Nora and the girls."

John felt his fist clench, mind flashing to the women's faces - what remained of Nora's, really - but said nothing. Hayes nodded in sympathy and poured Nash another whiskey, which the man downed quickly.

"Rest assured, that will be the last you hear of the Powder Gangers. And that," he turned to John once more, "that's exactly what you and I are going to talk about."

"I'm all ears, Lieutenant. When are we moving?"

"Not so fast, John," chided Hayes. "First, this is for last night's work. You did the NCR a service. We appreciate it. I appreciate it."

John caught the small pouch, feeling the caps inside shift and jingle in his hands. Hayes continued, "One-hundred fifty caps, same as Lyons. And there's more where that came from, but for that, I need you to come with me." He rose from his stool and patted the front of his armor. "Mr. Nash."

"Lt. Hayes," Nash tipped the brim of an imaginary hat. "John. Come back anytime." John choked down a mirthless chuckle.

"I thought the people here weren't all that fond of the NCR," said John once the door closed behind them. Hayes, face composed again in an officer's inscrutability, started towards the overpass.

"They aren't," Hayes deadpanned. "Many demand the NCR protection, but would sooner see us out in the desert than pay a cap in taxes. They pride themselves on an independence they've never really had and think we are some watered-down alternative to the Legion, only with fewer slaves and more taxes and bureaucracy."

John took off his hat and batted it against his thigh, sighing as the constant itching of his scar abated. "And yet they depend on your caravans and the tourists to the Strip to get by."

"There's that," the soldier conceded. "But that's a byproduct. The NCR brings civilization. Our technicians operate the Dam and give the Mojave electricity and running water. We patrol the highways, deal with raiders, slavers and mutants. The Followers started out in the Boneyard, despite the whole mess after the last war. The Gangers were brought in to expand the railways from McCarran and Sloan to the south. And each of these things is paid with the blood of our soldiers."

Hayes' voice lowered and his face grew grimmer. "I lost five good men last night. Two more are no longer fit for duty. And all the acknowledgment we got was a shot of whiskey and a tepid welcome. But I must remain diplomatic." He almost spat the last word.

John remained silent at that. He understood the man's frustration, or at least he thought he did. To give his best, putting himself and the men under his command in danger where he could have waited, only to emerge empty-handed and with more lost lives weighing down on him.

The breath hitched in his throat.'Yeah, I know where you come from.'

"But enough of that." They crossed the overpass and Hayes ushered him into his tent. Nothing had changed since the last time he entered. Was it really less than a day ago? John could hardly believe it. "There are more caps for you to assist in the next part of the operation. Let's say, two-hundred. You in?"

John cast a look at the ever-present map and resisted his first impulse to jump right in. 'Novac's far and the Strip further away. I'll need the cash,'part of his mind said, while the other struggled with his self-control to throw his lot in just for a chance at the convicts.

"I need details," he ventured, "but I'm interested."

Hayes grunted. "The Outpost radioed in. The strike team hit the road this morning. They ought to arrive by tomorrow at midday. Then, we leave a token force here and march on the prison."

"How many? And what resistance do you expect?"

"Twenty from the outpost, plus two rangers. From here, Sgt McGee will guide you. He's already scouted the area around the prison. Ranger Morales and Sgt. Lee will be in overall command of the operation."

"How many of the fuckers are holed up in there?" John asked again, leaning heavily on the table.

"The last census had one hundred and twenty prisoners. A number of them died during the escape, then they fractured in bands and groups of their own, mostly reforming the gangs they belonged to. They quarreled, of course. Hate and grudges run deep among that lot."

A finger circled the map to the north and east of Goodsprings. "A large group, forty at least, moved north some time ago before Quarry Junction became off-limits. Others struck off on their own, like that Chaves scum we nailed down two weeks ago. The rest remains loosely under Eddy's command." Hayes' fingers drummed a tune on the table. "Between here and Goodsprings, it's at least another thirty cut from that number."

"Best case scenario, they still outnumber you. And they'll barricade inside the moment a uniform crests the hill. Probably are already."

"We're counting on that." At John's confusion, Hayes explained, "The more inside the complex, the better. The Powder Gangers don't hold the monopoly on explosives in this corner of the world."

"You'll wreck the facility. Where will you house the next batch you set to work on the monorail then?"

Hayes shrugged, then straightened. "That's above my paycheck. But Outpost was clear we shouldn't waste time on prisoners." The lieutenant's hand inched forward. "Now. You in?"

John shook it without a moment's hesitation, mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. "A good Ganger is a dead Ganger."


John was shaken from his nightmares filled faces contorted in pain, blasting fire and suffocation by steps climbing the stairs at a gallop.

'Third time tonight. I'm gonna kill you, Ringo.' Cracking one eye open, he noticed a weak glow seeping through the cracked shutters. 'Dawn. Barely. Another hour won't-'

The steps reached his door. By the time Doc Mitchel barged through the door, ashen-faced and struggling for breath, John was already on his feet, Fritz aimed.

"What the hell, Doc?!"

"John - " he wheezed, slumping against the doorsill. John rushed in to support the elderly doctor before he hit the ground. The old man was shaking and sweating. "John – she - ugh - she's –"

"You'll tell me later, Doc," John cut him off, strong-arming the frail man to the bed. "Sit down, breathe. Don't speak."

"You don't – she - Sunny – "

Women's voices screaming, faces contorting into a haze of crimson. John's heart skipped a beat. He grabbed the Doc by the shoulders, a moment away from shaking the answer from the man's bones. "What's wrong with Sunny? She hurt?!"

"She's left, gone," the Doc managed, then a coughing fit gripped him. Seconds slowed to hours as John was riveted to the floor. "The watch says she went.. she went for a walk after dinner." The Doctor lifted sunken eyes to John's face. "She's not come back, John. They heard gunfire. From the east."

John was out of the door before the Doc finished the sentence. Two doors down, he barged through without knocking. Ringo bolted upright on his bed, hand reaching for his gun. The half-naked woman beside him didn't stir, an empty syringe of med-x on the nightstand.

"John? What –"

"Doc's in my room. Look after him." And he was gone.

Fritz batted against his side as he took the steps three at a time. He pushed the Bison's door wide and wind tore at his duster, beating on his face. He stopped and looked up, then behind, eyes narrowing against the grains of sand the wind kicked up. Clouds shadowed the Spring Mountains, yellow-orange as the desert-sand, sick and foreboding.

Ringo's words echoed in his head. "The storms from the Divide are already bad enough with that single gap."

'Son of a bitch.'

He took off at a run, retracing the Doctor's steps and rocketing into the small NCR camp. The only sentinel was too busy with his nose up in the air to stop him. A brahmin mooed in discomfort, pulling at its leash.

"Hayes!" he shouted as a greeting, bursting through the flap. "I need Sergeant McGee!"

The M16A1 levelled at his chest didn't even register. Hayes, clad only in his BDU pants, gave him a once-over, then slowly lowered the rifle and rose from the cot. "John, what in the actual fuck – "

"No time! I need McGee and I need him now. Sunny's missing!"

The lieutenant frowned, then his expression darkened into a scowl. "You think – "

"I do," John slashed the air before him, teeth gritting. "Doc said the night watch heard gunfire from the hills. She went after them."

"Then she's dead," Hayes decided after a moment. John had to stop himself from strangling the man. "I'm sorry, but I won't send you and the Sergeant into this folly. She's made her choice."

"Right now, her choices will likely lead to an early grave. And you'd be handing her the shovel."

"Goddamnit, don't rule her out!" 'She's alive. She must be.' '"Give me McGee, we'll move ahead of your fucking strike team!"

"No."

John punched Hayes straight in the face.

The lieutenant probably expected that, but John was faster, angrier. His right hand struck out like a coiled rattler and connected with Hayes' nose, sending him careening into his cot gushing blood from the nose.

The flap fluttered closed behind him. A moment later he grabbed the night watch by the shoulder pad and shook him from his weather contemplations.

"Wha –"

"The gunfire tonight. When?! Which direction?!"

"I – I –" The soldier looked into John's eyes and swallowed thickly." North and w-west, sir. 'Round midnight, one o'clock in the mornin' tops. Sir."

John pushed him away and took off. The wind picking up carried Hayes' shouted orders to his ears long after he left Primm behind.


He wasn't much of tracker. Even in his heightened state, adrenaline and fear pumping in equal measures through his veins, he knew that. That's what Sgt. McGee the scout was for.

There was not much missing a body sprawled in the middle of the wastes, however. Not when that body was clad in navy blues and the first, intrepid bloatflies buzzed around the congealed blood and cooling flesh for the choicest pick.

John didn't know whether to feel elated or listen to the sinking pit in his stomach.

Two slashes of the bowie later and the insects's broken husks crunched to the ground. He kneeled beside the body and tore away a large strip of cloth from his jacket, wrapping it around his mouth and nose to fend off the increasing quantities of sand the storm was throwing at him.

'A gunshot wound to the side of the head. Rifle or large caliber pistol. Sunny. Was he alone?' He turned his head around frantically, narrowing his eyes. The sun was up, but little of it penetrated the clouds rolling overhead from the Divide.

'There. Fucking storm. More blood there, surely not this one's. No bodies, though. Injured, severe, nicked a vessel.' Again, his head darted left and right, eyes aching to take everything in. 'No dragging signs or bloody paws. Bootprints. No bodies.'

They'd taken her.

Relief at her survival mixed with anger at her stupidity, then with worry at the storm messing with the tracks. Fear gripped his mind next, looping his thoughts, drying his throat to wasteland dust.

'They took her. To the prison. Too many of the bastards.'

He started running, bootprint after bootprint, drop of blood after drop of blood. He didn't even know why anymore. She'd killed one of them. Attacked them, on their turf. They'd spare her only to make her wish she was dead in the first place, over and over again.

And he couldn't do anything about it.

He ran. Until his legs ached, then burned. Until the pounding in his head grew from a drum to a military parade slamming boots against his skull. Until he felt ready to puke out his lungs. The tracks ended and he looked around, eyes dancing wildly in his sockets.

'There. Lights. A tower. It's the prison. Fuckfuckfuck, where is the strike team?!'

He stood in the storm, listening, but there was only the wind roaring in his ears, gluing the duster to his back. It pushed him forward, towards the lights. John's grip on Fritz tightened until his hand was numb and his knuckles white, then he took a step forward, and heard the voices.

"C'mon Lem, don't be mad –"

'Where?' He spun around, but the wind battered at his ears, forcing his eyes shut.

"You selfish prick, you squeez'd too long – "

'There!' He bulldozed to his left then slid down a slope, gravel sliding under him and more dust joining the ranks of the storm. The light of a lantern flickered at the mouth of a cave, then disappeared from view.

"What's the problem, pal?"

"Chris and Kyle are dead, you didn't share and we're stuck in the middle of a fuckin' storm, that's mah problem!"

John rounded into the cave, his feet turning into lead with every step. The wind pulled at the tail of his duster, trying to force him out, but then he was inside and the wind was just a whistling howl, miles and miles away. He skipped over a cooling body, male and with a belt tied around his thigh, a small pool of blood congealing under him.

"Stop a bein' a pickish prissy. She's still warm, y'see? I'll turn around if you're shy – "

"I'll show you shy, you damn – Hey, who the fuck are you?!"

Red, pounding red filled John's vision. Wails and cries and pleas roared in his ears, silencing the storm outside. He grabbed the muzzle of a rifle pointed at him and wrenched, snapping the barrel and driving it into the gut of the man in front of him in the same motion, then wrenching again, to the side. Something hot sliced his face and he turned, grabbing the offending arm and twisting it until he heard and felt it snap.

A spluttering gasp replaced curses in the blink of an eye. John grabbed the scruff of hair in front of him and drove it into the wall, again and again and again, until the sickening crunches weakened into wet splats and blood and brain matter coated his arm to the elbow.

Behind him, something gurgled, kneeling, hands groping listlessly at the intestines lolling out of the gaping tear in its belly. John kneeled before it and the haze, like it came, dispelled, leaving throbbing clarity in its wake. He stared into the convict's eyes and saw them widen and roll up as he plunged his left hand into its belly. His fingers closed around a spine.

"Still warm, y'see?"

The Ganger flopped forward, splashed into a pool of his own blood, and was still. A pool John was kneeling into. Reality flooded back in. The cave. The wind howling outside. The pungent smell of blood and urine and waste. Blood, in his mouth, down his neck. The dead Ganger at his feet. Sunny.

"Sunny?"

"Sunny?!"

He rose, turned around, and saw her.

She was staring up at the ceiling, unseeing eyes streaked with red and black. John felt his knees hit the ground again, the final dregs of anger he worked on draining out of him. He stared at her neck, bruising black and blue, then at his own hands. The left, impossibly still, while the right couldn't stop shaking, the tremor carrying up his arm, grabbing hold of his chest, of his entire being.

'So many. Too many. Why? Why her?! It's been only three days! Only three days.'

John folded onto himself, wrapping his blood-soaked arms around his belly. He folded onto himself, forehead brushing hers, and he tasted salt mixed with the metal of blood in his mouth, heard the plic-plic on Sunny's still face and the first sob rocked his body.

She stared up at the ceiling as he came apart at the seams.

Later, much later, when the wind had died down and natural light bounced off the cave walls, John closed her eyes, dressed her in her bloodied leathers and returned the revolvers to her belt. 'Prize and memento.'

Then he lifted her in his arms and began the long trek back.

"Lower your weapons, soldiers," Hayes' voice was more nasal, he noticed. He also noticed a large number of guns pointed at him. The ground, the tarmac, even the building's facades, all were covered in a film of orange sand.

"She's that lass? The one who snapped?" muttered a very pale woman with a cowboy fetish. A man in bulky, camo armor elbowed her in the ribs. "What? Don't be a hypocrite, Morales."

"We thought they got you," said Hayes with his nasal voice, ignoring the bickering in the ranks.

John nodded. "They didn't. Not me."

"I see. I should put you under arrest."

John didn't reply. He stared. Through a gap in the throng of soldiers, he saw a bald head advance with naked dread and dawning realization.

"I should, but I won't." Hayes was still there, his hand on John's shoulder. The old man shouldered through armored soldiers. Squeezed. Pushed. Cursed. "I'll let you go and bury her."

Closer. Closer. Mitchell's face emerged from between two soldiers. Then his shoulder. Then an arm, clawing forward.

'Why won't you look at me, old man? You were right. Right all along.'

John kneeled, braced Sunny with her back propped against his knee. Her head lolled to the side, and there were more hands, other hands, steadying it, steadying her, caressing her face, going through movements ingrained by a lifetime of experience, the same experience that tells such actions are useless.

'Look at me, old man. You were right. Say it!'

Choked sobs rent the air. A murmur rose from the crowd.

"Or you can come, and settle this once and for all."

John's hand brushed Fritz's trigger. He exhaled and rose to follow the lieutenant, leaving Sunny in the Doc's care. Like he should have in the first place. 'Ugly, selfish prick.'

"Lead the way."


Consciousness returned by bits and pieces, slipping out of his grasp like mirelurk eggs before he could grab it fully. Wyand groaned as light burned into his eyes, then bit down on his tongue, falling silent.

He found himself suspended from the ground, his limbs manacled to bars, the chains pulled tight to bite into his flesh. He struggled, briefly, but knew at first glance the bindings, rusted as they were, wouldn't budge.

'So this is it.' Realization sank in, and he felt only a pang of regret before acceptance settled. He'd die, after many years of service. He knew this day would come the moment they came to his tent, pulled him out of the ranks. Service, wading through the pollution of the Mojave and beyond, then, one day, death. Fitting. Appropriate. It was a good ending to a good life.

What remained was the satisfaction of fouling whatever plans his captors had for him. If they expected him to talk, they better think again.

Memory stirred, and the breath hitched in his throat. 'No, impossible.' Then his captor sauntered in, spinning a gold coin on her finger. Her face could have been granite for all the emotion it showed. Shame burned through him like Greek fire. Then came desperation.

'No, not like this. Not by a woman's hands! There's no honor in this!'

"Frumentarius," she said, tossing the coin aside. "Posing as a courier. Smart, if predictable."

"Kill me or shut up, woman!"

"I will kill you," she told him, matter-of-factly. She picked up a syringe from the open med-kit on a table nearby and uncorked the needle. Clear liquid shot up for a moment as she tapped the plunger.

"But first, you will talk. You will tell me what you know of the six packages, and who carried them."

"Make me, profligate," he spat. He forced the desperation down, walling it up behind pride and determination. Then the needle broke his skin, and liquid fire shot through his body, beyond the scope and meaning of the word agony.

Daniel Wyand, known elsewhere as Germanicus, Legion Frumentarius, screamed.

Later, Sarah undid the bindings and the Frumentarius flopped forward, cracking his head on the cold floor tiles. Only a little blood trickled out. Turning to the table, she placed the spent syringe into the box and recovered a small bottle of pills labeled with 'Rad-X'.

Careful not to touch her skin to the contents, she let one drop on the corpse and watched with only vague interest as the chemicals reacted and started eating away at Wyand's flesh, leaving most of his clothes untouched.

Then she tapped her ear. "Harkness, this is Lyons." A few moments of silence stretched, broken only by a faint sizzling as the Frumentarius' tissues were disassembled down to atomic components.

"No, I haven't found it yet," she said, "but I found a copy of the delivery receipt in Primm. Package six was the Chip, bound north to the Strip through the I-15. I'll be heading there next." Silence. Sarah frowned.

"The NCR is a non-issue so far. One of the couriers hired for the job was Legion though. One of Vulpes's, yes – I know we accounted for his interference, but so far he knows less than we do about Courier Six's identity. I was thorough."

Silence. Sizzling. Sarah repacked the pills and tied the med-kit to her belt.

"No, the courier stamp on the delivery register belongs to the Followers. Probably a fund-raising run. It was a dead pick-up, nobody saw the Courier on this end but the Securitron."

She repacked the Frumentarius' bag with its sparse belongings and picked up the gold coin, examining the austere profile and the script underneath. 'Aeternit Imperi.' Sarah shook her head and packed it too.

"Mr. House, or one of the family heads of the Strip working for him. And Johnson Nash, the local Express officer, confirmed they were hired by a Securitron with a cowboy face. That's our guy."

The pills' work was almost done, she noticed. Sarah unslung her rifle from the hanger by the door and replaced it across her back, tugging at the strap. Looking around for anything else she might have missed, she nodded to herself.

"So far, I'm under the radar. And I've something for you. An Eyebot, a Duraframe Enclave model from back East. Looks like the Wanderer failed to destroy them all when he nuked himself on the Crawler."

Sarah stopped at that, then shook her head as if to clear it from cobwebs. She knelt by the pile of empty clothes and balled them up into a bundle she tucked under her arm. The Eyebot chirped at her as she walked out of the detention wing, but Sarah tilted her head toward the entrance and continued, trusting the robot to follow. It did, if after a moment's hesitation.

"Exactly. I'll try and crack the records on the way to the Strip. I'll contact you when I have something. You keep me updated on the robot, I'd like a face to go with the Followers' stamp."

Outside, she dropped the Frumentarius' belonging into a hole in the ground, then used a flat slab of scrap metal torn from a car to heap the soil onto it. She then threw the impromptu shovel away and dragged the skeleton of a rocket car over the hole to conceal the disturbed dirt from sight, wiping the tracks away. It was overkill, as any traveler would be more interested in looting the dead Jackals strewn inside and outside the station, or avoiding the carrion eaters that'd flock to the feast soon, but she'd always choose certainty over chance if given the chance.

Satisfied, she patted her hands to shake off the film of sand and rust and walked into the desert, ED-E trailing her a little way back.

"One last thing. I've met someone in Primm. He carried an energy weapon I couldn't identify. The left arm was prosthetic but indistinguishable to the naked eye. Yes, a perfect copy on the outside. Claims to be amnesiac, calls himself John Doe, but he has the same regenerative boost as that last batch of Infiltrators. No, I don't think he's lying. He's gunning for Vegas, so I'll keep an eye on him. You search for their base. They never move solo."


AN: Edited on 30/04/17. My thanks to Excisium for proofreading.

Edit#2, 27/04/18, by PartyPat22.