A/N: I hope you guys had a good Thanksgiving! This chapter is a flashback, and there will be quite a lot of those in this story—so, I hope you don't mind too much! As always, I appreciate your thoughts and feedback.

New Vegas, 2278: Three days after Bitter Springs Massacre

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"Missy! You git back here before I whup your dang hide!"

The blonde-haired young girl gave a mischievous giggle, her bare feet thudding into the dirt as she sprinted across the dry, uneven ground. Her grimy wiggling toes dug into the loamy soil with a wild relish, kicking up vapid clouds of red dust. She sidestepped the rickety ol' broom that her mama swung about, dodging its painful attacks before loping off like a jackrabbit beneath the hot sunlight and endless blue skies.

Strands of hair caught themselves in her little pink mouth, making her sputter and start like the pre-war engines that the farmhands worked all day'n night. She could hear them now, in the distance; their metal muscles were coiled tight to eat all the crops—the sleek iron and rusted paint sweating profusely in the afternoon, and hot enough to scald bare, unprotected hands. They puttered back and forth, their eerie grinding noises an unwelcome, if not repetitive, addition to the large acres of golden wheat, barley, and coloured maize. It was all that seemed to flourish in the warm climates of Nevada, beyond struggling cacti and thorny honey trees.

The water from Lake Mead helped. It was clear, crisp, and fresh to the sunbaked lungs of dying thirst. There was no copper aftertaste which denoted radiation, and it burned your throat somethin' fierce after a quick swallow. Mama only got three cherry-red barrels each week for the house. The rest went to the whispering fields and farmhands. It wasn't anywhere close to enough, but the NCR didn't much care for generosity. Quotas were quotas, and extra rations were practically unheard of.

"Youse gots to be thankful," her mother had once chided, when they were shucking silky green ears of corn on the back porch. "This a dyin' land, child, and we the pioneers, you hear?"

"Yes'm," Missy had absently replied, her mind in other, more fantastical places. "We gotta colonise, as them soldiers done did."

Slender, delicate hands of a childish sort wrapped around a buttermilk cookie. Missy cackled and cooed, shoving the friable treat between her lips once she was sure of freedom. It tasted warm and earthy, with a raspy bitterness clinging to her tongue. There were crumbs that spilled and caught themselves in the threadbare folds of her sackcloth dress. Sighing, she brushed her stubby fingers clean before reaching the end of the rutted lane.

Missy turned and followed the rusted, beat-up fence which ran around the perimeter in a vague attempt at security. Barbed wires hung over the edges of the rotting wood, and she had cut herself enough times to know that it was still sharp.

Maybe we'll get sum letters, Missy thought, glancing upwards at the clouds, which were whipped up and white like fresh cream. I c'n practice my words, and git real learned.

Getting dispatches was a precious gift. It was what Mama said, especially when they came from Twigs or Pa, since it was a rare occurrence to happen indeed. Last one arrived four months ago, Missy reckoned. She knew that from the dog-eared almanac.

Both of 'em served in the NCR, and Missy had a real itching to go join up with the ranks despite the big upset it would undoubtedly unleash on the farmstead, 'cause she was only twelve, after all, and a little girl to boot. She wanted to see the raring sights of New Vegas for herself, to feast upon the flashing lights and clear bottles o' booze. Missy dared to think of being famous, of singlehandedly saving the NCR, and of becoming the prettiest thing alive so that every man fell at her womanly feet; she dreamt this, and much, much more all while hanging soggy linens on the clothesline.

But Mama didn't care for the military much, and had cried, sobbed, and wailed for three hours straight when her two boys had left; their reddish-yellow hair had been shaved into an alarming buzzcut, and their green-and-brown uniforms had melded with the drab countryside like the dusty camouflage of a desert moth. And so Missy stirred grits, churned freshly made butter, swept the hardwood floors, counted the sunflower seeds, and darned stinky old socks. The chores never ended, yet neither did her resolve to go off adventurin' someday.

She began to whistle tunelessly, stopping short when she spotted a lonesome person quietly travelling up the turnpike road, their small outline almost swallowed whole by the bright sunshafts which lanced through the heady blue air like long, hard spears. The breath caught sharply in Missy's throat as she stared at the hunched little figure which hobbled this way and that with a pathetic stumble borne from the extremity of a violent feeling. It was plain to see that it was an aimless path with no apparent destination, for the shapeless silhouette would stop, pause, and look about with the sluggish movements of the timid blind before moving onwards. Their progress was necessarily slow, as a heavy, wet blanket seemed draped over their thin shoulders, and their shaking feet were bent oddly. Missy was frozen in place like hunted prey, watching as a cold realisation abruptly dawned upon her, the shock being enough to make her gasp and clutch at her whitewash overalls.

The figure was just a girl, who seemed utterly defeated, as if her body was giving up to the harsh cruelty of the world, but her mind yet disagreed, and forced her to keep walking with an inexplicable reason of, perhaps, a primitive survival. Her rent leather jacket barely covered her half-exposed breasts and the tops of her thighs, nor did it shield from the elements, as each mild breeze sent it flapping wildly. Blood, dirt, and various states of other matters were layered upon her pale skin, misting her with the spotted disfigurement of a ruined painting.

Missy took off like a demon, whirling through the fields and screeching, "Mama, Mama!" Her teary eyes watered as she hastily climbed over a wooden gate and sprinted for the old saggy porch with all that she was worth, bellowing up a veritable storm. "Mama, hey, you gots—you gotta come quick!"

"Goodness, chil', what you want now?" Her mother grumbled beneath her breath. Her stiff hands were clenched around a worn splintery broom with more than a tinge of rigidness at being interrupted. Her greying hair stiffly stood upon the prow of a pinched, angular face, showcasing a ruddy callousness which burned with the sweltering heat of anger and motherly irritation.

"Mama!" Missy took huge gulp of air, pointing with a crooked finger down the tracks that led up to their two-storey home. "A girl! There's a girl—I dun saw it myself—and she's hurt bad. Like, bad. All this blood was everywhere, and she were limping 'bout."

Her mother suddenly became very still. Nobody came near here 'cept soldiers since Camp Golf was close by; the extensive fortress was less than a few miles southwards, and two pairs of patrols would march through the acreage weekly on their way back to base. Missy coughed, leaning against one of the wooden, spindly columns supporting the roof of the porch, her eyes gazing steadfastly at her parent with a brimming impatience.

Mama stirred, her yellow skirt and floral blouse all neat and orderly despite the hot summer gusts which strived to do the complete opposite. She used to be thin, although the years and childbearing hadn't been kind to her. Now her skin was marred with the beginnings of time, and fresh, sprightly wrinkles peppered her glassy eyes.

"Hey," Missy whispered, startling her from the slack-jawed look. "She had blood, Mama. Lotta blood."

"Child—so help me if you're lying," Her mother warned, "I will strip your goddamn hide fo' telling tall tales."

Missy stuck out her tongue. "I ain't." She pointed out, far to the corner of her eyesight, where they both caught of glimpse of a dark, moving form. "Look."

"Well, shit."

Excitement and nerves roiled around Missy's head, coagulating into a childish mess of unbearable emotions and spinning thoughts. Mama swore, she shouted at herself, her heartbeat speeding up as she quickly dodged another swat. Mama ain't never swore 'fore.

Missy followed her mother down the road, keeping several steps away as the girl came fully into view, stopping beside a dead copsewood. She hung onto the brown pre-war mailbox with what looked to be the final dregs of her strength, and her pitiful gaze struck them as vacant and heart-wrenching when the three of their gazes collided into an inseparable mesh of human sentiments.

Her mother placed a hand over her ample, quivering bosom, making small noises as her mouth quirked downwards into a thoughtful frown. Missy wasn't sure if she was supposed to fetch the family shotgun, or grab one of those lacy fans that stood collecting dust in their front parlour—she weren't allowed to touch 'em, so she stayed put, instead, and worried her bottom lip until she tasted the coppery twang of blood.

The girl stared at them both. They stared back.

Reddish-blonde curls were pressed up against her drawn face, nearly hiding her large honey eyes and sallow cheekbones. There was so much blood caked on her in dry, papery layers that she seemed like a proper demon, accompanied with rasping breaths and low, unearthly moans. Slowly, ever so slowly, she raised up a bony hand, allowing the blanket to drop at her feet in a puddle of tattered fabric. It was woollen, and thick, and—Missy gasped.

"That ain't no blanket," Missy whispered, her button-like features fraught with a sudden, harsh terror, "Thassa NCR flag, Mama."

Her mama almost fainted right then and there. "Aw, shit."

The girl collapsed into a malnourished heap. Her scrawny limbs folded in upon themselves, as if making a deformed pretzel. Her head struck a white stone when she fell upon the unforgiving pavement with a thump, but she barely seemed to notice as her eyelids were already closed shut with exhaustion.

"Mama—what do we do?" Missy said, truly frightened. She had never seen someone die before, and now it was happening right in front of her, almost testing her tender courage.

Her mother startled, then recollected her thoughts with a knowing grimace. She crouched next to the girl with a huff, disregarding the blood and dirt as she plopped down her heavy skirt and petticoats

"Mama?" Missy prompted, half-afraid she'd get no answer.

"We bring her in," her mother replied stoutly, shaking her head. "We bring her on inside, an' we wash her up good. Ain't nobody dying on my property, 'specially not with some NCR flag. I ain't no cotton-head."

Missy nodded, sucking in her cheeks as she ran to fetch clean water without being told. Her footsteps clattered noisily on the tacky porch as she swung open the screen door and darted into the kitchen—then through a dim hallway, then the mudroom, and then out back near the wilted vegetable gardens. Two oaken barrels awaited her eagerly, basking in the lukewarm shade of the late afternoon. They were tall, intimidating, and harder than a dang chestnut to crack open during Yuletide, but Missy didn't stop for a moment until she had a bucket overfilling with fresh water. It splashed at her ankles as she lugged it back. Perspiration dotted her forehead in shiny droplets as she entered the cramped kitchen with a metallic clang. She laid the bucket down, then moved to the sittin' room where she heard soft noises.

Her mother had stripped the girl stark naked, where she now stiffly lay on the pastel green couch. Her heart-shaped face had grown even paler, like a dying snowdrop, and Missy swore that she could count the freckles which were stippled across her crooked nose in the cool dimness with ease.

She crept into the room. "Is she dead?"

"She will be if you don't git me that water," her mother snapped out, watching as Missy smartly turned around like she had been bitten. "And go find them dang sewing supplies—they're stuffed somewhere, but I know they ain't gone just yet."

Missy shuffled out, clasping her hands together. "Yes'm."

"And get the shotgun! I ain't saving someone t'find out they're a mean hooligan."

"Yes'm."

"What you say to me?"

Missy stuck her head back in the doorway, puzzled. "What, Mama?"

Her mother shook at finger at her. "Don't be giving me no lip, girlie. And don't pout, or I'll give you somethin' to pout about. You hear me, now?"

Missy gave a big smile. "I heard you. Loud and clear."

Her mother paused, flustered. "Well—alright, then. Go on, I have a patient, and I need my things."

Missy swayed from side to side. "Is she gon' live?"

"She won't if'n you keep jabbering," her mother retorted. "Now go!"

The girl made a noise, then lapsed back into silence as fingers prodded her limp wrist for a pulse, searching for the faint heartbeat that was slowly dying like a half-melted candle at the end of its wick.