A/N: Thanks for the reviews so far!

Homecoming

It had taken almost three days to make the trek back to Regulator Headquarters. As much as he hated the damned, run-down farmhouse, Ferris was glad to see its rusting corrugated iron exterior. Even from half a mile away, the building nothing more than a brown smudge in the distance, he could recognise it.

He was bone-weary now, and despite being in sight of the one place he had called home for the past few years, he felt almost ready to drop then and there, and sleep for the entire day, and well into the next. But he kept moving. Planting one foot in front of the other, slow and steady, as he'd done for the last few miles.

Ferris had lain on the road, surrounded by the remains of the Deathclaw for a good six hours, drifting in and out of consciousness. When he finally came to, he cursed his stupidity liberally; every man, woman and child born in the DC Wasteland knew better than to take a nap out in the open, at least not without some preparation before hand to try and ensure nothing came along whilst you were asleep to eat, kill or otherwise harm you. And there he'd been, lying down, in the middle of a road, of all places!

He had been bloody lucky a Yao Guai hadn't come along to investigate the smell of blood in the air, or that some Raiders hadn't spotted the explosion and decided to check it out.

Right now, all Ferris wanted, was a change of clothes, a scrub down, an infusion of radaway, and uninterrupted decent sleep in an actual bed.

When he finally crested the last hill, the farmhouse was a few scant metres away. Ferris' slow walk came to a complete stop. He froze, all thought of rest suddenly banished from his mind. His exhaustion was gone, evaporated in a sudden surge of adrenaline. He dropped into a crouch, keeping as much of himself hidden in the long brown grass as he could.

A broken wooden fence surrounded the farmhouse, forming a pen for the Regulator's several bramin. The mutated bovines were a good food source for them, supplementing what they bought from the passing trade caravans. The herd were fairly docile, happy to spend most of their time grazing on the scant brown grass. Gayle had once commented that they were probably the friendliest creatures in the entire wastes. These ones were certainly better company than the majority of the humans that made a living in DC.

The corpses of the herd lay scattered over the picketed area. Explosives had been used to kill them, blasting gaping holes in their tough hides. In death, the twin heads lay against each other, slack-jawed, their eyes glassy.

Whoever had killed the bramin had done so in as quick and as messy a manner as possible. Ferris was surprised that they hadn't set the farmhouse on fire too. Maybe they had been in too much of a hurry.

All thoughts of rest and recovery left him. He could turn around, slink back away from the farmhouse. Maybe even find a new line of work. He could always sign on with the guards at Rivet City. Harkness was always looking for new recruits, and with his experience, he'd get a post easy enough. But that would mean never finding out what had happened here, whether his friends were still alive or dead. And if they were dead, then it was up to him to find the culprits and give them the same treatment.

In the end, it was burning curiosity that decided him.

Ferris made his way as stealthily as possible to the farmhouse he had called home, moving fast and quiet. His broken left arm trailing limply. He kept it as still as possible, but every quick step sent a spasm of pain up his arm. He'd managed to splint it for the journey back to headquarters, but it was make-do. About all he was capable of with one hand.

The closer he got, the tighter the knot in his stomach became. He needed to know what happened to his friends. You couldn't count on many people in DC, and it was a rare thing indeed to call someone friend. But that's what the other Regulators were.

He reached the fence, and crouched behind it. The fence itself provided no cover, but there was a bramin carcass just on the other side. Its big body provided plenty of cover. And it'd absorb any bullets fired at him. Instinctively, Ferris drew his pistol and flicked off the safety. Almost immediately, he cursed, and slammed it back into its thigh holster. The mechanism was still jammed from the crawl through the sewer. He'd need to use the workbench in the farmhouse to get it working again.

That left his combat knife. Not really useful if any of the attackers still remained. They could pop out and cut him down before Ferris could get in range to effectively use the knife. He could always throw it, he supposed. A well aimed knife could disarm someone before they could fire. Assuming there was only one attacker waiting for him.

After a few minutes, the smell of the dead bramin was overwhelming. The body was surrounded by its own halo of flies, feeding on the decaying remains. Maggots crawled over the gaping wound in its side. The bramin had been dead a few days. Whatever had happened, Ferris realised, had gone down several days ago.

Then he saw the grave marker. It was crude in its simplicity, a wooden cross made from two lengths of wood lashed together, the longest rammed into the ground. It sat at the head of a small mound of earth. The mound was oblong-shaped, and, Ferris judged, the right size for a body.

Why, he wondered, would whoever attacked the Regulators, stay around long enough to bury a body? They wouldn't. Maybe someone had survived whatever had happened. Had Leroy made it back? It was feasible that he'd somehow made it out alive if the Deathclaw hadn't detected him, and only slaughtered the Raiders before coming after Ferris. That idea niggled him though.

Sitting here beside the rotting corpse of a two-headed cow isn't finding out what the hell happened, Ferris thought.

He approached the front door of the farmhouse, and turned the handle. The door creaked loudly as he pushed it open.

The farmhouse the Regulators used as their headquarters had a simple layout. An L-shaped main room downstairs, with a desk at one end and a room just off the foot of the 'L'. Along the wall beside the door were the trophies of past victories. A rifle had been propped up there, and a sword had hung from the wall; they had been Morgan's when he was still an active Regulator. Both gone now. Opposite the door, stairs led up to the first floor with two more rooms. There were mattresses on the floor up there, simple beds for any Regulators in the area.

There were signs of a struggle throughout the house. Overturned chairs, filing cabinets that had been set against one wall had been knocked over, and now blocked the entrance to the back room. Blood had been splashed over some walls, a spray pattern around several dark bullets holes. More blood had congealed on the floor. So someone had been shot, and badly too. The occupant of the grave outside? Ferris wondered.

But more importantly, there were no signs of anyone. No bodies had been left behind. Just the aftermath. The entire building had been ransacked too. A quick search found nothing but spent rifle cartridges, shotgun shells, some 10mm casings.

Ferris climbed over the fallen cabinets, and entered the back room. It was a similar story here, the metal-frames shelves having been knocked over. The worn rug on the floor hadn't been touched, however. With his good hand, he twitched it aside. The cellar door was still shut. Chances were they didn't know or care about what was down there.

With a grunt, Ferris yanked the door open, coughing in the sudden updraft of dust. A crude wooden ladder led down into darkness. The lights flicked on readily enough, revealing a small chamber, no more than three metres by two. There was a workbench against one wall, a dismantled pistol lying on it. The rest of the space taken up by gun cabinets and ammo crates. Ferris grinned to himself. The cellar was still fully stocked, and best of all, the spare first aid kit hung from a wall near the ladder, stocked with several doses worth of radaway. Taking the radaway and a spare .32 pistol from a cabinet, Ferris returned to the ground floor.

It took almost fifteen minutes, but he eventually got the IV set up, a steady drip of radaway working its way into his bloodstream. It was probably just psychosomatic, but Ferris could almost swear he could feel it working already, the nausea that had plagued him for the past few days abating. He hung the drip from a stand, and sat down at the desk, swinging his feet up onto it. Ferris took a deep breath and sighed. Exhaustion, held at bay by the earlier surge of adrenaline, came back with a vengeance. Moments later, he was fast asleep.

He dreamed he was floating on a sea of clouds. He soared over an undulating landscape made from cotton wool, wispy, insubstantial tufts flitting past as he swooped low. Then the clouds cleared, and beyond, he could see the real ground. It was murky, a patchwork landscape made from rotten browns and green. All the colour had been sucked from the world, leaving it a lifeless husk of its former self.

In the distance, he spotted a smudge of colour on the horizon. It was different to the rest, the green vibrant and strong. Curious, He curved towards it, dropping lower and picked up speed. He held his arms out like wings, tilting and twisting them to keep his path straight.

A gesture brought him even closer to the ground. He was skimming just above the tips of blasted trees, their stunted, blackened limbs, devoid of leaves, twisted up into the sky like gnarled fingers. Abruptly the ground gave way to radioactive pools, a vast lifeless swamp, mist hanging over its surface like a pall.

He reached the far side of the swamp. The smudge of green was much bigger now, and suddenly he could see what it was. He gestured again, flicking his arms out before bringing them in to his sides. Lightly, he touched down on the ground, bare feet on hard, compacted soil. A road had once run along here, curving round to dip into the swamp. He lifted his head from the ground and marvelled at the sight that confronted him. His mouth split in a wide, toothy smile.

Trees. Real, living trees. Thick trunks thrust majestically into the air, topped by a canopy of lush green leaves. And surrounding the trees lay a smooth mat of grass. Nothing like the dry, dead brown grass He was used to. This was a vibrant green to match the leaves, and it tickled the soles of his feet as he walked on it.

A path led through the trees – a forest, He recalled, though he was sure he'd never seen one – leading under the canopy. He followed it, with barely a glance behind. It was so easy to do. The world behind was cold and dead, whilst this was so alive.

Eventually, the path widened to a clearing, thirty metres in diameter. At the very centre stood a stone obelisk. It was almost half as tall as the trees, tapering to a sharp point. It easily towered above Him. There was writing down the sides of the obelisk, words that were hauntingly familiar.

Suddenly, He didn't want to get any closer. He wanted to turn away and leave the forest behind and return to the skies. Instead his feet betrayed him, carrying him into the centre of the clearing to stand a few feet away from the massive stone. The words were still unclear, and despite his trepidation, He wanted to reach out and run his hand over them. He knew that would bring clarity to the words, and understanding. A part of his mind screamed at him to turn and flee.

He heard a snuffling sound behind him. Fear froze him to the spot. There was no escape now, He knew, none at all.

Knowing what he would see, He turned.

The Beast stood at the edge of the clearing, sniffing the air. It was demonic in appearance, all horns and claws. A sight to strike terror into your heart, He knew.

The Beast saw him, and it grinned. It had been hunting him for so long. It pounced.

He saw vicious claws flash towards him and –

Ferris woke with a start, his body jerking on the old mattress, and sat up abruptly. He was drenched with sweat, his heart hammering in his chest. A nightmare, just a nightmare, he thought.

Except, a little voice told him, the Beast was real, and it had attacked him.

Shaking his head, Ferris wiped the sweat from his face, and with it banished the last lingering vestiges of the dream. He froze suddenly, his arm halfway from his face, and looked round, puzzled.

The last he remembered, was falling asleep on the chair. How had he got to a bed and undressed himself. Had he done it in his sleep and couldn't remember doing it? That didn't explain how he had managed to remove his duster and his shirt, not with the IV feed in the way. They were now lying in a dirty pile in one corner of the room. They had been cut from him, Ferris saw. There was no way he'd done that in his sleep.

Creaking floorboards upstairs, followed by the clinking sound of meta-on-metal told the truth. He was not alone, and that person had moved him. Time to find out what they knew, Ferris decided.

He stood, and pulled the IV drip from his arm. Then he noticed the Medical bracing that had been strapped to his left arm, held in place with leather straps and bandages that had been expertly tied. The brace was secure, the straps not too tight. He flexed his arm tentatively. It still hurt to move it, but nothing like it had on the trip back to the farmhouse; more like a mild throb now. Whoever the unknown person was, they had done a good job fixing him up. Not something an enemy would do, he was sure.

Ferris grabbed the revolver he had found, and went to investigate. He moved silently up the stairs, his bare feet chilled by the cold steps. Reaching the halfway point, Ferris popped his head above the floor level and peered through the banisters. Someone was moving about in the kitchen area, and making no effort to be all that quiet about it. They were dressed like a Regulator, wearing the eponymous duster, but at his angle, Ferris couldn't tell who it was. For a moment he wondered if it might be Leroy. But the build was too slight, and though the person's long hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, it was the wrong colour; a reddish brown, whereas Leroy's was black.

Ferris crossed the distance to stand behind the intruder. At this distance, he realised belatedly that it was a woman. He pointed the revolver at her back, and cocked the hammer. She froze at the sound.

"Turn around slowly, and keep your hands where I can see them. No sudden moves. Now, what are you doing here, and who the hell are – Katrina?"

"Hi Ferris. I'm glad to see you're feeling better. Can I put my hands down now? I was kind of in the middle of preparing breakfast."

Ferris nodded dumbly. Katrina turned back to the oven, and he lowered the pistol. "What are you doing back here? I thought Morgan sent you up north to check out the new ruler of the town up north."

"He did," Katrina replied. She cracked open a couple of eggs and dropped them into the frying pan she was heating. They began to sizzle and pop. "And what a waste of time that was. The Kingdom of Tom. Can you believe it? Just another harmless crackpot and his merry band of followers, bringing their own brand of civilisation to the Wasteland. Stupid bastard tried to get me to help him dispense his own brand of justice, then threw me out when I said no!" She sighed in disgust. "Honestly, I don't know why we bother sometimes. Did meet someone who was keeping an eye on the place. Some guy called Dave."

"Katrina, what happened here?" Ferris asked softly. He knew her well enough to know Katrina was babbling to avoid the inevitable question.

Her shoulders sagged for a moment. She took the eggs off the stove and slid them onto two plates along with a thick slice of bread. "Breakfast's ready."

"Katrina,"

"Not here. Can we go sit down? Please?"

Ferris opened his mouth to object, but closed it when he saw the pleading look in her eyes. Katrina was many things, but pleading had never been one of them, until now. He nodded, and led the way back downstairs. They sat at the table in the back room. Katrina passed him a knife and fork, and they began to eat.

"I got back here, two days ago, a little earlier than planned." She said, between mouthfuls of food. "Kinda glad I didn't arrive any sooner. The place was a mess. I saw the bramin outside, and realised we'd been hit. Didn't know by who. The farmhouse was in a bad state, blood all over the place, and no sign of anyone. Until I found Charlie upstairs. He'd been shot, point blank by a shotgun. An utter mess. He'd lost a lot of blood, fuck knows how he was still alive."

"The grave outside?"

Katrina nodded. "He died a few hours later, nothing I could do for him. But he passed me a note, told me to give it to you. That's the only reason I'm still here, instead of out finding the bastards who hit us." She took out a small scrap of paper, and passed it to him.

It was small, a bit of notepaper, folded over. Ferris opened it. He recognised the handwriting. Charlie always had been a lousy writer. He never quite understood the need for it. Guns and knives were more his thing. But, he still could read it. Charlie must have put the last of his strength into writing those words, as he slowly bled to death on the floor. He read the single, short sentence scrawled there:

Talons have them.

With his good fist, Ferris crushed the note. Talon company. The lowest, dirtiest mercs in the Wastes, had attached the Regulators and captured their leader and his daughter.

They were going to pay.

A/N: Review please!