"You're completely insane, you know that?"

"I've had my insane moments," Leah agreed with a tired smile.

"Like the one where I caught you two fucking in my guest bedroom?" Desmond interjected tartly.

Leah laughed and Charon let out an amused snort. "No, I was totally sane then. It was a kick to see the look on your face, Lockheart."

"I should have sicced the dogs on you when I had the chance."

"Wait, wait, wait!" Sinclair waved his hands around to interrupt them all. His blue eyes were flared wide in ill-contained shock, lips slack, dimpled jaw dropped as everyone stared at him expectantly. He pointed a long index finger from Leah to Charon and back. "You two are fucking?"

The two ghouls and Lone Wanderer wordlessly raised their eyebrows at him. Arcade choked back a laugh from across the room, hiding it in a well-timed fake cough.

Sinclair swung his finger to jab at the gray-haired doctor. "Shut up, fuck you, and what about your fiancé?" he demanded of Leah, rotating that accusing finger back to her. "If I knew you were willing to toss that pretty silver ring aside that easily, I'd have acted on it sooner, princess."

"I'm not," Leah laughed, reaching over to take Charon's hand in hers.

"You – I – he . . ." Sinclair seemed, for the first time since they'd met him, at a loss for words, the finger angled in Leah's direction quickly deflating at the wrist. "He's the fiancé."

"I'm the fiancé," Charon agreed with a smirk.

"What?"

"You really can be incredibly thick-headed," Arcade chuckled. "I've been around them a day, and I figured out they were a couple."

"Well, I've never seen them kiss or anything," Sinclair snapped, already on the defensive, "and I have never heard a single 'I love you' or 'sugar-bear' or 'sweetie-pie.'"

"And if you ever heard me call her any of those things, you should kill me," Charon advised with an almost sick expression.

"Ugh," Leah groaned. "I'd kill you myself. You're an idiot, by the way," she added cheerily to Sinclair.

Sinclair snapped his fingers impatiently at Arcade "Get me a new box of smokes, before I hit her. I'll beat a woman, I really will."

The research got dutifully to his feet and left the room as Charon let out a thunderous snarl, extremely unamused. "I will break your fingers, one at a time, if you so much as breathe on her."

"Ooo, baby, I love it when you're mean," Leah cooed, blue eyes flashing with passion.

Desmond snorted in disgust, prompting a swift kick to the back of his knees from the victim of his condescension. He cursed and then reminded Sinclair, "You were going on about how fucking insane this half-baked scheme of hers is?"

"Ha, yeah, I was," Sinclair recalled airily. "Back to how you're out of your mind, Leah: approaching the Great Khans on foot is a goddamn suicide mission."

"Says who?" she shot back with an arched, challenging brow.

At that, Sinclair's mouth thinned into a slash of genuine irritation. "Says the relative of every innocent man, woman, and child that was slaughtered at Bitter Springs, doll. You've got those notes, do your homework before you bring shit to the table." Sinclair stabbed out the filter of his last cigarette, broad shoulders set under the crisp white material of his shirt, his black jacket laid carefully out beside him. Boone remained silent across the room, but shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, his first motion at all since they'd all filtered into the small room.

"That's exactly my point, Masnie," Leah insisted, leaning forward in her enthusiasm, "they obviously and understandably have trust issues. If we come in armed to the teeth floating down in a vertibird, they're going to attack us on sight."

"Wait, so, let me get this straight," Sinclair cut her off, making her scowl. "You're not only suggesting we stroll up to them on foot, you're saying we do it unarmed?"

"At least visibly unarmed," she amended fervently. "We'll come in just the four of us, you, me, Charon, Desmond, arms raised above our heads, let them know we mean them no harm so that they can trust us to a civil sit-down. I don't see any other options, Masnie."

He knuckled his dimpled chin and eyed her with a very serious, very calculating stare. "What you're saying makes sense, but my gut still tells me it's a fucking mistake."

"That's because it is a fucking mistake," Desmond interjected. "Your bird is going to get us killed, mate."

Charon barked out an arrogant laugh. "Please. If she hasn't gotten me killed yet, I think we'll all be fine. I trust her judgment."

"Yeah, because you're tappin' that, and we're not," Sinclair grumbled. "If you're willing to put out, doll, I'll follow you wherever your harebrained schemes take us."

Leah and Charon exchanged a look, as if actually considering it for a moment, before he shrugged halfheartedly and she shook her head.

"Wha – were you really going to say yes?" Sinclair demanded, sitting up straighter against the wall behind him.

"What an idiot."

"An absolute moron."

Desmond actually laughed as Sinclair spluttered in angry indignation.

"Fine," the Courier grudgingly agreed. "We'll go with your asinine, suicidal plan, but if it gets me killed, you owe me a new suit."

The door squeaked open and Arcade stepped into the room. He tossed Sinclair a new box of cigarettes with a smile. "Got your smokes!"

Sinclair lobbed them back with a short, "Keep 'em." Arcade didn't have time to duck and the box hit him straight in the forehead, knocking his glasses from his face. He muttered a few juicy, furious curses as the Courier rose to his feet, swinging his jacket over a shoulder. "I'll meet you tomorrow at the Tops and we'll figure out the logistics. Enjoy your night off, princess, and don't stay up too late." He raised his eyebrows rather pointedly at Leah and Charon before gesturing Boone and Arcade after him. He yanked open the door, stepping dismissively around Arcade as he scrambled to pick up his glasses, but paused before leaving. "I'll be there at noon tomorrow. None of this early morning shit, because I am going to get drunk tonight and waking up early tomorrow morning will literally be impossible for me. It'll kill me. Swear to God." He threw his hands up and then sailed out, his companions trailing faithfully on his heels. "Have lunch ready, too!" he ordered over his shoulder and then his footsteps faded behind him.

Leah threaded her fingers into her hair. She'd thought Desmond Lockheart was a pain in the ass to work with, she really had.

Then again . . . that was before Masnie Sinclair.

The family was up and waiting for them when they reached the suite. Most of them were spread about the dining and living rooms, laughing and chatting about the day. Charon headed across the hall for a shower, to "wash the shitty bar fumes" off of his skin, while Desmond stepped out to have "a cigarette or seven." Yes Man had, on Leah's none-too-subtle suggestion, wheeled back into his hidey-hole to power down for the night.

Leah stayed in the suite with her family. Despite the hours she'd just spent cooped up, the stress growing with each second that passed, she sat down on the ratty couch between Éclair and Sue and listened to them spew out stories about the day, shouting over each other in their excitement.

Gob and Nova, bless their souls, had taken them all around the strip. They showed Leah souvenirs from Vault 21 that they'd purchased; the older ones had snuck into casinos and stolen away with chips from each one. Only Peter had managed to nick two from the illusive Ultra-Luxe, and he had no problem gloating loudly about it to his siblings. His arrogance was somewhat dampened by the fact that he'd given one to Bumble to cheer her up from the fact that she'd been too little to get into any of the casinos; he'd been quick to hush her up from telling the others, to preserve his "asshole badassery."

Nova, who had become over the length of the day "Aunty Nova," (much to her dread; "I'm too young to be an aunty") had taught all of the little monsters how to gamble and they were hosting poker games all over the room using the small handful of chips at their disposal. They'd gathered other small objects around the room for currency, ranging from bottle caps to beads off of the room's lampshades.

Leah watched on in tired amusement, slowly picking at a plate of cold squirrel meat that Lucy had put together. Gob and Nova excused themselves to bed. Bumble looked about ready to pass out herself. Leah put her plate aside, swept her up and toted her to the bathroom, nudging her toward the shower. When she padded back out, Leah sat her between her legs on the couch and ran her old brush through the girl's long, dark hair.

"My father used to do this for me, when I was little," she murmured with a reminiscent smile. "He had the gentlest touch."

"Mmn, you're pretty good at it, too," Bumble approved sleepily.

Leah put down the brush and ran her hands through the dark tresses, letting the slick strands trickle tangle-free over her fingers. She rested her chin on the girl's shoulder and exhaled, long and slow, feeling the stress leave her body in that deep, soothing breath.

Bumble yawned and slumped against Leah's chest. She was asleep in minutes. Leah smiled and pulled her up into her arms. "Hey. Nick."

The lanky teen looked up at her from the table with a cocked eyebrow. "What's up?"

"Where does Bumble sleep?"

"On the floor, like the rest of us. We decided to take turns on the couch. Ladies first, of course." He shot her a shit-eating grin.

"Nice to know you've learned something, you little shit." Leah hitched the sleeping girl higher up in her arms. "You kids are packed tighter than anchovies in here. I'll talk to Swank first thing in the morning, get you guys another room or two."

"Or five or six," he retorted, smirking.

Leah laughed as she tucked Bumble in with a blanket and a pillow on the couch. "Maybe you're right," she agreed quietly, before kissing the girl on the forehead and drifting out of the suite. "Don't stay up too late, children."

They all groaned in a unified response. Still smiling, Leah trudged into her own suite. The shower was still running, and she stood in the doorway to the bedroom vacillating between slipping into the water with him or just falling face forward onto the bed and never getting back up. As much as she knew a nice, hot shower with her very skilled and well-endowed fiancé would feel great, her body had other plans. She collapsed, rather gracelessly, onto the bed, and the instant she hit the sheets she knew that sleep was going to be the victor tonight.

"You're so classy, Sinclair. I'm absolutely shocked Leah hasn't ripped her clothes off and thrown herself at your feet already."

"It's a complete mystery," Sinclair agreed, throwing Arcade a shrewd glance over his shoulder, "and nobody likes a sarcastic asshole, Gannon. Do you like a sarcastic asshole, Boone?"

"Not unless he's a good one."

"Ha. You're clever, you know that?"

The three men slipped into the well-lit casino of the Lucky 38 – honest to God, it was always fucking lit, and nobody even fucking gambled there – and headed briskly for the elevator. Sinclair stuffed his hands into his pockets as he stepped into the elevator. Just before the doors shut, Victor slid one of his arms between them. They opened back up automatically and Sinclair narrowed his eyes at the robot.

"What is it, V?"

"Mr. House would like to see you, pardner," Victor reported cheerily.

Fuck robots and fuck how they're always happy. "Sure, I'll go see him right away, buddy. You gonna let the doors close now?"

The robot wordlessly wheeled away, allowing the elevator to close and begin to rumble upward. Sinclair straightened his collar with an uncomfortable tug at the material. "I don't trust that thing," he muttered offhandedly to his companions.

"Robots you can trust," Boone offered unexpectedly, startling the other two men. "They're programmed to do what you say. It's humans you can't count on."

Sinclair fell quiet, a somewhat pleasant break from his normal prattling on about this-or-that. If Arcade Gannon had to label his silence, he would call it 'thoughtful,' maybe even 'pensive,' which was saying something about the normally impulsive Courier. Sinclair nodded almost decisively, opening his mouth to speak, but then the elevator doors opened with a ding and he changed his mind. Instead of saying whatever was on his mind, he pushed the two men out of the elevator and stabbed the button to close the doors immediately behind them, disappearing before they could even ask.

Then again, knowing him, maybe it was better they didn't.

Charon stayed in the shower until the water ran cold and all memories of the Ninth Circle had been purged from his head. He toweled off and rubbed the material over the remainder of hair on his head before pulling his pants on. "Leah?" When there was no answer, he tossed the towel aside and proceeded into the bedroom.

He found Leah already knocked out on the bed, curled up on her side, still in her T-shirt and jeans. With a wry smile, he crossed to her side of the bed and began to slide her shirt up over her head. She moaned, eyelids fluttering, and barely scraped together the energy to lift her arms and help him. One of her eyes peeked open and she grinned when she saw his bare chest.

"Something tells me you are a little too tired to fuck tonight, smoothskin," he observed with a smirk, discarding her shirt and reaching for the button of her pants.

"Mmn, but what a sight," she mumbled, closing her eye again. "And I love it when you say 'fuck.'"

He rolled his eyes and grabbed her jeans by the material at her ankles, tugging them off with short, impatient jerks.

"Don't ignore me. Remember the last time you said I was too tired to have sex with you?"

Charon arched the remains of a brow at her, but he couldn't deny that he did remember– hell, it would be impossible to forget that night. "The second time we made love," he recalled easily. "When you attacked me in the middle of the night."

"Hardly attacked," she snorted, fumbling weakly for the button of his pants. "More like, gently coerced into sexual activity."

"Tomato, toe-mah-toe," he replied, finally unhooking her pants from around her ankles. He slapped her hands away from his pants, but she'd managed to already unbuckle them.

"You know, people keep saying that, but has anyone ever actually seen a tomato?" She peeked that eye open again and there was reluctance in the blue of her pupil. "Also, you might be right."

"I normally am, but what about this time?"

"The whole being-too-tired-to-fuck . . . thing."

He chuckled and settled down onto the bed beside her, angling her back against his chest. She sighed, content, enjoying the feeling of his warm, rough skin. "Mo ghrá?"

His silence was sizzling with confusion.

"'My love,'" she explained through a yawn.

"Ah. Then what is it?"

"Am I a bad parent for allowing my children to gamble?"

Charon snorted, one of those arrogant actions that never failed to make her smile. "There are a few worse things they could be doing, don't you think, smoothskin?"

She hummed vaguely in response, still swimming through the thick fog of fatigue. A hand brushed her hair away from her neck and then she felt rough lips, murmuring breathily against the sensitive skin of her throat, a sharp nip, soft kisses.

"You're tense," he noted as he traced the hard line of her shoulders. "What's on your mind?"

"Do you think my plan is suicidal?"

"Hmm." He pressed his cheek gently against hers, listened to the soft sound of her breathing. "I can't know until we actually go through with it, but I see no other way to go about things. We will have to let the chips fall where they may."

"God, I don't like doing that."

"Neither do I, smoothskin, but at this point, it seems our only option."

Her lips curled up into a lazy, crooked smile. "If you'll be there, then I have no worries at all."

He chuckled. "Foolish, but I appreciate the sentiment."

"Hey," she whispered after a long, comfortable moment of silence, which her ghoul passed by lavishing her throat, neck, and the sensitive shell of her ear with attention, "remind me to go see Swank tomorrow morning."

She felt Charon stiffen behind her. "I do not think you should be flirting with him any more than necessary, smoothskin," he commented unhappily.

"It's for the kids. They're so crowded in that one suite and Desmond is getting on everybody's nerves, so he needs his own room, too. I wouldn't do it otherwise."

Charon sighed. "Sometimes I hate that big heart of yours, smoothskin," he rumbled and the vibration was wonderful against her throat.

A smile spread across her lips. "Sometimes, I do, too. But where else would I keep all of my love for you, mo ghrá?"

A husky chuckle, warm, like leather. "I'm sure you would find a place among the rest of the clutter you collect."

Leah rolled onto her back so that she could meet his gaze, reach up and touch his cheek, share a smile with him. "I can hardly stuff it away with the spare rifle parts and old electronics. It's gotta be the heart." Her smile turned into a scowl. "And I don't hoard like that anymore. Dick."

"And there's the huge bitch I fell in love with," he commented with a smirk and he stifled her furious retort with a kiss tender enough to tug at her exhausted heartstrings, enough to stir emotions slow, steady, deep within her like roiling heat . . . enough to end all conversation for the night.

"You did well getting the chip back from the Chairman. Give it here."

Sinclair twirled the little silver circle in his hand, felt the power of it, almost thrumming in his palm. His gaze flickered back up at House, at that passive fucking screen, the arched brow, that condescending curve to his lips. He hated that fucking screen, hated House and every single one of his godforsaken robots, and as much as he wanted to snap the chip in half, short-circuit all of the robots, and take a long, satisfying piss on House's dignified screen, he restrained himself. He needed House, for now, needed the commodities at the Lucky 38 and a safe place for his companions to stay in their downtime.

So Sinclair placed the little silver chip onto the lip of a whirring machine below House's face and stepped back, eyeing the screen mistrustfully.

"Thank you. I have the next task for you to complete."

"I can't wait," the Courier deadpanned through a tight, thin smile.

"I'll ignore your insolence for now because I require your assistance, but should it continue, I will not hesitate to rid the world of your cheek and find someone else to get the job done. It has come to my attention that you've been meeting with a woman from the east coast, a rather influential and powerful woman who I am sure could be coerced to finish the job."

Sinclair went stiff at the mention of Leah, but he smoothed his surprise over with one of his charming smiles. "Hardly. If I'm having such a hard time getting her into my bed, I wish you good luck convincing her to do your legwork, House. What's the next job?"

"Let us take this to the basement. I have something to show you –,"

"If you're going to kill me, I am going to take a whole lot of your robots down with me," Sinclair cut him off in a hiss, eyes narrowed, hand twitching for his .44.

House's screen glowed brightly for a moment before returning to its normal shine, as if he was expressing his anger. "If I wanted you dead, I would have done it long ago, and I would not bother luring you into a trap when I could get rid of you – and your companions – at any time."

Sinclair fell silent at the reminder of his vulnerability, and the vulnerability of his friends. His pride throbbed in pain.

"Good. Now, to the basement, shall we?"

His head swimming with images of Gatling lasers and Securitrons and Mr. House's arrogant, brow-arching fucking face, Sinclair returned to the presidential suite. He was very pleasantly surprised to see a beautiful woman waiting for him at the dining room table between an extremely inebriated Cass and a half-irritated, half-amused Arcade Gannon.

"Brought somethin' for ya from Gomorrah," the redhead slurred through a crooked grin.

"Normally I'd loose some snotty remark about your gratuitous sex life, but after the hours we just spent cooped up in that hellhole, I say you deserve it."

"Lord forbid I do something Arcade Gannon doesn't approve of," Sinclair replied absentmindedly, extending a hand to help the lady up from her seat. She uncrossed her long, smooth legs and rose to her full height, taking his offered hand. She was blonde and she was buxom and, judging by the graceful way she walked, she would hopefully be very bendy. "You," he announced, lazily pointing at Cass after he draped his arm around the woman's shoulder, "you're getting a raise."

"But you don't even pay me!"

"To my bedchambers," Sinclair invited the blonde with a charming smile.

She agreed through a giggle, looking charmed.

Moments later, when he was travelling at a great pace through the scarce clothing on his guest's curvy body and she seemed mighty pleased with his progress, Sinclair let himself stop worrying for a moment and fall into the comfort of making love with a woman he didn't know at all, because there would always be time to worry about things tomorrow, House and his robots and their Gatling lasers be damned.

Leah patted her back pocket to ensure her keys were there, took a quick glimpse of her reflection in the mirror above the bar, then slid her Blackhawk into its holster at her side and headed for the door.

Charon grabbed her by the arm when she tried to pass and spun her around, pressing her up against the wall and smothering her surprised gasp with his mouth on hers. Her moan got lost in their kiss, until finally the shock wore off and she was able to clutch at his armor and respond to his passion.

Then Charon abruptly released her and stepped away, hardly able to contain his smirk. "Have fun, smoothskin," he added casually over his shoulder as he turned and walked back to collect their weapons from the bedroom.

Leah pressed her fingertips to her lips, which were slowly tilting up into a smile. "'Bye, honey, have a good day at work' to you, too," she teased with a laugh as she disappeared through the door and down the hallway. After the short elevator ride, during which Leah let herself sort of appreciate her ghoul's possessive side, Leah sailed down the hallway into the main casino. Even this early in the morning, there were gamblers lounging at tables and slot machines and jazzy, big band music was blaring out from the speakers within The Aces. Two women with cheeks pinked from dancing swung out of the club and Leah paused to peek in before the doors closed behind them.

Amid the dancing bodies, a man in an orange suit was having a heated discussion with another man, who was clearly his employee judging by his sheepish docility. Orange Suit turned around and threw his hands up in the air, exposing to Leah that he was a rather handsome black man with slick hair and an eye-patch. She caught his eye and they shared a puzzled expression before the doors closed between them and the booming music was muted to a dull background beat.

Humming in mild interest to herself, Leah angled herself toward the front and took off down the stairs. The music rose again in volume, alerting her to the fact that someone else was leaving The Aces, and she turned to see Orange Suit come jogging after her.

"Excuse me," he called in a pleasant, rumbling baritone as he caught up to her, "excuse me, ma'am, could I have a second?"

"You can have a few," Leah allowed with a gracious smile. "I recognize you, from the band that was playing the other night."

Orange Suit was mighty pleased to hear that. "You sure do, baby doll. I'm Tommy Torini, owner and operator of The Aces theater, and lead vocals of the Rad Pack Revue. We play every night from eight to midnight."

They shook hands and she offered him an expectant grin. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Torini. My name's Leah. How can I help you?"

Tommy gave her a once-over, not lusty or condescending, more like he had found something he'd been looking for. "Leah, you look like someone who can get a job done, and quickly."

She laughed, feigning embarrassment. "What gave me away? Is it the leather armor? I knew I should have gone for jeans and a T-shirt today."

Tommy laughed right along with her, but shook his head. "It's not the armor, baby, or the high-quality gun hangin' from your hip. It's the way you walk, like you got somewhere to be and ain't nobody gonna stop you from getting' there, you dig?"

"All right, smooth-talker," she challenged with a smirk, "what's your angle?"

"I might have a business-adventure proposal for you."

"And I might be interested."

"Good, good. You see . . ." His smile faltered for a moment, "The Aces may seem like a pretty swingin' place, but that's only when we have acts to play. The Rad Pack Revue only plays from eight to midnight, otherwise people'd get mighty tired of hearin' us jam, and I only have a two-bit comedian and one other singer to make up for the rest of the day."

"You're starving for talent," Leah finished knowingly.

"Exactly, doll. I know I'm reachin' out on a limb here by running up to some pretty girl I don't even know, but something about the look of you, your confidence, it makes me feel like you'd be able to find me some real hard talent. And I'd be willin' to pay some pretty big bucks!"

"If you know where I'd need to look, and if you could be patient, because I have a lot of shit on my plate right now, then I could definitely take you up on the offer."

"It's a yes to both of those qualifications."

Leah grinned. "Then . . . all systems go, Mr. Torini. I've got to go meet with Swank, but I'll be back once I'm done."

"The list will be ready, doll." He shot her a wink with his good eye before turning on his heel and striding away.

Leah felt great as she sashayed toward the front counter. She had her family, she had a job, she had new friends, and she had a plan.

Swank held his arms out as she approached and greeted her with a long, tight hug. "Leah, baby, anybody ever tell you how good you look in leather?"

And Leah laughed, because she did look pretty damn good in leather. She glanced down at her Pip-Boy to check the time – still pretty early in the morning, plenty of time to chat up Swank for extra rooms, get the coordinates from Tommy, rush back upstairs to ask Éclair to prepare lunch for everyone, then hightail it to her suite to get back at her ghoul for that unexpected display of affection earlier.

Lord knew she'd need it if she had to have a sit down with Masnie in a few hours.

Charon may have had his back to the bedroom door as he worked his way through weapon maintenance on every last gun in their arsenal, but that didn't mean he couldn't hear the door squeak open and click shut again. He couldn't contain a small, triumphant smile. "How did things go, smoothskin?"

There was the thin, feminine sound of a throat being cleared as his only response.

"Is that all you have to say?" he asked, turning around with a smirk already on his face.

God, she was beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed pink, silky black hair pinned up high on the back of her head. Soft lips tugged up into a challenging smile to match his own. "I've also got this," she quipped, and then she launched herself at him. They tumbled backward onto the bed, landing among piles of weapons and ammunition. Flailing arms pushed the various metal objects off of the bed and then set to removing armor.

"We have two hours," Leah gasped, ripping the plates of armor from his chest.

Charon shot her a devious grin. "And we'll use every last goddamn minute of it."

The Courier was seated at the table in the Tops presidential suite, picking halfheartedly at the medium rare brahmin steak in front of him, legs loosely crossed. He had the air of someone who was running through old memories, a reminiscent air, a quiet air.

The Lone Wanderer sat comfortably beside him, the eraser of a pencil tapping against her teeth as she reread through notes about the Great Khans. An empty page was laid out in front of her, where she would occasionally scribble something new down, or draw a diagram, sometimes asking Sinclair how a place was laid out just to make sure. Charon had another pad of paper open in front of him, loosely looking through maps Leah had drawn earlier of the Mojave to plan out their movements.

"This is all fine," Leah said abruptly, shoving her notebook away from her. She looked up and met the Courier's curious gaze and there was something about the tight line of her mouth that gave him the impression she was about to piss him off. "But it's not just the Great Khans we need to know about."

Sinclair lifted a dark eyebrow and studied her in that unnerving way he had of staring you down. "Oh?"

Leah nodded slowly. "Masnie, I need to know more about your sister, too."

"Ah." He shifted so that his elbows were resting on the table and swallowed hard. "I guess you would need to, wouldn't you?"

"I don't mean to pry or anything, but what if we go through all this trouble just to talk with her and she . . . doesn't want to come home?"

"It's highly possible," he agreed softly, his eyes drifting to the ceiling until he was no longer even in the room with them. Then his gaze refocused and he shook his head. "We didn't leave on good terms."

"How long has it been?" Leah asked gently, briefly touching his hand.

He drew his hands back down into his lap, but answered, "Eight years. It's been eight years since I've seen my little sister. My family . . . my mother . . . ." He cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his chair. "This is going to be a long story, princess."

"I'm ready," she prompted, taking Charon's hand in her lap.

"Good. It all starts out when I was just a little kid. . . ."

As Sinclair spoke, he could see it all in his mind's eye: his mother, Amalia, so young, blonde and beautiful and cold as stone, pining for a husband who had left before Sinclair was even born. That was the reason for the name. Masnie. His mother had been lonely, and so, vindictive, spiteful, fragile as she was, she had decided that her son, too, would always be lonely, from the day he was born. It was cruel and it was selfish, but then that was the type of woman she was. She clung to his father's memory until it was all she had left, and not even the Med-X or the nameless, strange men could comfort the hole it left anymore. Four years, he'd been gone, and all she had now was her child son and a swollen belly.

She'd worked Sinclair to the bone. She gave him life, she always told him, and so he owed his life to her, cleaning, cooking, taking care of her when she would pass out drunk or OD on the kitchen floor. When she got pregnant again, she tried to turn over a new leaf and it was the happiest Sinclair could remember either of them being. It was just the three of them, him and his unborn sister and his broken mother, and they were family in those nine months of her gestation. He'd loved his mother. She was the only person he had to love.

And then his sister was born, a pretty baby girl with bright blue eyes like her mother and brother and she didn't cry when she was born and Sinclair had loved that about her. But her birth became their mother's downfall once more. She descended again into the depression and the drug abuse and the promiscuity and Sinclair was only just a child, but he had to take care of his infant sister, because he loved her, too.

They'd lived under their mother's hold for fifteen more years. She had a weak soul, Amalia Sinclair, but her cruelty was strong, and her children suffered for it, doing their best to keep her alive when she was doing her best to give up life altogether. Sinclair watched her grow weaker, frailer, and he watched his sister grow up into a beautiful, strong woman and he knew with each day that passed he had to get them out of there, before their mother took them down as well.

And so, when he was just nineteen, Sinclair grabbed his sister and he stole away with her in the midst of the night, while their mother was dead to the world in numb, dreamless sleep. For a year, they lived together, travelling, learning to take care of themselves in the wastes. They found a new family, in a town in the shadow of a dinosaur, and the old man and woman took them in with open arms.

Sinclair watched his sister sleep that night, so pretty and sweet and innocent, and he knew that, as much as he loved her, he couldn't stay with her. This house, this family, they had room for only one more, and it would not be him. He'd never gotten a chance to have a loving family, but she was still young enough to have hers. And so, just like before, he packed his things and left in the middle of the night.

Over the years, he gathered friends and he gathered power. He kept tabs on her, through messengers and spies, to make sure she was healthy and happy and his dreams, his goals, to make the Mojave a better place . . . it would be a lie to say it wasn't with her in mind the whole time. He'd always half hoped to see her again, but the thought always scared him. What would she think of him now? Did she hate him? Did she hope he was dead?

It was up to him to find out. Because they shared a name, and they shared a curse, he and his little sister.

Niella.

Sinclair stopped speaking and the silence was deafening. He cleared his throat and got to his feet, sliding his chair politely in after himself. His face was stoic as he looked at them. "So I was thinking we would leave for Red Rock in a couple of days or so. I need some time to prepare, in case things do go south while we're out there." He stopped at the door and glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, and come over sometime tomorrow, and dress for a work out. You need to practice your hand-to-hand-combat."

Leah watched him go with moisture collecting in her eyes. The door closed behind him and she gasped as the tears brimmed over and started to slide down her cheeks. "Oh, God," she whispered, looking to Charon with wide, horrified eyes.

Charon collected her up into his arms and kissed her hair. "Yes, I know, smoothskin. It's a sad story. But we can give it a happy ending."

She wiped her nose and nodded against his shoulder. "We can," she agreed softly. "And we will, whatever it takes."

He stroked her back as he stared off into the distance, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "Why do you need to work on your hand-to-hand?"

"I dunno," she mumbled with a shrug, drying her eyes. "The Khans are all about strength and endurance. Maybe I'll need it for something."

"Yes, but why you specifically?"

"I don't know, Charon. I'll ask him tomorrow."

"Hmph." He cuddled her closer and pressed his cheek against hers, humming thoughtfully. "He never told us what her name means," he muttered curiously.

Leah pulled away and her eyes were sad. "He didn't have to," she whispered back. "If her name is like his, then if you switch it around you get 'allein.'"

His eyes flared knowingly as he worked it out. "Oh. That's . . . so . . . ."

"Sad," she murmured, settling against his shoulder once more. "But it kind of fits their story, doesn't it? Masnie and Niella, no parents, no home. Lonely, and alone."

DaLover, Alice, king1367, and Dolly-Cola: thank you for the reviews! Alice, glad you like the series and as for your question, I just made up the REAPER on the spot haha. I thought it sounded ominous and cool in Mass Effect, so I stole the name and made up a weapon. Thanks for the compliments :)