Day three. Forlorn Hope had earned a reprieve of sorts in recent weeks, not unlike the calm before a storm, and as a result the infirmary was almost empty, quiet except for the drone of flies on the canvas ceiling, Dr. Richards' off-key humming as he sterilized his tools, and the soft rustle of pages as the Courier flipped through her tattered magazine for the hundredth time.
Richards seemed to take her indolence as a personal insult - or perhaps a challenge. "Are you going to do anything at all today but lie there and read that ratty old thing? I would have thought you'd have memorized all the articles by now. Guns n' Bullets is mostly pre-war advertisements anyway… how can you stand it?"
Megan ignored his nagging, as she had for three days now, eyes darting from word to word, searching for the few she knew by sight: "gun," "the," and so forth, occasionally stopping to try - laboriously and usually unsuccessfully - to sound out new ones. It wasn't a very fruitful endeavor, but it sapped every bit of of her mental energy, leaving none for grief and worry. It physically hurt after a while, like someone was industriously worming an ice pick behind her right eye, but it also tired her enough to sleep the days away. Sleep was the only real refuge she had now, and even then the dreams were bad. She'd find herself back under the floorboards, listening to Raul die, only in the dreams she'd scream aloud, giving away their hiding spot and watching Arcade die before being consumed by laser fire herself. Waking or sleeping, guilt weighed her down and anticipated loss threatened to steal her remaining nerve, but she didn't know how to get out from under it. For now, she contented herself with hiding.
When Megan and Boone had first arrived at Forlorn Hope together, late on the first day after the Brotherhood's ill-fated attack, she had dutifully reported in person to Polati, filled in the intelligence gaps left by ED's truncated oral record, and accepted his commendations. Since then, however, she couldn't bring herself to do more than the bare minimum to keep body and soul together - eating a little, sleeping a lot, and turning down work and recreation with indiscriminate apathy. She would report to the Dam on the morning of the president's visit, as requested, but until then she wouldn't lift a finger that she didn't want to. And she didn't want to do anything at all just now. Her armor lay folded beneath the cot, unused since their arrival; ED sat beside it, inert and lifeless for the time being, switched off entirely. She told herself that it was to preserve his battery, but the truth was that she didn't want to face anybody right now, not even a bot with no personality of its own. She accused herself constantly, so naturally ED would as well.
Boone plodded into the tent sometime in the afternoon, waking her up from a light, dreaming doze with his heavy tread. It was the first she'd seen of him since they'd arrived together, and she wondered privately if someone had put him up to it. He stammered out an extremely ungracious invitation to join him for some target practice, a suggestion that she declined before he was through speaking. There was no way she was going to improve enough to matter now, at the eleventh hour, and it would only be a waste of ammo to try.
He nodded, relief visible on his face, and turned to go, then spun back around as he remembered something. "Some of the First Recon guys - and Betsy - are planning to have a bonfire down on the east-side beach tonight. Kind of a last hurrah before things get serious. You can join us if you want. They like you for some reason. Well, everybody except Sterling - he thinks you're some kind of criminal - but he's not coming."
She closed her eyes again. "No, thanks. I need more time to rest. Have fun. Watch out for mirelurks."
He rubbed his neck with listless curiosity. "What are mirelurks?"
"I don't know." Words came unbidden sometimes to her tongue - creatures, places, and names without meaningful referents. It happened more often when she was on autopilot, speaking without filtering her comments too much. "Probably something like lakelurks, which is what I meant anyway. Good-bye, Boone."
Dr. Richards had been eavesdropping on this exchange and commented on it once Boone had gone. "I'm an army doctor, you know. I know when someone's shamming. It's my professional opinion that you're malingering. Milking that scratch for all it's worth. Using it as an excuse to hide in here. Why?"
She rolled away to face the wall. After days of enduring his chatter, she had begun to wonder if the camp's physician was entirely sane himself, and had long since wearied of his attempts at pointed conversation. He seemed to vacillate freely between manic cheer and dark pessimism, and grew increasingly annoying when he didn't have any real patients to treat. "If I'm not welcome here for the next 48 hours, let me know. Otherwise, mind your own fucking business."
He was as unperturbed as always. "Minding away. You should go spend time with your friends, though. 'Eat, drink, and be merry,' you know."
"...for tomorrow we die," she intoned to the wall.
This caught him off guard. "What?"
"That's how the expression finishes. How most of us are going to end up for real. Given enough time, that's all of us, I guess. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, etcetera, etcetera..."
"Well, not necessarily tomorrow. You have your whole life ahead of you."
This was a terrifying thought in its own right, and she'd had enough of his vague platitudes. "Please, just find something else to do and leave me alone."
"If you'll promise to amble down to the beach this evening, I won't say another word today. If you leave, then I'll have the place to myself for a few hours. I can practice my nude harmonica-playing without anyone complaining."
She could never quite tell when he was being serious or not. "You need psychological help. Not for the harmonica-playing, necessarily, but for your incessant need to fix things and people. But fine. Whatever gets you off my back. I need to talk to Boone anyway."
At half-past six, after the doctor had cleared his throat meaningfully a half-dozen times, she slipped out into the fading light, avoiding the eyes of the few men she met walking in between the tents. She had no one near that she trusted enough to tell, but her old panic had crept back with a vengeance in her days of self-imposed isolation, worse than before, and she'd become intensely aware of the soldiers' eyes on her - in a camp with almost no women left in it after orders from on high had withdrawn them, she stuck out like a sore thumb. None of them had ever tried anything (whether out of respect or fear she didn't know), only a few dared to say anything in earshot ("complimentary" catcalls for the most part), but they all looked at her. Or, overwhelmed by paranoia, she imagined that they did. Either way, she hated them all for making her feel unsafe as fear squeezed her chest, made her heart hammer out a frenetic beat, and threatened to drive her reeling back to the relative safety of the hospital cot. This is stupid, she said to herself. Nothing's changed except you. Get a fucking grip. Clutching a tent pole for support and trying to catch her breath, she admitted that there was no way she was going to be able to socialize like this - "normal" was not something she could project at the moment. However... if the quartermaster was as well-stocked and profit-driven as she thought he was, there was a way she could feel better, maybe even well enough to pass for good company. Alcohol wasn't one of Dr. Usanagi's approved methods for staving off a panic attack - quite the contrary, actually - but it would help almost immediately. No one could feel this much fear after a few drinks. It helped immensely with anxiety in the short term, and that was what she needed.
She ducked into the tent and let her eyes adjust to the gloom. "Hey Mayes." Her voice cracked, and she tried to cover it with a cough. "You got a moment?"
The man in charge of supplies was idle, as usual, industriously flipping spent bullet casings into a rusty can on the other side of the tent. He didn't reply until he had cast - and sunk - his next shot, the little chunk of metal rattling around the inside with a resounding clatter. "What'choo need, Martin? More armor for you to bring back all tore up and covered in blood? You're not even one'uv us, and you got a free pass to take whatever you want? 'Taint right." He spat on the ground. The man sounded a little drunk himself, which gave her some hope of success.
She stuck a smile on her face, trying to sound flattering and charming, but succeeded only at a grotesque imitation of flirtatiousness. "Maybe in a couple of days, when I'm ready to head to the Dam. Right now, though, I'm just looking for something to relax. Liquor, not chems, nothing too bad. You always have everything - can you hook me up? I got… let's see… twenty caps to drop on a bottle of whatever."
He eyed her knowingly, taking in the hungry, frightened eyes and shaking hands. "I don't know. There's a reason I usually keep it out of the enlisted men's hands. There's too much potential for trouble in a depressing little posting like this. If you raise hell and tip the latrine - or yourself - off'uv the cliff, who you think Polati's gonna blame?" She heard enough in his tone to know that this wasn't a hard no, per se, just an indication that her price wasn't high enough.
"I don't get like that, I promise. No violence, no hijinks. I just need… I just want to calm down a little." She looked in her coin purse and exclaimed with feigned surprise. "Oh! Here's another ten caps, just hiding out. Thirty caps, now that's not too bad for a fifth of something that could take the skin off a deathclaw." A desperate note had crept into her voice that she didn't even try to conceal. "Please."
Maybe "desperate" sounded intimidating coming from her, because he capitulated sooner than expected, reaching out a hand for the money. "Alright, kid. Knock yourself out. Which poison would you like - bad whiskey or bad vodka?"
"Clear liquids are healthier," she answered seriously, much relieved, accepting the vodka and sliding it into her oversized pants pocket. "Thank you." On her way out, he called idly after her, already back to his little game.
"You share that with someone, y'hear?" She gave him a dismissive wave, already far away mentally, and kept on walking.
The moon had begun to rise as the sun finished setting upon the unusually warm night, illuminating the somewhat treacherous path down to the shore. The Forlorn Hope encampment stood high upon a promontory overlooking a horseshoe-shaped bend in the river, and she intentionally chose the side that the others were not going to be camped out, upstream from where she expected they were currently gathering driftwood for their fire. She might join them later, but first she'd need to unwind a little. The solitude of the desert night was nice, if a little scary in its own way. At the sound of a coyote's faraway howl, she remembered, a little belatedly, that she'd neglected to bring a weapon of any sort - not even a knife - but by then she had cracked the seal on the vodka, and soon stopped caring about such trivial concerns. She stretched out on a flat rock ten yards out from the water, soaking up the residual heat that it still retained from a day in the sun. At first, she gagged on the burning, bitter liquid - it was bad vodka by anyone's standard and it was nasty to take straight - but by the time it was a quarter gone she couldn't even taste it anymore. Numbness felt superlatively good. For the first time since Raul had died it didn't hurt to be awake and conscious. Even the dizziness didn't detract from this sense of well-being - all was right with the world and always would be, as long as there were escapes like this to be found, smack dab in the middle of a spinning, tilting universe with a population of one. Tomorrow would hurt. Tomorrow she would pay for this with well-deserved misery. But that didn't mean this wasn't worth it, if only she could stretch this moment out to last without tipping over into a dangerous zone. She reached to cap the bottle, thinking she could save the rest for the next time she felt bad, but accidentally knocked the whole thing off of the rock with her clumsy movement instead,
"Shit!" Megan half-rolled, half-fell off the rock, picking up the bottle, which lay on its side in the sand, unbroken, but mostly empty now. "Oh well. Fuck it." She gulped the last of it with heedless incaution, capped the bottle carefully, and set it down on the rock, thinking sagely to herself that you couldn't have too many good bottles. Incapable of standing upright without support, but happier than she'd felt in a long time, she leaned on the rock and watched the river flow by - it seemed to move with her, washing back and forth upon the shore. Feeling spontaneous, she pulled off her socks, boots, outer clothes, and Pip-Boy, with the light switched on as a beacon for easy retrieval. Walking took more coordination and balance than she had, but swimming would be easy - you couldn't fall down if you were floating.
Getting into the water was harder than it should have been, and she fell twice before she got past the ankle-deep shallows of the bone-chilling water, leaving scrapes and bruises that only sobriety would appreciate. Once in, though, paddling along under a bewildering, revolving sky with its glorious moon, she thought it was the most fun she'd had in recent memory. Slowed by the Dam just upstream, the current was little more than a gentle push here, occasionally grabbing her, spinning her around, and ducking her under before releasing her. It wasn't that deep: she could touch bottom if she needed to, and kick off to breathe. After the first splashing, freezing shock, she adjusted to the temperature - or thought she had - it was like the river was giving her a bracing hug as it carried her onward with inexorable strength. It was only when she noticed that her hands refused to open and shut normally and that her teeth were chattering intermittently that she decided perhaps she'd had enough swimming and that it was time to walk or crawl back before she drifted too far from her shoes. Hopping on feet too numb to feel the bottom, she scrabbled on elbows and knees until she lay panting on the wet gravel, shivering even in the warm night breeze. She might have fallen asleep there, unconscious to the dangers of exposure and predators, but the sound of distant footsteps and voices roused her soggy sense of perception, and she climbed up to a wobbly stand to meet the new challengers. A flashlight - a rare item that only a few lucky soldiers carried - shone out at her face, temporarily blinding her before the beam bobbed down to the ground and someone laughed.
"W-well, th-th-that is… n-n-not another l-lakelurk. G-g-good thing you didn't sh-shoot, B-boone." That boyish stutter could only belong to Ten of Spades.
"I don't shoot at what I can't see," Boone growled back. "What are you doing, Megan? Sneaking up on people with guns in a war zone is a bad idea. And where the fuck are your clothes?"
"Wasn't sneaking. Swimming. An' comin' to th'party. You invited me, silly." Not self-conscious in the slightest, despite being dressed only in a bra and underwear, she stepped up to him and stroked his cheek, not noticing his flinch as she did so. "It's nice to see your eyes again, Boone. I guess even you wouldn't wear sunglasses at night." Giving the others a wave in passing, she stumbled toward the fire behind them, intent on getting warm, and not really caring how many times she fell on the way there.
Behind her, above the others' muffled snickering, Gorobets commented aloud in a wondering tone, "You couldn't pay me enough to get in that water. Doesn't she know what lives in there?"
Shaking her head, Betsy followed her, hoisting her up when she stumbled and stopping her from falling into the fire, guiding her instead to a log beside the roaring blaze. "You want to cover up? You're embarrassing the boys and giving me all kinds of uncomfortable thoughts." Without waiting for an answer, Betsy wrapped a dirty blanket around her shoulders and asked, more kindly. "Where are your clothes, honey?"
"B-b-back on the b-b-beach a ways. On a r-r-rock." She heard the other woman relaying this to the men, and felt a mostly submerged flash of guilt at inconveniencing others. She was starting to feel somewhat unwell, and wondered for the first time if she'd be able to walk back to her cot at all. The heat felt good on her skin, but inside she was still freezing, nauseous, and very tired, ready to lay down and give up the attempt to stay vertical, and hopefully not roll off of the wobbly plate that the world had become. When she started to give in to this impulse, however, someone caught her and pushed her back up and snapped a finger against her cheek until she opened her eyes again.
Betsy sounded irritated, and a little concerned. "I thought you had a handle on your shit these days, girl. Maybe you're seriously out of practice with your drinking or maybe you didn't even try to press the stop button tonight. Either way, this was a pretty stupidly dangerous stunt. What gives?"
Megan was just self-aware of to be aware that she was probably in blackout territory, but that wasn't enough of a caution to keep her mouth shut. She later had a muddled impression of telling Betsy - telling everybody in earshot, really - about every fear, burden, and sorrow that she was holding onto, then lapsing into a crying, vomiting jag that went on and on and on until she lost the thread of consciousness. That was when the night shuddered to a halt as far as she was concerned.
Day Four dawned painful, sore, and disorienting. Searching for some clue about what had happened, she found humiliation at what little she could remember, and worry about what she couldn't. Like where she was and how she had gotten there.
"Did you have a fun time last night?" a disapproving voice boomed out from somewhere behind closed eyelids.
She groaned in response. "Please talk more quietly, Arcade. Your voice is like a sledgehammer."
"Hey, I know an Arcade." The voice sounded amused. "Nice guy for a… a talk, once in a while. But I'm not him."
She opened her eyes wider and recognized the familiar ceiling of the Forlorn Hope infirmary. "Dr. Richards, I mean. I, uh… I'm sorry if I put you to any trouble. I don't remember."
"Let me refresh your memory, then. It was costly, annoying, unnecessary, sleep-depriving trouble, but that's my job. To treat everybody that walks, crawls, or gets carried through that door. But I don't have to be nice or happy about it."
She wished he would stop talking and hand her some water. "Did I throw up on you or something? I know I had a little too much to drink, but that's nothing special… I guess I shoulda just stayed out overnight. Spared you the mess."
This provoke a minor explosion from the doctor, whose voice rose and stabbed through her aching head. "Kid, you were cold, dehydrated, intoxicated to the point of being unresponsive, and still dressed in wet clothes from your nighttime swim when the others brought you in. People die from shit like that. And that's why I gave warm saline to a drunk that should have been reserved for some poor sap with a few bullet holes in them." Ah. There was real anger now. Richards really could run the whole range of emotions in a single conversation.
"Damn. I didn't think..." She felt ashamed - ashamed and sick, but not as sick as she should be by rights, if what he said was true. If living with the Followers had taught her one thing, it was to never, ever, ever waste medicine. She flexed her right hand, noting the a small bruise over the vein, and looked over guiltily. "I'm really sorry. I know what that stuff is worth - really, I do - and I never meant to make you waste it on me. I wish you hadn't." More quietly, she added, "Thank you."
Calm again, he answered in a normal tone, "De nada, my strange, sad little guest. Your one saving grace is that you are the reason I have any supplies to begin with. So, did you get the self-destructiveness out of your system? I must admit this wasn't what I'd expected when I pushed you to get out last night." He was back to radiating bracing good cheer, but there was a watchful glint in his eye now.
"For now," she said absently, blinking and watching the ceiling rotate slowly, wondering if she was still drunk. "'Til the next time I let people shoot at me, I guess. Hablas español?"
"Just a little, honey. Enough to be polite. I used to work in a neighborhood that had a small but very tight-knit community of people who'd been a part of a bilingual vault." He dragged some partitions over, enclosing her in a semi-private space. "You're stark naked under all those blankets, just so you know. Might want to get dressed if you can manage it. Let me know if you need help."
She heard him sit down beyond the canvas barrier, humming cheerfully to himself. Getting up, getting dressed was a real chore this morning - stiff fingers didn't want to work clasps or buttons, and every motion sent little waves of nausea and chills shivering down her spine.
The humming stopped. "Hey. I got a question for you. You don't have to answer, but I have to ask. Those scars - especially on your back - what happened to you?"
"Don't know." The lie slipped easily from her tongue. "All that was before some casino boss shot all my memories to hell. It's just as well though, right? Who would want to remember that?"
"If you say so, kid," he said dubiously. "Why'd you go and drink so much, though?"
"It's just self-medication taken too far… for anxiety. And grief. I got off the hard drugs a while back, but alcohol's an easy fix that I can't forget about and doesn't seem as bad in comparison. But don't worry. I've got someone… at home… who won't tolerate that kind of thing. I'll be okay when I'm done with the fighting, when I get away from all of these… men. No offense. I'll dry out, stay level, and get away from everything that makes me want to blot it all out. God willing, I won't have to watch any more friends die because of me..." By the time she trailed off, she was talking aloud to herself, and at this point something clenched inside her chest, and she squeezed her eyes shut to keep the tears in.
He waited a moment, then asked, "Where's home?"
"Freeside. I've spent more time there than anywhere else. I figure home's where you hang your hat, and I'm pretty sure that's where I left my last sombrero, because I haven't seen it in weeks." She was going for a flippant tone, but her own words made her head throb and she gave up trying to sound lighthearted. "Truth is, I don't really have a place I belong at all."
"I always thought home is where the heart is," he commented agreeably.
"And... there's another trite cliche from the good doctor. It's true, though."
A quart of water and a few hours of sleep later, she decided to get out of the tent, if only to get away from the probing questions that kept coming. And begin a round of apologies. Despite the overwhelming brightness of the day and the dull throbbing in her head, she felt surprisingly good - and, strangely, happy. It was like the drinking had flipped some switch in her brain, making the needle rest just above "okay" for the first time in days. She activated ED for the first time since she'd reclaimed him from Polati and the little bot bobbed along behind her as she made her way through the tents, making her feel like she had someone watching her back, keeping her safe. The first person she found was Boone, who had situated himself upon a comfortable perch on the highest promontory overlooking the camp.
She approached him loudly on purpose, knowing from long experience that it didn't do to surprise the man. "Hey. You on watch?"
"Not formally, since I don't have an official role here other than being your de facto handler. Which I may not be doing a very good job of, come to think of it. I just like having eyes on the area. Hair-of-the-dog?" He seemed remarkable relaxed, perhaps because of the flask he now held out to her.
She grimaced. "Thanks, but I'm good. I don't want to get back into that cycle of always being a little buzzed. Therein lies problems… especially if you ever want to stop."
"Suit yourself. Helps me aim steady."
"I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean to crash y'all's party. I don't remember everything, but what I do is pretty embarrassing."
He actually smiled, but it had a strained edge to it. "Yeah, that was… something. We all learned some interesting things about you last night, even me. I had no idea that you considered yourself personally responsible for the total nuclear annihilation of human civilization… or something like that. You weren't real coherent. Were you trying to kill yourself or something?"
She winced at thought of whatever she might have said. "No, I was just being reckless. I had no intention of getting into the water until all of the vodka was gone. At that point, it seemed like the best idea in the world." She shivered briefly, rubbing in arms in memory of that awful cold. "I wasn't… - I'm not - suicidal, but I guess I'm hovering around the point where I don't care too much if I die. Not enough to be careful all the time. Sometimes I forget that survival is an inherent good."
"I know exactly what you mean, unfortunately." He shifted uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at her. "Betsy tore me a new one last night, right after we handed your sorry ass over to the doc. I guess she has a point. But can you blame me for not wanting to get close to you when you're hurting?"
"No. It's alright. I'll talk to her when I go 'round to make my apologies. God, this is humiliating… I'm sorry, Boone. I feel like I probably embarrassed you in particular."
He shrugged one shoulder. "I don't embarrass easily. What all have you been doing for the last several months? You referenced a lot of random things in passing and I don't know if you gave us the full list."
The question surprised her, and she struggled to formulate an answer on the fly. "Uh… I cleared out a couple of vaults, recovered an airplane from the bottom of Lake Mead for the Boomers, forged an alliance with the Kings, got the Enclave back together, and killed a hell of a lot of Fiends and Legionaries."
"Impressive." He sounded slightly disbelieving, but his eyes were unreadable behind his glasses.
"That was everything in the 'win' category. On the less positive side, I went through heavy Med-X withdrawal, had an abortion, had someone else's unwanted baby die in my arms, failed or alienated a lot of people, almost got kidnapped by the Legion again, and got experimental brain surgery that seems to have made things worse. Raul's murder is just the latest thing I have to handle somehow. I've 'bout gotten to the point where I feel like the best way to avoid losing friends is not to have any in the first place and sometimes I'm afraid that I'm going to end up there no matter what."
He was quiet for a long moment. "I'm sorry. I'm surprised you still give a fuck about anything. You don't have to, you know. There's no one holding a gun to your head saying, 'you must do this.' It's not-... it doesn't have to be your fight."
"I do have to care. At this point I do, anyway. It's my duty to do something if I can. But I'm finally seeing a light at the end of a long tunnel. I'll be free soon."
"Free," he repeated, with just the slightest hint of alarm. "What do you mean?"
"Pretty soon, I won't have to be 'The Courier' anymore. I can just be Megan, far away from here. I can leave all of this behind, and never again be the kind of person who makes big things happen. Either I'll escape, or I'll die trying, and I can't wait. Did you ever read much mythology in school, Boone?"
He shook his head impatiently, swatting a mosquito on his arm. "Nope. Teacher traveled around the farms, showed up once a week or so. He eventually got most of us reading and figuring a little, and that was it. All we needed. Didn't have any books of our own."
"Well, Arcade likes it, so I've heard more than my share of Greek and Roman mythology. My takeaway from all of it is that no one should ever want to be significant - it sucks to be a person that the gods notice for any reason. Those are the ones that get killed, tortured, driven mad, and turned into things. The ugly farmer, minding his own business? He's usually okay. He doesn't make it into the story, but he survives to live a boring, happy life and have boring children more often than not. I want to live outside of the big stories, both for my own sake, and so that my footprint doesn't crush any more little guys. I'd rather die than let that happen again, so I'm going to get out."
"I hope you make it," he answered quietly. "I think you and that city-soft doctor out in the wild are a recipe for disaster, but I could be wrong."
"Thanks. I'm optimistic." She frowned. "I can't really say why. There is a path to safety, though, and I think me and Arcade will find it. I have faith in him, at least. That his decision-making is more grounded in reality than mine. And he has maps." She said this word like another person might say "magical talisman," with unfaltering hope and trust. "What was Utah like, Boone? I've heard parts of that region are beautiful. We'll be cutting through the south part, but I don't know what we'll see there."
"I don't remember any beauty," he began haltingly, his voice distant. "I went with a caravan, but everyone else died. Even before we got ambushed, we were lost. Our navigator - a psycho addict hired just because he had a Pip-Boy - died of an overdose pretty early on. No one else could figure out how to get the damn thing working, even the smart girl we had with us. Screen was all locked up, she said. Then, just as we got close to Zion canyon, we got hit hard by these tribals called 'White Legs' and it was all over for everyone not wearing good armor. Everyone except me."
She looked at him in earnest confusion. "Why did you go, Boone? I thought you just wanted to kill Legion. There aren't that many in Utah, surely?"
"There are some, out there trying to convert more tribals. But I was there for one in particular. Joshua Graham. The Malpais Legate."
"I've heard that name," she began slowly. "Chief Hanlon at Camp Golf told me about him. He also told me that he died. That Caesar had him set him on fire and thrown into the river."
"He didn't die. NCR knew it - First Recon knew it - but kept quiet about it. He was a low-priority target, since Caesar also wanted him taken out, but I wanted to see it done. Because you can't just step away from a life of brutality and not have it follow you. That's not justice." He threw a stone as hard as he could, watching it arc down to the ground far below, falling well short of the river.
She didn't think he had intentionally aimed that last jab at her, but it still felt like a personal warning. "I'm guessing he's dead now."
"Yeah. I pretended to help him for a while, gathering crap for whatever his plan was, then killed him in an unguarded moment, away from his men." What was that she heard? Regret perhaps? "I tried to make up for it, though," he said defensively, even though she hadn't been about to accuse him of anything. "Tried to help some of the others get clear of the White Legs' path. The White Legs were propped up by Legion resources. Without Graham's military leadership, the other tribes didn't stand a chance, especially not with that peace-loving fool Daniel. But… I held their pursuers back for as long as I could." He was talking to himself now and she didn't interrupt or offer judgment. She understood unintended consequences all too well. "And that's what I did in Utah," he finished.
"I wish things had been different and I could have been there to help you," she offered sincerely. "It sounds like hell to be all alone except for enemies and strangers for weeks or months."
"I didn't at the time - back then, I hated you even more than him - but now I wish you had been there too. It was exactly the sort of thing we would have done better together, although I think you would have tried to stop me from killing Graham, especially after talking to him. He was always watching his back for Caesar's spies, but for some reason he didn't fear me. Even at the end. The bastard almost got the better of me, even half-crippled with those burns, with my bullet in him already." He stopped, thinking back upon the moment, and changed the subject abruptly. "Do you know anything about a frumentarius named Ulysses? That guy and Vulpes Inculta were the two that he was on the lookout for."
"Vulpes is dead," she blurted out distractedly, heart racing. "Some combination of deathclaw and mini-nuke did for him a month or so ago. Ulysses is… or was… a Legion-affiliated courier who apparently knew something about my past that he didn't like. I think he was trying to kill me last year - he was the one who pinned that last job on me. And now I'm pretty sure he's trying to get me to show up to my own execution again. But I'm not dancing to his tune. I'm going in the opposite direction of those coordinates." ED beeped and nudged her arm, tired of being ignored, and she stroked his armored plating without looking up. "Why do you ask? Do you know something else about him?"
Boone relaxed a little, shaking his head. "Not really. Just that Graham saw him as a rare big-picture thinker among Caesar's dogs. I was worried that he might've started maneuvering to take his place instead of that madman Lanius. But if he's playing cat-and-mouse games with you, he's probably just another brand of crazy." He looked up, a feral grin on his face that frightened her a little, "If you'll give me those coordinates, I'll go make sure he's not a problem for you or anybody else - once we're done at the Dam, of course."
Her headache was building again and she wished she had dared to ask the doctor for something to treat it, though she suspected that he would have laughed in her face. "No. I don't want to send you alone to what could be your death. He's a dangerous man, hanging out in a dangerous place, and I won't be responsible for what could happen." She took a deep breath, struggling to get the words out through her fuzzy thoughts. "Why don't you… if you want to, of course… travel with us for a while. I know things still aren't what they were between us and probably can't be, but you could come east until you find something that you don't mind being a part of. Something new."
He looked equal parts amused and surprised. "What do you think Gannon would say about that invitation? We don't exactly get along, you know. I can't stand that superior look he's always got on his face and I know he doesn't like me. Never has."
"He'd be annoyed. But I'm worried about leaving you here. I'm afraid you'll… you know…"
"Drink myself to death? Blow my brains out when I run out of escaped legionaries to shoot? Go on a killing spree of people that I blame for my problems?" That scary grin was back on his face and she wanted to punch it off of him, but contented herself with scowling at him instead.
"For starters, yeah."
"If I do any of those things, that's my problem. And I'm not your concern anymore," he said, his tone curiously gentle and at the same time dismissive. "Leaving for good is not an option I'm going to consider. I need to stay near Vegas. That's where I met Carla. I'm not leaving… her."
"That's your final word on that?"
"Yeah." He took a sip from the flask that had been laid aside, and turned back to survey the rough, sloping decent to the sparkling river below. "No offense, but that's enough talking for me for about a week. Can you go bother someone else now?"
"Fine. We'll head out tomorrow morning. Hopefully my head won't burst before then."
He sighed. "Yeah. Take it easy tonight. I don't want my back-up to be hungover."
"No worries on that count. Right now, never drinking again sounds like the best idea in the world."
Day Five was beautiful, and she at least felt clear-headed and focused, interested in scoping out a new locale - she had never actually been to the Dam before, at least not that she remembered. To be a tourist of sorts at one of the most interesting - and, for today, at least, the most secure - places in the world was uncommonly pleasant, and it almost made up for the fact that Moore had mandated that she leave her armor, all of her weapons, and even ED in her assigned bunk in anticipation of Kimball's visit. For safety purposes, she said.
Hers and Boone's briefing in Moore's office had been an interesting one. It was obvious that the sniper's surly presence in the room had set the woman slightly off balance, and she remained fairly businesslike instead of making vague threats and insinuations in her face.
Completely disarmed as ordered and now confused by the summons that had brought them here, she asked the officer directly, "So, why are we here, Colonel?"
The other woman rolled her eyes. "Didn't anybody tell you? The president wants to meet you both. Caesar's killers and all. He'll shake your hands, exchange some pleasantries, and you'll say nothing substantial at all."
"What?" she protested. "I didn't kill Caesar. Can I sit this one out?"
"Boone told Captain Gilles that you helped. And no. I need you to make a public appearance for reasons that you don't need to fully understand. Basically, I need to show the world a tamed Courier that I control, not to put too fine a point on it."
She shot an exasperated look behind her. "I helped Boone escape. Nothing more."
Moore waved a hand dismissively. "Same difference. Nice photo op. Good morale boost for the troops, yada, yada. His public relations people decided that Caesar's death would make a pretty speech, so a pretty speech about you misfits is what he's going to give us."
"Alright, whatever. Don't you actually want us to do anything useful around here today? Ferret out traps, search for enemy snipers and assassins, that sort of thing? That's the sort of thing I usually do."
"No. Take a break from the heroics. I've got a hundred rangers and twice as many ordinary soldiers on the scene already, so we've got it well in hand, thank you very much. We don't need the likes of you poking around behind the scenes. And Martin?"
"Yes?"
"If you so much as look at the president the wrong way, I've got a sniper waiting in the wings just for you. That's all." They rose to leave her office, and Moore called out, "Mr. Boone. I'd like a word with you in private, please."
Leaving Boone to his fate, she stepped out to see the crowd waiting outside and immediately understood Moore's complacency. There were more rangers here than she'd ever seen in one place. Thanks to her patrolling efforts up and down the river, she recognized quite a few of them, including the harried-looking man with an eye-patch who was in charge. Many greeted her, but she suspected many others didn't recognize her at all - they knew her as the colossus in armor, not as the slight girl in civilian clothes. Their leader, at least, knew her face and gave her a nod when she walked up to greet him. "Hello Ranger Grant."
"Courier. Good to see you alive and well. Could you do a favor for me? Check on my man up there on the farthest tower -" here he gave a wave and a distant figure, wearing the full armor of a veteran ranger, waved back - "I keep trying to page him, but he's not responding on the radio. Valdez isn't good with tech, so it could be broken, or he might just have switched it off by accident. Carry this portable one up the tower to him? Please? The numbers we have, it may seem absurd, but I don't want to pull anybody else off their detail right now. We're putting this whole place - down to the last lump of dirt - through a fine-toothed comb right now."
It was on the tip of her tongue to decline with an apology - she wasn't keen on heights, after all, and Moore had told her in no uncertain terms that she didn't want her to do anything - but she saw how overwhelmed he seemed and accepted the radio he offered, listening to the simple instructions.
"Just tell him to press and hold that button to speak. All I need is a verbal confirmation from him that things are okay."
He was sweating more than the breezy day could account for. Going off of a hunch, she asked, "Did something happen, Grant?"
"Yeah." He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "We found an improvised bomb on the helipad. One of the engineers who was in charge of inspecting it has gone AWOL - we don't know if he planted the charge himself or if someone killed him for access. Either way, the saboteur could still be here. And the president's 'bird is only an hour out."
It was awfully windy on the ladder leading up the side of the tower, and Megan wished that she had at least asked for a key to the building so that she could have taken the stairs instead. When a particularly forceful gust swept past her, making the awkwardly heavy radio thump against her back, she gasped and tried to hug the wall with her body, gripping the rungs of the ladder so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
"I gotta stop saying 'yes' to things," she grumbled aloud, reluctantly letting go with one hand to reach for the next rung. "They'll be scraping me off the ground if I fall."
The man on the roof started and whirled around when she poured herself over the edge of the ladder, feeling like her bones had turned to jelly. She gave him a disarming smile and showed him her empty hands before standing up slowly. "Tech support?" She had decided on the way over that she'd take a crack at fixing his permanent radio before handing over the mobile one. She had a knack for fixing simple mechanical things, after all.
Valdez was a man of few words, it seemed. He stood over her, impassive behind his red-eyed gas mask, while she checked the power connections feeding the communications system. Over his shoulder, he carried an enormous gun, an anti-materiel rifle that Boone would literally have killed to own, and favored his left leg heavily when he moved. He watched with eerie focus while she cracked open the back of the radio on his table and peered at the delicate apparatus inside. "Here's the problem. There's a wire loose in the back. See? It probably got jostled out when they set it up for you." She unclasped the snaky extension cord which ran across the rooftop from the trapdoor to the table, leaving the plug dangling from the edge - it didn't do to be careless around two-hundred-year-old electronics, especially not when it was receiving live juice from the heart of Hoover Dam. The ranger watched silently as she meticulously twisted the errant wire in place and reconnected the power. She flipped the switch and was pleased to hear it hum to life. "Hey Grant, Courier here. The main radio's fixed. Over." She spotted him - or at least the dark shape she thought was him - standing in the crowd in front of the visitor's center and gave him a little salute, before replacing the radio's casing.
"Damnit, Valdez." The man's sigh made the speakers whuff in protest. "Is everything copacetic up there? Over."
"All clear. Over." Muffled by his mask, the man's reply was a barely intelligible growl, but Grant accepted it.
"Great. Keep on telling me the same thing, every fifteen minutes. If you don't mind. Over and out."
Grant may have been satisfied, but Megan wasn't sure she was anymore. Some unnamable quality in Valdez's three-word reply was sending fear-signals crawling up her spine, and she took an unconscious step back from the man, who also moved slightly, cutting off the most direct path to the ladder, his hidden gaze now fixing her like a predatory animal's. Megan fumbled for the now-superfluous radio on her shoulder, never taking her eyes from the man. Her finger found the button as she brought it to her mouth, but she hadn't gotten the first word past her lips before he struck, crossing the space between them with a speed and grace that belied his injured leg. She reacted quickly enough that his haymaker only grazed her elbow instead of breaking her collarbone, but lost the radio in the dodge, flinging it by accident against the low wall, where its casing split in two, sending its components rolling across the floor.
"What are you doing? Who are you?" she gasped, backing away in a defensive posture while at the same time trying to stay as close as possible to the middle of the roof, mindful of the terrible fall awaiting her over that edge. The man didn't say anything, but drew a serrated combat knife, and continued advancing on her, leaving a steady drip of red droplets in his wake. When his duster flapped open, she could see that the upper thigh of his denim pants was dark with blood on the left side. She pointed to it. "Do I have the real Valdez to thank for that one?" He didn't respond, but the sight had given her hope. The longer she could draw this out, the weaker her opponent would become... and the better chance she'd have that someone on the ground would notice that something was wrong up here. He couldn't use the anti-materiel rifle on her without blowing his cover, which is not to say he wouldn't if he became desperate. Particularly if he knew who she was, as the whole Legion probably did at this point. She cursed Moore for disarming her, and wished that she had kept a holdout weapon. A razor, some knuckles… anything. As it was, the only thing protecting her skin from that knife was a thin layer of cloth, a plaid shirt tucked into faded bluejeans.
"HEY. HEY! I need some help up here!" The area around the tower was not well-patrolled, and the wind stole the force from her words; she didn't think anyone on the town could have heard it unless they were standing immediately by and paying attention. The attempt was enough to make her wary opponent act out of panic, however - he leapt off of his good leg, closing the distance quickly and leading with the point of the knife aimed at her midsection. She did the only thing she could do - threw herself backwards to the ground, narrowing missing braining herself on the boundary wall. He was quick to take advantage of her position - too quick - and dove at her at the same time that she launched her whole body into a two-legged donkey kick, straining her back and shoulders to force height and strength into the move. The soles of her boots - weapons in their own right, she realized - connected solidly with muscle and bone and she heard his pained grunt along with the rattling clink of a falling knife as it skittered over the stones into a distant corner. Up again in a moment, she took the lead and drove fists, elbows, knees, and boots into his most vulnerable areas - above the waist, these merely bounced off his gear and bruised her unprotected limbs, but they still knocked him backwards, keeping him on the defensive, and preventing him from turning the contest into a wrestling match that he would almost certainly win. She didn't really know the vulnerabilities of black armor, and seriously doubted her ability to match even an injured man wearing superior protection in hand-to-hand for long, but if she could keep him off-balance, then maybe she could tumble him over the side. What else could she do?
All this would be moot if he gave up on secrecy and just shot her, of course. The president would live, but that wouldn't be much consolation to her if one of those .50 caliber rounds went through her. When they broke apart, both breathing heavily from the exertion, he took advantage of the respite to swing the rifle off of his shoulder, grasping it firmly with both hands. As a close-range gun, the anti-materiel rifle was shit as far as recoil and aiming were concerned; as a melee weapon, it wasn't much better - extremely heavy and unwieldy - but the fact remained that he had a weapon and she still did not. Moving slower now, he struck again, attempting to swing the barrel into a crushing blow on her ribs, and she did the only thing she could think of - stepped into the swing, cutting the momentum off before it got going and letting the impromptu club slap into her hands. Then it became a matter of hanging on for dear life.
Accepting a game of tug-a-war with a larger and stronger opponent may not have been the wisest course of action - she immediately lost ground, lost balance, and couldn't dare let go for fear of being at his mercy. Within seconds, he'd managed to lift her feet off of the ground in an attempt to either shake her off or throw her over the side - a terrifying shift that nevertheless left her free use of her feet, one of which kicked out and connected with his wound, making his leg collapse under him. Another boot to his face - this one from an unstable stance, and lacking force, but still enough to stun him - and he lost hold of the gun. She clubbed him once on the side of the head for good measure, hopefully not hard enough to kill him, then retreated slowly to the radio table, jangling with adrenaline, not taking her eyes off of the crumpled figure for a second.
"Grant? Martin here. I don't know where Valdez is, but this ain't him. I need your people to come take charge of my prisoner, as I don't feel competent to escort him down alone. Maybe bring a medic so he doesn't die. Over."
There was a stunned intake of breath on the other side, then, "We're coming. Don't let him move. Over."
She heard wet, breathy laughter from the downed imposter, who did not look like he'd be going anywhere anytime soon. "Well done, lambkin. You won. You've always surprised me, and this time you've impressed me."
"Vulpes." Of course she had known that voice. "I thought you were dead. Damn, you really should have killed me when you had the chance - the first time, especially. Imagine how much better off your precious Legion would be if I had just died in Nipton." There was a slightly hysterical surge of triumph welling up inside of her, and she couldn't keep from babbling on. "Do you know how many of your lot I've personally killed?"
"Oh, I know. I underestimated you from the start, and absolutely should have killed you before you came into your own. Do you want to know how I survived last time we parted?"
"No. I don't care. I'm guessing you wriggled away like the vermin that you are." Triumph faded as other emotions took over: anger at the man for making her feel so much fear, along with disgust - and, surprisingly, regret - at the way he'd chosen to lead his life. "Don't move or I'll shoot you," she warned, as the man struggled to sit up. It took an annoying amount of effort to keep the twenty-pound gun trained on him, and just thinking about trying to fire it out of armor made her shoulder ache. Not that it seemed like it would be necessary - there was a lot of blood under that leg of his now. She wondered if she should try to protect the NCR's interests and go tie a tourniquet, but she didn't want to touch the man, even now. He made her feel dirty and ashamed by his very proximity and, truth be told, she was still terrified of him.
"Relax. I'm just taking this helmet off." Once the possessor of nondescript, boyish looks, Vulpes would fade into a crowd no longer. His eyes, it seemed, had been spared the rush of heat and radiation from his homemade bomb, but not his skin, hair, or nose. "Do you like what you see, my dear?"
"No. I don't." It was true. She'd seen too many mangled humans while shadowing the doctors in Freeside to rejoice in it, even at the expense of an enemy. "Can I ask you some questions real fast, Vulpes? Not about state secrets or anything - I'll leave those for your interrogators. Just personal stuff."
He lay back again, watching her with strained good humor. "Shoot. Or, rather, don't. If you want answers, that is..."
"Where's my combat shotgun?"
"Down below, with the ranger's body and my gear. I kept it in good condition. An effective weapon, if not at all subtle. Perfect for you."
"Thanks. I guess." She heard the rattle of the door and muffled commands below and knew she was running out of time. "Who is Ulysses?" she asked quickly.
He grunted with surprise, and opened eyes that had drifted shut. "He's a frumentarius, like me, but not like me. Older, stronger. Smarter, if I admit it. He's a born killer with a personality as forceful as Caesar's. Think he's gone off the reservation, though. There's been no word from him for over a year now..." His voice trailed off as his eyes closed again and she saw him clench his jaw from pain. The trapdoor beside her flew open with a bang, and she finally relaxed, letting the rifle-tip sag to the floor as Grant, followed by five others, moved to roll Vulpes over and cuff him. He said something to a man with a white arm-band - the medic - who shook his head with disgust and stood up.
"He's dead."
She set the gun on the table and walked over, puzzled. "No, he's not. He was just talking to me. He might be unconscious. The ranger that was up here managed to stab him, and I gave him a few good hits too."
The medic, a man she'd never met, nudged Vulpes' head with his foot, showing her his face, which was rigid and set under the horrific burns. "Take a look. See that froth on his mouth? Cyanide. These high-ranking Legion bastards get away from us all the time with these hollow tooth-capsules they got. They bite down on them when they're about to be captured. Not much anyone can do about it, even if they know to expect it. Do you need medical attention?" She shook her head and he tramped downstairs, followed by two troopers carrying the corpse. The others searched the rooftop briefly for other evidence, before heading down themselves.
Grant surveyed the scene mournfully before using the radio to summon a new team to the top of the tower. "Two men this time," he muttered to Megan. "Wish like hell I'd done that the first time. Valdez might still be alive. But thank you for what you did. Without you, he would have taken a shot at the president and I'd've gone by 'Mud' for the rest of my miserable life. How did you know he wasn't a ranger under that mask?"
"I'd run into him a couple of times before. The voice sounded familiar. Do you think there are any more spies here today?"
"Face looking like that, I don't think this one could have gotten to the helipad without being noticed, so yeah. We'll stay alert. You better get down there now. It's almost time."
Passing a team of engineers doing a last-minute check on the speech platform under the supervision of a dozen soldiers, Megan caught Boone coming out of the visitor center, looking grim. She almost skipped over to him, feeling light and happy with relief.
"Boone! I could've used your help a little while ago. Did you know there are-" she dropped her voice to a whisper "-Legion spies here?"
He folded his arms, leaning against the wall, and stared down at her. "Moore doesn't like you."
She stepped out of the wind into the shelter of the building and tried to smooth her rumpled, sweaty hair and clothes. Some blood had gotten on her boots, but it didn't show much on the leather. "Really? She hides it so well."
"She just offered me land - good land - near my family's old homestead in exchange for agreeing to testify against you. Like, in a formal court."
"That sounds like the kind of manipulation of justice that would be illegal in a civilized world. But, in any case, you should get that offer in writing."
He swung an arm down to slap the concrete wall in aggravation, making her jump slightly. "I don't want any land. Be serious, goddamnit."
"I am. Ask for money instead. I don't plan to be in that court. She can try me in absentia. How do I look?" She smiled up at him, still feeling the euphoric rush that comes of being alive.
"Scruffy like you always are." He looked closer. "Like you've been in a fight. What-"
She interrupted him. "I'm kind of nervous about meeting President Kimball. What do you know about him?"
"That he was a better war hero than he is a president. That he's over-extended our resources trying to fight here and the Baja at the same time." He lowered his voice, glancing around. "That half the Senate half-hopes someone takes him out here, or at the next ribbon-cutting ceremony in the Hub, or wherever."
"What's the Baja? What's in the Baja?"
"It's down south somewheres. And I don't know what he's chasing and don't care. That's Ranger business. Veteran Ranger business. I don't think very much about things that are out of my control and don't affect me directly."
"Well, I don't think assassinations are conducive to regional stability, so I'd rather he not die on my watch, even if he is a lousy president. Of a nation I'm not a citizen of and don't ever plan to set foot in, but still. It's my job to keep him safe as long as he's here."
She'd apparently said something funny, because he let out a genuine laugh at this. "You're a real wild card, aren't you? I still don't get what makes you tick, but I think we're lucky to have drawn you." He scowled. "I'm not sure you can say the same, though."
"I mostly try to do the right thing. I don't always know what that is, but keeping the Legion from their target seems straightforward enough. Something I don't have reservations about doing." she said stolidly. "That's the second time I've heard you use the first person plural for the NCR. Are you reenlisting?"
"That was one thing Moore and I discussed. Maybe. Gorobets said Sterling's retiring soon. There's a spot for me if I want back in. If-" here, he hesitated, checking around for listening ears. "If I can bullshit my way past that goddamned psych eval."
"Do you want to? You quit for a reason, remember."
"Maybe. I dunno. It's something to do." He bared his teeth in a grimace. "She also sort of implied that things would be harder for me if I didn't turn on you. What the hell did you do to piss her off?"
"Me? Nothing. I'm just a convenient stepping stone. She's a power-hungry bitch, you know. She just wants to use you - the stoic hero who killed Caesar - for window dressing on her bid for advancement. She'd step over both of our corpses without a second thought if it benefitted her at all."
"Yeah, I gathered that much myself, thanks."
They both turned at the distant sound of a vertibird cruising in from the west. Across the open, sunny space in front of them, a sea of khaki and desert-brown snapped to attention, alert to any sign of danger.
Megan led the way forward to the platform. "C'mon. We're supposed to take our spots up there before he disembarks. Eyes open now. There's probably at least one assassin left, and I'm all out of luck for the day."
"I'm ready. And, unlike you, I have weapons."
"Well, I don't need weapons. I am objectively awesome and a formidable foe to all my enemies."
"You're crazy."
Bantering back and forth, almost like friends again, the Courier and the sniper made their way through the crowd and onto the front page of the NCR's quarterly newspaper for Spring 2282, with a headline reading: "Heroic Pair Kills Caesar, Assassin, Saves President Kimball." Technology being what it was in that benighted time, it would be the only photograph that anyone would ever take of either of them, and, by the end of her life, a copy of that paper would be the only material evidence among Megan's possessions that a man called Craig Boone had ever existed, a crystallization of a rare moment of unmitigated triumph for the both of them.
And no, of course he wasn't smiling in it.