As always, a big ol' thanks to my readers and a gigantic thanks to my reviewers!

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: BREATHLESS

Crosshairs aligned with the crude red paint on the skull helm. Metal grip hot in her hands and butt of the rifle secure against her shoulder, Ash tightened her finger around the trigger. Her prey took steps forward and brushed something off of his shoulder, oblivious to her far-off presence, and she carefully tilted the rifle a fraction of a degree to match the target again. It was heavy, bulky, awkward even though much of its weight was on the ruined ledge. The sun bore down on her back and legs, exposed in her prone position.

She stopped breathing and pulled the trigger.

Sharp, sudden pain hit her shoulder and the rifle jerked up sharply. The hiss she felt on her lips fell silent to the deafening gunshot. Not worth it to realign and search for the body. She massaged her arm and sat up.

"Holy fuck, that was loud." Veronica rubbed her ear underneath her hood.

Ash shrugged. "Did I get him?"

"Oh." The scribe lifted the binoculars to her eyes. A moment later and she had an answer. "Oh. Shit. Yeah, but he's not really… connected anymore."

"Anyone else down there?"

"Nope, all clear for now." Veronica lowered the binoculars. "No offense, and I don't want you to get some complex about being short, but that gun might be a tiny bit too big for you."

"I know, I know. It's for Boone. Wanted to try it out, that's all. Can I see those?"

Veronica passed the binoculars over. "Do I make a good spotter? I've never done this before."

Ash nodded and looked through the scratched lenses. Sure enough, the Fiend's body no longer held a human shape. The anti-materiel rifle was worth every cap.

"You know, this is kind of a messed up form of stress relief."

No sign of any other Fiends, like Veronica had said. The afternoon sun dragged the buildings' shadows out long over the dirt. Other than a few rats, no life to speak of. Ash blinked. "What?"

"Killing people."

"I'm not stressed." She set the binoculars down and turned to face Veronica.

"Oh, come on, I'm not an idiot. You act all weird when something's bugging you and you smoke like twenty packs a day."

"Twenty?"

"Okay, slight exaggeration. But still, you're taking out whatever it is on some drugged up kids."

"If they were Legionaries, you wouldn't care."

Veronica frowned. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" Ash straightened her posture and surveyed the surrounding wastes. "Arcade told me about a study done a long time ago, in the Old World, to see how loyal people would be to orders. The men who signed up were told to ask questions to someone in another room, and then to shock them if they answered wrong. Almost all of them went with it fully, even when they thought they were killing the person in the other room." She glanced at the scribe. "Arcade explains it better, but…"

"Whoa, whoa. You don't need to throw psychological studies at me." Veronica held up her hands, then rested one on her companion's shoulder. "It's okay, I get it. I just want to be sure you're okay. What are you so worked up about?"

Ash frowned. She must've come off too harsh. But she didn't want to burden Veronica with it, with all the stress. House was growing impatient, no word from the Legion, no sign of Benny, and Boone… "It's nothing, really."

"I could teach you how to cook."

"What?"

"You know, knife skills, recipes, methods of preparation. It's great stress relief. And it's delicious!" Veronica grinned.

"I think I'll pass for now." The last thing Ash needed was slipping up and cutting off a finger. She'd never been coordinated with knives. Or domestic matters in general.

"Okay, then, how about… Oh! Maybe a relaxing night out? Good drinks, good friends, good food, more drinks. I know Cass would love it. We could get Arcade in on it, too. I bet he's a riot when he's drunk."

"Maybe." Ash ran a hand over her face. "Okay, yeah. In a couple days." Couldn't be any harm in it. If nothing else, it'd be a welcome distraction.

Dry grass crunched under Boone's feet and sand dusted up his boots with each soft step. Charlie was quiet. Too quiet, even from yards off, no one patrolling outside, no sounds from within. Nothing, until he noticed the footprints in the dirt, too many and too erratic to be from the Rangers. Someone else had been here, a group, a raiding party, bent on one task. And so close to Novac, so close to home. Maybe Vipers or Jackals or even Khans, but that was optimistic. He knew it was worse. Rex sniffed at the ground and followed the trail to the door, ajar an inch. Boone followed, rifle held tight in sweaty palms. Dark inside. All wrong.

He walked in front of the dog and looked down, sliding the pack from his shoulders and setting it against the wall. "Stay."

Rex whined but sat obediently by the bag.

Boone faced the door. He hadn't needed to come here; clear enough already that the head of the Rangers was at fault. Why Hanlon would do it, Boone didn't know, and at the moment he didn't care. He was here, and here was wrong.

He breathed in deep and nudged the door open with his rifle, expecting an ambush, but nothing came. He stepped inside.

The smell hit him first, thick and terrible and overwhelming, the unmistakable stench of death and decay, of flesh rotting in the desert heat. Then he heard the flies, buzzing incessantly in the stagnant air. He coughed and pulled his shirt up to cover his mouth and nose and didn't breathe but none of that helped. And then his eyes adapted to the dark and he saw them, the two bodies laid out on the floor, surrounded by dried, flaking blood, eyes open wide, staring, clouded, sightless, like they had at Bitter Springs, and her, the female Ranger, legs askew, blond hair dirtied, so much like –

Boone jolted back to the doorway, to the blindingly bright sunlight, to the fresh air, clean of death. He dropped his rifle and retched and it spilled out bitter and harsh. Water came to his eyes. He blamed it inwardly on the stench but knew there was more. He'd felt off since Bravo, even though he had forced himself not to look anywhere near Coyote Tail. And then Echo, so close to where he'd last seen her. And now this. He braced his hands on his knees and shook his head, then rose and wiped his face. Couldn't leave yet. Had to find out what happened so he could report it, even if it meant his sanity slipping away.

Rex whined beside him. He repeated his command, picked up his rifle, held his breath, and walked inside again.

The flies seemed quieter now, their sound replaced with the heavy thudding of his heart. Papers thrown about on the floor, chairs knocked over. So they'd put up a good fight before being cut down. Radio bashed in. Even if one of them had lived after the attackers left, wouldn't be any way to contact the rest of the world, just like he couldn't now, not until he got to Novac. Two tapes on the desk. He pocketed them – could listen later. Boone flicked the switch on the wall. Nothing. Lights were busted, too. The sun was bright enough for now, but that wouldn't last long. He moved towards the woman, the armor over her stomach ripped with deep knife wounds. She had died slowly, in agony. He couldn't look at her face. She still gripped her sidearm in her pale hand, fingers clenched over the grip. Raiders would've taken it.

Boone shifted closer to her but stopped abruptly when he caught sight of the faint orange glow by her shoulder. Legion tactic, leaving mines under bodies. He swallowed and circled around to the man. Stabs in the armor on his torso, like the woman's, but his throat was slit. He'd died faster. Mine under his right knee, far enough from his neck to make Boone's next action fairly safe, he hoped. He bent and carefully felt around the man's neckline. Tags were gone. Legionaries collected them for fun and gloating. He stood. This was bad. Two more bodies in the next room. He passed through the doorway and –

A thin, slight pressure against his shin and the tripwire snapped. He breathed in sharply and closed his eyes. A gun sounded, then an enormously loud blast, so loud he couldn't hear, and in the split second when he felt the heat rising towards him, he silently prayed to a God he wasn't sure he still believed in, please, make it quick. But something tugged at his pant leg, hard enough to throw him off balance and force him away from the doorway. His right forearm caught the blast but the pain only lasted a moment, until the back of his head collided with the floor and everything went black.

Something hot and wet moved over his face. And again. He coughed and opened his eyes and Rex was there, staring intently, tongue hanging out. Almost dark now, the fading sunlight barely enough to see by. Boone sat, pushing his weight up with his arms. Pain rushed to the right one, hot and searing, so bad his vision blurred. He cursed and cautioned a glance down. Chunks of skin were missing but whatever wounds might've bled out were sealed by the burns. He stood, leaning against the wall for support, and when he was sure he could walk, he picked up his rifle and stepped outside. Rex followed.

The cool air made his arm hurt less, but it wouldn't last long. Looked even worse out here, under the early evening sky. He slumped down by his pack, fishing out a bottle of water. The lukewarm liquid felt scalding but he had to get it clean. Next came picking the flecks of material out, then more water, then the jab of a stimpack, followed by merciful numbness. His breath shook. His fingers grazed something on his pant leg, holes, tooth marks. He looked at Rex, who was standing nearby, panting, watching.

His voice came out cracked, dry. "You pulled me down?"

Rex stepped closer and settled to the ground, resting his head against Boone's thigh.

Boone ran his fingers through the fur and leaned back, closing his eyes. "Good dog."