Part 37 – Change of Pace

Donnovan had lounged around in bed until the afternoon, wanting to fully take advantage of the comfortable bed and the peaceful town. He had tried convincing himself to lie there longer, but remembered that he had a letter from Strelok to deliver to a local courier office. He realized that he could also finally send the letter back to New Jerusalem, which he had been trying to do for months now. This, coupled with the realization that he could purchase one of the beautiful, New Canaanite M1911s, finally got him out of bed.

He exited the inn to find Glade and Rockfowl off to the right, exercising through some light sparring. Dusk was standing nearby, and she held something out to Donnovan as he stepped off of the deck.

"Morgan's still sleeping, but she said to give this to you." Dusk thrust Donnovan's scoped .44 magnum towards him.

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot about that thing." Donnovan nodded, accepting the revolver and looking over it. It was a good weapon to have in battle. However, during the brief time it was in the hands of a now dead Midwestern Brotherhood of Steel soldier, it had almost killed Donnovan as well. He had been carrying the empty holster without realizing it. Donnovan secured his revolver.

"Where you headed?" Dusk asked.

Donnovan glanced up and down the street, hoping to spot his first destination. "I need find that courier office Strelok mentioned. Gotta deliver his letter, then hopefully send out this damn thing." Donnovan flicked the edge of his own letter to New Jerusalem. It had been completed for a very long time, now.

"Good luck with that." Dusk shrugged, turning back to watch Glade and Rockfowl spar.

After getting directions, Donnovan found the courier office he was looking for: a clean, brown-brick building with blue, metallic doors. A lighted sign above the doorway read "Jones' Messenger Service". Donnovan entered the office to find an old-looking but clean lobby, complete with file cabinets, and a receptionist's desk.

"Welcome to J.M.S.!" The receptionist, a redheaded young woman with a beaming smile, welcomed Donnovan.

Donnovan walked up to her. "Yeah, hi. I need to send a letter, and to drop one off. Your boss here?"

"Um, yes, Mr. Jones is here. Would you like to see about your letter first?" The receptionist asked very professionally.

Donnovan nodded. "Yes, please."

"Hey, Roger." The receptionist turned to a pale, black-haired man looking through a file cabinet against the wall.

"What?" He asked, annoyed.

"I've got a job for you. To… where is it again, sir?" The receptionist glanced at Donnovan.

"New Jerusalem." He answered. The receptionist stared.

"Yeah, fuck that." Roger grunted, going back to his work.

"Some kind of courier you are." Donnovan frowned.

"Bitch, please." Roger scoffed, "I'm a freelance courier, and I do what I want." He laughed. Donnovan noticed a Browning bolt-action rifle on his back, and a N99 in a hip holster. "I work mainly for the Mojave Express. They pay more than this dump, anyway."

"If you don't like it, leave." The receptionist said, annoyed.

"Maybe I should." Roger muttered. "I'm way better known in and out of the Mojave anyway, especially New Reno. Hell, I heard from one of the desk jockeys in Primm that Mr. House might contract the M. E. for something big. I wanna get that job before that jackass Wyand does." With that, the man looked at the receptionist. "So yeah, where's my money, so I can go?"

"Here." The receptionist sneered, holding a bag of caps out to Roger. He grabbed it rudely and sauntered out of the office just as another man entered. He was sweating and eyes red, dust caught in his thick beard.

"Hey Jenny." The man offered a weak smile. "I'm gonna head up to the company break room and crash. Don't ever send me on that long of a journey again."

"No problem, Craig." Jenny giggled. "I'll have your payment ready when you wake up."

"That was tiring as all hell." Craig wheezed as he rounded a corner and began to ascend a set of stairs.

Jenny the Receptionist turned back towards Donnovan. "Right, sorry about that." She apologized. "Well, let me see who we can get for you. Oh, by the way, who is that letter from?"

Donnovan glanced at the letter he was supposed to deliver. "Oh, some dude named Strelok in Dogtown."

"Oh my goodness!" Jenny perked up. "Mr. Jones has been waiting for that! Go on back, his office is the door at the end of the hall!"

Donnovan thanked Jenny and made his way down the hallway. As he approached the door, he through of what the arrogant and rude courier had said about New Reno and Mr. House. He knew who Mr. House was from what he had read back in Vault 101. The eccentric founder of RobCo Industries, he had been one of the wealthiest men in the world before the bombs dropped. He had heard whispers before of Mr. House still living, but didn't believe them. The Great War had started and ended over two hundred years ago, and if the bombs hadn't killed him, old age had to have. He hadn't heard much else from his Brotherhood comrades either, as Lyons' force had bypassed New Vegas on their way to Washington D.C. His stowed his thoughts about Mr. House as he knocked on the door.

"Enter." Came a deep voice.

Donnovan did as he was told, and walked into a well-light, decorated office. A heavy-set man with a mustache, beard, and wispy hair, all white, was seated behind a mahogany desk, typing on a computer. Filing cabinets lined the walls, and a flag showing a two headed bear on a white canvas hung behind him.

"Mr. Jones?" Donnovan asked, tearing his eyes away from the words "New California Republic" on the flag.

"Who are you?" Mr. Jones asked, his brow furrowed.

"The receptionist sent me back here." Donnovan held out the letter. "This is from Strelok in Dogtown."

"Oh! Strelok!" Mr. Jones' eyes lit up. "I apologize, sit down, please!" He indicated a chair facing his desk.

Donnovan sat down and handed the letter over. "He asked me to give this to you."

"Ah, young Strelok." Mr. Jones nodded fondly. "I recall when he first wandered in here. I gave him some cash, some strong words, and advice. He wanted to pay me back, but I told him if we stayed in contact, that would be good enough. I thought he had forgotten."

Donnovan sat quietly, listening, when suddenly. Mr. Jones perked up.

"My goodness, I haven't offered to pay you! And I do not know your name! Where are my manners?" He put his hand to his forehead. "How much for this?"

"No charge, sir." Donnovan shook his head. "Honestly, I was headed this way anyway. And my name's Donnovan."

"Oh," Mr. Jones said thoughtfully. "Well, Donnovan. Are you certain?"

"Yes sir." Donnovan insisted. "No charge."

Mr. Jones looked reluctant. "Well alright, is there anything I can do for you?"

"Actually, yes." Donnovan nodded. "I've been trying to hire a courier to send a letter way back east to New Jerusalem, but no one seems to have the ability or desire."

"I see. That is a long way." Mr. Jones nodded. "Yeah, we asked some guy named Roger, but he insulted your business and left." Donnovan shrugged.

"I never did like him." Mr. Jones admitted. "Those Mojave couriers are rather arrogant, don't you think?"

Donnovan nodded in agreement. "I haven't known enough of them to judge."

Mr. Jones scratched his head, his eyes looking up at the ceiling as he thought about some options. "It is such a long journey… and an expensive one."

Donnovan knew that Mr. Jones had someone in mind, but was reluctant to make an offer. "I have enough caps for the delivery, I'm sure."

"Well…" Jones squirmed. "There is one…but I'd have to get her consent, you understand…and she can be very…stubborn."

"Give it your best shot," Donnovan said. "Please."

Jones sighed. "Okay," he said. "I'll have to wait for her to show up."

"What's her name?"

"Oh, she's from California. Her name's Adriana—"

"I heard my name."

Donnovan spun around to see Adriana in the doorway, looking at the both of them curiously.

"Ah yes, Miss Munoz. Come on in." Mr. Jones smiled. "You were missing some paperwork from your last delivery?"

"Si," Adriana apologized. "I have it here. I really am sorry."

"It's no problem. You work well, and this is a not a big deal." Mr. Jones waved away the apology. "However, I do have another job for you, if you are interested." He turned to Donnovan. "Donnovan, this is…"

"Adriana… Munoz." Donnovan said, making sure to emphasize the pause between the first and last names. He stood up to face the young woman, who looked both mildly surprised and mildly annoyed at him for making fun of her again.

"Donnovan. What are you doing here?"

Donnovan grinned "Delivery."

"To where?" Adriana turned to Mr. Jones.

"New Jerusalem…" Mr. Jones mentioned awkwardly. "Of course, it's your choice. I will not force any of my employees to go that far if they do not want to."

Adriana paused for a moment, deep in thought. Though she was silent, Donnovan felt like he already knew the answer. "No…I can't." Adriana shook her head. "I won't. I'm sorry."

"Figures." Donnovan exhaled, sitting back down but showing no signs of annoyance.

"You're not the only one with people counting on you," Adriana retorted, narrowing her eyes.

He backed off, sensing the edge to her voice. "Alright, alright. Sorry. Simmer down." he said. "It's just…never mind."

"The Mojave Express outside of New Vegas should be able to take care of that for you." Mr. Jones offered. "It's even further. I could, of course, hold the letter and wait for another courier to get it, if that's what you'd prefer."

"I think I'll handle it in the Mojave," Donnovan said. "But thank you."

"Of course, thank you for bringing me this." Mr. Jones said. "I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

"No worries. I'll just send it when I get to Vegas, like you mentioned." Donnovan waved his hand dismissively. "However, I do have one question."

"Yes?"

"Why the N.C.R. flag back there?" Donnovan pointed. As Mr. Jones turned to glance at the flag, Donnovan could've sworn he saw Adriana give a slight sneer.

"I was born in the New California Republic, near the Hub." Mr. Jones smiled, turning back. "Moved here a long time ago around when they first started fighting with the Brotherhood of Steel."

"I see." Donnovan nodded. "Well, I'll try New Vegas. Thank you for your time."

It wasn't surprising to Donnovan, given his run of luck so far. He had stayed alive through everything that had happened on this trip, so his outlook was rather positive, despite the annoyance having to do with his letter. There was something else that would make him much happier, as well. His eyes fell upon the building of interest, wringing his hands in anticipation as he stepped forward. He was slightly nervous, wondering how this sort of situation was handled in a peaceful town like this. He knew it would be expensive, but since he hadn't done this in so long, it would be worth it. A bell rang as he stepped inside the old, dusty building. As he walked to the front desk, he spotted what he was looking for.

"That is… the sexiest thing I have ever seen." Donnovan gaped.

The man behind the desk laughed. "They are indeed beautiful, aren't they?"

"They look completely… clean! You never see that anymore!"

"Well, there are places around New Vegas where they're this clean, but you have to pay a lot. It's rare to find them in this condition. You can touch if you want."

Donnovan reached out and ran his finger along the smooth, clear surface.

Donnovan stared at the beautiful wooden grips of the M1911 "Can I hold it, please?"

"You seem like a serious customer." The shopkeeper gave another laugh. "Be my guest."

Donnovan took the pistol off of the wall mount and examined it thoroughly, looking through the sights. "How much is this?"

"They are pricey in that condition, I'm afraid." The shopkeeper explained. "That particular one costs fourteen hundred caps."

Donnovan winced. "Well shit… I'm about two hundred short."

"I can sell you a used one for eight hundred, if you like." The shopkeeper offered.

Donnovan put the pistol back onto the wall. "Nah, I'm gonna go scrounge up the remainder if I can, excuse me."

.

.

.

"Are you fucking crazy?" Glade asked, his mouth open as Donnovan dug through his belongings for anything he could sell to make up for the two hundred cap deficit.

Donnovan was mostly distracted. "Ah, here's a .32 I took from that dead cultist… That'll probably work… Sorry, what?"

Glade shook his head. "Fourteen hundred caps… It had better be an awesome gun."

Donnovan looked up at Glade. "It will be. I've read a ton about them back in the vault." He returned his attention to his search. "John Browning made the first one, along with a shitload of other weapons and… where's that fucking ammo case?"

"This I HAVE to see." Glade shook his head.

Donnovan nodded, still rifling through his belongings excitedly. "Sure, come along so you'll shut the hell up."

Glade opened his arms in frustration. "How can you seriously consider dropping that much on a sidearm? Don't you have that .44?"

Donnovan suddenly perked up. "WAIT! Dusk grabbed a bunch of shit in Dogtown."

"Are you even listening to me?" Glade asked as Donnovan tossed his things back into a haphazard pile in the corner.

"I… what? Dude, I'm telling you." Donnovan asked, distracted, as he walked out the door of the room. "It'll be worth it."

Several minutes of pleading later, after which he promised to let Dusk shoot the M1911 once he got it, Donnovan stepped out of the inn, holding a pair of N99s, one to cover the cap deficit, the other to buy ammo. Glade had convinced Yearling to come with them. Yearling, seeing Donnovan's ebullient state, decided to join them. She saw the potential entertainment value, knowing that whenever Donnovan and Glade headed somewhere, something stupid or hilarious, usually both, would soon follow.

Glade followed him. "I wonder if the shop has any accessories."

"If there are accessories, I'm sure I can find them in New Vegas." Donnovan pointed out, leading the way to the gun shop. "Sounds like everything's there. Hell, if not, I'll find a machinist."

Yearling laughed. "Just ask Olin. She'd probably be able to whip something up."

"Maybe. But I might want the originals." Donnovan grunted.

Glade raised an eyebrow as they passed one of the town entrances. "Originals? Yeah, good luck digging up old, pre-war gun accessories and expecting them to work."

"You know what I mean."

Yearling smiled. "Okay, so I think Glade's right and you're wasting your money, but your enthusiasm's kind of contagious…"

Glade lightly pushed Donnovan. "Would you stop grinning at everything? You're stoked, we get it."

"Man, you have no idea. I've wanted one of these since I first read about them back in the vault when I was thirteen." Donnovan rattled off. "It's definitely-"

"MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY!" A new voice reached their ears. Glade and Donnovan both stopped and looked at the town gates to see a surprising sight.

Two New Canaanites were supporting a third, walking him forward. The third man was bleeding rather heavily. His clothes were peppered with holes left by several bullets, and his face was deathly pale.

"We need a doctor!" one of the men cried.

"Here!" Yearling called out. The two men glanced at each other briefly.

"You want him to bleed out?" Yearling exclaimed, her usually laid back demeanor disappearing immediately. "Put him on this bench, dammit!"

Yearling, though very friendly, was someone who dropped all pretense of social tact when it came to medical work. She was very skilled, being able to zone out any distractions. Though she did have tendency to be blunt when situations like these arose, when people listened to her, lives were usually saved.

The two men did as commanded, and put their injured comrade on a nearby wooden bench.

"What happened?" Glade asked one of them as Yearling looked over him.

Yearling put her pack down. She craned her hand behind her. "Don. Knife."

"Here." Donnovan unsheathed his knife and put it into her hands. Yearling quickly tore away the bloody shirt over the man's wounds for easier access, revealing a punctured but mostly intact torso. She handed Donnovan the knife back, and dug through her pack, bringing up a roll of gauze and several disinfectants. "What are you policies on drugs?" Yearling looked up at one of the men as she donned a pair of disposable gloves.

"We don't use them for recreation." He explained, his face white with concern for his friend. "But if it's for medical reasons…"

"That's all I needed." Yearling answered curtly. She brought up a syringe of Med-X. Very professionally, she flicked the needle to get rid of the air bubbles before injecting it into the man. "Don, hold his right arm. Glade, legs. You, what's your name?"

"William." The man addressed, answered.

"Okay William." Yearling nodded, tearing off an unsullied piece of the injured man's shirt. "Hold this in both hands, put the middle in his mouth so he has something to bite down on. Keep his head still."

"What about the drug?" William said, accepting the rag and positioning himself above his friend's head.

"It will help, but it hasn't taken full effect. We can't really afford to wait."

William nodded, and did as he was told. With him, Glade, and Donnovan holding down the injured man, Yearling went to work.

The second man turned to Glade, answering his question after the long delay. "We were leaving from one of our missions, and two White Legs attacked us."

"White Legs?"

"A local tribe." The William explained as he held his friend's head steady. "We've been attempting to create some good relationships with the tribes around here. Most of them are relatively friendly: the Dead Horses, the Sorrows."

"The White Legs have always been a bit rough, but they've never actually attacked outright." The other man shook his head. "This was a planned ambush."

Donnovan winced, looking away as Yearling carefully dug into the man's wounds with her sterile tools. "Urgh… What did you do?"

"We had to fire back." The man said defensively. "We killed them. We try not to, but…" He trailed off.

"Dude, don't worry." Donnovan said, still looking away from Yearling's work area. "You guys are the most polite people I've ever damn met. If anyone attacks you for no reason, they deserve to get shot. Hell, it was self defense."

"We know." William said with regret. "We still try not to." He changed the subject as he saw Yearling wrapping gauze around the injured man. "Is he going to be okay?"

Yearling stripped away her gloves and tossed them into a small bag nearby. "He'll live. If you would've gotten here two minutes later, he wouldn't have. You guys are lucky."

"You are a godsend." William said, his eyes widening with emotion. "Thank you, so much."

"Just doing what I'm good at." Yearling said calmly, her demeanor returning to her calm state. She smiled warmly. "He should make a full recovery, but it will take some time. He was lucky, none of the three rounds broke his ribs."

"What should we do?" The second man asked.

"Nothing for the next few hours." Yearling shook her head. "Don't move him. Let him recover... Well, unless you can move the whole bench somewhere."

"We can! We can move him inside." The man said.

"Okay, you can go ahead and let him lay here for an hour or two, still." Yearling nodded, Donnovan spraying some antiseptic onto her hands. "After that, you can carefully put him wherever. Make him comfortable, but don't move him from the bench for a day or two. Oh, and change the bandages every day, alright?"

"Yes, of course… Thank you, honestly. Thank you so much!" The man said, his expression one of absolute happiness.

"Hey, like Don said, you guys seem like you take care of others. Just repaying the favor." Yearling shrugged.

"Is there anything we can do for you?" The other New Canaanite asked.

"Honestly… If I can just refill the medical supplies I used on him, that'd be nice. I don't want to impose."

"That goes without saying." The man smiled. "We will give you some extra, just as a show of appreciation."

"Well, I won't insult you by saying no." Yearling smiled.

Dononovan laughed and looked around. Several New Canaanites had gathered around them, and were looking with appreciation at the group. Amongst them, Donnovan noticed the shop keeper from earlier and, much to his surprise, Adriana.

"What's up?" Donnovan asked as he let go of the injured man's arm and stood up, Adriana's expression making him curious.

She was looking at Donnovan, Glade, and Yearling with a combination of confusion, surprise, and disbelief on her face. She continued to stand there, looking on at them for a full minute before turning and walking away.

Glade traced Donnovan's gaze, seeing his friend's surprised and confused face following Adriana's path. "Really, Don? Another one?" Glade joked.

Donnovan shook his head. "What? No. I met her earlier. Did you see the way she was looking at us?"

Yearling shrugged. "Why do you care?"

"Dunno." Donnovan said thoughtfully, watching Adriana disappear down a side street. As she did so, he could have sworn he saw her put her hand to her forehead.

"You're not the typical travelers." The gunshop owner Donnovan had met earlier stepped forward. "Most people would've frozen up, or stayed clear. You jumped in and helped."

"We've seen enough combat of our own to know how to react." Yearling said.

"Besides, you guys don't seem like douches, if you'll pardon the term." Glade shrugged, being his usual, less-than-eloquent self.

The gunshop owner laughed. "Well, I know your friend here was looking at a .45 earlier. I'll give you three a bit of a discount, if you like. Not many people would do what you did."

Yearling looked interested, while Donnovan and Glade almost shook with delight.

A half hour later, Donnovan, Glade, and Yearling were in high spirits. Glade had purchased a drum-magazine shotgun with a wooden stock. Yearling, as a reward for saving the New Canaanite's life, walked out with more medical supplies than she had when she arrived, along with a brand new set of medical knives and scalpels that the injured man's wife had given her as a reward. Donnovan, meanwhile, was lost in his own mind as he stared at the beautiful, clean M1911 in his hands. The shopkeeper was nice enough to drop four hundred caps from the price. While it still almost cleaned Donnovan out, after selling the .32 revolver and the pair of N99s, he had enough caps to purchase plenty of ammunition for the pistol, as well as top off the 7.62 ammo for his AK-47. He stowed his spare .45 and 7.62 rounds, and decided to head back to the local bar to celebrate, not wanting to delay partaking in a particular vice. He was at the door before he realized that all of this time, he had been carrying a significant amount of .44 magnum rounds, as well as the revolver itself after Dusk had given it back to him.

It was too late to go back. At least this is what he convinced himself now that he was sitting at the bar counter, talking with the same bartender from the previous night. Word had gotten around town about the actions of the three travelers who saved a New Canaanite, so several people were looking curiously at him. Donnovan mostly ignored them, already used to the fact that the Corps had gotten strange looks in almost every settlement they had been in. Donnovan had finished one glass of Jonnie Walker Blue, and the bartender had just placed another glass in front of him, when there was a cacophony of noise outside. Shouts and warnings could be heard in the streets, and most of the bar patrons looked curiously outside. Donnovan was wondering if another New Canaanite had been shot, when a burst of sound threw every other thought out the window. The unmistakable crack of a rifle shot resounded through the streets, immediately answered by a rapid series of pops resounding from what had to be an automatic weapon. The attitude of everyone in the bar changed immediately as the patrons tensed up, remaining seated but keeping their hands near their weapons. Donnovan himself ignored the delicious whiskey sitting on the bar in front of him to his great pain, and turned to face the entrance. As he slowly swung his AK-47 from his back and painstakingly pulled back the bolt, two traders in the bar stood up and made their way to the entrance with caution. As they reached the door, gunfire exploded from the outside. Hot lead tore through the two men, sending them spinning to the ground as small mists of blood sprayed from their bodies. Two, pale women entered the bar, their faces painted in fearsome, red and white patterns. Their dark hair hung in a dread-lock style over their faces. They were almost completely nude, save for strips of brown leather and furs covering the necessary regions. In their arms, they held rough-looking Thompson submachine guns.

"DELLA!" One of the women cried, as she and her partner opened fire on the bar. Donnovan immediately vaulted and rolled awkwardly over the bar, having been in a position to do so before the women entered. The other patrons were less lucky, as they had been too surprised to react in time. En masse, they were cut down by the submachine guns while attempting to stand or fire back. Donnovan glanced up and grabbed his glass of whiskey, catching sight of a man dressed in the same garb as the women come into the bar behind them. The Jonnie Walker Blue Label glass was half empty, Donnovan having spilled some of it during his quick grab. He swirled it in the glass before briefly downing the rest, wondering how he would get out of the situation as bullets impacted the bar and the bottles on the shelves above. Donnovan winced as the bottle of Jonnie Walker Blue Label took a .45 round and exploded in a shower of glass. There was a lull, during which the pained groans and coughs of injured bar patrons filled the air. With a glance at the bartender's head, which had taken two rounds to the nasal cavity, Donnovan realized that the claustrophobic bar counter would prove problematic for his AK-47, and he carefully stowed it on his back, drawing his new M1911 in the process. He slid along behind the bar, and peered out from the corner. One of the women kicked aside a bar table for a line of sight at a man who had been peppered with multiple rounds. The man raised a blood-soaked hand as a feeble form of defense, watching the woman slowly drop the spent magazine and affix a fresh one. Slowly, she put the barrel of the gun inches from the man's forehead.

"Chindi…" She hissed, briefly pulling the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the bar, and the man's head impacted hard with the wooden floor, leaving a splash of blood on the planks. Donnovan waited until she turned away, looking for other victims. He then examined the other two mysterious people, who he could only describe as "tribals". The man was walking towards the bar, a curious look on his face as he eyed the spilled whiskey on the counter, while the second woman was looking at her gun in admiration. Doing a quick, mental rundown, Donnovan noticed that there was only one empty magazine on the floor, meaning that the second woman hadn't changed hers yet.

Donnovan went back behind the counter and checked his rifle again. "First the dude, then the talky one, then the dumb bitch…" He mouthed the words silently, closing his eyes briefly. "Do not fail me, John Browning" he added as an afterthought. Then, with a deep breath he stood up out of cover, his pistol sights set on the male.

The man's eyes widened in surprise. His gun being at his side, he had no time to raise it before Donnovan fired twice. The rounds tore through the man's exposed chest and sent him falling flat onto the floor, knocking over an table in the process. The second woman turned, her eyes seeing her comrade fall. This split-second delay was all Donnovan needed as he sent three quick shots at his second target. She, unlike her now deceased comrade, had her gun at the ready. As two of the three rounds hit her, the submachine gun went off, a spray of lead destroying a chunk of the bar inches to Donnovan's left. Not thinking about how lucky he had been, Donnovan turned his attention to the third target as the previous one tumbled to the floor, dead. The surviving tribal panicked, and attempted to wrench the drum magazine from her submachine gun. She had just managed to drop it, when Donnovan carefully put a single round between her eyes. Her body went limp as the round hit her and she crumpled to the floor into an awkward pile like a ragdoll. With a brief check to make sure his targets were dead, Donnovan dropped his pistol clip and reached into his pockets, attempting to fill in the spent rounds before he went outside, where by the sound of it, a massive battle was raging.

As he did a once over to make sure he was ready, also admiring his handiwork with the help of his M1911, the moans of the injured patrons came back to his ears. He had managed to zone them out during his brief fight, but now they came back with full force. Donnovan paused for a moment, his heart aching to help the people, but Morgan's words came back to him: "We have to take care of our own." His friends were mostly likely somewhere out there in this mess. With a pained expression, Donnovan managed to make himself exit the bar.

The streets were in chaos. Bodies were littered everywhere, and fire raged through the town. Screams could be heard from all directions, and gunfire of all sorts echoed loudly to the backdrop of the church bell ringing. Not wanting to become a stationary target, Donnovan quickly made his way forward, staying low alongside a small, mostly decorative stone wall on his right, keeping buildings to his left. As he stepped through the space between two buildings, a shout went up.

"Anaihla!"

Donnovan turned to see two more tribals standing several yards away, one pointing at him. Immediately, he dove over the stone wall as the tribals opened fire, the bullets loudly impacting and ricocheting off of the rocks. Donnovan swung his AK-47 up and unleashed a volley of blindfire, emptying his entire clip. He let the AK-47 hang by its straps as he straightened up, aiming his pistol. One of his targets had taken cover behind the corner of one of the buildings, while the other lay in a spreading pool of blood on the ground, clutching two gaping holes in his torso. Donnovan raised his M1911, when there was a rush of movement to his left. A woman leapt over the low rock wall, landing next to him.

"Don't shoot, I'm not one of them!" She shouted, throwing her hands up in the air.

Donnovan lowered his weapon. "Adriana?" he asked, confused.

"Yeah," she said. She was close to tears. "Donnovan?"

"Yeah," he replied. "Fucking hell, I keep running into you." They ducked behind the wall, shell-shocked. There was a shout, and from where Adriana had come running, a tribal appeared, roaring ferociously. Adriana and Donnovan popped up and unloaded into the man, several rounds ripping through him and sending him to the ground a bloody mess.

"Holy shit," she said after catching her breath. "I never thought I'd wake up to...to
this."

"Town's gone to hell," he said. He shot up from behind the wall again and caught the tribal that had been hiding, off guard. Two shots from his pistol, and the woman lay motionless on the ground, while her companion's movements grew weaker as he bled out. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know," she said. She wiped a tear out of her eye. "I think they're White Legs. I don't get it. They left us alone up until now."

"Huh, so these are the White Legs. Well, they've certainly done a number on the town," he remarked, replacing the clips in his pistol and rifle. "We can't stay."

"I know. I'm booking it east as soon as I get the chance."

"East?" echoed Donnovan. "Why east?"

She shrugged. "It feels right," she said. "I have a package to deliver, and
then...I don't know. I might go back to Nevada." She looked over at him. "Where's that letter to New Jerusalem? I'll take it. Might as well."

"Seriously, all that way?" Donnovan asked. "Well, okay..." He pulled the battered envelope out of his bag and handed it to her. She stuffed it down her shirt and sighed.

"Nice knowing you, Donnovan Edan," she said.

"Wait," he said. "What about...that thing you were talking about? The guy you were waiting for? You can come on West with us," he offered.

She shook her head. "I don't see the point," she said quietly. "I don't think
it's worth a shot. It's been two years since I saw him last."

"Two years?" he echoed. "Damn."

Adriana looked into her pockets. "Carajo!" She cursed.

"What?"

"I only have about two clips left." She said in exasperation, softly hitting her head against the rock wall.

After a short pause, Donnovan quickly began to undo his belt. "Hold up."

She glared at him. "What… the HELL are you doing?"

"Hold… up…" Donnovan reiterated, leaning up and sliding a leather holster off of his belt. In it, his scoped .44 revolver was sitting snugly. "Here." He held out the pistol.

Adriana stared at it. "Don't you need it?"

"Well, I wouldn't want you to lose it, let's put it that way… But you need the thing more than I do." Donnovan said as he forced the pistol into her hands. He dug into the pockets of his black tactical vest, bringing up several boxes of ammunition. "Turn around."

Adriana, still somewhat in shock as this generous act, let herself be steered as Donnovan pulled her backpack toward him and hastily dropped the boxes inside.

"Are you sure?" Adriana asked hesitantly, though she still affixed the holster and revolver to her own belt as she did so.

Donnovan spun her back around. "You need that if you're really going that far. Just don't shoot yourself with it, or get shot by it or anything… It fucking hurts… Believe me, I know…" His hand instinctively went to the wound between his shoulder and pectoral muscle. He briefly turned and looked over the rock wall, scanning the area for any more White Legs.

Adriana briefly glanced at Donnovan, the same expression on her face that she had worn when he and his comrades helped the New Canaanite, before looking away. "I've waited two years… But not any longer. There's nothing for him to find here but flames," she said bitterly, looking around. "Well, I'm getting out while the going's good. Maybe we'll see each other again."

"Maybe," he replied with a nod. "Thank you, Adriana."

"Please, it's Adri to you," she said with a ghost of a smile. "Until next time."

With that, she climbed nimbly over the rock wall and scrambled off, disappearing from sight.

Donnovan sat for several seconds, wondering where he could go next and not be shot at. He had just began to think about how his companions might be doing, when the question was answered for him. At the far end of the rock wall that turned into an alley, the Corps had reappeared. Donnovan waved excitedly. In response, Dusk raised her rifle.

Donnovan frantically waved his arms, in a panic. "NO! Fuck, it's me!"

Dusk's rifle cracked, and Donnovan heard a small thud nearby. He turned to see a crumpled body of a White Legs warrior sending dust up into the air. Dusk had put a .308 round directly into the heart of the tribal, who had apparently climbed the roof of a nearby house. That being enough of a signal for him, Donnovan sprinted forward towards his comrades.

.

.

.

Author's Note:

Again, the .45 pistol here is the M1911. For those of you wondering, yes, the famous M1911 was indeed designed by a Mormon (as the Burned Man correctly states in Honest Hearts), the famous John Browning. Just a fun fact: the guy also designed the Browning Automatic Rifle, a staple in almost every single World War II video game in existence.

Also, I mentioned a Browning bolt action rifle here. This is Fallout's "Hunting Rifle". The damn thing looks so generic and broken down, that it could be one of any bolt-action rifles. I stuck with Browning due to the real-world region (he had a gunsmith shop in Ogden) and the Fallout region's Browning weapons.

The .45 auto submachine guns in New Vegas are pretty much carbon copies of the Thompson submachine gun.