Most human circadian rhythms are perfectly in tune to the sun. Even post-apocalyptically, when normalcy was blown to shreds by a war that lasted only minutes, the sun still shone, forcing humans to function in response to a light-dark cycle set into motion by the scorching sunlight shining down on the wastes. Soldiers on night watch complained, yawned, desperately clung to their cups of coffee or their coyote tobacco chew (or their jet, if they were desperate enough), trying to fight the night's relentless draw of sleep.

Craig Boone prided himself on being rid of that problem. Blame it on the piece of plywood he set in front of his window, the constant nightmares that startled him from his sleep, or the fact that he would not let himself lie down until noon exactly, he had trained his brain to something aside from the sun above. Although he would never admit it to anyone, he was immensely proud of that fact. Some of his squadron had tried for months to rid themselves of the constant sleepiness that plagued them on night watch, and it had only taken Boone…

How long had it taken Boone? He was starting to lose track of time. Time that dragged so immensely slowly and immeasurably fast all at once. Time that… didn't seem to heal, as he'd been assured by his once-friend Manny Vargas.

But what did it matter, really? Time had stopped mattering for him long ago, with a single bullet fired from hundreds of yards away. As far as he cared, he was just waiting for his to run out.

And so Boone awoke as normal, around eight in the evening, although he did not quite consider it waking if he had been lying there with his eyes closed, still conscious, for the past two hours. Still, he stood up right as the clock's hands ticked eight. He stretched. He grabbed a bottle of water off of his nightstand and drank a little, washing the post-sleep dustiness out of his mouth. He used the bathroom. He dressed, throwing on his carefully folded but still dingy white t-shirt and military fatigue pants. He spared a little water to rinse some of the grime that had collected off his face. Then, he shaved, using a rusted old straight razor he'd been granted when he first joined up. Old habits died hard, he supposed, and he figured he should no longer care about visceral needs like shaving or showering.

As if a reminder that even though Boone no longer cared about physical sensations, his body still did, his stomach growled, demanding something to eat. Sighing, Boone grabbed one of his last remaining cans of Pork n' Beans and a handful of Pinyon nuts. He chewed and swallowed mechanically. The food tasted like mush, anyway, any flavor gone along with his will to live. The fare was substantial, enough to tide him over for twelve hours. Nutrient-dense was the word his commander would have used to describe it. He used words like "protein" and "fats" and "carbohydrates" to animatedly explain to the 1st Recon the importance of appropriate nutrition. Boone had not really paid much attention to the theory behind it, instead just eating what had been supplied, one of which included this meal pretty consistently.

Didn't mean it was good, Boone thought, squashing the now-empty tin can underneath his boot.

At 8:55, Boone strapped his rifle to his back. At 8:57, he pulled his beret onto his head. And at exactly 8:59, Boone left his room, settling his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose. He appeared behind Manny not a second before nine. He knew from experience that the man would try to strike up a conversation if he showed up even a minute before. Even though Manny should have known better, which he should - Boone's old friend was dead to him the minute he had smiled about his wife's disappearance - he still wanted to be friends again. Like nothing had happened.

The other 1st Recon member looked at Boone, a sad expression on his face, but he said nothing. Boone waited for the other man to leave his position, but he stood still for a second, clearly waiting to say something.

"Boone -"

"Save it for someone who gives a shit," Boone spat back to summarily end the conversation. Manny left. The door closed abruptly behind him. So Boone resumed his spot, ready for the twelve hour watch shift before him. Hopefully it would be quiet. The wind blew dust into his face, stinging a tiny cut he'd made shaving on his chin.

An hour had passed when Boone heard the door to the Dino Bite Gift Shop open. That was odd; most people should be sleeping. He wondered who would be up at that hour.

And then he had his answer. Someone was ascending stairs from the gift shop behind him. Boone immediately knew it was Andy. The man was noisy, what with his leg injury and everything. Injury. Boone had scoffed when he heard it described like that. The 1st Recon wouldn't have spared even a Stimpak for that spraign. Still, the Ranger had been laid up for a good week or so, feeling pretty pathetic and down on himself from what Boone cared to hear from onlookers.

The door opened. "Boone, man," Ranger Andy said. Boone startled, but it did not show. In fact, he did not even turn from his position on top of the godawful gaudy green dinosaur he inhabited to watch out for the shitty, sad town of Novac. "Boone."

"Yes?" Boone grunted. He still did not budge from his position, his eyes steadily scanning the horizon. Just like he'd been taught. Just what he'd been trained for. Not for sitting on top of a stupid tourist attraction like a sitting duck.

"I know you don't like being bothered, and all that, but -"

"Just spit it out, Andy," Boone said impatiently. He did not like the Ranger's propensity to hem and haw, to dance around the point. It was unlike the NCR to put up with that sort of behavior. He wondered just how different the new crop of Rangers were from the rest.

Still. Out of everyone at Novac, at least Andy wasn't a massive dick.

"My book," the Ranger said. "It was this medical book from DC. It had… there was an article about pain syndromes that I was trying to read in it."

Boone finally whipped around to face the man. "So?" This man, this supposedly notorious and capable NCR agent, was interrupting his lookout for this?

"It's gone missing. Someone had to have taken it."

Boone frowned. How, exactly, was this his problem? "Aren't you the sheriff here?"

Andy sighed, clearly exasperated at this line of questioning. "Yes. Closest thing you've got to one, anyway. But with this leg and… I just don't know if I'll be able to find it. I really thought it… might have been able to help. After that Courier kid came and talked to me, I felt like maybe… I don't know. I could get back to fighting shape."

Boone raised an eyebrow. The Ranger had met with the Courier? For what? Certainly nothing speculative.

"Please. Can you… I don't know. Look out for it?"

The Ranger looked so sad, so genuine, that Boone stifled his instinct to bark back, no, the only thing I'm looking for is red-dressed Caesar worshippers and just shrugged. "Sure. Don't know how much looking I'll get done from up here, though."

After thanking him profusely, the Ranger hobbled back down the stairs and out of the Dino Bite gift shop, much to Boone's satisfaction. Finally he could be alone again. Just him and the wastes and any unfortunate fucker that got between his gun and Novac.

That did not mean the watch was not boring, though. A mole rat sauntered lazily past the road and Boone considered shooting it for a split second just to see something happen. He figured it was not worth the bullet and let it go, but that had been the most exciting event of the watch so far.

He was bored. And boredom was bad. Bored meant his mind wandered. So Boone busied himself with his recitation. He had a few lessons from his times in the 1st Recon he went over in his head when he got bored. Although, really, someone on watch should never be bored. They should constantly scan, constantly vigilant for a threat on the horizon. That job alone should not be boring.

Whatever. Boone just articulated what he'd told Manny earlier: save it for someone who gives a shit.

Rule number one: do not set up a base camp.

He snorted, realizing he'd completely broken that rule. Novac was a basecamp, even if it was as disappointing and haunting as it was. Not a sniper anymore. So the rules didn't apply.

Still, he continued.

Rule number two: only shoot when you're absolutely sure of a kill.

Boone was all too aware of the importance of that one. He swallowed hard, scanned the landscape in front of him, and quickly moved past that point.

Rule number -

"Hey."

Boone jumped, for real this time, as he had not heard anyone ascending the rickety gift shop stairs. He heard everyone. Had he zoned out?

"Goddammit! Don't sneak up on me like that," Boone scolded, almost instinctively. His heart ricocheted in his chest like a bullet caught inside a Protectron. He looked at the intruder, his hands still on his rifle, ready to aim at any provocation.

The man - no, barely a boy, from the looks of it, smirked at him. "Expecting someone?"

Yeah, a Legion asshole here to take me out for good. "Yeah. I guess maybe I am. But not like you." He let the phrase come out in an accusatorial way. He looked the boy up and down. This was not a Novac citizen, but it wasn't NCR or Legion or Brotherhood or cultist, as far as Boone could tell. "Huh. Maybe it should've been you I was expecting all along."

It had to have been The Courier. He'd gotten to town that morning, one arm bleeding profusely and three radscorpion poison glands grasped in his hands. Boone had heard - he had not seen it, as he rarely left his room when off shift - that the first thing out of his mouth was "How much will you offer me for these?" before he collapsed. Their eccentric doctor had taken a look at him and given him a few Stimpaks, almost certainly out of his own supply, and he had been walking again like nothing had hurt him.

Idly, Boone wondered if anyone had bothered to buy the poison from him.

The Courier in front of him had light, almost clear eyes, although one looked darker than the other. Grateful for his sunglasses, Boone squinted, scrutinizing the outsider a little closer, and saw that one of his pupils was far bigger than the other one. His dirty blond hair hung in his eyes, part of it slicked back by sweat, revealing a bright red scar that seemed to follow his hairline. He wore a Vault jumpsuit with a yellow 21 plastered on it. His holster lined his slim hips, a pistol tucked neatly into one side and a huge knife on the other that was still covered with a sticky yellow substance. He had a backpack anchored onto his back that looked massive, almost stuffed full. His backpack had a little green dinosaur sticking out of the top of it. Someone had actually bought one of the damn things?

But, judging by the Courier's self-satisfied smirk and his lax posture as he rested on the door behind him, his arms crossed in front of him, Boone suddenly doubted he had bought the figurine at all.

"You know anything about a missing medical book?" Boone said suddenly.

The Courier paused, looked Boone up and down, and then smirked. A self-assured, self-satisfied smirk of a teenager. Boone stifled the urge to smack him. "No clue."

Well, Boone thought, that was my good deed for the month.

"Why are you here?"

"Y'know, if you're looking for someone in particular, I could tip you off if I see them," the Courier said, his voice low like he was telling a secret.

Boone rolled his eyes, grateful his sunglasses hid his visible contempt for the visitor. "Yeah, well, you see anybody wearing Legion crimson or a lot of sports equipment, you just let me know." Then, he suddenly felt a wave of annoyance at the kid. He was a visitor in Novac, after all. This was Boone's town, regardless of how shitty it was. "You still haven't answered my question."

The Courier moved to the teeth of the dinosaur, resting his bandaged hand on one of them and looking out at the wasteland below. "Just looking around."

"There's nothing up here."

"There's a sniper."

Boone's eyes narrowed. "I think you'd better leave."

The Courier snorted. "Just making friendly conversation, tough guy. Figured I'd see what Novac's beautiful views are all about. Maybe make a friend or two along the way."

Beautiful views? Boone almost laughed. He imagined her reaction to that, how her lips would purse and her eyes would roll and she would say something like anyone who thinks this shithole is beautiful needs their eyes checked.

Boone grimaced. Not the time. Although as the Courier squinted out at the horizon, closing one eye as he did so, Boone wondered if maybe he did need his eyes checked after all. Especially with the blasted pupil and everything.

"I don't have friends here." Not anymore.

"Do you treat everyone around here like this?"

Yes. Everyone except the Ranger, and even then sometimes Andy was just so annoying that it slipped out without Boone meaning to. What use were enemies when you had friends like the ones in Novac? Especially since one…

Hmm. "Wait. You just got into town. Maybe you shouldn't go. Not just yet."

"Oh, so now you want something from me?" the blond asked, turning his attention back to Boone. "First it's all you'd better leave and now it's please don't go?" The Courier scoffed. "You sound like my girlfriend."

Boone chose to ignore the comment. If the boy was serious about making friends as he so said, maybe he'd help. "I need someone I can trust. You're a stranger. That's a start."

The Courier resumed his spot slumped against the door, but this time, he withdrew a bottle cap from his pocket and started twirling it back and forth on his fingers. "You only trust strangers?" he asked, his tone lilting and inquisitive. Although his voice was not high, it was not deep, and certainly not gravelly like Boone's.

"I said it was a start," Boone spat. "This town… nobody looks me straight in the eye anymore."

It was true. It was part of the reason Boone rarely left his room. Even when he did, to buy more food or water or ammunition, people always looked at him with that same, sad expression Andy and Manny had earlier that evening. It was… pitying. Annoying. And completely unnecessary.

Because one of them had to know.

"What do you want me to do about it?" the boy said, looking up. His pupils stayed irregularly sized. Although his tone was indignant, his expression was bemused. And, most importantly, his expression was exasperated, not pitying. The entire time he kept moving the bottle cap back and forth across the backs of his fingers. Boone tried not to watch, but the movement itself was mesmerising.

Instead, he continued his line of questioning. Hell, if it went wrong, he could always shoot the kid in the head to make sure he wouldn't talk. "I want you to find something out for me. I don't know if there's anything to find, but I need someone to try." No one would tell him, that's for goddamn sure. He'd only asked people forty times, begged literally anyone for help, and received silence and pity in return.

Fuck that. Boone didn't need pity. He needed answers. And answers required a question, and this question required backstory, so he figured he'd tell the kid at the off chance the kid wasn't just an idiot radscorp magnet.

"My wife was taken from our home by Legion slavers one night while I was on watch. They knew when to come and what route to take, and they only took Carla. Someone set it up. I don't know who."

Boone had finally articulated out loud the thought he'd been sitting on for weeks. Months. The setup was too perfect. It did not make sense. The Legion did not just kidnap one person from a perfectly vulnerable town. They were sadistic; they would rape the women and some of the men and enslave anyone they didn't want to kill.

It would not just have been Carla had it not been discussed beforehand.

"You're trying to track down your wife?"

Boone pursed his lips. "My wife's dead. I want the son of a bitch who sold her."

"How do you know your wife's dead?" The Courier frowned, and Boone frowned right back. Why was it any of his business, anyway?

"I know, all right? That's all you need to know." God, did Boone know.

"What do I do if I find this person?"

Was the boy really considering helping Boone?

"Bring him out in front of the nest here while I'm on duty. I work most nights. I'll give you my NCR beret to put on. It'll be our signal, so I know you're standing with him. And I'll take care of the rest. I need to do this myself."

"Sure, I'll find the fucker. Circa diem or whatever the fuck."

Boone raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He was almost sure the saying was carpe diem. Then again, any use of Latin immediately scorched his inside, reminding him of the Legion, so he concentrated on quelling that indescribable rage instead.

"Why are you so willing to help me?" Boone asked.

The Courier shrugged. "Like I told you, I'm a friendly guy. And if there's one thing I hate, it's sons of bitches who kill things without having the balls to do it out in the open." Pushing his hair off his forehead, he pointed at the scar that lined his hairline. "I'm trying to find the guy who shot me in the head."

"And you lived?"

"Much to many's shock and disgust, yep," he said. He kept grinning. Boone had never seen someone smile that much. Although if he'd survived a gunshot to the head, Boone figured he'd be pretty damn smiley, too. "Someone called me the Powder Gangers' grim fucking reaper. I'm their worst nightmare." The boy said that a little too proudly, with a little too much relish as he puffed his chest out. Far too proud for a kid who didn't look a day over eighteen.

Alarming as that may be, Boone pressed on. "We probably shouldn't talk until this is done. No one else knows I know. And if I'm right…"

"Legion might show up at your door too, huh?"

Boone nodded solemnly. The boy extended his hand. Boone looked down at it in confusion.

"It's a handshake, ya weirdo," he explained. Boone flushed and quickly accepted the boy's bandaged hand, shaking it roughly. And so the Courier bid him adieu and vacated the dinosaur mouth, leaving Boone alone once again. But as the boy turned around, Boone could have sworn he saw something sticking out of the boy's waistband, the words DC Journal of Medicine clearly visible.

But he said nothing. After all, he had watch until nine. The news of the Courier's sticky fingers could wait until at least then.