Arc 2 - Misadventures of the Mojave

Chapter 11

Ring-A-Ding-Damn That Hurt

The fear gnawed at the back of her mind even long after she'd fallen unconscious.

She'd never forget the terror of it—dirt all around, encasing her entire being and invading her every crevice, trapping her underground, unable to move, flattened beneath the earth and left to be forgotten by the wasteland above. Buried alive—everyone always said it was one of the worst ways to die. Evidently, that held true, especially experiencing it firsthand, heart hammering as blood poured from her head, staining the layers of dirt atop her face. Sandra hadn't the faintest clue when the world fell black, when the sounds above fell sill, and when the silence of death began to claw its way around her, slowly pulling her soul even deeper below, lost to the dirt and cold… vanishing… as if she never existed… Benny's face plastered in her memories…

A wide, ghoulish face appeared in her mind, replacing the chairman's snarky visage… red flaky skin, milky blue eyes, giving her the sudden urge to cry just before her consciousness abandoned her.

That red face is gone… just as she was about to be… gone… black, void, emptiness… everything…

"Easy, now."

A soft, kind voice broke through the delusion, the darkness of death's void vanishing from her awareness. Sandra tried to blink, her head pulsating terribly, the dirt disappearing from around her. She felt her hand move, her arm slumping to the side—she wasn't buried, free to move, alive somehow.

Her thoughts were scrambled and distant, lost amidst a painful fog. Sandra forced herself to think, to ponder on the red face and the blue hazy eyes, desperately reaching for the memory only to have it slip away seconds later. It was the same face that haunted her for four years, a face she couldn't recall, yet could never escape…

Sandra held up her arm, as if to shield herself from Benny's oncoming bullet, but the gunshot never came. Days had passed since that event, and here she lay, semi-conscious atop Doc Mitchel's hospital bed.

Doc gave her a curious squint, reading the conflict off her dreary expression. "Reckon you're relivin' somethin' unpleasant. Makes sense, givin' the way you came in here."

Sandra blinked, the spinning fan overhead coming clearer into view, her head pounding. Benny's face—and the ghoulish face from her past—were both gone from her mind now, reality returning to her in full. She slumped her head to the side, giving Doc a long, painful stare.

"What the f…?" Sandra moaned.

"Yeah… I'd be out of it too, if I was you," Doc nodded, attempting a kind smile. "Got a wicked scar on your forehead now… but other than that, you ain't no worse for wear. Luckily enough."

"He shot me," Sandra breathed, the memory of Benny and the graveyard slowly playing through her thoughts. "I swear to God, he…"

"Somebody sure did," Doc agreed. "Took quite a bit'o time to fish all that lead outta your head. What exactly happened to ya' out there?"

"I was… making another delivery," Sandra recalled. "I'm a courier. I always make deliveries, and it always goes fine… usually… but… somebody hit me in the back of the head, and I woke up in the graveyard… right before… the checkered-suit guy… shot me…"

Doc let out a heavy sigh. "Seems the same as always… folks just won't leave each other alone. Sounds to me like they were after whatever you were carryin' in that package. Victor didn't find no delivery orders or packages on you. All he found was an old 12-gauge shotgun layin' a few feet away from the grave. Figured it was yours."

Doc reached over, collecting a silvery combat shotgun, which was propped neatly against the wall. He carefully placed the gun in his lap, its worn exterior casting a slight glare from the sunlight in the window. Sandra stared profoundly into the gun, wanting to reach for it—she knew it was hers. She'd had it for as long as she could remember… which, incidentally, wasn't that long at all.

As Sandra slowly pushed herself upright on the bed, Doc leaned over the large gun in his lap, surveying it closely. He gently ran his fingers over the side of the shotgun, grazing a deep inscription in the old firearm. The inscription read: CHARON.

"This you?" Doc asked, tapping on the carved name. "Your name Charon…?"

"No, that… that's…" Sandra pondered on the name, drawing a blank, her head beginning to pound again. "I… I don't know. My name's Sandra."

"Then who's Charon?" Doc wondered, giving the carving an odd glimpse. "Looks to me like your gun's named after someone else. You got any companions wanderin' around out there somewhere?"

"I wish," Sandra mumbled without thinking, wrapping herself more firmly in her black leather jacket, which was unzipped and covered in dirt. For the past four years, she'd been couriering on a regular basis, making the occasional friends in various towns—but she hadn't traveled with any of them. During her time traveling, she felt a gnawing loneliness that always bothered her, but it was just one of those things—one of those things that simply couldn't be helped.

After all, she had no family that she knew of, and she had no close friends, either.

Doc spared her a somber look before string down at the combat shotgun again. "Looks kinda like them riot shotguns they got 'round these parts… but this one looks like it came from the east. That where you come from? The east?"

"I… have no idea," Sandra sighed.

Doc gave her a thoughtful stare. "Amnesia? Good God… I didn't think them bullets actually got to your memory banks in there."

"No, they… didn't," Sandra mumbled, her head aching terribly. "I had amnesia before I ever got shot. I've had it for four years now…"

"Damn. I don't reckon I'm gonna get much of your medical history, then," Doc uttered, glancing at his medical clipboard. "Well, anyhow… you're welcome to grab a bite to eat and use the facilities before you head out. No rush, either. You can stay until you feel like you're well enough to leave."

"Thank you," Sandra said gratefully, trying to smile. "I won't be here long, though. Just wanna wash my clothes, if I can…"

"Certainly," Doc agreed. "I'm Doc Mitchel, by the way. Welcome to good ol' Goodsprings."

"Thanks for patching me up, Doc."

"Don't mention it. It's what I'm here for."

In the hours to follow, Sandra spent her time recomposing, replaying the event in the graveyard and memorizing every detail of the checkered-suited man. A festering anger brewed in the pit of her stomach; she'd never been ambushed like that before, especially so easily. Sandra was no stranger to danger, and she shouldn't have let her guard down. Regardless, she'd find the man in the checkered suit eventually—but for now, rest and composure were top priorities.

Sandra took a shower while her clothes washed and dried, examining herself in the mirror. Her short red hair was the same as ever—her bangs longer than the rest, her hair combed over one half of her face, a deep scarlet red that shone like blood in most lights. It contrasted beautifully with her crystalline blue eyes, though these days, her childlike eyes looked a bit more tired than they used to. Ordinarily, she was the fun-loving and passionate type—but with no friends and no purpose aside from couriering, that passion seemed to be on a slow decline. Until now, that is.

Now, she felt a spark of impassioned determination she hadn't felt in years, wanting more than anything to recover what was stolen from her and corner the man in the checkered suit.

"Bastard," Sandra grumbled at her reflection, wiping away the condensation from the glass.

She sighed, dressing herself and taking a bottled water and a canister of potato crisps from Doc's fridge, choosing not to take too much of his food. After her brief meal, she marched down the hall, adjusting her gun belt on her dark jeans. Her gun belt was still filled with bullets in every loop, and her shotgun was snug inside its over-the-shoulder holster. The Khan's and their checkered-suited ally hadn't stolen these from her, at least.

With nothing but her ammo, her shotgun, and the clothes on her back, Sandra strolled toward the front door.

"Hold up," Doc called from behind her.

Sandra spun around and faced him.

Doc was approaching with a nuka-red pipboy in one hand, a black backpack dangling from the other. "Wouldn't be right of me to send a young lady out without all she needs to get by. I don't know what them no-good thugs stole from ya' out there, but I do know you need some basics. Got you a couple stimpacks and a few caps to get you started in this backpack—and this ol' pipboy used to be mine back in the day. Reckon you can keep up with your health better if you got a pipboy."

Sandra stepped forward, staring blankly down at the pipboy, momentarily lost for words. "Ah… thank you. You don't have to…"

"Yeah, I think I do. Gimme your arm," Doc requested, opening the pipboy and preparing to snap it onto her.

Sandra rolled up her sleeve, allowing Doc to place the pipboy firmly around her wrist, snapping it into place. Sandra gazed into it for several seconds, feeling the strangest sense of Deja-vu. She never remembered wearing a pipboy before, but it felt familiar…

"Is this the 3000 model?" Sandra asked without any forethought. "I never saw these models in red before. That's awesome."

"Well, well. You're familiar with the tech," Doc smirked. "Didn't expect that. Yeah, it's the 3000 model. My sister used to paint 'em for fun, give everyone in the vault a more 'personalized' look. She even took the time to style the buttons like Nukacola bottlecaps."

"Oooh, yeah… I see that. That's really cool. Bet it pissed your overseer off, though."

Doc narrowed his eyes curiously at her.

Sandra barely noticed; she was staring down at her new pipboy now, flipping through the pages on the screen and pushing various buttons, checking every function of the device. Doc watched her for a moment, then let out a thoughtful chuckle.

"Y'know what," Doc said, flashing a half-smile. "I'd bet money that you were a vault dweller."

Sandra's eyes flickered up to him, suddenly stopping her tinkering. "Really?"

"I reckon," Doc affirmed, nodding down at the pipboy. "You know the word 'overseer,' you knew the make and model of the device on your first guess, and you seem to know your way round pipboys quite a bit. Hell of a thing. Most wastelanders barely even know what a pipboy is, let alone how to use one."

Sandra slowly nodded, scanning over the pipboy and pondering on this. Quite honestly, it made perfect sense—she had no clue if she'd ever been in a vault or worn a pipboy, but using the device felt strangely familiar, and she knew exactly how to use it without anyone teaching her. She wouldn't be surprised at all to learn she'd grown up in a vault.

"Makes sense," Sandra shrugged. "I honestly can't remember, though…"

"If you don't mind me asking," Doc said. "What can you remember? What's your earliest memory?"

Sandra bit her lip, leaning on the wall and thinking back. "I was… in a wooden wagon. I woke up in a wooden wagon, just down the road from New Vegas. It was nighttime, and I remember waking up, seeing the tower shining off in the distance… no idea who I was, or where I was… so I just started walking. I walked until I found the Mojave Express, they gave me three hots and a cot… and that's all there is to it. Been working for them ever since."

"Interesting… do you have any trouble remembering things now? Your travel routes, your delivery deadlines…?"

"No… I remember that kind of stuff just fine. I remembered my own name about a month after I started working for the Mojave Express, but I never remembered anything else from the past. Only my name… nothing else."

"But you have no trouble remembering present-day information?"

"That's right. Why do you ask?"

"Well… it sounds like Dissociative Amnesia," Doc diagnosed. "The amnesia likely didn't come from a head injury or anythin' like that. It sounds to me like your amnesia is the result of some big trauma from your past. The good thing about that is… you never have to worry about forgetting where you are or what you're doing. You'll still be able to function just fine out there… provided you don't get shot in the head again."

"Silver lining," Sandra smirked, reaching out and shaking his hand. "Thanks for everything, Doc. Seriously. I'll pay you back someday."

"Nah… don't mention it," Doc replied warmly, glancing down at her hand and frowning, seeing a fleshy burn mark wrapped around her wrist. "Just… try not to get killed anymore."

Sandra laughed and nodded, sliding the backpack on and giving him a farewell wave.

"You oughta find someone to travel with. Safer that way," Doc told her, waving her off. "Be careful out there, kiddo."

"I will. Seeya, Doc."

Sandra turned and pushed the door open, a blast of sunlight washing over her as she stood atop the hill, overlooking the small town of Goodsprings. It was strange; the moment she found herself basking in the warmth of the sunlight, she felt as if everything from the past had been cleansed away, as if a new era of her life was about to begin.

Sandra shook the feeling off and pocketed her hands, examining the town. The first thing to catch her eye was the large robot rolling down the street. As soon as she approached it, the large bot turned to her, revealing a cartoony cowboy on its display screen.

"Butter my butt n' call me a biscuit," the robot cackled. "Glad to see you on your feet now. Name's Victor. How're ya' feeling, friend?"

"Fine," Sandra replied. "Thanks for digging me up."

"No problem, friend," the bot named Victor said.

Sandra spoke with Victor for a few more minutes before saying her goodbyes and wandering off. She absorbed several serene sights amidst Goodsprings, feeling oddly refreshed despite the headache, grateful to be alive. The memory of the checkered-suited man still angered her to her core, but she couldn't help but feel incredibly thankful to be alive.

Before visiting the store or the saloon, she chose to explore the town, stomping on a few mantis bugs in the old schoolhouse before scavenging for valuables inside. Sandra kept the remains of the mantises, hoping to grill them on a campfire later, pocketing the goods she found in the schoolhouse and eagerly setting off to sell them. She met Chet in the general store, making small talk as she purchased a few necessities for the road—and later, when she walked into the saloon, she found Sunny Smiles near the jukebox, selecting songs while her dog pawed on her leg, whining for food.

"Cheyenne, stop," Sunny griped at the dog. "I'll feed you in a sec…"

Sandra paused and stared at them, glancing at the pool table.

Sunny glimpsed away from the jukebox, spotting Sandra and giving her a wave.

"Hey—you must be her, the courier," Sunny figured. "Whole town's talking about the courier who got buried alive. Look at you, up and at it again after just a couple days."

"Takes more than an execution and a burial to kill my stubborn ass," Sandra cackled.

Sunny laughed. "Apparently. So, you sticking around for a while?"

"Nah, probably not. I'm gonna head out soon."

"All right, well… if you leave town today, make sure you stop by the source first. Gather up some water and cook something at the campsite out there. Just watch out for the geckos."

"Gotcha. Thanks for the tip."

"Wanna play a game of pool before you go?"

Sandra grinned. "Hell yeah."

For the next hour, Sandra and Sunny blared music from the jukebox, taking shots and shooting pool. Sandra found herself having a blast, despite what she expected of the day. This was typical for her—making new friends, partying like mad, then leaving town by herself after the merriment came to an end. It seemed even two shots to the head didn't change her routine of partying and vagabonding.

Just when the sun began to set, Sandra gave Sunny her goodbyes, sauntering out of the saloon with a light buzz. She still had about a hundred-or-so caps in her backpack along with the basic necessities for traveling, and now, it was time to head out. The sunlight was gorgeous on the Mojave horizon, and Sandra paused to observe it, wearing a faint smile before marching down the road south.

As she walked, she found herself thinking of what Doc said—that she should travel with company, that it was safer traveling with a companion. Sandra knew that full well, but she had no one; who could she possibly ask? The kind old doctor who saved her life free of charge, or the stranger woman who just paid for all her pool games and whiskey shots? No one knew Sandra well enough to travel with her, and no one owed her, either.

Traveling alone was her only option, just as it had been for the past four years.

Sandra sighed deeply, gazing emptily down the broken road as she walked. Truly, she wished it was different—that she had some company on the roads—but honestly, she knew such a wish wasn't entirely realistic. No one would throw caution to the wind and follow her blindly on her basic little courier jobs, and they probably wouldn't follow her on this revenge mission, either. Some people were naturally surrounded by families and friends, but Sandra simply wasn't one of those people.

Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that it might've been different years ago. After all, while she couldn't remember the past, she felt as if someone ought to be walking by her side, a friend or a protector of some kind. It would've felt right to travel alongside someone, as if it was always that way…

She felt almost certain that she used to travel with others, but it was a troubling thought. If Sandra once traveled with people, then what ever happened to those people? What happened to leave her all alone in the world?

Sandra rolled her neck, groaning and shaking the annoying thought away. Just when she faced the road again, something peculiar caught her eye.

Farther down the road, a man stood in the near distance. He wore a red bandana tied around his short, spiky hair, a green sports jacket draped over his Kevlar vest, a pair of shiny dog tags glistening from around his neck. He appeared to be yelling at an inanimate object…

"The fuck…?" Sandra mumbled, drawing closer and squinting oddly at the stranger.

The stranger stood beside a broken-down motorbike, kicking the small vehicle and cursing as he accidentally wounded his toe. Sandra swallowed a laugh.

"Fuck, why ain't ya…?" the stranger griped, smacking the motorcycle's handlebars. "Stupid piece'a… is that thing supposed to be…?"

Sandra stepped closer, scanning over the motorcycle. She hadn't seen many working vehicles in her time couriering, but she'd seen a few. Never a motorcycle, though.

"What's wrong with it?" Sandra asked.

The stranger met her eyes and shrugged. "Just a lil' bike trouble, no biggie."

"Any idea why?"

"Iunno. The rear stabilizer's kinda loose, but that shouldn't cause any real problems. God knows. Could be anything…"

Sandra bent beside the bike, examining it closely. Most vehicles ran on fusion cores, but a few also had gas canisters. Even though gasoline was an old and obsolete fuel from pre-war times, some folks still managed to create, salvage, or use it. This motorcycle had a gas canister, and when Sandra tapped it, the can made an echoing hollow sound.

"Out of gas, dude," Sandra determined.

"Oh. Magic," the stranger responded, and Sandra noticed he had a muddled British accent. "Well… c'mon then. I guess we gotta find a gas station now, don't we?"

Sandra blinked. "We?"

"Yeah… we," the stranger confirmed. "Like, you and me. Ya' dig?"

"Okay…"

"You know where there might be a gas station?"

"There's one in Goodsprings, but it's not…"

"Okay, lead the way."

Sandra sighed, spinning on her heel and heading back toward Goodsprings, the stranger following closely behind her. It wasn't a big deal—just a minor detour, and then, she'd be off to Primm as planned.

When Sandra and the stranger marched through Goodsprings, she stopped at the top of the hill, just across the street from Doc Mitchel's home. Sandra stood in the parking lot of the desolate gas station, where no working gas pumps had existed for over two-hundred years.

The stranger stared at the broken pieces of gas pumps for a while, looking more befuddled than Sandra thought possible of a rational person.

"So, this is the…" the stranger muttered. "But… where do I put the…? Huh…"

Sandra repressed another urge to laugh. This guy seemed the simple type, and watching him think so hard was oddly amusing.

The stranger glanced at the abandoned gas station building, then sighed.

"Y'know… I don't think they're open," he uttered.

Sandra stared incredibly at him. "Of course they're not—"

"Hey, d'you wanna go for a drink?" he asked her. "I saw this cool place when I was riding down the highway, and I wanted to check it out. It ain't far. C'mon."

"What? Wait a…"

The stranger wandered off, waving for her to follow. Sandra resisted the urge to groan loudly and speed-walked after him. The stranger led her behind the store and the saloon, and before long, the two of them were marching briskly over the landscape beyond Goodsprings, past numerous cacti and plants in the vast expanse of the desert. Eventually, they approached the enormous memorial outside of town, a statue in the shape of a massive cross. Sunset had become twilight by the time they arrived, and the stranger stopped on the concrete platform, gazing over the scenery and smirking.

"Whaddid I say, man, whaddid I say?" the stranger said, nodding at Sandra. "Told ya' it was cool as hell."

Sandra caught her breath, gazing up at the cross above her, then pausing to absorb the scenery. Honestly, the sight of it was breathtaking—in fact, she was just able to see the tower of Vegas glowing under the night sky in the far distance, the sky a deep, beautiful blue as the stars became visible.

"Okay… yeah," Sandra admitted. "Nice place."

The stranger sat on the concrete platform, sliding off his satchel and fishing out a small bottle of whiskey. Sandra sat beside him, crossing her legs and watching the scenery for a moment.

"What's your drink, pal?" the stranger asked.

"I don't know… anything strong," Sandra muttered.

"There." He placed a second bottle of whiskey in her lap. "Get that down ya'."

Sandra smirked, popping the lid off and taking a savory swig of the wonderfully acidic liquid. She loved to drink, perhaps more than she should, but it didn't matter. Sandra always felt that life was fleeting, and there was no reason to avoid the things she enjoyed. Besides, it wasn't as if she was a ragingly psychotic alcoholic. Sandra drank to feel at ease, and once or twice a week, she'd indulge in the occasional cigarette or two. Nothing major.

As they gazed over the beautiful nighttime Mojave, Sandra lit a cigarette and took a puff, taking another drink of whiskey and feeling incredibly relaxed. These peaceful moments were one of her favorite things about her line of work, taking in the sights and relaxing after whatever work or fun had transpired earlier in the day.

"So… who are you, anyway?" Sandra asked the stranger.

"Name's Niner," the stranger named Niner replied. "I'm kind of a… a drifter, y'know."

"Yeah, same for me. What brings you out here?"

"What else? I'm on my way to Vegas."

Sandra nodded, eyeing the city in the great distance, barely visible from where she sat. The man in the checkered suit was nothing like his Great Khan allies—whereas the Khans were grimy and hardened, the checkered-suited man was clean-cut and suave. In all likelihood, the checkered-suited man was probably a Vegas man, which would likely lead Sandra to the same destination as Niner.

"Me too," Sandra uttered distantly. "Going to Vegas…"

"Reeeally," Niner smirked. "Well, ain't that a coinkidinks. You and me oughta make that trip together… be easier than goin' it alone all the time."

Sandra nodded again, pausing and feeling a strange sense of excitement. Traveling with someone certainly sounded nicer than going it alone, especially after her near-death encounter. Besides, she'd been traveling lone for far too long now…

"Yeah," Sandra agreed, meeting Niner's gaze. "I guess we could do that. Makes sense. We could watch each other's backs."

"Great, hey—we're gonna be the best'a friends, I can already tell," Niner grinned, slapping her once on the back. "Whaddo they call you?"

"My name's Sandra."

"Mngh… nah, I don't like it. It's too hard to remember."

"Seriously—?"

"We need to make you a nickname, mate."

"Me? But your name's just a number."

"Niner ain't a number. It's a… it… quit asking questions. We're onto you now."

"That wasn't a question…"

"C'mon, throw me a bone. People don't call you anything else?"

Sandra sighed heavily, pausing to think. She was just a nameless courier with no family or friends. She certainly didn't have anyone around to assign her a nickname.

"At my job… they call me Courier Six," Sandra shrugged, feeling as if the Courier Six label sounded lame.

Niner, however, seemed to like it. "Six… yeah, that works. Six. I'm gonna call you Six."

"Okay. Then I'm gonna call you Nine."

"No, don't… don't do that…"

Sandra laughed, snuffing out her cigarette and taking another swig. "Well… I was gonna head out of town, but it's getting late now. We might need to find a place to crash before we leave."

"Okay, Six—but first thing's first," Niner responded. "What're we gonna do about my bike?"

"I don't know… somebody has to have gas."

"Eh… I doubt it around here. These people don't even got shoes."

"We'll figure it out tomorrow. Let's just find a place to sleep for the night."

"Aw'right, I just gotta grab some stuff from my bike first."

"Let's go, then."

The two of them stood and marched away from the memorial, Sandra following behind Niner and wearing a pleased smirk. A new companion, a friend for the road—just what she needed and wanted. She didn't know Niner well yet, but hopefully, he'd be trustworthy enough to keep around. Sandra liked what she knew of him so far.

As they passed Goodsprings, Sandra turned and examined an old broken-down bus near the saloon, one she'd seen a few times earlier in the day. The bus looked like it hadn't moved in a while, but it would make a nice place to sleep…

Sandra and Niner headed down the road south, venturing out of Goodsprings toward the motorcycle. But the moment they arrived, Sandra frowned—at first, she couldn't see the bike. Instead, a massive fire was sitting down the street, burning the remains of Niner's motorcycle in the middle of the road.

Sandra and Niner approached the flaming bike, both of them stunned.

"Uhm…" Niner mumbled. "Was it on fire when we left…?"

"No," Sandra mumbled emptily. "No it wasn't…"

Just then, two raiders emerged from behind the nearest rocks, charging at them with sledgehammers raised. Niner swore and whipped out his rifle, Sandra gasping and feeling a spike of adrenaline—she dove behind the closest rock and ripped her shotgun from its holster. She and Niner hammered on their triggers, decimating the two raiders instantly. Both bodies fell limply on the road, staining the pavement with blood on either side of the flaming motorcycle.

There was a tense pause. Sandra slowly stood, holstering her gun and shaking off the sudden urgency. She was no stranger to killing, nor was Niner—though Niner looked far more perturbed than she was. He didn't care about the dead raiders; his attention was focused on the ruined bike, his expression angry and distraught.

"What the hell, man?!" Niner griped, fidgeting in his stance. "What… ah… aaaguh!"

"Sorry," Sandra mumbled. "About your bike…"

Niner groaned out a sigh, rolling his neck and facing her. "Agh… don't go actin' like it was your fault. Ugh… I need something to take the edge off…"

He slipped a coiled-up rag from his satchel, pulling a syringe out of the rag and pressing the needle to his arm.

Sandra stared at the needle. "What's that…?"

"Steady, man," Niner replied, injecting himself with the drug. "Why, you after a hit…?"

"Um… no, I'm good," Sandra muttered. She rarely used chems.

Niner closed his eyes, inhaling a long, contented breath. "Mmm… that's the good shit, right there… yeah…"

He tossed the needle aside, straightening up and facing Sandra properly.

"Y'know what, man?" Niner said. "It was a shitty bike, always lettin' me down. I don't need it. See, all I need is you, Six—me and you, we're gonna make it to Vegas, even if we gotta walk there. What you say, Six? Me and you."

"You and me," Sandra agreed, trading a high-five with him.

Niner gave her a conclusive nod. "Lead the way, man."

The both of them left the flaming bike behind, returning to Goodsprings as Trudy, Sunny, and Chet all wandered off to their homes for the evening. Sandra examined the old broken bus, prying the metal door open and stepping inside. The interior smelled of mildew, and it contained a sleeping bag and a dirty old mattress, as well as a few loose bits of clutter. Sandra and Niner deemed it decent enough, and they crawled into their sleeping spots, quickly drifting into a deep, peaceful slumber.

Sandra awoke long before Niner did, jolting awake from a nightmare—a gunshot, a fade to black, and the sensation of being buried alive, caked with dirt all around her. A brief flash of a red, ghoulish face plagued her mind before she came to. When she sat upright, she was incredibly relieved to find that she was sitting inside an old bus, on a mattress, morning sunlight bleeding inside from every window.

With Niner snoozing loudly from his sleeping bag, Sandra decided to do a little more scavenging before they prepared to leave town for good. She found herself at the gas station again, hoping to find some overlooked valuables…

After meeting Ringo and learning of his predicament, Sandra took on the task of helping him, talking to everyone in town and convincing them to help him fight off the Powder Gangers. Sandra was pleased to hear that the townspeople intended to help him, but she didn't want to stick around for the fight. The longer she procrastinated, she further her checkered-suited assailant became…

By the time Sandra finished her business in Goodsprings, Niner had awoken and cooked two helpings of grilled mantis before taking a late-morning hit of jet. Afterward, he and Sandra trekked off to the south, intending to reach Primm before nightfall. And Sandra felt—as she walked down the road, trading jokes with Niner—as if she was marching off to something monumental, as if a set of dominoes were falling in place, as if things had transpired in a way that would lead her down a path of utmost importance.

Thinking this feeling ridiculous, she merely shrugged it off.

And she couldn't have known just how right the feeling was.