Not that it was cold in Novac at night, or well anywhere in the Mojave for that matter, but the girl was visibly shaking in her tall, dust-covered boots. She considered pulling the hood of the ragged sweatshirt over her blond head, but second-thoughted the action, figuring a hood would mark her even more clearly as an outsider and stranger. She had traveled so far in such a short distance to find a safe bed, and yet was awake at night, assisting some...soldier? Ex-soldier? In a quest to get revenge for his dead wife, Carla.

It was less than 24 hours since she had met Craig Boone, and he had already unsettled her. He spoke cryptically, more like some kind of fortune teller or seer than a big man with a big gun. Perhaps his enigmatic nature was the reason she accepted his request. In the short span of their relationship, the girl had spoken with a few people about this "Carla" who apparently everyone despised, even Manny...and Manny was one of the few people in the town who was genuinely friendly and welcoming. It was awkward to hear their disdain when the girl was attempting her detective work, yet it ended up being No-Bark who gave helpful advice (after helping her out of a bear trap she activated when she stepped through the front door of his shack.)

The girl's hands were shoved into the hoodie's deep pockets. Her right hand crushed Boone's red felt beret, and inside that, folded up neatly, was Carla's bill of sale. Thanks to the fresh bear trap wound, she was limping as she approached the motel lobby door, glancing behind her to see the last rays of Mojave sun disappear into the faraway hills. The hand that wasn't clutching Boone's beret like it was her last Stimpak rose up to rap hurriedly on the door, knocking peeled paint off with each tap. Rustling inside could be heard, and the blond stepped back as Jeannie May exited, locking the lobby door and turning to the town's newest guest.

"Well hello there dear...is there anything I can get for you? I was just about to head home. Your room okay?"

The blond had an excellent poker face, the knowledge of Jeannie May's crime and the anger she felt over it, bubbling beneath the surface. She set her jaw and realized she was still shaking,

"What's wrong child? You look like you've just seen a ghost!"

"Ma'am," she began and licked her lips, attempting to look convincingly frightened, "I think...I think there's a Legion raiding party coming. I was just out for a walk and saw..."

"Oh, no!" The Legion scared Jeannie for an entirely different reason than they did most...the woman had slave dealings with them after all. She breathed in a whisper, "Have you told Boone, up in the dinosaur?"

The blond had prepared her response for this question. "No ma'am...I...I'm not sure if it IS the Legion and if it isn't, I don't want to bother him...I talked to him yesterday and he was really rude so..."

It was believable, as evidenced by Boone's first words to the girl- "Goddammit! Don't sneak up on me like that!" spat with such vehemence that she almost pushed him out of Dinky's mouth. It wouldn't be hard for Jeannie May to visualize him as someone who would be rude to a newcomer.

"Good point," she said, accepting the bait, and pocketing her keys, turning fully to the girl in the pink hoodie. "Boone is a good boy, his heart's in the right place, but he's just not been very hospitable since his wife left him..."

The blond pressed. "I was hoping you could come take a look just to make sure. Before we wake everyone up. They're pretty far away. I don't know if Boone sees them, but I don't think he has, because I haven't heard gunshots. If it's merchants...or...or.."

Playing a timid, stupid outsider -who couldn't even tell a merchant band from a Legion raid party crossing Clark Field- suited her well, with her unassuming clothing, bland hairstyle, and general lack of intimidation. She was also limping.

"Let's hurry us up and have a look. If it's the Legion, I'll know. And we can tell Mr. Boone, and wake up Manny and the others." Jeannie wrapped her shawl tightly around herself, and headed toward the field with no hesitation. She walked hurriedly, and the blond limp-jogged to keep up to her. Huffing as they went along the hard rock, the newcomer tried very hard not to look at Dinky the Dinosaur's big doofy smiling face atop the looming structure of his metal body. Ahead of her, Jeannie halted. The pair were far now, about fifty yards away from Boone, who was lurking in his comical death shack, undoubtedly watching their every move.

"Where did you see them?" she said, looking very hard into the ill-lit night, squinting at the dusky bowl of Mojave desert ahead.

"Hang...hang on. They were...over there..." said the other, pointing to a random spot. The older woman's head shot in that direction, and to serve as a distraction, the girl withdrew the other item in her pocket...a pair of binoculars. "Here, I saw them with this," she supplied helpfully.

She snatched the binoculars and brought them up to her sight. The angle Jeannie May was looking turned her away from the blond, so she did not witness the predesignated signal to Boone-the girl pulled the felt beret over her head and took a deep breath.

He had made sure that the stranger knew he didn't trust her. He had been cynical enough to not hope for anything. Yet out in the peaceful night, she hurried across the rocks with Jeannie May. Boone recognized the stranger's platinum blond hair, her untidy locks gleaming in the faint moonlight. And the sniper's sharp eyes knew Jeannie as well.

"What the..." Boone breathed. Was this a coincidence? Did the stranger have a habit of taking old ladies out on midnight strolls right in his line of sight, or was this it? Not that Boone believed Jeannie more innocent than anyone else in this miserable town. But was he was about to taste revenge...? Although his finger was steadily resting against the trigger guard, his face as dark as ever, that long-dead part of Boone flared up with excitement.

The stranger spoke with the woman, but Boone was too far away to hear what was said. The older woman took a set of procured binoculars, and looked out west with them, obviously enraptured for whatever the stranger had told her existed out there in the desert. Still, Boone only half-held his rifle at the ready. The tall, lean stranger withdrew something else: something red. Boone's shrewd eyes widened slightly, and then his dark brow lowered. He brought the sight upward, glaring down the familiar scope.

Now the outsider came into view, the scene magnified, her porcelain face stony as she put the beret on. That was all Boone needed. Some part of him, somewhere deep down, though she'd presented no evidence as of yet, trusted this woman despite what he'd told her...

Boone didn't want to spend the night in Novac after reading the letter the Courier had given him. He wanted to leave immediately, but she pressed the point: they needed a good night's sleep before traveling the long haul to New Vegas, and both of them were beyond exhausted. He had to give into the demand, considering what she'd fumbled through during her stay. Her week in Novac had consisted of her helping seemingly everyone in town; she'd discovered the ghouls at Reppcon, the Nightkin bothering the Brahmin, and who knows what other good deeds, before completely blindsiding Boone himself with bringing him partial justice to Carla's...slavery deal.

He was surprised the betrayer wasn't Manny-his friend had loathed Boone's wife, but upon reflection Boone couldn't remember a time that Jeannie wasn't complaining about the "snobbish look" on Carla's face. These thoughts were making it increasingly difficult for him to even think about sleeping one more night in this town. Obviously the Courier was having no difficulty. Boone was sitting in her room, in a sooty chair by the window. The bright orange Novac sign gave the area an eerie sienna glow, and silhouetted in it, the strange girl slept tangled in the blankets, one arm dangling from the wad of fabric.

She'd given him a key to her room when he told her he was going to pack his belongings. "Let yourself in whenever you're ready to go, but I have to sleep or I'm going to collapse," she'd said. He was stunned that this secretive, mysterious woman trusted him with such a thing, but he reminded himself of two important things: one, this was the woman who took out a facility basement full of Nightkin, and she probably hid a Rebar Club under that hoodie, and two, they were partners now. Something felt right about it, earlier when he agreed to journey with her.

But as he sat there, his bag packed and his rifle across his lap, Boone looked away from the peacefully snoring girl and out the window to orange-lit Novac scenery. Bitter disgust crept up on him. Manny's reaction to Carla's death. The town's tight-lipped avoidance of the issue. Every night, he'd sat up there in that dinosaur, warding off Powder Gangers, Legionnaires, any and every mutated animal that moved as a speck on the mountains, while the good people of Novac slept in thankless silence. Manny had skipped out on Bitter Springs. Manny didn't have a wife stolen from under his nose. The only other person Boone ever thought he could trust, was in fact, useless. Unsympathetic, and useless. The more the sniper gazed out the dingy window, trying to see more than glaring orange light, the more enraged he grew. He was trying to recall Carla's face, and couldn't even bring it to form in his mind anymore. Like the window, like the room, he was enveloped in an angry, eerie orange neon haze.

He'd wanted to do this for ages. Ever since he raised his rifle to the back of his wife's head. He'd just been too afraid. That and he didn't have the fuel he needed. With the crushed bill of sale in his pocket, Boone was full of fuel. The longer he sat, the longer he smoldered, until Boone's insides were far more fiery than the light of the neon sign. Further reasoning gave him the epiphany he was searching for; his job was done. He had gotten revenge. His wife was avenged. He had no other real work. Guarding the miserable denziens of Novac wasn't work. Sitting in the dinosaur wasn't a purpose. Though he was a sniper, the man carried a handgun like any wise man this side of the Mojave. Now he withdrew it from his pack, the dark steel glinting in the orange Novac wash. The grip spun in his large palm, and he raised his arm, the gun now pointing at his temple.

Boone leaned forward in the chair, his face falling out of orange and into the blackness of the room. He closed his eyes, slowly, and then-

Something moved. Evan caught in his moment of tormented bliss and end-all, Boone was still programmed as a soldier, and his eyes snapped open at the noise. The pistol momentarily lowered, but he realized almost immediately that the sound he'd heard was simply the Courier, sighing wistfully in her sleep and turning over. At this angle, all he could see was one long leg, the one that wasn't covered with blankets, and the top of a red beret.

Before he could help it, Boone's thoughts flashed back to just a few hours earlier.

"I'd really like my beret back."
"But we're partners now, Boone," she teased in her almost childish way. "Don't you think it looks good on me?"
She was trying to cheer him up, trying to ease the mood created by the note she'd given him earlier.
He rolled his eyes in response.
"Fine, here," she said, not bothering to try and ease him out of his demeanor. The red beret was lifted from her golden head, and she shoved the wad of fabric into his hands. Deciding to be difficult himself, the First Recon reached into one of his many pockets and withdrew a new, freshly washed red beret. Like any other military outfit, the NCR were given several uniforms. Boone kept all of his. As he unfolded the new beret smugly, while still holding the one she'd given him, the Courier's green eyes widened and she snatched away the beret she'd just shoved back into his hands.
"Suit yourself," Boone had said in his condescending way. "That one has blood on it."
The Courier pummeled the dirty beret into Boone's chest, and grabbed the clean one, jamming it on her head and sparing a glare before stomping out of the room.

This scene, her glare, the beret exchange, played so vividly before Boone's eyes now in the dark hotel room that he paused, his jaw slack. His mind was a swarm of emotions-relief at having completed his task, humor at the strange girl's interaction and tenacity, gratitude for a more normal conversation than he'd had in years, and many other mixed thoughts. Without realizing it, he lowered the pistol.

The courier awoke with a start, the red of the campfire the first thing she saw. Reclining near her, his rifle resting on his shoulder, sat Boone. His expression was one of deep thought, but now he turned his head to look down at her.

Her face was wet. The slender girl drew her long legs up, scooting on her butt into a sitting position near Boone. She curiously brushed her cheek, realizing she had cried in her sleep. Boone, wherever his thoughts were, had a more peaceful expression than he had in the few days since they'd left Novac. He glanced at the girl's face, noting her teary eyes and cheeks. "What's up?"

"I...I dreamed," she said triumphantly. Though they were still getting acquainted, she moved closer to him. Boone's back was against a rock, and now the Courier faced him, her shoulder leaning against the same rock. Relaxed, the sniper tilted his head back against the rock. He scanned the night sky. "You were talking in your sleep."

"What did I say?" she asked curiously.

"I don't know. You were humming a song I think, most of it was mumbled. It sounded nice. I didn't want to wake you."

The Courier wiped her moist cheek again, and said slowly. "I remembered the dream."

He looked at her. It was not common for the courier to remember anything for more than a few seconds. In the short time they had become traveling partners he had already grown accustomed to her habits. She would see or hear something, somewhere in her mind, green eyes glazing over, and she would anxiously pause. He had learned that she was waiting for the memory to load, to finish developing in her mind. It very rarely did. This made Boone sympathize, because he saw the strain, witnessed her very weak grasp on whatever it was she tried to remember. Like smoke, the memories wisped past her, and the light in the greens always faded to a defeated shade of grey.

"I dreamed about snow. Have you spent a lot of time in snow?"

"Nah. Never really ventured. Never seen snow in my life."

"It was...it was something I knew well. I was familiar with it. Oh, it was beautiful." Her eyes were shining again, and Boone closed his eyes as she spoke. Her words were tentative, hesitant, as though she were reviewing everything she said for her own approval. Though the memory was retained, the Courier seemed intent on describing it perfectly, to avoid losing it.

"White, everywhere. Every tiny little tree branch, every leaf, held white glitter on it. All the windows were crystallized, and it fell from the sky softly. Not like rain. It swirled around, glistening with the moonlight. The ground was a blanket, and the tree trunks were black. Everything was hushed, everything was sleepy. It was like the world closed its eyes for a minute to rest, and the sun went away. You could pick it up, but the snow would melt in your hands. It made your breath come out in wispy trails. My nose was warm, my cheeks were numb."

She pulled out something from one of her pockets suddenly. Boone's eyes popped open, his head turned toward her at the sound. "I found this in an abandoned building..." She passed it to him. Boone held a glass orb in his hands. A little nature scene was juxtaposed inside it, and as he looked curiously at the water-filled ball, the Courier put her hands over his own and shook.

White flakes arose and spun in a beautiful spiral cloud, settling on the tiny trees.

"So that's a snowglobe." The name made sense now.

"It was...so beautiful. Wherever I was, wherever I'm from, I loved snow."

"Remember anything else?" Boone shook the globe again, holding it toward the dim firelight, watching the little sparkles frantically spin.

"I was just walking in the snow. I was singing a song, but I don't think I know the words to it. Or the tune, either. It was night, and I was dressed warm, just...walking, and looking. Thinking about things, probably. I remember I was happy." Now her tone perked up, and the Courier shifted so that she was sitting on her haunches, hands motioning as she remembered herself. "It wasn't a dream. It happened. I can feel it."

"I believe you." In his flat tone, Boone wasn't certain he could pull off 'reassuring.'

I had these beautiful things...ear...ear muffs! They were on my ears and I wore them to keep my ears warm. They were my favorite things. I remember thinking that I wanted to go home and read a book I really liked...although I can't remember the name...I …...my house."

She stopped, and Boone paused from his shaking/watching ritual to read her face. It had fallen.

"I don't remember my house..."

"You will. It'll just take time." He shook the globe again, desperately wondering what it would be like to walk in something like that. It was hard to imagine, but her words painted a beautiful picture.

"I do remember one other thing..." she said hesitantly, and now her excitement level had plummeted into gloominess. The Courier drew her legs up to her and encircled them with her arms, hugging herself. She leaned forward, chin resting on her knees, firelight flickering off her cheek.

"I remember that I was alone. Not just in the forest, wherever it was. I didn't have a family...I don't know how I know that."

Boone said nothing.

"I was alone, and happy. I didn't seek after anyone. I wasn't searching for anything. I didn't have anyone, or need anyone. But if I did need them..."

Her cheeks were freshly moist.

"Things change," Boone said grimly. "From here on out, I'm here whenever you need me. I've got your back."

She smiled, and to break the tension, the sniper noted, "I wonder what made you come all the way to the Mojave if you lived in a place that had a lot of snow. There's snow in some of the peaks. But I'm betting you lived farther north, if there were pine forests. If you ever want to head that way, just let me know."

The Courier risked touching the bristly Boone, and tilted her head toward him, resting her temple on his shoulder. Although his back stiffened, Boone didn't note or comment on the move.

"Thank you."

"Yeah..."

"Almost there, buddy, just hang on a little longer," the Courier breathed to the cyberdog, in a voice much kinder than the voice she used with Boone. The latter was making his way up the mountain after the two, eyes on the pink-clad woman and the animal she was taking care of. Boone had never even heard of this tiny settlement called Jacobstown, but his companion had been excited to go there once they looked it up on the map and realized it was nestled in the higher mountains outside of Vegas. Maybe it was connected to her dream, maybe it was home. Boone had warned her against getting her hopes up; they had agreed to help find a cyberdog surgeon and that was the point of the trip, he reminded her. Several times.

"It's so beautiful up here," she said in front of him, and Boone snapped out of his thoughts. The girl didn't stop walking, because she was too worried about the very poor condition of the animal, but her head roved around the quiet mountain trail, examining the trees. "It's just...calm, relaxed." A soft smile played on her lips, and she glanced over her shoulder at the quiet Boone. "What do you think?"

"It's nice," he responded blankly. In all reality, the sniper was admiring the way the wind made her blush, made her breath fog around her face. Usually serious, she seemed lighthearted since leaving Freeside and the Kings. As she smiled back at him, Boone gave her a very intense look back. She was nothing like the women in the NCR. Rex suddenly whimpered and collapsed onto the ground at their feet. Carefree look gone, the Courier dropped to her knees.

"Oh, boy, we're almost there, we're so close! Stay with me, Rex," she pleaded. Boone, a line of concern wrinkling his brow, closed the gap between them in seconds. Rex was unconscious, but the courier scooped him up, rising with the huge metal dog in her arms. Though she was strong, even she wavered with the heavy weight, and Boone extended his arms. "Let me."

"Boone, I told the King I would take care of his dog...he's my responsibility..."

"Yeah, and you're my responsibility. Look, I'm not saying you're not capable."

She stared at him for a moment with a half-angry look. Boone stood closer now, putting his arms under hers, helping her lift the dog. She was extremely tall, inches shorter than Boone, and his face was near hers as he said in a very soft, non-Boone-like voice, "Let me help you."

Perhaps something in his kind tone shocked her, or perhaps she swallowed her pride and learned to accept help when it was offered, but the Courier stepped even closer to her quiet friend, handing the dog over to him. When Rex was securely in Boone's arms, bridegroom style, she backed away, rubbing her nose on the back of her sleeve. "...Thanks..."

The trio made their way up the mountain. Jacobstown was just over the hill.

Boone stood in the hall, carefully avoiding eye contact with the Nightkin who slouched in the resort. His arms were crossed at his side as he listened without listening, to the soft hum of the doctor's voice mixed with the Courier's. They had been in this secluded little area only several minutes, and the solace of it mixed with the fact that peaceful supermutants roved around struck a chord with Boone's tiny sense of humor.

As he mulled over this irony, his companion exited the doctor's quarters. Boone turned to her expectantly. "He can fix Rex," she said breathlessly. "We have to get him a new brain."
"A...what?"
"We have to find a brain. And I think I know just where to go. Come on."
Boone's jaw was dropped, a rare sight, and she was too busy making her way to the front door to even notice. "Just where-"
"Old Lady Gibson. She's really -"
"We are not staying in Novac."
At this, the Courier paused and turned to look at Boone.
"I've made friends in Novac, Boone. Not everyone there was Jeannie May." She resented his silence about Carla. She may not have pressed the points, but Boone was well aware of the tension. Being ex-NCR, he knew that confiding in his partners too often could lead to sadness, or betrayal. He'd seen it happen firsthand. Better to just keep private business private. But still, the breach in their communication and personal lives left them both with an odd, awkward void. There was nothing to be done for it. Boone remained tight-lipped.

Going back to Novac..as they exited the large resort, he shook his head bitterly. Boone didn't think he'd see the place so soon after leaving. Traveling to Freeside and meeting the Kings and Followers had been the distraction his mind needed, and for the most part, fun. The expression 'one step forward, two steps back' came to mind as he thought of the sleepy town and its negative pull on him.

Boone squinted as they stepped into the sun, and the female murmured, "It's just so pretty here. If only I could just...get away from it all. And come here and..."

"Get away from it all?" Though his tone was condescending, Boone was more confused than irritated. "What are you getting away from? The past three weeks?" He couldn't get away from his past. But she didn't have a past.

The Courier ignored him, her eyes lighting up and her finger extending to a bank about thirty feet away. "Boone, look! Snow!" Darting away from him, the courier ran to the white pile, and Boone himself stopped short.

"So it is." It had mostly melted, and now he noticed that the ground around them was wet, far wetter than the desert below. He sauntered toward the hilltop.

"We were so busy with getting Rex in here, we must not have noticed it!"

Boone, less frolicky than his friend, walked slowly over to a shaded area where the snow gathered up alongside the building. Trying to recall snow as the Courier described it in her home area, he had pictured white dust on everything. Now his back was to the girl, who had ran up to the bank. He wanted to touch the snow, see if it was really cold. Reading survival manuals from before the War, he knew it was edible, but dangerous in large quantities...a strange combination that he'd never understood. While advancing on the unwitting snow, Boone was suddenly hit with something. It exploded against the back of his neck, powder sailing around his face, and Boone spun around.

"What the-"

All he saw was white, streaming toward him. A second later, his vision was gone, his deep scowl hidden behind another burst of white. Boone's brow lowered and some of the white flaked off, then he made a grunting noise, scraping his face with his hand. Blinking, his cheeks freezing, his keen eyes spotted the Courier running at him full speed, hands full of snow. Never was she smiling bigger than now as she pulled her arm back.

"Don't-fuck-" Another lump was headed in his direction, and Boone ducked. The snow hit the large Nightkin behind him, who didn't even turn around.

"Oh, Little Jimmy, you and your tricks!" it bellowed, dragging a rake across the ground.

Boone gave an annoyed look over his own shoulder, his face still dripping with snow, and the Courier prepared for launch again. "Come on, fight back!" she said, and threw.

He dodged, although not well, the snow slamming into his shoulder. One knee was on the ground, and the girl advanced. "What the hell are you-"

"It's called a SNOWBALL FIGHT!" This one hit him directly in the face. Boone shook his head so rapidly his beret almost fell off, and as he blinked again, getting her in his view, he realized the Courier was out of snow. Still smiling, she was running back to the bank to stock up. The tall man wiped his cheek; it was so cold. So interesting. He'd never seen anything like it. Although he wanted to appreciate it in the sniper way-from a distance-he was already down on one knee from his earlier dodge. Boone scooped up the snow.

It felt different than he'd imagined-colder, and wet. But he'd already learned this when it smacked him both in the back of the head and the front, and before he dug his other hand into the snow, Boone unpocketed his sunglasses. If he was going to be barraged by these "snowballs" then he was going to at least protect what part of his face he could. After his sunglasses were donned, Boone grabbed more snow, marveling at how it packed like wet sand. Following her lead, he made several snowballs, cradling them in his arms, and then stood.

She was hiding behind a tree, his perfectly tuned eyes spotting the speck of pink instantly. Boone crossed the yard, aiming and breaking into a run to catch her off-guard. When she saw him speeding toward her, she screamed and ran, throwing a snowball that he dodged. Boone aimed, threw, missed. Dammit. The Courier ran around the yard back to Lily, hiding behind the large blue form.

"Is this young man having a snowball fight with you, Little Jimmy? My that's cute, but be safe! Wear your mittens!"

Why did everyone but Boone know what snowballs were? Now the pink jacket moved through the shade, going toward heavier brush, over by the Bighorner herd. She paused to stick her tongue out him and he threw another snowball, misjudging his own throwing ability. It soared past her head and hit one of the creatures on the horn. The animal shook its head angrily, and as the Courier snapped her head back to look at the Bighorner, Boone finally perfected his shot. A huge snowball connected with the Courier's head, and she disappeared, ducking behind another Bighorner.

"Now don't pick a fight with the pets, little fellow!" Lily snarled lovingly. "Grandma is a crack shot with a snowball herself. You run along and play nice with my Little Jimmy!"

Boone shook his head. The concentration he'd had on finding the Courier was broken with the Nightkin's interruption. Now the girl was gone, lost in the sea of trees to the south of the building. It was dark and shady there, filled with snow. Undaunted, Boone walked past the grazing herd and into the dark treeline. Silently, he scoped the area. Blues and blacks and the white of the snow were all that was in his vision. No red beret, no pink hoodie. Then he noticed something helpful; the snow left an indent on the ground. Footprints. Bootprints to be exact.

"Aha," he said resolutely, and his shrewd eyes followed their trail. Walking after the Courier's bootprints in the snow, he briefly found himself standing at the base of a large tree. Double checking to make sure the tracks didn't continue beside it, he was momentarily dumbfounded, until a loud "Whoop!" made its way from above.

Arms and legs extended, she fell out of the tree, aiming straight for Boone. He was so bewildered by the sight of his frenzied friend that he didn't bother to move out of the way. As a result, a sudden loss of air to his windpipe choked him and he gagged; she had him in a headlock, sitting piggyback on his shoulders.

"Get-off!" Boone twisted. Her response was to pluck his glasses off and put them on herself. He saw several flashes before the brightness, memories from training, Great Khans hacking at him from all sides, and the ex-soldier panicked as he so rarely did. Now thrashing around, Boone uncontrollably moved to use his full strength. One arm reached behind his head, the other behind his back, and he roughly grabbed her by the hoodie and her thigh, flinging her over his head and away. As he brought the tall rag doll around, Boone forcefully dropped her in the snow. Once she was on her back, he put one knee on her stomach, unsheathing his large hunting knife and holding it to her torso before he blinked, realizing he was safe. Boone uneasily lifted his knee. What had just happened? The Courier, like a crazy person, was laughing uncontrollably, not even bothering to put up a fight or get off the snow

That bullet to the head had truly damaged her. He grabbed the sunglasses back, then took large handfuls of snow and, annoyed, rubbed the white powder all over the girl's face. There was something extremely satisfying about it, and though she was covered in snow, she was still gasping for air from laughter. Although Boone was still glaring, it was finally a humorous glare, and he paused long enough to let her shake the snow off her face. Boone sat back on his haunches, strangely comfortable with this situation despite his racing heart from the scare.

"Oh..." she said, trying to catch her breath. "We gotta spend more time up here..."

She was looking up at the sky with a smile on her face. He was looking down at her, and just as Boone shifted to stand up and help her to her feet, something huge and heavy slammed into his back. He wildly at first thought it was a Bighorner, but the now-familiar explosion of snow flew in wisps around him, and the force knocked Boone forward. Unprepared, he buckled, flattening the Courier, who could only grunt as the air left her lungs. From behind him, Lily roared, "I TOLD YOU TO PLAY NICE WITH LITTLE JIMMY YOUNG MAN!"

Boone awoke, startled. A scream echoed in his ears, carrying him out of his uneasy dream and into the present. The present was the Courier's motel room in Novac, where darkness lay in front of him like a sheet, the ever-present neon sign outside glowing eerily on his corner of the room and cutting a sharp light edge into the black. He'd fallen asleep? Boone hadn't intended to, taking up watch in the same sooty chair as last week.

The scream echoed again, faintly, and Boone pressed his fingers to his temple. Get out of my head, he willed the memory of Bitter Springs, closing his eyes. He was fully awake now, and he bristled; his instincts were telling him something was horrendously wrong. With eyes that could adjust to the blackness quicker than most, the sniper stood, scanning the room and immediately realizing that the Courier's bed was empty, a jumble of orange and black shadows. A jolt of fear went through him-where could she have gone? He pivoted to the left, realizing the motel room door was slightly ajar.

"Shit," Boone said, his eyes widening. He eyed the lock. It did not look forced. Was she simply paying a late night visit to the Garrets or some other family? It was too late for that, he surmised, looking at the moon's position from the open doorway. So then where? Boone bolted out the door, taking the rusted metal stairs three at a time. The scream sounded again, a faint cry on the desert wind, and he dashed east, bypassing the goofy dinosaur which now, since his absence, sat empty. Why would the courier leave his side? What part of her leaving Boone in Novac made sense? Had she in fact been taken?

Though not his strongest sense, Boone's hearing was more than competent, and the cries emanated from an area to the northeast of the dinosaur, probably a hundred yards away. From sitting up in the nest so many nights, he had this territory memorized like the back of his hand, every hill and burrow and ridge engraved in his mind, every coyote den and gecko nest permanently mapped in his mind. The area where the screams issued from sounded near a sunken-in toxic waste dump. Some nuclear waste truck had tipped in the area during the bombs, and now the dirt was permanently a greenish bog, ruined by radiation, a few rusted barrels and the truck's shell the only remnants from the past. Boone was a sprinter, not a distance runner, but it took him no time to cover the expanse of rocky ground, even in the darkness.

A hill separated the sniper from the acidic mudhole, and now he crested that hill, skidding to a stop at the low peak. There she was, up to her ankles in irradiated sludge, a Cazador fluttering around her face madly. Boone realized that the Courier was unarmed. She threw her hands up in front of her face, the mutated wasp opting to sting her in the chest. Two things happened directly afterward. The Courier stumbled backwards into the sludge pile, and Boone's hastily aimed bullet tore through the Cazador's thorax, killing it instantly . He cleared the hill in a jump; where most would have toppled over headfirst into radioactive mud, Boone landed on his feet and skidded to a stop at the bottom of the muck, finally reaching her side and dropping to one knee.

He called her name there in the moonlight, turning her over to the side. She was unconscious. A red, angry scratch on her cheek told Boone that the Cazador had stung more than once. No, this couldn't be happening. Left untreated, the venom was deadly. She had been stung multiple times. He madly wondered, why had she left the safety of the motel room? Normally tall, strong, acclimated, she now looked weak, sick, and pathetic lying on her back. Boone pressed two fingers to her pale neck. A pulse, but slow. Not regular. Not good. Gingerly, he stooped and cupped the Courier's neck with the back of his hand. She stirred, barely, and Boone's heart skipped a beat when she murmured. She was still breathing. For now.

Boone scooped the girl up into his arms, the same as he'd done with Rex the day before. The girl was limp, unmoving, her chest rising and falling erratically with short breaths. Boone stood, backing out of the slimy mud, and took off at a run back towards Novac.

"Well?" He was not a patient man by nature, and it was showing. Boone rounded on the female doctor with a ferocity most reserved for mortal enemies. Ada, however, was a hard-stomached doctor, and brushed off Boone's impatience. "She's got a lot of poison to work out of her system, that's for sure." The doctor shrugged. "She got stung four times. Twice in the chest, once in the arm, and once was in the face." She paused and grinned, her lack of bedside manner showing. "I can only imagine how good that must've felt."

"Is she awake?"

"Barely. Don't go rushing in there, Knight in Shining Armor," Ada snapped, reverting to a withering, motherly tone. "She needs to rest, and she's coming down off the fever pretty rapidly."

"She say what the hell she was doing out there?"

Ada's dark eyes slid to the left as though contemplating an answer, and she suddenly took Boone by the arm, leading him away from her group of mercenaries standing nearby. When the pair had moved out of earshot, Ada dipped her head toward the sniper, who stared intently at her. "Just between you and me? I'm going to be blunt with you. The woman had a bullet in her head less than a month ago, got buried alive for a night, and she's a walking time bomb, a total anomaly. She's got a serious case of retrograde amnesia and god knows what other mental illnesses. She was sleepwalking. I assume you've not noticed it before?"

"No..." The Courier was a fitful sleeper. He had heard her speak. And mutter. And cry. And laugh. He struggled with the words the doctor had said. Anomaly? Retrograde amnesia?

"I'm not a head doctor, and so I'm not the person to talk to you about this. But she's a victim of severe trauma, and without an Auto-Doc out here I can't tell you how messed up her actual brain structure is, but we'll safely say it's pretty messed up. Sleepwalking isn't uncommon with mentally unstable people, especially for ones who have spent a lot of time in a vault. Anything's possible since we don't know where she came from, and that just makes her more dangerous, to herself.." she paused, before nodding curtly, "And others as well. You'd better keep an eye on her, this could happen again. And you might not be lucky enough to find her next time."

"Thank you for your help," Boone said, preparing to withdraw caps from his uniform's pocket. Ada waved his arm away.

"You kept this town safe even after what happened to your wife, consider us square. Besides," she nodded toward the tent, "she's someone I don't mind keeping alive. Just be aware. Time bomb." As though it were an afterthought, Ada cocked her head and said cheerily, "Also, the venom is going to make her nauseated for another few days, so take it slow. I pumped her full of antivenom, but didn't have enough time to prevent the blindness."

"The WHAT?"

"Relax, champ. It's temporary. Happens with most Cazador stings, usually for a minute or two. As much venom went in that kid, may be a day or two at most. She said she's able to see light and shades, everything is just a big blur. On top of that, due to an increased heart rate and the effects of the antivenom, expect her to be a little on edge. Not like someone who got shot in the face is ever NOT going to be a little on edge, but there you go."

"Can I at least take her back to our room?"

"Boy, you don't waste any time, do you?" Ada said with a very unladylike snort. Boone frowned, wilting any flowers that had thought of springing up nearby.

"Her room is a much better place for her to sleep than on a filthy mat outside," Boone said through his teeth.

Ada shrugged. "She's your gal." Turning back to the tent, Ada opened the flap, motioning to the Courier. "Your hero has arrived. Can you walk?"

There was a stirring from inside, and a mumbled "yes", before Ada ducked inside the tent to help the other woman up. Nervously, Boone stood outside. Temporary blindness...well, that would set the brain retrieval back a day or two. Ada exited, leading the Courier by the arm. Blood-soaked gauze was wound around her torso in a sleeveless bandage, extending from her collarbone and ending just before her naval. Her left arm was in a sling, tied against her chest. Her right arm was extended and bare, held at the elbow and the wrist by Ada.
"Here he is, our hero of the day," the doctor quipped, and Boone stepped forward.

"Come on."

Ada winked at him, then turned away from the couple.

Boone could now stare at his companion without fear that she would look back. It made him feel awkward that she was barely dressed from the waist up, but the unnerving part of seeing her so helpless, so unlike herself, was her face. Thanks to blindness, the blond didn't move her eyes or head at all, instead walking with her chin pointing upward, her eyes wide and fixated on blank space, as though at any minute she was going to see something wondrous.

Boone slowly walked her back to the motel, where she rather vehemently argued that she wasn't tired at all. Watching her barely make her way around the room, hitting her shin and ankle and toe on every piece of furniture, would have normally pleased the sniper as nothing else could, but under the circumstances he simply felt stressed. He removed the beret for a moment to slide a hand through his ultra-short hair and down over his face as she dumped a bag of belongings onto the floor. After several minutes of digging through the pile of clothes one-handed, the Courier gave up.

"Dammit. I don't want to be cooped up here anymore. It's making me crazy. Manny told me earlier that I could wake him up if I wanted to come chat." At the awkward silence, she finished, "He said to come up after you fell asleep." Not being able to see Boone's glare, the girl explained anyway while blindly picking up strewn clothes and stuffing them back into her bag, "He knew you wouldn't want to see him. But he was on duty and couldn't spend time with me up there." She kicked the bag away, her eyes still focused on dead space.

"You're telling me you want to go visit Manny, at one in the morning, without a shirt, while being blinded?"

"I'm an opportunist, unlike you," she sounded firm now.

Manny's room, directly under theirs, was one place Boone had avoided all day. Month. Year. Whatever. Wrestling with himself for a moment, he finally spat, "Well, if you go down there, I'm not coming with you."

"I think I can manage a flight of stairs. There's a rail and everything."

"Fine. Have fun."

"Oh, I will. Manny's a riot, you should see him dance."

Visibly annoyed at Boone's stubbornness, the Courier half stormed, half-bumped-into-things out of the room. She fumbled for a moment to find the door handle. After her palm hit the wood unsuccessfully a few times, Boone supplied, "Lower."

"I can find it," she hissed, closing her fingers over the old doorknob. The subsequent door-slam was very effective, and Boone sat down forcefully on the sofa, listening to her footfalls resonating as she stomped down the metal rungs. The walls were thin, and as he sat stony-eyed in the darkness, Boone heard the door open underneath him, and Manny's laugh as he greeted the girl. Her voice changed immediately, the tone entirely different than it had been a moment ago in the room with Boone.

As they chatted, their voices rising upward to Boone and he waited for the anger to consume him, he suddenly got very sad. Suddenly the Courier seemed right. This room was suffocating. The laughing voice of Manny and his accompanying radio, now turned up so loudly that old jazz filtered up through the floorboards, didn't help. Boone stood, almost stomping out of the room, slamming the door just as the Courier had done, and descended the stairs. He had no intention of joining the pair. Or going anywhere else in the town he hated so much. Instead, he headed for the one secluded place where he'd always had plenty of time to think before: Dinky.

Hours later and Boone still stood, looking out on the wasteland view that he'd seen every night for so long. Coming back to Novac reminded him how glad he was to be rid of it. How his burden had lifted, at least momentarily, when the golden-haired stranger swept him up and carried him away. How he and the Courier both felt that there was something more to life while they networked their way to Vegas, shared plans of helping the NCR, discussed their intent to help defend Hoover Dam when the time came. How just yesterday, he had actually played in the snow with her (and the lunatic Nightkin.)

He did not second thought his decision to stand beside her as a partner, but Boone was far from open. He could tell that there was a rift between the two, especially tonight. She could be headstrong while blind, could apparently party into the night with Manny without a proper shirt. He could not deny that they were polar opposites. She seemed a catalyst, he decided as he mulled in the dinosaur. Yes, she was the agent of change. He was something else. What was his role? Boone sat in silence until his anger faded, and then the music drifting up from the motel room faded, and then the bright moon faded. The decision to go with her had only come from a place of disgust, a wish to be away from the town where he lost Carla and their baby. It was not a noble choice, and he regretted that there was not more passion for righteousness, or thirst for adventure, or some other heroic and flamboyant motive behind his decision.

But there was nothing to do about it; they were simply traveling together. He couldn't wait to get that dog a brain and get out of Novac. Boone sighed, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet Mojave night, reverberating off the inside of the fiberglass dinosaur mouth. _

It had been the right thing to do, the Courier mused-getting Rex a new brain, and bringing him back to the King. The benevolent de facto leader of Freeside was beside himself with joy at having his old friend back, and whatever thoughts the denizens of Freeside had of the blond and her NCR companion, they second-thoughted upon sight of Rex. The King's reputation apparently extended to his dog, so they passed through the rough area unscathed.

The Courier had business in Vegas, of course, but she felt self conscious once she noticed that most of the gossips and messengers seemed to know more of her business than she did. The Mojave Wasteland was broad, but largely empty, and rumors echoed around the canyons like little pebbles being thrown. Such a girl as she, with a strange mental prowess and no shortage of physical stamina, being shot in the head, buried, and then dug up and returned to life...well, that was one big pebble and it had bounced all the way to Vegas, ahead of her.

Thanks to what Doc Mitchell compassionately dubbed 'extreme trauma to the medial temporal lobe' she had acquired retrograde amnesia, or what Trudy had referred to as a 'scrambled egg.' The girl had no memory of before that night in the cemetery, and the rest of her cognitive functions, though intact, were affected in every way by not knowing who she really was. The girl waited, while moving from settlement to settlement on this road to Vegas, for someone to exclaim with surprise at seeing her, recognizing her. She judged passing caravan member's reactions to see if there was a hint of familiarity, but so far no one had perked up on sight or spoken out.

According to the doctor, her memory likely wouldn't return all at once. "Triggers", he had said, might jar a certain recollection until she built enough to return to her old life, and thus be restored, but other than her rather depressing epiphany while on the cold road to Jacobstown, it was a lot of blanks. She knew her name, and she knew she had been hired as a courier-at least according to Johnson Nash, who could tell her nothing else about the supposed delivery she was carrying. The girl, the doctor, and Sunny Smiles had pieced together that the man in the checkered suit-Benny, thanks to Manny-had wanted the chip she was delivering. It all sounded so strange to the slightly addled girl, and none of it made sense. So, Vegas it was, because if anyone could give her some clarity on the situation, she was hoping it was Benny.

Since the gossip of the "risen from the dead courier" carried miles, and was particularly ripe inside the city of New Vegas, the pair got every reaction from gasps of horror, to people shaking the girl's hand or wanting an old-fashioned photo. Boone tolerated it well, as far as Boone tolerating things went, which wasn't far. Benny was also included in the rumors, with various colorful locals encouraging the girl to seek him out, or calling him "a sleaze, anyway." They were itching for another exciting chapter of the tale, or whatever version of it they had been told.

The girl thought otherwise. Her scant memory did allow a recollection of that night in the cemetery. The most vivid moment was Benny telling the courier to look at him. An odd request. She had shot a fair number of geckos and ghouls in the weeks since the bullet in the skull, and had yet to encounter an enemy she wanted to make eye contact with. What was she to this guy, that he wanted that conviction? Or was he just insane?

She had opted to leave Boone out of these private musings. After the pair geared up and left Novac, she had offhandedly asked Boone if the name Benny meant anything to him. A snide, clipped "no" was his answer, so she had left it at that. At the moment, the pair had just stepped into an elevator inside the Lucky 38 casino..an elevator that likely had not seen service in over two hundred years. Victor, the Securitron, bobbed excitedly on his lone wheel as he pushed the button. Boone, perhaps attempting to seem nonchalant, leaned against the red, carpeted elevator wall.

"So just who is this Benny? He sounds like a real piece of work." Boone's voice had less hostility in it than normal, something that was happening slightly more frequently. The girl did not want to ruin his meager attempt at friendliness by bringing up her own attempted murder, so she stuttered for something to say. Boone was nothing if not detail oriented, and he squinted as she faltered. She barely had time to humorously think to herself that there was nothing quite like riding an elevator with a sniper glaring at you in the darkness, to force you to spit something out. Finally she produced a reply. "I... Benny helped me get famous."

"I figured." His tone was beyond dry, it was withering and almost venomous. "I heard those gang members say he shot you. So if he's the one...What'd he do exactly, what's your beef?" Boone's shrewd look and tone were back full force. The friendliness was gone. The girl chewed her lip, feeling that she owed it to her companion to tell him the story...well, what bits and pieces she remembered, anyway. The other side didn't want to bring it up. It was a weakness in the wasteland to share anything and particularly that one didn't know anything. This reasoning was validated by Boone's entire existence being something he never wanted brought up. Other than the girl's recent stint as a small time thug celebrity, she had no biography. And though she could not master an abrasive tone as well as her sniper companion, she said in a clipped tone, "Don't worry about it."

"Fine," he replied bitterly, and the doors of the elevator opened on the grand but darkened Presidential suite, the special room given to the courier by the mysterious Mr. House, head tenant of the casino since the Great War. The girl assumed he would call for her soon, and she was eager for the meeting, but at the moment a nice change of clothes and removal of a few dirt layers sounded better.

In fact, she found herself so suddenly agitated with Boone's faux-concern that she tossed her knapsack at a wall, shattering a vase on a table. Unfazed by this, the soldier passed the girl, walking down the red-carpeted hallway toward the guest bedroom. She glared at the back of his head and angrily slammed my machete into the smooth wood of the end table. The noise finally caught his attention and the tall man pivoted, his face twisted into a murderous smolder.

"What's your problem?" he snapped.

With an equally murderous expression, and without a word, she stormed into the master bedroom, pulling open one of the wardrobes and fishing through the outdated, pre-War clothes. Boone, unsatisfied with a lack of an answer, turned toward the suite and opened his mouth to speak. The girl, with a fistful of clothes and shoes in her hand, paraded back toward the open door and slammed it in his face before he could continue.

The door swung open, finally, and Boone rose sharply from the hallway couch. He was going to open his mouth and had at least ten different things planned to say, but his voice stuck when he saw the Courier. Her blond hair was down, her face was fresher (although the glare on it hadn't changed) and instead of the pink hoodie and sweats, she donned a true New Vegas style black dress with black heels. Without speaking, she marched across the hallway and pulled the machete from its resting place on the table. It was stuck, and she jiggled it comically, the enraged expression growing in tenacity.

"Just...and...where do you think you're going?" Boone sputtered.

"My guess would be a casino, since we're in Vegas," she snarled. Taking the machete back into the bedroom, she locked it in a weapon chest. When she re-emerged in the hall, Boone still stood there. Though they were furious with each other, he didn't think that venturing into the casinos at night was a good idea no matter how vicious her looks might have been. He may have wanted to throw her out the window, but Boone was ever the protective sniper and considered her his partner. As he opened his mouth in another attempt, the elevator doors slid open in the hallway behind the pair.

"Victor!" The courier said a bit snappily, turning from Boone to glare at the robot.

"Well pardner, didn't mean to interrupt!" His twangy voice made Boone twitch, eyes, and both humans now faced the hunk of metal with an irritated look. "The bossman upstairs is wonderin' why you haven't dropped in yet! I think he really nee-"

"Of course, I'll pay him a visit first thing in the morning. I'm sure Mr. House is busy sleeping at this time of night."

It was 9pm. Boone's eyebrows raised momentarily at the Courier's sarcasm.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," she said, sidestepping Boone and Victor in one move, "I am going to go blow some caps."

"You-"

"Don't wait up," she hissed, disappearing into the elevator, leaving Boone alone with the awkward robot.

Through the sea of well-dressed gamblers, she saw the familiar checkered jacket, and her heart skipped a beat. After all this searching and wandering, there he was. Benny. His back to her, sitting nonchalantly at a bar, sipping on a mixed drink without a care in the world. The tall blond slid past the other coats and dresses, green eyes locked on him. A dim memory of a hill on the outskirts of Vegas, Benny illuminated by campfire, entered her brain. It was one of those half-memories gifted to her sometimes, sparred by seeing the man now. She could smell the campfire smoke. Hear the ringing gunshot. Taste dirt.

He had turned, following the gaze of another male bar attende. Now, he saw the girl. Making no effort to mask his surprise, Benny's jaw dropped. The courier had been traveling with Boone so long that she was genuinely almost surprised at such a bold display of emotion on a male face. She blinked and he stared. Finally she straightened her shoulders, remembering who he was again, and stepped up to him. Benny slipped off his stool onto his shined black shoes, and promptly backed away. "What. In the Goddamn."

Bargoers were staring. Had some of them heard the rumors? It was a tightly packed casino. Who was here to watch the brawl? The blond's eyes flickered along the faces as she thought quickly, and finally turned toward the man openly.

"Benny, you old dog," the girl responded, extending her hand. A few of the gamblers looked away, uncomfortable with their own voyeurism. She was faking the widest and most dazzling smile she could muster as again her eyes darted around-the Chairmen nearby looked nonplussed, rifles flung forward on their hips and tense postures as they stared. Benny was still gaping, and so with a glare, the girl again offered her hand. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

Flabbergasted, seeming a little charmed, Benny shook her hand. Awkwardly, he piped, "Heya...baby, we're keepin' this in the groove, yeah?" he looked upset, and a bit too nervous, so her now pointed stare told him to tone down his stupidity. Glancing at a Chairman, Benny put his hands on her shoulders and steered me aside. People at the card tables were still watching, and as he rubbed the girl's bare arms, Benny quipped loudly and for show, "I ain't seen you in...awhile, toots. You're lookin' fresher than a barrel of roses, you are."

"You're not looking so bad yourself." Dammit. Instead of detracting attention as she'd hoped, Benny's possible new score was drawing even more eyes. Wasn't he a player who continually ran women up to his suite? That had certainly been the consensus, and now in person, he sure seemed the type. This should have been a normal night as far as the casino goers were concerned. The staring seemed to bore holes in the girl, and she could feel her heartbeat quicken. Moving now from intuition alone, she hooked a finger and pulled his tie with it, drawing him closer. "Come closer, let me get a good look at you."

"Baby, baby!" Benny's eyes were huge, but he didn't object. The man jerked forward, until their faces were mere inches apart. Speaking much lower, so that the spectators could hear nothing more than a mutter, he grinned and said in a wavering voice, "You uh...you got anything on under that black dress, sugar?" His eyes cascaded downward and did not return. "It's so tight I don't see how ya could, but I ain't no fan of gettin' blasted in my own casino."

"Then I suggest we go somewhere more private." Benny had intense eyes, even though they were focused on cleavage, and even though he looked frightened as a cornered sewer rat. The courier reminded herself to stay on task. She had to get answers from Benny, and preferably drag him somewhere quiet to get her own petty revenge. The Chairmen were still staring, bemused.

His hands were still on the girl's shoulders, and Benny twisted at the torso, looking at the audience of gamblers and dancers and bodyguards. Throwing a half-smile at the crowd, then winking, he smoothly turned and stepped backwards, pulling the girl with him. It was almost as graceful as a dance, him leading her to the elevator. One arm moved across the girl's back to my opposite arm, pulling her close. The other hand trailed down to cover her wrist, holding it in a faux-tender way, but likely there for his own security. Benny no doubt expected the blond to pull a gun on him momentarily. And the thought was not far from her mind.

"Did that shot scramble your egg, sister, or are you serious right now? You always been a crazy broad?"

The man was insanely close. The courier had a hard time thinking straight. Admittedly, she had allowed Swank, the Chairman at the entrance, to buy her a drink or two before she entered the main casino floor, because the thought of facing Benny stone cold sober had been terrifying. But alcohol was only part of it-miles of traveling alone...then miles spent with someone who had a personal bubble of twelve feet, did not prepare her for this social situation. A natural blush rose in her cheeks, and she finally turned away from the gaudy wallpaper to look at Benny. His eyebrows were raised expectantly, and more of her intuitive charm came forward in a raised tone, "Girls like bad boys, Benny. You've been awful. Call me crazy." Whatever spectators cared about the couple before turned back to their drinks, likely disappointed at the uninteresting, typical Vegas pickup.

"You are crazy," Benny countered, his eyes widening even further. He pulled her closer, hitting the elevator button with his fist. The elevator dinged, and a nearby door slid open. With one final glance to the chairmen, his only body guards, and the curious onlookers, Benny led the blond into the elevator. When it closed, he pulled away, keeping his hands on her waist, and exhaled. "Fucking crazy. Seriously? I don't even know what to call you, baby. This is not happening right now."

"It doesn't have to," she replied, stepping closer. "But I think we both want it to." She should have felt relief that they were alone, away from any prying eyes, including the many eyes of his henchmen. But she felt it was best to keep up the act, at least for now. The girl did not have a plan, but things were working in her favor.

Benny tossed his head back and laughed, and it was a real laugh. Not a fake, nervous one like the ones he'd used downstairs. His brown eyes gleamed. "How can this be? This ain't forgiveness, pussycat. This is somethin' else." He was actually genuinely smiling too, though his smile was so lopsided the girl didn't need to smell the whiskey to know he was far more inebriated than she was.

"All kindsa wrong, all kinds, but so be it. I ain't about to turn you down when you're lookin' this good. And you got a lotta guts, admirable lady quality. We can catch up on what happened later. Right now it's about bedding time, whaddya think?"

"I think…" Who was she? The coy femme fatale voice that emanated from her was frightening. "...that sounds fabulous."

Benny stared down at, a quizzical look on his face, as though he were doing some quick thinking. Then, as though he'd practiced a thousand times and watched a thousand romantic movies, he leaned forward and kissed her. This made her heart stop, but for all the wrong reasons, and finally he pulled back, the biggest childish grin ever plastered on his face. "Ring a ding ding, baby!" he said triumphantly.

The elevator dinged, as if in sarcastic answer. Stupefied at herself and this character, the Courier said nothing. Benny pointed out the door. "That's our signal, dollface. To the bedroom, baby!"

There probably wasn't a more cliche image in all of Vegas history; late at night, a tall svelte woman in a curve-hugging dress ran in heels back to the door of her apartment: hair disheveled, makeup smeared, pale cheeks flushed. No one would have assumed this damsel in emotional distress was the tough, celebrity courier who had waltzed into the tomb of the Lucky 38 earlier that day. Still, she caught a few puzzled looks from strangers, as she streaked across the pavement and then up the glowing, flashy steps to the casino. Victor was outside, and barely got a "Well hidey-" before she threw open the door and crossed the casino main floor to the elevator.

The elevator ride provided solace, because after hours at the Tops, she was finally alone, and alive. The girl was still crying silently, her forehead against the elevator wall. It wasn't so much what happened at the Tops, it was what didn't happen, that upset her so much. Benny had asked the girl to hold him while he slept-another strange request, coming from an attempted murderer. Even stranger, he hadn't tried to assassinate her, he just threw himself over the girl, head nestled in her chest, and snored peacefully. Before he passed out, his last drunken words were, "Real sorry about Goodsprings, kid."

END OF EDITING

After he was out like a light, she had shimmied out of bed, gotten dressed, and snooped in his apartment. Benny spared all security in his private room; notes, letters, and a really strange Securitron in the back closet told her all she needed to know about Benny. Plans to take over the strip. Kill Mr. House, the mysterious overseer of the city. She learned of Benny's own struggles and triumphs. The Platinum Chip. It seemed neither of them were certain what it was, but Benny believed it was the key to New Vegas. Apparently the too-helpful Securitron, Yes Man, knew that as well.

After learning she had been a footnote in a larger scheme, she had closed the door to Yes Man's back room, head spinning with the treasure trove of new information, and stalked rather stiffly through the darkness back to snoring Benny. She should have felt more anger over how little Benny considered her life, should have felt greater pride at having uncovered the amount of intelligence she now carried. Perhaps she should have been more frightened, because her hidden pistol had no silencer, and she had no doubt that lurking in the hallways were plenty of Chairmen to get past. But she felt nothing as she stood over the man who almost killed her and withdrew the .38. She held it to Benny's head; he was sleeping, oblivious. Tousled black hair spilled against the silk pillowcase, an easygoing smile across the man's face.

Metal touched Benny's temple. It was a new gun, unfamiliar. Freeside's very own Mick and Ralph's had sold it to her earlier today, for this particular purpose. Why was she pausing? The girl had already, over the course of rising from the dead, uneasily admitted to herself that she enjoyed killing. She had gotten very good at it these past few weeks after being dug up out of the ground as well. But those were ants and scorpions, and this was a rather peaceful, dreamy looking casino owner. Her breathing grew ragged and as she pressed the small gun forward, she realized she didn't know what to do.

Panic set in for the first time all night as she tried to shrewdly reminded herself of the conversation with Yes Man, when with conviction she had argued that he could not succeed with his plan. Vegas was fragile enough without the power play. Thoughts of the next Battle of Hoover Dam, of the Legion's second surge, won her conscience and she had a sudden clarity of thought: He regretted shooting me, but he did it. I'll regret shooting him, but I will do it.

Her index finger smoothly wound around the trigger and tightened.

The girl's eyes widened. Other than a measly "click", the gun did nothing.

It had jammed.

Benny rolled over in his sleep, turning away from her, sighing.

That's when she had fled the Tops.

Finally returning to calm in the strange fortress of the Lucky 38, the girl hiccuped her way out of the elevator, rubbing her eyes. It was nearing 3 in the morning, according to the electric clock on the wall. As she crossed the threshold of the suite, the sight of Boone exiting the kitchen made her jump.

"Win any caps?"

"I...what?" She had not completely ceased crying and now hurriedly mopped at her face with her hand. Boone finally walked out of the shadow of the other room, coffee cup in his hand. He stopped short at the sight of the girl, and gave an up-down look, eyebrow slowly raising. The coffee cup was gingerly placed on an entry table.

"What happened to you?" There was no malice in his voice, just concern. The strangeness of his caring, added to the strangeness of the night, caused the girl to break down again and she began to sob loudly. Victor, standing near the elevator, bobbed awkwardly.

"Are you okay?" his voice was closed, guarded, but sincere. She was done with men for the night, she decided, and nodded amid the tears. Boone picked up the coffee cup skeptically as she unsteadily marched toward the Master bedroom, not looking back at the sniper as she once again closed the door on him.

"Mornin, pardners." Victor was in the hallway when Boone and the Courier exited their rooms, and the tall sniper scowled at the cowboy robot. The Courier held her head and grimaced.

"You feeling better?" Boone said, ignoring the robot and speaking to his companion.

"I..." Her head was pounding, a sharp pang that radiated down to her teeth. Normal, according to Doc Mitchell. But now she peeked through grimaced eyes and saw that the First Recon sniper was in his undershirt and shorts.

Boone's expression quickly turned to annoyance. "Are you okay?" he repeated, a little less kindly. She snapped her eyes shut and grimaced at another wave of pain. Boone was boring a hole through the girl.

"You got a visitor downstairs, pardner," Victor piped up cheerfully as he rolled toward us. "Sent me to come and get ya. Said you needed to come alone."

Benny?! No. How could he know where she was? But it had to be Benny. My heart immediately went back up into flutter territory, where it had lingered moments earlier upon examination of Boone's physique.

"Sounds like a trap to me." Boone stated. I turned toward him, wondering if he'd been reading my thoughts. If so, boy, that was going to be embarrassing.

"Er...what?"

"I said," he repeated impatiently, "it sounds like a trap. Someone wants you to go downstairs alone? I'd better come with you."

"No, it's okay. Let me go down. If I'm not back up in five minutes, you can come down. I think I know who it is, and I have a score to settle with him anyway."

"If that's what you think." Boone's eyes narrowed.

"Thank you," I said quietly, not for waiting, but for his loyalty and want to protect. As I walked toward the elevator I passed him and squeezed his shoulder. He wasn't a man keen on physical contact, (did I mention his 12 feet bubble) but Boone didn't flinch at the reassurance.

Once on the elevator, my thoughts moved back to Benny. I was ready to do this and do it right. Though Boone had just awoken, I'd already been awake, gotten dressed, brushed and tied back my hair, donned the First Recon beret, and tucked every spare weapon I could into every holster and nook my outfit allowed for. Several people knew where I was staying, but had no business with me. Nor would they request I come alone. Benny didn't want to kill me; if he did, he would've done it last night when he had plenty of chances. I was giddy, and confused, but not afraid.

The thick steel elevator doors opened, and I crossed through the empty, spooky casino to the entrance. Outside the door stood...not Benny.

Nipton had taught me who the Legion was and what they would do. Yet it was only one lone Legionaire who hid in the shadows under the sanctuary of my casino's overhang. I wanted Boone, immediately. Freezing on the spot, my expression ran from expectant to hostile. The Legionaire didn't seem to notice or care.

"What do you want," I said in a closed, hesitant voice. The man smiled cruelly.

Boone liked to be alone, and he damn sure would've preferred it to standing here with this fucking idiot machine. The only alternative he found acceptable was the Courier; not clingy, not whiny, and a formidable companion, he preferred her company. Three minutes. Boone toyed with the idea of asking retard machine who was outside waiting to talk to his sole companion, but he figured it was best to stay out of it. For another two minutes.

He paced, and the elevator doors suddenly wooshed open. Spinning on his heel, Boone stepped toward the girl. Something was wrong; her usually amiable expression was gone. Her face was instead blank, her complexion slate. She held something in her hand, palm up, as though it'd been frozen that way.

"What?" Boone asked, and looked at her extended hand. Something, some sort of medallion, was nestled in her palm. He scooped it up. Boone squinted. "What the hell does this say?"

She gulped. "You can't read it?"

"I have sniper's eyes," he responded. This seemed to catch her attention, because she blinked.

"What?"

More defensively than needed, he replied, "I can't see things that are close up."

She didn't respond, although he was already bristled for a comment about his poor close-range vision. Boone turned the medallion over in the warm, low lighting of the suite, and saw the Bull on it.

"My God," he said in a low voice, and then his head snapped back to the courier. "Where did you get this?!"

In a tiny, very non-courier-like voice, she responded, eyes wide.

"They have Benny."

"I'm surprised you're so very interested in my story. At this point, most people would be focused only on regaining the Platinum chip, and the monetary reward. I can understand, as I am a bit of an aficionado for pre-war information myself, but that was because I lived during the time period. Must we tarry over these things, when I've given you very clear instructions?"

Mr. House had a charming voice, just as the ghoul at the Old Mormon Fort had mentioned. Yet his half-condescending tone really irked me. Though he wasn't up-front with it, I knew the man...er, computer? whatever he was, really found himself above me. Just an hour earlier, he'd explained the situation, Benny, everything to me, requesting I go after Benny and get the package I was paid to deliver.

But I couldn't help it. A curious person and someone who was mystified with pre-War memorabilia, and here I was talking to yet another person who had lived through the Great War. I had been bugging Mr. House for the past five minutes, pressing him for information on his past. And to my bewilderment, he humored me, recalling how he staved the warheads away from New Vegas. Or apparently as it had been called in those days, "Las Vegas."

"I guess not," I said sardonically. "But I'd love to hear more, if you ever feel like sharing."

My tone was detached enough that Mr. House saw my disappointment at not hearing more. He seemed to be an entertainer and delight in sharing every bit of information he could (at least, the information that made him out to be a hero, and let's be honest, as far as Vegas went, he really was) so he made a thoughtful "Hmmph" noise, and then the crisp aristocratic voice replied, "I may have one last thing for you before you depart for the Fort, but then you really must get going. The chip needs to be returned. It wouldn't harm though, to show you the footage from the penthouse and what I managed to save from the city's web camera at the time I made my save. If you'd like, of course..."

"I'd love to see it."

"Very well. I'm retrieving the footage now. Of course there was a camera on my loyal securitron, the one you know as Victor, at the time the warheads fell. The city had many cameras, but one was very near the Lucky 38, and though it was badly fried by the nuclear spread, I managed to upload its imagery into my library. You are the only human who has set eyes on this footage, other than myself of course. I warn you...it may be a bit disturbing."

The cocky, half-smile of Mr. House disappeared, his huge screen turning black. My eyes wide, I stepped back, inhaling in the deep silence of the room. Suddenly, the monitor cut back to life, but this was very fuzzy footage. I realized it was the Securitron's camera, recording in this very room. It looked much the same, except for a tall, lean moustached man ran through it, a worried look on his face. Dropping whatever he held in his hand, he rushed over to the main computer. A true technologist, he began frivolously hitting switches, reading logs, hunkered over the system frantically. He spoke, but the main screen was silent except for a few static buzzes.

Mr. House looked up from his work to point to the Securitron. Whether it understood him, or he was just ranting, I'll never know, but following his finger, the recording machine turned to look out the penthouse window, putting Mr. House out of sight. It was then that the Securitron's imagery cut away, and the web camera from New Vegas cut into the picture.

I gasped. I'd never seen anything, ANYTHING like it. The colors had mostly faded to green and black like the main monitor, but a few shades shone out of the screen, subdued from their original magnificent hue. So many tall buildings. Impossibly tall, and lit up with more electricity than Hoover Dam could ever possibly give. They twinkled like stars, pinks and blues and greens and yellows. Down below these structures lights moved back and forth. I couldn't tell what they were, but they looked like a lifestream flowing to and fro. One of the brightly lit buildings I recognized; it was the Lucky 38. My face was glued to this beautiful, surreal picture, when the image cut back to Mr. House's Securitron camera.

It was looking out the window, and the scene was much of the same. Fuzzy, but beautiful. Words will never describe the beauty of that place, so clean and put together. But suddenly, a great arc cut across the brightly lit sky, then another, then another. Not understanding what I was seeing, I took a step back, as the Securitron spun around to Mr. House. His well-gelled hair had fallen around his sweaty face, and he was shouting into the computer system he worked on. His eyes darted upward, seeing what I now realized were nuclear bombs riveting across the faraway sky. Seconds later he was back at work, and suddenly the man was thrown from where he stood. The Securitron itself shook, and Mr. House grabbed at a nearby railing. Still shouting silently, he rushed to the station, securing himself with an iron grip. The Securiton wasn't so lucky; the blast caused it to fall to its side, leaving me with only a view of Mr. House's legs.

Cutting again, the web camera showed me a sky full of explosions. These were the warheads Mr. House destroyed before they could hit the city. I don't know where the other ones were, the ones he disarmed, but I realized that the arcs of light that had twinkled far away in the distance were not shooting stars, as my naivety first led me to believe, but instead were warheads far outside of city limits. And now one had met its mark, probably miles away.

The webcam tremored. Far away in the desert, a huge light rose up, obliterating the happy twinkles of Vegas. Then, as though a great deadly wind blew from the Mojave, I watched the blast hit the edges of the city. It tore the buildings from their steel foundations. Lights went away, roads levelled. A look of frozen horror was on my face as I watched everything that man built, be destroyed by man. I couldn't move. Everything seemed to blow away, the shaky camera appearing frightened. Then it got worse. The tall skyscrapers simply fell, as though their knees had caved in. The once-peaceful lifestream of flowing lights went askew, dimming and moving about in a frenzy. The vibrations from the web camera got even worse, so that I could barely witness the destruction of Las Vegas.

My final image was a cut back to the downed Securitron, where amid the trembling casino penthouse, Mr. House realized he had done all he could and finally fell to his knees, his eyes wide, his jaw dropped as he looked out the window. The screen went black again.

"...That's all of the imagery I was able to save," Mr. House's smooth voice concluded.

I couldn't speak. A lump was in my throat, and I shook my head slowly. Though I didn't want it to, my lip trembled and tears splashed down onto the penthouse floor.

"I believe this concludes our Saturday Afternoon Theatre," Mr. House said sarcastically. "Now, go find Benny."

I nodded, still unable to speak. Like those huge, beautiful buildings of Las Vegas, my heart had come crashing down from my chest cavity, to somewhere around my feet.

"No." Boone looked at me as though I had just slapped him across the face. Then again, maybe I had, figuratively. "You can't be saying this."
"I...I KNOW the Legion-" Nipton was still fresh in my mind. "No, you don't. Anyone with half a brain wouldn't say they were going to go talk to the Legion. Talk to them? They're slavers, barbarians, they're not gonna want to talk to you. Do you know what they do to women?!" We were standing near the entrance to Cottonwood Cove. And I had yet to see Boone this furious at me. "Look, I'm not an idiot, okay?"
"As far as I'm concerned, yeah you are. You have no idea who the Legion even is, who Caesar really is. You don't even have a clue."
"You call them barbarians, but running into the middle of their headquarters guns blazing is suicide, and I won't stand for it! Not yet, anyway. I want to see the Legion fall as much as you do, Boone-"
"I seriously fucking doubt that." His words were almost hissed.
"Whatever. I was invited to go there. I HAVE to go there, Mr. House ordered me to."
"On the way here, you acted like you didn't even want to fucking deal with the Lucky 38. In fact, you've been acting strange-stranger than usual-all goddamn day. Just what is your problem? And WHO for fuck's sake anyway, is Benny, and what on earth makes you think that TALKING to the Legion is going to get you anywhere?"

I glared at him. He'd asked too much; how was I to convey what I had seen in Mr. House's penthouse? Mr. House himself, Benny, Caesar, everything? I had tried to explain what I could to him, but found myself unable to even tell him Benny's story. Not that Boone was the type you just want to snuggle up to and confide in, but I had misjudged my own ability to talk about what was going on. Instead, I took the route that I hoped would appeal to Boone's tactical sensibilities.

"This is a huge opportunity for us, for NCR," I said desperately. "The man has invited me into his inner workings. Don't you think it's wise for us to scope out the Fort, get an idea of numbers, weapons, men, instead of the two of us blindly rushing in there?"
He seemed to ponder this, but Boone's anger wasn't ebbing anytime soon.
"I'm not going in there with you."
"I didn't expect you to. I'd never ask you to feign friendliness with the Legion."
"Going back to Novac is better than being with you, when you're sounding like this. Betraying me like this."
Now that one stung. Frowning deeply, I countered, "Then maybe you should go back to Novac."
"Maybe I should. It may be more peaceful without you running around in the middle of the night getting yourself almost killed."
"Well, if you go back, you won't have to worry about me, will you?"
"If that's what you want."
"That's what YOU want. YOU said it!"

From behind us, up the rocky road, came footsteps. I spun around, Boone looked over my shoulder. Approaching us was a Legionnaire. My heart stopped; I knew my companion's policy: See red, shoot it dead. The Legionnaire glared at me, then noticed the golden medallion around my neck.

"You must be...it is you. Well...well, in that case. Come, Caesar awaits."

I turned back to Boone, who was staring at the man in red with such an intense hatred, I don't think I've ever seen anything match it. Finally Boone turned his head to glance at me, then inhaled deeply, fuming. With self-control I never knew the man possessed, he turned and walked away from us. I stared after him.

"Is this man with you? Shall I prepare a boat for three?" The Legionnaire asked, treating me so nicely because of the sacred medallion. We both watched Boone walk away.

"No...I'm traveling alone," I said in a subdued voice. As I followed the dutiful man down to the water's edge, and he rowed me away from shore, I watched the little dot that was Boone disappear into the Mojave. I didn't know if I would ever see him again.

I leaned against a wall before I exited Mr. House's underground...whatever the hell that fucking place was. The Legion guard watched me curiously, and hungrily, as I caught my breath. Although not high in radiation levels, the facility had nonetheless left me a little out of it. I didn't plan on going to talk to Caesar and throwing up in his lap. Even though Boone probably would've appreciated the story, it wouldn't have looked very good.

And I'll be honest, I wanted to talk to Caesar more than anyone else here. Not for any loyalty reason; no, I thought he was a barbarian just like the rest of them. Caesar was charismatic though, something we had in common. He was also very learned, I could tell. And although I had no idea what my background was, I felt that education was something important to both of us. He liked me, in his condescending dictator way (which oddly enough reminded me of Mr. House's fondness for me) and as long as I smiled and nodded my head like a good little girl, I had every chance of getting out of here alive, with invaluable information about the Legion.

Regaining my composure, I handed my weapons reluctantly over, keeping the silenced .22 that was strapped to my thigh. Entering the tent again, I didn't even look to my right, because there on his knees, tied by his wrists, knelt Benny. I had no idea what I was going to do about him. My mind was bogged down with so many thoughts, I couldn't even formulate a plan. I wasn't so good at this lone wanderer thing sometimes. But I made my way to Caesar, who looked pleased.

"Beautiful noise, those explosions," he commended me, and I smiled slyly, thankful for my ability to mask my true emotions. Caesar rambled on, telling me what I already expected to hear; I was to get rid of Mr. House. There were plenty of obvious reasons why the dictator would want to bring down the power of New Vegas' "owner", so I did what I had told Boone I would do: played along, pretended to care, falsely promised my allegiance. Boone... while blinded, I had no other sense to help me along other than my touch, and intuition, and through both of these I glimpsed his great pain. So recently I had embraced him in Novac, and now he was gone forever. The Wasteland was a cruel, cruel place, and the image of the peaceful pre-War Vegas had been playing in my head all day. I was jealous of those times, those people. I was out here, fighting my way along, aiming for...I didn't really know, at the moment...and now I was completely and utterly alone, again.

"There are rewards for doing as I command." Jovially, Caesar broke the news to me, "Today, your reward is vengeance. You get to decide how Benny dies. Whether you want the crucifixion, a fair fight in the area, or just a shot in the head back at him, it's your decision." The handsome older man nodded in the direction of the checkered jacket. "Go ahead, I'm sure he's dying to hear the news."

"Thank you, Caesar," I didn't forget, although I felt tongue-tied. What on earth was I going to do now?

"Consider it the first of many bestowments."

Consider me setting fire to your tent one night, I thought as I turned away, heading towards Benny.

I walked up to him, and though he looked tired, dusty, and generally downtrodden, the dark haired male's eyes lit up when he saw me approaching. "It's okay baby, you can go ahead and laugh. I'm at the end of my rope here, but I can appreciate the humor."

I wanted so very badly to sit on my haunches with him, but this would no doubt make the guards suspicious of my intentions. I still had my badass face on, and though the sight of warm-hearted bad boy Benny almost made my knees stop working, I stood. "Not even a smile, eh?" he said in response to my tight glare.

The easygoing voice did make me smile, and he winked. "That's better. Ain't a dame in the Mojave can smile like that. I ain't just sayin' that cause I'm tied up and you're loomin' either babydoll. So, tell me tell me. What'd you find down there?"

I thought of the Securitrons, their silent army. Even now, so close to death, I could see the gleam of greed in Benny's eyes. Quietly, I responded, "Nothing of any importance." The guards, leaning on my every word, heard me lie, "I blew it all up."

"What! Why'd you do that!? You coulda had Vegas...and you got rid of it?" Pained by such a bad business move, Benny shook his head. The guards were still listening.

"Caesar says I get to decide how you die." I said as coldly as I could manage. And as I was still searching for what in blue fuck blazes to do next, it hit me, like lightning. Oh but no...not that...there had to be another way...

"I...see." Benny's crestfallen response, paired with the way his eyes dimmed, almost made me falter. "And how's that gonna happen?" He accepted death. Not bravely, like some airheaded heroic gesture, but Benny defined "fair is fair." I felt horrible for what I was about to do, but after quickly analyzing my almost burnt-out brain for other options, I knew there weren't any.

"Make it nice and clean, will ya?" He was eyeing my holster, no doubt wondering where my 10mm was. "That's all you gotta do for me baby, just like I did you."

My heart hadn't risen from my feet, where it landed in Mr. House's penthouse earlier. Seeing Boone leave me only made it worse. And now it plummeted six feet under as I spoke.

"Guards. Crucify him."

"What?!" Benny couldn't believe his ears, either. "What, no, not that! You bitch! You-" the guards weren't gentle as they hauled Benny to his feet. As he moved past me, he snapped his head around. "You're a sick fuck! How could you do this to me?!" As he yelled maniacally, the guards yelled at him, grunting at each other, and above it all, I heard the cold chuckles of Caesar somewhere to my left.

I turned in my sleep, clutching the scratchy fabric of Boone's shirt. He was laying beside me, in the master bedroom of the Lucky 38's suite. I smiled, eyes still closed, hearing the crackling of the fire, when a distant howl caused me to open my eyes. Lifting my head off the makeshift bed, I realized I wasn't clutching Boone at all; I had been holding onto my own bag, used as a sad half-pillow. Nor was I in my suite, but huddled up against a teensy campfire under a sheltering rock. Confused, I sat up more, remembering everything that had happened today.

Boone was gone. Benny had been crucified. I had left the Fort hours ago and came here to camp, eaten a pathetic dinner, and settled down to a miserable sleep. The howl I had heard was probably one of the Legion mongrels. I wasn't far from the Fort; in fact, if I looked over the ledge I slept on, it was visible as a huge red smear in the moonlight. Checking my pip-boy, I realized it was just after 2 in the morning. I knew what I had to do now, and I had camped here purposefully to carry out my plan.

I wasn't running late, but I had to get a move on if I wanted to make it to the Fort soon. The guards would be mid-shift and not at their peak of attention. The moon was shielded behind wispy clouds; the air was crisp. Just like a typical night in the Mojave, if I expected to do this and do it right, I would have to make every move a careful one.

And so I did: dressing in Legion gear for good measure, I simply left my belongings and snuffed out the campfire with sand. Alone, I made my way down the steep precipice and, hindered by the heavy, bulky armour, scaled the wall of the fort where I had seen a large gap between guards earlier.

My feet hit the dirt more loudly than I would have liked. For the first time in ages, I wasn't wearing Boone's beret (having tucked it into my breast pocket) and my loose hair fell into my face when I landed, crouched, behind a Legion tent. Several guards milled around, but I looked for one in particular, the Decanus. These were, at least I think, higher ranked Legionaries, and wore large feathery masks that all but hid their faces. I had only seen two milling around the camp earlier, and now I ducked behind a tent as one approached. Whether or not he was one I'd seen at my visit from today, I didn't know or care. When he walked by me, I stuck the silenced .22 in his neck, the small but effective bullet severing his spine.

The man fell, and I only stayed long enough to retrieve his mask and drag his unfortunate body into the shadows near the fort. Then I stood, adjusting the crimson face mask over my mouth, cringing at its smell. The feathered headdress hid my blond locks, and I holstered the gun, giving myself the once-over. I looked passable. The only part that concerned me was...well...

I looked down at my chest. No amount of bulky armor could hide the fact that I wasn't a man. Not fitting for a woman's shape, I just looked even more clunky and awkward. But there was nothing for it, and it WAS 3 in the morning. Likely enough, blending in as well as I did, no one would spare a look at my chest. At least, that's what I hoped.

The Fort was even more dead than I had wished for all day, several lazy guards milling around the drawbridge, others obviously dozing off. I wondered how Caesar would react to this horrible military display, but then again, I wondered how many of his men were forced to fight for the Legion against his will. Most of the guards spent their time looking to the water anyway, where they expected attacks to rise from. No matter what Boone might think, coming here had been beneficial to me already.

Not even slaves plodded the steep hills where the crucified stood watch. And there in the dim light I saw him; on a cross, head down, Benny.

For possibly the ten thousandth time, I scoped the area around the crosses. Nobody seemed to care enough to guard the dead and near-dead. No one was even in sight, save for the two guards at the bottom of the fort near the drawbridge entrance. I had to do this, I reminded myself. I couldn't just half-plan something and not follow through. Still, it's pretty fucking intimidating.

Regardless, I stood tall and strong, balling my hands into fists, the Stealth Boy strapped to my belt, hidden below the folds of the gaudy uniform. In the worst-case scenario, I would have to use it. Walking as nonchalantly as I could, I crossed the dusty yard where the stench of decaying bodies seemed to keep even slaves away. The crucifixion hill loomed before me, where Benny was the only one hanging who looked remotely alive anymore. Ten feet off the ground, I saw pegs that had been hammered into the sides of the cross, perhaps to help hold it up, as several ropes were taut on these steel nails.

Benny's head was down, his face in darkness. I could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, though, and it gave me hope. Glancing at a leering skeleton, who watched me from another cross, I tightened the fingerless gloves I wore and stepped up to Benny's cross. Thankfully, due to the hill leering above us, we were in shadow. If anyone saw me now, they'd have to have a light, or else come walking across the yard. Benny raised his head at the noise. Before he could open his mouth, I pressed one finger to the red face mask, shaking my head. Then I grabbed onto a peg, pulling myself up.

"What...the..." Benny whispered, as I scaled the wood. It wasn't a very easy task, climbing a cross, and floundering over Benny made it even harder. Finally he moved his feet what little he could, and I balanced myself one-footed on the platform, my arms draping over the T where Benny's arms were extended. We were pressed against each other, me holding onto the cross for dear life, and Benny looking at me, completely horrified.

I chanced moving one hand and brought it up to the face mask, pulling it down. Benny's eyes moved to my mouth; with glasses covering my face and the feathered headdress on my head, my lips were the only thing recognizable to him. His face immediately lightened, then darkened. "It's...it's you! But..."

Not bothering to pull back up the mask, I replied, "I'm so sorry about this." My eyes, hidden behind shades, turned to his bloody wrists, where thick rope chafed his skin. "I didn't have any other choice. I couldn't have broken you out of there...not with no weapons, no backup. We both would've been toast..."

Toast? Toast? Who was I, Benny?

"So...now you're back to what, cut me down?" He sounded incredulous.

"Yes."

Benny stared at my lips for another minute, his gaze trailing upwards to my hidden eyes. "You fuckin' with me?"

"No. But, Benny..."

This was the part I wasn't sure how to word. You'd think I was Boone, the way I hesitated to talk. However, my audience was sandwiched between a wooden cross and me, as I held on like a monkey to a tree. There was nothing else to do but say it.

"If I get you down, you can't go back to Vegas."

Ever the businessman, Benny guessed, "You gonna' take over my empire now? You fix up whatever was in the basement?"

"The Securitrons have been upgraded. Mr. House wants you dead. He knew what you were trying to do when you ran off with the chip up here. I told him I was going to kill you. But if you show up, you'll be shot dead faster than-"

"Hey, hey, I got it. I guess I didn't get far enough to take old House outta the picture. That plan's a dead one now, down the toilet. No problemo, Benny'll start up fresh. Just happy to be alive, at the moment."

I paused, hanging in the night sky with Benny close to me.

"Promise me you won't try to go back."

"No way no how babydoll. And might I say. I ain't never seen such a soul on any person in the desert. Warms your heart, yanno? You're golden, mama."

I didn't really have a response to that. I withdrew my knife. "I'm going to cut you down, and then we-"

"I know a way outta here. It's only good for one of us, you dig? You can go your way, I'll go mine. No need to get everybody's panties in a wad. Fink our way out, that's for sure, but ehhh." He shrugged. "Alive's alive. It's somethin'."

"Okay. Okay, that sounds great. And I have this," I said, patting my waist. Benny tilted his head.

"Is that a Stealth boy?"

"It is. For you. I've already got my disguise." I pointed at the headdress.

"Golden, baby, golden. Cut the Ben Man down, yeah?"

I sawed through the ropes on Benny's left wrist, noticing the angry bite marks there. Once his arm was free, I opened my mouth to tell him to hold on, because he would likely lose his balance once the other hand was cut. Surprising me though, Benny slowly brought his arm down, sighing at the relief of finally moving it, wiggling his fingers to get the feeling back in them. I glanced over my shoulder at his hand, which was caked with dried blood. Shaking his arm once more, Benny then draped it around my back.

I paused in my sawing of his other hand to stare at him. As though this were the most normal thing in the world, Benny raised his eyebrows, a relieved smile plastered on his boyish face. Moving carefully, not that I needed to as Benny was holding me, I cut the final tie. Now Benny put his other arm behind him, steadying both of us as I lowered my arm and pocketed the knife.

"Alrighty baby, if you can cut my ankles, we're free as flies."

Not feeling very certain but most assuredly looking like a badass, I pushed off of the wooden cross and propelled backwards, landing on my feet on the slippery slope. I looked up at Benny; he gave me the thumbs up and I withdrew the knife again, this time cutting his ankles. Right now, I was all roses and sunshine inside. This was going to actually, really, completely work. The fact that I had invaded the Legion's camp and (almost) successfully freed a hostage on my own made me pure giddy. Exploding from excitement.

Benny leapt gracefully down, landing on his feet as well, and then turned to me. Maybe I really had been around Boone too long, because I was already fumbling for the Stealth Boy to hand over to my raven-haired murderer. He approached me as I looked down, then grabbed my cheeks, forcing my face up.

"C'mere," was all Benny said, before burying himself into the most passionate kiss I can ever remember. It only lasted a second though, and he pulled away, grinning like a fool. I realized I was, as well. "You did it for me, kiddo. If only every poor bum I shot in the head repaid me the way you did. Hey, I won't forget this."

"Don't make me regret this," I said fretfully, ever female, ever doubtful.

Benny took the StealthBoy from my outstretched hand. Buckling it on his wrist, he said, "You know this doesn't make us even, right?"

"Wh-excuse me?"

"I owe you one, babe. I owe you a bigtime one." Benny activated the Stealth Boy, and the checkered jacket faded into the night.

He stepped past me, and I turned, too eager to get back to the edge of the Fort and climb out of the hell hole. As disappeared Benny disappeared into the night, a yell caught my ear, and I spun around. From above me, two Legionaries pointed. Oh, fuck. What had they seen? Startled, I gazed at them, not being able to decipher their yelled Latin. Shortly thereafter, I didn't need to decipher it. They were calling the troops. Red rushed forward, and gunshots rang out.

I was fucked.

I made a break for it, not even bothering to shoot back. If there was one thing I was inadvertently good at, it was running, and with my rifle back at camp, I was a lot lighter on my feet. Happily I realized I could outrun half the Legion at my pace. They were gathering around me though, and I paused only momentarily to re-route an exit.

One of their large "dummies" used for fighting stood in front of me. One glance told me it was built sturdy, which made sense, because the Legion detested anything containing the word "weak." My momentum carried me toward it, and I jumped, extending one leg, which caught on the dummies arm. I took the opportunity to propel myself even higher, grabbing on with both hands to a cable that held up a rather large Legionnaire tent. The cable bent under my weight, but I didn't pull it down more than a foot. Good. While still having the extra momentum from my jump, I pitched my legs forward, doing a flip on the cable.

It's not easy to spin in a 360 and let go at exactly the right moment, or twist yourself around while being suspended in the air, hoping your feet land on that 4 inch thick cable you were aiming for. Miraculously, though, I did it, and wasted no time continuing my dead run far above the deadly ground where the melee weapons waited to bludgeon me. Several of the guards had guns, but at this time of night, as quickly as I was moving, I was a poor target, and bullets whizzed by my head.

Then I reached the end of the cable; I pitched forward, almost falling; while scrambling for balance in the air I realized the drop was a good thirty feet. Grabbing for anything I could, I found a large Legion flag in my hands. Clutching it for dear life, it did not prevent my fall, but instead I rode the large flag downward. A huge, tall torch leered in front of me; I kicked at it, only intend for it to get out of my path, but it landed at the base of the tent I had just ran across, setting it ablaze.

I dropped off the flag about six feet from the ground, ducking into a roll and turning upright to see chaos all around me. Not only the tent the torch hit was on fire, but the connecting tent had sparked as well. The cable hadn't buckled under my weight, but the flames caused a side of the tent to cave, barring the way from me and the Legion. I booked it, finding the wall to the fort, and grabbing at any barb or bump I could, literally clawing my way upward. It stood at a formidable 40 feet. I had gone about 20 feet when the first bullet hit me.

It was a 9mm round, I would later find out. It soared into the back of my shoulder, tearing its way through and out. I grunted, but managed to hold on. Although my first instinct should've been to let go, the adrenaline pressured me to climb faster. Bullets dinged around my head and legs, and I'm sure I looked like a frenzied demon scaling the wall. Finally I reached the top, pitching over on my stomach, all but falling forward. Despite having the searing pain in my shoulder, I somersaulted before landing on my head, ending up on my feet instead. I fell forward to my knees and screamed in agony, clutching my already-bloody shoulder. Hurriedly, I ripped off the face mask and twisted it, screaming again as I pushed the fabric into the bullet hole, my hand shaking as the wetness spilled out of the wound and onto my hand.

It wasn't much, but it would stave off the bleeding. If I got lucky the wound would even clot over thanks to the cloth's pressure. Putting my right hand up over my left shoulder, holding in the rag, I got to my feet, running awkwardly now. Bullets pinged and ripped through the barrier, and the drawbridge thundered open. I ran without looking behind me, still going at breakneck speed although slowed slightly by my shoulder. I was heading for the riverbank. Only thirty yards later, though, something told me to look back at my pursuers. As I turned, one's head exploded. Several others looked on in horror as an advancing Legate's head was shattered. My head snapped to the mountain above me.

Another shot sizzled through the air, a Decantus this time losing his head. The men came in a rush, but every few seconds, another fell. My jaw was dropped, my shoulders heaving, but I realized I couldn't stop. I fled again.

Bullets continued to catch dirt behind me, and a few of the faster Legionaries were starting to catch up. Worse, they were armed and I wasn't. I wasn't going to be the best at hand-to-hand anyway, seeing as how my left arm was useless, but these men had guns. Up the rocky trail, it seemed no one could catch up to me. Two almost did. As their footfalls grew nearer, both suddenly lost their heads.

I was at the bottom of a mountain, and somewhere at the top of that mountain a sniper was having a field day.

My strength waned, I felt a sudden wave of fatigue, and the men were coming in swarms. Then it happened; my feet, which had carried me here, to Benny, over a cable, and out of the Fort, let me down. I tripped, falling off the road and down the steep ravine toward the river. The three closest pursuers followed my lead and plunged off the level dirt trail and onto the rocks, their only goal my head. I bounced several times, watching two of the men lose their heads mid-fall, but the last one caught up with me. In the air, he grabbed my throat and hit me with the butt of his machete-no doubt wanting me alive for Caesar-and just as I passed out, his skull exploded into fragment's, the sniper hitting his final key mark as I, unconscious, hit the river.

She opened her arms, and the small figure jumped onto her torso, ready to play. But the Courier was too tired for games. She kept her eyes closed, and opted for a hug. The boy was not one for hugs, as no five-year-old boy was. He pushed away, getting uncomfortably close to her reposed face.
"Wake up!"
"I'm too tired..."
"You've got to wake up!"
"We can play some other time, Liam. Your mother will be-"
"Please, please..." Never was there such urgency in a young child's voice. Desperation, even. The Courier's eyes snapped open, ready to console him.

As her eyes intook the scene, the boy vanished, nowhere to be seen. His small visage disappeared amid the strange blue-black surrounding her. A golden coin floated strangely in front of her face. With a gasp, she choked, and then kicked. She wasn't suspended in air. She was underwater. The Courier could still hear the shrill voice. Wake up! it sounded. WAKE UP!

She listened, frantically scratching her way up. The sun was far away, but she desperately climbed the agonizingly slow river, wondering why her left shoulder was so stiff. The blond head broke the surface of the water, and she realized she was moving, swiftly. The river was smooth, though. The Courier lifted one arm to swim toward shore, then winced at the severe pain. Grasping her shoulder with her right hand, she looked down at the wound. The red face mask was soaked, crimson staining her entire shoulder. Using only her right arm, the girl steered herself near the bank, the only sound in her ringing ears now the rushing of the Colorado.

Now her hands gripped gravel, and she pulled herself out of the water. The Legion outfit she wore was impossibly heavy when wet; no wonder she had eventually sank. Still coughing, and shaking her head, her weak elbows didn't hold her up when she moved forward on her hands and knees. Collapsing onto the bank, the Courier looked rougher than she ever had. Still-coagulating blood was on her temple, and had ran all down the front of her face, staining her teeth. Compliments of a legion machete.

Her shoulder was another story; meaty, swollen, in tremendous pain. The girl lay on her stomach, trying to breathe normally. How long had she been floating down the river? Faintly, she remembered the night before. Now the sun was high. Still on her stomach, she tilted the pip-boy to her line of vision. 11am. The Courier sighed and rolled over onto her back.

She had nothing right now, other than the silenced pistol she'd walked into the Fort with. All her food and traveling weapons were back at the campfire, which thanks to her not-so-covert kidnapping, would be trolling with Legion mongrels. She was starving, and her shoulder could really go for the numbing effect of a stimpak. The Courier mustered all her strength and rolled over onto her back.

There was nothing to do for the shoulder but let it heal. The bullet had passed through cleanly, leaving a gaping wound. Soaking for hours in water didn't really help the pain at all, but it had stopped actively bleeding, so there was simply nothing for it. It crippled her, pain shooting even at the slightest move. The girl's hair was for once, completely down. Unpinned, it reached past her shoulders, fanning out along the warm, smooth, river rocks.

She could have laid there for the rest of the afternoon, but the Courier slowly, painfully sat upright. The water lapped around her ankles, and she pulled them underneath her with huge effort. Every muscle begging for repose, she bent forward and viewed her reflection in the crystal blue.

Her eyes were swollen, her face caked with blood. It was drying rapidly thanks to the sun's dry heat. Even her normally golden hair was stained, matted. But amid the pain and despite the fact that she was going into shock and her entire body was trembling, the girl cupped her hands in a most disciplined way, still sitting on her haunches, and dipped her blood crusted hands into the water, bringing it to her mouth.

What had almost choked her to death minutes ago was now the giver of life, and although she was so dehydrated that she wanted to stick her head in the river and gulp, she forced herself to take these shaky handfuls of water one by one. The trembling didn't cease, and what little water her slender hands could hold was sloshing out, allowing her the most pitiful of sips.

After she had drank, the Courier slowly and painfully washed her hands in the water, scrubbing what blood she could off. Then she used her stained hands to slowly pry a torn piece of the Legion's under-uniform off, dip it in the water, and pat her swollen face. She didn't really want to touch the wound on her head. Once she found a doctor, he or she could deal with that. Head injuries were out of the Courier's league. Leaving the rag by the riverside, the Courier did one last thing before departing. Praying that she hadn't lost it in the events of the past half-day, she reached her shaking hand into the breast pocket of the armor.

"The last thing you never see," she read slowly. The Courier closed her eyes. This way, it was easier than ever for her to relive the moment she touched Boone's face while blinded. The sorrow etched onto his brow, the regret that seemed to tremble underneath his very skin. It wasn't how she wanted to remember him. She wanted to remember someone brave and intelligent, with unmatched scoped skill. A companion and a friend. But the reality was that Boone was a detached, lost, wretched soul, and now that she understood that, she missed him more than she ever thought she would.

Alone, the Courier cursed her shaking hands, and firmly put the beret on her head, wincing as her split-open injury still sent courses of pain storming throughout her body. Tears sprang to her forest greens at the sensation, but she situated the hat anyway, tucking her hair haphazardly under it. Then the woman in the Legion uniform and the NCR beret put her palms before her on the rocky ground. Her bottom half felt like jelly, but she brought them up underneath her, unfolding her slender legs and planting her feet on the ground.

You will always be alone. It sounded taunting. I will make sure of that. The Courier inhaled angrily now. She didn't know where the voice originated from. It wasn't hers. Yet it came from inside her. A distant memory perhaps.

If I am alone, then I have nothing to lose. She pushed upward, gritting her teeth at the impossible pain it stressed on her shoulder, but not crying out. Slowly she rose from a kneeled position to a standing one, lifting her torso and once again arising. At nearly 5'11'', the Courier looked weathered, beaten, tired, but still as formidable as she ever did. Staring up at the ravine before her, she set her jaw and began the long, long hike upward.

She was sleeping like a rock, a comatose sleep, near death. Come to think of it, she hadn't sleep this deeply since being back at Doc Mitchell's after the Benny incident. Actually, she hadn't bedded down to go to sleep. She had collapsed in her tracks. Now she restlessly shifted, her head lolling on the rock it had hit when she passed out. The Courier had trekked countless miles, still so far away from Vegas it seemed like an eternity.

The festering face mask was tenderly removed from her shoulder. It was replaced with clean white bandage. She didn't feel the injection going into her arm, but somewhere far away, she heard a voice. In her sleep, she murmured, "Boone?..." There was no answer of course. Boone was gone.

"Liam?..." Who was Liam?

Then a sharp noise sounded. A bark. "Rex..." she sighed wistfully, and fell comatose once more.

"Man, there you are. I got so many questions for you I don't even know where to start."

The Courier lifted herself, but the black-haired man put a hand on her chest. "Whoa there, take it easy. I think you got bump number two on your head. Or maybe three or four. I ain't a doctor."

One face she didn't expect to see so soon: the handsome, amiable King sat by her bed. Upon further realization, she saw she was in HIS bed, the ridiculous heart-shaped mattress spanning out all around her. The King was in a chair. At his side was Rex.

"You!" she said in a surprised voice. The King motioned carelessly.

"Me? Let's talk about you. My dog shows up, barking his head off, I can tell somethin's wrong. I send two of my men out, figurin' he's dug up a gold mine or somethin, and he leads them to a remote part of the Mojave that I still ain't located on a map, where you're there, out cold. And in that getup. Now what in blazes is going on, exactly?"

The Courier lay back down, feeling nauseated. Oh god, she'd barely gotten on the King's good side. She didn't want to throw up in his bed.

"I was...I got caught up on the wrong end of the Fort."

"The Fort?! You gotta be kiddin' me. That place is so far away from here. No way you could make it from there in the time you left ol Rexy boy with me. Where's that NCR fella you were travelin' with? What the hell happened?"

She was silent. What was she supposed to say? "I snuck into the Legion's base after being invited in there, upgrading the Securitron army, and crucifying my murderer, then went back in to save him and almost died. Oh and my sniper left me because I wanted to talk to his hated enemy and the group who sold his wife into slavery." Probably not.

The King was a decent man, and nodded after a few seconds of silence. "All right I get it, the stranger's business is the stranger's business. I honestly don't know how the hell you do half the shit you do, lady," and admiration hinted in his voice, "but at least now you're fixed up and ready to go. I don't have any work for you at this precise moment, but I'm hopin' my fellas rescuin' you leaves you owin' us one. In this day and age, who knows what's bound to happen."

"The Kings will always have my support," she responded back from where she lay, eyes trained on the ceiling.

The King stood, nodded his head, and winked flirtatiously at the Courier. "Music to my ears. Now, I got some affairs to take care of. Enjoy the bed. I'll see you later," and with a final wink, he exited. The girl curled up, wincing at the dull pain in her shoulder, and whispered, "Liam," before dozing off, hoping she could will his presence to her in a dream. Who was the boy? Not her son, she was certain.

How does it feel to be so alone? the malicious voice echoed.

Manny had just gotten off duty, and slung his sniper rifle over his back as he made his way across the small motel yard towards his room. The sun was setting, its golden aura lighting the scorched town of Novac and highlighting all of the ruins as though it wanted to point out the humans' faults. The sniper paid no heed to this, as usual, and went directly from the dark setting of the dinosaur mouth to the dark setting of his comfortable room.

As he was shrugging off his jacket, Manny heard footsteps upstairs. He tilted his head curiously; was the girl back again? They had spent some time together the last time she passed through, which was only a week or so ago. She had been temporarily blinded by the cazador stings, but nonetheless chatty and fun to be around. They had shared talks of the Khans, a group who had just recently also accepted the Courier for her sometimes astounding feats. Manny was happy to hear of the updates she gave on some of his old friends, and he shared his plethora of knowledge about the group's background.

Why would she have come back to Novac so soon? She was one to travel, he knew this, but Novac really had nothing other than a big doofy dinosaur out front. Nothing unless you counted Boone, but she had taken care of that too, although it did surprise Manny that the stoic Boone could be gotten to follow anyone. It made sense, regardless of Boone's nature. He hated just about everyone in Novac. Why he had continued to protect them on the night shift then, was a mystery in itself.

Either way, it would be good to see her company again. Manny set the sniper rifle carefully on his bed, and pulled on a simple white t-shirt. There were friendly people in town, but none so interesting as the blond. And he wouldn't miss an opportunity to see how Boone was doing second-hand, avoiding the confrontation and making sure his ex-best friend was okay despite all the hatred the latter aimed in Manny's direction.

With renewed energy the man hopped up the stairs, headed toward the girl's room. He figured Boone was probably in there, but would risk a glare of doom for a few minutes in order to say hello to the friendly female. Possibly set up a time to talk as they did last time. He knocked on the door. From inside came a pause, then silence, then footsteps rapidly approaching. The door swung open, and the first thing Manny saw was a shotgun.

The ex-Khan ex-NCR was no slowpoke; he elbowed the barrel out of the way, lunging forward with a punch. His fist was caught by the shotgun-wielder, and Manny paused. One of his own hands was still pushing the shotgun away, the other was in a fist, being crushed by Boone. The man wore his sunglasses, but Manny still saw his eyebrows rise in shock, then lower unexpectedly.

"You!" Manny pulled both arms back, straightening. "What the hell are you aiming that at me for."
"Can't be too careful," Boone retorted back, lowering the gun. His momentary shock at realizing who he almost attacked seemed to disappear immediately, because his sour scowl returned. "What do you want?"

"Relax, Boone," Manny said, never really getting used to the scathing tone, "I just wanted to see-"

"She's not here."

"Well, where is she?"

There was a dramatically long pause before Boone said tightly, "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know? You two split up?" Unlike Carla, who was a demon incarnate sent from hellfire to ruin Manny's life, he adored the Courier. Without her frequent Novac stops, how would he ever get to see her?

"It's none of your goddamn business." Boone must've really been in a bad mood, because he shot back, "I'm surprised you don't look happier, like last time."

"Last time? What the..." Manny rolled his eyes. "You can't be serious. Boone." Now his tone turned slightly more hopeful, realizing that Boone had just spoken more words to Manny than he had since Carla's death.

Boone seemed to realize that Manny was about to attempt to speak to him, because he moved to close the door. Manny put his foot down though, literally and figuratively, slamming his boot into the door crevice. Normally assertive, the ex-Khan pushed the door wide open, entering the room. The look on Boone's face turned from angry to murderous.

"I didn't like your wife. Hell man, you were the only one who did. That doesn't fucking mean I sit and thank the Legion every day for kidnapping her. That doesn't mean I wanted her to be a slave. You probably still think I have something to do with that, but that's-"

Boone's voice was low and deadly, like the hissing of a snake. "I know you didn't have anything to do with it."

Undaunted, Manny pressed on, his own anger too built up to contain. "You were too fucking busy laying in the spell of holy Carla to see how she treated everybody here. I don't think I'm better than anyone. You know that. You know I'd give the shirt off my back to anyone, man, woman, kid. It's always been like that, since the Khans. Spending my days aching up in the nest to protect people. Just wanting what's best for you, and that woman hated every second she spent here."

"That's not true."

"It is true. It's your word against a whole town's, man. Wake up! Just because we all had a grudge against her, it doesn't mean a damn thing to you. Now you spend your time wallowing in your misery, just like she did while she was here. Carla was a bombshell, nobody denies that. How caught up in THAT were you, when that's what you got every fucking night? I was right there for you, as much as I could be, taking shots for you man, tr-"

"You sure weren't there in Bitter Springs, were you?" Boone snapped, raising his voice.

"Yeah, I wasn't, because I don't like to kill my own fucking kind. Was Angel Carla there for you in Bitter Springs? Did she help you through that mess, too?"

Boone didn't speak, but his glare seemed to seep through his sunglasses and pierce Manny. The latter figured, well, there was no way to repair it, Boone hated him now. If the man he only wanted to see happy was going to loathe him until they were both dead, there was no reason to not speak his mind.

"I know what Carla saw in you, I just don't know what you saw in Carla. I can sit here and tell you for the rest of my fucking life, Craig, how WRONG for you that girl was, and you were miserable anyway when she was alive. It doesn't matter. What matters is, at least I have the balls to be up front to you about it. Not only that, but I said I'm fucking sorry about what happened to her. I didn't do it, I had nothing to do with it, but nobody deserves that."

The taller sniper seemed to flinch, as though his brain refused to process anymore, and he stepped past Manny, opening the door. "Anything else?"

"No, man." As Manny turned to leave, he stopped and, in a very cruel, un-Manny-like way, added, "Good job running off the only decent girl you ever brought around town. I'm sure she realized what a dick you are, too."

The door slammed, and Manny balled his hand into a fist, resisting the urge to punch the door. He was so strong, and angry, and the door so weak, that if he had he probably would've splintered the door, and he didn't really want to see Boone's face so soon.

The Courier desperately needed this time. She hadn't looked this nice since storming out of the Lucky 38 to unwittingly have sex with Benny, and although her bones ached, her shoulder panged, and her head was sore all over, she still cleaned up well. At the moment, she was at the card table, giggling into the shoulder of Arcade Gannon, a man she had come to relate to better than any single person in the Wasteland thus far.

The dealer passed out a new round of cards, and she straightened on her stool, trying to calm herself. Though the Courier had already won a few hundred caps, Arcade was smoking the table, despite having plenty in him to drink. A crowd had assembled to watch his uncanny poker skills.

"It's...it's all about st..stassticistis...hmm. Sta-tis-ticss." Arcade said knowledgeably, picking up his cards. He tried focusing so hard on pronouncing 'statistics' that his eyes crossed. The Courier didn't really seem to care, for she nodded at a man across the casino.

"What about him."

"Ew, no," Arcade said, a sardonic look on his face, and they both snorted with laughter again. "You have the worst taste I have ever seen."

"Yeah, I know," she said a bit sadly. "Hey, full house."
"Straight flush."
"Fuck me."
"No."

This time Arcade put on a very stern and commandeering businesslike expression while the Courier ducked her head in laughter. He didn't break the leering face even when scooping up the chips on the table, to the sighs of the other players, some who were determined to win their cash back.

To her, the caps meant little. She wasn't so much interested in the currency as she was buying another rifle and set of stimpaks. She knew she lived a dangerous life, and had to have protection somehow. Leaving all her supplies on the side of the mountain had been one of her biggest mistakes, and the girl beat herself up for it the whole journey back to Vegas. She had plenty now to get a decent rifle and some other supplies, but Arcade had proven to be a soul like hers. Though she had such scant memory of her life before Benny's shot, she found herself describing scientific formulas, philosophizing, and exchanging wits with this very intelligent, very well-spoken, very drunk and gay man.

Despite the King's joking remarks about the Followers, the Courier didn't mind them. A man running a street gang probably thought them a little, well, wimpy-and so did the Courier-but it was nice to spend time with a for the most part, tolerant, educated, and helpful group of people. Being in the Old Mormon Fort and talking to people like Farkas and Arcade seemed her best niche. Now that she had gotten accustomed to living off the wild in the desert and blazing up radscorpions and the like, there was a huge part of her that enjoyed that as well. But she'd gotten her fill recently after journeying back alone from the Fort.

Nobody knew where she had been, except the King. She later told him only because of the great debt she felt she owed him, and he was enraptured, enchanted even at the news. She told her story while leaving out Benny, and he was gracious enough to shrug off what he didn't need to know. Getting that weight off her chest, the Courier had then made her way back to the Lucky 38. This morning's events were ghosts in her alcohol-hindered brain, but they still looped treacherously.

Banged up, she walked back to the casino in a King's outfit. As the King himself noted, it probably wasn't a good idea to go wandering into the Strip wearing a Legion uniform. Rex accompanied her, his happy doggy brain causing him to trot alongside someone he considered a master and friend. Ignoring the strange looks of everyone outside, the Courier stumbled in the doors of her home, immediately going upstairs to change and freshen up.

Victor had wheeled into the entryway as the Courier pressed a wet towel to her face.

"Howdy, pardner!" Rex growled, and the Courier wondered if it was because the robot Boone always referred to as 'retard machine' wore a hat on his screen, or if Rex just found Victor overbearing and creepy, as she did.

"Yer back! That's good news! The bossman will be real happy to see you, why don't you head on up?"

The Platinum Chip. She untucked it from its nesting spot behind Boone's beret insignia. The girl held the little thing in the palm of her hand, remembering what Yes Man said, how eager he was to thwart Benny and help her instead overcome New Vegas. How badly Mr. House wanted the damn thing. Had he gotten it when he intended to, New Vegas may have looked far more similar to the image she'd seen on the screen.

That reminded her. Ignoring Victor, the Courier went to the terminal in her suite, logging into the computer as Mr. House. Although she had no idea how, her computer skill was excellent, and she knew exactly where to look into the main upload region of the network. Mr. House had uploaded the footage of Vegas to its own specific folder, and eagerly she clicked on the file, opting to move and store it externally. Noticing another file entitled "Pre-war Interview", curious as to its contents, she copied that as well. Something to watch later, perhaps. A holodisk was popped into the writer, and while the data copied, the smaller monitor pulled up the footage.

There was no telling how long the Courier watched those warheads raze the desert, even after the holodisk popped out, alerting her it was ready to go. The footage looped and looped, the twinkly little lights extinguishing time and time again. It struck her at some point that the lights roving along the bottom of the screen were tons of cars, back when cars worked. She knew the general idea of traveling by automobile, but actually seeing it was mindblowing. Each little dot held a traveler, or maybe two or three.

The Courier stopped back and thought of all the random vehicles that lay scattered on the Long 15. At most, now they were barricades, or used for what little useful or valuable metal they had. Most were rusted out, overturned. It struck her that each chunk of abandoned metal had at one point contained people. Lovers, families, children. A better part of her morning was spent reliving that blast, and she finally picked up her shattered heart and put on her stoic face, prepared to talk to Mr. House.

"I'm very excited for you. You've done well. I've sent Victor to the safe, where he will reward you handsomely. Is there a place you'd prefer the caps?"

"The table is just fine," she said nonchalantly.

"Splendid. Now you must come downstairs, so that I may show you what I've created." Though his warm, hospitable tone was as it always was, House had a hint of craze on the edge of his voice. The Courier was almost afraid as she stepped into the elevator.

"What if logic would be the natural -hic- path intelligent beings of this universe follow in their thoughts, like a built in trail for -hic- everything to follow."

"Bah. I fold."

"Did we invent it, or did we find it? I'm going to -hic- assume it to be a natural part of our universe in this argument, though -hic- one could of course argue otherwise."

"All I've got's two pair. Genuis over there probably has a royal flush."

"Arcade," the Courier said, poking him in the arm. "Arcaaaaade."

"What would happen if we -hic- followed the trail and schematic...oh, I have a Royal Flush...where was I? that is logic to the close border of understanding the... truth about our -hic- universe?"

Everyone at the table groaned. The crowd cheered Arcade on.

The Courier piped up with, "This is a axiomatic argument based on logic, where you're..." she yawned. "... trying to tell me that logic isn't the answer."

"So it is." Arcade sighed, swimming in chips. "Next topic, then."

"I'm hungry."

The Courier was dumbfounded at the Mark II technology. Though Mr. House was praising the abilities he'd equipped his Securitrons with, and showing her a display of their power, she could only see the great fall of Vegas with every test missile launched. …."..will bring down ANY enemy. None will stand a chance against the impenetrable design with upgraded..." Even now the Mark I Securitrons breathed down the backs of the citizens who walked the strip. Who was Mr. House planning to go to war with, exactly, that he needed this "upgrade"?

She whispered as Mr. House prattled on and the Securitrons blew up their targets down on the range, "Peace cannot be kept by force. It can only be achieved by understanding."

"Arcade." The Courier said, as they stumbled back through Freeside. Dogs howled around them and although a few thugs leered, the mere presence of the King's dog trotting merrily beside the unsteady couple kept anyone from approaching.

"Hmmmm?"

"Who said, 'Peace cannot be kept by force. It can-'"

"...only be achieved by understanding. Albert Einstein. Great man."

"Who was he?"

"He was a scientist, oddly enough, pre-War. I'm d-hic- delighted. That you know who he is. Well apparently you don't, never mind. But you know a quote of his, not a bad start at all. Did you read a book of -hic- his?" Arcade tripped on the pavement, righting himself gracefully despite being very drunk.

"I...I don't know. I guess I must have. I just don't know when."

She turned to leave the dim basement, the Securitrons putting down their weapons and ceasing to move bought her no relief whatsoever. Once in front of the screen, the Courier realized she immediately regretted the upgrade. "Now, once the Platinum Chip is inserted back into the system properly, I may begin restoring the laser turrets as well as regulating my upgraded army. There is a slot in the console on your left."

"Question," the Courier said suddenly. Mr. House seemed caught off-guard. "What is it?"
"Why do the Securitrons need to be upgraded?"
"You really are daft, and it isn't really your place as a lowly delivery girl to be asking me such questions. However, insert the chip and I'll humor you..."
Always humoring. Entertaining. Never explaining or justifying...

"Tell me first." Her hardened face was even more angry after seeing the world fall.
"Insolent girl! How DARE you!"
She plucked the chip from Boone's hat and held it tightly in her palm. She squeezed so hard the chip cut into her skin. Yelling now at the smiling face on the monitor, she retorted, "How dare YOU! You were there and saw what weapons can do. What makes you think that with an army of missile-launching robots, you're any different?"
"BECAUSE," Mr. House roared, "I am a VISIONARY! I keep Vegas out of dictator control, out of strict governmental regulations! THE CHIP IS MINE! Vegas is MINE and I shall run it as I see fit!"
"No, you won't," she gasped, tucking the chip firmly back into its pocket on the beret. The last thing you never see. "You did what you could to stop the warheads. But there's nothing more to save. You can't have Vegas, Mr. House. It belongs to the people. Not to you."

"Have it your way, you disappointing ingrate. And goodbye." The screen faded to black, and shots rang out.

Arcade snored so loud that the Courier, in the small tent with him, had to stuff a spare bedroll over her head to even drift off to sleep. After the Securitrons opened fire, she had bolted, Platinum chip in tow, and spent the rest of the day pondering what steps to take next. Though many things were unclear, one was certain; House controlling Vegas with those monstrous machines were out of the question. Anyone who may not have agreed had only to watch the footage of the earth's destruction.

Power was a great and terrible thing. Though she didn't really know the full extent of her own, the Courier had it. Power in words, her greatest forte. Power of knowledge. Power from being so admired, so well-liked wherever she went that people went out of their way to save her. That admirable, intellectual people like Arcade wanted to cut loose with her in the casino every now and then. She had other strengths too: freeing Benny and almost dying while doing it showed the vast, pure heart the Courier sported. Helping the Kings keep peace with the NCR, helping the Khans escape the false glory of Legion slavery.

She slept, bedroll on her face, Rex asleep at her feet, on the cold desert ground. Tomorrow's agenda? Speak to the NCR embassy. And find a way to once and for all take away the power that Mr. House was so close to achieving.

A ringing sounded in his ears, and even Boone's heavy steps were in slow motion. They rang through his ears like the last of the gunfire. So much carnage, and he was still alive. How?

The sun illuminated Cottonwood Cove, firing off the water so brightly that everything around Boone was white. His delicate eyes couldn't filter any other color except red. Red on the ground. He'd killed so many...since the woman left on the boat toward the Fort. But that was forever ago, it seemed.

He'd chosen to come here, die fighting as he was meant to. And at least a hundred blood-red-clad warriors had fallen under Boone. But the battle wasn't over. He pursed his blood covered lips and looked to the top of one of the buildings. Facing the sparkling, pure white water, nothing but a black silhouette could be seen.

It was the Centurion. A hero in battle, a bloodthirsty killer. The man was nothing but a great shadow as he rose to full height there on the rooftop. His large helmet fanned out over his head, a large throwing spear held upright in his hand. He didn't speak, but loomed over the illuminating light as though he were Death itself come to life. This was the only creature to ever challenge Boone just by appearing. His mere presence urged the man to move, stirred feelings in Boone that no one else ever could.

Boone threw his sniper rifle over his back, and moving so slowly, his legs like lead, lifted the shortsword he plucked from a corpse earlier. Now he ran at the Centurion. The latter rose to met the challenge, floating up into the sky, soaring down off the rooftop to land on his feet. But no warrior, no matter how he glorified killing, could match the agony of Craig Boone. There was no battle.

The Legion sword pierced the armor of the tall Centurion, causing him to freeze in place and gasp as Boone withdrew the sword, stabbing again. He never even looked into the Legionarie's hidden face; it was masked in shadow still. When the soldier withdrew the blade a second time, he backed up, a grim smile on his face. He wasn't happy to be alive. He was happy to kill, and to watch this man die.

The Centurion staggered in place, his large helmet bowed, hand clutching his seeping leather armor. Boone backed up another step, waiting for the victorious moment when the great hero would fall to his knees and succumb to death. Although the brightness behind them hid the man's face from view, Boone had enough imagination in his wrecked brain to savor the supposed look of horror.

One step, then another waver backwards, but the man held his ground for his last few moments on earth. Then something strange happened; in this slow, false-reality time speed, the hallowed whiteness on the battlefield dimmed, as though instant nightfall had hit. What happened instead were huge blue-grey stormclouds, filling the sky, hiding the sun.

This happened instantly, and Boone blinked in the sudden lack of light, the Centurion now showing as a man in red and gold, not a shadow of black. His arm was up, masking his face. With one hand, the tall yet slouched figure pushed the heavy gold helmet off his head, the signature headpiece falling so deliberately to the ground. Underneath, the face that stared at Boone had no grimace of horror. Instead, it was a beseeching look, one that asked, Why.

Under the helmet was a golden head. The sweaty hair framed the face of the Courier, blood now spilling from her mouth. The helmet finally hit the ground, and the girl fell to her knees, letting go of the throwing spear. It too clattered away, and still holding both hands over the sword wounds in her chest, she agonizingly, haltingly fell facefirst into the dirt. She was no more, and the world turned black with Boone still in it.

He snapped upright, sweating all over. The room was still black, stormclouds and blinding sun gone. Amid shudders, perhaps even a subdued sob, Boone realized that for the first time in seemingly as long as he could recall...he had dreamed of something besides Bitter Springs.

Aaron and Jesse were the names of the Kings members who had returned with Rex to the spot in the Mojave where I lay near death. They were the last people I wanted to say thank you to before heading back to Goodsprings. The pair lounged against the wall, pointed out to me by the white-suited King. As the leader of the gang had another bonding moment with his dog before he set off with me again, I sauntered to the young Kings.

They nodded at my advance.

"I just have to say thank you, personally, to both of you. I know what you did wasn't easy."

"No problem," Aaron said, slightly older of the two. He ran a hand through his greased hair. "When you're healthy, you seem to make things happen. And we knew the King wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you."

"You two really took care of me. It was a long travel, needless to say a long stretch from Freeside. You even took care of bandaging my bullet wound."

"The Mojave is a trip, for sure. Not an adventure I ever hope to rep-bandaging your what?"

I paused, remembering the way I had been given a blanket, the way a canteen was held to my cracked, useless lips, and the way my wound had been cleaned slowly and meticulously. I was half-dead during all of it, but I hadn't been dreaming; for one thing, I heard Rex. For another, my wound was re-dressed when I woke up in the King's bed.

Aaron and Jesse exchanged looks. Aaron quipped, "We ain't doctors, we're Kings. All we did was find a merchant who sold us a Brahmin for a few hundred caps, and we strung you across it. Probably for the best you didn't wake up during the journey back, the Brahmin didn't smell too well at all."

I was dumbfounded, tilting my head in confusion as the two men chuckled about their epic journey into the Wasteland. Deciding not to dwell on it, I turned back to Arcade, motioning to him with a nod that I was ready.

A month without Boone had passed, and I still wore his beret. The time had ticked away excruciatingly slow for me, not knowing where he was, trying not to think of him every time I had a spare moment. From the day he walked away at Cottonwood Cove, I had made my path through over a week of desert while on the brink of death, being found by the Kings and brought back to Freeside. My time afterward consisted of primarily pissing off Mr. House, then getting friendly with New Vegas itself; avoiding House's temper tantrum and still holding the chip securely in Boone's beret, I had checked out all the casinos, gambled, spent a lot of time helping the Followers and at my side through all of it was Arcade Gannon.

He was everything I needed; an intellectual partner and a loyal friend. As confused over Boone and Benny as I was, he was out of the picture and happy to hear any 4am drunken sobs or rants or whatever the case may have been over the two men. In fact, Arcade was someone who offered physical support in a way I feel I've never had before. I definitely don't mean to say we did anything sexual, but he was a shoulder to cry on, or lean on, or sleep and drool and snore on. Personal space wasn't an issue with him, and I found the occasional rub on the back or pat on the head deeply comforting.

So we stayed in the tent, talking about entirely unrelated things that always led to the same topic; who was I? I told Arcade everything I knew; I knew I was buried in the Goodsprings graveyard and unearthed by Victor the cowboy robot. I knew I was a bookworm and had lived in a place that saw no small amount of snow. There was a young boy in my past named Liam. And I even told Arcade of the sinister voice that had repeated in my head at every turn since getting whacked with the machete. The one that told me I was going to suffer, told me I was going to be alone forever. This last part moved the researcher greatly, and he vowed to help me find the source of the voice, concerned that it was internal. I, however, felt differently. I felt that it belonged to someone quite specific, but I had no idea who.

While avoiding the certain wrath of Mr. House, Arcade and I decided a little "vacation" to the small town of Goodsprings wouldn't be a bad idea. It was the most obvious place to look for more answers about what happened to me before my memory was wiped. That, and we were getting cabin fever. Being cooped up with the Followers and a bunch of gripey gamblers is enough to make you want to set a deathclaw loose on the bunch and enjoy the show. Arcade, of a like mind, was somewhat of a wanderer and didn't mind the seclusion of the open road.

So our time not spent gambling, saving caps for our trip, and drinking, were spent inside his tent having one endless sleepover, talking about my past-never his, something he profusely avoided, and I wasn't one to pry-and plotting our Mojave adventures. The Followers were more than convinced I'd turned Arcade straight; our terrible habit of falling asleep drunkenly sprawled out all over each other couldn't have helped, and the fact that he spoke Latin to me as though I were someone he wooed didn't look good at all. But Arcade and I were comfortable in our strangeness, and despite the voice that whispered in my ear how alone I was and how Arcade would soon leave me in the same fashion as Boone and Benny, I was finding happiness again.

Goodsprings was not a short walk, so we packed accordingly. Promising to return the brilliant scientist to the skeptical doctors, my other blond and I set off into the Wasteland with enough guns, books, food, caps, and alcohol to start a small colony of alcoholic gunslingers. That same "feeling" that had led me to Vegas and allowed me to unveil the dictator-like plans that House had for the city was now telling me to go back to my origins. It was time to sleuth my way into my own past.

I will scream if I have to live with this idiot Manny for one more day. I mean, he's an ex-Khan, if that tells you anything about how lowly and just dirty his thinking methods are. I don't care if he is best friends with Craig. I shouldn't be subject to live with someone so-

These were the only words of Carla's diary that Boone had read as he sifted through his old house. The book was then snapped shut and discarded, thrown on a counter-top, and he exited. It bothered him that the only words he read were about Manny, and not about him, but whose fault was it for prying?

Boone had honed in on his tracking skills the past month or however long it was, only stopping in Novac once the black-haired men found his mark, led by the cyber-dog. He had stayed for supplies and to enter the house, where he unwisely picked up Carla's journal, the one she had carried with her since they had met. Immediately after the half-paragraph he flipped to was read, he left the town.

Snipers lived lonely lives, knowing their way around the land and if the cause called for it, tracing their subject. At the moment he was far west of where he needed to be, walking the lonely 15 with his head down. Normally Boone would have stayed off the road, using more shrouded areas for cover as snipers tended to do, but something about the danger and exposed neck of this road appealed to his largely morbid side. If someone wanted to shoot him, let them shoot.

Every dream had been about her, in some way, shape, or form. Most of them included Bitter Springs, where the Courier was seen swept up in the gunfire opened on the Khans. Some were hard to remember, and in those cases Boone just woke up with an overwhelming sense of grief. The ones that didn't include Bitter Springs always had the same element; he was killing the girl. Why he had this particular vision remained cryptic. Perhaps it was due to what Boone had done to Carla. It could've been his own destructive, fucked-up brain. More than likely, though, at least to him, Boone was being punished for what he did.

Leaving her to deal with the Legion on her own. From a mountaintop, Boone had steadied his scope onto the Colorado river, seeing her slender body drift down with the current. Crimson had stained the water around her, and her eyes were peacefully closed. She drifted out of sight, out of his sniper scope, and Boone had sat wretchedly on the mountaintop, force-feeding himself so much guilt and misery that even he didn't know how he finally packed up and headed out hours later.

Though Boone was well aware of who he was following, his subdued senses didn't alert him to the fact that he was being followed, as well.

"Wait." My eyes glazed over, and I bit my chapped lip as Rex whined. Arcade looked up from the fire he was making. We were hidden well within a canyon wall, with a high vantage point; a perfect place to bed down for the night. The wall seemed to be the remains of some mysterious culture; cut into the red rock, there were obvious slats of rock forged into tables, fireplaces, even beds. Cave drawings adorned the inner areas, and the path to even enter had been steep and treacherous.

"Hmmm?"

"I feel like...I think we're going the wrong way."

"Goodspr-"

"I know we're heading the right way to Goodsprings, but I feel like we should backtrack or something. I don't know."

Arcade sighed. "Intuition, the bane of womankind." He stirred the fire now, Rex whining as though he sympathized with me.

"You stay here, I just want to...have a look around."

"Sure." Amicable Arcade, how I loved him.

Our weapons had been placed against the wall of the cavern, ready if we needed them, but not hindering us as we moved around the campsite. I reached for my usual handgun, then paused. One of my splurges with the mass earnings of casino caps was a beautiful, newly-made rifle that would've made Boone, or any ranged weapon user, drool. I really sucked at shooting ranged weapons, but the gun was too good to pass up. Deciding that now was as good a time as any to break it in, I slung it over my back and stuck my head out into the canyon. Above us there was a mesa, and it made far more sense to climb the six feet up, instead of the forty feet straight down, then poke around for an alternate way to the top of the mesa.

Rifle on my back, beret on my head, I lunged and grabbed at the smooth rock, finding crevices. If Arcade thought my dangling legs looked strange as I struggled with one weak shoulder, to pull myself up, he said nothing, which I appreciated. Heaving and grunting, I found other fingerholds, kicking my way over the lip of the mesa and landing on my belly at the top.

"Ooof," I said, winded, and fox-crawled forward, amazed at the view before me. Before I could properly get to my feet and enjoy it though, Rex stood in front of me, blocking my line of sight. "How did you..." I turned, noticing that about four feet away from the ledge was a neat trail that led right into the canyon dwelling.

I sighed, rolling my eyes, and stood. Rex, happy that I was now on two legs, leapt ahead, barking furiously. "Someone with a hat?" I inquired jokingly to myself, the dog ignoring my sarcasm and running like mad down through the canyon. "Rex!" I said, watching him disappear into tall Mojave grass and cactus. "Rex, get back here!" Goddammit, he was probably going to run after a mole rat that would lead him right to a Deathclaw cave or something.

Rex's barking though, concerned me. He communicated in a highly effective way, as did all dogs: most people are just too stupid to discern. He would never call this much attention to something as easy a target as a mole rat. Apparently I wasn't the only one who noticed, because Arcade had rounded the neat little hill I'd missed in seconds, wiping his hands on his pants as he squinted down at the dog.

"What's up with him?"

"I don't know. But I think it's something important. You stay here."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I won't go far. If you hear me yell, come running."

Doubtful, Arcade stood in place as I jogged down the unlevel terrain of the mesa, making it a point to follow Rex. Even though I put a bit of distance between myself and the other blond, he could still be seen as a tiny dot behind me. We were still extremely high, and far from the road on this series of mountaintops. The dog was barking loudly, unceasingly, staring toward the faraway 15. I couldn't see a thing, but he must have smelled it, as the wind blew towards us. However, Rex could go no further without tumbling off the edge of the mesa, so he barked and whined and stomped in place, willing me to share in his sense of urgency.

I was without binoculars, but I had another idea. The rifle I purchased was scoped; I immediately shouldered it, trying to line up the sights. It was something I was utterly horrible at. Glaring down the shiny new lens, I could see nothing but a grey blur.

Suddenly and rather painfully, Boone's low voice could be heard in my ear, and I closed my eyes while holding the rifle, recalling the memory.

"Let me aim that for you next time." "Or you could teach me how to use a scope, smartass," I had snapped back. We were trying to take out the Deathclaws in the Quarry, which Boone was succeeding at far better than I. To my surprise, instead of snapping back, he had scooted close to me. Both of us were laying on our bellies on a smooth rock. Draping one arm around me, the trained soldier handed over his superior sniper rifle, our temples right next to one another's, and taught me how to properly manipulate the crosshairs.

"If the vertical and horizontal aren't parallel, adjust the bore sighter."
"Which way?"
"Whichever way it needs. Parallel now?"

My eyes slowly opened, his voice fading from memory. With Rex repeatedly yapping next to me, I went to my knees on the desert soil, holding my breath to seady my aim, scoping the road the way my sniper had trained me to do.

"Your crucifixion will be a warning for others. Our superior hounds have tracked you all the way from your little campfire outside our Fort. To someone who thinks they can infiltrate the camp of the Son of Mars, and free one who was sacrificed, crucifixion is just."

Goddamn, they thought he was the one who had raided their fucking fort and taken down whoever it was the Courier had taken down from their cross. He'd watched it all through his scope a full month ago. Boone was breathing heavily, a sword pressed to the back of his neck, his hands tied at his back.

The bastards had gotten him, and his only regret was that he didn't kill more than the twenty he did bring down. Apparently the Legion anticipated such a fight, which was why their tracking party was so large. Nails were being hammered into the large blocks of wood, a makeshift cross to be erected here on this desolate stretch of road.

His mouth bled, and Boone spat the red-tinted saliva at the boot of the Legionaire speaking, causing the latter to angrily kick the sniper in the face. Though riveted with the pain, Boone didn't flinch, remaining on his haunches with his hands tied too tight for comfort against his back. Thirty feet away, his rifle lay there uselessly. He was surprised he didn't feel more regret or fear of death, but instead all he could sense was anger.

"It is a worthy cross, for so worthy a foe. All enemies of Caesar must f-"

His speech rapidly faltered, and something splattered. Boone looked up confusedly, the headless corpse falling over heavily, like a sack of potatoes. His eyes widened as he looked around frantically. The rest of the Legion bore similar expression of confusion and shock. A familiar whistling, then half a Legate's torn face flew through the night sky.

A shoddy headshot, but it was a headshot nonetheless, and though Boone wanted to get up and run, he stayed low to the ground, leaning forward and closing his eyes so that he was blind to the chaos around him as more shots were fired and the Legion blindly fired back into the night, not understanding that they were being picked off by a sniper.

It couldn't be. They were too far ahead of me today, I traveled too slow to be this close to them. He wouldn't let himself hope. Hope was for fools. And so it was that the non-fool Craig Boone sat on his haunches on Interstate 15, trying to protect his head from bullets and shrapnel from exploding Legionaries, his hands bound and his eyes tightly shut, waiting either for death, or a pause in the gunfire.

The Legion were trained to stay and fight, yet several of the younger members had already turned to flee, wanting to keep their heads on their bodies. Around Boone, hell had broken loose and he was forgotten about. Though he wasn't hoping for anything, except for the possibility that a spare bullet would hit him, soon the shouts and yells subsided, and the only thing that could be heard were the heavy footfalls of the fleeing Legionaires, and then the sound of a growling dog, and another.

Boone looked up at this; to his left a Legion mongrel bared its teeth, looking in the direction of the sniper. Its fur was bristled, its eyes crazy. The man glanced from the dog to the mountain range, and there, thirty feet away stood Rex, his own fangs bared, his growls rising to match the other dog's. As Boone stood helplessly by, alone now except for the two alpha males. The dogs began to circle each other, and moved as one, jowls twitching, tails whipping back and forth. He turned his vision toward the area where the sniper had been. Even for Boone's strong eyesight, his rescuer was too far away for him to see clearly.

Keeping his eyes on the mountaintop, the growls increased, and just as Rex pounced, two figures appeared, running out of the canyon toward him. The almost-completely metal dog had certain advantages in a fight; his weight allowed him to knock the mutt to its back, his tough exoskeleton not suffering any damage. Undaunted, the latter snarled menacingly and defended, attacking back, snapping with a mouthful of nightmarish white teeth.

It was her. Boone hadn't caught a glimpse of her in weeks, relying on his tracking skills to maintain distance while keeping pace with the girl. She flew over the crevices in the canyon now, lithe as ever, familiar red beret perched on top of her head. Even from this distance he spotted her holding up the large scoped rifle, then sliding it on its strap over her shoulder. The gun dangled off her back as she ran resolutely toward Boone.

But she wasn't alone. Another figure, a male, trailed her, matching her quick pace. He was tall, lean and had a head of pale blond hair. Boone had never seen him before, but he watched as the Courier stopped and turned to him. She appeared to be speaking frantically, and the man put a hand on her arm. The girl pointed back toward the direction they had came, and in response to whatever her request was, the man nodded and put his hand briefly on her head in a reassuring way before departing back in the opposite direction, running at full speed.

Now she ran toward him again, and Boone realized that his hollow lack of hope had been immediately replaced with anger and vehemence. Beside him, Rex and Legion dog barked viciously, sinking their deadly teeth into each other, tearing hunks out of each other. Now another stray bolted away from the area where the Legion attacked, heading toward the Courier. Still tied down, he could only watch as the dog rushed the girl. The rifle slid effortlessly back into her hands and at this closer range she didn't hesitate to shoot, one bullet bringing the advancing animal down. Pausing to reload, she was then back at the open run and approaching Boone fast.

A yelp and howl alerted Boone that someone had won the fight beside him, and his head snapped to the side to see that thankfully it was Rex, his fangs embedded in the throat of the other animal, not bothering to stop shaking his head back and forth to dislodge the dog's blood flow.

Even as he turned his head away from the finished fight, all emotions including his blinding anger had vanished, and his stomach dropped into a pit as the tall, lean woman dropped to her knees in front of him. "Boone," she said with bated breath, before collapsing into a tight hug, her arms slipping under his and her head pressed to his chest. He could barely move his own arms, and doing so caused him great strain, but Boone nonetheless tried the same as he had that night in the dinosaur, wrestling with the physical bonds. It was to no avail.

She didn't notice this time either, too intent on embracing him. All Boone could do was bury his face into her beret, his eyes closing blissfully for a few moments, until the bloody breath of Rex invaded his nostrils, the dog happily licking Boone's cheek. Now he grimaced and made a scoffing noise, trying to tear his head away from the suffocating death and halitosis scent. Rex was undaunted, wagging his tail happily. The Courier pulled back and noticed the look of disgust as Boone fought to get away from the animal, and she giggled, pulling her fist up to her mouth to hide the smile in case the unamused Boone gave her a look of disgust.

The man in white had returned; apparently he had been asked to fetch a first aid kit, because that's what he carried in one hand as he ran down the hill. In his other arm was a large butcher knife. And now, as he approached, the Courier pushed Rex out of the way, leaving her with a clear view of Boone. The two looked at each other, the girl's amused smile slowly leaving her face, a contemplative and unreadable look taking over. Boone's look of annoyance at Rex's slobber also disappeared, leaving him to stare at the girl with an equally unreadable look.

Slowly, the intense look faded from her face, and a smile crept onto her pale lips. Boone strained against the ropes again, and the blond man reached them. Without speaking the man dropped the kit and brandished the knife, ducking to his haunches behind Boone to free him. The Courier didn't even look away from Boone to her friend, still smiling.

Then something amazing happened, something that hadn't happened in ages. A hint of a smile slid onto Boone's hardened face. Not the grimace of a smile he wore while bringing down a Red, not the false smirk he wore in dreams of his own demise. It was a faint remnant of a Boone that didn't exist to the Courier, a genuine glint of thankfulness visible in his dark eyes. When Boone felt the jerk of rope, and the sudden release of pressure from his wrists, his arms immediately came from behind and he didn't even rub his sore arms or pay any heed to the fact that his circulation had been cut off for so long needles prickled his digits. Instead, his hands moved to the Courier, and he pressed them to the sides of her face, pulling her closer. One hand rose up to knock off the beret. When he did so the long ponytail she kept hidden in the hat fell to the side. He had a hard time seeing up close, so Boone pulled her even closer, squinting.

His last look at her, she was on the edge of passing into the shadow, and now here she was glowing. Boone brushed his hand through her hair, passing over the area where the machete busted open the skin. There was no mark. The cuts and scrapes on her face had healed. Blood and sweat and dust didn't cover her like it had when he had re-dressed her wounds. In dreams she had died by his hand. Boone had killed her with everything from guns to swords to axes. Dead empty eyes had stared at him from nightmares. She looked just as healthy as he, if not healthier, and Boone finally spoke. "You're okay."

"Yes, are you?" she replied, pulling his hand away from her face.

"You sniped them." He didn't intend for it to, but his tone had hints of disbelief.

"I had this First Recon guy teach me," she replied, her smile widening. The blond man lingered, stepping back and pulling Rex with him. He smiled from behind Boone at the girl's words, though Boone didn't see.

"First Recon guy?" Boone asked. "I didn't see you traveling with him. He must have left like a prick."

"Yeah..." she said, and for some reason her voice was small and throaty, as though there was a lump in it. "Too bad he isn't around. I'd punch him in the mouth for doing that."

"He would deserve it," Boone said in an even lower voice.

"No, he wouldn't," she replied, and scooped up her discarded beret. Stuffing her ponytail back underneath the hat, she stood. Boone rose to meet her, and they both turned to survey the carnage; dead Legionaires, a half-erect cross, blood and brains splattered around. Ever tactical, Boone mused, "Several of them ran away. They'll come back once they get some nerve. We're not safe."

"It's too bad we don't have a sniper to keep lookout, wouldn't you say, Arcade?" the Courier asked the blond man, who was petting Rex as he too stared at the littered landscape.

"Oh yes," he replied, pushing up his glasses. "I hear snipers are hard to come by though, and they tend to be flighty."

The Courier laughed and Boone scowled at the man named Arcade. The girl grabbed Boone's limp hand, which was at his side, and squeezed. "What do you say? Lookout for the night? Just like old times?"

"I've got your back," Boone said in a closed voice, his own guilt for abandoning rushing back to him, dimming the happiness he'd felt while smiling at the girl earlier.

I lay on the canyontop grass on my stomach, my upper torso propped up with my elbow. My chin was in my hand, a dorky smile on my face. My legs kicked up behind me in a slow scissor motion, bending at the knee. It was night, and the sky was beautiful, crisp and clear. Hours ago, Arcade and I had rushed down this canyontop after Rex, where I had taken out a fair share of Legionaires. We were back up in the ancient canyon dwelling, where Arcade was preparing dinner for three.

Though I was not stupid in medicinal terms, Arcade's knowledge far surpassed mine, and so he was the one giving the final inspection to Boone. While I grinned like an idiot, Arcade gave him the once over and unceremoniously jammed a stimpak into Boone's arm. This caused a stream of curses that I haven't really yet matched to emanate from my sniper. When we ascended the hill, the four of us-me, Arcade, Boone, and Rex-we did so as a group, walking side by side. On the far left trotted Rex, beside him Boone. Boone was to my left, Arcade on my right, and maybe I was imagining things, but Boone didn't look even slightly happy.

I didn't, after the night in Novac, feel it was fair of me to gripe to Boone about his sour disposition. I was too happy to see him to press the issue, and while Arcade descended into the cavern to prepare the dwelling for an extra sleeper, I stood on the grassy knoll above him and handed my new rifle over to Boone. He didn't say much else to me, and I got the vibe he wanted to be left alone, so he used the excuse of nesting and awaiting the return of the Legion to stay on top of the mesa.

Bugging Arcade was no good; when the man cooks and preps, his attention is dedicated wholly to the task, and after restlessly antagonizing him for a few minutes, he'd fluttered his hands at me. "Shoo, shoo. Why don't you go make nice with your sniper while I prepare dinner?"

My shoulders slumped. "He's busy scoping. Boone's all business."

Arcade shrugged, fanning the campfire. "Doesn't mean you can't scope a little yourself."

I giggled, and he looked at me pointedly. "Get out of here, you pervert."

We both laughed and I clambered up the side of the precipice my way, avoiding the trail. And here I had laid for probably ten minutes on my belly, watching the sniper. I knew now it was he that saved me at the Fort. He had somehow tracked me, followed me, across the Mojave and sent Rex to the Kings. While awaiting their pickup, he cleaned my wounds, forced water down my throat, willed me to be alive. He hadn't said this, but his tracking made it obvious. My memory was faint, but it was there; a tender, strong hand cupping my neck, gently putting the water holder to my parched lips. Pouring water into the gunshot wound, cutting the arm off my Legion outfit and using the cleaner fabric underneath as a bandage.

He was on his stomach as well, eight feet in front of me, positioned to my right. Boone was intent on glaring down the scope of the rifle I had given him, and its sights were set to the road. From here he could probably easily see the area we left earlier, complete with downed cross. I had to run ahead to even get it in my line of vision, but I wasn't a trained sniper. My slow clambering hadn't broken his concentration, and neither did my subdued presence. The light was solely moonlight, washing out the desert and casting shadows over me. Boone, out of the shadow of the canyon, was illuminated. He propped the gun on several rocks, keeping the scope close, a look of deep concentration on his face.

He stirred suddenly-barely-and I ducked my head, wondering if he'd seen me. But no, Boone's now hungry gaze flickered from his rifle to the faraway road, and then back to the rifle. Without hesitating, he fired, then twice more. I didn't know what he was shooting at, but his narrowed eyes and disappearing smirk told me he hit every mark. Now appeased, he casually lowered his shoulders, sinking back down into sniper position.

Risking his wrath, I crawled forward on my stomach, making only the faintest rustling noises on the soft ground. Here tall grass blew with the evening desert wind, carrying with it daisy petals. They fluttered around prettily, the white slivers reminding me of the snow from my memory, from the snowglobe. One landed on my lips and I blew it off, still slipping forward towards Boone. I knew he was fragile, I've known that as long as I've known him. You have to handle him in a very specific way. But sometimes my stubbornness and will to do whatever I want overrides the part of my brain that says "Leave Boone alone, he's in a mood."

The back of his head was to me, and I crept closer, until I was only a foot or so away. The thought of snatching Boone's beret off his head came to mind, but I didn't want to get shot again. So instead, I reached out and hesitantly touched his ear. Boone's head snapped to the side and he turned on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbow.

"What the fu-" His anger disappeared somewhat at realizing it was only me, but then he glared anyway. "What in the hell are you doing?"

I rolled from my stomach to my side to face him, propping my head up with my hand, which rested on my temple. Some circuits of my brain must not have been working properly, because I couldn't think of anything to say. This did not sit well with Boone-it never did. He continued to pointedly glare at me. Not really believing what I was doing, but unable to stop myself, I reached out again and this time brushed his lowered brow with my hand.

Boone, using one elbow to prop him up as he lay on his side, grabbed my hand with his. I feel that it was instinctive, because as soon as he realized what he did, he eased up his grip on my hand. Still holding it, he pressed, "Don't you have dinner to cook with Arcade?"

"Thank you for helping me, at the Fort." I said. "Thank you for helping me get back to Freeside. I thought you left for Novac."

Apparently my gratitude opened Boone up to being a little more chatty. Bringing my hand down from his face, he put it on the ground between us, for a moment holding my hand with his before withdrawing it. He didn't turn away though, so we both lay there facing each other under the stars as he replied, "I did go to Novac, I stopped by after those Kings showed up. I didn't know where else to go, figured you'd be safe in the city. Shortly after I got there..." he trailed off, and that visible pain flickered through his eyes, before he said, "...I realized I didn't need to be there."

I wondered what had happened in the town. Something had, that was for sure. Tight-lipped Boone was not the person to pick for answers, though. The awkward silence that ensued was no good, so I carefully chose my next question, "What did you need?"

Now he looked away, looked past me into the desert, searching for something. In a defeated manner, Boone shrugged. "I needed..."

"Your friend?" I asked, surprised at my own saddened voice. The tone caused Boone to look away from his celestial searching and instead search my face.

"Yeah."

I had been through too much in the past month to really care about crying anymore, at least it felt that I was exhausted from it. All the drunk nights with Arcade had taken care of the waterworks, but I was still an emotional wreck. A huge weight rose in my chest, which I tried to shake off, in my mind saying what's wrong with you, Boone is right here, he followed you, he saved you. Why do you feel so hurt right now?

And then another voice, sinister. I'll make sure you're always alone. Always.

Boone had promised me I wouldn't be alone. Arcade had promised the same thing. One of the two was a mere foot away from me, staring at me. The other was close by, creating a delicious meal for all of us. Yet I believed that voice. It was no use, I felt lonely despite being surrounded.
And with this knowledge and grief in my chest, I didn't cry, but dropped my elbow, abandoning my relaxed pose and curling into a ball on Boone. I guess you could consider it a hug, but it was more of a leeching grasp, and I found that my chest was so tight I couldn't breathe as I embraced him.

He had tensed up, naturally, at my sporadic "Hug Boone like a crazy person" endeavor. And my tackling move had drove his elbow off balance, causing him to hit his back on the dirt. I didn't stop clinging like a lost child as Boone floundered to pull his own arm out from under me, since I half-lay on it. As my head was ducked into his chest, he did something that I didn't expect. Both arms now free, Boone did a very un-Boone like gesture of lifting my chin upward with two fingers. It wasn't a commanding grip, like I would've expected. It was gentle and soft, the way he had treated me when I was passed out in the Mojave.

Now he pulled my face upwards and in a very resolute tone said, "The only thing that would keep me from following you around this desert is a bullet in the head. I don't know why, but I just can't...be.." Boone trailed off, either confused by what he couldn't be, or unable to say what he couldn't be. My eyes were huge, and I had the demeanor of a hypnotized animal as I watched him internally struggle with the words. He had forgotten that my chin was still being held up by his hand, and now his fingers slid lazily downward, trailing my throat.

"DINNER!" bellowed Arcade from below us, breaking the spell, and I jumped. Boone's slack gaze was replaced by his usual disgruntled mask, and I sat up, moving away from him. Rising to his feet, he first plucked up the rifle, and then extended his hand to me. I stood and yelled back across the canyon angrily, "Wouldn't MISS IT FOR THE WORLD!"

"Liam," I pondered, watching the latter haphazardly dissect an insect. He sat at a makeshift table with several other boys, their heads all bowed together, intently poking and prodding with the most delicate of hands.

"Its eyes are buggy-funny!" Liam chirped in response, then turned his head to me.

I smiled at him in the dim light, not being able to get a grasp on our surroundings. There was Isaac, the troublemaker, Elijah the brainiac, Alex, the clown. All of them were five or six, all of them were intrigued with the bug we found on our wanderings.

"What?" Liam said, his assertive tone not unkind. Seeing that I was reclining on the floor watching the group, he put down his tool and dropped to his knees by me. I stared at him for a moment, realizing this was someone I loved more than anything. I knew him unlike anyone else: he was squeamish, intelligent, and had the darkest sense of humor any five-year-old ever sported. Come to think of it, he reminded me of Arcade.

"Do you think it's true what he says? Do you think I'll be alone forever?"
Liam's big blue eyes widened, and he sat slumped over on the floor, not answering.
"Come on Liam. You're not going to leave me, are you? You guys are my friends."
"We...didn't want to leave you," Liam responded in a heartbreaking tone. "Yeah!" snapped Isaac from the dissecting table. "We had to." The firmness in his tone caused me to blink away tears.
"Why did you have to?"
"He made us go away." Isaac usually took control of conversations, leaving Liam to scowl.
"Who is he?"
Now the boys all paused from their scientific research and stared at me. Liam stared as well. These children had a bond with me, all of them, although I had no idea what it might have been. Their simple, innocent lack to understand why I asked such obvious questions burned deep throughout the room, and finally it was quiet Elijah who responded, "The man with the white eyes."
"And the axe."
"The fire man."
"Fire...man?"

"I believe she's referring to a pre-War public service career, firemen were workers who put out fires, easily enough. Though why she's talking about them in her sleep baffles me. It could just be that she's dreaming in a pre-War book. From what we've deduced, she read a lot of them."

I looked away from the boys; the voice of Arcade was loud and clear. Sitting up, the room spun, the children disappearing from view, fading into black, and then the blurry faces of Boone and Arcade were in front of me, both staring intently.

"W...what?" I said, near hysterics, feeling nothing like I had in the calm, laidback dream.

"You're okay," Arcade rushed, putting a hand on my head and running it down the side in a comforting pet. He saw the pain in my eyes and said knowingly, "Liam?" I nodded, and he pulled forward, embracing me. Boone stiffened abruptly, and I clutched at Arcade's jacket. "Liam told me...he told me they had to leave."
"They?" Arcade's arms were reassuring, and Boone stood, backing away from us. My eyes were closed, but I could sense him leave our side to go stand with his eyes on the horizon.
"There were more of them. Kids. I don't..."
"Don't get upset, here." Arcade pulled back and put his hands on my knees. "What we should do is have you write down the dream, to put in our records." Fumbling around with his pockets, he added, "If you write it in a journal, you're more prone to remember these things. If nothing else we can use it to piece together your memor-"

"It wasn't a memory," I said in a strained voice, even as Arcade withdrew a weathered pad and pen from his coat. "It was..."

"Yes?"

"I...was talking to them after whatever happened, happened."

"Whatever happened?"

"Something tragic. Something that I didn't want to happen, happened. Because of that man. The...man with white eyes, the fireman."

"You realize you're not making any sense at all."

"Yes. Give me the notepad."

"Are you going to be okay? Need anything? Water, cola, vodka?"

"No thank you, dear. I think writing this is a good idea. It'll make more sense later."

"Ah. Well in that case, if you don't mind, I'm going to go back to sleep. Still have plenty of time before sunrise. Wake me if you need me." Arcade's bedroll was in such close proximity to mine all he had to do was scoot a foot away and lay back down. He pulled the covers over his head. I wrote furiously, scratching noises and the crackling of the fire the only noises for a few minutes.

I was so intent on retelling my...vision? dream? that I didn't even pay attention to Boone, who stood by the fire grimly, anger shrouding his vision once more. My head was bowed, my back propped up against a large rock, and I continued to write like a madwoman. Several minutes and several pages later, after Arcade's soft snoring and babbles of when we get an unexpected result... that is not useful for our purposes,

…..whatever philosophical debate he was feeling at the moment, Boone spoke up.

"It doesn't look like you were too lonely while I was gone."
"What?" I had no idea what he was talking about; writing consumed my entire being at the moment. I looked up at him, standing with his back to me.
"Arcade is a good guy. Takes care of you."
"Yes, he's fantastic." I agreed, puzzled as to why Boone sounded so hostile.
"Not like you need anyone else, he's got a way with words and seems to know you so well."
Now his tone irritated me. "What is there to know? I've got about three months of memories to go off of. Before that it's-"
"Memories that you obviously don't want to share."
"You're one to talk, you know that!" I slammed the pad onto the ground beside me, fumbling like an idiot to unwrap myself from the covers, seeing Boone turn toward me as I finally stood and stomped over to him. "You tell me your wife's dead, you don't even tell me how, maybe there's a hope and we could go and find her I say, you pitch a fucking fit and tell me not to ever mention it again. If I have secrets, I'm not the only one, and can you really blame me for confiding them in someone who doesn't seem to hate me every time I breathe the wrong way?! And if you REALLY want to know, I don't know who Liam is, or who anyone is, he's just a little boy that keeps reappearing in my dreams! There, big huge secret is out!"

Rex whimpered from his dream nearby. Boone rounded on me, as I knew he would. Even the deathclaws in the vicinity turned tail and fled for want of better company as the sniper's venomous voice rose in pitch. "Okay, yeah. If that's how it is, I don't blame you for confiding in someone who doesn't hate you. It's not like I tracked you halfway across the desert, not like I ever wanted to be around you again. As long as we're having a little family moment here, I killed Carla."

I froze. If Boone's voice had awoken Arcade, the man opted to continue to feign sleep with a blanket over his head. The fire snapped. Reflected in Boone's black eyes, the flames were a bright orange color. "I didn't have any other choice, I tracked down the party that took her, and there were too many of them. I killed my wife. Anything else we need to discuss?"

I took a step back. "Boone, I..."

"Drop it." He turned his back to me abruptly, and I felt like crawling into a Radscorpion nest. There's really no way to process something like that, no matter how much you think there is. There was nothing for me to say, but I risked his temper for one last question: "You're...not going to get mad and leave again, are you?"

"Of course not," Boone said defensively.

Sighing, I turned away. We were only a few miles outside of Goodsprings. Wondering if this journey was going to prove fruitful, and if it would, what it would even help, I defeatedly clambered back into the sleeping bag. As Boone refused to sleep, standing guard over the fire, I rolled over into a ball, Arcade pulling his own blanket off his head to offer me an arm.

The earth changed over time. Yes, the War had changed it forever in the course of a few hours, but that wasn't a change the earth put upon itself. Man forever altered the ebb and flow of nature in a disaster so monumental it made the very foundation of humanity shudder and falter, falling from everything it had built to retreat pathetically underground. Using that earth which they helped destroy, to protect themselves, what scant remnants of humanity breathed did so away from the sun, while above, the earth continued changing.

Despite everything, life thrived in its quiet, mysterious way. Grass grew, rain fell. Over centuries Nature lost none of its splendor, while everything humans had made that remained standing slowly rotted away, losing every bit of its splendor. Animals gave birth, the sun rode the horizon as it always did, keeping a tender eye on the now-torn up blue dot that patiently, molded itself into something different than what humans had done to it, restored itself, re-aligned its rhythms, and bloomed once more.

Although not comparable on any universal scale, the same timeless nature applied to the human heart. Our pain and suffering, though felt instantaneously, can last for ages. Though we will never be the same, we've been so altered by the wrongdoings against us-even if we are the ones that did them-we can repair and adjust, slowly. Slowly.

The world before the Great War is an unfathomable shadow, something alien to us, that we will never be able to fully understand, something we can only look back on and wonder, dream about. All we have left is what's in front of us. But just like our slow-moving and patient planet, changes within one human heart very dear to me, were slowly arising.

Boone appeared and stood beside me, looking over Goodsprings.

"About last night..." He wasn't one for words. I turned to him, feeling a serenity unmatched save by the underwater vision of Liam, when I thought I was dead. "You don't have to apologize. And I don't think you hate me, Boone." The stress in my voice was obvious. "I just..." missed you more than you'll ever know.

"Well..." he continued in his never-ending loss for words. "..Good. I don't."

We stared at each other for some time. Awkward silences seemed to be a recurring theme between us these days. I didn't mind; it wasn't any worse than his scathing remarks.

I had filled Boone in on our "vacation" quest. To uncover my past, or anything related to it, that we could. He was eager to help, something that warmed my heart. Arcade had spent the morning relaying what we did know to Boone, something I thanked him for. Under Boone's intense stare, I found myself falter whenever I mentioned my past. I don't know why. Either way, once the camp had been packed up, our first stop was Doc Mitchell's.

"Where the hell was that shack?" I muttered as we crossed a road in the small town. "I don't remember it being this far..."
"I believe that's it," nodded Arcade, pointing in the direction of the familiar structure. Victor's place, as it were. "Right," and we crossed the road with more intensity in our step. "Wait." Boone paused behind Arcade and I, and we turned. "If you got on bad terms with House back in Vegas, don't you think there's a chance that retard machine will attack us?"
"One way to find out." Mr. House and his cowboy didn't scare me anymore. After the temper tantrum he pulled when I refused him the chip, his "power" was a joke. Just what to do about it though, I wasn't sure. Hence a mini-vacation to Goodsprings.

As though he'd heard Boone, Victor exited through the door suddenly, and gunfire rang out. Pulling my own gun even as Arcade pulled his, both of us moving in perfect synchronization, Victor fell and bounced off the hard ground, short-circuiting. Both blond heads turned to look at the sniper. Boone had a genuine half-smile on his face, so trigger happy he'd fired before Victor's 9mm ever had a chance to aim. As Arcade and I stared at him incredulously, Boone shouldered the rifle. "Well butter his butt and call him a biscuit!" he said pseudo-cheerfully (uncanny really, if you know Boone), then, still not paying any attention to mine and Arcade's looks of shock, he sidestepped us and went to the fallen robot, kicking him happily. "So long, biscuit!"

A few minutes later, we stood inside, eyes adjusting to the dim light. "Look for anything..."

"Victor brought you to me in just the clothes you were wearing. I don't know if there was anything else you had on you, but he'd know. He's still in his shack down there." the doctor had said.

"Anything that a robot shouldn't have..." Which was everything inside this once-occupied house. The four of us each took a corner and began tearing the place apart. Boone took my beret and held it to Rex, who sniffed it, barking happily. Understanding what his friend wanted him to do, the Cyberdog began stuffing his nose in highly unlikely places; toilets, ashtrays, anywhere to find my scent. I was tearing through the desk. Arcade sifted through papers and magazines that lay strewn all over the floor.

"Here, this is probably invaluable evidence," he quipped, holding up a half-rotted piece of women's lingerie. Boone's glare was lost in the darkness of the shack, and I laughed.

"What about the woodwork?" Boone pointed out, eyes moving around the dark shack. "It seems recently patched. If he were going to hide anything of yours, that'd be the best place."

"Have at it," I said, emptying the desk. "Although I don't know why he would go through such an effort."

"It really makes sense, from Mr. House's viewpoint." Arcade spun the lingerie on his finger. It slid off and flew across the room, hitting Boone in the back just as he tore a board from the wall with his bare hands. Looking as though he wanted to beat Arcade's head in with the board, Boone glared while the latter continued, "He had great plans for you, or so he kept telling you, correct? By alienating you from whoever it is you were and sort of manipulating you into being his star worker, his flesh and blood highway support, there was so little chance of you running away. Who would you run to? Where? You were no one's except his. I mean, he certainly wanted to exploit your lucky loss of memory. I'm certain he saw it as a stroke of luck and being the opportunist he is, programmed Victor to hide or destroy anything else you would've been carrying."

I sighed. What was I looking for, anyway? I could run across something of mine and not even recognize it. Boone was still furiously pulling apart boards.

"If I didn't know better, sniper, I would assume you just have a personal hatred for the machine and want to destroy his dwelling."

Taking Arcade better than I knew Boone ever could, he replied, "Biscuit doesn't have a dwelling, biscuit is dead outside."

My laughter was interrupted by Rex, who barked at me, wagging his tail.

"Yes, I know I have my scent boy, I'm me. That's not what we're looking for."

Rex barked again, and then moved to Boone. Boone noticed this and paused in his destruction of Biscuit's home. The dog jumped, putting his front paws on one of the walls, scratching and whimpering to Boone hopefully. I stood, crossing the tiny floor, and Arcade turned as well.

The three of us were looking at a piece of wall that didn't match. The boards Victor used crossed the house horizontally, but here, nailed up haphazardly, were a short series of boards nailed vertically. They shaped a rectangle.

"Eureka." I said triumphantly.
"That's Greek, not Latin," Arcade breathed.
Boone muttered a very non-Latin curse.

Three as one, we dove into the rectangle, pulling boards apart, Arcade smartly fishing out a crowbar to aid us in pulling the wood away. After the flurry of annhilation, during which Rex barked excitedly, we stepped back, a man on each side of me. There was a hole in the wall, and in the hole sat a harmless looking bag.

My hands trembled as I reached down, taking it. It was a large over-the-shoulder bag, a rather shabby one, simple but pretty. The fabric fell away as I backed up, hands shaking, trying to pull its contents out. On my left, Boone kicked open the shack door, letting the sunlight stream in. Our heads together over my purse, I reached in and pulled out from its stuffed pockets, an old book.

"Either Biscuit sure likes book bags, or we've found ourselves something great."

"This is mine," I said, brimming with excitement. "This is mine, I can feel it." I clutched the bag, and the book, to my chest. "Let's not open it here. Let's...let's go to the saloon."

"Unveiling your past over lunch, quaint." Arcade held onto my arm, and I turned to smile at Boone. His face was lighted up in the shadow of sunlight, and he nodded. "Off we go," he said, putting a hand on my back.

Nobody gives a shit about you, and no matter where you go, I'll find you.

If Trudy thought it strange that I, along with my three companions, took up a booth and covered the entire thing in what probably looked like useless junk, sorting it out and excitedly picking over each piece, she didn't say so. Instead, because (although even the bartender knew I was a little nutty) I was a trusted friend to the town, we got free lunch. Arcade and Boone dug into the food with no problem, but my stomach was full of too many butterflies to touch anything.

On the dusty wooden table, we arranged the items from the bag neatly, in little stacks. There were four books; all old, pre-War, but painstakingly glued together by hand. Though they were in poor condition, the titles were all legible: Oliver Twist, Great Expectations, A Little Princess, and Heidi. I had no idea what any of them were. Both men asked me if I remembered reading them, and I was forced to slowly shake my head. Nothing stirred. At my expression, Arcade had responded, "Tempus fugit, non autem memoria." Though I smiled at his hopefulness (he was intent on teaching me fluent Latin), Boone, not understanding and associating the old language with Caesar's Legion, shifted restlessly.

Also laid out on the table was a plain wooden hairbrush, a drawstring bag containing several hundred caps, a curiously beautiful ring made of green and white beads, an unfruitful notebook (only several meaningless doodles adorned the pages) a small receipt booklet of Mojave Express deliveries and pickups, a matchbook, mentats, a small antique compact mirror, a rolled up computer magazine, an ammunition tin (filled with 10mm shells) and a strangely large collection of pens.

There were three additional items in the bag, and these stood out by far as the most "key" …. one was ironically a key. Another was a metal-encased holodisk with no label or title. The last was something that I hadn't put down since seeing it: a picture of me and Liam. This last artifact was stunning to all three of us, simply because of how different I looked.

The boy was standing, knee deep in snow. I knelt by him, both hands on his shoulders, leaning over so that we both fit into the picture. I was wearing the ear muffs I told Boone about what seemed like years ago. My hair was unbelievably long, down as I never wore it and hitting my elbows. Though it was snowing, I wore a dress and dark overcoat, a scarf wrapped around my neck, the outfit being completed with stockings and furry boots that were all but hidden in the thick white snow.

"Strange to see you without that damn beret," Arcade had said from the other side of the booth, his jests now only causing Boone to glare for several seconds, instead of several minutes.

The broad-shouldered man sat nearest the window, to my right. Rex was somewhere underneath us, gnawing on the Bighorner bone Trudy insisted on gifting him. As we hunched over the picture, Boone's arm had moved to grip the back of the booth seat, looking in a way as though his arm was around me. I wondered if he even noticed, or if he had used the fact that I chose to sit next to him instead of Arcade against the other blond, flaunting. Then again, he probably just found the stretching of his rifle arm relaxing, and I was overreacting. And annoyed that I was even thinking thoughts of why Boone did what he did when I was confronted with things so much more important, I turned my focus away.

Liam wore earmuffs and a hat, his sprite-like face barely visible beneath all the layers. He was dressed for heavy snow as well, and both of us were smiling brightly. Taking the picture out of its little metal frame, I discovered that there was writing on the back. In very neat letters, someone had written, "Hope all is well. Remembering Liam, -Anna and Ronald K."

Arcade had his own notepad out, and wrote down "Ronald, Anna, Liam K." He scribbled more notes that I couldn't read, as they were in Latin. As I looked away from the table and turned the picture over and over, Boone reached for something. I slapped the top of his hand.

"My stuff."

"Don't do that."

"I have stuff!"

Still with his arm nonchalantly around the back of the booth, Boone raised an eyebrow.

"Yes indeed, you do," Arcade remarked, waving the holodisk. "This must have been very important to you, that it was so well-protected. Whatever is on it is I feel, invaluable."

"And unreachable," Arcade growled from the saloon's terminal. I slouched against a wall, Boone leaning arms crossed against the doorway. "The code on this is far too advanced. It's been encrypted as far as I can see, over a thousand times. If I tried to break the code I think it would melt this computer. Metaphorically, of course," he added, pushing up his glasses. "You were a natural with computer science before your little friend Benny, it seems. The one person who may know what to do with this is Emily, back at the Fort. I don't want to risk it attempting here, unless by some miracle you recall the-"

"I have no idea what might be on that thing, but if Emily can find out, then that's where we need to be." Shouldering my new bag, I realized that I missed Vegas anyway. The lights, the crowds, the drunken gambling with Arcade. Besides, not one to run away from problems, I figured it was time to settle a score with Mr. House anyway.

"Home, here we come," said Arcade briskly, ejecting the holodisk and putting it back in the hard metal case.

Home, I thought. Where is home...

"Home," Boone echoed, and I looked sharply at him. He had a strange, forlorn look in his eyes, indicating if I knew him at all, that he was thinking the same thing I was.

"Ah, what the hell," Arcade said, dropping the notepad and re-situating himself on his pile of sleeping equipment. On an unmarked spot of land in the Mojave we camped, returning to New Vegas. It was dark, and by the light of the campfire Boone, Arcade and I each had one of my old pre-War books in hand, reading. Arcade had taken Oliver Twist, I had Heidi, and Boone chose Great Expectations.

"Sure you don't want to read this one?" Arcade had asked minutes earlier, waving A Little Princess in Boone's face. Boone had responded by rolling his eyes and jamming his back up against a rather uncomfortable-looking rock, forgoing the blankets and bedroll, grabbing the book. I sat cross-legged by Rex, who slept, not worried about literature or princesses.

When we'd first curled up with the books, Arcade insisted on taking out his notepad and jotting down notes about the story, certain the plot or themes would come into play in discovering my past. The 'what the hell' he uttered was his defeat of being studious. Like a true bookworm, he'd piled on the blankets and now sat snug and cozy with Oliver Twist.

With the three of us having our noses stuck in the books, not a sound could be heard but the crackling of the fire. I looked up from the first chapter of Heidi, first to Arcade, whose eyes scanned over the old typefont impossibly fast, then to Boone a few feet away, who was holding the book up to his nose. As I looked, he squinted, widened his eyes, rubbed his temple, then held the book very far away, stretching out his arms. I had been so enraptured in starting my story I forgot that Boone's vision didn't allow him the luxury of reading.

I tucked Heidi away, scooting over by Boone, and held out my hand for the book. He looked at me angrily for a moment (I was in his bubble) but I just smiled at him, hoping that I looked reassuring. He glanced from my open hand to the book, then back to me, realizing my offer, and slowly handed the book over.

"I got to there," he said tightly, pointing at the second paragraph of the page. I nodded, trailing my eyes down to his finger mark, then Boone settled against the rock, his eyes trained on me. Facing him, I read aloud, "Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea.

Camp McCarran was only a day shy of Vegas, a day closer to "home" as Arcade had called it. The surrounding area was thick with Fiends, but they kept their distance as we warily crossed the ruins to the fort. I had hoped that in addition to buying supplies for the Followers (as they selflessly housed me up for the drunken month I spent recovering in Arcade's tent) I could discuss where NCR stood on the Hoover Dam matter. Traveling through the desert you get a lot of opinions, which is fine, but I prefer to form my own opinions instead of blindly agreeing with others.

So we entered, unpacked, and ate a modest dinner with some of the NCR troopers. The First Recon unit were stationed there as well. Boone remained oddly silent to them, though. If there was one group of people I would expect him to open up slightly around, it was the red berets. However, my sniper seemed more thoughtful than usual while being in the camp, something I left him to. At dinner, the Captain went into more detail about the Fiend problem, mentioning several more-than-nasty wrongdoers. Violet, Cook-Cook, and Driver Nephi sounded like nuisances who had caused chaos, but as usual, I wasn't afraid of the thought of going after them. Boone and Arcade were not foriegn to the idea either, so we struck up a deal; we would spend our final night resting in the comfort of the camp on NCR beds, then sometime in the early morning, go dispose of the hated Fiends.

I pulled Sterling aside halfway through the meal to speak with him more about Hoover Dam, and we retreated to his barrack just as dusk settled. "Take a seat," he motioned toward the ruined couch, and as I prepared to sit and talk, a familiar piercing barking sounded from nearby. Peering out of the tent, I saw that one of the NCR Rangers had entered from the Wasteland. As the large camp doors opened, Rex bolted out.

"Shit," I heard Boone curse from the dinner table nearby. He stood and jogged out. The Ranger looked curiously after the dog, and another First Recon sniper piped up, "Do you want me to step out with you to get him?"

"No, should only take a second," Boone replied. "He probably saw a rat. I'll be right back."

I stared out into the gathering darkness, and behind me Sterling muttered, "Coulda' been he seen a rat, or coulda' been he seen one of Violet's dogs."

I turned to the other man. "Rex will come to Boone if he calls." The uncertainty was plain in my voice, for he raised an eyebrow and said, "We can continue our conversation after you make sure."

"Thanks, I'll be right back," I said, muttering silently in my head about how I was going to tell Boone what a jackass he was for leaving the safety of the camp with so many Fiends outside. Especially at night. As I approached the door, Corporal Betsy jogged up to me, grabbing my shoulder.

"Wait," she said, holding her rifle. "I was just up in one of the nests, and saw that dog of your beeline it for Cook-Cook's hideout. He's toast."

"I can't just...Boone went after him!" Fiend or no Fiend. Try and stop me from saving my dog and my sniper. Try. I opened the door, running out and looking madly around. Distantly I heard Rex's bark, and two of the First Recon snipers appeared at my side. Betsy opened the door to McCarran.

"Let's go. I've got cover from the towers, they're going to keep an eye on us. This is the way-"

From the ruins came a high pitched scream, a wail of horror. It was female. Utterly confused, I shouldered my own rifle and ran blindly into the night as the voice cried, "Help! PLEASE!"

The maze of once-buildings was impossible to navigate, and I was certain at any moment Violet's dogs would come tearing around a corner. Though the snipers were fit, I was by far the fastest runner, heading toward what I hoped was the sound. Tactical -minded, the silent group fanned out around me. Then gunshots rang out in the night, from the same direction as the screams.

"Boone!" I shouted, recognizing the sound. Boone had fired, multiple times, something that in itself alarmed me. Not one to waste bullets, he wasn't at sniping range for anything in this maze. Even as I skidded around a corner, certain I was almost within distance, I heard Rex's barks and growls as he fought madly with someone or something. Then a yelp, and the dog too was silent.

Betsy was parallel to me, and rounded on the hideout just as I did. The sight was terrible; Boone was laying face down on the pavement, his rifle feet away, his beret off. Near him and protecting him when he got hit, Rex lay on his side, unmoving. A naked girl, on her knees, jumped out of my way as I stepped over, clutching at a piece of fabric as she moved behind Boone, and in the midst of all the chaos stood a heavily armored man who was just re-shouldering his incinerator.

Boone shoved the girl back behind him so roughly that she landed on her butt, but at least she was saved from the blazing heat of Cook-cook's burner. Boone wasn't so lucky; rearing back, the monster swung the machine at him, the metal connecting with Boone's head. He flew backwards over a concrete barrier, his beret flying off, hearing the scream of the girl behind him. Hearing Rex's infuriated growling, Boone knew the dog was attacking. Despite being almost knocked unconscious the sniper righted himself, Cook-cook dropping the incinerator and brandishing something from his pocket. Boone fired over and over, seeing his bullets tear through the other's armor. As the heavy arm flew down for the last blow it would ever give anyone, Boone tried to dodge; it was no good. Cook-cook's butcher knife landed in his side, embedding itself. Now the Fiend reeled backwards, fatigued and bleeding from his gunshot wounds, and Boone looked down oddly at the knife.

It stuck out of his side, strange. His head spun and he suddenly wanted the Courier to be there very badly. Seeing the downed Rex, Boone grabbed the handle of the knife and pulled it out forcefully. It clanged to the ground as he lost consciousness, the gray cement swirling into black in front of him.

I could only look down at Boone in horror; no gunshot wounds were visible through his shirt. The Fiend I knew must be Cook-Cook wore thick armor, but Boone had gotten him; I saw the wounds through his metal breastplate. Before I could even react, the wounded Cook-Cook was facing an enraged Betsy. She leapt deftly over the incinerator, kicking his metal helmet, downing the shot man. Once he fell heavily (VERY heavily, might I say) on his back, she aimed the rifle down, sticking the long skinny barrel through the thin visor on his helmet. Betsy shot twice, blood and brain matter exploding within the helmet, and I immediately rushed to Boone's side.

The girl who clutched her clothing pathetically hovered. Covering herself, she said, "He...the...metal...he was raping me, and he..." pointing to Boone, "...j-jumping in front of him and shoo-"

"How did he get knocked out?" I demanded, my voice far sterner than it should've been with the poor girl.

"He just...wham...he hit him with the, the...flame...raised it and hit him and then he...the man who saved me...rushed him and shot...and he stabbed-"

"Stabbed?!" Boone didn't carry a knife. At least, not one that he'd ever use to attack someone with.

She pointed to Boone; as the other snipers rounded in I pulled Boone by his shoulder, forcing him to turn onto his side. He was no lightweight, his large arms hanging loosely at his sides. His eyes were closed.

"No..." I said, horrified, seeing the crimson soaking through his shirt. "No...Boone!"

"Get him back to camp, NOW!" Betsy shouted in a strained, choked voice, pointing to the sniper on the ground. The girl who still wore no clothes meekly handed me Boone's beret from where it had fallen to the ground. I was still stooped over him, and continued to shout his name. He always responded when you yelled at him. Boone was the lightest sleeper I'd ever met. His eyes were closed and he was on the ground and the world seemed very small.

"Boone, please wake up," I pleaded, pressing on his shoulders, shaking him slightly. "Boone, Craig!"

Two men helped the victim to her feet; two others arduously picked up my heavy unconscious cyber-dog. At the word Craig, Boone's eyes flickered, and he muttered, reaching up with one hand, "Carla?"

I grabbed the hand and pulled it to my face. "Yes, yes it's Carla," I said hysterically. "Everything's going to be fine, you're going to be okay, just...hang on please."

"Carla?" His small voice was beseeching. Asking me for something. I threw myself onto Boone, hugging him as though I'd never see him.

"Yes?" I whispered through tears.

"Where's..." And, talking to his dead wife, Craig Boone asked for me.

I stood numbly by as the snipers took Boone away from me. It took three men to lift him, supporting his head and neck, not paying attention to the seeping knife wound that would wind up staining their NCR uniforms. It took two more to lift Rex, and the other First Recon members stepped in to cover on all sides as we hastily ran back to the camp. Betsy ran ahead with a burst of speed, throwing open the door and yelling for a medic. Two soldiers also flanked the still-nude girl, whose dress was wrapped around her torso, barely covering her from all sides.

I trailed behind, jogging slowly, not wanting to run ahead of Boone. When we bypassed the ruins and made it to the camp without Fiend intervention I was surprised and angered; they'd be crazy to fuck with a large group such as ourselves, especially with me on the warpath. But seeing as they were crazy, I was disappointed.

As we rushed in, two snipers moving to push the gate closed, several medics and Arcade came running. The tall blonde's eyes widened impossibly at the sight, and though he was one to downplay his skills as a doctor, he immediately moved in to care for Boone. My gaze went from the huddled NCR snipers who carried him to a tent, down to the dusty ground where a trail of Boone's blood settled. My eyes followed it blankly, then I seemed to be shoved by some inner force, my feet dragging forward as I entered the dreaded tent.

Boone was on a hospital bed, the medics already going to work. It seemed Arcade had put himself in charge, for he was the one babbling instructions and snapping his fingers, asking for supplies. The two medics seemed at least fairly trained and comfortable, not minding that the lanky man in a white coat took over and barked orders at them in a way I'd never seen Arcade rage. Still in a state of shock, and forgotten, I slouched against a tent pole and watched without watching, my eyes fading over and my point of focus being some unknown dot on the horizon.

It was terrible watching something like this and not being able to DO anything. It didn't cross my mind to panic now as I'd already had my moment of weakness outside, throwing myself on the mostly-unconscious man and latching on with a vise-like grip. But now he was in better hands. No one paid a bit of attention to me at all, the officers who weren't assisting Arcade standing by hopefully. They had served with Boone at some point, knew him when he was an entirely different man; probably that man I had seen for a moment in the flicker of his hopeful eyes at seeing me alive, when he smiled at me.

Grinned like a fool, walking around like he couldn't believe his own luck. It sounded so unlike Boone I hadn't even acknowledged when the ranger said it. What I'd give for a scowl, for a "will you stop it" when I jumped across the potholes in Freeside as though they were stepping stones, for a glare of doom or a faceful of snow or...

Turning, I left the tent. Without really speaking to anyone, I walked quickly across the camp, back to the barracks where Arcade, Boone and I had set up camp for the night. Tossing my rifle onto the bed, I picked up a pistol and a machete. As I spun around to exit, Betsy stood in the doorway.

"Just where do you think you're going? Your friend in there needs you. He was asking for you just as soon as you left, until that doctor shut him up with tranquilizer."

This shocked me, because I didn't realize Boone even knew I had been there. I didn't know he was even awake. But I wasn't a doting female, I wasn't Carla, I was an enraged murder on the warpath who wouldn't be stopped. I strapped my belt on over the worn pink hoodie, the machete dangling at my thigh.

She realized my intentions and stepped in front of me, putting a hand on my shoulder. "You know I don't want to stand by while you to run out there and almost get yourself killed."

"Then help me." The bitterness in my own voice was displaced; shrugging the hand off, I headed towards the camp's entrance and exit.

Violet backed away from me, whistling. The dogs approached. Fuck my life. Forming a perfect circle, they growled mercilessly, waiting their master's call to attack. Fangs glistening, neck hair bristling, the pack was a sea of brown and stink as I stood motionless, machete raised. Now Violet tossed her head back and laughed, the flash of her teeth looking more animalistic in the moonlight than the dog pack circling their prey. One dog couldn't resist; he went for it, biting me in the calf, his huge teeth sinking down into the flesh and causing me to yell out against my will.

But not for long. With a growl that sounded inhumane in itself, I unloaded into the dog's spine, watching him fall. Another bullet whizzed past me and hit his companion. And then all hell broke loose. The dogs attacked, I holstered the pistol and started hacking away like a madman. Violet, seeing that I wasn't going to go down as easy as she'd hoped, turned tail and fled, and I yelped, "No!" and went after her, cutting down dogs in my path.

At the sound of bullets, though, I turned momentarily to see Betsy in one of the nests, her white skin and red beret barely noticeable. She had seen me turn, and waved. I didn't have time to wave back; hack and slash continued to the front of me, with backup from her and other nesters. But Betsy just knew me too well. Seeing Violet getting away, and wanting to repay me for the favor of letting her have Cook-Cook...her bullet splintered Violet's leg. The girl wailed, a screeching tone, and went down.

Once the pack was thinned, I wasted no time in swooping down on her, one final screech emitting before she was silenced permanently, and allowing me only a moment of gritty justice before I moved to search for Driver Nephi.

As I walked back to camp, I was thinking of snow. I couldn't think of Boone; the way he would close his eyes while sitting in front of the campfire, the way he never hesitated to shoulder his gun and step in front of me, the way he had led me around for two days while my body worked the Cazador venom out, restoring my vision.

Surprisingly, one of the first faces I saw when I entered McCarran was Arcade, who looked very tired and still very on edge. "There you are!" he exclaimed. "Boone's..." and now his steps paused and he looked at me, boots to beret. My calf was bloody and meaty, and in one hand I held a machete, the other hand gripping both the head of Violet and the head of Nephi. My expression looked extremely unimpressed, and Arcade finished, "...awake."

I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy killing sometimes. Some needed to die, not because they were weaker or had different views or didn't live life the same way I did. Some needed to die because they were cancerous to humanity. No one else saw what I had seen in Mr. House's monitor. Those that did had died instantly. Nobody knew how that by continuing these stupid quests for pain and heartache, these psychopaths and their thirst for blood and power were leading us down a road we so ached to get away from.

I didn't trust anyone's ability to tell right from wrong except mine.

The tent had emptied since I left earlier, everyone filing out to let a doctored-up Boone get his rest. Arcade had warned me that Rex, due to having a broken foot, was under tranquilizers so he wouldn't thrash around and damage himself further. The dog was laying on his side quietly in a full-sized hospital bed, his one dog-leg in a cast. My eyes moved past him to the dark figure on the accompanying bed.

"Boone," he was awake, and I rushed to his side. It was no coincidence a tall stool sat by the bedside and I unceremoniously plopped down onto it, drawing my wounded legs up on the footholds and leaning towards him. He was awake, laying on his back, looking very uncomfortable in general. Boone was shirtless, and a huge bandage smeared with red adorned most of his side. I didn't touch it, but stared at it momentarily, before meeting his eyes.

He looked at me strangely there in the darkness, a lantern the only flickering light falling across his face. His hands were laced over his chest, and the look was one I couldn't recognize. It wasn't a glare of doom, but it wasn't a smile, either. Possibly the medication and painkillers Arcade undoubtedly jammed into Boone was making a dazed look saunter onto his features, but the uncanny way with which he stared at me made me wish he would speak.

"I don't know how I keep coming out of these things alive," he said ruefully. His voice was thick with the doziness of medicine, and possibly the shock of trauma. It had definitely lost a note of its hardiness, snappiness. I wasn't sure what to think of that.

"Because I went out after you," I said defensively. "I need you alive."

Boone's brows raised. The world still seemed tiny to me. He was not one to be laying like this, wounded and defenseless in bed with no shirt and a bloody knife wound. He continued to raise his eyebrows and so I rambled, "How bad...is it?"

"Arcade says I'm not supposed to move for a week."

"Which means we'll be out of here in two days." I smiled even with eyes glistening full of tears, my hands folded tightly under the bottom of the stool.

"Maybe one." Boone surprised me; unlacing his hands, he reached out one long arm and put his hand on the side of my face. Not forcefully, as he'd done on the Long 15 after his hands were untied; this was the same gentle touch he used twice now, once while bandaging me, once while we were above Arcade in the canyon. To my amazement, as I sat awkwardly on the stool with my hands tucked underneath me, he retraced his fingers over my brow, cheek, lips. I had used the same touch and pattern in the dinosaur in Novac. My eyes were as wide as saucers. Whatever medicine Arcade had given Boone, I needed to find out.

"You're sad too," he responded, directly referring to my blind touch. "Whatever's in your past, you were wronged. Terribly. It may be a good thing that it's hidden."

I exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours. I felt the exact same way. But I didn't know how to respond. In his low, subdued tone Boone continued stroking my cheek, and I closed my eyes, bending forward in exhaustion and defeat, laying my head against his chest. He was warm, and I could feel his excruciatingly slow heartbeat.

Ready to just call it quits and collapse here in the warm sanctity of the desert tent, with a shirtless Boone as my pillow, I sighed and lay there in the quiet, feeling his hand as he moved it gently to my neck. Everything from tonight, the horrible scene with Cook-cook, wrecking Violet and hacking Nephi, swam in the back of my head. But I was here, with Boone. Just as my restless thoughts drifted to sleep, Boone said in an even lower voice, "Why did you answer for Carla?"

My eyes opened, but I didn't move. Speaking into his chest, I answered, "I...I just wanted to comfort you, I guess."

"You do."

You do. My eyes closed again. I didn't even mind the fact that I half-sat; I was too relieved and tired to care. I have to admit, I was shocked that this was even happening; after a hard night of Fiend destroying, I was laying my head on Boone's warm and extremely well-sculpted chest, something that had lingered in my dreams since...since when, exactly?

He fell silent and his hand stopped its slow caressing on my neck.

And there, on the stool, weary and exhausted and with the stench of blood and dog on me, my leg still dripping blood slowly, I fell asleep on Boone's chest. For the first time in weeks, no nightmares or voices plagued me. My dreams were silent.

"You're barely balancing out there. If you're not careful, you'll fall."

Boone clutched his throbbing temple with his hand, the other hand pressuring his stab wound. He shook his head; the fading screams of the Bitter Springs encampment echoed from the dream he'd just been startled out of. He told himself what he always told himself upon awakening; it was just a dream. But it hadn't been a dream, a few years ago. Back then it had been real.

Now he paused from his knelt stance to glance forward at the legs of the person speaking. Her feet were together, facing away from him. What had she just said? Something about falling? Had he fallen? Boone's loss of blood was significant. Slowly he stood. The woman had her back to him, a familiar dirty brown barely-dress covering her back and thighs. Her hair was down, she was barefoot. But the hair wasn't the golden-blond of the Courier. It was a pale, translucent blond. The Courier's locks were the afternoon sun, blinding and austere. These muslin-thin strands were instead the first meek rays of light in winter, washed out and dim. Her hair was straight, shoulder length, wispy.

"Carla?" Boone asked confusedly. His head was still killing him, so he didn't remove the palm he pressed viciously into the side of his temple. The knife had left a gaping hole that burned like all hellfire, so he continued to stoop, afraid to stand for fear of more pain. "Am I dead?"

"You can't risk falling, Craig Boone." She had only called him that when she was being very serious, and Boone toyed with the idea that he really was dead. If so, that was fortunate. He only wished the severe headache would stop; he felt as though he might explode. "Not now, and not ever."

"Carla..." There was so much he wanted to say, and he hadn't stared at the back of her head since that fateful day, so long ago. He wanted her to turn around, wanted everything to be the way it was back then. Would it, now? If he was dead, he supposed seeing Carla immediately was a good sign. Then again, she wasn't looking at him. Was she mad? She had every right to be. As though she knew what he was thinking, as she always had in life, Carla replied, not moving, "Thank you for what you did."

"What I did?"

"You saved me."

"I didn't-"

"You did." That tone of hers always made him stop. It was the tone that said she won the argument. She wore a slaver's dress, the same thing she was wearing when Boone tracked her down. Risking pain, he dropped his hand from his temple and stood to full height, towering over the petite woman. Now he put a hand on her shoulder, intending to turn her to him. But Carla remained stony. She seemed frozen. Around her, around everything, there was only white.

He squeezed her shoulder, and Carla said, "You did everything you could for me, Craig. But you are responsible for someone so important now, someone who can save half the world, free so many people. You can redeem yourself by helping her."

Redeem? There was no redemption for him, especially now that he was dead. As usual, Boone had no words. He didn't know how to express anything, all he wanted to do was apologize over and over until the end of time to this woman for what he'd done. Not just to her, but to countless people. People who deserved redemption, deserved peace. Again, reading his thoughts, Carla spoke in her usual harsh, clipped tone.

"Peace... Oliver Twist, page 425."

"What?"

Instantly he was plunged into darkness.

The Courier was in a low-ceiling shack. It was long but narrow, and there wasn't much light except the warm lighting from the fire that blazed on one end of the structure. The windows had curtains; they were drawn tightly shut. Oddly, she realized that this place was decorated for something. Streamers, colored banners adorned the walls. But in the darkness, where she was having a hard time adjusting to the light, there seemed to be something foreboding about the place. Menacing, even.

She realized the feeling of uneasiness emanated from the open door opposite the fire. Outside, the snow was a dark blue color, because moonlight filtered through the trees and illuminated it strangely. Wind howled out there in the frigid cold, and the Courier realized she wanted to go nowhere near the door. She had to close it though. Out there in the darkness, something lurked. Something hideous.

She pulled her coat tight around her and instinctively her hand dropped, reaching for her holster. To her great surprise, nothing was there. The Courier looked down quickly; she ALWAYS had a sidearm on her belt. But there was no belt, no familiar pink hoodie. Instead, she realized she was wearing a dress, tall snow boots, leggings. Her coat and the dress brushed her knees. Stunned at this choice of attire, the girl continued to stare at herself. Then the door creaked, and her attention was brought back up to the rectangle exposing her to the horror without.

The wind continued to howl. It was early morning; she could sense it. The sun had hours to go, and she could not stand here with the wind slamming the metal door into the outer wall. The Courier plucked up her courage, and with very heavy steps, crossed the ten feet of space, stepping outside to grab the flyaway door. As she leaned out into the snow, even the wind died down. The Courier paused, questioning her fear. What was outside? Now she took two more steps into the snow, realizing that her little half-moon structure was sitting on the edge of a mountain. By her, a steep white trail free of trees and extending ten feet ran up the course of the mountain. All around were thick, huge evergreen trees. They were blanketed in the odd blue snow. And everything was silent.

She exhaled, her breath fogging out around her. Touching her hands to her ears, the Courier saw the earmuffs she'd described to Boone, and pulled them off. Now in her hands, she stared incredulously at them. For a moment, her fear dissipated as she turned the powder-blue muffs over and over. Then she paused, hearing a rustling in the trees opposite the trail. Moonlight flowed down the steep mountainside, but there was nothing to see in the forest.

Everything, every instinct the girl had, told her to run back inside and slam the door. But something else, some sorrowful Boone-like part of her existence told her it was no good. There was nothing to prevent whatever was about to happen. She turned her gaze upward, looking around her at the towering sea of trees, the glistening stars that twinkled behind them. Though she didn't know it, only felt it, the Courier sensed she'd spent many nights out with a telescope watching the heavens.

Something rushed from the forest opposite the trail, heavy footfalls silent on the forgiving snow. It was a black, tall silhouette, human. She wasted no time; heart jumping, skipping a beat, the Courier fled inside, pulling the door shut. He was heading straight for them. Quickly finding the lock, and then three more, and still another bolt-why was this door so secure?-she fastened them all, stepping away and reaching up on a shelf where a shotgun lay. How she knew where it was immediately, the Courier wasn't sure. But it was loaded and ready to go.

Something thudded from the other side. Her breath was silent, and the heavy wind which had risen again now moaned, causing the metal shack to creak and pop. Another thud, and this time a sliver of light showed through. The shotgun was pushed into her shoulder as she lifted it, ready to defend herself. From outside, the shadow moved, and one crazed eye settled itself into the nook. It looked all around crazily, rolling in no pattern, settling on her. Then it disappeared, the intruder opting to pick back up his weapon and beat in the door.

The door thudded; the thin metal caved. Now with the larger hole in the tin, she realized that the man had an axe. The Fire Man. At such a distance, she could litter him with the gun. Firing, then twice more, the man on the outside seemed to ignore the bullets and continued his assault.

Near the fire, a group of people were huddled. Liam stepped from them, and the Courier jumped at realizing how many there were inside. Speaking up, he said, "Shooting won't do any good."

"Why not!" Liam had become her advisor from the past. She urgently awaited his reply. Something shattered; it was a window. Inside flew a molotav cocktail, something the Courier had often employed with empty Nuka-cola bottles while traversing the Wasteland. It burst inside, the building erupting into flame. No one but her seemed to notice, or react to this. As the Courier lifted her arm to shield her face from the liquid heat, the people huddled near the fire like ghosts. Undaunted by the flames that had exploded in front of him, Liam shrugged. Now he was a wisp behind the wall of fire, where the girl couldn't get to him.

The door splintered open, the large shadow overtaking the doorway. The Courier had her back to the shadow, still staring at Liam.

"Nothing did any good."

Now the hulking man bore down on the girl and, dropping her useless gun, she screamed.

Julie Farkas had actually hugged me when she saw us lug in the bags of medical and food supplies I bought from the NCR. I told her to thank Arcade for being a statistics master while being sloppily drunk, and she looked at me strangely. After the brief visit, the four of us made another stop; the King's headquarters. Still indebted to him for helping me get back on my feet, I was eager to help if he had any issues. The white-suited man informed me that things were going well, better than ever thanks to my "honorable, peaceful efforts." He seemed happy to see me not passed out on his bed in Legion attire, and commented thus, giving me a wink which made me blush, Arcade grin, and Boone glare.

Then it was back onto the Strip, where we decided to stop by the Tops first. I wanted to hear if there had been any news of Benny, as well as pay a visit to Yes Man. The robot flattered me and irritated me at the same time. I knew Boone wouldn't be a fan, but Yes Man was probably the most invaluable source of information we had concerning the fate of New Vegas. Once inside, an unfamiliar man asked us to check our weapons. We did so, the strange man looking at mine and Boone's berets. Suddenly, he leaned over the counter.

"Are you the one who has access to the Lucky 38?" he whispered to me.

"Who's asking?" Boone paused in handing over his pistol.

The man fished through his pocket, then pulled out two pieces of paper. "This is from the head of the Chairmen."

Annoyed, I took the papers. "Yeah, where are the Chairmen, by the way? I don't see anyone in here that looks like-"

"They vanished!" he said excitedly. "They packed up and left, gave the casino to me and my associates. Seemed in a hurry, and I was in the business. Sold this place to me cheap. But I promised I'd give this to you first hand. Promised a reward if I could prove you got it."

I could only imagine by who. Arcade's eyebrow arched dubiously, and Boone's nostrils flared. Diplomatically I said, pocketing the papers, "Ask Benny how it feels to be off the T. He'll know what you mean."

"Off the tea? Don't get it. Like-"

"Benny will know what you mean."

"You sure?"

We turned away from the counter, and Rex wagged his tail hopefully.

"He'll know."

Although he said nothing, I knew Boone knew precisely what I was referring to as well. Through his scope, the capital T of the cross Benny had hung on would've been visible enough. As we made our way past the milling gamblers, en route to Benny's old suite, (which I still had the key to) he glanced at me but said nothing.

"Oh, wow! You're so smart, keeping the Chip from him like that. He'll never have a way to use the Mark II upgrade if it's not in the system." Possibly the only part more delightful than Yes Man himself was Boone's murderous look. We sat against the wall, engaging the robot in conversation.

Mr. House had been on the hunt for me while I journeyed to Goodsprings, which is why Victor immediately rounded on us upon sight. If my friends and I stepped back into the Lucky 38 there was going to be hell to pay. Yes Man, assuming I like Benny wanted the strip for myself, had informed me he could upload his own software to Mr. House's network...assuming Mr. House was out of the way. The flattering robot didn't seem to know exactly how Mr. House was alive, but I had spied the hidden area behind the terminal in his penthouse. I had the faintest idea that he may have been back there.

During a lull in the question and answer round, Arcade asked me, "Do you want the Strip?"

"You'd make such a good leader," Yes Man doted.

"I'm not sure. That much power..." I didn't know if I could handle it. But I did love Vegas, wanted to keep it independent.

"Oh yes, it's so much power. What a load of stress!" Yes Man was blown away.

"But one thing is for sure. Mr. House has lost it. You should've heard him scream and growl when I refused the chip." I shook my head.

"He'd been waiting on it for a few centuries," Boone mused, "Seeing it slip out of his hands so fast probably threw him off the deep end."

"Oh my! He is certainly crazy."

"If you don't shut up I'm going to punch you right in your-"

I elbowed Boone. "He's helping us, at least." Although I had barely nudged him, and on the side opposite of his still-tender wound, the sniper still gave me one of the nastiest looks ever seen. I couldn't help but smile back; Boone's broody nature was becoming something I adored. Once he had fallen outside of McCarran I knew I'd be happy to see him looking at me again, even if that look was a glare of doom. This one most certainly was. It wasn't getting better with my grin. I turned my smile back to Yes Man.

"He has to be stopped. If he gets that Chip, Vegas will have a tyrant with a turreted casino and missile-launching robots. Although it sounds fun and colorful, I'm betting the fun will stop in about two minutes." Arcade agreed.

"Less than that, even!" Yes Man responded jovially, ignoring Boone.

"But then what do we do?" Arcade asked, running a hand through his hair. "As crazy as he is, House is a genius and an authority figure."

"Brilliant," echoed Yes Man.

I shook my head, stumped. My thoughts were running back to the Lucky 38. I loved the casino, already thought of it as mine. Possibly this was due to the fact that everyone admired me for having the ability to go inside the building. Possibly because it was in much nicer condition than many places I slept. Possibly I was as power-hungry as Mr. House.

"We'll get rid of him tonight," I decided, and the men on each side of me nodded in grim agreement.

"It's only 6pm," Arcade noted by way of his wristwatch, one he'd pieced together himself. "What do we do in the meantime?"

I raised my eyebrows. "We're in Vegas, what do you think we do in the meantime?"

Boone and Arcade took on the task of storing some of our haul in Benny's room. It was the safest place next to the Lucky 38, which wasn't at the moment particularly safe. Arcade insisted on redressing Boone's bandages, and so Boone grumpily sat on the bed, shirtless, letting the doctor do his work.

I sat on the other end of the bed, withdrawing my letter while Arcade complained that Boone was moving too much, undoing the stitches he would now have to retouch. Unfolding the papers as Boone's string of cursewords began, I realized one was a document. A property deed, courtesy of Mr. House, signed by the NCR Embassy in New Vegas. The property deed was to the Tops Casino.

The other paper was a letter.

Baby,

A man's gotta make his way somehow. I've relocated with my enterprise to a place where you and Vegas don't have to rub shoulders. I heard from others, same as you, House had it in for my boys. So we split, nice and easy. The Tops is in good hands, don't worry about all of that. I took all of what the Chairmen earned but yanno it's a little hard to manage a casino when you're not in it, so the rest from here on out is all yours. And the Tops knows how to earn her keep. As soon as I've gotten word that you got my letter, I'll fill Jacob in. That's the new management team. Do me a favor baby and don't come lookin' for me to smoke me outta here, startin' over ain't easy. Although I still don't feel we're even, a casino for a life is a pretty shitty deal, but it's somethin, yeah?

Enjoy the Tops pussycat. Your Ben Man.

"FUUUCK!" from Boone, beside me.

Everyone had folded, even Arcade. While we waited with bated breath, the last better shook his head, and forfeited to Boone. My jaw dropped as Boone drunkenly scooped the mountain of chips toward him.

"Wait, what was your hand?" One player asked. Boone paused, narrowing his eyes, and then said, "Oh."

He threw down a pair of two's.

Arcade erupted into laughter, I shook my head slowly with a dumbfounded smile. The other gamblers sighed, the early folders laughing with Arcade for having gotten out easy. Again, a crowd had formed, most buying our drinks in the hopes that someone would win the pot if Arcade or Boone got drunk enough. And while Arcade was performing at his peak it appeared Boone could out-poker him. How, we still weren't sure. The blond had rambled on about chance and statistics some more, while Boone's shrewd glare kept the other players on their toes, ready to rise to his challenge.

In the crowd, a well-dressed woman with blood red lipstick put her hands on Boone's shoulders, rubbing them through the thin fabric of his shirt. Boone's eyebrows disappeared into his beret at this, and she said in a sultry voice, "It's no wonder he keeps winning, with a pokerface like that." Now she bent down and smiled at Boone, blowing him a kiss and shimmying her shoulders. Boone, drunk, gave her a confused look. The other watchers cat-called and whistled.

"Hey." Arcade poked me. "Hey. Hey. Heeeeeeey." Everyone else had placed bets.
My hands were in my lap, and I was staring at this woman with a glare of doom that even Boone could never replicate to its full extent. Murder was in my eyes.

"Heyyyyyyy," Arcade grabbed my shoulder, shaking it. Boone continued to stare at the woman, who winked at him, several more shouts of "ohhhh!" and "whoop!" echoing through the crowd. I wanted to smash her face with a Super Sledge. Taking Boone's drunk stare as an invitation, she continued in that low tone, "Who are you here with, sugar? Need me to take you off their hands?"

"NO." I said forcefully, throwing my chips into the betting pile, not even looking at them. She turned, and a roar of "ooooOOOOooooo." Arcade's head pivoted to the side, realizing what was going on. He looked from Boone to the girl, and then snapped his fingers. It broke Boone's trance and he narrowed his eyes at Arcade, who motioned his head towards me. I of course, was focused only on Miss Red Lips. "He's perfectly happy in my hands."

"Is that so?" she asked sweetly, jutting out her hip and putting her arms akimbo. She eyed me up and down; I was still in my hoodie and beret, hair up and face plain. Her eyes were smoky, lips crimson, face powdered, hair smooth. The dress she wore was blood red and very form-fitting. The dealer paused in his shuffling to listen. "It doesn't look like a dirty little thing like you can handle a big strong man like this."

Boone was now engaged, thanks to Arcade's nudging. He piped up in his clipped voice, "She 'handles' me better than you ever could, you could probably learn a thing or two from her."

"And myyyy bet is she's about to punch the hooker lipstick off your mouth if you don't leave," Arcade said, leaning lazily forward. My glare hadn't reduced in intensity, and the woman took a step back, appalled. Boone swiveled in his seat to look at her, almost toppling over from intoxication. With a disgusted scoff and vulgar gesture, she spun on her heel and disappeared into the crowd, who were laughing uproariously.

"Show us how you handle the NCR guy!" someone piped up.

"Lucky bastard," laughed another.

"You should've taken that whore out!"

"Back to the game," the dealer said loudly, humored. As he fluttered the cards, one of the table muttered, "if that guy beats me with another three of a kind..."

My anger over the woman had mostly dissipated, and I wrung my hands to loosen the tension, making it a point to not look at Boone.

Only a few hours remained until we were going to assault the Lucky 38. We were ready, and in those few hours, reality would hit. But for now, we were all content to cut loose in the casino I now owned, though I hadn't informed Boone or Arcade of this. As the laughs of the crowd continued, recalling the situation, the sniper slid a hand under the table to my knee, squeezing it reassuringly. Surprised, I turned to him.

"Don't let shit like that bother you," he muttered.

I raised an eyebrow. "You are saying you would turn down a-"

"Yes." He let his hand fall, then brought it back on the table to hold his cards.

I smiled at Boone as he squinted to see the numbers and suits, his serious stare now fully focused on the rectangles of paper.

"More significant ideas are -hic- formed when your mind finds synergies...synergies, -hic- between your less significant ideas in an ongoing fractal motion." Arcade argued as we walked up the lighted steps. All three of us experienced some vertigo due to the mass amount of alcohol in our systems, and Arcade leaned against me, and I in turn leaned against Boone, who flailed a little. Rex tilted his head at our lack of ability.

"Ready to blast some Securitrons, Boone?" I was hanging onto him shamelessly. He wasn't stopping me.

"It just won't be the same if it isn't Biscuit," he said ruefully, and I wasn't sure if he was serious or not. I stepped away as we clumsily withdrew our weapons, doing a poor job of steadying ourselves.

Arcade was still going. "... where anything imaginable will mostly be -hic- based on your current attributes and -oh, we're drawing guns, right- skills. This is a rather..." yawn "...ineffective way to visualize something as it limits your..."

We stepped into the dark casino. The Securitrons at the doorway turned, and we all raised the weapons.

"Say hi to biscuit for us!" Arcade sang as he opened fire.

Arcade fell onto the bed in the Presidential suite. "We should really get those holodiscs over to-hic-what's her name? What is her name..."

"Hang on, there's something I wanted to see." Along with the metal encased encrypted discs, I pulled out the ones I had saved from Mr. House's network. The destruction of Vegas was on file on it. The other file was titled "Pre-War Interview," and I decided before running into the control room guns blazing, we should watch it. Maybe this was a good idea, maybe I was still really drunk. I sat at the desk and inserted the disc. My hope was that since it was a file of Mr. House's own uploading, he wouldn't notice the file being played. And if he did, what was he going to do? Send more Mark I robots?

As I sat, Boone walked to a large mirror hanging by my head. He scowled at himself. "What did that girl mean, poker face? I look like this all the time."
"We know," Arcade and I said simultaneously. His scowl deepened. He adjusted his beret as I opened the file.

"Come watch."

The image turned from black to a clean, simple room. An audience was sitting in front of a stage. It seemed to be a clip from a show of some sort. My nose was almost glued to the screen, as was Arcade's. I hadn't even seen him get off the bed. We were drinking in all the pre-War imagery as the screen moved to the stage, where an amiable looking man sat in a comfortable chair.

"Look at everything," Arcade mumbled. "Brilliant."

The recording device had moved in on the man, who was now speaking. He wore a white suit, had light, slicked-back hair, and a big toothy smile.

"There's supposed to be sound," Arcade mused as the man continued moving his mouth on the monitor. "Hmm...seems there may be a short..." Genius even when plastered, my friend began pushing buttons, trying different combinations to trigger the sound. From behind us, Boone leaned forward and planted a heavy fist on top of the monitor. When it crashed, the sound magically came to life. Though Arcade turned to stare at Boone, both the sniper and I were listening to the man onscreen now.

"...very special guest, please give a warm welcome, Mr. Robert House!"

He walked dazzlingly onto the screen amid applause from the audience we couldn't see. Dressed in an expensive but outdated suit, he moved to the empty chair facing the light-haired man. Whatever program was used to record was highly capable as it moved from Mr. House to the other man whenever one spoke. It zoomed in, and we listened.

"So, you've been with RobCo for...how many years now?"
"Twelve."
"As founder. The worldwide leader in electronics. You've helped businesses, consumers, and even the military with these creations."
Mr. House nodded, looking quite pleased with himself. "It doesn't seem like there's any way to slow you down," the man smiled. He seemed enchanted with the rich businessman. "I think most of us have heard about the work being done in vaults, and many of us would agree that RobCo rivals Poseiden in terms of successful energy endeavors. What would you say your biggest achievement to date is?"
Mr. House dove right in. "Well, that depends on whether you mean personal or business. For business, I consider RobCo in full as my greatest accomplishment. Every piece of data collected, every program I've constructed, wraps into the entire agenda." In a strange, old-fashioned way, he was very handsome. "RobCo wouldn't be anything without the effort I put into it. I can't pick and choose. From a personal standpoint I would credit myself with going to school despite being an orphan as a great achievement. It's not a very common occurrence."

"Sure is fond of himself, isn't he?" Boone remarked, leaning forward. His arm was draped over the back of my chair. Arcade, at my side, slid a chair over for himself. He was shaking his head already at Mr. House.

"I see, great! You're definitely a model to aspiring entrepreneurs across the globe. Any new plans, developments as far as RobCo goes?"

Mr. House eyed him, smiling mischievously, and the audience laughed. The interviewer laughed as well.

"How about this," he reconstructed, "Any that you can tell us about?"

House laughed. "Well, there is one currently undergoing development. We call it a PIP."

"PIP?"

"It stands for Personal Information Processor." At the other man's 'ahhh' House complimented himself, "A name of my own, of course. We're going to develop these for future use. They do a wide variety of things for the user, serving as a radio, communications device, personal stats reader..." he waved his hand. "You name it, the PIP will do it. That is, once it goes on the market. As I said, it's in very early development at this time. I expect it to be a best-seller."

"Oh, very good! I'm sure once they're out we'll all go and get one. Can't wait."

"It's uncanny," Boone said with a sigh, resting his chin on the back of my chair. "Like an ancestor of Yes Man."

"You were recently faced with some really positive, and really negative feedback, when you agreed to help the US government produce some potentially deadly defense measures. For someone who typically has remained politically neutral, what would you have to say on this?"

"Well," Mr. House pondered, drawing up his chest and crossing his leg. "It was definitely something I had to think about. I don't do well with politics, never have. Democracy to me is a flawed system, and as I work with systems all day I try to steer clear of the ones that are so corrupt. Honestly, the possibility that a nuclear war will come soon is a very real threat, if you ask me. We're building these vaults as precautions. Tensions everywhere are strained. All you have to do is turn on the radio, or just listen to gossip for five minutes to hear, someone said this, someone's threatening that. It's like a disease all over the planet."

We were breathless.

"I think that mankind was made for more than that, definitely. I want to focus all of our energies on science and technology, but it's very hard to do that in the event that a nuclear war starts and levels us all. I suppose I agreed to help primarily to put my own mind at ease."

"So you do believe the proposition that we are nearing another war?"

"Oh yes. Assuredly." Mr. House nodded, his temple propped up with two fingers. "Perhaps the fact that RobCo is working with our government will make anyone think twice."

"You think that war will be avoided by bringing your company into it?"

"RobCo is a powerful corporation," House boasted. "I've seen what it can do, who it can help. I believe in my company, definitely."

The interviewer looked as though he'd struck a gold mine. "Certainly! RobCo backing will send a note out with it. Now, you mentioned the flaws in democracy. At this point, what do you think our other options are?"

This was what I'd been waiting for. Mr. House's eyes shone momentarily, a greedy gleam in them that sent a shiver down my spine. He blinked, and his dark, handsome face was back to normal, but I knew what I saw in his eyes. It was unmistakable.

"Oh, there are many." He dismissively waved his hand. Arcade must have caught the look too, for he scoffed loudly. "As I said, I try not to get into politics too much. I want mankind's technology, RobCo's technology, to lead us to the stars. " That charming smile enraptured the audience. House's interviewer gave him one final look of adoration said, "Well, that's it for-"

I turned off the terminal.

"Guess that's it, then?" Boone asked, standing back up.

I had the other video, the Vegas one. I didn't intend on showing it to anyone. I don't know why. I don't think I wanted anyone else to have to question their own existence, their own species, the way I had to after seeing it. I sat in the chair numbly.

"Shall we?" Arcade stood, stretching.

"No."

"What?" Boone looked at me.

"This is something I have to do alone." Finally I stood as well, brushing Boone's beret and checking behind the stitched emblem pocket for the Platinum Chip. It was still there.

Boone and Arcade were both glaring now.

"No! We're coming with you."

I stared at them pointedly, then walked out of the room unsteadily toward the elevator.

"I'll be back."

"But-"

"I hope you liked my interview," House said with a snarl as I stepped over the last Securitron and up to his unblinking image on the monitor.

"It was great," I spat, clutching my arm. A bullet from one of the damned machines had grazed my elbow. Though the gash wasn't bad, I was still intoxicated and bleeding quickly.

"What do you want?" he asked exhaustedly. He didn't seem to care that I had just killed what lay between me and him, his only method of protection. I think the fact that he was without the Platinum Chip bothered him more than impending death.

"I just want to know why," I found myself asking. "Why you insist on being a dictat-"

"I'm not a dictator," House interrupted condescendingly. "I'm a benevolent dictator."

Waving my hands in a frustrated manner, and probably because while drunk I seemed to be able to tap into my extensive pre-Benny-bullet knowledge base, I retorted, "Benevolence is subjective, especially in terms of an authoritarian governmental system! No dictatorship describes itself as malicious. Benevolence, with a missile-bearing robot army, are you kidding me?!"

"So the grunt does know some politics, brava," Mr. House snapped.

"You call Vegas yours. What happens when you die? What system do you have in place to keep this city running?"

"My AI-"

"AI! Running people by machines?"

"Machines are certainly more efficient than indecisive, uncontrollable people. Look at your Wasteland that you wallow around in. That was done by man, not machine."

"You'd like to think of yourself as a machine, I bet," my blood pressure was rising. I was even madder than I was when Boone was having his shoulders massaged in the Tops. "But." I shoved my gun into the holster. "You're just a man."

I turned away, still grabbing my bloody arm, and marched toward the room labeled "Control Room." My ears rang so loud from my own anger that I couldn't hear Mr. House's tantrum from behind me. The fact that I had been able to down all of his machines protecting the room was a testament to my gun skills when drunk. I didn't know how to feel about that.

The Control Room was less of a room and more of a strange singular corridor with one lone terminal perched on the left hand side. I withdrew my pistol cautiously, stepping on the creaking metal and trying not to let vertigo attack me; I was precariously high up, and still too drunk to think clearly. Past the terminal I realized there was some sort of...chamber. It was airtight, large and bulky. Curiously I approached it, assuming it to be a computer.

It wasn't.

When I pressed my nose to the glass I thought I was looking at a dirty skeleton, but then I jumped, understanding it was a man. He lay on his back, tubes hooked to various body parts, but I couldn't see his face. This couldn't be Mr. House. I heard rapid typing on the terminal behind me, and turned.

Boone and Arcade stood in shadow. Arcade was the one accessing the terminal.

"What are you doing?" I cried.

"Helping you finish this," Arcade replied grimly, brandishing his arm as he struck the enter key. Now behind me, the container for the...whatever it was...began to open. Startled, I jumped back, almost running over Boone in the process. Luckily, he was steadier than I, and gripped my shoulders as Arcade leaned in. As one, we watched the strange machine unfold and, as though it was some sickening dinner invitation, twist Mr. House around to face us on a plate.

The three of us were sandwiched together tightly, and it was Arcade who gave me the first shove forward. I approached the monster. A throaty, aged voice whispered from the corpse: "Why..have you...done this?"

I could only feel sorry for him as he shivered there. Mr. House's body was essentially useless. His arms were folded protectively over his chest, where his heart and lungs were attached to gleaming, silent equipment. Sparse hair littered his head and chin, and his legs had shriveled to mere sticks. The skin had a leathery look to it, and his very dead eyes rolled towards me.

Echoing what I had said earlier, although now I was near tears, I said, "You're just a man, Mr. House. Just a man."

"So much good...undone...why?"

Boone apparently hadn't lost his voice, and for once it was he who spoke while I was at a loss for words. Speaking carefully, he said, "You saved this place, we're all thankful. But it has to go back to the people now. You've had it over two hundred years." Though he probably sounded normal to most, I could hear in his voice how unnerved Boone was by this scene. I don't think he expected anything other than maybe a brain in a jar attached to some wires.

Mr. House's voice rose sadly. Even when taken out from behind his big monitor, he still wanted to maintain full control. "I'm the only hope! The world...will fall...without..."

"Mr. House, the world has already fallen, you watched it," I said wearily. "And humanity is humanity's only hope."

His weary, crestfallen eyes looked away from me. Surprised that I felt a twinge of hurt at his barely dechiperable words, he said, "I have nothing more...to say to you."

I raised my pistol, aiming for his head. It wasn't because of the alcohol that my vision was swimming.

We were riding silently down the elevator. None of us had said a word on the way out. I felt sick, and stuck my head onto Arcade's shoulder. He patted my back, muttering something about cleaning up my bloody arm, and Boone seemed to be lost in thought.

As he did when was usually jealous of others for dying, the soldier said hopefully, "At least he's at peace."

"...Wait a minute. Peace. Peace..." Now I turned and Arcade looked up. Boone was thinking impossibly hard, his eyes darting around in his head as he searched for what he wanted to say.

"What did she say?" He was admittedly still drunk, and I arched a brow.
"She?"
"Carla."

The elevator door opened, and dinged. Boone snapped his fingers. "Peace... Oliver Twist, page 425!"
"Excuse me?"
"Where's Oliver Twist?"
"It's in the bedr-"

Boone hastened out; Arcade looked at me confusedly and we both followed, running after him. The bag I now hoarded around as though it were priceless treasure was on my bed, and Boone dashed to it, pulling a book out and tossing it on the bed after reading the title.

"Hey, watch how you handle those!" I whined, channeling my previous life bookworm, even as he triumphantly pulled out Oliver Twist.

"Page 495." Boone didn't even try looking. He handed the book over. "Turn to it."

"Why?"

Arcade took the book, realizing Boone was on a tangent. He flipped through the worn-out pages.

I had been a "doodler" it appeared, for inside all the books I had written meaningless (to me, anyway) words, phrases, pictures. Lines and letters. For the moment, we were ignoring those, as they didn't seem to mean much. Though some of them were funny. However, on Page 495 I had written in very poor handwriting a sentence. I peeked over as Arcade read it aloud:

"We shall find peace. We shall hear the angels."

I finished the last sentence with him, looking back at Boone.

"... we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds."

I couldn't sleep. Even a full bottle of whiskey hadn't lulled me into a coma as I'd hoped. Above me, high in his tower, House lay dead in a sickening mockery of human longevity. Boone had mysteriously pinpointed a riveting quote in a book I had before any of this Vegas stuff ever happened. Arcade had left several minutes ago, not being able to sleep either. With him were my holodiscs from Goodsprings. He had headed down to Freeside to grab Emily, the resident computer genius, and have her assist him with the decoding process.

"If I decode it while drunk it will probably end up one of my philosophical debates, but Emily can take the wheel," Arcade said, pushing up his glasses. Boone was pouring water from the sink into Rex's bowl as I handed over the discs. Arcade kissed my forehead and stepped to the elevator. He saw the lost look in my eyes as I said, "I hope this does more good than damage."

"It will."

"I just wish I could remembe-"

"You will."

I had glanced over at Boone, as he petted Rex, not even listening to us. Boone was in his own world for the time being. Probably still thinking about Mr. House. Seeing my look, and melancholy expression, Arcade said with a nod, "Insum tum," before heading out.

In time. Had he been talking about my memory, or Boone?

I had dragged my feet back into the master bedroom.

I had an empty stare printed across my features. I supposed in the spirit of productivity I could have pulled out Heidi, or went over my own notes and drawings, or put away the deed to the Tops, or ten other things, but instead, I lay on the bed in a catatonic state. The door was open, and I heard Boone in the kitchen. Lately, my nightmares had increased in intensity, with the strange snowy area and small shack always lighting on fire. The man with the axe pursuing me. Horrific images. I could only imagine after seeing the horror that was Mr. House, that the nightmares would intensify.

Boone passed, glancing in; he obviously saw the strangeness on my face, because he put down the glass of water on a hallway cabinet and entered. My eyes didn't leave the ceiling of the room. Who the hell was psycho enough to axe their way into...wherever it was I was? Why had Mr. House sucked all of his own soul out through the quiet mystery of time in order to "benevolently dictate" New Vegas? What was Boone talking about when he said Carla had spoken to him? I had just spiraled off into some twilight zone Wasteland and did nothing but lay, arms and legs spreadeagled, on the soft warm bed.

"You okay?" So he had seen the probably crazy look.

Boone towered over me in his simple brown shirt, standing and looking down skeptically. I was too comfortable being a vegetable to answer him immediately. When I could speak, I ignored his question and asked another instead. "What are we doing?"

Boone sighed, looking to the side, and then sat on the edge of the bed. It was amazing how much more comfortable we were with one another now; comparatively to when we met, how he wouldn't even have paused to inquire about my status.

"Cleaning up, that's what," Boone replied resolutely. "What do you think we're doing?"

"I dunno."

"Think of all the people we've helped. You've helped. You travel fast, and wherever it is you go, you bring hope to the people around you. You helped me, and I didn't offer you anything but a few measly caps in return."

"Yeah."

"Stop it." The rudeness in his tone was the Boone I had first met, and the sound caused me to turn my head finally. His expression matched the tone; he was glaring at me.

Finally, I said something I hadn't anticipated ever telling Boone. Though both Boone and Arcade knew about the dreams I had, that sinister voice was one of my many secrets. I found myself spilling out suddenly, rapidly, to the sniper. How it echoed in my ears when I awoke, how it resonated even when I was walking by him or Arcade. How, worst of all, I believed it every time I heard it.

He didn't interrupt or give me any strange looks. He didn't sit closer to me or hold my hand the way Arcade did when I had burst into tears over whatever drunken rant we were on. Boone just sat and listened, unmoving. I didn't cry or get emotional, speaking instead in an intensely rapid monotone, pressing my palms over my eyes or rubbing them with fatigue. After I had finished telling my friend my secret, he sat for a moment, letting the silence settle. Then:

"I can't tell you that you'll never be alone. I could take a knife, or anything, in a lot worse spot any day from now. Any of us could. I never told Carla she'd never be alone either." He paused now, eyes moving to that Boone-area they so rarely moved to. "In fact...I always told her if anything ever happened to me...to move on."

Not what I was expecting. To be honest, I figured he would do a good job reassuring me that I wasn't alone. Boone was a strange one, though, and he was talking unlike I'd ever heard him talk. Though contemplative, he lacked a certain scale of broodiness he usually always mustered. I let him continue.

"Nothing's ever for sure out here. But you were alone when you found me, and you were doing all right. Impressed the hell out of Novac. I tracked you halfway across the desert to make sure you wouldn't be alone after that. I don't know when I'll leave you, but it'll be because I'm dead."

This sudden sentence made me jolt, moving upwards onto my elbows. I stared at the seriousness written on his entire face. Boone didn't say anything else, still staring at me intensely. Risking a possible grimace, I fell back onto the bed, laying on my back, propped up by the pillows. I held out my arms the way I always did to signal Arcade in for a hug.

He seemed to not understand my request, for he threw me a strange glance, but then scooted farther away from the edge of the bed, and leaned forward. Not waiting for him to extend his arms, I reached up and used Boone's shoulders to pull myself in, burying my head onto his neck and hugging him tightly. His arms braced him on the bed, but my bullet-in-the-head-sporadic affection had him in a vise, and Boone shifted so that he lay on the bed by me.

I was still leeched onto his hulking torso, and he was still propped up with an elbow, but now he put a hand onto my shoulder, the first time he'd ever really reacted physically toward any of my embraces. But he wasn't returning the hug; instead he pulled me back by my shoulder, my grip loosening as Boone pulled me to my back, where I lay on the pillows in that same catatonic state.

My eyes were focused on him, though, and Boone, now steadying himself with both elbows, didn't move from his position of hovering mere inches away from me. Not hugging him anymore, my hand moved forward to wrap around his neck. As I idly traced his throat with my fingertips, Boone closed his eyes, and slowly tilted his head toward me. Though still not embracing me, his hands rigidly supporting his own weight, he touched his forehead to mine and opened his eyes. We stared at each other in the darkness.

Boone didn't smile, and neither did I.

The messenger was in awe of the great structure. Even though many men were hard at work continuing to restore it, it looked amazing. He had been pointed in this direction, and was now motioned forward by a man in a white suit.

"What's your business?"

"I'm from Jacob and the Tops," the young male courier responded, flushing. This had been his first trip out of Vegas. Jacob was a good businessman, and the male hoped to make a good impression on him by delivering this message appropriately. "I'm here for Benny?"

"Benny?" The Chairman raised an eyebrow. "'Bout what, kid?"

The courier eyed his tommy gun, and said nervously, "Um...it was a...I'm not sure. Jacob said it was important. He said Benny would know-"

"Benny, Benny, Benny, he knows everythin' that guy," said a black-haired man, dressed differently than the others. He wore a checkered suit and was rapidly walking by, looking very busy. "I gotta' million things to do here, what am I knowing?"

"Are you Benny?"

"Yeah kid, what is it?" Suddenly the impatient man seemed to have an epiphany, his eyes lighting up. "Wait a tic! You from Vegas? From Jacob?"

"Yes sir. The message I was supposed to deliver you is..." Jacob had been dubious about it, griping that he wouldn't get his caps from so vague and meaningless a traveler. Benny had said 'look for the tall smooth blond in a red beret' and she had fit the bill, but not knowing irked Jacob no end. "...the girl asks, how it feels to be off the tee." It made no sense.

Apparently it did for Benny, for the man threw his head back and laughed, rolling up the blueprints in his hands. "Off the T, is that what she wants to know? How about that! What some kinda broad."

He grinned and shook his head, motioning toward the Chairman in white. "Give the kid a thousand caps." Benny waved the blueprints, walking off. "And tell Jacob to tell her the cross wasn't all the rage anyway. I'd shoot you in the head kid if I thought you'd be half as amazin' as her."

The courier was utterly and totally lost. "I'll...get the message through, sir."

The Chairman nodded. "Come on, let's get those caps, junior."

Benny waved, now jogging down the large, exquisitely decorated hallway.

Boone and I headed up to the suite in the Lucky 38. We had a productive day; speaking to the NCR Embassy proved helpful. Though the group had a few particular members I was less than fond of, much like the Kings, overall I was impressed with the group's efforts. While there, the ambassador requested that Boone and I go speak with a group he called "Boomers" whom I had never heard of at all. According to him they hoarded ammunition, and refused to choose sides with either NCR or the Legion, or anyone for that matter.

It sounded promising; anything anti-Legion had my vote, and I would rather have the large munitions at the hands of the responsible NCR than anyone else in the Wasteland. After marking the location, Boone and I decided to set out in that direction after a few days of rest in Vegas. We sauntered past the strip on the way back, finally making our way back "home."

With no Mr. House, I supposed it really was home. Logging onto the terminal, I realized there were unread notes in the system. Lowering my eyebrows, I commented, "I suppose these are from the casino leasers...that's what the addresses say...why are they showing here?" Scratching my head, I answered my own question: "I think that Mr. House's network opened them up for him to read, but now that he isn't alive anymore, they're re-routed to his default network which I have access to."

Boone walked to the wardrobe, shrugging off his large NCR jacket and hanging it inside. He dug through the clothes, looking for a suitable shirt, scowling when he accidentally picked up a piece of lingerie. I was eagerly reading the notes left from casino owners. Their rent was ready, deposited into a safe on the side of the Lucky 38. Several reported possible power outages, maintenance issues, or simply provided gossip to the now-deceased ruler. I didn't quite know what to do. If they found out he was dead, what sort of chaos would erupt? As Boone muttered about the lack of organization in non-military closets, I quickly thought up a plan.

Typing at the speed of light, I replied to all their queries as Mr. House would. I pulled up the note history list to see his usual "speech habits" with his tenants and families. I promised to take a look at the unlit hallway in Gommorah, and the leaky bathtubs in the Tops. I didn't thank them for their rent, simply acknowledging that I received it at Mr. House had done in previous responses. Then I wrote a separate note for all of them, detailing me as Mr. House's new personal assistant. Acting as the dictator, I detailed to the families that I would be the one to speak to from now on and answered directly to him, the House. I even threw in some offhand story about how I had ran the Chairmen out for not cooperating (as this was a hot topic in the notes) and that the "Courier with the red beret" was solely in charge of that casino.

Proud of my work, I hit the send button, and sat back in the chair. Effectively avoiding a crisis and giving myself authority in the city, I had put myself at ease, at least momentarily. One note had caught my eye: it was addressed to all the casino families and Mr. House, from the White Glove Society. Apparently, they had just finished remodeling the casino's grad theatre to their standards, and wanted acts for the grand opening. No hookers or junkies, they requested. Tasteful, talented people. Surely Mr. House knew the appropriate people.

Music skills were a rarity in the desert, but musicians existed as sure as buried Couriers existed. And I pondered over the email, realizing that just as I had an extended library of computer skills, I was pretty sure I knew music. Had I played an instrument before the bullet?

"Boone," I said, not looking away from the note. "Let's go get Arcade. I want to go to the Ultra-Luxe."

"Okay," he said doubtfully. I looked up finally, because the 'okay' had not been assured.

Boone was dressed in a black shirt and black pants, something I'd never seen him in. He withdrew his shades from the pocket of his jacket and put them on. I was staring.

He stared back grumpily.

"Err..."

"If you want to go, then let's go," he said, moving toward the elevator. I picked up my bag, full of books and odds and ends, and followed him out.

Last night, we laid on the bed gazing into each other's eyes for an endless amount of time, both of us I think, terrified to move. Then Boone had backed away, wordlessly, ready to go back to his own bed, but without Arcade around I would have none of it. I beseeched him to stay, and to my great surprise he did. And he didn't roll over in bed to face the other direction, either. Rigid, he lay down and laced his hands behind his head, elbows out. I fell asleep on my side, facing him. When I had awoken this morning, he was still on his back, unmoved, and I was draped over his chest.

He had been his usual broody self all morning though. He cheered up a little while at the NCR Embassy, but that was probably because of the candid First-Recon remarks the troopers made to me, noting their jealousy and respect for Boone. Now, however, going back to a casino-one that creeped Boone out, he told me as we descended-had dimmed his mood right back down.

Arcade was working with Emily at the Mormon Fort. When Boone and I came to pick him up, he told me though they'd worked all hours of the night, only one layer of encryption was gone. This both frustrated and excited him. "It must be something worth hiding, if you went through all this trouble. I don't know how you did it."

That made me uneasy. "If I wanted to hide it that badly, maybe..."

"It'll be FINE." Arcade waved his hand. "It's not like you were a serial killer or something."

Or had I been?

I was no fan of confined spaces, and the Ultra-Luxe's theatre was tailored specifically for me. It was vast, with rows upon rows of red velvet chairs. While giving us the tour, Chauncey pointed out how many Freesiders and broke gamblers had slaved over cleaning and scrubbing the theatre from top to bottom. The White Glove Society paid them small sums for the work, and now the theatre dubbed "Felton Theatre" by Mortimer, was ready for its first debut performance.

Mortimer had put Chauncey in charge of talents, and the entire Society were kissing my ass to a painful extent thanks to my feigned email from Mr. House. If Arcade or Boone found their doting strange, neither said a word. We got the grand tour from level one, up to the balcony seats, and back down to the orchestra pit, where authentic pre-War instruments had been preserved intact thanks to House's staving off nukes. Several already-hired musicians, some of them White Glove Society members themselves, were busy strumming or playing or attempting to play these marvelous things.

I did know music. "This one is called a cello!" I said excitedly to Arcade, and that...that's a violin!"

"Think you can play any of them?" Arcade asked, thumbing the propped up cello.

"Not that I can recall." A young man picked up a flute and blew on it. We all turned to listen, enchanted. Chauncey approached, handing me a stack of papers. "There are tons of these stored in the pit, I believe it's how you read the music."

As Arcade and Boone listened to the flute, I glanced down at the booklet. Though the paper was worn, I could make out the symbols just fine. As my eyes slid over the notes, they made absolutely no sense at all. Maybe I didn't play an instrument. Just as my hopes sank to the floor, I looked down from the funny little bars and dots. There were words, but not your typically written words.

O-s i us-ti-me di- ta-bi- tur sa-pi-en- tiam - et-

It looked familiar immediately. I hummed the song, following along, and soon the flute player paused to look at me. Chauncey, Boone, and Arcade all turned as well. Boone, surprisingly, spoke first.
"You've sang that before," he said, "in your sleep."

"What a pretty voice! Sing some more!" Chauncey was delighted.

"Latin!" Arcade's eyes lit up.

I held the music sheepishly, but excitedly. "I think I know how to...sing."

"Then, come on, try it some more. You could be onstage tomorrow night for the unveiling!" Chauncey led me out of the orchestra pit and up the stairs.

Arcade led the sniper through the winding maze of balcony boxes to theirs, a front row seat complete with cushioned couches, bottles of wine, flowers...they looked as though they were on a date. Arcade had chosen a white pre-War tux, something that reminded Boone of the King. The only tuxedo in Mr. House's casino that even fit Boone's wide shoulders and sculpted arms without looking like a tent was a black pre-War tux that had a bow tie. While the Courier primped for her performance with the White Glove Society, the men had gotten ready and for some unholy reason, Arcade knew how to tie a bow tie. He forced Boone to stand still, and after the tie was on, tried to convince him for twenty minutes to take the beret off.

Not only had Boone declined, but he also wore his dark sunglasses. He was not a fan of the Luxe, or their clothes, or their masks, or anything. Also, since they seemed to suck up to the Courier so much, he took the liberty of bringing Rex. No one could say anything, for fear of upsetting the Courier, even though several members complained of the happily trotting cyber dog.

Rex propped himself up on the edge of the balcony, paws hanging over, and surveyed the room. It was filling up quickly; tuxedos and evening gowns adorned the entire seating area. Staff, wearing the signature cream-colored suits, escorted guests and stood in the entryways. Though she wouldn't let them hear her practice, apparently the girl had made the final act. According to Arcade, this was a good thing. Boone wasn't familiar with theatre courtesies.

At promptly 7pm the lights dimmed, Boone leaned back for a nap, arms crossed, and the first player, the flute soloist who'd charmed them yesterday, took the stage. As performer after performer went up, Boone was thinking about Carla. She'd lived in Vegas, and at the time she met him, was trying to become a White Glove member. The girl had loved the ritzy appeal of the creepy place, but for whatever reason, no matter what she did, she couldn't get accepted. This in turn pissed off Carla so bad she began to loathe the Society, and told Boone after they were dating that he wasn't to set foot inside the place.

It wasn't as though Boone had some deep-seated desire to gamble with strange masked men and women. The wrong kind of kink for him. However, the part of him that wasn't complaining internally was both excited and nervous to see the tall, rough, no-prisoners Courier try to fit in. She didn't seem the type, unlike Carla, to mold into the snot-nosed primpy...

Her name had just been announced over the microphone; Arcade elbowed Boone, who sat upright as the light dimmed. A series of light notes floated up into the box, and Boone's eyes narrowed. Arcade, ever helpful, supplied, "The accompanying instrument is a harp."

Then the curtain parted, and the entire audience seemed to inhale slightly.

She was tall, pale, lean. The girl's hair was down, and lay around her shoulders in golden waves. It was without a doubt her, but...she was jaw-dropping stunning. Even Arcade was slack-jawed. The dress she wore was thin-strapped, white, with a tall waist. Whatever fabric used had been kept in tip-top condition; it was spotless and stood out all the better against her pale skin.

She sauntered out onto the middle of the stage, holding her shoulders back and lifting her chin. She had been given a special mask to wear to perform; unlike the plain white and gold masks donned by the Society, this one was ornate, shimmering in the lights of the stage with her dress. Long elbow-length gloves ran up her slender arms, and golden shoes sparkled, peeping out as she continued to step.

When the Courier, underneath the mask, opened her mouth, crystalline innocence and purity seemed to emanate from her, radiating off the pure white of her being. Within a few words, Arcade said excitedly, "She's singing in Latin."

The language spoken by Caesar and his sea of Red had always been utterly despicable to Boone under any circumstances. He habitually ground his teeth whenever Arcade or the Courier spoke it to one another. Here however, it sounded angelic. She sang, and he felt a strange feeling rising inside...was this what peace felt like? Hatred, and even routine grumpiness, melted and he simply enjoyed the melody.

And what kind of woman was this, that could turn from a ruthless killer to a beautiful, magical creature in less than a day? Carla or no, NCR or no, Boone had never felt so captivated by anything in his entire life. The mask was admittedly gorgeous; every time she barely moved her head, it gleamed in a new spot, the light reflecting across the arc of stagelight. But it was only a half-mask; Boone glimpsed her mouth forming the words of the song she sang so delicately.

Though he didn't know he wasn't the only one, Boone's vision swam and he had a lump in his throat. Never, in his entire life, had he been moved in such a nurturing way. Even her hair glinted in the light. For a moment, the Wasteland had vanished, and there was no Legion, no NCR, no New Vegas. It was as though Boone existed in a cleaner, prettier, and more hopeful pre-War world, one that saw war as a threat, not a daily occurrence.

When the song ended on its last melodic notes, the Courier lifted the mask, pulling it up to reveal her bright, shining face, green eyes mirroring the white of the lights that shone on her as she bowed amid thunderous applause. When she bowed, her blond locks fell forward, hiding her face, and Arcade pulled the stunned Boone to his feet so they could continue to applaud.

Rex barked happily.

I was mostly stunned and proud of Boone and myself for surviving the barrage of explosions that greeted us at Nellis. Boone, never one too thrilled at finding himself alive, was far more angry toward the Boomers. While I could understand his impatience at a people so backwards and sheltered that they just blew up anything that came toward them, he seemed to be holding a grudge. At my request, he helped clear out the generators where the ants had taken up residence, and sat on the roof handing me tools to repair the solar panels. But he spoke barely a word all day, letting his anger seethe. I didn't disturb him with idle conversation.

I didn't mind helping the Boomers, and indeed felt akin to them in some way. They were frightened of the fighting and what had happened to the world. They were, by a stroke of luck, sitting on a horrendously large stockpile of weapons that they could use to defend themselves. Honestly, I saw their logic. And the same mistrust and fear they seemed to thrive in struck a personal chord with me. Before Benny, I had been terrorized. I had been a loner and someone who traveled just to...get away from it all.

While Boone and I were networking with the Boomers, Arcade was nose-deep in encoding. Apparently he and Emily found great pleasure in untying my complex codes, and on the side, they used their Followers relationship with the NCR to search database upon database for the name on the back of the picture. NCR's notes and findings were all stored in one megabase in California; it was here that the Followers had sent the data. Perhaps also contributing to Boone's sour mood, Rex had wanted to stay with Arcade, making it obvious via whines and barks that he didn't want the man to leave him.

I found most of the Boomers to be hilarious, but the kids and I got along great. Earlier today, after slaving away on the solar panels, we saw the lot of them exit the school, and I headed over. They were deeply curious about the Outsiders, and we all let off steam by kicking around a broken robot head in the huge parking lot for the once-airport. It was rough going; there were potholes, the ground was uneven, and gravel littered the terrain. Still, we formed makeshift teams and goals, and a primitive game was born. To my great surprise, when the older boys pulled the steadfast Boone into the group, demanding he use his skills to help beat "the girls", Boone conceded and ran and dodged with the rest of us.

Soon the sun was setting, and Pearl exited her quarters, motioning us to come toward her.

"You'll need a bed, I expect. I've taken care of it."

"Er..."

"Not a word. Least we can do. We owe you a lot."

bed? No plural?

Pearl pointed to what looked like a nesting shack. Boone and I both craned our necks to stare up at it.

"Sorry we don't have any inside beds, but I had some of the younger ones fix this one up for you. They were eager to help. If you need anything, just knock."

She dipped her head before backing into the cabin she lived in and shutting us out. I was so bemused by the fact that the kids had wanted to set Boone and I up with a "skybed" that I momentarily forgot the sleeping arrangements themselves. This changed when we ascended the ladder into the once-snipers nest.

It was high, at least thirty feet off the ground, with a makeshift half-roof and railing, not a lot of wiggling room. The kids had hauled up a mattress, no small feat, and this took up most of the floor. To my delight, they also brought clean sheets, blankets, pillowcases. The Boomers, being who they were, also left us a bucket of complimentary grenades (with a note in childish handwriting that read 'in case you want to blow stuff up.' There was also a crate of food, of filtered water, and at least thirty pillows. I suspected the kids spent some time up here playing "fort" before informing Pearl that our "room" was ready.

If Boone found any of this humorous or endearing at all, he didn't show it. Instead, like a true soldier doing something he doesn't want to do in a robotic fashion, he sat on the large mattress, pulling off his boots. Boone rarely gets this comfortable when he sleeps; I figured he knew as well as I did that the Boomers were the biggest shield in the Mojave. We could sleep easy tonight; even a bloatfly would get brained with eighteen warheads if it decided to buzz too closely to the encampment.

He really was in a bad mood; Boone lay down and immediately turned away from where I sat, untying my own boots. I looked over my shoulder at him, confused at the attitude, but he just curled away and pulled the blanket with him. I put my hands on my hips-when he tugged, the blanket had came out from under my butt, nearly knocking me over-and kicked off the boot angrily. Then I took two fistfuls of blanket and pulled. The cover slipped off Boone. Now I lay, completely smothered in blankets, and closed my eyes.

Boone turned and sat up. He grabbed the blanket and pulled. I wrapped both arms and legs around it, glaring at him.

"Stop it," he said impatiently.

"No."

"Give me the blanket."

"It's not even cold."

"Now."

"Snipers are used to sleeping in adverse weather conditions."

"Do what I say."

"Keep dreaming."

Boone grabbed my hand, trying to force the blanket out of my clamp, and I leaned over and bit his arm.

"What's wrong with you!"

"I'm cold."

"It's not even cold," he mocked. When I turned, incredulous, to look at him, Boone snatched the blanket.

Now I sat up, uncovered once again. Of all the...

I plucked up one of the fluffy pillows. Although I really would have liked to smother him with it, I opted to hit Boone upside the head.

"Goddammit!" Now he rounded on me.

"Give me the pillow!"

"I don't know who you normally boss around, Mr. Boone, but..."

I hit him again. When the pillow slammed into his face and then fell away from it, Boone's glare was so withering that my teeth began to hurt. I giggled.

"Fine." Irate, he grabbed a pillow, and slammed it into my face.

The giggles had stopped. I glared.

We stared at each other for a moment, then dove for the pillow pile, ruthlessly decking each other, pummel after pummel, a white cascade of feathers rising from the sniper shack. After probably five minutes of flailing around, Boone finally pinned me. I was half-mad; he was livid.

Straddling me on the mattress, he said sharply while holding my hands at the wrists, "Stop acting like a goddamn child!"

Not trying to escape, I nonetheless reached for a pillow. Boone clamped his hand down over mine.

"STOP."

I went lax, closing my eyes and forfeiting the struggle.

"Fine."

He didn't believe me; Boone kept me pinned for another thirty seconds, breathing hard. I kept my eyes closed and tried to feign sleep, but a grin crept onto my face. Finally he removed the forceful grip on my wrists, laying back down and carefully taking exactly one half of the blankets. I rolled away from him, and Boone's eyes were like hot steel burning into my back. He watched my every move, but neither of us changed positions until well after the lights in Pearl's shack were off, until the golden sky was black. In the darkness, I stirred, and Boone said, "Get your hand off my beret. Now."

"ooooops," I chided innocently, and Boone sighed. He turned from his side onto his back, and made a motion I couldn't decipher in the dark, before lacing his hands behind his head.

"What?" I asked, all humor cast aside.

"Closer," he said simply.

I lay with my head in the crook of Boone's shoulder, my hands folded over my chest. He lay as usual on his back, hands cradling his head, elbows out.

And for the first time since McCarran, we had quiet dreams.

"Can't we just leave now?" Boone asked through his teeth as we exited Pearl's cabin. The older woman had agreed to back me up, to have the Boomers back me up, if ever I needed it. Telling her about the inevitable battle at Hoover Dam didn't make her blink. And now there was nothing more for us in Nellis, except to say goodbye.

I glared at Boone. He had been more upset than usual while traveling with me to the Air Force base. I didn't know if it was the absence of Rex or even Arcade, but for whatever unclear reason, he didn't appear to want to travel alone with me. This stung, of course, but I had dealt with it by acting normally. For all I knew, he was suffering a severe bout of depression that had nothing to do with me (even though he did seem to enjoy taking it out on me.)

"I know you're as social as a Radscorpion but I like to make friends when I travel." I nodded at the little shanty to the northeast of Nellis. "That's the history museum Pearl told us about. Let's check it out." We had already confirmed I was a complete nerd pre-headshot. Boone set his jaw but didn't argue. As a pair we walked inside, squinting at the sudden lack of sunlight, the young apprentice museum attendant offered the tour, then guided us over to the far wall, where a mural had been painted.

While Pete, the young Boomer who called himself "Keeper of the Story" told us the history of the Boomers, I gazed on that smudgy black painting depicting the ancient bomber, dropping missile after missile, flames sprouting from the trail on the ground where the bombs landed. It entered my head at that moment that no matter what, humans were destined to destroy. For someone who up until this time had the thought of changing that mentality, it came as a pretty hard blow to the stomach.

"What?" Pete said a little defensively, seeing the strained look on my face. His voice snapped me out of it, out of the thought. Humans are destined to destroy each other, no matter what. Even the Great War hadn't stopped us.

"I..." I swallowed. "That's a great story, Pete."

"Yeah? You really think so?" his young, eager face was uplifted.

"Yes."

After saying a few more goodbyes, and wishing Jack and Janet the best of luck, Boone and I made our final trek outside the hangar and toward the exit of Nellis. It was still early morning, and I was reluctant to leave without saying goodbye to the kids we had became famous around this whole long, agonizing week. Typically, we would catch up with them in the late afternoon hours, over on the old runways, before they had to go to dinner. But with the sun barely peaking in the east, they wouldn't be out for several hours.

However, we got lucky. As Boone and I rounded the south side of the hangar, where the barracks were, we saw the long procession of children heading off toward the schoolhouse. A few of the older kids saw us and waved. I waved back enthusiastically. Glancing at Boone, and seeing his stony face not deepening at the sight of the children, I broke away and jogged toward the group.

"You're leaving?!" one of the older boys wailed. "That stinks!"
"I know..." I agreed. "But I'll be back, I promise."
"You should come see our classroom! You haven't even seen it!" Justin, another boy piped in.
"Yeah you can see all of our artwork! We got to draw pictures of the Lady yesterday cause of you!"
"Plus you haven't met the teacher. I bet she wants to know all about Outsiders."
"Just for a minute!"
By now, several of the kids were tugging at my hoodie, pulling my arm. Boone had approached, and they pressured him as well.

"Okay, well let's stop in. I want to see your artwork, for sure." With a collective cheer, the twenty-or-so Boomer children led Boone and I up to the schoolhouse. To be sure, it wasn't a 'house' but instead a Quonset hut. The hospital and museum were of the same build, and they reminded me of somewhere, though I couldn't put a finger on where.

The class rushed in, Boone and I taking it slower. They all had desks, where they sat their books and belongings, then turned back to the two of us. The teacher, not used to all the commotion of two strangers being escorted into the school room, stood from the desk and looked curiously over.

"See, here's my picture of the Lady right here!" Papers littered the walls. Slowly, in a daze, I turned to look at them.
"I drew her floating on the Lake, that's how Loyal said it looked!"
"I wish I could've seen her come up..." one girl said sadly.
The dark room with its bowed ceiling, full of children, seemed to collapse on top of me.

Boone glanced at the wall of scribbly charcoal artwork, then back to the Courier. Even in the dark light, he frowned, because he knew something was wrong. She seemed in a trance, and as he watched, slowly started to tremble. Boone was a far more intuitive and instinctive person than he sometimes conveyed, and right now his senses told him to get her out.

Interrupting the louder-than-each-other children, he said, "We'll be right back," and Boone grabbed the girl by the shoulders; she almost fainted, falling aside, still in that trance-like state. Had he not gripped her, she would have fallen on her face. Now steadied by him, she tripped out the door, Boone kicking it shut. She seemed to have regained some consciousness, for the Courier pummeled him in the chest, pulling away.

Boone let her go; she stumbled forward and bent at the waist, gasping for air, as though she were motion sick. He stepped forward. "What is it?"

Now she lowered herself onto her haunches, wrapping her long arms around her torso, still trembling. The girl shook her head in reply. When she finally turned to face Boone, shaking, he was taken aback with her horrified expression. All the color was gone from her cheeks, two glistening lines of tears over the pale waxen skin. Even her lips were pale. Terror was in her eyes as he'd never seen it. Boone thought back to what Ada had said in Novac: the Courier was a time-bomb. She certainly looked deranged.

"I..."

"Did you see something? What?" Forgetting his anger, Boone dropped to one knee beside her.

Now she responded, instead of the bold voice a teensy squeak coming out.

"I was a teacher."

The walk back to Vegas was a doleful one; clouds littered the sky, making most of the trip grey. Boone was still acting oddly and keeping his distance. I had no idea what I might've done to him, but he seemed disinterested in anything having to do with me. To be honest, though it hadn't bothered me at first, I could feel my feet dragging now. I didn't want Boone to put a wall back up between us. Even while holding me as we exited the Boomer schoolhouse, I sensed that he was pushing away. It was devastating, actually, considering what happened at McCarran and at the Lucky 38.

Boone had walked behind me all way, careful to keep distance. I longed for Arcade; to tell him about my groundbreaking realization triggered by the only functioning classroom in probably the entire Mojave. It wasn't as though tons of memories rushed back; the dome-shaped structure which was set on fire repeatedly in my dreams had been my school. There were no desks, but instead several tables, piles of books and objects, a jumbled space and even a fireplace which we had read books by. I could feel my former self there momentarily as well; I was stressed, worried, paranoid even. Like I was waiting for a time bomb to go off.

All these things and more I wanted to talk to Boone about, to ponder about. But the more days had gone by, the more distant he'd gotten. Now we sat by the campfire, me hunched over a book, him laying on a bedroll on his back in the regular hands-behind-head position. I was holding the book up as though reading it, but staring only at him. Between the Legion and NCR, Vegas, Mr. House, the Families, and all my nightmares and quests to discover myself, I never had time to dwell on how I felt. But I realized on this brisk night in the Mojave, with no Arcade around to stimulate my brain, no Rex to look after, and a soldier who was barely speaking to me, that I cared so much about Craig Boone I couldn't even describe it.

The time for ignoring things was over. Without meaning to, I said out loud, "Craig."

He turned, not getting up, a look of harsh annoyance on his face at the name. "What?"

"Why are you acting like this?"

"Like what." The bitterness in his voice was clear. He knew what I was talking about.

"What did I do?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," was his scoffing response.

Though I could have gotten mad, I simply stuffed the book closer to my face, trembling with anger and...ache, and unfairness. His difficult nature was getting to me, and there was nothing I could do or say to change it. Though Oliver Twist was a large book to hide behind, he must have seen the depression seeping through anyway. Boone sat up, and sighed.

"Look. I wasn't going to say anything, and thought I could get over it. Obviously not."

I lowered the book.

"When you told me to pack, I did. I was trying to make sure we had all the necessities, and something fell out of your bag. I wasn't sure if it was something we needed, or something that could stay, so I opened it for the sole reason of checking." His voice dropped, and now the annoyance had vanished, and so did Boone's wall, a small amount. "It was a letter from Benny, that guy who shot you."

Oh, fuck. "Boone-"

"I'm sorry I even opened it," he said, talking over me. "I know it wasn't my business. But. I don't know. I had this feeling...I don't know what it was. I'm not good at saying things like this. My job is to protect you, and I'll do that as long as you want me to. But..." he shrugged, running out of words. And though you may not think so, that is a ton of words in Boone Speak.

Now he lay back down, palms under his head, and though I wanted to say an endless amount of things back, I could think of nothing, and something told me that Boone wouldn't listen to anything anyway. So I put my nose back in the book, my eyes glazing over, my mind a million miles away from London and Fagin and everyone else in the story.

Dejected didn't even come close to describing how I felt all the way back to Vegas. I don't know what I was expecting from Boone, but now I could expect nothing at all. The Mojave seemed just as lonely as it did when I had bravely stepped foot out of Goodsprings, even when Boone busied himself with making a fire or cooking a meal for both of us. He never failed in his job as a spotter, and seemed keen on getting back to Vegas.

Then, "I don't get it. Why did he shoot you?"

We were less than a mile away from the Vegas entrance, and I paused to look at Boone as though he were an extraterrestrial. "What?"

"You must have been..." Boone shrugged, not understanding what he wanted to say. "Before your memory loss, I mean..."

While still staring like a baffoon, it occurred to me how little Boone had known about the situation. Through my own tight-lipped nature, I had neglected to tell him anything other than the fact Mr. House wanted the Platinum Chip. With me journeying to the Fort, with me saving Benny, it must have looked like far, far more than what it was.

I was still staring at Boone as this realization hit me, and now he looked oddly back, probably wondering if my zone-out was due to his comment, or the fact that my head was barely held together. Finally, I gathered myself, "We weren't anything. I never even knew Benny." I felt like a fucking idiot for not bothering to confide the full story of the Platinum chip with the sniper, but it was too late to really worry about that now. "He just wanted to take over Vegas with Yes Man."

Boone looked skeptical. "You two weren't..."

"No."

The resolute negative seemed to brighten him, though he only responded with "Huh." However, for the rest of the walk, his steps were easier, and he didn't lag ten feet behind me, walking closer than he had for the entire Boomer journey.

"We still have tons of decoding to do. I think the terminal where you actually wrote the information had a special encrypted system so you could pop a disc in, download or upload data, save and..." Arcade snapped his fingers. "Unfortunately, it would take as long for us to re-program a drive in that manner, as it would for us to unload all this whatever it is you have. But let me show you what we've got."

Boone, Arcade, Emily and I were sitting at one of the large, empty dining tables in the dimly lit Lucky 38. Though the place was spooky in ways that I can't really describe, it was also secluded, cool, and clean. Maybe it was the cleanliness that scared me. Arcade solved that by spilling the contents of his folder across the red tablecloth.

"Firstly, the concrete information. Your picture with Liam. We've located several "Anna and Ronalds" but only one with the surname starting with a K. Kenworthy."

"That's Liam's last name, I know it," I said brightly.

"Perfect. They live in a little settlement called Harris Springs." Arcade had salvaged a map from who knew where, and dusted it off, pointing to a circle he'd drawn. "It's actually not too far away, about a week if you make good time. I don't know much about them, other than they have an address with the Mojave Express. Which, by the way."

Arcade nodded at Emily, who picked up, "I was able to get in contact with one of the managers of the Mojave Express, who, believe it or not, actually hired you. I made up what I had to in order to get information concerning you." she flipped open a small, worn notebook. "You were hired about three months before the Goodsprings incident. According to him, you applied for the job but seemed extremely over-qualified. When he asked for references, you said you had none. No family, no friends. He said that although he could tell you were one of the most intelligent people he'd met in the Wasteland, something seemed 'not quite right' as though you were fleeing from something." She was reading the notes she no doubt jotted down while interviewing this man. I was hanging on her every word.

"He said you could deliver more efficiently than anyone else on the entire team, said you were more than proficient, but over the time period made no friends, rarely spoke to anyone. He thought you were hooked on some kind of chems because you were so jittery, on edge. But he didn't worry about it too much, since you did your job and did it well. He also said you were horrible with the guns that all couriers are required to carry. Said you didn't want anything to do with it."

I didn't really know what to think about all this. Arcade must have sensed my crestfallen feeling, because he squeezed my shoulder. Emily put down the notepad.

"I can see that," Boone piped up suddenly, startling us all. "You can't shoot worth a damn."

"Hey. Who saved your ass by sniping Legionnaires?"

"Barely." Boone's tone was lighthearted, and I mimiced his glare of doom before we continued.

"Although it seems unlikely you would've had an education if you didn't have a family, since schools are hard to come by, we did make the connection here," Arcade picked back up, patting my stack of books. "Oliver Twist. Orphan. A Little Princess, story of an orphan. Great Expectations, Pip, orphan. Heidi, orphan. It would seem you were without some semblance of a family at some point, because these books obviously meant a lot to you. So we know for sure that you lived in the mountains, and...we've pinpointed where."

He paused dramatically and Emily jumped back in, "The manager I spoke with still had some of your information on file. You did come from the mountains, according to him. Said you were not really familiar with the desert, had a hard time dealing with the heat and lack of elevation. You were definitely in the mountains most of your life if that's the case. And here's the one you cited as 'home' when talking to the Mojave Express." She pointed to another circled spot on the map.

My eyes lit up, happy to remember it. "Griffith Peak."

"It's a huge mountain," Arcade said, geographical genius to be expected. "Over 9000 feet. Even this time of year I bet it's loaded with snow. And the Kensingtons are located on the way."

"So," Boone said again, his low voice so different than Arcade's, "An orphaned teacher with a great education suddenly emerges from snowy mountains to do lowly courier work...why?"

"Don't ask me," I said sadly. "I have no idea."

Arcade tilted his head. "I think we all know something terrible happened on that peak. You have nightmares, you came into the Mojave scared and jittery. These files of yours are so well-protected, a near-paranoia case is evident. It's like you never wanted anyone to read them."

"Have you recovered any of the data on them?" Actually, I didn't think I wanted to know, at this point.

"Only a bit," Emily responded. "You seem to have a large written document, perhaps a journal or datebook, but we did decrypt a complete address book, which is where we found the Kensington address that matched the one in the NCR directory. None of the others seem to be of real relevance, except one which has the title 'home.' You gave the latitude and longitude, which we were able to map out...here." Pointing at another circle on Griffith Peak.

"You guys are amazing," I said with a sigh. "I don't know how to repay you." Though I couldn't say as much with Emily here, I knew where the thousands of caps from the Families' rent was going to go. I would hand it over to the Followers first thing in the morning.

I never saw it coming. Boone was one to make fun of my gun skills, but even if I'd been as swift as the sniper, there was nothing I could do tonight.

Earlier I left the bustle of Vegas alone, to instead visit Freeside. Not because it was my favorite place on earth, merely because the King and some of his cronies were actually performing at the Atomic Wrangler. The dusty little stage may not have looked like much, especially after I got accustomed to Ultra-Luxe's huge concert theatre, but the packed audience was entranced by the sight of the Kings and their dance moves. From retrieving the holotapes and mimicing the moves of whoever the original King was, they had a full set and attracted tourists from all over, some even venturing like me from their hotels in Vegas to see the show. I glimpsed Beatrix Russell in the cheering, rowdy crowd, catcalling at the King.

The King...when he slid down the pole from the second story, lithe as I'd never seen him, he immediately took the role of leader to entertainer, doing the strange signature dance, moving his hips, his hair liquid black under the stage lights. At one point in their Jailhouse song, he'd slid on his knees across the stage and pointedly winked at me, which threw me into a fit of laughter. And caused me several irked looks from the barely-dressed groupies standing around.

But shortly after their show, the Kings and the clients in the Atomic Wrangler were all partying, and I had to head back to the Lucky 38. Rex was my only pal as we crossed the dark streets, Arcade and Boone opting to pass on the lewd Freeside entertainment. That's when I felt the glass smash against the back of my head, and the dirty town spun in a circle as I dropped to my knees.

"Why...always...in the head," I said, my eyes crossing, falling from my knees to land facefirst in the pavement.

I came to slowly, a dull throbbing in the back of my head. How much longer would I hold together, and what fucked up memories would this concussion trigger...I tried to lift my hands to my head, but it was no use. They were bound in front of me, connected to another rope that was tied around my waist. I was laying sideways on the ground, and I shivered; I had been given no blanket, nothing. Now I sat up. It seemed to be early morning, but I had no idea where I was, other than it was outside, in the Wasteland, far far away from Vegas.

"Well well, look who the fuck it is," said a snide voice. I rolled onto my back, looking up at the circle of men.

The Omertas.

"So Mr. House has a new personal aide, is that it?" One of the men in white asked. "Heir to the throne? I don't fuckin' think so."

"Maybe he knew what we was up to, and that's why he hired a flesh and blood cronie to check shit out."

I closed my eyes against the headache, still slightly drunken from my stint in the Wrangler. They thought Mr. House hired me because of my terminal message. Thrilling.

"Well either way, I don't see why we haven't killed the bitch," there were six total. They all held the signature Omerta fully-auto rifle. I sighed, not bothering to sit up.

"Or better. Some things is fun the warmer the whore," came a hungry-sounding reply.

"No, the agreement was alive. We don't deliver, we don't get the goods. What part of that don't you thick skulls understand?"

"And what part of the agreement said she had to stay untouched?"

The man, obviously used to just shedding his pants and raping girls who were tied and helpless, descended upon me. Thankfully, my legs were free, and my boot connected with his teeth. He reeled backwards, spitting up blood and hopefully a few incisors, cursing loudly.

"Fuck it!" he said, grabbing my hoodie and jerking me to a sitting position. I gagged at the sudden lack of air, and was thrust forward from the force of his shoving. The man backhanded me, the beret flying off and landing in the dust. I chanced a look at it; there, in the corner of Boone's patch...the Platinum Chip glinted.

They didn't know.

Whatever idiotic plan these guys had, it didn't involve anything but getting rid of me. I thought of Boone, Arcade...I couldn't even get to my Pip-Boy to see where the hell I was. And now, thanks to the backhand, my nose and mouth smarted, blood springing up from both nostrils and my busted lip. I licked it tenderly, thoughtfully, as the enraged Omerta-obviously on some sort of chems-pulled out his pistol and jammed it into the side of my temple.

"You like that, huh? That better for you than a pork? You couldn't just play nice, now you're getting a different kind of shaft on your face, you stupid cunt," he jerked my hair, the pistol pushed so roughly against my head that I cried out involuntarily.

The other men didn't seem to care about their deal too much; they were having fun watching his display of power. Snarling grins were etched on their faces, guns held lax. I had no way out, and to beat it all, I was about to get shot in the head. As my hair was pulled violently back further still, the Omerta slid the hammer on his pistol.

"Oh well, guess he's getting a dead House cronie," the Omerta shrugged. I squeezed my eyes shut, knowing the chances of getting out of two bullets in the head were slim to none.

The Omerta Family, high on chems and craving bloodshed, looked on as their enraged brother pressed his pistol to my temple. My face was strained, my eyes shut, thoughts of Boone and Liam whizzing through my scrambled egg as Benny called it, as I prepared to release myself from life.

When the shots rang out, I immediately, instinctively hit the ground on my belly, tucking my face into the dust, squinting and coughing from dirt inhaled, and tried not to die of shock at the fact that someone, or some people had crested the hill and were now taking up a fight with the Omertas. The way my luck was going, they were probably raiders, or fiends, but I chanced rolling over onto my back.

I was protected, surrounded by steely men in white. I blinked, not realizing that they weren't the Omertas. The men who stood between me and the thugs all had their guns pressed to their shoulders, a wide spray of bullets spitting out and cutting into all of the brothers. I sat up suddenly, my vision swimming, my throat caked with blood.

"The...you're...Chairmen!"

And now another figure crested the hill; nonchalantly, brandishing his pistol with a cigarette in his mouth. It was Benny.

"Jackasses..." he muttered, emptying his magazine into the few groaning, dying Omertas strewn across the dusty ground. At his approach, the Chairmen parted robotically, and Benny's eyes lit up, realizing I was alive.

"Wow, and this'll make time two that I've seen this scene. Last time, though..." Benny looked at his silver and gold pistol contemplatively, then pocketed it. "And there you are, pretty as a peach just like last time. Bloody, little roughed up, but this time we've got no beef..." He tossed the cigarette away, stooping down and pulling out a switchblade. Benny wiggled his eyebrows as he flicked the knife open, then began cutting the ropes around my wrist.

"So...back at the Legion playground, pussycat, I told you we weren't even. I guess I did do good on my word after all." He paused in cutting to pull out a silk handkerchief, and gently wiped the blood from my mouth and nose. "That'll do for now, but Benny baby's got just the thing for you back at the Cat's."

"The...?"

"Business later, pleasure now, mama," he responded, tossing the handkerchief and making it through the last of the ropes. In a very un-Boone-like manner, the black-haired man embraced me, wrapping his arms around me lovingly while simultaneously helping me stand. I only swayed slightly, and cringed at the pain in my head. Making a face at my swollen, busted lip, Benny instead opted to very tenderly plant a hello kiss on my neck, causing me to turn crimson.

"You okay? Banged up too much to walk?"

"Benny...where are we?"

"About a five minute hop from my new HQ. You'll be getting the grand tour, but not til we clean you up, you look rotten kiddo."

"Thanks."

"Hey...you know the Ben don't mean it like that."

He motioned to one of the Chairmen, who obligingly picked up Boone's beret, brushing the dust off of it and handing it to me. I adjusted the hat, brushing the Platinum Chip comfortingly, and Benny extended me his elbow. I slid my arm through his, and surrounded by the stoic, crack-shot Chairmen, we walked down the canyonside and left the bodies of the Omertas to rot in the unforgiving desert sun.

Boone and Arcade entered the King's headquarters, both men shifting their eyes uneasily in the filtered sunlight of the room. Rex was at their side, whining uneasily. He'd been acting strange ever since Boone found him this morning, outside the New Vegas gate, pacing, unable to re-enter without a master. Both men knew where the Courier had been the night before, and though it seemed unlikely that she would return to the King's HQ after a hard night drinking, they both hoped she was there and not somewhere else. Neither man knew the King very well, but they knew he adored the Courier and would look after her if things had gotten too wild at the party.

Boone dragged his feet as Arcade walked purposefully in front, entering the large side room with a stage. The King was there, and Rex left Boone's side to romp to him gleefully, for the moment, his bad mood forgotten. The black-haired man had been sitting at the table looking rather hung over, and winced, laughing, as the cyberdog assaulted him. "Down, boy! Boy, it sure is good to see you too, look at how raggedy you are, you old mutt," and then the doting gang leader noticed the two men: Arcade, amiable but pressed, Boone, brooding.

"How can I help you gentlemen? You missed one hell of a party last night." The King lazily patted Rex, reclining in his chair, offering Boone and Arcade a spot at his table. Both men accepted, Boone looking rather hesitant.

"Is your girl back at the room recoverin, or somethin'?" The King asked of the two. "Didn't think she had all that much to drink."

Now Arcade and Boone exchanged a look.

"Actually," Arcade began, "We were hoping you knew where she was. She never came back last night."

Now the King's eyebrows rose. "Really? She didn't hang around the Wrangler...last I saw of her she was sayin' her goodbyes to a few of my boys..." Now he raised his hand and with two fingers, called several Kings over. The black-jacketed men approached, most of the others in the room and their leader asked, "Any of you fellas see where the little blond lady went to last night?"

The men pondered-one of them, whom the Courier had gotten to know earlier in the month, and had become familiar with, contributed, "She told me right as she walked out that she was tired, wanted to go back to the casino. The Lucky 38."
"I thought she went north, too?"
Among the murmurings, a snort was heard in one of the back corners, where Pacer, not realizing how well his voice carried to the King's table, murmured something about "about time the bitch got carried off." The other King, whom he was talking to, looked worriedly over at the King's table. Pacer drawled on. "Good enough that the Omertas did it too, sick fucks."

"You …...saw her?" the younger, skittish King asked, uncertain. Arcade turned in his seat.

"Hell yeah I did," Pacer's low voice was nonetheless audible, and he snorted again. "Watched 'em haul her ass outta Freeside, knocked her cold."

Then the only sound was the violent scrape of chair against floor as Boone flew across the room, impossibly fast. Though Pacer was at least ten feet from the dingy wooden wall, the large sniper was on him in no time, grabbing him by the neck and all but slamming him against the side of the structure. Pacer's feet kicked madly; he was over a foot off the ground, pinned by Boone's hand around his throat. He gagged violently.

"You watched someone drag her out of town and didn't stop them?" Boone said, his tone now uncannily strained and deathly. Pacer, of course, tried shaking his head but couldn't move it.

"Hey, hey!" The King said, stepping up to Boone. Rex snarled and moved to protect Boone. In a flash, the ex-NCR's free hand held his pistol, and he pointed it to the white jacket. The man threw his arms up in surrender, but every other pistol in the room was drawn and trained on Boone. Arcade likewise pulled out his gun, ready to defend Boone, panning his raised weapon among the sea of black.

"Whoa now, calm down boy," the King said. "Nobody wants this to turn ugly. Let's talk."

The drawl the King possessed, as well as his peaceful nature, seemed to soothe a chord in everyone, even Boone apparently, for the glaring man lowered his gun. The Kings were less happy to lower arms, until the King himself gave the signal. The tension in the room was thick, and Pacer was near loss of consciousness.

"I ain't happy about what happened either," the King beseeched Boone, "but you gotta let my boy down so we can all smooth this out." His hands were still out, palm up in a surrender gesture. After a moment's pause, Boone finally pushed hard, slamming Pacer's head into the wall and then stepping back as the kid fell like a rag doll to the floor below.

Before anyone else could even speak, the King sidestepped Boone and hauled up Pacer by his shirt collar. He shook him to his feet, then yelled, "What in God's name is your problem? The Omertas on our grounds knockin' out a woman and draggin' her off, on our grounds? I don't care man, if you don't like her, it don't matter...that ain't how the Kings run Freeside," and with this, the King let Pacer go. The young man looked miserable, both at the humiliation he just suffered and at the King's disdainful shake of the head. "I don't know what you want to do with yourself, Pacer, but you gotta' get with it. This ain't the time."

Boone was still staring menacingly at the young man. Arcade exhaled deeply. The enigmatic King caught this gesture and clapped Arcade on the shoulder. "Don't worry man, we got eyes and ears. Let's have us an investigation for the whereabouts of Miss Blondie."

The Cat, or as it was formally known, the "Cat's Meow" was such a Benny-esque name I didn't even bother to ask its origins. According to him, we were only a few hours out of Vegas, but far enough from the Strip to not "butt heads" as he liked to say. I could only imagine what the place was pre-War; it seemed to be a 'getaway for richies' according to Benny...although I thought a more proper term was "theme park." It had many rusty rides still standing on the grounds, including a roller coaster. They were non-functional of course, and I had no idea what they may have been named, other than the ones with obvious titles above their entrance.

On the extensive grounds was also a (rather dead and dusty) golf course, and the Cat's very own lake which was surprisingly deficit in radiation levels. Little paddle boats, two-seat canoes, and other recreational water travel lined the sides. Several pretty little bridges led to an island in the middle of the lake, where a picnic area completed the picturesque view. The main building housed an arcade, a slot machine casino, a theatre, and a huge banquet and ballroom; the upstairs being lavishly furnished motel rooms. The condition of the outside was a little lacking; the rides were crumbling from age, and as I already mentioned, the golf course was in a poor state. But on the inside, the gem that Benny had stumbled upon put the Ultra-Luxe's shine to shame. It was all...out.

And you know how Benny gets. I didn't mention it, but while he was giving me the tour, going on and on about the marble flooring and clear water, I was thinking of Mr. House. If not for his actions, this place, whatever it had been, would not have survived. Even without viewing that footage, areas like this made it obvious to me why House had loved the world so much. The villa was beautiful.

Many of Benny's patrons milled about, three times that many workers. When I inquired, Benny shrugged them off: they were the Powder Gangers, who he'd given work and room to so long as they proved useful and willing to work instead of fight. I was baffled at Benny's business efficiency. He knew what he was doing, and though the project was still heavily under construction, it was already making a name for itself.

And he happily and willingly gave me the full tour, after bringing me back to the villa and making sure I was okay. Benny the businessman insisted I change out of the ragged hoodie and pants, promising me he'd have them washed and patched, and gave me a pink bell dress with black pumps-which I was skeptical about at first. I fit in much better with the rest of the crowd; men in suits, women in nice pre-War clothes, in the primped outfit.

"I saw this on my travels back with my boys before we hit the Strip and Mr. House. Even when I had the Tops, always wanted to come back here. Nobody even really knew about it, 'cept maybe some stray raiders and the like. What'll they do with it, trash it, what'll Benny do, make it sing, baby. Sort of a little hobby, yanno? Fixer upper, hirin' a few mechanics and this and that, but it's okay. I like bein' king of the castle anyway, I can do that here. No white-masked freaks across the street, either. We gotta long way to go on the revamping, but..." Benny shrugged his shoulders repeatedly.

I had told him I needed badly to get back to Vegas, because I was missed, and no doubt the others would come looking for me, but Benny insisted I stay for the feast. Every night, all the motel patrons sat down to a hearty meal in the exquisite joint ballroom and dining room. Most of these people were rich travelers, tourists. Most were on their way to the Strip or returning home, and by word of mouth the good service and interesting activities drew new patrons even in the short time it had been open.

After dressing, touring, and promising Benny dinner, he led me back up to the private top floor of the villa. Once in his huge master bedroom, I sat on the bed, watching him pull out a comb and head to the mirror. I needed to sit badly-the shoes were killing my feet. Benny ran the comb through his hair.

"So tell me how you knew where I was, and the Omertas," I demanded, since we were away from curious Cats-goers. Knowing Benny (probably by his jacket) they all eyed me curiously every time we passed.

"Ah! One of my brighter areas of genius." Now Benny moved to untie his tie. Still gazing in the mirror, he said, "For starters, I knew the Omertas had it in for you the day you faked House's message telling them to put you in charge."

"How did you know-"

Benny grinned. "I knew once you had the Chip, you'd get rid of that old miser faster than anyone. You had 'em fooled though baby. Just not me. Well anywho, so's I hear word, the Omertas see this new House...person, whatever, as a threat, they wanna off. Now it just so happens I have some nasty private business with the Omerta boys, have something they want, you know? So they say, Benny let's strike a deal. I play dirty boy con man and tell them I want to use you for..." now he turned, and grinned devilishly "personal...use, and if they don't deliver you with the caps, it's a no go." He shrugged. "It was either them knock you out cold and bring you's to me's, pussycat, or just have a cold-blooded killin' on the street."

"But now won't the rest of the Omerta's be after you?" I asked, rubbing my arms. Goosebumps had formed at the thought of what could have happened without Benny's intervention.

"Eh, let 'em. They know what I'm packin'. I don't think they'll come."

"Benny, what are you packing?"

He slid across the slick floor and pushed me on my back on the bed, kissing me.

"I thought you already knew the answer to that," he chuckled after he pulled away, winking at me, and I shoved him back, trying to stay serious. But a smile, a big doofy smile that only Benny could produce, crept onto my face anyway.

"Let the Ben Man have his fun, will ya," Benny whined in mock disappointment at my lack of approval for his levity. "I'm harmless. To you, baby. We got us a half an hour before dinner appearances be made. I can't think of a better place to spend it."

Though broad-minded in the entrepreneur business, Benny had an amazingly slim one-track mind when it came to women.

At the moment, I didn't care: I was alive, no bullet in the head, in a nice out-of-the-way area where I would soon have a good meal with pleasurable company, and then I wouldn't hesitate to find my way back to Vegas. Back...home.

The sun was dimming in the desert sky, and Boone urged himself on faster, hoping they were near the area the King had pointed him to. He was upset, well, more upset than usual, partly because the Courier was gone, and partly because the King had asked a favor of him; sending a pair of Kings along for the ride.

"My boys don't get a lot out of Freeside. They're good-hearted, know what I mean, but they're sheltered. Before your girl showed up and all this NCR this and Legion that was a worry, I was content to let them run around here. But it ain't like that no more. No sense in sending you out alone, either. Any opportunity to open their horizons a little bit is a good reason. So you help me, I help you. Whaddya say?"

Boone was not into the idea of having to escort a few Freeside gangsters around the outskirts of once-Las-Vegas, but he grimly agreed. It wasn't too long before the "eyes and ears" the King promised he'd use started filtering in information: the younger Omerta boys had struck a business deal with someone to trade the Courier (and probably unholy amounts of caps) for secret contraband. What exactly they were planning, no one knew, but whoever was heading the business deal had made the men swear to bring her alive. And one of the Gomorrah prostitutes actually knew the area where the trade was to be made.

Though he hated to, Arcade stayed behind, working the terminal systems and keeping an eye on Vegas and the Families, feigning Mr. House in the Courier's absence. His justification was backed by the fact that Boone would be traveling with two others. Not that Boone had a preference; he just wanted the girl back. So they'd walked all morning and afternoon, when now it approached evening and the three men stood over a pile of dead, stinking Omertas.

The Kings wasted no time in shamelessly looting the carcasses, and Boone stepped to the lip of the canyon. Down below, by a large lake, he spied what looked to be a running amusement park. Laughter and voices rose up to the mountains, the wind carrying up the noise. Though whatever was happening down there was indeed jovial, Boone's eyes narrowed. He'd reached his target.

Although whatever life I led pre-gunshot had taught me absolutely nothing about dancing, and I was particularly horrid at it, Benny had not only insanely smooth skills, but he was also a competent teacher and had the ability of making me look really good. The White Glove Society would've been horrified to see that beautiful ballroom turned into a mess of upturned skirts and strange dance moves. Apparently Benny's followers, both the Chairmen and their guards and girls had all grown up with a holotape from one of the Vaults nearby, "Groovie Movie" which taught them to dance in this manner.

Rigged up to the blaring sound system was loud music with a swinging rhythm. The older patrons of the Cat's Meow stood by and watched the sight, while the kids jumped in and mocked the older group's dances. Some of the Chairmen broke off and danced with the younger girls, to the kids' delight. Benny made sure he and I were the center of attention, and not just because of his jacket; he was adept at throwing me over his shoulder, slinging me around his back or under his legs, or spinning around madly with me in tow. I just held on for dear life and tried not to look or feel too stupid when I flew up in the air and my dress went over my head.

Though eyeing Boone skeptically, the guard (who looked strangely like a Powder ganger) let the Kings and the sniper pass through, after paying for a night's stay and signing in. Not bothering to head to their rented room to even rest, Boone instead made his way down the brightly lit Villa hallway. He held his gun in front of him with both hands, ready to scout out every corner, interview every patron.

The hallway was deserted though; his footsteps echoed, along with the shuffling steps of the men behind him. The floors were marble, in a black and white chess pattern, the walls, tall and accommodating. The Kings were enraptured with the building, but Boone was all business as usual. Now he stopped in front of a large, open door to what looked like a ballroom. The noise had caught his attention; loud music, whoops and hollers, and now he raised his eyebrows skeptically at the floundering, idiotic dances the crowd were performing.

Then the sea of dresses and underwear parted, and spinning in the center was the man named Benny. On his back, dress over her head, was the Courier.

The sound of Boone's rifle clattering to the ground noisily did not go unnoticed.

Benny paused, his final spin bringing him around to view the doorway; in it, a hulking figure stood in a plain t-shirt and pants, the same red beret the Courier always wore perched on his head. Now Benny was still, the girl over his shoulder, her undergarmets exposed. Benny smiled at the beret-wearer, the Courier's thighs across his chest. Though the music was still going, he stopped dancing and tossed the girl over him backwards; she somersaulted over his shoulder and landed behind him, on her feet.

By that time, the man in the beret looked livid and Benny yelled, "We'll be right back after this short break!" before pulling the Courier by her wrist to the side of the dance floor. He sensed that for some reason, the man in the beret wanted to kill him. Then again the eyes that shot daggers were probably his first clue. Benny put the girl firmly in place, holding her shoulders. "Hang on, visitor," he said with no explanation and gave her a peck on the cheek before jetting out the door.

"You!" Benny said with surprise. "You're the, you're her bodyguard!"

Boone said nothing, grabbing the checkered jacket and pulling Benny away from the doorway, he headed down the hall to a darkened corner. He pushed the man's back to the wall and said in a growl,

"You bought her from the Omertas?"

"Whaaaaaat?" Benny was so smooth-natured about being pressed to the marble wall. He did have around two hundred guards around, and all he had to do was yell, so he didn't bother getting worked up. "No no no," he lazily said instead, lolling his head, slouching against Boone's grip. "You got the wrong story. I saved your gal. My gal. Whoever's. Mine. We was just havin' fun, dig?"

"Fun?" Snarled Boone. "You have her kidnapped and dragged out of the city, for fun?"

"No," Benny said patiently, shrugging. "That part I couldn't help. I take her up to my room and ring-a-ding for fun, palley."

Boone drew his fist back, but when it connected, it was only with the stone wall; Benny had ducked, sliding out of his grip, and when Boone turned, the latter was straightening his jacket.

"Touchy, tooouuuchhyyy! Did she stop givin' you some, is that it? If you're this much fun out here I can only imagine in the sack you'd be-" now he jumped back, dodging Boone again. "All RIGHT fella, calm down, don't wanna stir up my boys, been a long day for all of us. Easy peasy. It's funtime, downtime, smooth as silk. I'll get your lady."

Boone simply glared. He had no words. Violence in here was suicide, so instead he trembled in his own misunderstanding and infuriation while he awaited Benny's return with the Courier. Though he wanted to defend the Courier's honor, a part of him felt that Benny had been telling the truth, and that perhaps made him more angry than the rest of the situation. Now Benny sauntered back into the lively ballroom, holding up one finger as a signal to Boone to wait.

If Boone thought he could stew forever, he was mistaken, for a few minutes later the Courier rounded the doorway and her eyes lit up. Relieved, the girl ran toward him, a far daintier run than she was normally capable of, as she was in heels and a puffy pink dress. She didn't hesitate to throw her arms around Boone's neck and lean in.

"I knew you'd come," she whispered, feeling warm and soft against him. Boone stood stiffly as she pulled back, and then gazed at her.

"Just what-"

"Can I explain on the way back?"

"Did that jackas-"

"He saved me."

Boone just continued to glare for good measure. The Courier smiled at the Kings, then slid her greens back to the sniper. "My bag is upstairs. Let me run up and get it...We can go back to Vegas right now."

"Fine," Boone replied, still trying to glare over her head at the black-haired man.

"Be right back."

"I'll escort ya," Benny piped up from the doorway, leaning on the entryway, hands in pockets. The Courier walk-tripped in the same dainty/clumsy way back to him, heading towards the grand staircase, her back to Boone. When she reached Benny, he very gentlemanly-like held out his elbow, which she took. Though the girl didn't see, Benny threw a look over his shoulder at Boone, winking.

"Oh, he's smooth," one of the Kings said admiringly, nodding.

"Shut up."

I didn't want to change out of the dress; instead, I kicked off the heels and opted to wear the brown boots with the pink dress...while toting a rifle and my bag, which I was carrying when the Omertas were nice enough to whack me upside the head again, I would not be cold. I turned, prepared to say goodbye to Benny, and he held out one of the motel room's large silk flowers. "O, how this spring of love resembleth, that means looks like-
The uncertain glory of an April day;
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, I know it's nighttime,
And by and by a cloud takes all away."
His dramatic speech made me pause, and then Benny pinned the purple flower to the dress. I stared at him a moment longer, both baffled and moved by what he'd just said. I hoped to remember it for later, but the way I was getting knocked out left and right, it may have been a false hope. He approached me, arms on my shoulders.
"I guess this is it, kiddo."
"For awhile." "We're even, right? No sweet revenge planned for the B-man?"
"You can rest easy."
Suddenly Benny's usually amiable expression turned slightly dim. "Sometimes, the whole business bit, leaves a hole in ya, in here." He tapped his chest. "Know what I mean?"
"I think so."
"You take good care of the Tops. And Vegas." Benny's voice had dropped to purely doleful, but he was smiling again, although it was a subdued smile. And although he was mostly good for pecks on the cheek or your typical voraciously-appetized kissing, it was a very tender and thoughtful, almost hesitant Benny that stooped to say goodbye with his lips.

"I'd follow you back down, but I'm sick of dodging," he said, thumb running over my cheek. "Get outta' town."

I don't know why these things just sort of "happen." I was doing nothing but delivering a package when I got shot in the head, was doing nothing but wandering around Novac when I learned of a slimy underhand slave trade, and although I had been drunkenly stumbling back to Vegas when the Omertas knocked the rest of my screws loose, I wasn't technically doing anything bad then either. And so it was, I got myself caught up in the biggest trouble of all while doing nothing but walking hopefully home.

Boone reached a new level of anger I didn't know the human race was capable of; though the night was warm I think it was his stare that caused the broken-down cars on the Long 15 to melt. Radscorpions hid in their holes, fearful of his wrath, and so I had been trying to awkwardly make conversation with the Kings, who felt just as awkward as I. The young men were thrilled to be out in the Mojave, though, and happy for my company. Poor things, having to walk a full day with Boone as their only companions; I knew how they felt.

Anyway, the "trouble" I'm referring to came upon us in a sudden manner. It was kind of like those days you try to take a shortcut through a canyon and run across a Deathclaw nest by pure accident. The Legion camping party was just as shocked to see us as we were to see them. The problem was, there were four of us and fifty of them.

From our position, the pack of well-trained dogs hadn't even spotted us to attack; when we crested the rocky hilltop, they rectified that, the entire lot immediately going after us. Though we held our ground, the mutts were plenty in number-I know I killed five, Boone twice as many-and they sank their teeth repeatedly into my legs and arms, doing their best to bring us down. They weren't trained to kill, but to wound and drag back to their masters as potential slaves.

"Siste!" I wailed, the Legionaries abruptly standing and watching the outnumbered fight. One of them appeared to recognize me, for he pointed and began yelling in Latin. The dogs responded only in the dead language, so I tried again, screeching. "Desino!" It was no use. They heeded only to the voice of their masters. So it was that I went down, and Boone as well. The pack was a snarling sea of stink and blood-our blood. As the night disappeared from view and the Legionaires still waited patiently for their prizes, I saw that one of the Kings had almost gotten away. He slipped down the mountainside, and I tore off my beret and threw it to him.

We were keeping the dogs so busy that they didn't bother with the young man; the men were calling the dogs back, telling them to return with their property. The King, Aaron, caught my beret.

"Arcade...Followers!" I had time to yelp before he was gone from my sight. Then it was fistfuls of dog fur, snarls and bites and hearing Boone's own cries of rage at my side. He swung his hand out, grabbing my wrist, and held on tightly as we fought against the pack, being inevitably dragged toward the expectant men in red.

"So," Vulpes said contently. "The mystery of the great warrior has been reduced to a bloody little girl and her angry bodyguard. If you struggle against your ropes or captors one more time, profligate, I will slit the girl's throat and force you to watch me drink her blood. Fighting is no use. You belong to us now."

They had been making a trek across this area of land, picking up spare stragglers, kidnapping travelers. At least thirty people were tied to Legion Brahmin, all beaten badly, all wearing slave rags. Some were children. I suspected that the only reason Boone hadn't gotten himself killed flailing around and taking out as many of them as he could, was because he knew once he was dead, I'd be alone. Unlike him, I sat quietly in front of the fire, my hopes completely dashed and destroyed. Though the King had gotten away, he was not used to traversing the wastes alone. He would never make it back to Freeside.

We were to stay the night; the eventual plan of course, was to go back to the Fort. Several more days existed between us and Cottonwood Cove, but I could make no plans of escape or dreams of the future. Instead, hands tied so tightly together they were numb, I sat on my haunches with Boone and the others. We were dragged forward by the ropes around our neck, and forced to stand still as a Legion recruit tore our clothes off. My new slave outfit consisted of less than a potato sack with a hole cut in for my neck and one shoulder to fit through. Boone's was ill-fitted burlap short pants. Our shoes were discarded as well. The Legion recruit saw the Mark of Caesar around my neck, and gave a loud triumphant "HA!" to his comrades, tossing the golden medallion to them for keeps.

Vulpes himself was going through my bag. He pulled out Oliver Twist.

"Dickens, always a great read," he responded in that smooth voice, tossing the book into the large campfire. It erupted into flame immediately. I didn't speak, but I couldn't hold back the tears as he threw everything I had onto the red flames. The books, the useless trinkets. The last to go was the picture of Liam and I, curling at the edges and then catching fire like a dry autumn leaf.

My vision blurred and I said nothing, all hope vanquished. No Arcade, no Rex. No Benny, no Boone. Who would save me now? My mind reached into its own dark traces as the recruit threw my dress, hoodie, boots onto the fire, then came Boone's shirt and pants and boots. I hadn't risked looking at Boone in far too long; now I turned to him as one of the leering men plucked his beret off and tossed it, too onto the fire.

I couldn't even put out a comforting hand, I couldn't even speak. The symbol that was more than a symbol to Boone was cast aside as though it were nothing by his enemies. Now it sat amid lapping orange and white flames. The golden threading sparked off the emblem, and even as I stared at him, Boone gazed only into the fire, his lips pursed and his eyes reflecting the firelight with a deathly cold stare.

Boone awoke, squinting in the dark moonlight. They had been walking for four days, and in that time he'd been barefoot, tied at the hands and neck, and forced to go with nothing but burlap shorts in the desert heat. His entire back was sunburned, his head scorched from the bright sun. For sleeping, the slaves were put in a makeshift assembled pen, which both Legion recruits and dogs patrolled. Scraps were thrown into the pen as though the men and women inside were lowly animals. All Boone had over the past few days were several scraps of Brahmin meat.

And barely any water. He was pretty sure the Legion loved watching the slave captures go mad and nearly die of thirst, which was what they were all on the brink of. Just enough of the warm, unfiltered water was given to them each day to make them want more, and Boone could barely walk from the exhaustion. He had been sleeping while leaned up against a stake the pen was connected to, arms over his bare chest, chin tucked downward. Now he watched with his shrewd dark-letting eyes as a Legion recruit slipped inside the locked gate, stepping gently over the sleeping slaves. Only a few were awake, and the young man knelt, eyes darting around to make sure no one was watching him, as he produced a canteen.

The Courier had fallen asleep sitting up as well. Now she rolled her weary head to him, green eyes reflecting in the moonlight. The young man offered her a drink, but Boone watched, his heart breaking, as she tried very hard to hold it. She was too weak. Of the ones to suffer over this time period, hers had been the worst for her crime against Caesar's men. Daily she was whipped, starved when others were fed, jested at. And though she held her head high, Boone suspected that she was breaking.

Now the recruit, seeing that she was unable to hold her own canteen, opened it for her and painstakingly held the container to the girl's lips. The Courier's eyes closed with relief as she finally sipped, the recruit looking around as though he were going to be crucified any moment. Boone watched them, unmoving.

Had he gotten a few more shots in before the huge dog pack had overtaken him, this young fellow would've been one of the first to go. And here he was, giving slaves-to-be water, the sweet nectar of life. The boy was young, at most eighteen. Likely captured and put in the military against his will. Though he was daring now, Boone knew that with time he would become hardened from the things he'd seen. Maybe in a few years, he would kill without thinking, he would sneak into slave pens to rape, instead of feed. He would become someone who saw no joy, no peace, but killed anyway, in hope of something.

Someone with a void that could never be filled, who secretly envied each man with a bullet in his head.

Looking at the young man, Boone saw a frightened, willing and helpful young man who was doing something he didn't want to, caught up in killing when he didn't want to be. Someone like Boone was once, long ago.

"What's going on," Boone sighed, talking to one of the other slaves. They had stopped walking, the Legionaries up ahead discussing something. They had stopped several times along the grueling journey for several reasons; Deathclaws, raids to pick up more slaves, but nothing littered the dusty road as far as Boone's shrewd eyes could see. The other slave shook his head, not risking speaking for fear of getting beaten.

Two children had already died on the journey; the adults pooled together their food to give to the remaining youngsters and after the pen had been set up, the Courier sat with them and told them the story of Heidi, the young girl who went to live with her grandfather up in green, quiet mountains. She told them about snow, in her crackling dehydrated voice, and the kids would hang onto her every word. Some of them, the ones who hadn't been abducted with their parents, grew so attached they slept huddled by her.

The Legion recruit who gave them water was named Alexander. Though neither Boone or the Courier had a chance to get his story, he made it obvious that he didn't want to fight for the Legion. Several of his recruit friends were reluctant as well, but none so bold or so kind as the curly-haired boy. At the moment, he was nowhere to be seen, other slaves and Brahmin the only view to Boone's front.

Suddenly he was untied, the rope cut by a Decanus, and dragged by the rope on his neck to the front of the line. Boone realized that the camp had spread out, a large circle drawn on the dry desert sand. Around it, Legionaires leered, and in the circle, her burlap dress barely covering her thighs, stood the barefoot Courier. Her back was to Boone; now she turned her head to the side, not meeting his eyes. But her blond hair, which was down, was blown aside by the warm, uncomforting Mojave breeze. She was untied, and held a machete.

Vulpes explained to Boone while his own wrist ropes were cut. "The two of you will surely be a prize for Caesar. However, it does us no good to keep both of you alive, as I feel your threat. You both consume our precious resources, which we are running low on. Of all the captures, you two are undoubtedly the most vicious, the best killers. As such, I think only one of you will make a great, loyal guard for Caesar. The winner may return alive, with the loser's head, and be spared a life of slavery."

There was cruel, and there was Vulpes...like the lottery in Nipton, he cared more about terrorizing people, playing horrible games with them, breaking their spirits. Who knew how long it had taken him to notice the bond and opportunity Boone and the Courier had. But now he intended to capitalize on it. Boone was free, and the man with the wolf-head reminded him, "Any foul play and she is tortured slowly before your eyes." A Legionnaire handed him a machete, and Boone stepped into the circle.

Now they faced each other, and the Courier finally met his eyes as she hadn't in days. Suddenly, things like Benny, Arcade, all of that seemed so trivial. Quarreling over the tiniest things, hesitating with his feelings. Man was a strange animal, desperate when backed into a corner. So many days passing by with nothing out of the normal, stressing over what to make for dinner, what to say to the girl you like. And then in a crisis, these emotions well up and surface. Fear, hatred. Love, pain. Regret, loss. Sometimes, people forgot who they were until they were forced to remember it. It wasn't logical, but it was often true.

"You can decide who kills who," Vulpes said in his purring voice. "But make it quick."

When Boone stared back at her, she seemed to be a madwoman. Dark circles rounded her eyes, her gaunt face looking almost ghoulish with the stare she was giving him. Boone spoke.

"Kill me."

"No."

"I'm not going to kill you."

"I won't." Her voice was more than a throaty whisper, but not by much.

"Please," Boone pleaded. "You have to live, you still have something worth living for."

She raised her shaky finger and pointed at him.

"No," he said, shaking his head. The two began to circle in the ring. "Not me. The world. Vegas."

"I won't," she responded again.

"If you do not wish to kill him, I will cut out his far-seeing eyes and force-feed them to you," Vulpes called. Every Legionare was silent, trained on the couple.

"Kill me," Boone said, his bare chest heaving, sweat pouring off his back. "KILL ME!"

"NO! I WON'T!"

She threw the machete suddenly, into the crowd of Legion. The red rushed forward angrily, and Boone reached out to grab her. She sank her weak fingers into his back, holding on tightly, while the men pulled at her hair, yelling at her impudence. Just before the red swarm separated Boone from the girl, a loud missile-firing sound was heard, followed by a crack and the smell of gunpowder. Then another, and the ground shook.

Wildly, Boone wondered if the Boomers had shown up. Then he remembered they were miles, miles, miles away from Nellis...but what? The next missile hit a crowd of Legion; red of the Bull mixed with red blood, and slaves, now untied, scattered like mad. Rapid-fire opened across the desert, and Boone was thrown off his feet onto his back, losing the Courier in the mad rush.

As he fell, another missile launched into the drawn-circle, creating waves of black smoke. They were falling fast now, and even the Boomers would've had a hard time keeping up with the rate of fire. Men shouted, dogs barked, women screamed. Boone couldn't see through the black smoke, but he had to run. Blindly he streaked past the flailing Legionaries, steadying himself with each rocky hit. The sniper ducked behind a large boulder, looking past the chaos to see a wall of upgraded Securitons.

They were far away, barely visible to the untrained eye, but they had found the Legion and were now spamming all of their artillery. As the explosions continued to litter the forces, Boone heard a meek voice yelling his name. He turned; thirty feet away, taking cover, was the Courier. Her head was down, but she had a look of amazed hope on her face.

Boone leapt up, sprinting through the wall of fire to make it to her. She stood uneasily, arms outstretched. Another missile launched, and the couple dove. He half-held, half-threw her into a short canyon, to temporary safety. The couple held on until Boone's back bounced off a rock, and it wasn't until then that he realized he'd been holding onto her with a tight grip the entire time.

Though the world outside was getting blasted, Boone lay on his back behind a short rock wall with the girl. He cradled her head to him, his other arm draped around her waist. She clung back tightly, on top of him. And in the spirit of human nature, and overwhelming emotion, Boone rolled over onto his side, pushing her onto her back, and kissed her fiercely, while the upgraded Securitrons blew a hole through anything red within a half-mile radius.

Boone had never quite felt as free in his life, as he did in that moment. He may have been aching, near starving, dehydrated, but he was alive, and he was a free man. Stripped of pride and just about every other selfish created need or want he could ever think up, instead he was a heartbeat on legs that was allowed a few more moments. His only reaction was surprise, unbridled joy.

And so it happened that in his arms was the woman he'd traverse the Wastelands forever for, forever with, and in the spirit of that unbridled joy, with no inhibitions, Boone's rigidity melted away. He pressed his lips hard to hers, inhaling the warm air as missile firing waned above and around them, a hard and deep kiss, as Boone was apt to do. His eyes were closed and for a moment, he only felt white-hot as a burning sensation all over his body. Then, still wringing with that unbridled joy, the reckless hope he'd never felt in his life, the simplicity of being free, caused him to tremble, and he buried his head in the Courier's neck, unable to speak. She of course, embraced him tightly.

When the firing ceased, both tired and now sooty freed slaves pulled themselves over the lip of the nature-aided trench, standing to survey the damage. Half the bodies were in bits, some still on fire from the napalm. Spare shots and screams of horror littered the blackened area, and Boone didn't hesitate to stoop and pluck up a pistol, scowling at the crude gun and advancing on any still-remaining Legion troops.

Though she could barely walk, the Courier followed him, and grabbed her own gun, sighing with relief at being armed again. Together, the pair stepped through the blown-apart bodies and bloody sand, pausing when a Legionnaire tried to clumsily hit a female slave. Not only did she turn on him, but two other slaves, male, began to beat him mercilessly. The man was missing a leg, and with the bludgeoning from his once-captives, his wails soon subsided.

Many of the Legion had fled, but not so many of them had succeeded. As the Courier and Boone surveyed the scene, they realized that one unaccounted-for body was that of Vulpes. The grunts and cries of the near-dead surrounded the only two standing. Some were slaves, most Legion. Some slaves who lay face-down were children. They had not survived.

The Courier had to leave this area of black death; sweaty, sooty, she wobbled out of the circle of black and fell to her knees, trying to breathe in air that wasn't filled with smoke and the stench of blood. Behind her, fires raged, and Boone continued his scouting. The girl pulled her long, dirty hair away from her neck, grabbing it and bringing it around to her front. As she idly ran her skinny fingers through the tresses, a Securitron bumped its way along, rambling toward her. The others, now far away, were making their way back through the desert.

Behind her, in the forest of smoke, Boone knelt beside a familiar body, one that hadn't been completely burned to death, or blown up. Now Boone lifted the torso of Alexander. The man was bleeding heavily from a wound that had torn most of his insides out, and he was in shock, shaking terribly. Trying to provide what comfort he could, Boone cradled him, saying nothing.

Alexander had words, which he spat out amid the trembling. "Don't...go north...go, around."
"What's north?"
"Brother...raiding camp. Th-they were su-supposed to hit N-novac...lottery games...slave trades," he said with urgency. "Go west, around."
He was so adamant, so worried, that Boone nodded. "Okay. We'll go around."
Alexander sighed, a more peaceful look coming across his face. Though he looked as though he were drowsy, his head lolling, his eyes relaxed, Alexander said, "I'm scared."
"It's almost over," Boone promised him. "I'm sorry...for everything."
Boone didn't know what to say to this, so he remained quiet. Alexander's voice grew lower and lower still, the hot wind brushing his ringlet curls. "I listened to the stories she told. Green hills, cool rivers. Blue skies, mountains full of...trees." His cloudy eyes looked as ethereal as the Courier's while she was blinded; they turned their focus to some other parallel universe, the place only the unsighted could see. "That must have been what it was like...before we destroyed it. I wish things...could've been different."
The young man fell heavy in Boone's arms, and it was several minutes before the stoic soldier set him gently on the ground, pressing his eyelids closed gently.

Before him, to the north, sat the Courier. She was perched on a grassy knoll, head down with her back to Boone. Though his chest was heavy with the young man's passing, Boone again felt that stirring of reckless hope, unbridled joy. They were alive, for the moment. He'd never felt so alive.

As the Securitron drew nearer, the Courier could see that on its screen was plastered Yes Man's cartoony face. She was surprised, but didn't move as the lumbering thing on a wheel approached.

"Good to see you!" Yes Man said jovially, ignoring the fact that around them was total carnage. "How are you feeling? Oh, you don't look too good at all. Would you like to go on radio camera now?"
"Radio...what?"
"I'm programmed with a live recording camera, a feature of the Mark II Upgrade. It is now able to be used so that you can communicate with other party members. Quite a handy feature, if I may say so! I was asked to inform you when we reconnected."
"I..." She was too baffled, tired, to intake any information. "Okay."
The face flickered, buzzed, and for an instant the Courier saw her own beat up reflection in the viewscreen, then a very fuzzy Arcade appeared. His face brightened. The Courier burst into tears. "Is everything okay?" he asked, his voice echoing as though hollow, like the robotic tone of the Securitrons. "Yes...yes, barely! How did you...?"
"The Kings found me in Freeside. They gave me your beret. The Platinum Chip was still inside it, and I knew I had to do something. Yes Man was the only option. I sent several groups of the robots out, they were under orders to destroy any Legion groups upon sight. I was trying to stay covert...but..." he was difficult to understand, but the Courier pressed her hands to the cold metal and replied, "You saved our lives."

"Well...that's a relief, anyway. Get back to Vegas, this whole running-the-Securitrons is freaking me out. Not my kind of power."

"We'll be there soon."

"I'll assign that Securitron to you and Boone for protection." Arcade paused, realizing the man was nowhere to be seen. "Boone is..."

"He's here with me," she responded tiredly, realizing that her voice was nothing more than a crackle.

"I'm going to keep the tracking on that Yes Man active. If you have any emergencies, he can route a message over the radio to me. Take care."

As Arcade faded back into Yes Man's smiling face, the girl fainted from dehydration.

When the Courier awoke, she was propped up on one of Boone's legs. Her neck rested on his arm. He was giving her water. Now she raised her head, and he gave that unfamiliar half-smile at seeing her conscious again. Without speaking, she reached for the Legion canteen again, which Boone handed over wordlessly. The girl drank until there wasn't a drop left, but Boone had raided what the Securitrons hadn't blasted to Kingdom Come, and handed over another canteen.

While she replenished, Boone said nothing and turned his gaze to the horizon, north. He seemed lost in thought as usual, but was now holding her protectively to him. When the Courier had rehydrated to the point of thinking clearly, she noticed that the hovering Securitron had the face of Victor, not Yes Man. Catching Boone's dark eyes, she pointed, and he said with a sigh, "Don't ask."

"Wellllll hidey, pardner!" Victor said, perking up. "Yes Man still had my old AI up in the system, yer pardner here asked him to flip it over. I guess see, he ain't too friendly with that Yes Man feller. So Yes Man bein' helpful as he is, he switched us bodies. It's good to be back! And with a fancy new gun and eurrthang! Just hopin' I don't get shot...again."

The Courier stared in wonder at Boone. In answer, he said only, "Anything is better than Yes Man."

"It's good to have you with us, Victor," she said half-truthfully. Yes-Man, though simpering, would probably drive both the Courier and Boone nuts before they made it successfully back to Vegas. And now that Mr. House was out of the equation, the cowboy robot wouldn't be taking any orders, unless they were from the pair in the desert, or Arcade.

The Courier sat contentedly, leaning against Boone's leg. He handed her a burned and cut prickly pear fruit, which she stuffed into her mouth, ignoring all manners. With the robot who had unearthed the girl so long ago standing sentinel, Boone remained focused on the North while the Courier tucked her head into his still-bare chest, silently chewing the deliciously watery desert fruit.

Though Boone wanted terribly to leave the area that night, they simply couldn't. Both travelers were exhausted and starving, and needed a night of sleep before any plans could be made. The Courier tried rather pitifully and clumsily to help him prepare dinner; thankfully heavy iron skillets and thick Brahmin steaks had survived the assault, but the poor girl was so weak on her knees that Boone forced her to cover up with a large pack blanket and sit while he did everything.

He told her about what Alexander had said, about Novac, and she listened numbly. So that's why he'd been looking to the north all day, that's why he was so quiet. As Boone fanned the campfire, cooking in the usual sniper fashion (quickly and efficiently) she stared into the flames, blanket draped around her shoulders.

But suddenly a pain in the back of her head caused circles to lambast her eyes, and they faded to snow. With a gasp, the Courier realized she was standing in the dark, on the ski slope. The same place of her nightmares. The door to the shanty where her classroom was stood open. Stepping inside hurriedly, afraid of the man with white eyes, she paused at the carnage before her.

They were all there, all dead. They. She had killed them. Though it wasn't her own voice, it was; the Courier heard the deep wail rise up, "WHAT HAVE I DONE?" echoing around the tin walls with a dreamlike quality of sound. Children, adults, all strewn about. And it was her doing. She could never get the blood off her hands. Turning, the Courier fled, no longer afraid of any shadow man lurking in the forest. Afraid of herself, her ability to harm.

In a flash, Boone's scraping of the metal pan and the soft crackling of the fire were the only noises in her ears. The Courier realized she was crying again, and she huddled in the blanket, unable to stop. What had she done, why had she fled Griffith Peak? Something that mattered so little so few hours ago had been thrown back in her face, giving her no respite. When Boone handed her the plate of meat, she picked up the bites and chewed them amid a constant stream of tears. Boone saw this and misjudged it as her way of coping with the days, with the week's events, and he abandoned his own food.

"I'll be back," he said in a low voice. "Something I've gotta do."

While the Courier strained to block out all memories of the bodies she'd seen in that schoolhouse, reminding herself that there had to be another explanation, that she'd never hurt a child, Boone disappeared back into the shadows of the battlefield. She assumed he was going for supplies, but after hearing him shuffle around in the total darkness for over fifteen minutes, the Courier abandoned her own dark, troubling thoughts, and went to seek him out, still wrapped in the blanket.

Boone had piled the dead slaves together in a circle, surrounding them with rocks in a makeshift grave. He carried the young soldier last, laying him atop the others, and when Boone pulled away, realized that something had fallen into his hand from carrying the man. In the darkness, Boone squinted at the object. It was similar to the Mark of Caesar given to the Courier by the Legion long, long ago, but silver instead of gold, and smaller. Tied to a string, it was a Legion coin worn by all recruits. After staring at it, Boone painstakingly put the string around his own neck.

To wear this, a symbol of a group he so despised with blind hatred that none could ever compare to, showed just how far Craig Boone had came in the past 24 hours. He still hated the Legion. He had more than fair reasoning to. But he could now mourn a fallen enemy, had comforted the dying man as best he could. And he could now be thankful for life, though he often despised his own. Boone put on the pendant in honor of Alexander, out of respect. Now he backed away from the mass grave.

The Courier had reached him, and she put one hand on his bare back as Boone fished for the lighter he'd looted earlier. Before amassing the graves, he littered the circle with gunpowder remnants. Now, he found the prized lighter, and paused, turning it in his cracked hands.

"It won't ever end for us," the Courier said gently. "But it's ended for them. They can find peace. See angels. See the sky sparkling with diamonds."

Boone tossed the open lighter onto the rocks, watching a circle of flames erupt and enfold the group. They stood in somber silence, relishing their freedom, the fact that they had once again came out alive, while good people suffered and bad people roamed the desert freely. In the deep unfairness of it all, the need for justice burned in the pair's veins. Long after the flames had dimmed, Boone said a singular word. Not for any other reason than to remind himself that they still had a purpose, a place that required their aching muscles and weary trigger fingers.

The fire was mostly spent, and the Courier and Boone now lay under a sheltering rock fifty yards away from the spot where the Securitrons hit earlier that day. The girl was still so frail even after all the water and food she'd consumed in the past hours. With Boone finally settling down by her, and Victor silently standing guard over the pair, she'd already fallen asleep. Now the sniper, not even bothering to change out of the burlap shorts he'd been given, lay down as well.

He ached, everywhere. Not one part of his body had stopped screaming for respite in the past week, and now he had it. There was nothing to fear until he opened his eyes again. And yet Boone couldn't immediately drop off to sleep. It wasn't the fact that the Courier, beside him, was crying quietly in her sleep, nor was it the dimly lit screen with a smiling cowboy face that hovered nearby. For the first time today, Boone had felt an elation such as he'd never known before.

When he'd married Carla, he felt euphoria. Sort of a slapped stupid feeling that ran the term infatuation into the ground. When Boone had been accepted into the NCR's First Recon unit, he felt proud of his own ability and his secure future, and had walked around in a haze for several days. But today, he had never truly felt happy just for being alive. He always thought death would have been a fresh air-to someone who so slowly choked and drowned on their own misery, he'd never expected to instead break the surface and inhale life-giving air. Today, despite all the pain and suffering, he did that.

Tomorrow, when he and the girl set out for Novac, life would return to normal. They would be survivors again, never knowing what may come around the corner. Their best bets were to shoot, kill, save. Shoot, kill, save, defend. Stave off the desert heat, hope that their efforts were not in vain. Whether they ended up getting to the town before the raiding party or not, the feeling was all the same. And after that, so it would be until death did come and take Boone away. He wasn't dreading it so much as accepting that life was like this, but he couldn't fall asleep now and risk forgetting the vivid feeling of happiness to be alive.

Boone always slept the same way; it was easy, as he'd been a sniper for so long. On his back, elbows out, hands behind his head. Even at home in bed with his wife, it was just a habit, something that came natural to him. As he looked at the stars and listened to the singing of the Mojave night, the tearstreaked face of the Courier turned to him. She was still asleep, but restless. Boone turned his head to view her; she ducked her head into the red Legion blanket. She seemed deeply disturbed by whatever dream she was having, and Boone moved his arm, pulling her and the blanket closer. Sometimes this backfired, as she was not the most peaceful sleeper and could and would kick or punch, but now she just huddled into his side thankfully.

Now pity washed over Boone-something he didn't feel often, if ever. He wished she could sleep peacefully, have dreams of snow instead of whatever tragedy she lived through. The Courier was intelligent, far more intelligent than Boone ever cared to be, and she had the sort of philosophical mind (as witnessed by her drunken rants with Arcade) that could enable her to be thankful for life every day as Boone wasn't. Yet it seemed that the people with that ability were the ones that harbored deep-seated sorrow and sadness. You couldn't win either way.

As though Boone's own thoughts of the girl had pulled her out of the nightmare, she awoke suddenly, her eyes popping open and staring first blankly ahead, then up to Boone. She seemed disoriented, askew, even afraid. He thought of earlier, when that first surge of reckless joy hit him, how he'd kissed her as an only appropriate action. Surviving had filled his thoughts for the rest of the long day, but now in the quietness of the Victor-guarded night he had the time to spare to recall it. Boone wasn't impulsive, didn't like impulse as he was a well-trained, disciplined soldier. She was precisely opposite.

He realized that while he was deep in thought, half-regretting and half-relishing his actions earlier, he was staring at her intently. Boone had no ideas of some ridiculous Mojave romance, where they would both ride off into the sunset on a pair of flowered Bighorners. She was his friend, more than that, his partner. More than that even. His companion. She wasn't his girlfriend. Yet even as he told himself these things, Boone knew that the girl felt the same way. She was pragmatic as he, possibly even more so. She was realistic, and a loner, independent.

So what then? They had just survived a horror that most were unlucky enough to survive only inside a Legion camp. It would resonate within their memories of each other no matter what petty fights or angry moments ever decided to rift their bond, and Boone was just pompous enough to be selfish for once. He continued to stare at her, knowing in the back of his mind that tomorrow was Novac. She lay in the crook of his uncovered arm, blond hair down and flowing, one shoulder bare. Victor seemed to focus his camera's gaze to some foreign point on the horizon as the weathered, tired, and happy-to-be-alive Boone rolled on his side toward her, his other arm reaching forward to very gently lay on her cheek, and he kissed her again.

It wasn't anything like earlier. Then, so many warning signals and hormones and explosions and who knows what else had littered his thoughts, and pulling the beautiful woman toward him for an intense lip-lock was the only response. Now, his heart thudded in his chest, excruciatingly loud, and he barely brushed her lips, his caress so undeniably restrained and gentle that it seemed an illusion. The Courier kissed him back with the same gentleness. Though one of his arms was already pinned to the ground by her neck, Boone moved the other slowly away from her cheek and instead ran it over her shoulder and across her back, pulling her to him.

There in the darkness, where coyotes howled and both predators and prey lurked, Boone had breathed air, and finally learned to embrace.

"For you," Pacer said, out of breath, tossing the package into the King's lap. The man eyed the younger strangely. Pacer's lip had been busted, his eye still painfully swollen. After the King had expressed his disgust at Pacer's abandon of Freeside, some of the others had gotten to him. Now humbled and hated by his peers, Pacer sulked, and the King pushed his own Sunset Sarsaparilla aside.

"What is this?"

"I don't know, just came for you, outside the door."

It was a poorly wrapped package, with a large note scrawled on the front.

"What the-"

To the King:
I know you softskins won't remember or celebrate, but it's a good excuse to give this to you now. Merry Christmas.

-Your Biggest Fan

Christmas, an old pre-War day when people chopped down trees and put them inside their houses...but the King didn't know much else about it. He supposed it was nearing the time of year the old day had been centered in, but it was hard to tell when you lived in a desert and the scenery never changed, unless you counted getting older and dingier.

He tore open the package. Several of the Kings turned, curious. Pacer stood by steely, hoping it wasn't a trap. But it wasn't an exploding bomb or radscorpion eggs...instead, it was a holotape. The King held it up, then turned it over. "That projector upstairs still workin'?"

"Barely," one of the Kings replied.

The King stood, then turned the tape over again, noting only a number labeled on the side.

1968.

"Good lord, is that a date?" the King exclaimed. "This thing's over three hundred years old!"

Ten minutes later, the well-preserved holotape had been set into the projector, several of the men eyeing the doorway curiously. Pacer was adjusting the machine, which the King reclined on, propping himself by the elbow. He had no idea what might have been on the tape, but anything older than the War was a sight to behold.

Suddenly, amid scratches and the echo of the droning machine, an image popped up on the blank white wall once used for classroom study. And there was sound: a twangy guitar, then a voice, then what sounded like a group of girls screaming wildly. The King's brown eyes widened, his jaw dropping. Up close and personal, the camera focused on the original King, who wore a black leather jacket and sang into a microphone. He seemed at ease, reclined, the all-too-familiar voice that filtered out of the speakers saying reluctantly, "I'll have a Blue Christmas without you..."

The Kings were exclaiming, enthralled. It had been several years since the last of their holotapes with the man had stopped working, even the ones where worshippers taught impersonation techniques. But nothing like this; his face was closer than ever on the screen, his expression going from serious, focusing on the sadness of the song, to amused, as his admirers cheered him on.

The successor King, unlike his fellow listeners and watchers, was silent, jaw still dropped. The condition of this pre-War tape was brilliant; it was even in color. He mentioned a Christmas tree, that same funky thing the folks back then had decorated for whatever reason. He also sang about a "Christmas of white" which made no sense to the Freesider, but the King was touched. He idolized this man, saw something in him that dictated both fun and respect, had always seen that something, and now once again he had a treasure to inspire him. The King was so moved, he couldn't speak, and chose not to, instead listening, enraptured, to the scratchy holotape.

Arcade was binging, but not on food or reading material. Instead, it had been discovered some time after Yes Man uploaded himself to the systems, that House had a library of pre-War films. Most of them made entirely no sense, or were about House himself, but some were older, and not related to the robotics industry or pre-War politics. These were the ones Arcade longed to see, and Yes Man was throwing out the file names as he scanned through them.

"Christmas Truce of 1914," he said good-naturedly while rifling through the list.
"Wait, what's that one?" It sounded promising, and 1914 was by far the oldest year. Though some had been as old as 2010, this one sounded ancient. Yes Man read the description on the file log.

"Description on this one reads, 'World War I Documentary.'" Yes Man was undeniably perky while helping Arcade visually feast on pre-War history.

"Interesting...Christmas, war, let's see it." Arcade reclined in the chair, crossing his hands over the back of his head. "World War I I've heard about...I don't think that's the one where they dropped nuclear weapons for the first time, but I could be mistaken."

"Uploading now!" came Yes Man's cheery voice. "There is a written text file attached, do you want to see that as well?"

"Just read it to me," Arcade replied.

"You got it! Here goes." Yes Man reappeared on the screen, a little icon informing Arcade that the 'documentary' was loading, in another screen. The massive monitor that used to be home to House was now Arcade's work desk, at least until the Courier returned. Yes Man read the document in his cheery voice.

"The Christmas truce was a series of widespread unofficial ceasefires that took place along the Western Front around Christmas of 1914, during the First World War. Through the week leading up to Christmas, parties of German and British soldiers began to exchange seasonal greetings and songs between their trenches. On occasion, the tension was reduced to the point that individuals would walk across to talk to their opposite numbers bearing gifts. On Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, many soldiers from both sides - as well as, to a lesser degree, from French units - independently ventured into no man's land, where they mingled, exchanging food and souvenirs. As well as joint burial ceremonies, several meetings ended in carol-singing, or games of football."

Arcade wasn't familiar with Christmas at all, but warfare was something he was all-too-familiar with, and his eyebrows rose as he listened intently. Pushing his glasses up and talking more to himself than the agreeable AI, he said, "Fascinating! Soldiers from opposing sides actually ceased fire to...sing and eat together. Bury their dead." It sounded like a hoax, like a story a child would make up to another. Picturing Caesar's men and the NCR lay down their weapons and share a box of Insta-Mash was the kind of tale only a chem-loaded lunatic would favor.

As Arcade continued to ponder the genuineness of the claim, the video itself loaded and Yes Man disappeared. Moving from his reclining position to watch the screen eagerly, Arcade expected footage of the World War, or at least a drone voice detailing events as he'd been watching all day. Through RobCo advertisements and presidential elections he'd sat, but didn't expect what he saw. In place of a video, a series of pictures from this so-called truce that occurred, paired with a song. Arcade realized that the music was sang in two languages; English and German, probably to recreate the effect of the different tribes singing across the trenches.

The photos themselves showed soldiers as soldiers so rarely were, smiling, shaking hands. In one picture, twenty or more men lay by their weapons, gazing out at a wasteland that looked surprisingly similar to the one back east. In another, two soldiers lay over a fallen comrade, one closing the eyes of the dead soldier. A shabbily-dressed man stood, hands in pockets, the dark look that overtook the demeanor of a killer in wartime plastered on his face even in a spare moment of peace.

That this had actually happened was as profound to Arcade as it had apparently been to Mr. House. He had no idea what Christmas was for back then, or what it was about, but whatever it was, it had moved killers to lay down their arms and be men, not machines. Whatever the War was over, though important at the time, didn't matter at the end. But Arcade propped his elbows on the terminal dashboard, threading his long fingers together, watching the imagery, and enjoying the fact that mankind, even so many centuries ago, with their crude weaponry and ideals, had enough decency and heart to be called mankind.

Benny was smoking a cigarette and looking over the blueprints of the massive basement. He had a full manufacturing facility under there, his prize. The Chairmen knew about this business endeavor; unlike his thwarted plan of Vegas, Benny couldn't very well take on this task by himself. So he was busy planning, even during the nightly dinner. The black-haired man tucked the worn papers into his back pocket as he entered the dining room, seeing a wide array of traveling guests already at the table.

A few Chairmen were there as well as some of the girls who had tagged along, either just leeches, or Boot Riders from back in the day. The group was flipping through fliers, and Benny eyed them curiously. "We got auditions?"

Mary, one of the girls, tossed a paper aside. "We're still lookin.' A few look promisin' but eh. Contact's slow around here."

"Lemme see." Benny picked up a smaller stack of papers, the 'keepers.' Just as in the Tops, Benny wanted live entertainment, be it comedians or swing dancers or anyone else. The place here had a theatre, so there was no reason to not put it to good use.

The desert's array of performers usually wrote in or sent pictures once Benny had put up the ad in Vegas. Rather, he'd had some of the Tops' new managers, who he remained in close contact with, put up the ads. Now one of the patrons spoke up, pointing at a flier that Mary still held.

"I saw that one when I went to Luxe a few weeks ago. Gotta get her, she's good. Voice of an angel."

Mary flipped the flier over, tilting her head at the advertisement Jacob, manager of the Tops, had given her. Benny held out his hand, and she passed it over.

Only the most refined artists perform at our- He skipped over that part, reading the recent date and seeing a picture of this so-called angelic singer. There, with her hair flowing over her shoulders, she posed, holding a decorated mask in her hand as though she'd just pulled it off her face. She certainly looked angelic, almost unrecognizable. A week had passed since the girl left, but Benny would always remember her face.

"I'll be damned," he said quietly. Deciding to leave Mary with her stack of contacts, he tucked the flier into his pocket with the blueprints. Without an explanation, Benny walked away from the table, ready to do more work, more planning. But he had a spring in his step; the girl was running Vegas in style.

He couldn't, at the moment, ask for more than that.

Marcus entered the dark resort, shaking the snow off his head. He'd just gotten relieved from his watch, and he was glad; though his thick skin didn't allow much cold to come through, standing outside in a blizzard was still not his idea of fun. One of the many things he enjoyed about this area was that it still had the right weather conditions to cause snowfall, being both high in altitude and far from any radiation exposure.

This blizzard was a particularly nasty one, one that the people down in the Wasteland below would have no notion of. His rifle was soaking wet; Marcus grabbed a fallen curtain and stood in front of the window, wiping the gun down. The Nightkin, what few were in the lobby, lumbered off at his approach, muttering. The window which Marcus now faced was frozen over, ice crystals making beautiful patterns on the glass.

"Well it's about time you came in," piped up the growling voice of Lily from the other side of the lobby. Marcus turned and didn't reply, watching her face light up as she spotted something sitting on a long entryway table. "A present, a plate wrapped with a bow! Oh who could it be for?"
Now curious, Marcus fully turned, still absent-mindedly wiping the gun. Lily's shrewd eyes scanned the object she now picked up.

"Ohhh! Look at this, Marcus! Little Jimmy left me a plate of cookies! See the note? It says, Miss you Grandma. It's from JIMMY! He left me a note and warm cookies...smell them Marcus...they're still warm!"

Marcus passed on smelling what was in fact an old hubcap that he'd thrown on the table a few hours earlier. Lily's angry features turned almost peaceful as she held the metal, thinking it was a plate. The Doctor appeared in the entryway to his office, hearing the speech, and looked quizzically at Marcus, who shrugged. "What a good boy, to not forget his family, especially at this time of year. I hope he's doing okay out there."

Lily was hallucinating badly; the continuation of experimental medication was doing even stranger things to her mind. But neither the doctor nor the mutant argued with her, both saddened and relieved that at least in Lily's mind, Little Jimmy still cared. The wind howled around them, the snow creating an illusion of daylight despite the fact that it was nighttime.

They remained oblivious to the fact that across the desert, in the darkness, a couple lay on the ground with a sentinel robot, embracing, or that the misty-eyed King was replaying his holotape unceasingly, or that a ruthless businessman had momentarily abandoned his domination plans to sit on his bed and gaze at an opera flier, or that a cynical blond was content to listen to what he didn't know was a pre-War Christmas carol.

What have I done. What have I done. How could I do this to them, to me. Liam was lifeless in her trembling arms, his quick wit and fierce loyalty no more real than his absence of a beating heart. She lay on the floor with him, sobbing uncontrollably. Behind her, the door to the shanty was open, the snow still tinted a dark blue as the sun had not risen yet. She knew that voice was right, he'd been right all along. She would be alone, no matter what happened. Living in misery until she learned to accept her pitiful fate as a nobody in this snowy wasteland.

Laying there, cradling the one boy she'd loved more than anyone or anything on earth, the world faded to black again. She knew she'd wake up from this dream, safe in Boone's arms, though the man was likely having nightmares of his own. Or better, she would be back in Vegas, in the warm comfort of her large bed, Rex at her heels, Arcade steps away. Anywhere was better than here, and she fought to wrench herself awake.

Awake the Courier did, and stood slowly, hesitantly. Her breath fogged around her as she exhaled slowly. It was inky black outside, and extremely frigid. She gazed at the scenery. It was not the Mojave, there was no Boone. Tall, impossibly tall trees stood guard at the edge of this clearing. She was standing on a large stepping stone, and with a jolt realized that she was at the edge of a perfectly clear, crystal-smooth lake. The girl fought to keep her balance, throwing her arms out to steady herself.

Now she peered cautiously over the edge of the rock to gaze at the reflection. It was not one she recognized; thick coat, dress, high boots, hair down. But then she drew her attention to the stars behind her reflection; even in the mirror of moonlight they shone brightly. The reflections of the pointy evergreen trees spiked across the rim of lake, and the girl was overwhelmed with beauty. This place was magical. She stooped over the edge of the rock, realizing that with the crystal-clear reflection she could see herself just as she would through a looking glass. In her gloves and scarf, she didn't feel the scrape of rock or the cool wind rise up against her back, blowing her hair forward. The long blond strands were swept to the side.

Now on all fours, moving closer to the water, she inspected her own face. The same green eyes, but without the resolute stare she often sported. Instead they were wider, rounder, more dreamy. The same upturned nose, the same pink lips. She didn't look confident, weathered, or grungy. She looked insecure, ethereal, dreamy. Frightened, unsteady, ghostly. A wisp of a person, less a girl than a phantom. The Courier's own face screwed up with scrutiny as she surveyed the enigmatic face. Against the stars, the spirit girl with the flowing blond hair looked as though she were in danger of fading.

The spell was broken when the sound of rapid running feet crossing the meadow headed towards the girl. She spun on the rock, realizing that a path of large, uneven stones led to shore, and a tall bank of cat-tails. Without wasting time, not wanting to be seen, the lithe Courier jumped stone to stone, ducking in the thick green mass and parting it to see what, or who, approached.

It was a girl. She wore rags that were ill-fitted and shoes that were obviously hand-made. She could've been no more than six years old. Her hair hit her waist, falling in long straight curtains around her stricken face. In one hand she held a book, in the other was tucked a stuffed animal. Now she paused, scanned the meadow, saw the cat tails. The child's eyes lit up and the Courier recognized the expression; she wore the exact same one when inspiration struck.

Apparently the little girl thought the thick green brush was a perfect hiding spot as well, for she dove in. The Courier didn't move, terrified. The girl didn't seem to see her, for she was intent on not being seen herself. She ducked down into a defensive position, hands over her head, but peeked out after several moments. The Courier was possibly six feet to her right, and ducked lower as well, trying to get a better look at the girl.

Everything about her was shabby, ill. As she covered her face with her hands in a childish attempt to remain hidden, the Courier spotted a beautiful green and white beaded ring on the small slender finger. Now she tilted her head quizzically; it was the same ring she and Arcade and Boone uncovered in Goodsprings, in the bag of belongs the Legion burned. Was this a student? The girl seemed to be key, the Courier crept closer, intending to speak to her. She knew it was a dream, and had spoken with Liam in many dreams.

But she didn't crawl far. Heavy footfalls sounded, and he was upon them. The Courier herself, though she was in no danger, ducked, flattening to the ground, remaining hidden. The girl was not so lucky. With a cry, the man picked her up by the hair of the head, causing the girl to scream and cry out. The Courier's immediate reaction was to reach for her gun, but...she had none. This was her in the past, before weapons. Now her head shot upwards.

The great shadow of a man blocked out the enchanting stars, lifting the child up and screaming at her. His voice melted into a molten lava that spoke no language, spitting out pure hatred. He held the girl by her shoulders, shaking her violently. The blond head spasmed around, and the Courier was afraid it would snap. The child fell silent against the man's screams, even when he loosened his grip on one side to backhand her across the face.

In any revolting situation such as this, the Courier would not have hesitated to stand, even if she was weaponless, confront the bastard who dared hit a child, but just as her steely resolve had dissipated from her face in the water, now her courage seemed to leave her, and she trembled as a child while the man threw down the youngster. Ashamed and afraid, she pouted. The girl thudded onto the soft ground, landing on her back, laying there motionless as the final words of the threatening man faded back into the silence of the lake. He had stormed off, presumably satisfied with his abuse.

Now the Courier sat back up slowly, moving onto her knees as the child raised up from the ground. She was sobbing, but in a dignified manner. Blood ran in a thick cloud from her nose down to her chin, spouting from both nostrils and her mouth. She tentatively poked a finger inside her mouth, wincing when she realized that one of her small front teeth was missing. This only made her cry more, and she picked up the teddy bear that lay on the ground.

The Courier couldn't move for fear and grief; this poor girl. Was she, like Liam, a student? Who was she in the past? The typical reaction from the older blond was once again misplaced; though she wanted terribly to run to the girl, scoop her up, comfort her, she was rooted to the spot. In her previous life, she must have been very submissive, for she did nothing but stare at the little girl with tears splashing down her own cheeks.

Then, with the dignity of someone much older in years, the child gingerly wiped the blood from her face with the bottom of her dirty dress, still shaking with tears. After, she lay back down, curling into a ball there in the marsh, and cried herself presumably to sleep.

The Courier awoke with a start, pressing her palms to her poor-beaten up forehead. First, she felt like panicking because everything was dark, but as she awoke, she realized that the night sky she sat under was indeed that of the desert wasteland, that Victor still stood watch over her. This comforted her no end, and now she looked to the side frantically, expecting to be alone.

He was there, had moved back to his typical sleeping position of his back, with his hands held behind his head. The Courier looked down at him for a moment; his face was pained, his jaw set and grief running through his brow. He looked like this in the dinosaur while she was blinded; she just wasn't able to identify it until recently. Though Boone's eyes were tightly shut, he was not getting rest from what lurked inside his mind.

They had intuition, the pair of them. As he spoke to her sometimes without words, so she did the same, and as she surveyed the guilt-wrenched face, the brown eyes slowly opened, looking cold and dark, not warm or caring. Boone gazed up at her, not moving. He seemed near tears, or an angry outburst. The Courier stared back, her own misery evident. Boone's lips were clamped shut and he waited for her to speak.

She had nothing to say, so the Courier drew her knees up and clasped her hands around them, turning to look forward into the Mojave night. Already the vivid dream was fading from her mind, the sounds of the man, the tears of the child, the stars in the sky blurring into pieces of nothing. Before she could delve more deeply into it, she felt a sensation she'd never felt before. Perhaps it was something that today's freedom had awakened, but the girl had the feeling it was different; a thought from her past, some quiet admonition. You are standing on the edge of greatness. This great affirmation startled her. She didn't, had never felt great, or anything similar to. But just like the terrible whispers that plagued her these past few months, the voice sounded certain.

You are standing on the edge of greatness.

The Courier looked fleetingly back to Boone; he was asleep again, self-loathing written into his hard features.

"What do you dream about, Craig Boone?" she mulled quietly to herself. His only answer was to cringe amid the nightmare, the brow lowering further at whatever painful image he was bearing witness to.

The desert, compliant as usual, remained still. It had seen centuries of agony, unearned suffering, redemption, and death. Man or beast, it held no judgment and allowed the girl to fall back into an uneasy rest, after she had cried herself back to sleep. And in a few hours, it would wake her by the soft glow of the eastern sun, as it had gifted its inhabitants with for countless thousands of years.

Close-quarters did not suit the man, but he was quite used to being used as a machine now; doing as he was told. Going where the NCR needed him to go. Before this day, he was a happy man: life was great. That was about to change, and Boone knew it all too well as he trekked up the steep rock.

"Brace for carnage," the squadmember snorted, and Boone curled his lip. He was more than ready. They'd prepared all night for this, detailing out the plan of action, storing artillery. It was to be a grimy victory, but a victory nonetheless, the heroes of the West saving this dump of a desert from a barbaric threat.

Boone's sharp ears could pick up the faint sounds from the radio. Open fire, kill any strays. Main force is heading in.

The backup squad braced; Boone annoyed at Manny for skipping out on this mission. Even when the pair weren't sniping, he still preferred the ex-Khan's company over most of the other soldiers. But as a group, the front line dropped to their knees, steadying their aim, Boone one of them. The troop behind raised their weapons standing, and then it began.

The explosions, the shooting, the screaming. It was a waiting game, one Boone played often, the hunter waiting for his spooked kill to enter sight range. To his left and right, men and women had their own rifles raised expectantly, ears trained on the sounds emanating from the nearby camp. The narrow ridge provided no sight.

"Damn, they've seen us! Reinforcements from the front. Canyon 37 be prepared!"

The soldier wall stirred restlessly, Boone among them. He wished again that the Seargent had ordered for sniper support so he could be scouting from the comfort of a mountaintop; sniping was what he preferred, what he was good at, what he was efficient at.

"They've doubled their defense. Didn't know there were so damn many of the fuckers." "Hold your positions," Control snapped over the mic.

He could've picked off twenty men by now, had he been camping. But he wasn't in charge, so there was no point dwelling on it.

Then from the gap, thirty feet away, ran a wall of people. They weren't the toughened leather-donning men who spat at Boone when passing. They didn't sport large artillery or approach menacingly. It was a group fleeing from the camp, a group of women and children. Every single soldier hesitated. One woman, obviously pregnant, ran clumsily toward them.

"Are you holding the back end!"
The girl with the radio looked terrified. "Orders, sir!"
"Shoot to kill! Open fire immediately.
"But sir! These are...they aren't..."
"That's an order, goddammit, don't let them past!"

Still each soldier hesitated. When the radio control operator did not respond, Control hissed, "Remember soldiers, you're following orders. Leave your hearts at home!"

At this, several of the more obedient soldiers did open fire. A few exchanged worried glances before nodding resolutely and gunning down. Boone still hesitated. He was terrified. A running child stopped abruptly, flung backward as a bullet hit his chest. The wall of Khans were approaching, and only half of the soldiers were shooting. Horrified, the group rose up against the soldiers, with no way past.

"Please!" begged an elderly woman, collapsing onto the soldier next to Boone. He hadn't been shooting, but backed away, horrified. To his left, another NCR soldier hit the woman with the butt of his rifle.

"We've got to shoot, they'll overtake us!" someone yelled, and Boone snapped back to reality. Before him, the pregnant woman had fallen as several others did, approaching the NCR group. "Shoot, shoot, or it's our lives on the line!" Frantically, the group tried to justify their actions, what they were about to do. Three more fell, two women and one little girl, under the shower of bullets. Boone heard gunfire pick up full force, and his reflexes urged him to pull the trigger.

The pregnant woman was thrown back, forever motionless, as his bullet robbed her of life. And now, onto the next. More and more came, and though the NCR backed up slowly, still functioning perfectly as a unit, he was unraveling more and more on the inside. And now more Khans tried to flee, bodies stacking up and soon he couldn't see the fallen woman; she became covered in the dead of her own kind.

As Boone now breathlessly emptied magazine after magazine, watching the dead pile grow, and fewer and fewer escapees try to brave Coyote Pass, the squad leader choked back her own tears. "Remember, don't let them through! Stay...stay at the ready!"

He tried to will his vision to blur, tried to shoot only at faceless moving images, and it worked. He was gunning down targets without identities, though he was shaking badly. Then suddenly, his vision caught amid the few spare black-clad dots, a pale head of hair. Immediately Boone blinked back into focus. He knew what was happening, and it couldn't happen.

He tossed the rifle aside and ran down the steep hill, breaking away from his unit. Down the steep hill, at breakneck speed, ran the emaciated Courier, as she'd looked in his waking hours. Still wearing the Legion slave wear, still barefoot, hair tangled and unkempt. She fled, yelling frantically at someone to the front. Boone was in the area of open fire, but he didn't care.

She saw him then, her face turning to him in that same beseeching way. Why did you do this, she asked him, as she had after pulling the Centurion helmet off her head. Boone had to get to her, had to grab her and move her out of the line of fire. Even as he rushed up the too-steep incline, it was too late.

She was still running when the bullet hit her directly in the chest. The girl's long legs caved and she crumpled at the knees, blond hair cascading in waves as she hit the canyon dirt hard. She slid downhill for a moment, then moved no more.

"NOOOOOO!" wailed Boone, still caught in the crossfire. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO," even as the NCR's every bullet whizzed past him. "KILL ME," he screamed as he did in every single one of these dreams, hoping against hope for a spare bullet. Though people fell like dead leaves all around him, he was not spared.

Now Boone was staring at the back of his eyelids. Hmmm. He was awake. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and realized that the Courier was staring at him, blocking out the Mojave's night sky. He didn't dare move, but just looked at her, guilt festering from within. She had called him out of the nightmare, but he would enter it again if he fell asleep, and there were many hours left before sunrise.

Would she die again? Would he stand in the artillery barrage and scream at his squad to kill him? Would he see silent faces, expressions forever etched in horror, or would he hear their screams as he waded through the piles of dying? The Courier turned away, and Boone immediately slipped back into sleep.

She was there, but she could not save him.

Waking early and shrugging off their nightmares with no words between them, the pair began their first task; finding new clothes. This wasn't as easy as it sounded, because although there were many bodies from the battle left that weren't slaves, they all donned Legion armor.

"No," Boone said stubbornly, despite the fact that he was barefoot and wearing only shorts. "Yes," the Courier said just as stubbornly. She was dressed in Legion armor. Into Boone's arms she stuffed the outfit. "It makes the most sense. If we wander into a Legion raiding party as Legion raiding party members, I think things will go a bit better than last time."
"I won't," Boone replied, dropping the armor. It clattered to the ground, and the Courier crossed her arms over her chest, giving him quite a terrible look.

Five minutes later, an angry Boone stomped out from behind the large rock, his wide shoulders decked with Legion red. The Courier gave him a half-smile. Despite the fact that the hated uniform was on, Boone looked good. Wide shouldered, tall, and brooding, he was a sight to behold in Caesar's bloody crimson of choice. Her tactical speech had begrudgingly talked him into it, but he was of course going to throw a broody Boone-fit to show the world how not happy he was.

As he stepped past her to pick up one of the bags, the Courier felt a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness. She'd been fighting her weakness all morning, but dehydration and starvation paired with physical abuse were not something one could overcome with one night's sleep (poor sleep at that.) The desert sky spun into a blue blob, and the Courier lost her footing, fainting. But she never hit the ground, only landed in a dip. Boone had caught her, and now he looked down at her. "We can't leave yet."

"We have to," she replied tiredly, pulling herself up and trying to steady. "We'll never get there if we don't get started."

Boone began, "Let me car-"

"You'll wear yourself out if you try to haul me around," she snapped, rubbing her temples.

"Well there has to be-"

"I'll tough it out!" The two finally glared at each other, when Victor wheeled up.

"Are we ready, pardners? Now, I see you carrying that heavy bag, let ol' Victor help you out a bit?"

Both Boone and the Courier turned their glares upon the Securitron, inspiration hitting.

Several hours later they were making impeccable time across the desert. Thankfully, Boone's superior strength and endurance ensured that with a decent meal last night and this morning, he looked no worse for wear other than his obvious displeasure at wearing Legion clothing. The man hadn't slowed down. Neither had Victor, the faithful, master-less robot wheeling along the road, gracefully dodging potholes and ridges.

On the top of the Securitron perched the Courier, her legs hanging down on either side of his screen. After having Boone haul her up, she found that it was quite easy to balance herself as Victor's top was flat and wide, and there were several places to hold on. She was careful to avoid his antenna, and though sitting so high was sometimes scary if Victor wheeled over a large bump, it had worked wonderfully.

Though Boone and the Courier were always a sight in one form or another, but perhaps the sight of two Legion guards, one atop an obliging rolling robot, traipsing through the desert, was the most peculiar of all. It was actually quite handy having the Courier so high, as she could see almost as well as Boone, alerting the robot of danger and allowing his artillery to take care of it. They had ran across a few thugs and coyotes, but that was it. They would reach Novac in less than a day at the pace they were going. The Courier suddenly noticed something on the road ahead.

"What's that?" she asked Boone, extending her arm. The sniper pulled off his disguise; naturally they had decided to cover their faces to assist in hiding their identities-Boone wore a face mask and black sunglasses-and squinted. "Looks like a dead body. Fiend, from the headdress."

He was right, it was in fact a dead Fiend, and Boone paused to check the corpse. "No bullet holes. I'd assume a chem overdose."

"Anything we can use?"

Boone paused at realizing that the corpse had a strange, crude weapon in-hand. The only people in the desert stupid enough to forgo guns for crafty things like spears: the Legion, over some stupid sense of timeless honor, and Fiends, who were so doped up they probably thought the weapons they created would out-shoot a firearm. But this wasn't a spear...he had never actually seen one, though while in NCR training he had been told about them .

"What on earth is that thing?" The Courier asked, leaning over the edge of the Securitron.

It was intact; Boone pulled the wood away from the corpse and held it up, turning it over. A master craftsman must have made it; it was smooth, strong, heavy. Boone glanced back down, picking up the second part of the weapon. "It's a bow," he said in a considerably more upbeat voice than he'd used in weeks.

She frowned at it skeptically. "I don't get it."

"Here," Boone found the satchel of arrows, ready-made, and handed her one, then passed the bow to her. "No, put it-yeah, now pull..." the girl was fumbling, but finally managed to fit the arrow niche onto the heavy cable that was taut on the back of the bow. She almost dropped the large curved weapon but managed to hold it, not getting the point of the instrument. When Boone instructed her to pull back on the cable, she couldn't budge it. Her diminutive strength paired with the too-heavy pull required was too much.

The Courier tossed the weapon and its ammunition back down to the sniper, looking at it skeptically. Like a child with a toy, he almost gleefully loaded the arrow onto the cord. Boone realized that the cable was going to require his full power to move. He planted his feet apart, straightening his back and pulling back his shoulders, then as he'd seen in pictures of the NCR manuals, lifted the bow. Now Boone pulled back, feeling the pressured cable strain against his force, and aiming at nothing, he loosened the string and the arrow sped out. Propelled by elasticity, it soared across the desert, and both humans were impressed at how fast and far it flew away from them.

Boone lowered the bow, a spark in his eyes that was rarely visible now surfacing. He shouldered the arrow bag and carried it alongside the rifle.

"What, you mean to tell me you're keeping that thing?" The Courier asked from atop Victor as the three continued on the road.

"Why not?" Boone said. "It's more efficient than it looks."

"You're a sniper. What are you going to shoot with that, that you wouldn't hit with your rifle?!"

Surprisingly stubborn, he shrugged. "I don't know." But he didn't remove the weapon.

Boone lowered the scoped rifle, which he was using to spy on the Legion with. "Shit."
The Courier, blind to whatever he saw, looked at him expectantly from her robot throne. Victor had carried her all night, while the tired Boone opted to walk. When she'd fallen asleep, the Securitron put her in his metal "arms", telling Boone this wasn't the first time he hauled her around. Now they were nearing the town, and he'd just lowered his scope from a battleground.
"What?"
"They've taken the town. I see hostages."
"Are they raiding for slaves?" Slave groups had pens, droves of mongrels. Easy to spot. Boone shook his head.
"No...worse." His tone was subdued. "Looks like they're going to do to Novac what they did to Nipton. It makes sense, it's a huge vantage point for them." He grimly flung the rifle over his back. "It's those fucking Frumentarii again."
The Courier held out her hands; Boone realized what she wanted and turned. When she slid forward, he caught her by the waist and she braced herself on his shoulders. After he had helped her to the ground, both stared in the direction of Novac, where a tiny trail of smoke dwindled in the early morning sky.

"We could just use Victor's missiles to get rid of them," she said thoughtfully. Boone finished her thought. "But if there are people down there...even one person..."
"We have to try." They looked at each other with the understanding that life or death, they couldn't risk not trying.

The pair suited up, both pulling the red facemasks over their noses, hoods up, glasses on. They had each looted short swords, and now Boone strapped his belt over his waist tightly. The Courier nodded at his rifle. The Legion recruits rarely carried firearms; only the higher ranks were allowed the privilege, having earned it from harsh, primeval weapon usage. And the pair were both wearing the uniform of recruits.

"Leave that, unless you plan on smuggling it in under that skirt," she said in a muffled voice from behind the mask.

Boone's head shot up from where he was buckling his boot, and even through the dark glasses she felt his glare. "My rifle? No!"

"You have a pistol!" she countered.

"Me with a pistol in a crowd, I may as well close my eyes and start hacking away with a machete," he snapped.

"So be it then," she said in a suddenly authoritarian voice. "We can't risk them recognizing us. I'm already pushing it here," gesturing to her chest, which she'd tried to cover up by draping a red cloth over her breasts where the armor didn't hide the curves. In a less commanding tone she added, "You can keep the bow."

Boone grumbled, but placed the rifle on the rocks. While he was lucky enough to come across a Legion rifle, it definitely didn't have enough ammo to take out a chunk of the Frumentarii down below. While he usually had little trouble following the Courier's lead, abandoning a long-range weapon was out of his comfort zone.

"Victor, you stay here," the Courier said, taking lead role once again as she tucked her own pistol underneath the folds of her uniform. "Keep any eye out though, if a fight breaks out, don't hesitate to use firepower. We'll take our hoods off so you'll know who to not aim for."

"You be careful down there pardner!" Victor said jubilantly. "I'll keep my eye on ya."

"Right," Boone said skeptically, and they headed down the steep mesa toward the dying town.

It was like Nipton, but worse. Anguish covered both the Courier and Boone's expressions behind their disguises. Several were crucified at the entrance, one of them Ranger Andy. Though both spies wanted terribly to stop and help the elderly man, who was still barely alive, they had to robotically walk past. In the center of the town stood a makeshift gallows; it had been thrown together haphazardly, and Legionaries milled around it.

No one had taken notice of Boone and the Courier yet. Through aimlessly walking and looking rather inconspicuous, they heard the other men conversing, taking bets on the next to "lose the lottery." The Courier had heard of only one other Legion lottery, and she was enraged that the town she'd come to love visiting so much was subjected to the same gruel games as Nipton. Oddly enough, other than the few recognizable faces hanging on crosses by Dinky, no townspeople were in sight.

It was soon discovered that they were all being held prisoner in an old gas station guarded by Legionaires. These people were hadn't been allowed food, water, or daylight since the time the group in red arrived, which seemed to be two days ago based on the gossip the pair overheard. That would have meant that many, if not all, were still alive, but the Legion's plan was to have a public hanging daily, drawing names with the soldiers placing bets on the names. This was the Novac lottery, no doubt fruiting from the colorful mind of Vulpes, who probably lurked nearby as it seemed he'd escaped the barrage in the desert.

Boone and the Courier finally got a quiet moment, and she said in a low voice, "Right now, we're no good to these people. We need to get back up to Victor, you take out what few you can with the rifle, have him blow the rest while avoiding that gas station. It's the best-"

"What the hell do you think you're doing, recruits?" boomed a loud voice. "You need to be at the gallows when the lottery starts. Get moving." The Legate flung a hand at us, and Boone and I begrudgingly walked toward the wooden platform, where a crowd of red was forming.

"We need to leave," Boone said in a tight voice.

The road out of Novac was deserted. Two figures walking out of town would not go unnoticed. "Okay just...let me think," the Courier replied in a clipped whisper. Caesar's crowd steered them to the gallows, where an empty noose hung restlessly. The executioner pulled something out of a bag; a bit of paper, he held it up and bellowed, "NUMBER 21!" Several whoops and groans rippled through the crowd, the ones who'd bet on 21 eager to collect.

"Pay is to be exchanged AFTER the profligates neck is snapped," the Legate continued to yell. "Bring him out!"

Scuffling was heard from behind the gallows, at the old gas station, several curses and cries in Latin as the lone victim was extracted. He was hastily tied at the wrists and shoved forward, tripping up the stairs. Though the Courier was not looking; instead, she was busy scanning for any possible way out, running over options in her mind, Boone's eyes were trained on the lottery's latest victim.

Bare-chested, with a "21" cut crudely into his open shoulder, red beret on his head, Manny Vargas walked across the platform and to the noose with his hands bound. As the Legion hooted and hollered, and the Courier fruitlessly tried to plan an escape route, the sniper was fitted with a rope, and Boone froze.

Though she didn't see as her face was turned toward the exit, Boone stepped to the side, backing out of the crowd slightly. He could afford to let the girl out of his sight for a moment, as they were essentially wolves in sheep clothing at the moment, and every single Legionnaire was feasting their eyes on the death they were about to see.

The fact that Boone's spotter, his best friend who'd lived years with him, fought with him, was about to die made him freeze up. He didn't really quite know how to handle it, or what to think. As his mind raced, the executioner pointed to the square where Manny was to stand. The man moved forward, looking more tired than Boone had ever seen him. Everything seemed so stupid now; Manny's grudge against Carla, Manny's rough attitude. Memories of the spotter saving his life rushed into Boone's head, times they sat around campfires and played Caravan or went out to drink and got totally trashed.

The Courier turned back to Boone, but realized she didn't know if the Recruit was Boone. He gazed at the scene before them, and as she looked him up and down realized it wasn't her comrade. Where had he gone? She spun, panicking, tripping on her own draped fabric and pulling it down away from her armor. Just then, she noticed who the morning would bring death to, amiable Manny. The girl gasped in horror as the cloth fell and the executioner began reciting some meaningless garble in Latin.

She didn't fall, however; a Decanus had watched the fabric fall, realized she was a woman, and suddenly and soundlessly grabbed her from behind, digging his fingers into her neck and pulling her away from the hungry-for-death Legion group. With the girl caught entirely off-guard, she could only claw at her windpipe and gasp for air, her heels hitting the dry ground and kicking up dust as the huge Legionaire dragged her back towards a lopsided shed, pulling her out of the sunlight.

He would rape her before he did anything else, including report her as an intruder. With her mask still covering her face, the man wouldn't know she was the Risen-From-The-Dead-Courier, wouldn't know what a prize he had indeed found. Even as she struggled, not wanting to attract further attention but panicking at the feeling of his fingers tighten at her throat as his other hand came up to squeeze her roughly, scores of dark footsteps thudded across the desert. The sounds were unheard by Boone or the Courier, who were both involved in conflict, one physical and one emotional.

Only Victor, obedient watchdog from the large hilltop, noticed the forms, flying over rocks and through the canyons. As there was no conflict coming from them, he watched them pass as a flock of crows, heading straight for Novac. They flowed swiftly, footfalls thundering as though made by a pack of large, frenzied Brahmin. The Securitron creaked as he turned slightly to watch them enter the road leading to town, unhindered by the Legion who were so confident in their overtaking of the area that they'd left no one to guard by Dinky.

Down in Novac, several things happened. Boone glared behind his mask as the executioner finished his little rant and turned to Manny.

"Last words for your audience?" the man inquired of the noosed, shirtless ex-soldier. The Legionaire responsible for the hanging held a lever, one which would drop the floor out from under Manny momentarily. A ten foot drop ensured that if his neck didn't snap immediately from the fall, he would suffocate in a matter of minutes.

Boone tore off the Legion sunglasses, hoping Manny would spot him, would see some comfort.
Manny did not. He glared over the sea of red and proclaimed in a resolute, though with conviction that this would be the last thing he ever spoke, "Long Live the Khans!"

This confused the executioner, who gave Manny a baffled look, then turned his attention and strength to the lever. He pulled it back, hard, and the man in the noose squeezed his eyes shut.
Boone tore off his face mask and barked, "Manny!" involuntarily.

Somewhere behind him, in the shadows, the Courier yelped through her crushed windpipe as the Legion guard succeeded in unhinging her stolen armor. It fell to the ground even as she was pulled further backwards into the darkness.

"You're back," Julie said skeptically, folding her arms. Arcade meekly shrugged. "I'm going to assume you're not back to finish your research?"
"Actually," he said, affronted, "It was never my research, it was research on a topic you gave me. I have my own research and I was having Emily help me out with it. Where is she?"

Julie stared at Arcade for a moment, taken aback. Usually the rather cynical and passive medical engineer didn't bother to ever take a stand or talk back. Perhaps traversing the wilderness with that hard-headed blond woman had given him an ego. Forgetting her anger of his abrupt disappearance from the Followers, Julie's heart softened and she said, "Look, Arcade, I know it wasn't the most opportune or satisfying work to do. And I knew from the start that you had no passion for it. But that's the thing. I could set you with ten other tasks, and you'd do them half-assed, not because you can't do them any better, but because you're too damn apathetic."

Now Arcade was the one to stare. But Julie, outspoken since birth, continued in such an honest tone he couldn't help but listen. "You have so many abilities, talents, you could help so many people and I really feel like you will one day. We could all depend on you, if you'd just let yourself be dedicated to something. What's holding you back?"

Arcade swallowed. Then, acting more like the meek Arcade she'd known for years, he responded, "I have to find Emily." He walked away from Julie with a stunned look on his face.

Find Emily he did, and she moved from her terminal to shake her head at Arcade.
"Still no decryption?"
"Oh, it's decrypted," she said in almost a whisper. A look of utter horror and fear was etched between what she attempted to convey as concern. Arcade's eyebrows raised to the rim of his glasses at this look.
"That bad?"
"It's...horrible."

At once, the air rushed back into her lungs, and from the darkness, the Legionaire was pulled away. He still held onto the Courier, and she was flung backwards with him, but his gagging noise told her someone had slit his throat. Landing on her back, she opted to flip upwards, moving more fluid now that her outer armor was gone. A red skirt and shirt remained as undergarments to the heavy armor her earlier enemy had discarded-not much, but at least she wouldn't be fighting whoever just slit the man's throat in the nude.

She turned to face the threats, and her jaw dropped.

After Boone had yelled Manny's name, the man's eyes shot open and the floor fell from underneath him. Boone moved more rapidly than the ten soldiers who'd turned their heads at the shout; the bow was flung over his shoulder, his only chance. With a crude, deadly arrow fitted, Boone fired, expertly judging the slack left in the rope. As Manny fell, the slack went away, but not before the arrowhead pierced the thick twine, splitting it. The force of the drop never caused the neck knot to tighten; instead, flailing, Manny crashed through the rotting wood of the gallows to the safety of the box below. The executioner was caught off balance and fell backwards, but not before another arrow of Boone's had lodged itself nicely through his skull, in one side and out the other.

Chaos erupted, and now Boone realized why Manny said what he said; a wave of Khans, shouting triumphantly at their successful ambush, torrented into the town, their ferocious battle politics evident as they began cheerfully shooting and mauling Legionaries. Hurriedly, Boone unbuckled the large Recruit shoulder pads and chestplate, donning the black undershirt and shorts underneath, and re-shouldered the bow, opting to draw both stolen pistols and dual-wield his way through the now-even fight. If he died at this moment, he would die a happy man.

Manny, in the cracks of sunlight that filtered through the broken gallows, held his hand to his head. "I don't believe it, they came," he breathed. When he saw the huge Frumentarii group approaching, Manny immediately sent off a young Novac citizen to call the Khans. There had been no time to turn to anyone else, as the group had a large camp not far from Novac, and they'd made it just in time. Fighting to orient himself, Manny clambered out onto the gallows, hands still bound. From the crowd, Boone's sharp eyes didn't miss this, and he holstered one pistol long enough to withdraw the machete strapped to his belt and throw it.

Manny, just as sighted and deft as Boone, caught the blade with his tied hands, and immediately set to work cutting the poorly-tied knots. Just like in their NCR days, they fed off each others intuition, and even in the middle of all that was going on, worked as a team.

And while the world exploded outside, the Courier's jaw dropped inside the darkness of the shed. "You!...you!"

Jack dusted himself off, kicking the dead man aside and handed her a bloody machete. One thing the Courier had in common with the Khans was their fierce love for close-up action. Jack grinned. "You ready to kick some red-clad ass?"

She eyed the murder weapon, and nodded. "I think so, yeah."

The Khans had a huge advantage over the Legion. For one, it was an ambush, and the Legion were far away from home, in a town they shoddily kept dominion over thanks to their incorrect assumption that no one would come to save Novac. Another, the Khans loved killing, and had twice the energy and verve that the traveled reds had. The Courier in no time had pulled off her mask and ran out into the sunlight, hacking and slashing, blond hair glowing like a halo in the bright morning sun.

Victor had rolled quickly down the hill, forgoing the missiles for his automatic 10mm turret, and soon joined in at close range, following the Courier's lead and ignoring the Khans, opting to shoot every crimson-clad man that crossed his path. It was a short battle; Manny and Boone each took an end of a large, heavy crosstie that lay on the ground, yelling at the hostages to stand back before using the crosstie as a battering ram, freeing the group that huddled behind the quadruple-locked rusty doors.

Once the doors fell in under the weight, men women and children all flew out, many of them floundering onto the two snipers, yelling their thanks. The older citizens followed Boone and Manny's lead, getting everyone safely over to the motel, forming a protective circle around the children and women. Everyone ducked as bullets whizzed over their heads, and the Khans busied themselves with bloodshed.

The Courier suspected heavily that she had a bit of Khan in her own blood, something that Papa Khan probably wouldn't disagree with had he seen her fight. The girl wasn't overly-strong in a physical sense, but she was tall and lithe, quick and intimidating all at once. The glint in her eye that was all-too-visible to the Legion rivaled the murderous, wild Khans' as they whooped and laughed their way to a gory victory, kicking around the heads of the decapitated Legionaries, bathing in their blood.

As the dust settled and the few remaining members of the Legion tried unsuccessfully to flee from the victorious Khans, the Courier struggled under the weight of a large Decanus, whom she'd stabbed in the neck. He fell on her, and she was a moment too late to move out of the way. However, Manny spotted her first, shouldering the rifle Jack had thrown to him earlier, and walked briskly up the short hill to the girl. He kicked away the dead Legionnaire, and extended his hand.

The Courier smiled, looking none the worse for wear despite being dressed in crimson rags, and allowed the shirtless soldier to help her to her feet. Out of relief to see her alive, Manny hugged her tightly and she returned the embrace. The hilltop was silent for a moment as Manny pulled back, voicing his amazement at the fact that the town still stood, and soon another figure approached from behind him, causing the Courier, who was looking over Manny's shoulder, to exchange her smile for a tense look.

It was Boone. He didn't wear a look of relief or jubilant victory as did everyone else; no, he was back to being Boone and unhappy with victory. His jaw was set, his brows lowered, but she saw he'd at least exchanged the Legion uniform for the undershirt and shorts, donning all black. As he walked up behind Manny, the friendlier sniper caught the Courier's concerned look and half-turned.

Boone was unpredictable, and the Courier wasn't even aware of the disaster that was the last interaction between the two. Now Manny faced Boone, who glared at him wordlessly. In the heat of the battle they'd proven just how close they were, how well they worked together, but did it even mean anything to Boone? Manny tentatively extended his hand, hoping that it did.

The wind blew, causing Manny to squint against the dust and ash, causing the Courier who now stood tensely behind him with crossed arms, to duck her head. Her blond hair flew up and billowed around, and Boone glanced over Manny's shoulder at her before sliding his cold brown eyes back to his old friend.

When he stepped closer, he knocked the hand away, grasping Manny's wrist and pulling him close, while butting his shoulder into the other soldier's, Boone's arm crossing Manny's bare back and punching, hard. It was the typical man-hug, and the Courier's jaw dropped at the sight. Though Manny was smiling as he stepped back from Boone, he had a dazed look on his face too, but Boone never broke his signature glare.

Behind them, Jack yelled, "Woooooooo!" as a Legion head flew down the street away from him.

"Let me get this straight," Caesar said to the officer, while rubbing his head. "A girl gets shot in the head by some...punk, miraculously rises from her grave. She sneaks into our base in the middle of the night, gets shot, frees that same punk." His voice was extremely dry. "She somehow manages to not only survive the bullet, but work some kind of ancient magic on the guards following her, and their heads explode just like that. Later, she is put in charge of Vegas and ….. now, now, just so happens to have the power to wipe out a slave gathering party of huge proportions. Barely any survivors of some lambast. Is this what you're telling me?"

The officer looked around, frightened. "Yes...yes sir."

"Okay," now Caesar rubbed his throbbing head with both temples. "Okay. So before I hesitate on that any further-and trust me, I'll get back to it-tell me some good news with that jackass's firepower in it."

"He is raising the price, again," piped up another Legion officer, reluctantly. "He promised this would be the last time, and he's got the amount almost doubled."

"We cannot let that store go to the fucking NCR," Caesar suddenly snapped, slamming his fist on the table. "Kill whoever you have to, steal whatever you have to, I don't care. If they learn about this, Hoover Dam will be twice as hard to take. And, mark my word," now Caesar was raising his voice, "We WILL take it. I don't want to fight over some toy like a kid, I want it here, as soon as possible. We have to be careful, that kid's a ruthless fucking jerk and would rather destroy everything than see it go for less than his price."

The officers nodded grimly. Now Caesar's voice lowered and he continued, "About the girl..."

Cleaning up Novac was no small task, but one that Boone and the Courier were too happy to stay and help complete. The Khans lingered for awhile as well, getting joy out of looting the dead enemies and then throwing their stripped carcasses onto the bonfire at the front of the dinosaur. Ranger Andy and the others were carefully helped down, Ada nursing her own wounds while she selflessly stepped up to help everyone else.

Several in good health set about preparing a large group dinner; everything the Legion looted was still attached to their Brahmin and worth taking. No one wanted to be alone after such an ordeal; men pulled out long tables and set them up inside the doctor's large, open canvas tent. The town had come together, even though they were weary and traumatized, laughing at one another's jokes, gingerly removing the hacked-up (thanks to the Khans) body parts, solemnly burying those citizens who did not survive.

Manny was stacking chairs from houses up to line the tables with; Boone helped him silently, and the two didn't speak until the sun was low in the west, orange settling over the now peaceful town. The sniper had been eyeing his old house, that he shared with Manny and Carla, and suddenly he broke the silence with, "Can you finish this up? I need to..."

"Go for it, man," was his reply. The Courier, undoubtedly the next-qualified doctor after Ada, was helping the woman in white. She looked after Boone curiously but didn't move from her seat, where she wrapped a child's arm in a sling. Manny stared after him for a moment as well, then turned his attention back to the chairs. Though he seemed merely tired, he was actually thinking of his spotter. Boone had lost so much in the past few years, Manny didn't know if he would ever find himself again.

Not that Craig was worlds different before Carla disappeared, before Bitter Springs, but at least then he'd known how to smile or laugh occasionally, had wanted to be around others, was a complete gentleman and always helpful. Admittedly he had been awkward in public and especially with women, but he didn't seem to hate society as he did now. Though Manny could have easily loathed the Courier for sweeping Boone off his feet (at least, that's what it looked like to the rest of Novac, though Manny knew better) and taking him away, Boone's intense depression seemed to lift ever so slightly, and the ex-Khan valued Craig Boone's contentment over his own emotions. He didn't want him to go back into that house, had wanted to burn it.

The Courier watched Boone walk abruptly away from Manny, and watched his body language closely, hoping the two hadn't had a fight. It appeared that Boone was just preoccupied in his own head, and she turned her focus away after assuring no conflict had risen. It was at that moment that a dark shadow fell over her, casting on the bloodsoaked desert dirt. The figure held an axe.

The Courier froze, and Ada, ever observant, eyed her. "What's up?"

The girl said tightly, without moving, "Is...there someone behind me?"

Ada's eyes slid over toward the tent area. She shrugged, sterilizing a needle. "No. Why?"

The shadow still lurked, a hallucination.

"No reason," the girl replied shakily.

Ada cocked an eyebrow but said nothing.

Boone's eyes adjusted quickly to darkness, trained after all the years of rigorous work he put them through. The house looked exactly as it had when he'd left. After Boone returned home from following the Legion who stole his wife, the table in the kitchen was overturned, several small things askew, a slight struggle evident. Carla had been alone in the house; though Manny lived there as well, he was rarely to be found at home when she was. As Boone looked over the now-broken home, he realized that part of his grudge against Manny was for this reason.

If only he'd been there. He could have helped her.

When Boone arrived, seeing the table and chairs out of place threw him into a rage, wherein he upturned and destroyed just about everything in the house. It looked as though a tornado had gone through it, the setup barely recognizable. And so it had remained; Manny promptly moved into a hotel room when Boone's hatred began.

There was barely enough room in the chaos for the man to walk, but he slowly stepped across the floorboards, the creaking the only audible sound in the entire world to his ears. Amid the thrown-apart furniture was one piece that caught his attention and now he stepped up to it. Though Boone was not the best with carpentry or mechanics, Manny had helped. The sturdy wooden crib was still intact. Both men took turns nailing, carving, sanding from scrap wood Old Lady Gibson donated. It was a beautiful bed, Carla had loved it.

Now Boone wrapped his hand around the smooth round bedpost, the empty little bed inside filling his heart with misery. Though he would think about Carla sometimes, he rarely thought about his baby. With Bitter Springs, Boone didn't think he was fit to be a father, didn't think someone who willingly pulled the trigger on so many children should have his own. Perhaps this justified the happiness that was so cruelly taken from him. Perhaps it was even more fitting that he was the one who pulled the trigger. For all those Khans who saw their children die, Boone's punishment was to kill his own.

He knew, earlier, when he pulled the crude instrument out and fired Manny's noose into two pieces, that the Legion would turn on him, would take him down and beat him brutally before killing him in some inhumane way. How strange it was that the man he saved was a Khan. And who came to their rescue but the loud, energetic Khans? Boone moved slowly away from the crib, unable to look at it longer, and now turned to the ransacked living room.

"Craig?" her tentative voice, always sounding slightly strained, or tired, whispered like a ghost in his ears. "Do you think it'll be all right? Do you think we..." she doubted their combined ability to be good parents. Worried that she was too young to mother, that Ada wouldn't help her deliver a healthy baby, that the child would grow up in the wrong environment, that having a soldier for a father, someone who would always be gone, in peril, would scar the baby.

It was something Manny was always quick to criticize, or comment on. "We'll make it through everything all right. Everything." he'd told her.

They had all been lies.

The same whispering, worried voice that spoke to him from the empty house seemed to urge him to leave, though he could not. Rooted to the spot, he picked up the small framed picture, glass broken on the front thanks to his rampage. Their wedding picture. Boone was in the rarely-worn NCR dress uniform, his beret removed (he wanted to wear it, but Carla put her foot down.) She wore a simple salvaged white dress. They both had the typical wide smile newlyweds sported. He didn't even recognize himself in the photo.

It seemed that Carla herself was telling Boone to leave, to go out into the sun. Manny was out there. The Courier was out there, all the decent townsfolk who had nothing to do with his wife's abduction were out there. It was Boone himself who was unable to let go of the past and embrace the future. And it was Boone's own fault that he tortured himself perhaps minutes, perhaps hours longer before finally remembering that heart-skipping feeling of being alive that he'd felt yesterday, what seemed like centuries ago.

Dragging his feet, Boone left the dead house with its empty crib and broken picture frame to sorrowfully rot in the darkness.

Boone seemed in a trance all throughout the group dinner; he sat with the Courier on his left and Manny to his right at the long tables, passing around food and half-listening to the conversation of the frightened, yet relieved community. He wasn't blind to the open stares of several women in town either; after Carla had died several of them tried in vain to "heal" him. They always got turned down quickly, due to his large trust and deep bitterness. Now the same women threw the Courier curious, almost jealous looks. Still exhausted, she seemed oblivious as she scarfed down her meal.

Ranger Andy, suffering only dehydration and intense pain from being on the cross two days, sat across from Boone. The man was, despite his obvious tiredness, exchanging battle stories with the charismatic Courier and Manny. Theirs was the most envied of the dinner conversation. Death and glory, miraculous "how did I make it out of that alive" moments. Boone felt so strange. Everyone around him, at one time or another, he'd snubbed or snapped at. This was brushed off by most townspeople as his "way of coping" with his wife's disappearance. And day after day he'd sat up in that dinosaur and protected all of them. Today, he helped save them again. Why did he do that? Boone now knew the town wasn't to blame for Carla's death. But he hadn't known it every treacherous steaming desert night when he sat up there and sweated his ass off for twelve hours. And unlike Manny and the blond, he didn't have the people skills to just smile and laugh after such trauma in one day.

It was surreal, sitting in between them. Both were strong, courageous, loyal to him. Both had protected him at one time or another, both saw something him he couldn't quite grasp. Guilt was creeping onto Boone for the shitty way he treated Manny over the months after Carla had been taken. A certain feeling, perhaps lack of usefulness, stuck in his head when he thought of the Courier. He couldn't quite describe this one, other than he felt inadequate. Not that Boone had never felt adequate in his life; it was something he'd always suffered over. But his own little tornado of emotion caused him to sit silently, unable to do anything other than stare at his own plate and wonder why people continued to care about him the way they did.

As she sat looking out over Dinky's large teeth to the Wasteland, a warm feeling engulfed the Courier. She knew, after today, that no matter what her past revealed, she would stay in the desert. The hallucinations, the dreams, the strangeness that came with what Benny dubbed a "scrambled egg" unnerved her, seemed foreign to her. The girl would always look towards Jacobstown with a wistful eye, would always enjoy remembering snow.

But her home was now here, and she realized that. She'd spent the better part of an hour thinking back over her adventures, the good and the bad. Saving Boone. Finding Arcade. Traveling from corner to corner of the expansive land mass. Benny. The King. The Followers. The horrors were aplenty, and excruciating to endure, but she had the courage to fight any enemy she could see. It was these lurking thoughts, this shadow man, the burning classroom that seemed too fucked up to ever sort through, and at the moment she didn't care if she ever did.

The girl, despite her confusion over many things-the fate of the Strip, Hoover Dam, Benny, Boone, to name a few-was content right where she was. So she sat and digested both the delicious dinner she'd just gorged herself on, and the memories she was building. Marcus, Lily. The Fort, McCarran, every casino in Vegas. She wouldn't trade those moments, or Boone, for the world.

Boone ascended the dinosaur, wiping his black hands on his pants; he'd just gone into the motel room to change out of those wretched Legion clothes, and found the room where half of his and the Courier's travel belongings were stored, completely deserted. However, the messy woman didn't bother to hide the fact that she, too, had been in the room and wanted a change of clothing. The red rags were tossed aside, clothing bag empty. Boone had to ignore the various undergarments while impassively picking out one of his NCR undershirts and cargo pants.

Once changed, he'd made the final trip back to his and Carla's old home...before coming here. Now, smelling strongly like smoke, he pushed open the door to the dinosaur's mouth. He half-expected her to be up here, although it wouldn't surprise him if the girl had ventured off to spend more time with Manny despite the fact that it was getting late. Still, intuition led him to the familiar spot.

She was sitting on her haunches, her elbows propped up on the thin edge of Dinky's mouth, her head situated between two canines. The girl was surveying the darkening desert, her back to Boone. He paused at the sight of her; she was once again in a pink hoodie with tan pants, a red beret perched on her tied-back hair.

Then she spoke. "You smell like smoke."

"Yeah." Boone crossed the floor, not bothering to sit but joining her at the panorama view, scanning his familiar eyes across the ghostly terrain. "Where'd you get the-"

"Manny." she responded, touching the beret. He'd been without it at dinner. The girl didn't seem to want to stand. Boone looked down at the top of her head, her face still hidden from view.

"Do you feel better?" she asked knowingly.

He looked away. After dinner, Boone had numbly crossed the town again, gunpowder supply in arm, heading for his house. What he'd done relieved him, though he was still in shock at the lack of the weight. It was as though he'd forgotten to walk around without it. It was this shock that impaired him, hindering his ability to sit by her, or reply to her pointed question. Perhaps the Courier sensed this, because she stood. Boone glanced at the hoodie again.

"When I salvaged the general store in Goodsprings," she said in explanation, "there was an entire stock of these. They were comfortable, and fit me just fine, so I took several." She shrugged.

Boone pulled the beret off her head and the blond tresses fell, resting past her shoulders.

"Now you look..."

"Like when we first met." she smiled all of a sudden. Boone did not, though his eyebrows did lift.

"In here." he finished.

"Feels like so long ago," the Courier said, taking Manny's beret and putting it on Boone, adjusting it lovingly. "And now you look exactly like you did then."

"I saw you coming," Boone noted. "I watched you through my scope."

"Why didn't you shoot me?" it had been the middle of the night when the girl entered the fateful town for the first time. Though she'd given a strange, wary look upward to the dinosaur, she had no idea that Boone was inside.

"I watched you for awhile, watched you trip all over the road and get caught up with the Cazadors and the geckos, noticed you couldn't shoot worth a damn," Boone said, and though no smile passed through, the humor could be noted in his voice. The Courier looked less impressed.

"I was thinking to myself, just another crazy wanderer, someone who will pass by, fade away."

She lost a bit of the withering stare, trading it in for an almost affectionate look, in which her eyes lost none of their intensity. Boone's face was smeared with soot, and she thoughtfully wiped it away.

"Instead you...I don't know what you did."

He had set his house on fire, without ever going back inside. The memories and ghosts of a life that would never be fulfilled were eating his sanity, even if he didn't realize it until he went back inside. If any of the exhausted townspeople saw this act, they recognized the dark figure standing outside with sweat lining his forehead, standing so close to the ten-foot-high flames, and had said nothing. Though she hadn't been watching, the Courier smelled the smoke and recognized the scent of dry hardwood burning, and knew where Boone had sauntered off to.

"We can't..." Boone didn't know how to say what he intended to say. Things were up in the air, a tomorrow was never certain. He had a loss he'd never really learned to cope with, and mixing up his own emotions any farther seemed to be out of the question. Still, he faltered on his own words.

Earlier, in the orange firelight, Boone suddenly remembered something, something in that white NCR undershirt that he'd left here. The breast pocket contained a faded, worn out letter. Boone put his hand over his heart as though saluting, then fumbled the paper out. Though he had poor vision when reading so closely, the words were too familiar for him to forget.

Carla, If you're reading this, then you know. Sorry. Wanted to make it back home to you. The pension won't be much but it should help you and the baby get by. Want you to remarry when you meet the right person. Don't want you to have to be on your own. Not sure the right way to say how I feel about you. Think you know already, though. Always seemed like you knew what I meant, maybe better than I did. Wish I was there with you now. There are things I couldn't tell you. Tried. Whatever you learn over time about my service in the NCR, hope you can forgive me. Lastly, know you were against it, but if it's a girl, want her to be named after her mother. Know it's playing dirty to win the argument this way, but too bad. It's worth it. -Craig

Boone had smiled when he read the last two sentences. Then just as quickly as it had arose, the smile flickered away and he tossed the little faded note into the fire.

"We can't?" The Courier, even with her bright intuition, didn't catch where Boone was going with this one. This was probably his own fault for being a pessimist all too often. Though he was referring to their relationship, she took it to mean something else, probably their influence on the fall of Caesar's Legion. Now her face fell at what she mistook as a resigned defeat.

It was only mere days ago that Boone had embraced another human willingly, and he had reserved that gesture for the Courier, and later Manny. Now realizing that he was going to forever be hindered by the inability to say anything the way he wanted, Boone instead opted to hug her, swallowing her lean frame with his wide shoulders and resting his chin on the crown of her head. The Courier tucked her arms in and clung to him, burying her head on his chest, and with Boone now peering thoughtfully out into the blue-black desert over the top of his chin-rest, the pair relished their own memories with each other.

An old pre-War song about a King who was a saint read that in the coldness of winter, a servant followed the footprints of the man in the snow, warmed by the imprint the kind soul left. The servant was spared from freezing to death thanks to the good deeds performed by the selfless King, who wandered through snow to provide poor men with a warm dinner.

In the desert trekked the opposite; as surely as the King's foot path was warmed, now the steps these servants plodded over were surely cold, isolated from the desert breeze. In front of them, their leader was not broken or afraid, as they were. He was still as heartless, steely as a cold diamond. Though barely getting out alive, the group had indeed, and were now on their way back to the Fort, limping and nursing their wounds as they retreated.

Vulpes was silent as he led his Frumentarii, and a fire burned behind his pale eyes. He was cleansing, purging thoughts of the failures of the mission from his mind. Not because he wasn't masochistic-when the time came, he would willingly accept whatever punishment Caesar most assuredly had in store for him, but for now the devout man filled himself with the imagery of the great Bull. Mars. The Son of Mars. Blood. Red. It was as though he walked in meditative prayer, of a most sinister type.

Perhaps in direct response to this morbid penance, Vulpes was led toward something he could not anticipate. He had spotted a campfire with his steely blue-white eyes, and now the leader of the Legion group, or what was left of it, headed forward. If there was anything to loot, he would loot it, if there was anyone to take for his own, or kill, he would surely do it. Vulpes was a man whose sustenance was death itself, possibly as much as it was food and water. Bloodshed fed his soul. His recent failures were plaguing his mind and perhaps this was a time when he could repent for his err: by showing whatever profligate awaited obliviously at the fire, the cleansing ways of the Legion, atonement for at least a part of Vulpes's failures could be had.

Perhaps.

Licking his lips and quieting his heavy step, the blond slowed, tensing his shoulders and almost sniffing the air, as though he could smell the blood he was about to spill in great Caesars name. Instead of some supernatural phantom scent, all that permeated his nostrils was the thick, black stench of smoke and ash. So thick in fact that he almost choked on the foul smell.

The others in the group, behind their leader, walked without the pomp and purpose of Vulpes. They winced at their wounds, shivered at the cold path he left behind him. Vulpes was indifferent to all of this. Though his upper body armor had been shattered, leaving him exposed, he tromped on with the stoicity his men lacked. His too-bright eyes scanned the upcoming campfire, hidden behind a canyon wall.

Hunched over that fire, facing Vulpes and his men, was a dark figure. Though perhaps no one, not even anyone in the Legion, had a more terrifying presence than Vulpes when on a rampage, the pale man stopped short at the sight. He had no idea who he was looking at, for the man's face and body were entirely hidden in the silhouette left by the flame. Seeming less of a human and more of a shadow, the thing bowing over the orange flames slowly looked up. Perhaps lacking a colored iris, the whites of the man's eyes were visible and flashed menacingly. Now Vulpes stopped and out of habit, drew his short sword.

Before anyone else reacted, the opposing figure had withdrawn a small weapon of his own, and six gunshots cracked through the night. The man hadn't even lifted his pistol past waist level, and yet around Vulpes, men dropped to the ground, thudding and groaning until the leader was the only man left, his at first shocked expression turning into a downward-turned sneer. He should've recognized the sound of the pistol, should've been able to call the gun by name. Now the only Legionary left alive by this man licked his lips nervously. All thoughts of atonement had scattered, as he was left with the enigma of the sharpshooter.

The figure stood, moving out of the darkened shadow of the firelight. It wasn't a phantom, it was a man. A very, very tall man. A man whose face was hidden, but now the true color of his eyes-a ghostly blueish-white-was revealed as he gazed on the only Frumentarian he hadn't shot and killed. His covered hand still held the pistol, and surprisingly as he moved rather gracefully into sight, Vulpes's eyes alighted on the familiar imagery on the man's clothes. Tribal markings, from the East of Nevada.

From Vulpes's homeland itself. Utah.

For once, the serpent-tongued speaker was speechless, though his mouth moved wordlessly. His own eyes were widened impossibly, and he looked from the man's garments to his pistol, to his black skin, and finally met his eyes. Again the smell of smoke and fire overtook weary Vulpes, and he finally spoke.

"No."

He knew with the certainty of everything he stood for, that he would have horrific nightmares of Carla, not Bitter Springs or the Legion tonight. He had the best of intentions of moving on, picking his life back up, when he burned down the house, but his superstition informed him that the vengeful spirit of his lost wife would torture him while he slept inside the town they lived in for so few years. When Boone settled down on the motel bed as the Courier fitfully tossed and turned on the other, he braced himself for impact. Due to his companion's tendencies, he'd locked the door and wore the key on the same strip of leather as Alexander's Legion pendant. It was tucked under his shirt.

If she was upset about not sharing a bed after their close encounter, she didn't say anything. More than likely, she wanted him to have a peaceful night's sleep for once, because whenever she was in the vicinity, she would flail around madly and more than once bruise the sniper. The only exception had been that night under the shelter of the rock, when they had embraced, fallen asleep in each other's arms. He shook the memory from his thoughts.

Fearing the wrath that was about to come, Boone put his hands behind his head, elbows out, and closed his eyes. He saw blackness, and the trained soldier within him taught him to direct sleep, where he dreamed of nothing. No sounds, except faint whispers from within the walls that could have been the pre-War motel patrons, discussing their travel plans in exhausted droning voices. And so it was for several hours, until the sky was at its blackest.

Boone awoke, realizing as he did so that his dreams had been quiet, and he lay in the darkness for a moment, astonished and puzzled by this. Then he felt what had awoken him in the first place; pressure on the bed, causing the mattress to move slightly. Boone raised his head, squinting, and made out a dim figure crawling towards him. Alarmed, he jolted, but then pulled back when he realized the tall, lean figure on her hands and knees was the Courier.

"What are you..."

She clambered up and sat on top of him, leaning forward. Though it was pitch black in the curtained room, Boone could almost feel the red glow on his face. She had always been assertive, but-

"What did you mean?"

"What?"

"We can't...we can't what. What is it you don't believe in this time, it's been driving me crazy all night."

She was crazy. Craig Boone was rooted to the bed. It was half-indignation, and half-...something else, that made his blood pressure rise instantly. She was dressed in one of the pieces of lingerie she'd left thrown around from earlier, and Boone fought to keep his keen eyes from straying to anywhere that wasn't her expectant face.

"We can't..." Boone had forgotten. What was it they couldn't do? He faltered.

She sat back, crossing her arms, her backside resting on Boone's stomach. He couldn't quite cope with the flood of emotions and hormones that arose from seeing his tall blond friend, whom he adored and cared for, dressed in red silk (what little bit she had on) and sitting on him.

"Maybe you can't," she said, and now lowered her torso so that she was closer to Boone, her palms pressed against his chest, "But I do what I want to do."

"So I've noticed." That sounded far more bitter than he intended. Boone sat up, propping himself on his arms.

"Us?" She said knowingly, raising a brow. Boone finally met her eyes, caught, and froze.

"I don't think..."

"What do you want?" she pressed, in such earnest tone that Boone didn't realize he'd grabbed her by the shoulders. He didn't know the answer to that, and damn well couldn't think about it studiously while she essentially sat in his lap half-naked. Instead, he closed his eyes when she brought her hand up to trace his neck and ear. Boone couldn't seem to keep his breathing under control. Still, he had to say something.

"We can't...Vegas...I...you..." As usual, he failed spectacularly.

His eyes were still closed as he struggled; she pulled his face up by placing both hands on his cheeks and lifting. "Look at me," she said softly, and Boone complied, his eyes popping open and drinking in the dimly lit image of the Courier.

Boone finally gained the ability to see things that were close up, right under his nose, something he hadn't been able to grasp in his entire life, and his hands went from her shoulders to her back in a sudden embrace. She moved forward to kiss him even as he fell back to the bed, pulling her along.

Boone much preferred this occasional break to the surface to endless drowning.

It seemed only logical that an ex-soldier like Boone would have insatiable cravings after so much time alone, and so many emotions built up over time. Every human has animalistic capabilities, but none so much as those deprived military personnel. The Courier was subjected to this fact in the dark room that night in Novac, a feeling of sweet numbness taking over her body as he wrested for control, consuming her.

With Benny, he had been happy to sit back and let her take the lead, not failing to play his own part, but loving the attention nonetheless. The girl was not shy about anything, was one to, as she pointed out to Boone earlier, 'get what she wanted' and had no trouble taking control. And before Benny, well...she didn't really know her own bedroom antics, assuming she had any. It was not something she remembered at all. Now, though, Boone's primal instinct overrode her own ability to be in charge. The wide-shouldered sniper picked her up effortlessly from his lap, turning and pushing her down onto the bed. He didn't speak, something he never really did anyway, but Boone was the epitome of indulgence as he buried himself headfirst in her neck, then lower, expert hands catching her offguard and causing her to plunge into the numb state she'd reverted into.

There were men, and then there was Boone. Enraptured in her own cocoon of disbelief at his advances, she too lost the ability to speak while his head was lowered to her neck and chest, his warm breath countering the cool feeling of his frantic mouth. Moving slightly to the side, Boone managed to slide one hand down her stomach, pressing down on her sweet spot, and the Courier audibly gasped. He responded by pulling his head up, gazing down at her as she forfeited to the stimulation, and after a moment of watching her in ecstasy, he bent forward and drew her attention to a deep kiss.

And so they'd passed countless time, exploring each other, not caring about yesterday or tomorrow, the barely-clothed girl finally tugging at his worn shirt, causing him to pause only long enough to offhandedly pull the fabric over his head and cast it aside before once again taking her into his arms. Mid-embrace, and just as Boone was situating himself to move lower, a loud clang sounded on the iron railing outside, paired with a sudden blaring of Western music. The pair in bed both jumped and snapped their heads to the window, which was curtained. Victor had automatically started up, jolting from his guard position outside on the balcony. The sound byte was one that Boone had the Courier program earlier to ensure he didn't fall asleep for too long.

Victor had silenced the alarm, knowing it wasn't needed, and now stood with his back to them silently. The blaring music had most certainly awoken someone, for certain it had caused a stop in their racy activity, and for a moment, the couple's heavy breathing was the only noise as they both kept their eyes turned to the bulky Securitron outside the window. When he didn't move for several more moments, Boone unceremoniously yelled while atop the Courier, "I knew there was a reason I stomped on you after I shot you!"

Now he turned his gaze back to the girl, who was giggling. Boone's mood had generally turned sour, and it took him a moment to shake his scowl. Now he looked thoughtfully at her, both of them still attempting to slow their breathing. She surveyed his face in what scant light they had. It was then that the girl, despite having her thoughts muddled with desires, realized how fragile Boone was right now. Barely escaping death from the Legion, saving the town of Novac with the tribe of people he almost wiped out flanking his sides, Manny, not to mention being in this place where he and Carla shared so many memories. He was not one to manage his emotions well in the first place, but that plate would be hard for anyone to digest.

She also realized what he'd meant when he said in the dinosaur, that they "couldn't." Part of it was for those reasons; Khans, Novac, Carla, and more. The other part, the more humbling fact for the Courier, was the understanding that Boone treated their relationship primarily as a bodyguard/subject matter, using his rather robotic skills in combat to ensure safety and security. Though somewhere along the way other things had begun to blossom, he, she, Vegas, the Mojave, were too sensitive now to jeopardize that state of mind and being. It wasn't fair to ask for everything.

All this went through her mind in a split second, as it always has for women, even before the War. While she processed, Boone gazed at her, lost in his own thoughts, and as he was quite rarely the one to speak first, she said in a low voice, "You were right."

He seemed stunned by this, lowered his brows. "You don't want..."

"I think...it's not really about what either of us wants." There were larger things at stake, and besides, she couldn't force herself to do anything after realizing all Boone had been through recently. He was only holding onto sanity, and himself by a very thin wire, as witnessed by his recent actions. Boone may have perhaps realized this too, for he nodded slowly. "Okay."

Now as he prepared to move aside, she threw her arms around his neck in one of her signature childlike hugs, something that had always caught Boone off-guard. It did now, but he wrapped his arm back around her, comforted by the familiar move, and though she couldn't see it, he smiled as they settled back down to sleep. In a tender way that even Benny could never manage, Boone pressed his lips to her forehead before closing his eyes. As they both attempted to steer their thoughts toward sleep and away from the excitement of earlier, Boone muttered, "I'm going to go disarm that hunk of metal if he even thinks about setting the alarm again."

Same dream, same exact location. Awakening at the large icy pond had become habit, as had cowering involuntarily in fear as the child beside her was beaten and dropped like a sack onto the ground. Tonight, the Courier was trying with her usual dream-desperation to change events, to look at the attacker, to catch the attention of the girl. Before, just as a movie plays on repeat, nothing had changed.

But tonight, instead of resolving to sleep lonely on the ground, the little girl picked up the teddy bear and fled toward the pond. Tripping to her feet, the Courier followed, her heavy footfalls nearly causing her to topple over the child and send both of them into the water. The girl had used her dress to clean the blood from her face, and now dipped the side of the bloody fabric into the water, wringing it out among sniffles.

"Hey," surprised at hearing her own voice in this silent nightmare, the Courier tried speech. "What's your name?"

The girl didn't turn.

"Do you know a little boy named Liam?" she pressed, hoping that the child wasn't deaf. To be sure, the Courier reached out a hand and gingerly touched the shoulder. This caused the girl to stiffen, her face still invisible behind the long blond hair.

"You don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not going to hurt you. Who was that man?"

As though she were dubious, the little girl finally turned. It was a face of doubt and exhaustion, in which she glared at the Courier with nothing to say. The Courier wanted to hug her, erase the sad little expression, take her away from her misery. She didn't know how though. The child's lips were swollen, her eyes red, her face dirty and still speckled with her own blood. Then, as the Courier stared at the little face, a trickle of fresh crimson spouted from the tiny nostril, pouring over the closed lips.

Now awake, in bed, the Courier jolted, her feet propelling her upright. Half-sleepwalking, she dashed across the messy room to the large mirror. Never being too cautious, a half-asleep Boone also awoke at her movement, sitting up on the bed, propping himself on his elbows as she moved forward. The sniper brushed the pendant he wore on his now shirtless chest, the key securely there. But tonight, she wasn't interested in going out into the Wastes; she was looking, peering into the large mirror by the bathroom.

"What is it?" he asked, not knowing if she was conscious or not.

At the mirror, the frightened face reflecting back into the motel room looked nothing like the strong Courier, or the pretty Courier in the picture the Legion had destroyed. It also looked nothing like the little girl from earlier. She appeared wretched, confused. Her jaw was slightly slack, her brow drawn.

And as she watched, her head throbbing senselessly, a thin trail of blood emerged from her right nostril, easing its way down her face, past her open mouth and splashing off her chin onto the dresser below.

With the rise in voices, the King rose from his chair, Pacer glancing towards the entrance to the Headquarters. Several other men turned at this, and the white-suited man, flanked by Pacer, headed out of the theatre and towards the front door. When the King threw open the door, the sight was not pretty. Black-jacketed Kings all had their weapons drawn, standing protectively in front of the building, while fedora-donning Omertas leered at them, holding their own guns up. The streets were bare behind them; everyone had scattered.

"Well, there's who we were lookin' for anyway, perfect," drawled one of the men in charge. His voice was raspy, sullen. "These motherfuckers weren't even going to give us the courtesy of getting in."

"Boss, go back inside," one of the Kings pleaded, never taking his eyes or his gun off the Omerta gang. "This is gonna get ugly."

The King, though normally amiable, was incensed. Leaving was not foremost on his mind.

"Now just what in the hell is all this about?" he demanded, his suddenly sharp voice throwing even the Vegas-dwellers off momentarily. "You do what you want on the strip, fellas, but you're in Freeside now. Just what exactly do you think you're doing?"

"We got a bone to pick," the Omerta growled, his menacing tone causing the army of Kings to steady their weapons. Kings outnumbered the others at least 3 to 1, but the Omertas were not small in number. At least ten of them, all with fully-equipped automatic rifles, all aiming at the entrance to the headquarters, was enough to worry the gang. "With you in particular. We found a heap of our boys dead out in the middle of the desert. No wonderin' who did it when we got a rat saw two of your boys leave town in that direction, with that red-bereted soldier. You wanna start talkin?"

"You know what," the ruffled King countered, pushing past his sea of protectors and marching directly up to the Omertas. Pacer, ever eager to be at the powerful man's side, shoved the Kings back as well, standing by the tall man as he lashed into the Omertas. "Yeah, I got a lot to say. I'll start talkin'. I lost one of my boys too thanks to y'all comin' onto my territory and snatchin' up the blond. First off, you don't do shit like that, second, you don't do it on King's territory. I didn't off your boys. I sent out two. Two can't take down the fifteen you had had in a caravan. Whoever offed your fellas, it wasn't me, but they had it comin' to them. If you wanna start it, start it, cause the Kings are ready to roll."

Some of the Omertas looked skeptically at each other at this, realizing that it was true; with the two Kings leaving town at Boone's side, it seemed unlikely they would be the ones responsible for literally filling their dead comrades with bullets. Big Sal, the leader who'd organized the outing to Freeside, was not as easy to sway. Most of the group had no idea about his or anyone else's "plans" for Vegas, plans which included Benny, included the Legion. He had little defense though, as he came back with, "That girl was ours."

"People ain't nobody's!" the King bellowed angrily. Everyone's weapons raised, clacking as safetys were moved off, as hammers were pulled back. Big Sal even took a step backwards at the black-haired man's rage. "I don't care what you do in Gommorah, or how you treat people, women, anybody there, but this ain't Gommorah! If I were you fellas I'd go back home, you're not gonna get anywhere here with that shit."

From the south street a Securitron rolled; one of the new ones wearing a military helmet. Of all people, at his side was one of the friendly Followers doctors. He was recognizable by the white coat. Why the Securitron was beside him protectively didn't make sense, why he was out on the streets when a probable mass shooting was about to take place, made even less sense. But now he walked rapidly and with purpose toward the group. The King glanced over, then back to Big Sal.

"What exactly is going on here?" the doctor inquired, sounding more like a policeman. The Securitron menacingly raised its own weapon arm, and now even the Omertas turned.

"Who the hell are you," was Big Sal's immediate reply. "Get the fuck outta here, boy."

"I don't think so." A window on the Securitron opened to reveal a small, yet potent, missile. Seeing the surprised, frightened reaction on both the Kings and Omertas, the doctor said in an assertive voice, "Lower your weapons."

Several complied; most just stared dumbfoundedly. "I said, lower your weapons! Or I'll save you the trouble and kill all of you in one blast."

One not-frightened face in the crowd was that of the King; he knew the doctor well, had sent the returning King to him with the girl's beret. Now he almost smirked as the sea of guns slowly faltered and fell. Big Sal looked infuriated, but there was little he could do with a missile pointed at his head. Now the doctor sauntered up to the crowd. He looked disdainfully at the Omertas.

"Get back to the Strip. You have no right to be here."

"And JUST who the HELL-"

The Securitron fired warning shots; they dinged off the wall behind Big Sal and he ducked, causing the King to laugh out loud. Other Omertas were not as brave; they turned tail and fled back to safety, the others stumbling and awaiting direction from Big Sal. The Kings looked less stressed, realizing that the newcomer was, for the moment, on their side. The laugh from their leader had also calmed their nerves. When Big Sal recovered from his duck, he angrily withdrew a knife and plunged it toward the King's chest.

It never reached its target; though he had been quick, the doctor was quicker; the Securitron never even had a chance to fire because the plasma weapon hit Sal directly in the face, throwing him on his back. But the only thing that stopped the knife was the fact that Pacer had jumped in front of his friend, the blade embedding into his chest instead. With a cry, he fell to his knees, never making it to the ground because the King caught him. "Pacer!" he yelled, the sea of black jackets now moving menacingly toward the remaining Omertas, opening fire. Few fought back, several fell. The rest ran toward the Strip.

The Securitron was aiding in firing gunshots at the fleeing Vegas residents, but the doctor had holstered his weapon and now ran to the kneeling King, the anger dissipating from his face, replaced with deep sorrow. Pacer gasped, trying to intake air past the deep wound. When the doctor reached him, he pulled the torn fabric of the shirt aside. The man was already bleeding profusely, and now the blond's brow darkened with stress. He pushed fingers to the man's throat, pressing down around the wound, causing more crimson to rise up. Now his expression was almost as wretched as the King's.

"What's gonna happen to him?" the King pressed, not minding the fact that Pacer's blood was already covering his snow white jacket. "What do we do?"

"There's nothing we can do," the doctor countered frustratingly, not unkindly,. "He's got so much Jet in his body, his heart is pumping the blood out faster than I can stop it. There's-" his hands were already covered in blood just from checking the wound, and he held them out to the King. "There's...nothing."

"Pacer, why'd you hafta do that?" the King asked in a saddened tone. The other Kings, standing over him, watched wordlessly. The truth was, most of them either hated Pacer or were afraid of him, in the case of younger Kings, but their respect for their leader overwhelmed their dislike. The group was quiet as Pacer, unable to speak because the effort was too painful, lost more and blood there on the front doorstep. The King was not ashamed that his eyes filled with tears, and Arcade Gannon put one bloody hand on the bloodier jacket, squeezing the man's shoulder in his only attempt at comfort.

Men died, men would always and had always died, and change was rising like a great tidal wave in Vegas and surrounding areas as it had before in so many other places. Some, like the King, hated it, wanted nothing to do with it, could do nothing but hug their dying friends while choking back tears. Others, like Arcade, had gotten used to moving around for survival, were used to the heartache men caused, could offer nothing but a hand on the shoulder in a silent way of saying, "Brace yourself."

The tidal wave was coming.

Boone had finally fallen asleep, and the Courier had expertly swiped the key from his neck pendant, unlocking the door and slipping out to what was undoubtedly her favorite thinking spot in the entire Mojave, for multiple reasons: Dinky the Dinosaur. She knew part of it was stumbling upon Boone himself up here, but she also remembered seeing it for the first time, a comical testament to the good humor of pre-War citizens, a strange alien structure. The view up here was beautiful when tainted by moonlight, the area secluded, safe and quiet, something most places in the Mojave were not.

Now she rested on her haunches, poking her head out between the two canines Manny and Boone had worn down with their rifle stops. The motel room felt tiny, especially after her strange dream, and looking out on the unforgiving landscape always seemed to calm her for some reason. Especially now, after she'd realized today that this harsh, dry desert was going to be her home. No matter her past, she didn't belong in the pretty land of snow that littered her dreams. Not anymore. Perhaps she hadn't belonged even then; she had the distinct feeling she didn't.

She was lost in thought. Mr. House had loved machines, obviously thought they were more efficient than humans. Most of that stemmed from the fact that machines were more fair, had no emotions, no personality to muddle up the stakes. Everyone could win when a machine dealt the cards, because little was left to chance. Everything was pre-programmed.

It was easy for people to say humans were cruel. That humanity was doomed. When she had stooped over the finally-sleeping ex-soldier, even behind closed eyes the familiar look of disappointment and despair was clear. Perhaps not in the same magnitude as it had been before they had gotten closer, but there nonetheless. Several days of happiness could not make up for years of shame and guilt and hatred. Boone hated himself more than he had a general hatred for mankind, but his outlook on that was bleak as well. It was an outlook many shared.

Had it always been that way, even before the world was changed forever, had people always condemned their own species' stupidity? She somehow felt that people did. People weren't fair like machines, people had emotions to mess things up. Wants and fears and dreams and greed. Mr. House, the creator of so many marvelous machines, had emotions. One could argue that it was his machines that deactivated the nukes headed for Vegas. But that wasn't so; House had loved Vegas, thought it worthy of saving. She saw the strain and fear in his face from the recording Securitron that fateful day; fear of losing what he loved so much.

Men were cruel, too; this she couldn't deny after seeing the way the slaves plodded tiredly down the hills on her only visit to Caesar. She couldn't deny it after seeing the poor naked girl babbling after Cook-cook's attempted rape, or the way Marcus had to hide away in a secluded area for fear of persecution, when the mutant was one of the most remarkable minds she'd ever met. But wasn't Nature also cruel, and unjust? She'd held back tears when months earlier, before Boone, she'd ran upon a pack of baby coyotes whose mother had died in the den. Though the Courier didn't know the cause of death, it didn't matter; the crying pups had no milk, no eyesight to allow them the luxury of food. Though bullets were precious at that time more than ever, she shot the litter, feeling that succumbing to a quick death was better than slow starvation in a lonely, black world.

The Mojave had no saviors. It, itself, was cruel. So was the world everywhere. Despite the just robotic rule the "benevolent" Mr. House suggested, the world was not just. If Nature was "Mother earth" as had been coined before, humans were her children, and they took after her in all ways. Unpredictability. Instability. Insecurity, pain, life, death, happiness, despair. It wasn't right. Caesar forcing mothers to give up their children was no better or worse than Nature not allowing the baby coyotes to be with their mother. Was it reason that separated, reason humans had that nature didn't possess?

The Courier knew about weather conditions outside of the desert, both through books and through the fact that she'd lived in the mountains before. Tornadoes, blizzards, hurricanes tore through and killed recklessly anyone unlucky enough to be in their path, the same way that humans dropped bombs frivolously. Both destroyed the Old World. Men, terrible men like Caesar were even now making plans to rip through Hoover Dam like tornadoes themselves, consuming everything in their path. If it wasn't him, it would be another, and then another, and still more would come in the future.

Was there any use in trying to change any of it? Or, was the world simply unjust?

Vulpes couldn't bring himself to sleep when faced with the prospect of closing his eyes while the Malpais Legate lurked over him. Despite the fact that the man obviously wanted him alive, the Frumentarian could not shake the fact that he was entirely helpless against whatever method of painful interrogation or torture the Mormon wanted to use against him. And Vulpes had seen his acts first hand. He knew just how horrible the man could be, despite his now calm and almost relaxed nature.

Though the obvious subjects would've been how Graham was alive and why he was heading toward Caesar's camp alone, Vulpes got very few, very vague answers to those silent inquries. God had saved Graham, or so the latter said. Caesar was to be forced to take another course of action, away from Zion, was the other answer. Hardly explanations, but Vulpes was doubly vexed when, as he lay struggling and fighting sleep, Graham commented wrly over the top of his Scripture, which was open and under his nose- "How very unlike you, Vulpes, to let something as measly as a Courier slip through your grasp. I've seen you down entire towns, cities. Perhaps you are losing your touch."

The fact that Graham knew about the Courier and about Vulpes's struggles with her only served to disturb the blond more. He wondered for a moment if Graham had fought with her, or sought an ally, and it crossed Vulpes's mind that Graham was one man in a sea of many who actually wouldn't be afraid of the girl. This was something Vulpes couldn't entirely understand. So many men were intimidated by her, so many of the Legion swore she was some sort of underworld spirit, perhaps akin to the Burning Man himself. The entire group was just as superstitious as Vulpes, but he didn't feel any intimidation around the girl. While he had willingly caused her pain and suffering, not allowing her to eat, giving her only the tiniest amounts of water, thrilled to see her stripped and forced into the stinking burlap sack, he felt only power emanating from her. As was his nature, he wanted to crush her. Not for the same reasons Caesar wanted. He would respect that power, want to absorb it somehow. Vulpes wanted to crush her for the same reason he purposefully stepped on the sparse flowers the Mojave had to offer; merely to destroy. Savor the superiority.

These and other dark thoughts circled through Vulpes's mind like idle smoke from a sooty fire as he kept his sights trained on Graham, who read his Scriptures well into the night, seemingly unperturbed.

Dawn came, and still neither man slept.

Dawn came, and the Courier still sat in the dinosaur's mouth, contemplating the proper order of life in the universe.

Dawn came, and Boone was still deep asleep, echoes of the ghosts at Bitter Springs clouding any happy thoughts or glimmer of hope he may have felt earlier.

As they were gearing up to go, the Courier's color turning back to her cheeks, the ill-effects of Legion domination fading quickly, Manny suddenly exited Ranger Andy's apartment. He glanced around for the couple, seeing the Courier tie a large bag to the back of the Securitron, and trotted toward them. Manny didn't even blink at the fact that Boone now wore his beret, the Courier's golden hair pulled back untidily regardless. He had something in his hand.

"Take a look at this!" Manny said, waving the paper. The Courier and Boone both turned. Now Boone squinted and the girl's greens widened.

"It's …...Latin!"

"Caesar's orders," Boone guessed, knowing the familiar stamp as well as Manny did. However, all of the Legion's orders were in shorthand Latin, indecipherable by most. The Courier took the paper, holding it close to her nose, scanning it.

"Damn...I can't read the shorthand..." Though she was a quick learner, teaching wasn't exactly the prime objective on her mind. And she'd only been studying it for two months now, not nearly enough time to grasp the complexities of shorthand. "Something about...bah. It's too confusing for me. Arcade will know what it says though."

"Figured," Manny said, nodding his head. "Andy took it off one of the bodies. Never misses a thing, that guy. He's doing a lot better, by the way. Full recovery expected. Just so long as he stops falling down stairs."

The Courier laughed, Boone raised an eyebrow.

"Until next time," Manny saluted them both, then tilted his head. "Take care."

"Take care yourself," the girl shot back with a wink. "Watch out for those nooses."

The Courier's past was not something Arcade even wanted to bring up at all. When the doctor saw her hatless blond head through the security cameras, he snatched up the beret he'd been given by the King, and flew onto the elevator, meeting her at ground level and scooping her up. Smashing the other First Recon beret on her head, Arcade spun her around, hugging her tightly. Boone stood stonily by, his arms crossing, but he didn't make any sign of annoyance as he usually did whenever the two embraced.

Pulling back, the Courier babbled, "We've got so much to talk about!"

"Indeed we do," Arcade replied, thinking of the King, the Omertas...everything but the holodisc.

"Dinner here?"

"Let's go out. Ultra-Luxe."

Now Boone made a disappointed sound.

"The Tops," Arcade corrected. Both blonds turned to view Boone; he shrugged.

"Great," the taller man quipped, and led the way back to the elevator.

While Boone used one of the Mojave's only working showers, the girl pulled Arcade aside in the dark bedroom of the Presidential suite.

"Is it bad?" she said in a whisper, Arcade dipping his head to hear her low voice.

Now his eyes trailed off, looking at some unseen horizon.

"How did you-?"

"I could tell," she said tenderly, twisting her hands. "Is it that bad?"

Now he soberly eyed her. "It's...some of it, I don't think I should tell you."

"Should I just read it?"

"Well..." Arcade had thought about this part over the many hours it had taken the girl to get back to town. "I don't know how much of it should be read. I think we should go ahead with our plan to visit-"

"We're running out of time," she said in a stressed tone. "So much is going on with the Legion, the Dam..."

"I know, I know," Arcade assured her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Griffith is only two days away. I'm sure we won't need to stay up there more than one night. We can plan the trip and leave whenever you'd like. But...I really, really think you need to take my advice on this one."

"Okay..." she trusted the man, and besides, it gave her time to bide and focus on the other chaos. "Okay. So you'll tell me what you can, over dinner?"

"Of course."

What he could tell her was of little comfort. Though the casino was "hoppin'" as Benny would say, it was a solemn meal. The girl's holotape was in fact a diary, one she wanted well-protected, a place where according to Arcade, she said she must either write out her feelings or perish from the crazy inside her head. Going back several years, the holotapes detailed even her earliest years.

She had been born north of the mountains, in an unnamed southern Utah location. There she stayed with her mother and sister, her memories of the higher desert going back to as early as when she had been three years old; her sister was an infant. Their father had taken it upon himself to enlist in a tribe and put his family behind him. This was not all that uncommon for the wasteland, but it was nonetheless a blow. Arcade said she spoke sorrowfully of being alone.

After a terrible accident, the young child was suddenly an orphan, which explained not only her extreme sense of loneliness, but her affection with the orphan books. On her own at seven years old, she journeyed eastward to the prosperous town of New Reno, where the Followers of the Apocalypse had set up the ruins of an old university. There she lived and excelled as their greatest pupil, though once again Arcade detailed that she was extremely lonely. For years, she drank up all the knowledge she could, until at the tender age of sixteen she embarked off with the intention of journeying the Wasteland.

She'd stopped in Griffith peak. There it was she set up her teaching job. The community, according to Arcade, where she taught was a small, peaceful snowy town of rich entrepreneurs. She was one of them, setting up the small schoolhouse and giving the children of the wealthy townspeople generous educations. Arcade avoided entirely what happened to cause the Courier to leave this seemingly perfect, picturesque job and move to humble package-handler. She knew better than to ask.

"Did I have any kids?"

"No."

"Was I married? Engaged? Boyfriend?"

"None of the above."

She paused. Glancing at Boone, she said, "Er...girlfriend?"

"Nope. You were quite the loner."

Her shoulders slumped. "I see."
The Courier was, of all places, in Mr. House's penthouse, gazing out over the Wasteland. She hadn't come up here in ages, or at least what felt like ages. Everything was as eerily quiet as it had always been; even more so without the bleeping of machinery from behind the walls. Mr. House had been silenced, this dwelling space a fitting tomb. Though barely a whisper would've sounded as loudly as a bomb falling, the Courier may or may not have been imagining the faintest of footsteps, the echo of speech emanating from the solitude. It was as though Mr. House, pre-War Mr. House, was still here, walking around and socializing with all of his VIP guests.

Rex was with the girl, had insisted on following her up the lonely elevator. She carefully removed the high heels she wore, and plucked bobby pin after bobby pin out of her curled hair. And now as she sat on one of the cushy sofas, propping her bare feet up carefully on a nearby coffee table, Rex unceremoniously jumped on the couch, weighing it down. He plopped down beside her, putting his metal jaw on her thigh. The girl absent-mindedly patted his neck, where his thick fur was unhindered by steel. They were both silent, then she spoke, Rex's ears plucking up as he listened.

"I remember that feeling of being alone when I was younger. I remember thinking, I'm an orphan, and someone is going to come and save me just like they do in the books. That one day I wouldn't have to 'just get by' or survive, wouldn't have to wear rags. I'd be swept up by some rich uncle. Or a beautiful aunt in a ballgown. They'd walk into wherever I was and shake their head at how I lived, then clean me up and take me to some fancy place, with beds and people and toys."

Rex tilted his head, as though in sympathy. Now he whined, and she continued patting his neck.

"And now look at me, Rexxy. Dressing up and singing old pre-War classical music in a casino." She wore the infamous white dress, the one many Vegas enthusiasts now recognized her in. The night had been spent at Ultra-Luxe, new songs performed, bigger crowds. The Courier leaned her head back, looking at the ceiling. She wondered suddenly if this was how all pre-War life was; beautiful architecture, long dresses, makeup, pampering, never having to worry about sleeping on the ground or scrounging for the next bit of food or clean water. If it was anything like this at all, those were the luckiest people who ever lived.

Arcade had refused to disclose, if he knew, what had happened to her family. The idea that it could have somehow been her fault had been on her mind constantly. It was a strange look he gave her, one she had never received from the other blond before, and it filled her with guilt. What had she done? What had her life consisted of? The only part she could ever recall was just scrounging, learning, more scrounging, more learning. If she was capable of such terrible things why wouldn't Arcade tell her what they were? The thought of losing respect from someone she herself had so much for, saddened her immensely.

In the week she had been back in Vegas, several things happened. The least stressful of which included going back to what Boone described as "off" casino and practicing new music nightly with the skilled group of players. Arcade, divulging to the girl that she probably suffered mental issues even before getting her egg scrambled, suggested she go visit Dr. Usanagi. Thus, her mornings consisted of therapy, mostly things she was skeptical of trying such as meditation, hypnosis. The girl couldn't complain though, because she at least felt it was a step in the right direction. The King and Ambassador Crocker were two other residents she'd spent extensive time with: the former was grieving the loss of his friend and she had helped with a few Freeside excursions, and the latter spoke of the NCR and happenings at the Dam.

The Courier was decidedly hesitant to help the NCR at Hoover Dam, simply because she could almost feel their hungry eyes fixated on Vegas. But Crocker was different, an almost-pacifist. He was pleasant company and had many intelligent things to say. Though she hadn't brought Arcade in for one of their political lunches yet, she figured intelligent Gannon would appreciate the man's "live and let live" pragmatic approach to the situation Vegas was in.

Yet another thing for the girl's already too-full plate was the Legion note given to her by Manny: on it, the shorthand dictated Caesar's growing impatience with what was apparently an operation dubbed"Aut Caesar aut nihil" to which Arcade commented, "That doesn't sound so good." He divulged the contents of the letter as describing a large "gift" being made at an undisclosed location. Apparently, the giver of this gift wasn't so giving, meaning that the price and conditions were forever up-anted. This was due to some earlier mistreatment by the Legion. Apparently the group was, in true Legion fashion, going to attempt an assassination and seizing of the gift if at all possible. While the Legate warned this was dangerous, their sources spoke of an underground tunnel somewhere in New Vegas that led directly to the safekeeping of this "gift."
Arcade thought it was a weapon, though he had no idea what kind. "All or nothing" was pretty self-explanatory to the group, though. And so now they spent what few spare moments they had wracking their brains for where an underground passageway might be. Though the obvious place would have been Vault 21, it was full of concrete. The best they could do was keep an eye out for any disguised Legionaries in the city, an arduous task.

The Courier hummed one of the songs she'd sang earlier, petting Rex, and relaxed in the one quiet moment she had to herself in what was indisputably Vegas's finest palace. Dressed in the luxurious white gown with her pale skin glowing, her golden hair falling around her shoulders, she looked like a remnant from earlier, simpler times. Before nuclear warfare had diminished life to simple survival, before humanity reverted back down to its simplest means of life. The dim flickering light emanating from her deep green eyes the only visibly sorrowful reminder that the world she lived in was harsh, unforgiving.

Boone was dressed in his black jacket with bow tie, not bothering to change after the Luxe's show. The man was solitary by nature, and needed a drink more than he had in a long time. While back "home" in Vegas, his memories of good NCR times flooded into his head nonstop. It was strange, something he'd never dwelt on before. Though Boone didn't see the reason why, it appeared some of the brooding memories that he chewed on daily were being replaced with fond memories. Manny and Boone stumbling around drunk, laughing in the crowded streets.
NCR parties in the Tops hotel. The shows at Brimstone, where he was now, with at least ten other First Recon snipers, the hooting and catcalls drowning out the music.

Things had been so much simpler then. Despite the strangely nostalgic and happy feeling these thoughts gave him, Boone still wanted to drown them out. He felt that he shouldn't be allowed to remember these things with such jovial feelings attached. So he sat at the bar, getting more and more plastered. New Vegas was so much more to a pre-Bitter Springs Boone. Gambling was a thrill, drinking was a thrill. He and Manny used to bet caps over the stupidest things; pouring soap in the Ultra-Luxe fountain, running up to the girls outside of Gomorrah and thrash-dancing with them, something the probably bored hookers enjoyed thoroughly. Once, Boone had taken a dare to run up behind a Securitron and piggy-back on it, until the incensed AI wheeled him right into a stone wall.

Then there was Carla; she was miffed, standing outside the Luxe one day when Manny said the wrong thing; the girl went off, and Boone had laughed at Manny's shocked face at hearing someone stand up to him, especially such a tiny little woman with a bellowing voice. The girl had warmed up to Boone almost immediately after he jokingly interceded the blowup. Though he was completely oblivious, it was likely much of what made Carla's eyes light up was the fact that Boone wore his signature off-white undershirt and khaki cargo pants, his wide shoulders and abundant muscle silhouetted painfully clear, and his shades and beret hid everything on his face except his lopsided grin, the constant booze and tirades not aiding the rather oblivious expression he carried around day to day. The woman seemed to instantly forget the fact that Manny existed when she turned to Boone.

All that, everyone so innocent. Even Manny, who had ran with the Khans, bore less weight on his shoulders then than now. They were just kids, all of them, living life for pleasure, Vegas seeming twice as brightly lit, twice as huge as it did to Boone now. The more alcohol he drank, the more fond memories resurfaced. It was as though some force willed him to remember who he used to be. But who was he back then, anyway? Forcing his thoughts in a different direction, he continued to ponder.

He'd announced his first leave after seven months of boot camp and service with the NCR, traveling back home to the small Arizona town where his father lived. Boone dumped his luggage on the front step, his father not bothering to turn from polishing his own gun. After all he'd been through, the then-20 year old wanted to talk to his father about his newfound weapon understanding, about making First Recon, about the military in general. The older man, a munitions freak, was not impressed. He secretly longed for the return of the Enclave, idealized their values and methodology, something that he kept to himself in the small town for fear of dislike.

In fact, most of the community idolized Mr. Boone, his gun repair and general blacksmithing skills renowned in a land where constant disrepair and decay were all too evident. Though grouchy, he had a good business tone, and had kept himself and his son well off through caps for repairing various electronics, or else selling and trading guns. Craig's father had not cared for NCR at all, didn't even blink an eye when his always-tall always-sturdy son stepped inside the narrow doorway standing twice as tall, twice as sturdy, a reformed young soldier. Awkwardly, they said hello, and over the next few days, there was no talk of war-training stories or Boone's travels to and from the California Republic. In fact, as was the case before training, there was little talk at all. Boone didn't visit again for the four years he remained a part of the NCR.

His father had died while Boone was stationed in the Mojave. A letter from one of the town's nicer patrons was sent, one of the only letters Boone ever got, other than ones sent from Carla. Numbly, during a rare desert thunderstorm, Boone let the rain fall onto the scrawled note, remembering the simple, perhaps lonely but never cruel life he and his secluded father lived. The man had committed suicide, his quietness masking the deeply troubled psychological problems he had unwittingly passed along to his only son.

Manny had approached, seeing the more-dumbfounded-than-usual expression on Boone's face, and read the note. He looked shocked, having met the man once before, and moved away, knowing that Boone was a bit ill-prepared when it came to emotions. With a glance that told the others to not ask questions, he headed back to the tent and allowed Boone to silently deal with the blow. Two weeks later, a slightly subdued Boone had asked Carla to marry him. It wouldn't be a mere three months later that Bitter Springs occurred. Truly the letter had marked the beginning of the end of that Craig Boone who felt victory in his achievements, searched for happiness, had hope in his heart.

As his thoughts, guided by his will to get away from the carefree days, grew more dim, someone was brave enough to sit by the black-suited Boone. Though his vision was blurry and the lights were dark, the sniper turned his sights onto another tuxedo-clad man, this one even taller than he, though with a far more slender frame. Arcade spun on the barstool, obviously happier drunk than Boone.

"Thought you'd be here," Arcade said jovially. "How goes it?"

Boone shot him a very Boone-esque look.

"Sounds about right. Can I ask what it was you saw down there?"

"What?"

"During the show. You were glaring, you know that." Now Arcade drunkenly propped his elbow on the bar and pointed at his own thick, black glasses. "It was dark but I couldn't make out who it was."

"...What?" Though Boone's verbal communication was never really up to par with the likes of Arcade, the man was speaking far too quickly for him to even bother deciphering.

"The show. The singing. The music?" Arcade made the maneuver of playing a cello. "Tonight? Few hours ago? Vegas? Ultra-Luxe? Nevada? Songs?"

"What about it," Boone said irritably, not humored.

"Who did you see in the audience when-"

"How did you know I was staring at anybody?"

"...was singing." Arcade flailed. "You should have seen the look on your face. I thought I was going to have to hold you back. I was trying to look where you were looking but, I don't have those sniper eyes of yours."

Boone scowled deeply, then drank more whiskey.

"Benny was there."

"Whaaaaaaat?" Arcade's light eyes widened, and he leaned forward. "You mean I missed that jacket?"

"He wasn't wearing it. He was dressed in black."

"Are you sure it was him?" Arcade asked, still dumbfounded.

"He was watching her." Boone replied, then said in a more frustrated tone, "Why are we talking about this?"

"I...hey. I won't tell her, promise. That's not something she needs on her mind right now." Ever-protective and loyal, Arcade had even less of a good opinion of Benny than Boone did, because he knew the entire history the man had with his friend.

Boone seemed to reconsider keeping quiet, for he slammed down the glass, sloshing the alcohol around.

"He was just sitting there, with this...look. On his face. Like he was proud. Or something." Now Boone's eyes narrowed. "What exactly does he think he had to do with anything?"

"He did save her life," Arcade shrugged.

"He's not..." the sniper trailed off into a grumble, deciding to sip more whiskey.

"He's not you?" Arcade guessed.

Boone glared.

"Or not as loyal as you, rather." The blond nodded. "Far inferior choice if you ask me. But then, I see why she is drawn to a man like that."

"Why?" Boone decided to choke Arcade to death if he ever insinuated this conversation actually took place.

"Well, comparatively," Arcade pushed his glasses up, businesslike despite teetering over the chair with inebriation, "Benny is not only your typical bad-boy, someone dangerous and exciting and powerful, he has this ability with her. He's able to show her affection in ways you're not."

Boone's glare was murderous, but it wasn't aimed at Arcade so much as his own shot glass.

"Benny is a charmer, very physical, huggy, you know the type. Guys like that sweep people off their feet in a hurry, and at least part of him is sincere. What part, I'm not willing to say, but..."

Arcade shrugged. "If I were her, I'd be enamored with him too. Except now I play big brother and am all overprotective. I'm not blind to the effect he has." The man noticed Boone's brooding stare, and continued, "But that doesn't compare to how she feels about you, whether she realizes it or not."

Boone lifted his gaze. "What?"

"You have that girl's heart in your hands, and you don't even know it. Come to think of it I'm pretty sure she's unaware too. I've seen her at her best and worst, and none of it compares to how she felt when you were gone. And you've only gotten closer since." Arcade eyed him knowingly. "Coming back from Novac, it looks like a lot closer."

Boone flared his nostrils. He wasn't sure what to say about that.

"You can will yourself to manipulate these images. Believe in the power to change things, and things will change for you. Whether what you are seeing is a memory or a dream, your subconscious has the answers. So many inner problems can be resolved if we just gently command our inner voice to help us."

Now Rex had fallen asleep with his head on her thigh, and though her eyes were closed, the Courier was awake, though in a meditative state as instructed by the doctor. Her body was limp, neck leaned back against the sofa, face towards the ceiling. In her mind, she wasn't in Vegas, wasn't even in the Mojave. The girl stood in familiar coat and scarf, straightening from the rock that hovered on crystalline winter water. Now she hopped the short distance to the shore and walked among the stars, her breath fogging around her in a cloud that passed by as though in a hurry. As though possessed, she yet again ran to the reeds, clapped her hands over her ears, closed her eyes, waiting for the small child to light beside her.

Now two blonds hunkered, identical, in the brush, and the man approached. Now, and she willed herself to look up. Look up, look up she commanded, not moving from where she sat as the string of curses rang in her ears from the angry male. Look up. And her eyes popped open, her neck snapping upward; the Courier rose as though on fire and jumped backwards at the sight she'd been too afraid to witness the past week and a half.

He was tall, oddly tall, a trait the girl shared. His hair was windswept, disheveled, his face hidden in shadow. Now he tossed the child, her back thudding against the ground, and the Courier's blank-slate stare hardened. Unafraid, standing as tall as he, she advanced. The man uttered several more curses, speaking of the girl's uselessness, her uncleanly nature, and for the first time the Courier caught the gaze of the shadowy figure.

Her anger disappeared immediately, her jaw dropped. He didn't seem to notice her, for he turned to stare across the lake for a moment. Seeming in his 40's, the man sported a weathered face and dark green eyes laced with white. What Liam had spoken of, not eyes that were completely at a loss of pupil, but rimmed in a wild color that made him seem unsettled. With white eyes, and untrimmed facial hair hiding the murderous, twisted frown underneath as the man gnashed his teeth and stomped off into the night.

It was a face she'd never seen before, not that she could recall. It was the Fire Man.

Arcade left Boone sitting glumly at the bar after his revealing talk, presumably to go charm one of the many enchanted-looking men loitering around Brimstone. He had that same quality as the Courier. To just walk up to a stranger, flash a smile, start an engaging conversation. Now his thoughts went to the blond girl and Boone audibly sighed, heaving his monstrous shoulders and pitching his head forward to rest on his palm.

Novac had opened a can of worms. Boone was unsurprisingly an extremely physically-oriented guy, but was just as disciplined as he was deprived. NCR or no, married or no, he'd never felt the impact of blind lust like he had that night, and he knew it was more than just that. The problem was, that self-discipline had shrugged itself away after the ordeal with the Legion and saving Novac, burning his house down and burying that memory in ash. He couldn't hate Benny...well, scratch that, he did hate Benny, but Boone himself was just as guilty as the pleasure-seeker. Every time he had lain down to sleep since, though he tried to force it out as adamantly as he tried to force the happy memories of Vegas, he relived basking in the softness of her skin, feeling her tremble under the quick rhythm of his hand, the taste of the warm flesh on her neck and breasts.

That was not who she was to him, she was so much more, and he couldn't really wrap his head around what she was. She deserved more than a hungry sex-starved motel room, that he knew. But there was nothing for it; if there was, he didn't know what. Boone, in his tux, downing whiskey at an alarming rate in the maroon-hued bar, flipped between pleasure-sodden thoughts of his night in Novac and deep guilt for his own reckless actions.

Usanagi had told me the list of psychiatric disorders she thought I flaunted; I didn't really care either way. Putting a name on claustrophobia and tension and chronic night terrors and paranoia really didn't change anything; it was no different to me than hearing that my egg was scrambled. The doctor admitted that the only thing she had to offer was therapy, as mind-altering chems would probably do more damage than good to someone in my shoes. After hearing her multiple diagnoses, though, I couldn't help but notice when I acted impulsively as now.

Standing in front of the monitor where the hated Yes Man smiled sappily down at me, I asked, "Do you know of any secret passageways under Vegas?" It was a shot in the dark, but after meditating on the sofa and seeing what I'd come to know as the main antagonist of my life, I had to do something. Antsy, I tapped my fingers against the wall as I awaited a response.

"Well, yes actually there are several!" Yes Man said cheerfully. "Vault 21 used to run under every casino on the main strip, Mr. House constructed it that way. Obviously he made a wide range of vaults for many major cities but paid greatest attention to Vegas, which was his favorite. When the subway system was in order, the vault had subway access. Unfortunately, now most of it is filled with concrete. Imagine if it weren't! You could visit so many places, including Caesar's Fort."

The fact that the intricate underground system extended that far east was a little unnerving, and though I considered what House did a douche move to the people living in the Vault, I was a the moment a little glad it was concreted up. Yes Man disappeared from the screen, pulling up what I assumed to be blueprints. "There are a few other passageways that didn't get sealed, though. One runs from the Lucky 38 to Camp Golf, where-"

"The NCR post?!" I didn't want them to have access to the Lucky 38 any more than I wanted Caesar's Legion hanging out in Vault 21.

"Exactly! You're so smart. It was one of the areas Mr. House owned back when it was a resort. He used the passageways during his lifetime to travel from the resort to the casino. Being as famous as he was, it was quick, safe, and easy. And between you and me I think he was a little bit of a recluse and preferred to travel that way."

"Yeah." I said that with such heavy sarcasm I was surprised he didn't note. Then again, Yes Man had always been oblivious to my levity.

"I think that the end of that passageway caved in though, so I don't know if you could actually exit on the other side. If we repair-"

"I'm not interested in repairing it." In fact, if I could, I'd love to go down and dynamite the shit out of that entryway to prevent anyone from ever finding it again. Actually, I was making a mental note to do so the next time I had any reason to be in the area.

"Of course! Who needs that route anyway. In fact, as I'm now scanning several of the other tunnels, it seems most of them have fallen into disrepair and would require some electric maintenance to work again. I do see-"

"Why would they need electric maintenance?" Tunnels didn't usually run on electricity.

"Well, Mr. House used a small electric rail car to commute. They were efficient and a lot faster than walking! I believe he got the idea from visiting an area that used to be Salt Lake City where a massive electric rail system was used for public transport. And by running through the system, I did find one that was still in service."

"Where does it go?"

"Another one of House's facilities. This one is actually underground itself although I think he may have constructed on top of it. It was his warehouse, if you will, for storing and maintaining the Mark II artillery. In other words, he used it to upgrade the Securitrons."

"I think you're onto something. How do I get there?"

"Funny you should ask! Benny asked me the same question. However he didn't have access to the Lucky 38 so he was quite angry that I couldn't help him further! I'm glad I can help you out, Boss. Mr. House's private rail can be accessed by a separate elevator, one that goes underneath the casino. In his study up here in the penthouse, there's another artificial wall you can access with the terminal-here, I'll unlock it for you" a series of beeps, then a squeak as somewhere in the penthouse a wall pulled away, could be heard. "-and it's just straight down."

I was already making my way out. A White Glove Society dress wouldn't cut it, so I had to go down, hopefully not disturb Boone or Arcade if they were back, and change. Then I would be making my way to the ammunition facility both Benny and the Legion so badly wanted access to.

Arcade's door was closed, the radio playing quietly. I winced at the loud ding of the elevator that had brought me down as the doors closed behind me. Carrying my heels in one hand, Rex at my side, I tiptoed gingerly toward the master bedroom. Boone didn't usually snore, but nonetheless I listened for his sleep-ridden breath. Other than the hum of the refrigerator and the soft tones of Mr. Vegas chattering away to the sleeping Arcade, the entire suite was silent.

Then a rickety clang announced the arrival of the other elevator, and I spun on my heel, caught off-guard. The door slid open, another loud DING intruding upon the room's silence, and out of the doorway teetered a very tall dark and handsome-

"Boone!" I exclaimed, realizing it was the sniper. He was obliterated. His shoulders slumped forward and he stumbled into the room holding his head, looking like every drunk NCR soldier I encountered on the streets of Vegas daily. He was still dressed in his tuxedo though, and sadly that's the part I was focusing more on. How good he looked.

He could barely stand. I glanced at a digital wall clock over the elevators. "You've been drinking this entire time?" We had parted ways five hours ago.

Boone carefully stood, almost fell, and reached for me. I instinctively stepped back, because I knew that if Boone was unwise and tried to put his weight on me we'd both go crashing to the floor. I'm not petite, but a drunk Boone is kind of like a train hitting you. He didn't succeed in toppling us both over though; instead, he grabbed at my shoulder and pushed me against the elevator wall. I tried to help him hold himself up, and his other palm rested against the wall. Boone was not in good shape.

"We need to get you to bed," I suggested, still pinned to the wall. While any other time I'd be more than happy to submit to a Boone-pinning, this House artillery thing was weighing too heavily on my mind. And he was drunk anyway, and we'd agreed in Novac that we couldn't risk the fate of the Wasteland by pursuing some...what were we pursuing? Could I dumb it down to lust? I refused, but...

Boone seemed to sober up slightly, for his back straightened, and he slid his palm from the wall to rest on my other shoulder. Now he gripped me by both shoulders, still holding me to the granite, and his faraway look was redirected to me. Behind the booze, I saw pain written all over his face, the likes of which I hadn't seen since being blinded in Novac. I froze in place, abandoning for the moment thoughts of tunnels or thoughts of how good he'd looked, unable to move because of the intense force that seemed to emanate from Boone.

"It'll be over one day," he said, barely audible for the slurring of his speech and the low tone he used. "All of it will be over, and life will go on."

"You're right," I said tentatively, still spooked. "You're right, everything will be okay soon."

"And when it is," Boone continued, actually squeezing my shoulders so tight that they hurt, and I winced from the pain, "I...I won't be around. I'm not going to make it."

"What do you mean, what are you talking about? Of course you'll make it."

"It's my punishment. I lost everything once," he breathed. "I was lost, then you found me, I had a purpose again. But I don't deserve-"

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you," I said firmly. He loved these death talks, his cryptic little rants about how all the bad he'd done was going to catch up with him. Although I endured it the best I could, I still hated it.

He didn't believe me, but didn't press the subject. "I regret it. I don't want to go. I want to see the end."

"The end of what? Where are you planning on going? What happens at the end?"

"We can ask for everything," he stated simply, as though reading my thoughts that night in the motel. Though somewhere along the way other things had begun to blossom, he, she, Vegas, the Mojave, were too sensitive now to jeopardize that state of mind and being. It wasn't fair to ask for everything.

"Boone..." I wasn't sure what he was saying, and I'm pretty sure he wasn't either, but now he just gazed at me with that tortured look, and let go, turning toward the room he'd claimed as his own. I stood in the hallway, spooked, for another ten minutes. Boone wasn't aware of the fact that my breathing grew ragged, or that I struggled during that ten minutes to stave tears. He'd told me long ago that he couldn't promise to always be by me. Though I adamantly swore to help him, I knew that nothing was guaranteed just as well as he did. Losing Boone never occurred to me until that moment, when he mysteriously foretold his own demise as he always did, and I believed it for a moment.

While I wrested with this, Boone had walked into the den and directly fell onto a sofa face first, out like a light. Rex wagged his tail at me expectantly, and finally I shook my head and redirected my focus.

A change of clothes. And then, the tunnel awaited.

Vulpes was breathing raggedly, his chest heaving from the effort it took to walk with his arms behind his back: not that he had a choice, they were tied. His companion, the man at the campfire, strode toward the Legion camp with purpose and calmness, his pistol withdrawn nearly the entire time. Not that it needed to be: there were few things Vulpes Inculta feared, but this man walking alongside him was indeed one thing on the list. Perhaps at the top of the list.

He'd not said much along the way, not daring to ask questions, almost mesmerized at whatever dark magic was going on here. The other man didn't talk much either, seemed disgusted by the sight of the blond. Yet he didn't seem surprised when he learned of Vulpes's rank within the Legion. He after all knew most of the men anyway, and Vulpes was one who was at the very least well-known. He gave no reasonings for his motive, but simply said "You will lead me to Caesar."

"You'll be killed before we cross the lake."

"Somehow I doubt that."

And the man was right: perhaps his very expensive, worthwhile ransom of Vulpes helped stay Aurelius' guards, or perhaps it was his identity. Either way, scouts were sent ahead to alert Caesar of the visitor, ask his guidance. Vulpes was not surprised when they returned to Cottonwood Cove with orders to bring both the Frumentarian and his captor directly to Caesar's tent. Surrounded by guards and mongrels, they made their way across the river, the man never lowering his gun, and no Legionary daring to ask him to.

Despite his age and obvious wear and tear, Vulpes suspected the man had the strength to destroy the entire entourage on the boat. Miserably, he stared across the water and awaited whatever was to come. He didn't pray to Mars for guidance anymore, and the thought of a merciful Caesar had left his thoughts. Instead, his blond hair ruffled gently in the wind and he was silent, both outwardly and inwardly, that wretched pistol still aimed directly at him, his hands still tied behind his back.

He took the large hill leading up to Caesar's tent on weary feet, his pale eyes darkening as the men around him watched the newcomer warily, escorting him with the fear and horror that one might transport an atomic bomb with. Vulpes didn't even waste his energy on sneering at the slaves who passed him, giving him a wide berth and gaping at the fact that his head was uncovered, the shock of pale blond sticking out like a an eyesore in the dark crowd. If they had any humor at the fact that his hands were now tied, they didn't show it. Most of them had heard rumors of who this covered stranger was, and plenty of them still remembered his days among the Legion, so they shrank back in fear themselves. Vulpes was more nervous, more afraid, at the reaction Caesar would have after learning what happened out in the desert, than he had been when he was about to get crucified so many years ago. There were severe consequences to failing missions, and even though everyone including Vulpes himself knew he was favored by the Son of Mars, that grace would only extend too far.

But perhaps, since Caesar hadn't ordered the man executed, he still had a glimmer of hope. It was better to come back half-fruitful than with nothing, for with nothing was as good as ensuring his own crucifixion. Would Caesar see this as a blessing, though? Why had he not dismissed the return of this visitor as a figment of his imagination? The great dictator was rarely predictable, and this was unnerving. Vulpes's hands were sweaty. Led by the taller newcomer to the tent flap, they paused when a hulking figure moved in front of the tent.

"Curious," growled the stranger, his nearly white eyes narrowing at the black haired door guard. "The last time I saw you, you were headed for Praetorian. Now it looks as though you've been reduced to footsoldier work. Or am I mistaken? Is guarding the door to Caesar's tent the honor you always worked so hard for?"

The sour expression on the guard's face was mixed with shame and almost fear, because he too recognized the once-leader of the Legion. He could say nothing, but his jaw was ticking impatiently. No one else spoke up to silence the heckling, and so the throaty voice continued, "Is it, Silus?"

Silus didn't ask the man to lower his weapon, or untie Vulpes. He seemed to almost shiver despite the desert heat, and his black hair blew haphazardly around his face. Not replying, he simply pulled the curtain back, throwing a contemptuous look at the Frumentarian as though blaming him. It was a look Vulpes barely had the hatred to reciprocate, but he did as the taller newcomer shoved him through the tent.

They entered, the pair flanked by ten other soldiers, the ones who were keeping a warily close guard on their prize intruder. The other guards inside the tent tensed up, some raising eyebrows at the way the normally immaculately-dressed Frumentarii leader looked, but Vulpes disregarded them, shrugging away from his captor and dropping to his knee before Caesar. The man didn't look impressed, reclining on his throne lazily, and said, "So this woman strikes again. A bullet in the head and a bullet in the back don't stop her, and from what I hear, the entire caravan was lost. Is that true?"

Wishing he could speak freely, wondering why Caesar didn't mention the man with the gun behind them, his steely blue eyes never leaving the ground, Vulpes declared, "Yes, Caesar."

"And you barely escape by the skin of your teeth, and don't go-...after..."

Caesar's tone turned from ridiculing to incredulous, and Vulpes risked death by glancing upward. Caesar wasn't even looking at him, but past him. The other men hurriedly scooted aside, parting like a Red Sea to reveal the white-eyed man who now leered at Caesar. The god's son stood, shaking, and stepped past Vulpes, who turned confusedly, still on one knee. Tied, Vulpes was fatigued, and trembled, sitting on his haunches as Caesar approached the man who still smelled of smoke and fire.

"You...it's true. I thought..."

Caesar was an imposing figure with his bedecked uniform and feathers, but now he seemed short, old, weak. He barely reached this man's shoulders, he himself looked terrified and dazed and sick and on the verge of vomiting. Clearly, the name brought to Caesar by the scouts was one the dictator hadn't taken seriously. No one spoke. Now Vulpes fully turned, rising to his full height again. The other men stared on, just as intrigued.

"I've had dreams..." Caesar said cryptically. "I knew you were still alive, out there somewhere. But...how?"

"You have much to answer for, Edward. We all do. But you, most of all. I know the White Legs' purpose. I know everything."

"I could have you killed, here and now," Caesar said, for the first time regaining a bit of his authority. As though supporting his statement, many of the surrounding Legionaries raised their weapons, though they did so hesitantly. The other man's pistol was still drawn, pointed directly at Caesar. It was as though everyone in the room knew no matter how hard they rained bullets down, this man would still get off one perfect shot.

Caesar seemed to rethink his statement, and curiously he said, "You've come to talk war. After all these years."

"Only four," he was reminded.

"Your eyes."

It was the only visible part of this man, after all. His face was hidden, masked by bandages. Barely a blue speck in them, they nonetheless raised inquiringly as the man tilted his eyebrows at the question.

"I've seen them somewhere else in the desert. Not the color, but the shape."

"This is not a matter of personal interest I've come to discuss."

"Neither of you know when to die."

"Stop speaking in riddles." The tone was so menacing that a general shiver ran through the tent, and Caesar paced to and fro, apparently lost in his own thoughts. The pistol was still trained on him, but he almost didn't seem to mind. He stepped closer to his throne, finally settling back down as though a very laborous burden had been dumped on his back. Caesar muttered so low that Vulpes barely heard him, despite the fact that he stood so close. Tilting his head downward, he ran his finger thoughtfully along his lips.

"Velut abbas parilis filia."

"I am already tired of you," the man warned, raising his pistol, and the men responded likewise, until Caesar waved a hand tiredly, motioning them down.

"We will speak. You leave me no choice. We will feast, and we will talk. I expect to hear exactly how you survived."

"I didn't come here to speak of that," the Burned Man snapped, but holstered his pistol. "The fate of Zion is all that concerns me."

Vulpes could only continue to stare, bewildered.

velut abbas parilis filia...like father, like daughter.

Vulpes was now so concerned with understanding what exactly was going on that his fatigue and grungy, wild appearance was the farthest thought from his mind. Though he usually simpered silently after his leader, now he was glued to him as he fought to keep from limping or flinching. Bleary-eyed, the leader of the Frumentarii watched as two guards cut his own ropes, while more brought forward one of the Centurion's chairs from the battle tactics side room, bowing as though the Burned Man was still second in command.

Now incensed that the man who held him captive and ridiculed him all the way across the Mojave was allowed to sit at the long table with Caesar while he himself stood, Vulpes stubbornly tagged along to the dining tent to watch over his Lord. Of course no one noticed the ache in his back, his chapped, bleeding lips or his dirty, messy hair. No one invited him to rest, or at least clean himself up. No one offered to take his spot, not that he would have allowed them to. In the Legion, weakness meant death, and Inculta had no desire to die. Least of all did his hero, Caesar, pay attention to his plight or even thank him for his discovery of what he now knew was something special.

The food was warm, roasted Brahmin with a plethora of sides and pitchers upon pitchers of water. It smelled delicious, and Vulpes was near-starving. His mouth literally watered, and he hung onto the men's every word. As did every other guard stationed in the tent or even milling around outside.

"First thing. How the hell did you survive when I threw you over that cliff?"

"Divine intervention." Graham did not sound amused by Caesar's tone of casuality.

"You're not into that Mormon shit still, are you?"

Graham glared.

Surrounded by his men, ingesting a warm meal, the dictator was back to his pompous attitude. At least for the moment. The Burned Man looked more impatient than anything else.

Graham continued to insist that a Heavenly force had saved his life. He did admit he had plenty of broken bones after landing on the canyon floor, which wasn't a floor at all, but a narrow river. This left Caesar scratching his head, but he urged the man to continue. Vulpes listened to their story exchange with narrowed eyes, listened as Caesar apologized for his rash, hot-headed decision, and Graham shrugged, obviously not interested in making amends.

The Legion were all superstitious; perhaps some of the older veterans retained their old way of thinking, but those brought up since childhood by the Priestesses maintained that Caesar was divine, that Mars, the God of War had cleansed the Earth and sent his son to redeem humanity. There were many legends, talks of otherworldly phenomena, and Vulpes himself had always been rather attached to the romance of it all. When Graham was a part of their ranks, he retained the religion of his ancestors, and Vulpes had never questioned that, as Graham was his own private force to be reckoned with. Apparently not much had changed in those four years. He was still a Mormon.

This was the legendary Legate who had ravaged countless towns, killed scores of people; before committing to the Legion he had traversed the wastelands and seemed to have a mysterious past that not even Caesar could pinpoint. The two had obviously shared years together, and in no time their conversation shifted to memories of educating the Blackfoot. Where Caesar was jovial, charismatic, secure, Graham was detached, annoyed, on edge. To remember what it was like, the pair of them scouring a town clean, was enough to make even Vulpes's skin crawl.

So they shifted topics, from old war stories to their respectful careers, and Graham made it clear that he wanted to discuss the White Legs and Zion, to which Caesar shrugged. While Graham stared on stonily, looking obviously disinterested, Caesar went into a long-winded spiel about the fight for the Dam and what it would mean for the people in the Legion-who not so long ago, were Graham's people. Now that Vulpes knew the man's tie with the Courier though, he spent the next agonizing hour scanning the older man's covered face, remembering the Courier as she'd looked while having her hands tied, walking along stonily in the sea of slaves.

They had similar features, mostly in the eyes which Caesar had noted. His were almost colorless while hers were an intense green, but they had the exact same shape. Same shrewdness to them, the same intelligent and perhaps haughty stare. They were both a bit on the wild side, although the father's were far more so. They were both tall and lean, both carried themselves like great bears, though not ungraceful. They both had an almost otherworldly feel to them, enigmas. Vulpes thought back to her. Long legs, pale skin, a stoic expression. He always had the feeling he'd seen her before, and now setting eyes upon the Legate after four long years, he assumed that was why. Yet, it didn't feel so.

He was probably just tired. And tired he remained, for no one came to his aide and he suffered through the

long dinner hungry, tired, and ill, faithful to his cause like none other.

It was a warm Mojave night, and Benny had uttered words which caused his companions to shuffle awkwardly. He snapped at them, tearing his focus away from the figure on the ground. When he looked back down, she'd raised her head. The flash of green eyes caused him to pause, but ever pragmatic, he shrugged it away and raised his gilded pistol, aiming at the shock of blond hair.

With the shot, she crumpled backward, the Khans not even pausing in their weary gravedigging to view the empty eyes that stared off into some unseen horror. She didn't close her eyes at all, even when one of the others grabbed her under the shoulders to pull her toward the open grave. One hand was outstretched, the dirt that was now scooped onto her torso covering the long lean figure.

Benny awoke, sweating, and sat up in bed. He was at the hotel, safe at the Cat. His thoughts swam hazily around, and he rubbed his temple, cursing the heavy partying he'd engaged in before bed. Now the moonlight filtered through his window, the wind whispering through the curtains in an eerie manner, the only thing Benny could hear. The whited-out glare hit the wall to his right, highlighting the flier he taped there over his work desk. A luxuriously dressed, confident woman smirked at him, White Glove mask in hand.

Benny didn't know what regret was, unless you counted the regret associated with being caught by the Legion or having to pay the Khans for their help. Which wasn't real regret, all things considered. For the throats he'd slit or bullets that had killed, each had a purpose, taking him up a rung on the ladder of success, of fame and glory. It wasn't that he was heartless, though some could easily argue that point. He just...didn't care. And he never dreamt of anything to force a wave of guilt over him. Was that what he was feeling? Guilt?

He had a lot of potentially worse demons than a girl he'd shot to retrieve a poker chip, in reality. Benny didn't kid himself though, was very in tune with his own mindset. He did care about her, found her just as fascinating and awe-inspiring as every other bastard in the desert. Be it Caesar or that tank of a fellow she traveled with, they were all impressed in one way or another. Maybe if things had been different, easier, he could get to know her better. Be around her more.

He couldn't sleep, not anymore. The shirtless brunette fished around blindly, removing his blanket and heading to the dresser. Though it was early in the morning and the sun had hours to go before showing its face again, he intended to start his day now with a nice clean outfit and his favorite checkered jacket. He told himself that the only reason he dreamed about the Courier was because many hours earlier before the day's end he sat in the Ultra-Luxe watching her sing. The Cat was not that many hours out of Vegas, especially when you were Benny and knew the shortcuts, but he'd only gotten here and in bed an hour or so ago. He quickly dressed.

Benny felt uneasy. Not just because of the recollecting dream, or the fact that his big plan was being finalized: his shipment had finally been sold, the caps delivered, a scheduled time and date for pickup by the fellows over the river made just today. While the messengers returned to the Fort to deliver this good news, the fate of the Mojave lay under Benny's feet. He was at the moment inconceivably rich, undoubtedly powerful. This strange sensation that unnerved him so seemed to spring from the fact that Benny was now responsible for thousands of lives, if not hundreds of thousands. Before, he did everything he could for number one, loved life that way.

No more.

I'd left a note for Boone and Arcade, assuming they woke from their alcohol comas before I returned. It said simply "see Yes Man" for I had gone back up to the penthouse, telling him I was going to seek out what was at the end of this unused tunnel, the Securitron upgrade warehouse. Feeling comfortable adventuring alone with my revolver, beret, pink hoodie and tan cargo pants, I ignored Rex's whines and stepped into the small elevator.

The ride down was a long one, and when the doors opened the familiar sight of the Lucky 38 casino was out of range, stories above me. Down here, a large room awaited, one lone fluorescent light making an arc of light across the concrete floor. I stepped out of the elevator and looked around. Tracks were set in the concrete, veering off out of sight in both directions, and in the middle rested a strange looking thing which I assumed was the electric rail car.

It was about ten feet long, but reminded me of the monorail at McCarran in its build. However, very unsafe-looking wires ran from the top and connected to another set of cables, high up in the ceiling. I warily stepped up, pushing the button on the side of the car. It whooshed open, a handy overhead light popping on. When I stepped in, the door closed behind me and warily I began to poke around.

There was a comfortable leather seat in front, with a TV, coffee table, and terminal all welded safely in place. A miniature refrigerator was off to the side, and in back was welded to the wall a large full-figure mirror and dresser. Newspaper articles were lovingly pinned to a wood board; they all contained stories about Mr. House. I imagined that he took this rail to his publicity hearings, almost felt him there in the car with me, straightening his tie and smarting up for photoshoots and interviews and hand shakings and whatever it was he felt like doing. I smiled at the thought, and jumped when Yes Man appeared on a wall monitor.

"So look at that! I guess I'm your personal car operator!" Underneath his monitor was a large array of buttons, all unlabeled of course. "We know where we're going, so I'll just input the destination manually. Wouldn't want to get lost and run headfirst into a cave-in or something!"

He was so cheerful when talking of life-threatening disasters. I prepared to make my way to the leather couch, but Yes Man had already put the car in motion; the only unsecured thing in the car, me, went flying backwards. I crashed into the dresser at the back of the car, then unsteadily clambered to the ground. Holding my head, I stumbled forward. We were speeding along impressively. When I finally made it to the leather seat and looked out the window, it was too dark to see anything. What exactly the point of the window was, then, I couldn't grasp.

So I sat for a possibly twenty minute ride, hurtling through the darkness, adrenaline building and causing me to focus on my goal. Infiltrate, retrieve information, take it back to the casino and plan our next course of action. Maybe this was the place the Legion wanted access to. Maybe it wasn't. Either way, I had to start somewhere, and my deep intuition told me that whatever I was seeking, I was near.

Perhaps nearer than I thought. The reason for the windows was evident when the underground warehouse came into view; much like the vaults it had its own side windows, and I pressed my nose to the glass, viewing the sight. Missiles on top of missiles, ammuntion in cases stacked twenty feet high. Workbenches everywhere, dim lighting making for poor working conditions. Scrapped and different prototype Securitrons in their own huge arena, some standing, most fallen. It was a huge area.

The electric rail car was slowing, and something other than the sheer amount of firepower caught my attention. Though the facility had obviously been abandoned, figures moved. Machinery could be heard drilling away, clanging and hissing permeating the walls. Who the hell could be here, who even knew this place existed? I had both palms up to the window, my eyes screwed up as I tried to make out the workers.

They were, I realized by their outfits, Powder Gangers.

It figured. Powder Gangers working with explosives. But I thought all those moved to-

The car had stopped, and automatically the door opened behind me. I jumped to my feet and spun around, two dark shadows raising their guns even as I threw my hands up in surrender.

"Wait!" I cried, then paused. "Wait, what!"

The men, opting not to shoot me, instead dragged me out of the car by my hoodie. I flailed along with them, two rifles pointed at my back, through the corridor. Before us the warehouse loomed, and many of the workers had stopped to watch me.

"Knew you'd come. He didn't think you would."

"Knew...wait, what?"

Sometimes I sounded like Boone with my plethora of vocabulary.

Now we rounded the corner, and I saw someone I completely did not expect. Though it was late in the evening (or early in the morning rather) the crisp ironed jacket and combed hair stood out in the grunge of weapons manufacturing. Benny had his back to me, was rubbing his chin at something a Powder Ganger had passed to him for inspection. Horrified, my jaw dropped, and the men tossed me forward. I only got several inches before I halted, and Benny noted the stumbling, turning his head so that his dark browns were on me.

"What the..." he exclaimed; apparently he'd been taking vocabulary lessons from Boone as well.

"You're making weapons for the Legion!" I blubbered out senselessly, the only thing coming to mind. I wished my Boone way of speaking had prevented it, for Benny's eyes darkened menacingly and he turned to face me, not a trace of humor on his face.

The Chairmen had bristled at my unconventional spewing; obviously they had no idea how I knew their plan. Their expressions, paired with Benny's dark one, confirmed what I didn't want to believe. Something big was being made, something big for the Legion. Now the man, looking geniunely mad as I'd never seen him, advanced on me.

"You just couldn't keep your nose out of it, could you? You ran me outta Vegas, now you think-"

"I didn't mean to!" I blurted out in response. This caused Benny to pause; I knew he was reading the genuity in my voice, for he tilted his head. "I saw..." suddenly I didn't want to tell him what I saw. My trust had been broken, but more than that, the thought that Benny would even consider helping that barbaric tribe of murderers really lit a fuse. I didn't care that I was surrounded by his guards or by the curious Powder Gangers who never liked me to begin with. I spewed.

"Why would you do that! How dare you help them! It's so stupid of you, if you help them take the Dam they'll come through here and kill all of you! You're not doing anyone a favor. You can think that whatever high price you pitched this shit for will do, but the Legion is a fire, they're always hungry, burning through everything and everyone, consuming, they'll never let you keep this place! What are you trying to prove?!"

"Hey, it's about time you started minding your own damn business, baby," Benny said darkly, in a tone he hadn't used since that night on the hill. I stepped up to him, aware of the raised guns at my back.

"What are you going to do? Shoot me?"

"I just might," he countered, stepping forward. Benny was mere inches taller than me, for a moment we glared at each other, and something gigantic was written in the lines of his angry face. Sorrow, perhaps. Regret. Something I'd never seen before, something I couldn't quite put a finger on.

"Didn't work out for you too well last time, did it?"

"Well I was pretty content with the hand I got dealt, til you threw in this wild card." Benny now stepped back, and I didn't respond, not really knowing what to say to that. Had he just admitted enjoying the time he knew me?

"Let me guess," the businessman began again. "Now's the time when you go tell Mr. Beret and his NCR buddies, sic them on our little happy tent over here? Take the weapons for Cali, clobber the boys at the dam, unseat me? I'll tell you right now, there's so much gunpowder down here we'll blow us and you all to Kingdom Come baby, before I let someone make off with my stuff."

"It won't matter if the Legion takes Hoover Dam. It'll be a matter of time before you're all blown up, or killed, or worse." Now I nodded to the Chairmen. "You can bet on it."

Benny seemed to be staring pointedly at me, as though thinking quickly. Though I was emotionally distraught, my intuition remained intact enough to tell me that something was...off. Something was different, and I was missing it. Perhaps this was a byproduct of Benny finally selling his soul to the devil for the money he would gain. I couldn't be sure. Now he tilted his head.

"So, ball's in your court yet again mama. What happens now?"

"I'm...I'm just..." I was disgusted, is what I was. "You deal your business. I'm not going to interrupt. I've got more important things to worry about. I'll find my own destructive ways to fight the Legion, and whatever you give them. And by the way, Benny," now my maliciousness had reached its peak, and Boone would've been proud of my nostril flare, "I found out about this plan when I read a note where the Legion planned to sneak in and take your weapon without paying you the rest of what they owe. So good luck with that."

"Hey, yeah, fuck you!" Benny called after me as I turned, pushing through the Chairmen to head back to Mr. House's car. I gestured obscenely over my shoulder back at him, and he grunted. Now I was at the rail car, the doors whooshing open for me obligingly. As I stomped in, Benny caught up with me, jamming the door with his arm.

"One more thing," he said in that same vindictive tone I'd never heard him use before. I turned, expecting some smarmy comment, but he held up a folded paper. "Don't want your love notes, anymore, pussycat. Stop sendin' em." Now he threw the paper onto the floor of the cart, giving me another pointed, pay attention to what I'm saying to you look. I returned it with utter confusion as he stepped away, the doors closing behind him.

Love notes? What the fuck was he talking about? I'd never so much as written a hello to Benny. I snatched the paper up and scanned over it as Yes Man knowingly ran the cart, sending us hurtling through the dark back toward Vegas.

He'd never wanted her to even be aware of this. Wanted nothing but to carry out his intricate plan in peace. Yet it seemed that she was less of a mortal and more of some ethereal light that could penetrate even the darkest shadows, the huge munitions facility being exposed in too short a time for comfort. Benny was stunned that she hadn't stayed to fight, that she hadn't killed him before he could complete his trade to end all trades. It was some stroke of miraculous luck that led her back to the electric rail cart, some obligation he had which forced him to make up the lie about love notes, in front of all his men, and toss the paper at her feet.

Now Benny turned back to the Chairmen as the rail car disappeared from the empty hole of a hallway, and they looked at him expectantly. The normally amiable face was strained, a still-murderous look stretched across his face, the true nature of a killer showing through. "What are you cats lookin' at, back to work, you fucks!"

"Boss," Nate, one of the higher-ranking Chairmen intercepted, though quietly, "Should we try to derail?" They had surveyed the electric rail car area upon finding this facility; Benny knew it was working and would lead to the casino thanks to Yes Man, but he'd chosen to leave it because his gut told him the travel device would come in handy. Oh, how that had backfired. But they were unfamiliar with how to safely cut the live wires and prevent the thing from working. They were businessmen, not electricians.

"Nah," replied Benny, almost spitting. "She won't come back. Keep those fellas stationed there."

He stormed off, wishing he'd taken the extra hours of sleep he just couldn't seem to get earlier.

Yes Man was uncharacteristically quiet as the Courier braced herself, this time standing upright and holding onto the steel beam as the car flew through the darkness to Vegas. She had intended to dramatically and angrily unfold the paper to read it, but now found herself in the solitude of a heavy heart. Crunching the piece of paper in her hand, she let go of the beam and flopped to the floor in a flurry of tears. Sitting cross legged and burying her face in her palms, the girl sobbed for a solid five minutes.

She was of course upset at the turn of events; tackling the Legion was going to be hell enough even with her peaceful recruiting of groups like the Boomers, the Kings, the Khans. Hoover Dam was a tense chord waiting to be struck, and now they had a huge supply of explosive rockets being custom made, all for them, all for the Dam. How the hell was she supposed to take on the task of preventing THAT disaster? Benny's place was too heavily guarded...it would be another Boomer scenario, and they'd barely survived that one.

Then there was the matter of it, what Benny was doing. She knew he was shrewd, cut-throat even, but working directly with the people who had so willingly strung him up to a cross cried madness. It didn't make sense, even for him. His sense of honor was a strong one, as he'd shown when he risked everything by saving her from the Omertas. Where was that honor now, where was his sense of justice? There was no "good business" with the Legion. She hadn't ever really trusted Benny, but had admired him in a plethora of ways. Admired, cared for even. The girl pulled off her beret reluctantly, staring at it through watery eyes, big tears splashing on the worn red fabric.

That was the worst part of it all. Amid guilt, telling herself life was hers and she shouldn't feel regret for whatever she did, she'd had several rendezvous with Benny that had all pushed Boone away. Remembering that night out in the desert after he'd found her letter, she recalled Boone's halted, subdued tone and words,"I know it wasn't my business. But. I don't know. I had this feeling...I don't know what it was. I'm not good at saying things like this." She felt not only stupid, but sorrowful. "I'm sorry, Boone," she choked out. "You were right."

And where was Boone at this very moment? She knew he was asleep on the couch, the mass amount of alcohol he'd consumed probably not enough to block out the nightmares she knew he suffered. Alone, as lonely as she was-even lonelier, for he had no Arcade, no crying shoulder to go to when he needed to talk-and she had helped turn the knife by maintaining the side of the man who was helping the Legion.

Now, perhaps because of her verbal apology to the man in the other red beret, she had regained a slight level of composure, and though still crying, unfolded the piece of paper. Soon the sobs and sniffles subsided, diminishing as she scanned the paper again and again. It was nothing close to a love letter; that must have been the only thing Benny could think of to assure no level of suspicion be raised from the Chairmen. It was a notarized letter, the red bull seal splayed proudly in the lower right corner, the same type of letter she'd fished out of Jeannie May's safe.

It detailed in a spiky, tiny handwriting she knew must be Benny's, the date, amount, size, and method of retrieval for the shipment of munitions known as "Aut Caesar aut nihil." Either Caesar or nothing. The letter spoke of a mountain pass rarely used, one where the Legion and the Chairmen could meet unhindered to swap off the wagons full of missiles and dynamite, other foreboding-sounding explosives. Benny had detailed the number of Brahmins it would take to carry such weapons, the amount of manpower. He suggested the route and that the boys in red not draw attention to themselves. Half the price had been paid beforehand, an insane amount of caps given to Benny already. The other half were to be split; part of them given to Benny when the weapons were received successfully, the other portion delivered on the day of the Legion's triumph at the dam.

The Courier sniffed and pressed her hand to her lips. He'd intentionally given her this.

Just what the fuck was Benny up to?

Arcade didn't like being awoken from his beauty sleep, but suffered me nonetheless as I tried to keep my voice calm and my tears at a minimum, recounting the past hour in a mumbling shock. His hair, normally combed and smooth, stuck up all over, he squinted over the dim letter confusedly before grabbing his glasses from the nightstand he'd laid them on earlier. Arcade unfolded the eyeglasses and attempted putting them on, stabbing himself in the eye in the process.

"An electric rail system," he marveled. "Imagine, if we got that to the hands of the right technician we could rebuild that technology. It would help so many people."

I stared at him dumbfoundedly. My dark-haired rendezvous-ee had just been uncovered as a wild card in the hand of the Legion, and he was worried about technology? Thank God I had Boone around to teach me the fine art of glare. Arcade scratched his wild hair as he read the note. "But why would he give you this? It seems in his nature to not care about the outcome of the war. I think Benny's interested in the caps. It would fit with what you told me about him. This is possibly his guilt side chiming in to give us one quite long shot at seizing the weapons for ourselves. I've never even heard of this pass."

"So...what do we do?"

Arcade's eyebrows raised, and although I was certain he was going to suggest some intricate plan that would invariably cause me to lose sleep and chase Benny around, he said, "The date of this weapons exchange is two weeks from now. What do you say we take a vacation up to Griffith Peak?"

Just as my glare faded and tears sprang into my eyes, grateful for my understanding friend, a voice said from the hallway, "Sounds like fun."

We both turned sharply, seeing Boone silhouetted in the doorway. With no idea how long he'd been listening, neither Arcade or I spoke. The sniper was effectively soundless, and now he leaned one broad shoulder on the doorway of the bedroom, crossing his arms. He looked tired, wretched, but nodded at the two of us.

Now I did cry. Treachery and betrayal would always be cushioned, take a backseat to the loyalty of my friends. For the first time in longer than I could remember, hope was rekindled. Hope for the Mojave, for all of us.

I hoped discovering my past wouldn't dim that hope.

It's getting so lonely inside this bed Don't know if I should lick my wounds or say woe is me instead And there's an aching inside my head It's telling me I'm better off alone But after midnight morning will come And the day will see if you will get some

They say that girl you know she act too tough tough tough Well it's till' I turn off the light, turn off the light They say that girl you know she act so rough rough rough Well it's till' I turn off the light, turn off the light And I say follow me follow me follow me down down down down till' you see all my dreams

The Courier's dreams were even more frightful than usual, images of the burning schoolhouse, running through the snow, the man with white eyes, Benny laughing maniacally, Arcade turning away with a look of disapproval on his face, Boone laying facedown, unmoving, as he had that night at McCarran, all swimming and flashing in front of her eyes erratically. At the head of all the visions, the little blond girl ran in her raggedy clothing, long hair snaking out behind her, as nuclear warheads crashed in the distance, taking down Old Vegas.

But morning came, the sunlight filtering through the thick red curtains and lighting the dim, almost ghostly room. She'd fallen asleep alone in the master bedroom, away from everyone except Rex, who opted to sprawl out on the carpeted floor. When she awoke, feeling very gloomy indeed, the realization that she, Arcade, and Boone were going to her old home both excited her and made her want to vomit. The three packed, all three stuffing NCR-issued khaki coats into their luggage; it was going to get cold before the trip's end.

As suggested by Arcade, they headed out of Vegas and up toward the large, foreboding mountains, going east of Griffith's point toward the settlement where the Kenworthy's, Liam's parents, lived. The group was lighthearted, for the moment putting the Legion, the fate of Vegas, on the backburner. Yes Man had been programmed (not that he needed it) to take care of the city, the only person the group bothered to tell of their outing being the King. He nodded, wishing them a good trip, and agreed to extend his ear to Vegas. The man had become instant friends with Arcade after the Pacer incident, adding to his admiration for the group.

The first two days were pleasant, spent avoiding the sun and any Fiends scattered around the wastes, sleeping huddled around small campfires, even Boone joining in the conversation here and there. When they hit the base of the mountains, they spent some time exploring the greenery, marveling at the flora and fauna, and one particular highlight; a rocky area where the snow melted from high above into water, running over a crag and producing a wall of trickling fountains. They slept there the third night, Boone awakening to loud yells that he identified as coming from the girl.

He had shot up, seeing both her and Arcade's bedrolls abandoned, and headed in the direction of the shouts, toward the waterfalls, skidding to a stop when he saw why she was yelling; the girl stood naked under the icy water, using soap taken from the Lucky 38 to lather herself in a make-do shower. Her back was to Boone as she cursed loudly about the coldness, and in front of her was Arcade, holding up a towel to censor her nudity. Arcade was facing Boone, and he broke into a grin. "We're taking turns getting squeaky clean," he yelled over the sound of her curses and the loud roar of water. The Courier jumped, spinning around and seeing Boone, then ducking lower under the towel-curtain. Boone had rigidly and quickly turned and walked away, both he and the girl turning crimson, Arcade seeming to enjoy the moment more than either of them.

Yet it was with a slightly more somber note that they entered the settlement of Midvale that afternoon, a place that apparently had been a pre-War upscale mountain town. The houses were large and old, the streets wide, and the trio's breath fogged around them as they sauntered into the area. It wasn't snowing, but would soon; the grey clouds hanging in the sky were perhaps waiting for the sun to dim before releasing precipitation. Still, people milled about in the picturesque neighborhood, some of them pausing to stare at the strange group of newcomers. The area had been hard to find, and wasn't easily accessible, so they probably weren't used to seeing anyone they didn't already know.

All three of them walked awkwardly together, the Courier searching for anything recognizable. Usanagi had warned her that traipsing into areas where she was from would potentially trigger memories, the same way seeing the Boomer schoolhouse had driven home her past profession. The visual imagery seemed to jar the subconscious out of its fugue state the same way breathing air into a person's lungs would sometimes cause them to breathe again. When the Courier had told her of the dreams of Liam and the little girl, Usanagi wasn't surprised; instead she nodded; her subconscious was trying to work out what it had forgotten using scenarios with the familiar faces. Likewise, the doctor suggested the dark voice and dark visions were yet another person in her past, and her brain was running over the message on repeat, trying to pick up on what it hadn't before to restore memory.

This was comforting, but still annoying when she saw the shadowy figure drop over her, or heard its menacing voice. Likewise it made her upset when she saw Liam's face by the fire, or the bloody nosed blond girl. Both of them refused to speak to her now, Liam's power of speech seemingly taken away once the girl realized she'd been responsible for the incident in the snowy mountains. Once in a dream she'd asked him if he knew a blond girl, deducing that the child was one of his classmates, but he only pointed at her. She knew she was blond, but couldn't really press the subject with a dead boy.

Nor did the doctor's explanation satisfy the fact that Liam had yelled at her underwater, begging her to awaken, causing her to swim to the surface just in time. Though Usanagi had pointed out it was a natural reaction to lack of oxygen, the Courier was stubborn on this one. Had it not been for Liam, not her air-hungry brain, she would have drowned in Legion attire at the bottom of the Colorado river. Perhaps part of her was even more cryptic and mystically-inclined than Craig Boone.

"What a place," Arcade said jovially as they walked. The snow lay on the roofs of the ancient structures, all of the townspeople walking about looking cleaned, well-dressed, and well-fed. It was the complete opposite of Freeside. In fact, if one squinted and ignored the dilapidation of many of the architecture, this scene could've been pre-War. Before anyone else could compliment on the well-faring hidden town, someone exclaimed in an unfamiliar voice, the Courier's name. The three turned, all with confused expressions, and their sights were met by a frantically waving woman. She was dressed in the standard here-pre-War dress, nice coat, a black cloche hat on her head. The woman had dirty blond hair and a round face, big sky blue eyes which widened at the sight of the group. She hurried over in her heels, clutching her bag.

"I can't believe it! Is it really you?" She completely ignored the two tall men flanking the Courier, stepping up and yanking off the beret. The girl's hair spilled down, and now the woman broke into a smile. "It is you! I thought we'd never see you again!" Now she went forward for a hug which the Courier returned, looking over the woman's shoulder quite confusedly towards Arcade.
"Mrs. Kenworthy?" Now she pulled back and smiled tentatively. "Yes?"

The Courier felt a jolt of both fear and happiness. Liam's mother.

Vulpes, having finally been given relief, retired to his own tent wearily. The Legionnaire had seen many battles, killed many people, and had often been as physically fatigued as he was now, but never quite so tired. He had painstakingly washed in the river, waving away Brahmin jerky and donning a simple red toga before laying on the bedroll. Vulpes was important enough to have his own guards stationed by the tent, and tonight he was actually thankful for this touch as he was unsettled by the fact that Caesar had taken so heartily to a man proven to be ruthless.

Not that Vulpes didn't admire the ruthlessness, but there was something so twisted about this man, even his own twistedness didn't compare. Watching him turn 30 years younger with the brute strength to decapitate two sinewy young men probably was of no help. Now the leader of the Frumentarii tossed and turned on the mattress. He remembered all too well, Joshua Graham's reign with Caesar. The two had been fast friends, had been twice as deadly when together. Where Caesar was practical, tactical, stern and disciplined, stories floated along the Legion of the Legate's ruthlessness. His terrifying presence. A monster of a man, and some even speculated that Caesar had murdered him because he himself felt threatened.

With someone like that around, no wonder Vulpes was unsettled. He thought too of the warm welcome Caesar gave the man. It was no small secret that their leader was fickle, but as he was one to go off energies, strengths, Caesar no doubt felt that the Fire Man, or Burned Man, or whatever he called himself, was now key to winning the battle at the Dam and taking Vegas. A gift, indeed. Now Vulpes wished again that he'd killed him and brought his dead body back as a gift.

The other thing that caused the blue-eyed man to ponder was the fact that the Courier, that damn blond, was his daughter. How could a man like that even produce offspring, other than illegitimate bastards? Yet he knew of the girl's existence, didn't he? And what did that make the Courier? Vulpes saw her in a new light now, perhaps, saw her as more of an equal. Her blood swam with the blood of such an ominously evil, loathsome monster of a man that her deeds seemed to have at least a partial explanation. Perhaps Utah bred successful killers; Graham, the Courier, and Vulpes were all born in the barren state.

All day the Burned Fire Man had sternly requested more tactical talk, speech of Utah, and all day Caesar had tried to befriend him, end this feud. The other was growing antsy, putting every Legionnaire more on edge. With many misgivings about his current situation, Vulpes drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

"Have you heard about the Courier who rose from the dead?" Arcade said casually to the round-faced woman. Boone squinted at this. The three stared at her face, half hidden below the hat. "I...no..." she said confusedly. "Not much word reaches us up here."
"Of course." Arcade would have never acted this confident before meeting the Courier. Something about her, something he found in their time together, had arisen in him. He stuck out his hand. "My name is Arcade Gannon, and my tall dark and handsome friend here is Craig Boone. We are here, ironically enough, to ask your help with something."

"Of course," the well-composed woman answered, shaking his hand firmly. "And nice to meet you, Arcade Gannon and Craig Boone." Boone nodded, a great show of improvement from his typically antisocial self. "But before you go any further, let's do get out of this weather. Ron is expecting me back for dinner, and you all must be dreadfully tired and cold." The short well-dressed woman led the rag-tag, dusty three across several streets, and Arcade and Boone both noticed the glares aimed directly at the Courier, from different people. Protectively, they glared back, feeling better only when the woman led them up to a large, Victorian pre-War house that stood in a state of decent repair.

It was the most civilized any of the three had ever remembered setting foot in; the carpets were so clean that Liam's mother insisted they remove their shoes upon entry. She even had a coat rack in the foyer for her nice clean winter coat and their dirty NCR wear. The woman didn't even flinch at the sight of their brown socks or the fact that dust literally billowed from the coats that now lay on hooks, covering hers from view. She took off the hat and placed it on the hat stand, shaking the dark blond hair out, as a man walked into the large family room where they all stood.

"Hello," he said tentatively, then saw the Courier, who still had her hair down, clutching Boone's beret in her hands. "My god..."

He crossed the room in two steps, grabbing her hand and shaking it. Ronald was a bear of a man; in his thirties, he sported a big brown beard and a large, wide frame. He was staring at the Courier as though she had cacti sprouting from her face. "You look so different! We didn't think you'd come back..."

She could only smile hesitantly back, unaware of what exactly the last circumstances of their meetings had consisted of. Mrs. Kenworthy introduced her husband to the men- "Mr. Arcade Gannon, and tall dark and handsome Mr. Craig Boone," and though he shook hands with both, Mr. Kenworthy viewed Boone's large sniper rifle skeptically. It was obvious that this group of people were not familiar with weapons or the people who used them.

Over dinner, which was eaten at a large mahogany dining table by candlelight, Arcade recounted for the girl, the events from Goodsprings onward. He left out the unimportant details and skimmed over most everything concerning Vegas or its inhabitants, choosing instead to detail their quest here, and the fact that the girl had lost her memory entirely. Both Kenworthy's were stunned at this, and eyed her sympathetically throughout his talk. The Courier kept her eyes on her plate mostly, but every time Arcade mentioned Benny, she couldn't help but sense Boone's face darken beside her.

"So, you see, we're really at a loss here," Arcade finished, lacing his fingers together. "Anything and everything you can tell us would be of great help."

Looking rather overwhelmed, the couple exchanged a look, then Mrs. Kenworthy folded her hands on the table. "Well...of course...but where to begin."

The Courier still stared at her mashed potatoes, her heart beating so loud she was sure the table heard it. Arcade's face was oddly impassive, because more than likely he knew everything that the couple would tell. The girl seemed to shake in her tall boots, and from under the table, where her sweaty palm rested on her knee, Boone slid his own large hand over hers, grasping it reassuringly. She didn't look at him, but knew he was staring at her; nervously, with her other hand, she poked at her food and felt his grip tighten, his fingers moving to interlace with hers. She could've sworn that his telepathic voice was telling her I've got your back while her own inner voice responded brace yourself.

"When you came into town, there were quite a few skeptics. Most of us here came out of the vault higher on the mountain, we all knew each other's families, we were all raised in the quietness of Griffith, and though you looked harmless, nobody could be sure. You opened up a school and started advertising, coming out of your shell pretty quick. And that's when you met Liam, when we took him up to see about enrolling him."

The group had moved from the low light of the kitchen to the near-darkness of the living room, trading fancy dining chairs for cushy couches. Liam's parents sat facing the Courier and Boone, who sat on a loveseat, Arcade off to the side in a stuffed reading chair. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the sniper taking his place as comforting shoulder for the girl who sat stonily. Boone sat rigidly, hanging on the woman's every word.

"The place you were using for a schoolhouse was a little run down, but none the worse for wear. It was an old pre-War shelter, right on the lip of the old ski hill. There was a nice place a short hike up that had a playground and everything. It was perfect, if a little dark and cold. Liam was...ecstatic. You and he started talking right away. Chatterbox like I've never seen. He came home and demanded to start the next day, and from there word of mouth just sort of spread."

She seemed to trail off, and her husband picked up. The memories seemed painful for her. "You were always pretty lonely, seemed a little...how do I say it. Like you weren't used to being a people person. Us and a few of the other parents helped you spruce the school house up, helped you learn to sew and mend clothes, that sort of domestic thing that you never really seemed to have a hang on. And..." he shrugged. "That was that...for awhile."

"And then?" the Courier asked, and Liam's mother's lip trembled for a moment. She put a dainty hand to her mouth, and Arcade spoke up, "We know it's hard. And we're sorry for..."

"He loved you so much," she said in a pained voice. "Some of the older people in town...they didn't like you, didn't trust you because you were an outsider...and my little five year old would stand right up to them and tell them how mean and unfair that was. You taught him to be like that. You were so good with all of them. Liam wanted to adopt you into our family."

Everyone sat breathlessly, as she bit her nails, and her husband put his arm around her.

"After...after it happened, you refused to stay. Ron and I wanted to take you in so badly, but you just couldn't bear to be around town knowing what had happened. You left, we had no idea where you went for a long time. We cleaned everything up, Ron and I...this place hasn't been the same since. It's so lonely and cold. Liam was all we had..."

The schoolhouse in question was in fact a brief twenty minute walk outside of town. The settlement was situated right by the wide cutout of a ski hill, which Ron pointed at. You couldn't miss the old school room, he'd said, and the trio set off with much better coats than they'd came with; the Kenworthys gave them all Midvale coats, large and black and insulated. Boots as well; snow boots and scarves and something everyone in town apparently wore: snowshoes. They were hard to walk on, clanky, but a necessity it was said, especially when walking up the ski slope. It had since turned dark, but the thick white mounds of snow reflected the scant moonlight and allowed them vision without aid of lamps.

The three were silent as they ascended, the impossible height of the trees around them looming, making it harder to maintain high spirits. Overhead, silent ski lifts creaked, forever frozen in place. It was a miracle they were still connected after this long, a testament to pre-War engineering. Only pre-War people would find it an expensive novelty to ride to the top of a snowy mountain in metal vehicles, then plunge down at breakneck speed on a piece or two of wood. It didn't even sound fun, really. It sounded like torture. But, these were the same people who dropped nuclear warheads around the world. You couldn't give them too much credit.

The small dome was visible now; it poked out from the trees, facing the ski slope, and the Courier slowed momentarily, before running full speed toward it. This was hard to do with snow shoes, but she managed, breath billowing out behind her as though she were a bull. Arcade and Boone picked up pace to match her, but she still got there first. At the sight of the battered door, her steps slowed.

"This is where it happened..." she said breathlessly.

"Indeed," Arcade echoed sadly.

Now, in a rush, it all came back to her, and though she didn't know it, she toppled backwards, reeling from the sheer unexpected hit of the memory. It had been her birthday. She woke up on time, made the cold hike up the mountain, noticing the footprints in the snow leading up the slope. Some were adult sized, others child-sized. It appeared children were already there; had she in fact gotten up late? The girl had eyed the rising sun warily, judging the time. There was no way she was THAT late. Still she ran towards the school.

The askew door was her first hint something was wrong. She'd recognized the axe bites in the metal, her heart slowing to a crawl. She'd ran in, already bursting into tears, for she knew without viewing through the smoke that everyone inside was dead. It was carnage. Adults and children, all dressed in their prim and proper Midvale attire, lay strewn about like rag dolls. Not a form was moving. The room was charred, birthday decor still smoldering. Streamers and banners, even an untouched homemade cake awaited her. They had came up early on purpose, to throw her a surprise party. And because of that, they had died.

Amid the blood, limbs, and strong stench of ashes and death, she saw the small broken body of Liam, facedown. The girl had wailed, her knees striking the metal floor, her hands clutching handfuls of long blond hair as she screamed and cried. Beside herself, she moaned, mourning the loss, the wastefulness of it all.

When she went rigid, then flew back as though struck, both Arcade and Boone dived backward, each grabbing an arm to prevent her from landing on the ground. Then Boone jerked her to him, Arcade in turn pushing his fingers to her throat, unbuttoning her coat. "She's gone into shock," he said in a tight voice, pulling his own scarf off and then yanking hers down. The girl's eyes were lifted to the starry sky, but as Boone watched, he saw her fighting to get back to the surface, saw something akin to her soul pushing through the hazy green irises. She blinked, and exhaled suddenly, and Arcade sucked in air thankfully.

Boone was on one knee supporting her, and now she reached out; Arcade took her arm, and while she fought to stand, she simply couldnt. "I wasn't there," she said in an almost-yell. Confused, both men stared. "I...all that time. Every dream. I was there." Usanagi would've said her brain put her there to help her remember the incident, but the Courier would argue that her deep-seated guilt over the mass murder brought the vision to pass.

"But I really wasn't. It wasn't me. I didn't do it."

Arcade's eyebrows raised; in the girl's journals she had spewed out so much self-hatred and loathing, taking full responsibility for the actions of another, blaming herself for her own carelessness and failure to act. Now having been here for herself, she could finally realize with a clean slate, what had happened was not her fault.

Even the slightest noise was audible in the Quonset-domed hunk of charred metal, and I entered first, the snowshoes not the stealthiest on the hard floor. My eyes adjusted quickly to the blackness, but I was wary for an entirely different reason as I passed the school. I recognized a row of cubbies, still bearing coats, burned lunch containers. Most of the papers on the wall had gone down in a blaze of fury, but suspended on twine hung several ghostly polaroids; apparently we had a class camera, for the pictures were of all the youngsters doing various projects.

The shotgun, like in my dream, was on the wall. The killer hadn't touched it. The room was in disarray, no sense to be made of the tipped over chairs, tables, knick-knacks, trash. Once a functioning classroom, now it looked no better than your average post-War ransacked shed. There had been, once upon a time, a huge collection of books along one wall. Now they were piles of ash, spare crackling pages all that remained of their knowledge.

A song, one I'd sang before, came to me, but this was no Followers-taught classicism...

There was a fire in the yard. All of the tress were in light. They had no faces to show. My father burned into coal. My mother saw it from far. I saw a sign in the sky, I heard a voice in my mind...
He will take you. If you run, He will chase you...

It was something I'd sang, for certain, and for certain here. Something about it told me I'd never shared the song with the class, no matter how close we seemed. This was probably for the best, as the lyrics were pure spooky in the dim light. I advanced to the black fireplace.

Boone and Arcade remained just inside the doorway, not willing to step inside the hauntingly quiet structure. Their breath fogged around them as they exhaled in unison, looking like the steam issuing from a pair of giant, beastly nostrils. I was more brave in my approach, feeling oddly at home, feeling very melancholy as I crossed the tilted floor. No fire burned here now, but I had always had one going before. We used to go deep in the mountains seeking what little dry firewood we had. Storing it in back. By we, I meant the class and I. More than a functioning learning facility...this little place had housed a family.

Boone's sharp eyes, seeing more than either mine or Arcade's in the dim light, moved to the string of polaroids. They weren't very near to him, and he could thus see each face clearly. Not knowing any of the children and unlike me, not needing to seek any recognition in their face, he instead trained his gaze on each photo that I was present in. Not the me that now stooped in mourning over the long-dead fire. It was a me that he had never known, me who smiled radiantly but always had a half-fearful expression traceable in my eyes. The tension was there, despite the obvious happiness and comradery I exuded in photos with my pupils.

Though I was unaware, Boone pondered his own existence at the time these photos were taken. It was obviously time time ago, but how many years? Was he, while I tromped around in the snow adventuring with the spirit of a six year old, happily married, expecting his first child? Or had I become a teacher beforeBitter Springs, the event that would seal his fate and eternal unhappiness? Perhaps it was even before moving to Novac, before the Khan massacre. Maybe, several years ago, he was wandering the Mojave carefree, a proud member of First Recon, a quietly smug man in his early 20's while I seemed to exist in fear, even while smiling among the most innocent of humanity?

Arcade spoke, perhaps to break up Boone's thoughts of my past, and my thoughts of the desolate fireplace. "You suffered quite severely of guilt, after the incident. The log of your personal life was not meant to be read. You kept it solely to keep your sanity, as so many keep diaries. But you were ashamed, and protected it from prying eyes in every way your education taught you. You wrote that Liam's parents, one of few who didn't blame you, attempted to take you in, that they sensed this wasn't just an ordinary mass killing...not just a deranged stranger. They wanted to help, but you shut them out, using fear for their safety as your reason. You got out of the mountains."

"He's obsessed with fire. He..."

My father burned into coal. What did that even mean? Had my own father been a subject of this mystery person's pyromania?

"Who?" Boone intercepted. Of Arcade and I, he knew the least. But Arcade, who knew more than I, remained silent.

"The Fire Man," I said oddly. "He...he must have came up after seeing the parents leave for school with their kids. They walked up in small groups. He assumed I was at school, since they came. He wanted me dead. And..." This was like hanging on a ledge. Your fingers could slip at any moment, and you could either plunge feet-first into an abyss of not knowing, forever pondering, or worse-turn right over and go headfirst into knowledge of my treacherous life, all of it, which was something I didn't think I could take all at once. So I paused, allowing quiet little thoughts and whispers to come back to me, my subconscious fueling the fire, allowing me to remember. "If they hadn't come up early to throw me a surprise party for my birthday, they wouldn't have..."

"He would have showed up when you were inside." Arcade finished.

The wind creaked the little structure, and I was terrified that any moment an axe-wielding man would tear through the ajar door, glad to find me back at the expected checkpoint.

"Liam's parents were spared only because his mother was very sick, bedridden with a virus," Arcade continued, speaking from journal knowledge. "His father had to stay home and tend her, but they sent Liam out with one of his friend's parents. He refused to miss the..."

He couldn't bring himself to say the word party.

For once, I couldn't weep. The grief that surrounded me, that seemed embodied by the small, square fireplace with no fire had left me speechless, unable to think or cry for the moment. I was very cold.

Liam's parents, predictably, wouldn't take no for an answer from the group when they descended the once-ski slope back into town. And although there was a motel, and they had caps to spare, out of respect the Courier relented. She had the distinct feeling that her feebler, pre-Benny bullet self, had brushed off these caring people in the past. And, partially thanks to her, they had no one else to care about.

Nonetheless, she and Boone were still quite disconcerted with all the pampering; Arcade, on the other hand, seemed quite used to dealing with doting parental figures. It made the Courier wonder how his life had been before. It wasn't something he ever wanted to delve into, and honestly one mysterious background uncovered at a time was more than plenty, so she didn't ask anything now just as she hadn't asked anything before. They were each given their own room and fresh water to wash up with, in addition to nightclothes (a luxury they were all puzzled over, even Arcade) and a tour of the exquisite home. This caused tension to rise slightly when they passed a portrait wall in a large downstairs gallery; amid the photographs Liam's smiling, or grumpy, or thoughtful face peered out, sometimes alone, sometimes with one or the other parent, and sometimes side by side with the Courier. The picture burned by the Legion was even here, not a small wallet-size but instead the full photo image, showing the pair stooped in the deep snow. The group passed it in silence.

Liam's mother was exceedingly brave when she opened the end door at the hall. Almost nonchalantly, she waved, "This is...Liam's old room...feel free to come in anytime. Anything that'll help." Arcade had explained the crippling loss of memory and personage that came with a bullet in the brain. Egg. And how the purpose of their visit was to hopefully jog those shattered memories. Although the woman's tone had been cool, she still swallowed as she closed the door, a lump in her throat.

After the couple had retired to their third floor master bedroom, the three wanderers reluctantly said their goodnights, Boone and Arcade both passing glances at the defeated-looking girl, wondering if it was in fact safe to give her a bedroom to herself. Not for the reason of intended self-harm, which was more Boone's style than hers, but to sum it up, loose cannon, as Ada had uttered what seemed like centuries ago. Now more than ever, her mind was in a fragile state. She had cleaned up and obligingly put on the night dress that Mrs. Kenworthy offered her. In a pale pink silken gown reminiscent of pre-War fairy tales, she slowly left the hallway, looking like a ghost with her glassy green eyes shining in the dark. Her long blond hair had been untied, braided off to the side, and she had a sorrowful, dreamy quality about her as she sauntered into the room.

Arcade exchanged a look with Boone this time, as they doubtfully watched the door close. The blond sighed.

"You take first watch, or me?"

"I've got it," Boone dismissed.

"Come get me in three hours."

"Yeah."

Boone didn't need to stand like a statue in the hallway; the house was silent, and his hearing sharp, so he retired to his own room, although he left the door open. The sniper felt extremely out of place, not just from being in the mostly-intact mansion, but also here in this snowy hellhole, he was utterly lost. He couldn't quite get his emotions to wrap around the dark tragedy that had occurred here, wasn't used to the otherworldly look of a white blanket shadowing everything. It wasn't like the Mojave, where the harshest of harsh allowed you no repose, exposing in the rawest terms every deed, whether for good or bad. Up here, it seemed Nature wanted to comfortingly hide the truth from her children, wanted to wrap them in a blinding cocoon and spare them pain. Everything here was beautiful. Everyone was well-dressed, polished, looking as though they all had a membership to the White Glove Society.

...Carla, he realized, would have loved it.

Yet even this epiphany couldn't keep his mind on the woman for more than a few fleeting seconds, and her ghost was gone. Among his unsettled misgivings for sleeping in the snowy, sleepy town where an axe-wielding pyromaniac had obviously set a death trap for his companion, images of those pictures in the burnt hut re-entered his mind. How odd was it that the very thing intended to end her life-a gunshot directly to the head- did in fact give her a chance she wouldn't have otherwise had, a chance to erase the unneeded guilt she traveled with. He saw in her eyes, in those photos, the plaguing pain of loss and blame, and he knew it well, for he saw it every time he looked in the mirror. Since her memory had been lost in the darkness of Goodsprings Cemetery, the emeralds held no hint of guilt, no trace of the deep sorrow. Instead, they were wise and weathered, sometimes impish, ethereal. But not tortured.

He was envious. He had no such measure with which to stave his very real and vivid memories, had no outlet of unknowing. He wondered, had their fates been exchanged, if he would bother to uncover those demons of his past. The only thing Boone knew for certain is that the girl was bold to do something so potentially disastrous. Especially when they were on the brink of a war. Any other good, trained soldier would simply waft into robot status and move forward with the fight, but both her stubbornness and her thirst for knowledge had brought them here. She walked hand in hand with bravery, heart.

And she was up. The distinct creak of a door had sounded within the dark house, and discerning the location was easy for the trained soldier; it was Liam's bedroom door. Now he sat up in bed; Boone had no intention of wearing anything other than his regular clothes, especially when the nights were so cold, so he'd shrugged off the "nightclothes" and instead wore his signature t-shirt and cargo pants. He paused, glancing over at his folded coat on the dresser, wondering if the chill would increase when he exited the room, but then cast the thought aside when another floorboard creaked.

The house, otherwise, was stonily silent. His imagination led Boone to believe that the Fire Man had returned, that it wouldn't be the Courier awaiting him in Liam's bedroom but instead the murderer himself, or a troop of ghost children come over for a midnight sleepover. The air was intense with laden sorrow, and the superstitious man was apprehensive as he exited into the hallway. He'd been right initially; the Courier's bedroom door was ajar, her bed empty. Boone slowly walked down the darkened, lavishly decorated route to Liam's bedroom, the shelter of the house not enough to stave the breath that fogged out around him.

The child's room had every whimsical obviousness of a child's room; large colorful posters, odds and ends hanging from the ceiling, and toys scattered from here to fro in a significantly less-than-adult organized pattern. In the middle of the room, six square feet of floor space allowed for playing area, and it was here that the Courier sat, cross-legged, the beret for once off her head, braid still slung forward over her shoulder. Boone supposed this may have been how she looked before the Mojave; softer, more vulnerable, still ...beautiful.

Perhaps it was this that rooted him to the doorway, this striking comprehension that in his mind's eye, he'd finally allowed himself to call her beautiful. Not that Boone ever had found her repulsive, but as deathly poetic as he sometimes sounded, the sniper was not one to traipse the Mojave seeking pale maidens with golden hair and then sing, harp accompanied, of their loveliness. In fact, he had the hardened ability, inherited no doubt, to see the worst in everyone, to lose respect at the slightest sign of displeasure.

But amid his writhing angst, he found her beautiful as she sat there glumly on the floor, a toy in her hands. She was awake, and finally glanced up at him curiously. Boone faltered.

"I...was...just making sure. You weren't, you know."

She nodded, fully aware that she was a time bomb and had to be regarded as such.

"I guess...I can be glad I'm not the murderer I thought I was."

"Yeah."

He hung awkwardly in the doorway, unsure if he should leave or stay, wanting to stay. But he took a step backward, and she looked pointedly at him before saying, "Boone."

He stepped forward again.

"Thank you for coming here. I know that you're itching to fight...we all are...but this means a lot to me. It is helpful I think. Sort of the calm before the storm."

"Anytime," he said, unable to prevent the strain in his voice.

"Do you think..." she was no longer looking at him. "Do you think, after we're done here, if we stopped by Bitter-"

"No," he responded robotically. She looked at him again, lifting a brow at his short answer.

"No," he repeated, wishing he sounded more convincing. "It wouldn't help anything. I don't need reminding of what happened there. I don't need..."

"It was just a suggestion," she said quietly, turning some small toy over in her hands. It was a stuffed animal. Boone turned his focus to it.

"Goodnight," she continued dismissively, and defeated, Boone left her in the room, his broad shoulders slumping as he walked back to his cold bedroom.

"Yeah..."

Vulpes possibly never looked as polished as he did at the moment; forced to travel half-clothed and unhooded had unnerved him, so it was with an overload of characteristic finesse that he donned the dogskin and his trademark night-black visors. Though he felt less out of control, less exposed, the man was still unsettled and deeply unhappy with his leader's decision to keep Joshua Graham, the once-Legate, alive. However, he voiced none of his concerns.

At the moment, he'd been summoned, and swiftly crossed the grounds from Frumentarii headquarters to Caesar's tent, where the man wasn't so much of a warlord as a war-planner these days, having handed the military matters over to the Legate. However, the mass shipment of weapons was heavy on his mind. When Vulpes appeared before him, it was the first thing Caesar spoke about.

"I'm done bargaining," he said tiredly, and Joshua Graham, nose in his book, sitting nearby, made no motion or sound. He in fact seemed to be still as a painting. Caesar propped his chin in his hands. "I want those explosives, and I want them without this salesman bullshit. Too bad that little asshole didn't die on the cross we made for him."

Vulpes stood uncertainly. He had no idea where the man was going with his rant. Caesar massaged his temple, something he'd been doing more and more frequently. Graham, his white-tempered eyes flickering from the leader to the Frumentarii, said nothing. But his look of malice and anger was clear. He didn't want to be here any longer than necessary, and Vulpes's failed missions wasn't helping Graham get back to Zion very fast at all. Had Vulpes not been so valued by Caesar, Graham probably would've already attempted to hack him into little Vulpes cakes, or put a bullet in his skull.

Not that Vulpes was on the Legion favorites list at the moment. Vulpes had narrowly missed an execution once before, and he wasn't fond of toying with second chances. Apparently Caesar's disappointment in his failed holding of the slave party was the reason he'd called the younger man today. "Unfortunately, for you, I'm taking you off Frumentarii missions until that shipment is back here. In one piece. You and all your men will assist in the retrieval. Oh, and don't pay that idiot Benny whatever he's asking for."

"Your lordship," Vulpes cooed, velvety smooth, "Am I to manage the tactical mission?" He was ashamed. Tactics, bloodshed, running in screaming and hacking was not his favorite type of mission. He made it evident he found such things beneath him, thought himself a theatrical philosopher, spreading his reign of terror and speaking so highly of the Legion, of Caesar, that every profligate this side of Tornado Alley would recognize his power. This hatred of simple blood and guts was precisely why Caesar was punishing him.

"You're too smart to spare, honestly. We have to go about this delicately, and that's your speciality. You and your men are forbidden from any of your little excursions, your haunts, forbidden from doing anything, until the weapons are back here. Start planning," a condescending wave of the hand, "you've got a week before the trade's made. And not a single fucking Chairman left alive. Burn them all."

Vulpes, now thoroughly disgusted at his demotion, remained stoic behind his mask.

"Yes, my Lord."

Benny was standing outside the master suite's balcony doors, arms folded across his chest. He was losing his swagger, was growing more and more stiff by the day. This whole mess was wrecking him, but he only had a week left to go. Then he could rest easy.

Swank, just as restless, joined him at the balcony. "Locked and loaded."

"Now we play the waitin' game, eh?" Benny asked, not turning his gaze from the haunting desert landscape.

"Sittin' like chickens," Swank responded. "You know, it's been a few days since your girly showed up down there. You think she's plannin' anything? Think we have to worry about her?"

"Nah." Benny's tone was dismissive, but it held a hint of sadness. Swank raised both black brows.

"Eh?"

Benny shrugged. "I took care of her."

Mistakenly, Swank took this to mean Benny had offed the girl, something Benny had after all been known to do. He glanced at his boss and friend, seeing the traces of sadness, and said with a hint of admiration and pity, "Ouch."

Again, Benny shrugged, seeming to be in a very un-Benny-like way, deep in thought.

"It's a cruel world, dig, but business is business."

"Right-o."

Boone wasn't the only one who gave up on sleeping that night. After Arcade paced for a few hours, he left the upstairs hallway, pausing to see the Courier in her fluffy night dress curled up on the floor of Liam's bedroom, clutching a teddy bear, fast asleep. Arcade had smiled at the scene, and brought a blanket from the bed to cover her with. She didn't stir, and surprisingly wasn't murmuring or talking or moving about in her sleep, something she was prone to do-Arcade had woken up via punch just as often as Boone had-so he left her, and joined a surprising scene in the dimly lit kitchen. Boone sat at the table while Mrs. Kensington made tea, a mountainous luxury Arcade had only tasted several times. They were discussing the town and its odd solitude, quietness.

"Guess we're just all up all night," the doctor sighed, pulling up a chair beside Boone.

"It's great, having the company," the woman commented earnestly. She set a teacup down in front of Arcade. "Living up here, we aren't subject to a lot of the negative, but we do miss out on a lot of the positive. It gets so quiet sometimes you could almost scream just to hear a noise."

"Oh come on," the Courier said in a voice loaded with sarcasm. She held up the red berry. "I promise, they're delicious."

The six-year-old scrunched up his nose. His poor mother could barely get him to eat, as his very personality declared finicky. It was something he'd inherited from her, which made it even more cumbersome to deal with, but she trusted the blond to talk sense into her child. This was just one of the many foods he would never eat at home that the teacher would talk him into trying.

"Do you really think all your friends would be eating them for breakfast if they were as yucky as you claim?" she tossed the mountain-grown berry into the air, catching it in her mouth.

"Cool!" Isaac chirped. "Can I do that!"

"And get berry mush all over this floor? I think not."

Liam didn't want the attention off himself. "I won't eat it," he said loudly, interrupting the rest of the class's giggles.

"I'm not saying you have to like them. But you should try them. What if there was some kid out there somewhere who thought cookies looked gross and didn't ever try one?"

Liam crinkled his nose further, angry at her logic. She popped another berry in her mouth. The children and she all sat at the low round table, the firelight flickering behind them as they ate a hearty breakfast. Well, all of them but Liam; the appearance of the red berries disturbed him just as if they'd been a skeleton with an apple in its mouth.

"I have a great idea," the Courier said, reclining; the children sat easily at the low table, their small legs folding up under them, but she being of extreme height had to bend in uncomfortable ways. "If Liam tries one red berry, then everyone can do this," she now threw up another berry, catching it in her mouth, to the cheers of the class, "three times. You get three free throws."

"Oh come on Liam!" they pleaded, putting him on the spot. "They taste good, I promise!" Isaac, pack rat leader, wailed above the others.
"Just oneee!"

Liam couldn't help his scowl from turning into a very frustrated smile. Each time he glanced at the teacher, his thin face twisted up further, for she was grinning cheesily at him, silent while the class yammered on in her stead. Finally Liam snatched up a berry and, acting as though he were chewing on a rock, munched on it and swallowed.

His face brightened. "Hey, that wasn't even bad!"

The Courier smiled both at Liam, and in her sleep.

"How much do you know about the area?" Arcade asked, stirring the warm drink.

Liam's mother had an apprehensive look about her, as though she were always hesitant. Now as her blue eyes creased, struggling to word how she felt about the area known as Griffith Peak, that anxiety seemed to grow. "It's...I was up there once, long ago. They say the view of the Mojave, even the view of Vegas, is a spectacular sight from that lake. I couldn't bear to stay until the sun set, though. I made Ron pack up and leave. The whole place is just eerie, desolate."

"Was it just an old settlement? Is there anything else we don't know about it?" Arcade pressed. He'd asked about the area because detailed in the Courier's journal, she called that place "home." Where she'd been raised after her mother relocated to Utah. Her father's choice, for he'd written letters detailing his will to leave his tribal group and return to them in the secluded, if chilly, paradise.

"It was...something else. A large part of it was a burial ground for these ancient pre-War tribes. I forget their name but it was a strange one. They have cave drawings up there, pottery, feathered statues. It's all very odd. You won't like it if you go up there. You get this feeling that someone's always watching you." As though the memory returned, she wrapped herself tighter in the black robe she donned. "I prefer it down here. A little closer to civilization, you feel like you're not the last one alive after the Great War."

There was a moment of silence when everyone drank their tea.

"I had no idea that's where she was from. Poor lonely girl."

The class stood on the outskirts of the spooky lake. It was night, and impossible amounts of stars, more than you could ever see in the Mojave, twinkled coldly above them. They were five or six feet away from water's edge, and now the Courier spun around, speaking to them excitedly. She'd always wanted to take them here; the settlement where they lived bordered a beautiful, large water source, but it was somewhere the parents kept their children from. The water never got warm enough to comfortably swim in, and was used instead as a drinking source, electrical pumps allowing it to reach most of the houses in town.

The fear and stigma of the water that the adults bred into their children made the Courier angry; as a teacher, she wanted to enlighten, educate. These kids shouldn't shrink away from such a beautiful scene, they should embrace it, but here they stood, wary and uncertain. Besides, at the moment, the lake was frozen. They could have great fun on a frozen lake. She decided to tell them the legend surrounding the water, one she knew from her own childhood, where she herself had spent many hours gazing over a golden-flecked calm body of water.

"The story goes," she said, and some of their fear and doubt dissipated, for she was a grand storyteller, "That there are another people who live at the bottoms of lakes. In summer, when it's warm for us, it's winter for them, and cold. That's why when you put your hands in the lake in summer, the water is cold. But." Dramatic pause, and she smiled, putting her mitten-covered hands on her knees, leaning forward.

Asleep, it was actually her thin silk night dress that grazed her knees as she stooped.

With the children, she continued, "In winter. Right now when it's the coldest and the air freezes your noses off, the water in the lake is warm." The kids all looked skeptical, and she nodded her head towards Dino, one of the oldest, bravest boys. "Go ahead. You have my permission. Touch it."

Under the ice, the water lapped by the shore. Dino, half-frightened and half-enthralled, tiptoed over in the snow, poking the edge of the liquid with one finger. His hazel eyes widened. "It's warm!" he verified.

"That's because it's summer for the water people. They live down there and they have huge, huge houses. They get to swim around, they don't have to walk. They can breathe water, they have webbed hands and feet," now she winded the tale further, imitating the graceful movements of the water spirits. It wasn't a real world, of course, was a spirit world. Only spirits could live there. At Annie, one of the little girl's, prodding question "Can humans ever visit?" the Courier's answer was grim.

"There are two ways a human can see the spirit world under the water. They can swim, down and down and down and down, and if they wait long enough, the spirits will come and take them. And they can't ever go back to the human world, because their lungs don't have air anymore."

"What's the other way?" asked Justin, his blue eyes big as saucers.

"The other way is, you swim out, and if they like you, if they think you belong down there in that magical world, they-" she swiped her hand across the row of enchanted youngsters, who all gasped and stepped back, "GRAB you and pull you under!"

Liam was frightened-a common occurrence-and he snapped, "That's not real!"

She dropped her hands to the side. "You're such a party pooper. But no, what I actually wanted to show you guys was how to slide on the ice. Used to do it every winter. It's a lot of fun, just...no cracked skulls."

"What do you do?" Dino was far more tentative about ice sliding than water poking.

"You just step on the ice and slide!"

Liam's face was suddenly etched with worry. "No, don't do that, the ice is too thin. There's water showing in the middle."

She turned and surveyed the solid white lake. "No there isn't," she said oddly. "It's all covered."

"Don't do that please." Liam's voice rose in pitch, in anxiety. Another trait he'd inherited.

In the spot where the phantom boy lurked, there was nothing, and behind the Courier in her silk, the black water licked the sides of the ice hungrily, quietly.

"Here, I'll show you guys," she said suddenly. There was no better way to show someone how to have fun, than having fun right in front of them. A town of rich, stuffy parents gave way to rich, stuffy offspring, but the Courier was the wild card, the element of chance, of luck.

Under the stars, she slid onto the edge of the ice, her height making her look graceful instead of clumsy as she started a backwards slide, smiling hopefully at the awestruck children. Her breath was a fog around her, and though she thought she heard the scrape of her boots against the ice, she was really barefoot. The girl closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the sweet feeling of being a child herself, her own raggedy dress billowing out in front of her while the cold air snapped around her, and as she inhaled the mountain air, recalling the memory and feeling, the ice disappeared from underneath her.

She'd slid over the edge. Liam's scream echoed, though no Liam was there.

A Courier, suddenly awake from the bite of subzero water, was there. She sucked in air, but flailed; the sudden coldness and realization of where she was forced her down, forced her out of the stars' vision, and out of the vision of the Kensington's home as her muscles locked up. It was as though the water spirits had decided she was fit for their ranks, decided to take her home with them, would hold her under until air left her lungs and up wasn't a choice.

The Courier screamed, but bubbles issued instead of sounds, and the black of the water was endless. Still half-asleep, confused, her muscles seizing up both at the sudden change of brain waves and the now lack of oxygen, offered no help. Though she felt she was thrashing, she was doing so in slow motion, the thin fabric billowing out around her as she sank even lower towards the bed of the lake.

She didn't want to die, didn't want to leave her warm desert world or even the cold snow-plagued world she had recently re-entered, for this kingdom of water. Yet against her will, she slipped from consciousness, perhaps from reality, until her extended bare foot slid against the cold grasp of underwater vegetation, great wavy green grass that thrived in the summer of the water land, grass that spookily swayed in the underwater breeze.

Startled by the caress, she silently screamed again, turning; was it grass, or the ceiling? Below her, as she gazed into the blackness, she couldn't see the stars. Above her it was just as black. Green wall to her left and she sank towards it, wanting so desperately to be away from the hated satiny plants. There was no more air in her lungs, and the girl choked, choked again.

What little vision she had, dimmed. It was this moment when she realized she was going to die, no need for the dainty webbed-feet water spirits to hold her down, she could move no more. And even now as she resigned her fate to falling ever so slowly into the masses of green, her dim sights turned to pure black. The grass was at least four feet tall, and now she sank into it drearily, like a child reluctant to sleep at bedtime. Though her eyes had closed, they flickered.

Something had stirred, moving in front of her and causing a shadow to fall over her pale face. It was this shadow that made the light seem less of a light. It was something large, not a fish, moving quickly towards her. It extended its black arms, long and sinewy; this then was the water spirit come to take her home. Sure enough the form grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her abruptly, though still in slow-motion in land terms, from the sea of lake weed. It held her firmly, tugging her upright, its own legs sinking into the deep green.

She looked more of a water spirit than it. She of absurd height, thin, now even more ethereal with blond hair splaying into the liquid backdrop, the dress rising, floating around her hips. The water spirit, cloaked in darkness, held her as she tried for one last struggle. It was no avail, and his iron grip around her waist ensured her cooperation. In the strangeness of the black-blue glow, they looked like a pair of ghost dancers caught mid-dip, as he was stooped, all darkness and no features, and she was limp in the crook of his arm, silk and hair both billowing out around both of them.

Still holding her, he kicked off the lake bottom. Now, in her near-death, the Courier blinked; he was heading towards the surface. She grasped at the spirit's shoulder, her legs flailing around in the icy water, feeling the familiar curve, then down the chest, her nails raking like claws in her half-drowned desperation. When the last of her bubbles issued out, by her careless underwater gargle of his name, the swimming-upward Boone pressed his mouth down on hers in the most tactical of maneuvers, giving her air as he fought to push them both upward while she was a dead weight.

For a moment, while he exerted his force on putting his lips over hers, and moving his cheek to cover her nose as he'd learned in military training so long ago, they were suspended underwater in a weird embrace the most spirited of water spirits would have been jealous of. Then, after he'd pushed air, not water, into her lungs, he kicked for the surface again, pulling her along.

The Courier's head broke the surface and she didn't immediately respond, looking quite asleep as Boone, teeth chattering, grabbed the edge of the ice. Anne and Arcade, ropes tied to their waists, both held out hands to take the girl, Boone handing her over as the pair dragged the drenched girl over the ice and to safety. He was another matter to help up; it took the brute force of the tall and large Ronald, plus Arcade, to safely pull him to the edge of the ice.

Exhausted of all air, Boone tried to stand, but sank to his knees as Arcade threw his coat over the girl's shoulders and tried for a few silent, strained moments, to recessitate his friend, the Kensingtons hovering worriedly, as though they were her biological parents At first, there was nothing. All of the onlookers watched, horrified, then the girl choked, sputtering.

Among the collective sighs of relief, another one of Boone's faint smiles flickered, but no one saw it.

The trio in the kitchen had heard the soft creak on the stair, the whisper of the door latch, and had immediately interrupted their own conversation over tea to step outside and look for the girl. Because the fog had settled in, it was almost impossible to track which direct she came; the snow on the ground was old, had many footprints embedded in it already. Boone was the only one able to make out her soft pink silhouette against the darkness, and had led the way out in a run, the other two nosily putting on their coats and slamming the door, which woke Ronald and caused him to take chase as well.

The Kensingtons lived on the opposite side of town, at the end of the long and wide main street winding down towards the lake; the group in pursuit of the sleepwalker had to trek almost a quarter of a mile in the fog-laden icyness to reach her. They'd skidded to a stop at lakeside to watch her mysteriously chatter, words caught on the breeze and whisked away before they had a chance to listen, and just as Boone had approached her to pull her by the arm away from the water, she slid barefoot onto the hazardously floating ice. The group hesitated as she moved away from them, but as soon as her long, slender body had been swallowed by the black water, Boone had ran forward, the others splitting and making use of the nearby marina-safety ropes and donuts before heading out over the ice themselves.

It was with a solemn happiness that she shakily stood, shivering with Arcade's coat draped over her. The braid had fallen out, and now her hair was already collecting icicles, frozen over, her lips blue instead of their rose petal pink. She tried to stand, slid on the ice, and then the parents of her fallen student helped her to her feet. Boone by this point was standing also, and as he approached, said, breaking the silence, "You shouldn't walk back barefoot. I'll carry you."

The only other times he'd carried the Courier she'd been unconscious, once after being shot by the Legion and once after the other sleepwalking excursion that led her into a cazador pit. At least this time she was awake and not blind, but as he moved toward her, she burst into tears, wailing her apologies to the group, and sort of headbutted Boone on the shoulder. Unnerved by the display of emotion, he stared at Arcade while scooping her freezing, ill-dressed body up, hooking his arm under her knees and around her back, carrying her bridegroom style and lifting her icy bare toes off the ice.

She was still crying into his shoulder, hiding her face, the long icicle hair all that was visible to the others, and at Ronald's nod, they all retreated back inside, cold but relieved. As Arcade held the door open for Boone, who carefully sidestepped with his precious, shivering and crying cargo, he nodded at the bereted man, who was covered in a thin film of ice himself.

"You got her?" Arcade may have been a doctor, but Boone was a soldier. He wasn't incapable of taking care of others. Boone nodded. "In that case, we'll be downstairs." The Courier had obviously been through more than they could fathom at that moment, and she was ridiculously independent-he knew the feeling-so having the entire group hovering over her worriedly would no doubt worsen her state of mind.

Boone headed up the stairs, and Arcade turned to the couple, who had already headed toward the fireplace to warm up. He pushed his glasses up. "Well, that was exciting!" he breathed, enticed by the fire himself, hugging his torso and crossing the foyer. Anna was shaking her head. "I just...even though all of this...I want to pity the poor girl, always wanted to pity on her, when she came to this town she was skin and bones and rags..but it seems like I just can't bring myself to pity her."

"Even in her worst moments," Arcade nodded, "She's too strong to require pity. Although she has sorrow and tragedy around her, she's less of a victim than most people you meet day-to-day."

"She's a lot more hardened than she was before...she has a stronger walk, a...I don't know how to describe it," the woman said thoughtfully, "the way she carries herself, it's better than before, more certain. Instead of pity, I feel proud of her."

"I'm sure she would appreciate the latter far more than the former," Arcade responded, and the crackling fire seemed to agree.

Though he set her on her feet in her own bedroom, the girl continued to cling to him, sobbing for a few more moments at whatever memory she felt; though he was uncomfortable, and cold, and possibly ten different kinds of miserable, Boone didn't pry her away. He instead stood rigidly, one hand still draped over her back, and let her cry onto his shoulder. Her breath and tears were the only warm thing about her, and she shivered against him.

After several minutes, her crying spree lost velocity and dimmed to subdued sniffles, and Boone pulled her back by her shoulders. "You need to change into something dry," he commented, and glanced at her hair. "I'll get a towel for your hair." Reluctantly he stepped away from her, hurrying from the room to the linen closet in the hallway, and when Boone returned, he blushed in the dim candlelight. She had dropped the pink silk; half-frozen, it lay at her feet, but the white night dress she'd found in exchanged was just barely being pulled, by the shivering girl, over her head. He had a full view of neck-down underwear-only Courier, and caught off-guard, didn't look away.

She pulled the white cotton down, her head finally popping out of the collar. When she saw Boone, she half-smiled despite her watery eyes, and he moved forward, unceremoniously handing her the towel. She wrapped it around her neck, shivering, and suddenly her legs caved in. As usual, she didn't fall completely thanks to the ever-ready sniper who caught her, but it was the Courier who made the diagnosis, "It hurts...my legs and arms..."

"Lay down," he guided her, towards the bed. Boone shook his head at the weak apology the girl offered, and when she lay down he began the task of re-circulating blood through her limbs. She'd only been underwater perhaps a minute more than he, but Boone had been following the girl at a run through the snow, his heart rate up, so though his short excursion had been hard on his own body, her low circulation due to sleep and cold had dropped considerably for the time she'd been under the ice.

She was shivering, teeth chattering, and fumbling with the towel around her neck to dry the tangled mess of hair, as Boone sat on the side of the bed. Even in the dim lighting he could see the dangerous blue of her legs and especially her feet, so he pulled the Courier's leg to him, massasing the tendons and muscles, rubbing them with an expert's caress. They were unbelivabley cold, and while he hoped there was no tissue damage, focusing on his task, the Courier had abruptly stopped with the towel to watch him.

Boone could not be described as a gentle giant, because there was nothing gentle about him. There was in fact very little even kind about him, one could say, because he despised most of the world including himself, not a characteristic of a kind person. The only thing on the planet that could have called him gentle was perhaps his rifle, which he paid quite close attention to and took great care of, proving he wasn't all-brute. But the scowl that permanently resided on his brow assured no one would mistake him for, let's say, someone with a heart like Arcade. Not that Boone didn't want to help the world as much as Arcade did, Boone just didn't have the compassion or deep soulful understanding that philosophers brooded over constantly. Even now, while he massaged the Courier's calves and feet, she winced at the necessary pain, pins and needles sensation his strong touch caused her. The blood was rushing back into her feet because his touch was strong.

Yet there did exist in him some other capacity, she knew it from previous experience, some ghostly light caress that Boone was so rarely capable of showing, and she didn't understand it. The girl pondered over the enigma that sat, dedicated to restoring blood flow in her legs, kneading the flesh and sliding his strong hands up past her knees. The girl was enraptured, hypnotized both by the relieving sensation of warmth, and of Boone's caress.

He seemed to be in thought, face hidden by the long shadows in the room, and his gaze was nowhere but her legs as he warmed them, his expression lost to her. Though she still felt horrible for what had just happened, though she was at the moment blinking away tears still, she couldn't help but enjoy this moment. Boone rarely paid this much attention to anything other than his aforementioned rifle, and it was nice to sit and watch his handiwork. Although she wasn't aware of it, his masked pseudo-thoughtful look was one, in reality, of attempted composure. Not only was he worried about her, but a foot and leg massage to the woman he'd just realized was beautiful, seemed a strange way to end the night. And her legs, despite being clammy and now a less-dangerous pale white, were soft, silken.

The combined stare of the Courier, which he felt subconsciously even though he didn't meet her eyes, and the now almost ten minutes of silence in which he'd warmed her feet the best he could, finally caused Boone to toss a blanket over her feet, moving the palm of his hand up the impossibly long leg, from calf to thigh, and he simultaneously slid forward, moving closer to her. The Courier sat up, bringing her cold hand to his face, and perhaps his own previous lack of oxygen combined with the overwhelming load of events in the past 24 hours caused him to momentarily indulge, meeting her kiss with only a slight hesitance. Her lips were cold too, the hand that now lightly caressed his neck barely less than icy.

Boone broke the slow kiss centuries before he wanted to, only several seconds after it began, and before he could speak, the Courier said in that sly voice of hers, "That'll warm a body up in no time." Snorting despite himself, he almost smiled, before she kissed him again with cold lips. But he was fighting that internal battle that had been on his mind for weeks now, the same thoughts running through his head, "We can't..."

"Then why did you come closer?" she asked.

Fair question. He didn't know how to answer.

"It's okay," she replied when she saw he had no response prepared.

"Do you want..." what an awkward recovery. "Something warm to drink?"

She lay back, crossing her white hands over her chest peacefully. Standing out against the pillows, she still looked ethereal, like an ice goddess slowly melting.

"Yes please."

"I'll be back."

She only smiled at him, a sad smile, but an accepting one. Boone would have yet another encounter to beat himself up over, yet secretly enjoy as he relived it in the days and weeks to come, and she would sit and ponder exactly what he meant to her, as she dethawed in the big empty bed.

The next morning was a sad one, for everyone. Noting the short amount of time the group had before they would have to turn their backs to the snowy mountain range and descend back to the desert to somehow, though they weren't sure how even still, to stop the Legion from getting an overdose of artillery, they had precious few days to go even higher up Griffith peak to find the birthplace of the Courier. The only other location she'd ever been known to populate was the faraway Followers camp and school where she received her education. That would possibly be another trip for a calmer time.

The Kensingtons were reluctant to let her go, though, far more worried for her safety after the previous night, and both made Arcade and Boone swear to look out for her, something they needed no reassurance to do. So it was early that they departed, Boone looking even more bleary-eyed than the other two due to not only having restless sleep and nightmares of Bitter Springs, but by the fact that even after Arcade sat by the Courier's door quietly reading, watching over her, Boone couldn't shake his feeling of dread. Plunging headfirst into icy water hadn't helped anything.

The Courier was in remarkably high spirits to have had such a rude awakening the night before, however. She demanded that after things calm down in the desert, the Kensingtons come visit in Vegas, promising them their personal choice of suites in town. It wasn't often that the girl flaunted her power or reputation, but she had a right to after all, and if anyone deserved to sit in the lap of luxury it was the one family who believed in her. After promising they would venture to the desert in the coming days, a vivacious farewell was given, and using the borrowed snowshoes, they climbed.

One thing was on the Courier's mind-when she had finally fallen into a deep restful sleep, the little girl had reappeared. As the group exited the Kensington home, the Courier's old classroom pictures safe in her pocket, she realized there was a face she hadn't seen in any of the pictures, and turned to Liam's mother. "Was there a little girl in my class...I can't think of her name...long hair? Really skinny." The woman had tilted her head. "The fashion was the bowl cut with bangs, that's what Annie, Mae, Emma all had."
"Blond hair?"
She shook her head, confusedly.

The town they exited had been in its own little way, warm and inviting, just as Jacobstown had. However, the mountaintop grew bleak. They didn't talk very much, and the girl started to doubt this mission; with Benny, the Legion on her mind, was this even the right choice? Had she dragged her loyal friends out here to subject them to horrible weather and scant food, just to sate a curiosity probably better left in the dark? The trees faded away the higher they got, giving way to vast golden fields blanketed in snow. Not even the normal animals seemed to care about this place, and it was Arcade who led them via scribbled map copied from the holodisc directions, toward Lake Griffith.

They reached the massive body of water at nightfall, and when its gleaming surface became visible, Arcade and Boone in silent agreement threw down their packs, aiming to immediately start a campfire and bed down. But the Courier, now dressed in one of the Kensington's black coats over her dingy hoodie, a scarf wrapped securely around her neck, broke into a run, huffing in the heavy layers of clothing. Both men stared after her as she sped toward the lake, for across the field, where the black water lay in respite, she saw a familiar cluster of cat tails.

The fact that she was wearing snowshoes didn't slow her down; indeed, she seemed quite used to them at this point and had probably in fact worn them most of her life, and in the gathering darkness Boone squinted at her dark figure before taking chase, Arcade on his heels. The girl didn't notice though, as she was fixated on her goal. Several minutes later, having crossed the field, she reached water's edge and stepped expertly out of the bulky snowshoes. There it was, perhaps five or six feet out, the only noticeable of its kind; a large, smooth rock jutted out from the flat surface. Had anyone with shorter legs tried the jump, they would have found themselves digging through underwater cat tails or faceplanting onto the rock, but she cleared the jump and did what she did so many nights, over and over...

She knelt, peering into the dark mirror.

This was something she'd done countless times before. Not just in her dreams. But she had been here, was close to home. She was partaking in a custom of her own, the feelings of loneliness, solitude rushing back to her. The girl was so focused on her reflection, she was caught in a bit of a trance. Behind her, stars twinkled, and she heard his voice again, You'll always be alone.

She believed him; at the moment, there was no one there. No one, but her. The green eyes were round, frightened, a way they never were regularly. But this place was magical, it was her sanctuary. It was where she came to forget. To forget? To forget was something she wanted to do. Out here, everything seemed very big. The lake was big, the sky was big. She herself was quite small, little, hovering over the rock.

Then, just as in her dream, thudding, loud footsteps offshore. Realizing it was the little girl who so often ran here to hide, the Courier looked up expectantly. She was awake, not asleep. She could speak to the child. The smile she had prepared for the fleeing kinder was wiped off her face when she realized it wasn't the girl's footsteps, or even the big, dark shadow man who was always in pursuit of her small-sized friend. Approaching were Boone and Arcade, looking quite confused and alarmed.

She looked up at them for a moment without speaking. Then, to Arcade, "How much farther until the homestead?"

He looked caught off-guard. "Er...ah...an hour or three..."

"We have to keep going. You don't. I do. I know this place. I grew up here," she stated proudly.

The snow and high moon illuminated the shack, and the Courier's adrenaline immediately plummeted. It had carried her here, she'd brushed aside Arcade's map and recalled the path home by memory, fumbling only a few times along the way. Her running had caused her hair to fall out of its bun at the back of the beret, and she was so hot that the scarf and coat were discarded, jammed into her small backpack. In her trademark hoodie and cargo pants, she traipsed towards the structure.

It wasn't a house. It was a shack, a lopsided sad-looking piece of work that looked as though it could barely house a Brahmin comfortably, much less a human. The view of mountaintop it offered was indeed a beautiful one, but the dilapidated little shack looked tired, yet still menacing, silhouetted against the picturesque white snow. Boone and Arcade instinctively stayed back, for neither of them were keen on barging in the girl's childhood home-particularly Arcade, who knew some of its secrets.

Dropping her backpack, even her pistol, to the snowy ground, she walked several steps closer, surveying the shack with glazed over eyes. As though at a funeral or paying her respects, she grabbed the beret from her head and brought it down, wringing it in her hands. Even from behind, her friends knew the tilted-head, motionless gaze signaled that she was remembering. They had both witnessed it multiple times, and now no one spoke.

As she watched, remembering, a tall, impossibly tall man came outside, two girls at his ankles. One was little, barely a toddler, tripping along with strawberry blond pigtails. The other was slightly older, medium-length golden blond hair hiding her face. Over his shoulder, the man carried an axe. He went to the rotted stump in the front yard, lifting one of the many strewn-about pieces of firewood up on the log. Once he had it balanced, he swung-the log split clean in half, and the girls cooed in their tiny way. From the shed, an exhausted-looking woman with radiant blond hair exited, hands on her hips.

"You can't show them that, they're too little," she said sternly. "They'll try it and get hurt."
"You're not too little," he countered directly to the children, putting one large hand on the older girl's head, swinging it back and forth, almost knocking it off balance. "Are you, monster?"
She shook her head eagerly, and the woman in the doorway crossed her arms.

"Here," the obvious father contended, handing over the large blade. The six-year old couldn't lift it, tried again, failed. The man was delighted at her attempts though, and laughed down at her. The Courier's eyes were wide; his eyes twinkled green in the moonlight, white circles outlining the green, making the man look wild. Yet at this moment, he seemed to be nothing more than peaceful. From behind, the sound of hooves, and the Courier turned.

Where Boone and Arcade stood in reality, in memory stood a group of men. At their head was one man, recognizable even two decades ago. With dark hair and a haughty expression, Caesar was at the head of the Blackfoot. He sat atop a strange animal, something half-Brahmin half-something else, holding reins lazily in his hand. Now he looked skeptically at the family.

"Come," he said simply. "It's time again."

When the Courier turned back to look at the family, they had vanished, leaving the yard empty. Their ghosts didn't linger, and she exhaled deeply, trying to remember more. No one spoke or moved, fearing that the spell would be broken, but after several minutes of staring at the poor dead house, something moved inside it. The girl tensed, hoping it wasn't anything threatening, but then realized it was just the younger child of earlier, the one with the pigtails. She had grown several years, was now five years old herself, and her eyes were blue, not green, as she pointed brightly toward the Courier.

"Daddy!" she chirped.

Now coming out of the excuse of a doorway came the older child, and the Courier gasped at the face and clothing. In rags, hair down-it was the girl from her dreams, exactly as she had appeared. No more than seven years old, she was already unjustly tall, her hair straw-colored. With less enthusiasm than her little sister, she eyed the Courier's direction up and down, lips tight, posture rigid. This shrewd, almost dark little girl looked much more like the Courier of present than the older teacher.

Realizing that the children weren't looking at her but past her, the Courier turned again, looking down the mountain. She knew somewhere in her scrambled egg mind that Boone and Arcade were the only ones there, probably staring intently at her, but for the memory's sake she saw only one figure. A tall, shadowy man, his green eyes now consumed by misery and suffering. Over his shoulder, he carried the axe. Though his face was clear, deep burns ran down his arms and out of his collar.

He lumbered towards the children, unsmiling.

The child-Courier bolted.

The adult-Courier rounded fully, exclaiming, "The Legion."

From Arcade, unexpectedly, "...What?"

No one quite dared jest Vulpes during his week of shame and demotion-even though the fatherly Caesar was in a mood, teaching him a lesson, it was still no secret he was the leader's favorite, and once restored to his previous position wouldn't hesitate to crucify anyone who'd said the wrong thing. Indeed, his mood went from contemplative to perpetually sour, and even the dogs seemed to shy away from his black cloud of malice.

Yet, even while in this state, he rounded up the necessary men and maps for the seizing of Benny's munitions. It wasn't as though the task would be a hard one; they were meeting in a secluded canyon. Stationing men with spears and bows along the ridges, guns and swords at the front and sides, and the Chairmen didn't stand a chance. What the Legion lacked in gunpower they had in number, so Vulpes soon lost anxiety over the arduousness of the task. It would be like taking candy from a badly-dressed baby.

Graham, now given full reign of the camp, moped about and spent most of his time alone in the rather grandiose tent Caesar ordered lifted for him. He seemed to read a lot, and on several occasions spent time with the slaves. No one quite knew how to approach him, and no Legionary wanted to risk upsetting someone so known for his brutality and sheer battle prowess. Still, those who showed their respects with subdued hellos or polite questions were rewarded with a rather detached answer.

This particular night, the ex-Legate stood outside his tent, on the Fort's highest rise, surveying the very home where he had raised his two girls for such a pathetically short amount of time before being taken back to war with his friend. Tired and still humiliated, Vulpes passed him wordlessly, eyes cast down. However, as the pale Legionary was passing, Graham lunged, grabbing his arm and twisting it. The whites of his eyes sparkled maliciously in the moonlight, and he was not smiling behind his bandages.

The latter now pulled back, baring his teeth and hissing, "Let me go, you fool!"

Instead, Graham jerked him closer. Caesar wouldn't permit harm to the Legate-not that attempting to harm him was wise, in any case- and so Vulpes could do nothing but smolder, black hatred in his eyes. Past the cold white, he could see a bit of the girl in Graham's stare, the hardness and determination one and the same, father and daughter. The Fire Man, the Burned Man, Joshua Graham, Mormon Missionary, growled in a voice that would make even the current Legate shudder, "You'll pay for everything you've done."

"Let go of me," Vulpes said, no longer hissing, but his own voice smoother and deadlier than anyone but Graham could muster.

"You and everyone here will burn, the same fate I've had. And not for what you've done to me. It's what you all deserve."

Graham released Vulpes, throwing him, and were it not for the man's extraordinary balance, he would have toppled over. Instead, he shuffled backwards, almost falling, clasping his burning arm with his opposite hand and glaring wordlessly at the untouchable phantom before storming off. His restriction didn't limit his abuse to slaves, so that was where Vulpes headed to take his bloodlust out on.

Graham watched him go, narrowing his cold, icy eyes the same way the Courier would have.

"Why here?" the King said, shaking his head dismally. For a moment, the table was silent, and Julie glanced at the other men. The man had came for a routine visit, flanked by his fellow gang members, and Julie had insisted on a checkup-she'd just demanded to draw his blood, the King's rolled-up sleeve still up, his arm palm up on the table.

"What do you think?" Aaron asked his leader, who rolled his head uncomfortably, massaging his neck with his free hand. The King had become increasingly stressed since the death of Pacer, had even felt threatened, uneasy when the Courier told him she was going to be MIA for a week or so. She was still gone, and he didn't like the absence of her, her cronies, or her robots. Not that those weren't still around, but they were a lot creepier without the blond present.

Everyone looked expectantly at the King, except Julie, who held up the needle and surveyed it, tapping the side of the syringe. The King shrugged, then winced as she inserted the tip of the needle into his vein.

"I...I ain't gonna stop 'em. I want the fellas to put their past behind 'em. But the strip, this end of the strip..." he shrugged as Julie pressed gauze to the hole. "It's too close to home, boys."

The others nodded in solemn agreement. Julie finally spoke. "Maybe they just feel comfortable in Vegas. It is a free for all, it's not NCR territory, it's not Brotherhood territory. A way to shake clean."

"It just don't smell right."

"You're pessimistic."

"Julie," he said in that drawl, pulling the sleeve of his jacket down over his now bandaged arm, "It's about the same as the Fiends and the boys in Red settlin' down for a tea party. You think the Brotherhood, and the NCR are just gonna' sign some treaty and then head over for a hooker show at Gomorrah?" His handsome face was dubious.

She laughed in spite of herself. "We can only hope."

"Yeah well. You can hope. I'll just be Pessimistic Paulie over here." The King attempted to stand, but Juile was faster; she put a palm on his forehead and then stuck a lighted instrument in his mouth, checking his teeth.

"I think we'd all feel better if our New Vegas guardians were back in town," she finally agreed, "only because this effort at peace seems like a little too little, a little too late."

"NCR's desperate," a King commented, milling about the tent. "They just want to use the Brotherhood for their resources.

"It's going to be a massacre, right in Freeside's front yard," Aaron noted.

"Not if Arcade and his friends get back before." Julie was adamant. And now she stuck something in the King's ear, and he ducked, flailing his arms.

"Woman, dammit!"

Not in the girl's notes was the identity of her father. This was something she couldn't even bring herself to write down in the memoir meant to stave off her own perpetual, inherited insanity. So even Arcade's eyebrow was raised as she, in a tangent, recalled from the confines of the private property, the story of her pursuit of science.

She'd always been emotional, she said, even from a young age. She was always the curious, otherworldly type, something that had survived the gunshot to the head in many ways. Her nose was perpetually in a pre-War book each day of her young life. Her father left the family behind many times to join Caesar on his conquest for the newfound Legion. One day it was different-he returned a changed man. The schoolhouse of children weren't the first to fall by his rage-not by a long shot. The first was the Courier's mother, then her smaller sister.

Though the mountain wasn't inhabited by many, they too all fell, the blood spilling on the earth both satiating his lust for death and his almost morbidly divine-driven urges. Yet one was spared, first by accident, then perhaps by guilt-the little blond girl. She had dodged the axe as he swung it through the house, stepping over the bloody pulp of her mother and sister, small enough to lay low and crawl her way to safety. From her wandering, she knew the area even better than her father, and evaded him while he went on his tirade. When it came time for him to kill her, he didn't.

She never believed it was mercy, or love, that stayed the axe. Perhaps he was tired, or perhaps he just grew momentarily sick of the grief and death. Whatever the case, he didn't chop her up, just shook her, hit her, discarded her by the lakebed and yelled at her to go away from him, never come back. And the young girl had done precisely that. Orphaned, she wandered into the large, abundant Follower's Camp and though her niche were the finer arts, the mystical things in life, she studied chemisty and other complex sciences, contributing to the above-average knowledge she displayed post-bullet.

Over the years, her father hadn't been able to trace her, the two coming sometimes eerily close to one another as she migrated with the Followers camp, he with his Legionaries. Before the great fight for the Dam, the Legionary made one final visit to his daughter, whom he'd tracked down by some unknown means, and he sought to do what he hadn't all the years ago when he killed the rest of his family. The schoolhouse was his last lone stop before that fateful fight, and after everyone she loved had again been slaughtered, the girl left the mountains for good, heading toward the Mojave with the resolution to again start over, the now-Courier went about perhaps the loneliest life she'd lived yet.

She had Boone-esque nightmares though, for good reason. These were something her mind thankfully had discarded with the amnesia. Dreams of her family, of the families she found slaughtered. Of his voice swearing she would never sleep, never rest. Obvious mental concerns were in her blood, and as she grew older, she grew more and more tortured, her only respite the short happy time she spent as a teacher, cruelly taken away from her.

Yet, more than insanity ran in the family; her father had survived the impossible, and so had she. As he was risen from his fiery grave, so she was risen from her dirt grave, both of them stronger, deadlier than ever, and both of them wondrously, inconceivably alive, living with a purpose. Although, the exact root of their purposes was lost to both of them. Using their hearts, they would affect the Wasteland in ways it had never been affected.

The Courier, while being still blissfully unaware of exactly who her father was, and the other two so disturbed by this story that they couldn't properly work it out in their heads either, settled down to sleep in the yard outside of the shack. Inside, though they didn't go, lay two skeletons; one adult-sized, one child-sized. The snow was high, so they'd stomped down a large circular area to lay their camp on; bedrolls, blankets, and a modest campfire. The snow had taken a lot out of both Boone and Arcade; being from a sunny, warm climate they weren't used to the extra strain of cold weather and high altitude, so they both fell asleep quickly.

Boone insisted, tired-eyed, upon tying the Courier's wrist with twine, and tying the other end around his own wrist. He fell asleep as was usual, hands cradling head, elbows out. She didn't seem as exhausted as either of them, but complied and lay down, watching the stars and her foggy breath for what seemed like hours.

When Boone awoke, he instinctively moved his wrist; there was slack in the rope, and he sat up to see a strange orange glow. The Courier's bedroll was empty, and he panicked, rising to his knees, spinning and seeing her dark figure illuminated against a wall of flames. She'd set the shack on fire. Boone actually relaxed, sighing loudly with relief, and then spoke.

"How the hell am I ever supposed to sleep around you?" She'd cut the rope.

The girl didn't turn, kneeling in the snow before her burning childhood home.

"I don't know if you ever will be," she finally said, honestly, not even bothering to be cheeky.

Boone frowned. He was the sour, realistic one; he'd hoped for some teasing or offhand comment. She continued, in a peaceful voice, "You can go back to sleep."

"Like hell. You'll go jump off this mountain. Swim around in the snow."

Was he the one making cheeky remarks to her seriousness? What sort of parallel universe had he stepped into?

"I feel so much better," she said. "So much worse, and so much better."

Boone didn't really know how to reply to that. He had his own demons, his own nightmares; if he'd forgotten them, then re-dug them up, he likely wouldn't have described "better" to convey his state of mind. But this made him think; made him tilt his head to the side. Shrugging off the blanket he'd lain with, and relieved to be awake if only for the lack of haunting nightmares, he trudged over to her in the snow, dropped to his knees beside her. One could be a bit more frivolous with their actions on the white cushioning.

Boone watched the place burn, shoulder to shoulder with her. When Arcade opened one sleepy eye to see what the large flickering yellowish light was emanating from, he saw the two sitting straight-backed, her head on his shoulder, matching berets for the silhouettes. The once-shack on fire in front of them, and Arcade smirked before pulling the blankets over his head to block out the light.

Boone hadn't reacted to her resting her head on his shoulder, but now he tilted his own head, happy for the heat of the flames. "I've been thinking about what you said."
"Mmm?" She was tired now, the disconcerting resting place of her mother and sister made slightly more sacred, more private by this act. She could let them go in peace, and sleep easier.
Boone stared straight ahead, though her eyelashes were fluttering. "Bitter Springs."
"Yeah?" "Yeah."
"And?"
"Maybe..." He wished that his poor way of speaking was at least slightly better around the well-versed girl. Self-conscious didn't really describe it, inadequate a rather fitting word. He stood by her while she'd won over the Khans, the Boomers, Primm, even the NCR. And somehow, she'd survived a trip into the Fort...twice. Boone could barely order a drink at a bar without getting a foul look. "If I were to go back...if you came with me..."

She didn't say anything, but unknown to him, she was pleading him to continue.

"Forget it." He said, disgusted at his own inconsistency.

"It's in the same direction as Benny's rendezvous," she prodded.

"Do you mind if we-"

"I think it's a great idea."

He sighed. "Okay. I don't know what I'm searching for there, but..."

She finally turned to him, lifting her chin, and bringing the back of her hand up to push Boone's face away from the fire towards her. His brows were lowered, his jaw set, and she stared at his half-in-shadow, half-lighted face, smiling serenely at something he couldn't see in himself.

Boone realized, oddly, that she was even better than Carla had been at reading his expressions, at understanding his silence. She was more than he'd ever anticipated. Though he'd just spent last night reminding himself of the reasons why their partnership, their role in the world was so much bigger than what he wanted, he still found himself wanting to embrace her again.

This time, he maintained control, busying himself with staring into her deep green eyes.

The King, usually content to sit in his headquarters and mill the days away, reigning from afar, had increasingly been seen around Freeside, much to the pleasure of the children and the younger generation in general, and much to the displeasure of some of the less reputable thugs. Yet it wasn't with his usual carefree smile and swagger that he took to the streets, but more of a restless pacing, a thoughtful stride. This didn't mean the King spared winks or tossing a ball back and forth with the kids. He was still his friendly, respectable self. He was strained though.

Counting down the days since Pacer had been stabbed. Counting down the days until the Brotherhood of Steel and the NCR had their meeting in Vegas. Counting down til the Courier returned, too. As surely as he was the King of Freeside, she was the Queen of Vegas, though she shrugged off that title as quickly as he shrugged off his. Often, the spiked head of Julie Farkas poked out of the Mormon Fort, and she would sometimes talk with the King, trying to liven his spirits. It was in her to be optimistic in the gravest of times, and though he always teased her open-arms approach, the King seemed to genuinely enjoy her company now more than ever, perhaps after the loss of Pacer.

Truth be told, even she was alarmed at the thought of a Brotherhood NCR talk. To her, the Brotherhood of Steel were as obscure in these parts as the Enclave, and though she of course held no personal grudge with them, was nonetheless spooked at the decision they'd made to finally resurface. Through gossip, she and the King learned that this was due in large part to Ambassador Crocker, the peace-loving NCR Embassy leader. Still, the Freeside pair could smell a rat. Not the one that ran the streets, dodging hungry children, either. The King had finally gotten sick of the thing and stomped its head in as it ran by.

Little did they know they were right to smell a rat; the same rat the Courier had smelled when she and Crocker had their talks of NCR and the Dam. Colonel Moore was not known to be a negociating type, yet she'd called for the Brotherhood and the Elder personally? He had declined the offer to step outside his fort, wherever it was, unless Moore herself marched into the neutral, surrounded territory of Las Vegas. This was a great idea McNamara had-no doubt isolation for talks of peace would get them all killed-and Moore had no choice but to agree.

The Courier had been asked by Moore to eradicate the Brotherhood, something she was reluctant to do, and after visiting the underground facility flat-out refused to do. She pitied them down there the same way she pitied the Boomers, and would no more destroy their people than the Kings, or the Boomers, or any other random group that Moore wanted to see dead. So, in her stead, Crocker had sent out the more charismatic soldiers with talks of peace, ceasefire, allies against a bigger enemy and all of that nonsense.

"Tomorrow," the King said, viewing with some remorse, the low-hanging sun over the Lucky 38.

"I'm sure they'll be back," Julie, voice of optimism, countered.

"I just have this bad feelin', same feelin' I woke up with the day Pace bit it," he finally confessed. "I don't know, I feel like Freeside's fallin' apart."

"Freeside has always been falling apart," she said in a voice so earnest that he laughed.

"Wow, there's that optimism." His lopsided, boyish grin, would make any woman melt.

"Maybe it's time for us to really take a stand here," Julie said. "Not politically, but I mean..."

The King was shaking his head adamantly. "I don' want nothin' to do with Vegas. I am a Freesider. I been here my whole life. This place needs fixin', not more an' more problems bein' dragged over by the gamblers."

"Things have changed since you founded the Kings," she reminded him, not unkindly.

"Have they?" Now his hands were in his lap. They were sitting on a beaten up park bench, Julie's close proximity to the King drawing ugly looks from some of the women passing by. "Have things ever really changed in the past 200 years? I mean...maybe a little less radiation here and there...some folks got some ideas in their heads about what's right and what's wrong, not that that ever helped mankind along anywhere 'cept a big mushroom cloud." He waved his arm dismissively, shaking the gelled black hair.

"Things ain't changin'. I'm just gettin' more of a worrier."

"It's better than being a blindsided optimist," she countered, quoting him from a day earlier.

"It sure the hell is," he replied jovially.

Even Boone couldn't be too down as the group entered Freeside at long last; their steps were light, they'd traded all their winter equipment in after descending the mountain and were now back to their signature selves: the Courier in hoodie, boots, beret, cargos, machete dangling at her hip; Boone in cargos, beret, undershirt, rifle slung over his back, sunglasses masking his cold eyes, and Arcade in his long Follower's jacket, thick black frames, his blond hair the brightest thing on the block.

Their smiles and lightheartedness would soon come crashing down when one of the Kings, loitering by the Freeside gate, gave them a very serious look. "King's lookin' for you guys, told me to-"

As the blond girl's smile faded to a look of concern, the King himself came through the once-rail car gateway, walking toward them. Rex was alongside him, and now the dog bolted from the man, recognizing Boone. Recognizing the urgency with which the man was advancing, the Courier, Boone, and Arcade broke into a jog, meeting him halfway.

"You just missed 'em," he breathed.

"Who?" The girl's voice was just as sure as it had ever been. He sighed at the familiar sight of the rag-tag yet deadly gang.

"Whole troop of Brotherhood. Passin' through the gates to Vegas right now, gettin' credit checked."

The Courier stared at the King as though he'd just climbed out of an irradiated water shaft with a Lakelurk on his head.

"The Brotherhood?"

None of the gamblers or hookers usually filling the streets this time of day were curious or stupid enough to gawk at the procession of heavily armed, steel-bearing troops-twenty men and women in all- who marched past the Securitrons stoically. The man in front was wearing no such armor, donning instead robes of purple. He stood out from the crowd if only for his snow white hair, hair that made Arcade's look impure. This man's head was high as he entered the gates of the city, both Freeside citizens and gamblers alike whispering after the crowd.

On their heels was the Courier and the King, followed by Boone, Arcade, and Julie Farkas. Several of the more brave or perhaps more dedicated Kings trailed the group. Above the creaking of the opening gates to Vegas, the Courier shouted past the thick steel-armed troops, "Elder! Elder, wait!" She pushed through to the front, clapping her hand to the beret to keep it from falling as she bumped past the acquaintance's she'd made down in the bunker.

McNamara turned around. "Oh, a pleasant addition to-"

"What the hell do you think-" The gates had opened, exposing the abandoned streets of Vegas. Every thrillseeker had undoubtedly decided the best place to watch this show was safely in their hotel rooms, a fancy reinforced by the fact that facing the gates, antsy, was a row of at least twice the amount of NCR, and in front, her arms crossed and a very unimpressed look on her face, Colonel Moore.

"Oh..." from the Courier.
"...Fuck." from Arcade.

Clearly Moore had not anticipated seeing the Courier, for her eyes narrowed momentarily at the girl she considered useless, another bleeding heart who wanted everyone in the desert to hold hands and cry together. Ignoring this sentiment, she addressed the Elder directly, "Nolan. McNamara. So you aren't just a ghost."

"It would appear not," he said cautiously, stepping in front of the Courier as though she embarrassed him as well, threading his fingers together. To the skeptical NCR soldiers holding their guns at the ready, he said, "I assure you there is no need for firepower." A motion from his hand, and the armed Brotherhood lowered their own weapons. Hesitantly, most with incredulous stares, the NCR troops followed suit.

From behind, though the Brotherhood were in perfect alignment, each faction looking like the setup of chessmen on a chessboard, the King pushed through as the Courier had done. Arcade was on his heels, but Julie was more cautious, staying in back. Boone, ever the sniper, had his back to the wall, his eyes picking out what the others couldn't even begin to see.

Several of the NCR wore stolen Power Armor, which every Brotherhood member save McNamara wore. Moore nodded to the men, and said in a snide voice that made the King's brow lower menacingly, "Nice armor."

"I didn't think the reason you called this meeting was to mock or jest," McNamara said, eyeing her suspiciously, his eerie eyes never leaving the cold woman. No-Man's land in between the two troops held tension so thick it was suffocating. In her harsh manner, Moore brushed a hand away. "At least, I had hoped."

The Courier was having a hard, hard time biting her tongue, but she was glad she did when Moore said, "Actually, I think the Brotherhood may be useful to the NCR in the coming days."

"So we are to be your cattle."

"You cooperate with us, or Caesar will take you down too," she said simply, and there was a hint of truth in this statement at least. "Intel's been coming in. They've got their hands on this big...something. Could take out the Dam and prevent it from ever running again, if they make it that far."

Benny...why, Benny...

Arcade was shaking his head-barely noticeable, but he was thinking similarly to the Courier.

Boone's head was tilted up, and he appeared to be observing a passing bird, high up in the sky.

"I don't give a shit about whatever peace deal you've worked out with our little friend-making Ambassador. That's between you, all I'm focusing on is resources, and arms, for the War." Now she nodded to the younger members, speaking to them of the horror's of Caesar's Legion. How they'd all be used, abused. Tortured, maimed. Torn apart. It was a pretty tale to weave, but the Courier knew it was all tactical. Apparently the thought of the Legion blasting the shit out of them was enough to force her into a pseudo-cooperative manner long enough to crush the Brotherhood and squeeze whatever supplies she could out of them.

And of the groups in the Wasteland, the Brotherhood of Steel was a treasure chest of gold among pyrite, their knowledge, technology, weapons, armor-all of it, was about the only thing mighty enough to move Moore off her throne for a venomous handshake. The Courier was still barely holding her silence, Boone now tilting his head at what he found interesting up in the clouds. Discreetly, he slipped past the stony Brotherhood soldiers and up closer to the blond girl.

Several minutes into Moore's speech of what the Legion had planned for the Brotherhood if they didn't join NCR, the girl finally interrupted. "And just what happens to the Brotherhood after the battle, if you win? Are you sure you won't make them into slaves just the same, kill them off just the same?"

"If they win that battle, you won't have to worry about it, because you'll be dead." Moore was growing edgy. Ignoring the hand McNamara placed on her shoulder, the girl stepped up boldly.

"I don't think I will." She pointed to her head. "Of me and you, only one's survived a shot to the head. You're crazy if you think I'm going to let you brainwash these kids into thinking you're their savior. You're no better than Caesar. Crocker wants peace. You want artillery."

"Peace doesn't stop dictators with unprecedented amounts of munitions." Both women looked on the verge of tearing each other's throat out.

The Elder looked overwhelmed; having been under the surface for so long, this was clearly more than he'd bargained for. He watched them, bewildered. The man was fond of the Courier like many who appreciated her grit, but he was worried of the NCR soldier's reaction; the smooth woman was surely coming unhinged. Already she looked wilder.

"What's your agenda, Moore?" the Courier snapped, glaring at the Colonel with a gaze Joshua Graham would have been proud of. Had he not been an axe wielding mass murderer that is.

"To kill Nolan McNamara, the strongest link of the Brotherhood's chain, and either step in to pick up the pieces, or divide and conquer," Boone spoke up, still gazing into the heavens. Both women looked over, and Arcade, Julie, the King, and McNamara did as well. He finally looked back down at them, at Moore, and pointed to the faraway Luxe.

"Your sniper up there is looking a little hesitant."

Chaos ensued from the moment the words issued from his mouth; Moore withdrew a sidearm so fast that the Courier didn't have time to think; aiming to the left of the girl, she shot past her and landed four, now five shots in McNamara. The Brotherhood closed in as Julie snapped, "Arcade!" and the two grabbed the man by the shoulders, pulling him away to safety. Boone stared down the scope of his rifle at the NCR sniper; Betsy gave him the thumbs up while peering down her own scope. Now all weapons were raised on both ends, and the Courier first elbowed Moore, then punched her directly in the mouth. The latter, blood already splaying her face, tore the Courier's hair out of its knot and wrenched her head to the 9mm she held.

"Best of luck second time around," she snarled, and everyone paused with a click, directly behind the Colonel's head.

"No!" shouted one NCR soldier.

The Courier didn't move, but neither did her assailant. Behind her, pistol pressed to the nape of her neck, Boone glared. The Colonel spoke through her teeth.

"Just where do your loyalties lie, soldier?"

"I'm not a soldier," Boone growled. "I think for myself these days. You should try it."

The Courier jerked away, but the Colonel reset her aim, holding the pistol out. The blond stared at her, defiant in her red beret, waiting for the NCR to make the next move.

"I don't know what you think you're going to gain by this," Moore said. "The Dam will be lost when the Legion wins. If I die killing you, it may be worth it to save these people's lives."

She pulled the hammer back and the Courier, seeming undaunted, raised her hands in surrender.

At this, the King pulled his own pistol on the Colonel. The Brotherhood, as a single body, moved their weapons toward her as well. From the streets, a set of large doors opened, white spilling out of Gomorrah. Holding new shiny rifles, Cachino and his men approached, pulling their guns on the NCR from behind.

"Problem over here?" Cachino yelled. He cocked the shotgun he carried, and spat on the ground.

From behind him, Mark II Securitrons rolled amiably up, weapons arm extended. Somewhere in the small crowd, Victor could be heard, "ooooooOOOWHEEE! I sure hope somebody ain't gonna hurt my partner, that wouldn't go so well, no sir..."

"You heard Biscuit," Boone said triumphantly. "Drop the gun."

As it turned out, the shots that hit McNamara were only half as effective as Moore had hoped; he wore a plate of steel underneath his robes, and only two bullets had penetrated instead of the five that had hit. One had hit a large vein in his legs though, and was bleeding dangerously. Arcade yelled for Julie to run back to the Followers, get a proper first aid kit, and he laboriously picked the man up and hauled him toward the Lucky 38.

With the oncoming of Vegas rising to the aid of peace, and saving the Courier, Moore dropped the gun, and Boone's pistol and his menacing glare told her to get out of the way; she stomped off to the side as the Courier stepped forward into No Man's Land, the NCR and the Brotherhood uncertainly still holding their weapons at each other. In the gap of space between the feudal groups, she stared at them.

"Now what do you do?" she snapped, angrily. "Look at you! Your leaders are gone. Nobody is filling your head full of what to do. What do you want to do? Do you want to open fire?"

She turned to the NCR. "Do you really need more enemies, still? After all of this?" Then she turned to the Brotherhood. "Open fire, this will be the first and last time you set foot outside that bunker in your young lives. Think about it."

Even Moore, even Boone's mouths dropped when the soldiers disengaged, some of them emptying magazines, bullets clattering to the ground. From the sidelines, the King's half-smile was back, his eyes twinkling, and the Courier turned a full circle, finally seeing the smirking image of Cachino, who apparently thought things were going so well he'd lit a cigar.

"You don't have to fight because someone tells you that a person is your enemy. You can outgrow it." She spoke to the crowds, and then motioned the balding man forward.

"Cachino!" Oh, how Boone loathed their friendship. "What's up?"
"How fast you think you can get drinks for everybody at the bar?"
"You say it it's done," he replied, shrugging. Then he pointed at the NCR. "No fuckin' fightin'."

Behind their Power Armor masks, the Brotherhood members were gaping. They'd never had the opportunity to live life like this; most of them being raised since children in the bunkers, only sneaking out once every few months. The NCR troops, who had expected a day of bloodshed, were now facing the realization that they were about to get shitfaced with their archenemies of the past who-knew-how-long.

It was an exciting thought.

The Courier's spirits were high that night, both literally and figuratively; she milled about the poker tables, dishing out caps from her, aka Mr. Houses's personal fund to give the Brotherhood members the ability to play, she checked out the bar, she drunkenly stumbled over to the Tops and booked rooms from Jacob and his gang for the new-to-Vegas Brotherhood and the weary from travel NCR.

Arcade even spared a moment to come over and announce to the rambunctious crowd, while standing onstage (a male stripper pressing perhaps too close to comfort) that McNamara was pulling through beautifully despite heavy blood loss. The King and Rex stayed for the early part of the night, then decided to depart back to their native Freeside, the man hugging the Courier fiercely before he left.

Tomorrow morning was the morning that Benny had scheduled the weapons trade. They were almost out of time. The Courier, dismayed at the thought of Benny, his treachery, his secretive nature, his lies, his everything-oh he shot her in the head too-was literally trashed. She traded jokes with both NCR and Brotherhood, all of them laughing uproariously at their tables. Yet as the night wore on and more and more retired over to the Tops, the girl in the pink hoodie stumbled around Gomorrah looking for someone specific.

"Booooooone," she called. "Booone...I know you're around...here..."

She squinted and then realized she was watching a prostitute at an uncomfortably close angle.

"...somewhere."

He was sitting in a corner, holding a beer rather ruefully, and she trip-stumbled over to the stool against the wall. Boone was beyond gone as well, his back to the wall, his head resting against it as well. His long legs were kicked out in front of him, but now she went directly over to him and, pushing the beer aside, plopped down onto his lap, facing him.

"Found youuu."

He had grimaced at the sudden weight on his groin, but now, worried for the safety of his beer, held it out straight-armed, staring at her. "Getoff."

"No. What are you doing, over here in this corner?" She was slurring, but so was he.

"Getoff."

"No, why you here in this corner?"

"Isaidgetoff."

"No."

He tried to glare, couldn't, flared his nostrils. She batted her eyelashes at him. Boone, with his free hand, rubbed his temple. "I'm...too drunk."

"To stand?" She hadn't ever seen him that drunk.

"No," he snapped. "Too drunk for this." He motioned to her, on his lap.

"What...oh, oh, right, we can't. We can't." She said mock-sternly.

"What are we doing tomorrow?"

"We'll figure it out." She draped her pink-clad arm around his shoulder, tracing his ear with her fingers, and Boone closed his eyes against the touch.

"Don't do that."

"But you like it."

"We have to figure...out...tomorrow."

"Hey, you guys can use my room, no use sweatin' it out down here with the hookers," Cachino yelled. The Courier burst into laughter. Boone shook his head, eyes still closed. "God, I hate that guy."

"I think we should go tomorrow."

"What?"

"That's what I think. Just me and you and Arcade. Not try to bring anyone else into it. No Kings, no...nobody."

"Why?" That sounded like a terrible idea.

"There's no time for one," she said, leaning forward and breathing onto Boone's ear. This was more than he could take, and the shattering of the beer bottle against the ground resonated. He pressed his hands to the back of her hoodie, gripping onto the fabric but not pulling her away as he'd intended. "For two, I just have a feeling..."

"A..." he grunted, "A feeling." He did not sound convinced, but then she trailed her tongue down the side of Boone's ear, and he pressed her to him, suddenly pulling her away, his large arms enveloping her.

"What are you doing," he demanded, breathing laboriously. "We're both trashed."

"And we're always making plans," she continued. "We should make plans like this more often. It seems like since you said we can't, all I've wanted to do is can." She flailed in his large arms, reaching for the velvety ears again, and Boone held her, stupefied.

"What are you thinking about," she pressed, digging her exceptionally long legs into the stool, pinning Boone to where he sat, unless he wanted to stand and take her and the stool with him, which would end possibly hilariously, but the man was too prideful to try. Surprising both her and himself by answering honestly, a testament to the alcohol in his bloodstream, Boone said, "My dream."

"Bitter Springs?"

"No," and now he released his hold on her, allowing the girl to fall forward again, this time bringing her head to rest on his neck. From here, he had access to her neck as well, and he indulged with burying himself headfirst, feeling her warm skin against him. He could also feel her pulse, and it was racing, just as his was.

"When you..." she was breathing on his neck now, the warm breath of someone inebriated, and he focused, struggling on words as usual, "...went for a swim back in Griffith, after you fell asleep, I dreamed..." It was the only dream he'd had in months not connected to murder, death, decay or all of the above.

"...about you."

"Tell me more."

"Later."

"Everything's going to be okay, tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah."

As it turned out, the shots that hit McNamara were only half as effective as Moore had hoped; he wore a plate of steel underneath his robes, and only two bullets had penetrated instead of the five that had hit. One had hit a large vein in his legs though, and was bleeding dangerously. Arcade yelled for Julie to run back to the Followers, get a proper first aid kit, and he laboriously picked the man up and hauled him toward the Lucky 38.

With the oncoming of Vegas rising to the aid of peace, and saving the Courier, Moore dropped the gun, and Boone's pistol and his menacing glare told her to get out of the way; she stomped off to the side as the Courier stepped forward into No Man's Land, the NCR and the Brotherhood uncertainly still holding their weapons at each other. In the gap of space between the feudal groups, she stared at them.

"Now what do you do?" she snapped, angrily. "Look at you! Your leaders are gone. Nobody is filling your head full of what to do. What do you want to do? Do you want to open fire?"

She turned to the NCR. "Do you really need more enemies, still? After all of this?" Then she turned to the Brotherhood. "Open fire, this will be the first and last time you set foot outside that bunker in your young lives. Think about it."

Even Moore, even Boone's mouths dropped when the soldiers disengaged, some of them emptying magazines, bullets clattering to the ground. From the sidelines, the King's half-smile was back, his eyes twinkling, and the Courier turned a full circle, finally seeing the smirking image of Cachino, who apparently thought things were going so well he'd lit a cigar.

"You don't have to fight because someone tells you that a person is your enemy. You can outgrow it." She spoke to the crowds, and then motioned the balding man forward.

"Cachino!" Oh, how Boone loathed their friendship. "What's up?"
"How fast you think you can get drinks for everybody at the bar?"
"You say it it's done," he replied, shrugging. Then he pointed at the NCR. "No fuckin' fightin'."

Behind their Power Armor masks, the Brotherhood members were gaping. They'd never had the opportunity to live life like this; most of them being raised since children in the bunkers, only sneaking out once every few months. The NCR troops, who had expected a day of bloodshed, were now facing the realization that they were about to get shitfaced with their archenemies of the past who-knew-how-long.

It was an exciting thought.

The Courier's spirits were high that night, both literally and figuratively; she milled about the poker tables, dishing out caps from her, aka Mr. Houses's personal fund to give the Brotherhood members the ability to play, she checked out the bar, she drunkenly stumbled over to the Tops and booked rooms from Jacob and his gang for the new-to-Vegas Brotherhood and the weary from travel NCR.

Arcade even spared a moment to come over and announce to the rambunctious crowd, while standing onstage (a male stripper pressing perhaps too close to comfort) that McNamara was pulling through beautifully despite heavy blood loss. The King and Rex stayed for the early part of the night, then decided to depart back to their native Freeside, the man hugging the Courier fiercely before he left.

Tomorrow morning was the morning that Benny had scheduled the weapons trade. They were almost out of time. The Courier, dismayed at the thought of Benny, his treachery, his secretive nature, his lies, his everything-oh he shot her in the head too-was literally trashed. She traded jokes with both NCR and Brotherhood, all of them laughing uproariously at their tables. Yet as the night wore on and more and more retired over to the Tops, the girl in the pink hoodie stumbled around Gomorrah looking for someone specific.

"Booooooone," she called. "Booone...I know you're around...here..."

She squinted and then realized she was watching a prostitute at an uncomfortably close angle.

"...somewhere."

He was sitting in a corner, holding a beer rather ruefully, and she trip-stumbled over to the stool against the wall. Boone was beyond gone as well, his back to the wall, his head resting against it as well. His long legs were kicked out in front of him, but now she went directly over to him and, pushing the beer aside, plopped down onto his lap, facing him.

"Found youuu."

He had grimaced at the sudden weight on his groin, but now, worried for the safety of his beer, held it out straight-armed, staring at her. "Getoff."

"No. What are you doing, over here in this corner?" She was slurring, but so was he.

"Getoff."

"No, why you here in this corner?"

"Isaidgetoff."

"No."

He tried to glare, couldn't, flared his nostrils. She batted her eyelashes at him. Boone, with his free hand, rubbed his temple. "I'm...too drunk."

"To stand?" She hadn't ever seen him that drunk.

"No," he snapped. "Too drunk for this." He motioned to her, on his lap.

"What...oh, oh, right, we can't. We can't." She said mock-sternly.

"What are we doing tomorrow?"

"We'll figure it out." She draped her pink-clad arm around his shoulder, tracing his ear with her fingers, and Boone closed his eyes against the touch.

"Don't do that."

"But you like it."

"We have to figure...out...tomorrow."

"Hey, you guys can use my room, no use sweatin' it out down here with the hookers," Cachino yelled. The Courier burst into laughter. Boone shook his head, eyes still closed. "God, I hate that guy."

"I think we should go tomorrow."

"What?"

"That's what I think. Just me and you and Arcade. Not try to bring anyone else into it. No Kings, no...nobody."

"Why?" That sounded like a terrible idea.

"There's no time for one," she said, leaning forward and breathing onto Boone's ear. This was more than he could take, and the shattering of the beer bottle against the ground resonated. He pressed his hands to the back of her hoodie, gripping onto the fabric but not pulling her away as he'd intended. "For two, I just have a feeling..."

"A..." he grunted, "A feeling." He did not sound convinced, but then she trailed her tongue down the side of Boone's ear, and he pressed her to him, suddenly pulling her away, his large arms enveloping her.

"What are you doing," he demanded, breathing laboriously. "We're both trashed."

"And we're always making plans," she continued. "We should make plans like this more often. It seems like since you said we can't, all I've wanted to do is can." She flailed in his large arms, reaching for the velvety ears again, and Boone held her, stupefied.

"What are you thinking about," she pressed, digging her exceptionally long legs into the stool, pinning Boone to where he sat, unless he wanted to stand and take her and the stool with him, which would end possibly hilariously, but the man was too prideful to try. Surprising both her and himself by answering honestly, a testament to the alcohol in his bloodstream, Boone said, "My dream."

"Bitter Springs?"

"No," and now he released his hold on her, allowing the girl to fall forward again, this time bringing her head to rest on his neck. From here, he had access to her neck as well, and he indulged with burying himself headfirst, feeling her warm skin against him. He could also feel her pulse, and it was racing, just as his was.

"When you..." she was breathing on his neck now, the warm breath of someone inebriated, and he focused, struggling on words as usual, "...went for a swim back in Griffith, after you fell asleep, I dreamed..." It was the only dream he'd had in months not connected to murder, death, decay or all of the above.

"...about you."

"Tell me more."

"Later."

"Everything's going to be okay, tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah."

It had been even easier than he'd anticipated; Vulpes was in fact slightly uneasy by the lack of resistance. A group that spent so much time manufacturing explosives had left precious few available for their own defense, however even these left the deep crag of the canyon black, smoky, but offered the Legion a chance to get away scot-free with their newfound weapons. With a cloak better than a cloak of night barring them from view, the men made back through they way they'd came, towards the fort. Vulpes had ambled down the canyon, hearing death and dying all around him, after ensuring the getaway of the Legion group.

The plan was complete, they were already heading back towards home, and the man prided himself in the spread of soldiers, his own tactical work; a large, capable group cocooned six steel-encased sets of missiles capable of wiping out the NCR and everything else in the vicinity, two solid walls of men on the sides of the canyon ensured no one would find their way out after the bomb thieves, gunning down by way of crude weaponry any fleeing Chairman or Powder Ganger.

Vulpes left no detail overlooked, and as he strutted lazily down he was looking for one suit in particular; the suit of the man who had been the only man to escape from Crucifixion. That ugly checked suit. The fox was alone, having brushed his men away, wanting the kill to himself. No one was to touch, acknowledge Benny if they saw him. Benny belonged to Vulpes. Though he wasn't one for blood, at least not when it was on him, the tall man's Ripper was nonetheless his weapon of choice today. In its holster, it swung to and fro, hitting his thigh with each step down the rocky hill. His blue eyes focused on his footing, but he awaited any sound that would tell him Benny was near.

"Figures the motherfuckers can't even keep a business deal," Boone spat at the sight of the carnage. Arcade was speechless, but the Courier's eyes actually watered when she saw all the dead Powder Gangers and Chairmen. She'd never gotten particularly close to either faction, but that didn't mean they were alien to her; in fact, the Chairmen had saved her life once. Plenty of red littered the ground too, and the little niche in the canyon was full of black smoke. Through that doorway of death lay the path to the ammunition. They had to get through it.

Boone was too good for even the smoke. "They've got men lined up along both canyon walls, waiting to shoot anyone who comes through," he noted.

"Legion? Snipers?" Arcade marveled.

"No. Primitive weapons."

"Ah. Idiots. As backwards as their civilization is, they're somehow not above explosive, highly advanced weaponry if it ensures their survival..."

The Courier had no time for banter. Pacing, she thought about what to do next, knowing that somewhere in that black smoke, Benny, the weapons, dwelled. She paused in her shuffling, before issuing her one order to the men; "Take them out from up top. I'm going in."

To argue would be useless, the change the plan on her disastrous. She always led them this way, and it had always worked before. Boone and Arcade branched off to the left, to effectively climb the rock wall and set up a vantage point where they could take out the Legionaires, who sat against the canyon confident in their large numbers and incompetent weapons. The Legionaries were all eyes to the exit of the canyon, and never saw the men coming; Boone with swift headshots, Arcade as deadly backup fire.

Above, as Legionaries dropped like flies and the dim green light of a plasma gun was barely visible through the smoke, Vulpes slowed at the sight before him. He stopped walking entirely, looking down with pursed lips at the man's annoyed expression.

Benny had been shot in his side, his checkered jacket already sporting a bloodstain. He pressed one hand painfully to the wound as he limped. Now he glared at Vulpes. The two men seemed to stare at each other a full minute, before Benny spoke.

"Pretty finky, wouldn'tcha say dog boy?"

"I am going to enjoy killing you. Your stupidity for even thinking you could bargain with the Legion is a crime in itself. The Legion takes all things, we do not bargain."

"Eh, put a sock in palley, you are borin' me to sleep over here with your Legion talk," Benny sighed, waving his hand as though Vulpes's words were nothing more than a buzzing mosquito in his ear. He wiped his brow on the sleeve of the checkered jacket.

Vulpes wielded the Ripper dangerously. "It is not a delicate weapon, but it is deserving to someone such as yourself, someone who sees only his own gain. You are not worthy of slavery, or any death I may offer you."

"My god, are you done yet?" Benny wiped his head on his sleeve again; the smoke was making him sweat in the hot jacket. "You're a real big tickle. Bet you're the head daddio doggie at all the doggy parties. Where the hell you get that hat anyway, coyote den?"

Vulpes advanced. He intended to cut the man cleanly in half, bring back half the jacket to show Caesar, the only one as vexed as he by the fact that this fool, this troll could outwit the Legion and escape the cross. Smiling more than he had in weeks, the smooth voice issued, "You have no green-eyed blond to save you now."

"Wrong again!" came a singsong voice, and Vulpes's advance on Benny was interrupted when a huge machete soared through the air before him, a Courier following it closely. She appeared out of the blackness like a demon ascending the flames of hell, and Vulpes reeled backwards, immediately deflecting another blow, her machete clanging against the Ripper.

The only thing more unnerving that the blasted Fire Man with his crazy eyes and crazy words was his daughter, the too-tall girl seeming to pop up at every turn to thwart Vulpes's plans. He raised the Ripper, the machete clanging off of it again, the feverish recklessness of her attack causing him to think quickly. Thinking quickly was something Vulpes had never been bad at, and so he thrust her aside, instead of countering with an offense, skidding down the steep rocky hill and plunging the long, merciless blade of the Ripper through the center of Benny's chest.

He couldn't afford to fight the girl all day and let Benny get away; Benny was the trophy to his winning game, and as long as he lived, Vulpes would never focus entirely on the imminent death of this girl. So Benny, who was still bent forward clutching the side where he'd been shot, stood prone as the Ripper exited the back of the jacket, choking suprisedly, and then Vulpes just as forcefully pulled the blade back out, his foe falling at once to both knees, then to his side.

The roar of rage that the Courier emitted was nothing less than demonic; perhaps her father had been right in his assumptions about her, for she threw down the machete. Even as Benny hit the ground limply, she lunged with both hands out toward his neck. Vulpes's teeth were bared; he hadn't even had time to enjoy the kill, wouldn't be able to continue his speech of Legion glory to the bleeding soon-to-be corpse on the ground. Yet, here was a bigger prize, the Risen from the Dead. The impact of her hitting him threw them both backwards, though he kept his balance.

She tore his hood off, clawed the thick black frames from his face, and Vulpes, shocked at her strength, crushed her wrists in his hands as he took yet another step backwards. "I'll kill you with my bare fucking hands!" she swore, her voice issuing in an inhuman growl. For a moment she actually succeeded with the threat, her long nails raking his face and causing three parallel marks to spring up on his right cheek, but then Vulpes, wrestling with her enough, used his full force to push her away.

The girl hit the ground hard on her butt, and as she looked up at Vulpes, he expected to see rage in her eyes, hate as in the eyes of her father, but instead, he saw tears. It was then that it hit him, like a summer rain in the middle of a drought. Why she was so oddly, faintly familiar. Frozen on the spot, he recalled the memory-it came far easier than it did for the Courier.

Vulpes, ten. Just a few short weeks before the Legion had came, whisked him away from his miserable life, he stayed with his parents at a Follower's camp. The family was poor, the camp giving, and many children roamed its dusty streets. Most of the people there were Mormon, all were Utahns. Vulpes himself was a Utahn. And this particular hot Utah day saw him getting beaten to a bloody pulp by the other boys. They hated him for many reasons; for his odd eyes and hair, for his shabby parents, for his cruelty to animals, for his quietness, weirdness, his intellect. As the boys beat him to the ground, pummeling him, spitting on him, he could do nothing but cover his head, nose and mouth caked with blood.

Then, "LEAVE HIM ALONE!" and a crack of sunlight filtered through the crowd; Vulpes had peeked through it and saw a too-tall for her age girl, the other quiet one, the orphan who'd came to the camp months back. She held a large bat in her hands, and cracked a kneecap to prove her point. "IT'S NOT FAIR IF IT'S NOT JUST ONE ON ONE...LEAVE-" she swung again, hitting someone with a hollow thudding noise issuing from the bat - "HIM..." now the boys scattered, and her final swing connected with air, sending her spinning on the spot in her raggedy dress.

As the older boys cursed the girl and promised to come after her next while they simultaneously picked up their tails and ran, she brandished the bat after them, using obscenities no ten-year-old should've known, especially not an orphan, and then held out her hand to help the young Vulpes up.

"Are you okay?"

Vulpes, angered, humiliated, vexed, stood up abruptly, and had pushed her down by her shoulders. She'd landed on her butt, and stared up incredulously, not even taking the bat to him for his meanness, but the doe-eyed look in her eyes, the way her mouth made a perfect little "o" and the expression of genuine hurt was written all over her face just as it was now, almost two decades later.

Back then, Vulpes had ran, wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve, cried in some dark corner and plotted his revenge. Now he took one step back, the look on his face gone from murderous to entirely lost. His eyes were wide and his mouth open almost in mockery of her expression, and he took two steps back. She didn't move, frozen to the desert floor, and he knew from the look in her eyes that she remembered him too, at that point, even if she didn't remember the full situation or the details.

For perhaps two more seconds, Vulpes stared at her, and unable to do anything further, he backed up, then vanished into the smoke, never taking his eyes off her. Now the Courier sat forward, looking after him with an even more perplexed look than he'd given her, breathing hard and heavy over her assassination effort and her tears for Benny.

Benny.

Vulpes was forgotten as she turned to him, where he lay not six feet away from her.

The Courier went on hands and knees to Benny, who had rolled onto his back. The once signature white-and-black was now coated in crimson, and he was shaking from shock. Blood trickled from his mouth. She scooted to him, pulling him to her, and embraced him tightly. His blood soaked through her hoodie, and she felt it, oddly cold, against her skin.

"Oh, Benny," she said, choking back tears. "Not this, I'm so sorry."

"I knew you'd come," he said happily, then used what little strength he had to push back. Now her knees were up, and she supported him, cradled him and propped him up on her thighs. Benny looked happier than he ever had, despite his trembling.

"I'm so sorry," she began.

"Hey, hey. Don't...be sorry." It was hard for him to speak; undoubtedly Vulpes's Ripper had caved in one of his lungs, because it was even hard for him to breathe. He spoke in soft wisps. "You already saved me. And now..." he painstakingly put his hand into his coat pocket. "Now...you get to save everybody else."

He put something into her hand. The Courier, lost in grief, didn't understand. It looked like a simple metal box, the size of a cigar holder. She shook her head, signaling that she didn't understand, and Benny clasped her hand with his. Whatever he needed to say was urgent, for he spoke with a quiet clarity. "I'm sorry I couldn't...tell you baby. Too...risky. Had to play the part...too much on the line, yanno? We, the Gangers. We had 'em rig...those missiles they're carryin'..." now he pointed at the box. "Detonator. Boom, baby, sky high."

Now he looked at her with deep admiration. "I knew you could do it. Knew...had to pretend we...were gonna make it. But you. When they hit the Dam...before they do, baby, blow 'em up."

She threw her arms around his shoulders and sobbed, a torrent of tears rushing onto Benny's already bloody torso. At that moment, she may have felt so weak, so powerless, so alone-that's precisely how she felt-even though she held a detonater in one of her hands. Benny's plan all along, to sabatoge the Legion. Not help them. Not succumb to them any more than the Courier intended to do. He'd finally learned to do something for someone else.

More than someone else. Benny had pulled off an almost flawless execution of saving New Vegas. She couldn't control herself, couldn't control all the love and sorrow she felt for this wild card. The pair of them, in turns, had altered life in the Mojave in the same quiet way Nature changed seasons. Through his actions, they would continue to alter life in the Mojave.

"Now listen to me, sugar," Benny said, pushing her back again so that he could gaze in her eyes. "Don't you be sad, or give up. I...let Swank know this mornin'...you'd come...for it." It meant the detonator. "He and what..few boys we got left, they'll help you."

"Benny," she wailed, still unable to do anything but blubber his name pathetically. He seemed to realize this wasn't the time to be a businessman, wasn't the time for talk, and finally said, "C'mere," before pulling her down and kissing her deeply. Though she was beside herself, she returned the kiss heartily, and Benny reached into his pocket for something else.

"Always...wanted you to have this..." he stuttered, his once tan skin now almost purely white. To her, he held the gun Maria. Still crying, she took it from him, and he seemed content to curl up on her chest, as though she were going to rock him to sleep.

"Hold me one last time, will ya?" he said in a small voice, and the Courier wrapped her arms around him in a vice-like grip, not daring to make any noises other than the whimpers which escaped her involuntarily. Not seeing anything but the blur of black smoke-all of it a ruse, a ruse intended to help the Legion get away-she held Benny there in the hot desert sun, both of them feeling very cold.

Benny murmured one last.

"Miss ya."

And then he fell silent, and still. When he didn't move or breathe again, the Courier wailed, bursting into tears again and crying as she'd never cried before, choking on her own tears and refusing to let go of the man who killed her, saved her, danced with her, and gave her the opportunity to save the world.

Not even the smoke, thicker here, could stop Boone's sharp vision from penetrating its black mass to see shades of red hidden among the canyon, and he needed barely any aid from Arcade to take out the entire opposite wall of Legionaries. And though Arcade was not one to enjoy the fighting-he was no Khan-he nonetheless felt a little satisfaction when a man in appeared right beside him and out of surprise, he punched the recruit in the face, sending him reeling off the side of the canyon down into the graveyard below.

"Oh, dear," Arcade said, flexing his fist, a doofy smile on his face, while Boone punched round after round out of his rifle. The girl's plan had been a good one, for now no one remained on the top lines, and they could safely carry through and take over the getaway munitions group. "All gone," Boone noted to Arcade, before reloading the rifle and standing up-he'd been down on one knee to aim better- and now he moved along the rocky crag to the opening in the canyon, where the large group of Legionaries were quickly retreating towards the shelter of another canyon wall, missiles in the midst of them.

Boone leaned against the wall, eyeing them. There were over two hundred in total. "Shit," he said. "I can start taking them out, but..."

He would barely cut a dent in the group, would only serve to make them angrier, more defensive. Would it be better to let them get away, bring back more troops-say, NCR or Brotherhood? Or did they risk the group succeeding in making it to the Fort unscathed? Boone gripped his rifle as Arcade appeared beside him, surveying the moving mass of red.

"There's no way we can even hope to hit a spark," the blond said glumly, standing inches taller than Boone. The munitions were protected by thick metal barriers, bullets wouldn't even hinder them. If only it were that easy. But it wasn't. Both men stared glumy, feeling defeated, and then Boone muttered the Courier's name.

"We need to go check on her, nothing left for us up here," Arcade agreed, and they both turned, making their way back, walking carefully on the rocky surface. The taller man was in the front, the sniper close at his heels. They found the steep trail where they'd ascended several minutes earlier and now went down, disappearing into the now fading trails of grey smoke. All was quiet, or mostly so, except the few groans and sighs of dying Legionaries and Chairmen. Arcade threaded his way through the corpses, but Boone was less prejudice where he stepped, not pausing when he crushed the chest or leg of a downed soldier in red. They scanned the scene, and surprisingly Arcade saw the girl first.

"Wait," he said, seeing her bent over the figure of what was unmistakably the fashionably loud Benny, who lay crumpled in her lap, unmoving. She was crying, holding onto him, and Arcade could sense Boone stiffening beside him, though the man was motionless and wordless. Arcade risked a glance sideways, seeing the steely expression on the sniper's face, then moved his vision forward again.

She'd moved; now she took Benny gingerly by the shoulders and laid him on his back on the desert floor, and with the man moved Arcade could see that the once-pink hoodie was now red-black with blood. Knowing Boone wasn't going to to move anytime soon, Arcade began walking towards his friend. From the lifeless Benny's jacket she plucked a black button, and amid her hiccuping sobs fumbled with it, setting it into the pocket on her beret where the Platinum Chip had been before Arcade removed it.

He reached her, arms out, and she stood, not bothering to bawl into his white Follower's coat. Arcade pulled her close, and looked past her shoulder to the man on the ground. Boone had slowly began walking forward, and was now only ten or twelve feet away when the Courier pulled back.

"We have to bury him," she said sternly. "He deserves that."

Confused by exactly what she meant, since this man had after all succeeded with handing over mass death to the Legion, Arcade nonetheless knew that she was grieving, and nodded. "All right."

Boone was less easily swayed. "They're getting away."

"No they're not." She was trying to regain composure, was trying to breathe, but sobs still littered her face, and when she tried to wipe her face with the sleeve of the hoodie, she only succeeded in getting Benny's blood even more distributed. Arcade, wincing, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. She took it and wiped some of the soot and blood off her pale face.

"What do you mean, no they're not?" Now Boone sounded angry.

The girl holstered what both men realized was Benny's gun. This only made Arcade raise an eyebrow, but it obviously bothered the sniper moreso, because he pushed the doctor out of the way. "Look, I don't know or care what the deal was, but Benny's dead, and those motherfuckers are getting away as we speak. We've got to do something."

"Benny wasn't helping them-" she began, her hand tightening on Arcade's now dirty and bloody handkerchief, but Boone interrupted.

"Stop defending the bastard. He shoots you in the head and you'd do anything for him. And I get to be dragged around while you take turns saving each other's asses. Thank God he's finally dead."

The Courier bristled, and for a moment the glare in her eyes was one of not pain or sadness, but horror and malice, and Arcade took a step back as she advanced on Boone. The other was angry himself, or rather less angry than jealous, but he didn't back down at her glare. He simply glared back, but the woman suddenly reared her arm back and with a loud smack slapped him hard, across the face. Boone's head flew to the side, and he bitterly straightened.

"How dare you! Maybe Benny should've shot you in the head and knocked your memories loose, then you wouldn't be so goddamned miserable all the time!" She brandished something that Arcade at least was interested in, a small metal box. "See this? It's a detonator to blow up the carts when they get delivered to the Legate's Camp!" Now she threw it at Boone, and he actually winced when it hit his chest hard, clattering to the ground. "Go ahead, run after them! You can kill a hundred and lose your chance a killing a thousand."

His face was a mask, the bitter look covering any emotion he might've had due to this news, but Arcade's face lit up, and he couldn't help breathing, "Brilliant."

"Thank God he's dead, you're right, it wouldn't been so much better without him. Who needs Benny when I have you. Oh wait, I don't, because I can't, fucking grand." Incensed, she wrenched off the beret, throwing that at Boone as well. Then the girl stormed past him, further down the canyon, where thirty feet away she promptly fell to her knees and slumped over a rock, sobbing.

Boone's look was now so horrific that Arcade didn't dare say a word to him, but he gingerly bent down and picked up the detonator and beret, passing the sniper to walk down to the canyon to console his friend. Only when the good doctor bent, shoulder on her back, to say his comforting words, did Boone turn and glare at them, his chest heaving. Where she'd slapped him was on fire, and he stiffly walked past the pair of blonds to one of the overturned Legion carts.

"Just where do you think you're going?" she snapped, secretly afraid of losing Boone again.

"Shovel," he said, and surprisingly he didn't snap back at her, but his voice sounded instead wretched, as though he were on the verge of tears himself.

The Courier's grief did not hinder her from making plans for the group; they were going to stay the night back at the Cat, since it was relatively close and since she felt the need to discuss Benny's plan with Swank anyway, and Arcade and Boone followed her silently back to the packed theme park. There was a notable decrease in the amount of manpower there, the Chairmen mostly laying in charred remains back in the canyon. Boone and Arcade had piled them there, set fire to them in one of the desert's only honorable ways to go.

Benny had a been dug a grave by Boone, at the foot of the canyon entrance. It was marked only with a large rock, which the Courier laboriously pushed to the head of the disturbed earth. They left the spooky canyon with its curtain of black and headed towards Benny's lighted masterpiece in the desert, a property owned by Robert House in his human days, a theme park. The patrons there were happily partaking, not noticing the change in management, and not understanding the glum, serious faces of the trio that entered several hours before nightfall.

They paid for a suite with two bedrooms, one of the more expensive properties, and then while Arcade insisted on cleaning up and Boone went to sniff out the restaurant and no doubt the bar, the Courier demanded to speak with Swank at once. The Chairmen that remained and even their women, all friend's of Benny's, seemed to know something was wrong when she had reappeared without him, but Swank invited her in the office nonetheless.

She sat, stonily, and told him that Benny was dead. Several females, eavesdropping at the door, gasped, bursting into tears, and one of the men had cursed. Swank had knowingly shook his head. The girl asked for full details, and the now-head of the Chairmen crossed his legs, leaning back in the chair.

"Hell for sure I'm gonna' oblige ya. Benny told me this mornin' that he thought he wouldn't make it. Said he saw death in his dreams. Was actin' pretty mopey there toward the end. The thing is, he told me about this place years ago. I dunno how he knew about it, probably from the House, but it was sorta his backup plan. Knew about all the things goin' on downstairs. Weapons and whatnot. So when we got set up the original idea was just, bam boom, make weapons make money. But by the time we actually did get over here, Legion's breathin' down our neck. Ain't none of us like the NCR. No offense, of course."

She had put back on Boone's beret after Arcade handed it to her in the canyon.

"But Legion? Man, we're all doomed, we figure. The problem was getting them to believe we just wanted a business deal. Had to play it hard. Benny had to act real pissy, cause of the whole crucifixion dealio. Playin' hard to get, know what I mean? Acted like real dicks there and made 'em want them missiles so fuckin' bad that they paid arms and legs. And they did. They didn't like it but they did. Ben threatened to give that shit over to NCR," here Swank laughed, almost uproariously, at the idea, "Ah! You shoulda seen how fuckin' mad that made 'em.

"Well, anyway, we wheedled around and lucky us, those Powder Gangers knew just how to rig up a radio wavelength...somethin' somethin', ehhhhh, Nate's still down there if you want to ask him how the shit works, but anyway, a remote detonator, to blow them sky high. Benny wanted to wait til the Dam fight, 'cause that's when the blow will hit 'em hardest. Boys all nervous, waitin' to see what tricks ever'body else has, then explosions inside their own tents. Badass. Gonna' be hilarious. But we knew that the red fucks would want to put up a fight.

"That's where you came in." Swank propped his feet up on the desk where, for a month beforehand, Benny had laid out his deadly plan. "Benny an' me, we're sorta keep to ourselves, not so good in big boom fights. He told me this mornin' you'd be the one to give the detonator to, you'd be right up in there with Hoover's fight. I wanted him to keep it here, said I'd find you, but he said he wanted to hand it over personal-like. Glad he did."

The Courier nodded slowly, intaking all of the information silently and with a great deal of composure. She'd cried herself out at the canyon earlier, and now all she felt was a numbness flanked by the dull realization that at the push of a button, she could take out several thousand enemies. She should've been relieved; Boone and Arcade were. Instead she was feeling emotional blanks, scant thoughts tied to nothing, rising around her head like helium-filled balloons. Swank saw this detachment on her face, and dropped his feet to the ground. Now he put his elbows on the desk, lacing his fingers together, and leaned forward, looking all the world like some fancy pre-War businessman addressing a client.

"Look. Ain't nobody more upset to hear about this than me. I argued with him ten days straight to let me go up there instead, hand off the trade. Wouldn't hear a word of it. Benny takes care of business, all business, that's how he's always been. Does a lot of shit that'd...I dunno. Hairy, shady shit, but he takes it all on his own. Long as I've known him-and we been pals since we was boys, smalls-I don't think he ever knew how to help along somethin' that wasn't him. I know I don't." Swank shrugged. "I do business for Swank and the Chairmen, and that was Benny too. But he stepped up and bit a big chunk outta Mojave pie with this stunt. I think the whole mess with you left him thinkin' he was gonna help, and make a good profit. He did both. Benny was a good fella. Everything worked out. We get to keep a free desert, and the Legion did hand over an insane amount of dough for it."

She nodded again, this time pursing her lips, and Swank held out his hand. "Girlie, you got the Chairmen if you ever need 'em."

She shook his hand. "I know your home is here now, but if you ever need anything from Vegas, let me know. I'll make sure you get it."

Both of them smiled at the business exchange, thinking that Benny would be proud of them.

Sure enough, Boone had wolfed down his food and headed straight to the bar, which wasn't a sleazy underground like Brimstone but rather a nice, airy place where several groups sat and chatted while sipping on their drinks. A nice blended drink would've done just fine for anyone else, but it was straight-up vodka that Boone downed, its once potency doubled by the fact that it was, after all, over two centuries old. In minutes, he was gone, and Boone, though not a heavy drinker, could typically hold his liquor.

Arcade only tolerated him because the girl did. And why did she tolerate him? She had been right. He was miserable. He had lost everything in his life that mattered, or so he thought, with the death of Carla and the baby. Shortly thereafter he'd turned away from his best friend and the one person that knew him better than the Courier herself.

Whatever had gone on his life before, it hadn't mattered after. All he saw was death, death in Bitter Springs, death in himself. Boone brushed away the good parts of his life just as quickly as the wind dusted away color in the Mojave. He simply didn't acknowledge it. This was only because of his strong guilt for his own actions and his own self-loathing. He in truth despised himself far more than he despised Manny, or Moore, or anyone else he'd ever threatened, ever argued with.

Boone wasn't much of a leader, cared nothing for it. Now he found he was ashamed at just how much of a follower he was; he listened to orders and killed children. He listened to orders and turned the Khans against the NCR in a way so brutal, it may never be fully resolved. Somewhere along the way, he stopped listening to orders, but didn't stop punishing himself. Boone had followed the girl around the desert, sometimes hating himself for that, too, but too intrigued to turn away fully, even when she'd feigned comradery with the Legion.

He sighed. From behind him, someone poked him on the shoulder. Boone turned and saw the Courier. She'd washed up, her hair long and down as it never was, a simple pre-War dress from one of the wardrobes hugging her lean figure. It was a tan color, plain, as blank as the look on her face. She and Arcade were going to eat dinner; the scrubbed-clean researcher sat lazily looking at a menu a few tables away. There were two empty seats.

"Come over and eat dinner with us." She looked at his unfocused eyes. "You're already drunk?"

"About earlier-"

"Don't worry about it," she looked tired. "The important part now is business." What saddened her the most is that Boone had been right, perhaps, with 'We Can't,' because the fact that she had other feelings for Benny had gotten both of them off focus, created a rift in their teamwork. They couldn't argue jealousy and emotion when the fate of the Mojave hung so ominously on their shoulders. Not if they expected to survive. Like Benny, she had mentionedbusiness. Not pleasure.

"I'm sorry." Boone said it quite soberly, and the girl's blank face turned inquisitive, as she raised an eyebrow and her lips parted slightly. He took her hand, squeezed it, and as she was still suspended, caught off-guard, he stared earnestly at her.

"Well..." she said, not knowing what to think about this. "..Thank you. We're still on for Bitter Springs, right?"

"Yeah." Boone blinked.

"Good. Come eat." She smiled faintly, an almost pained smile. Boone expected he wouldn't see a sincere one so soon after the dismal parting of Benny.

"Not hungry," he lied, and slid off his stool, dropping her hand and heading for the upstairs suite. Boone could barely walk, but she let him go, staring with the same befuddled look after him.

Boone had a slightly bewildered look about him as they ambled about the refugee camp, the Courier pausing to fix one of the children's broken toys as Boone looked out over the horizon thoughtfully. Arcade was chatting with one of the doctors, off on some rant about the proper anatomical meaning of a Latin word, his too-big words lost in the warm afternoon wind to Boone.

He'd had misgivings almost as soon as they entered, requesting they turn around and calling the slightly out-of-the-way excursion off, but Arcade and the Courier both stubbornly pushed him in the direction of the camp. They really had nothing else to take care of for the moment, and deep down all three of them felt it would be a good wrapping up of the long journey of solving past demons.

Arcade had been especially adamant about this, about the whole trip, which was odd for a man who wouldn't even discuss his own past. Optimistic, he waved off the girl's skepticism and reminded her that bigger things lay in their future: the Dam, the fate of Vegas, and those were taking front seat to his own ponderings of his past. And though Arcade may not have had the same demons as either Boone or the Courier, he was twice as reluctant to address them.

Bitter Springs was poorly manned, and so after greeting several NCR soldiers, the Courier set about helping them re-tie tents, organize their supplies. The group was a dismal one, but the morale seemed to boost with her efforts, and soon Arcade joined in to dispense dinner to the refugees. By the time the sun was lowering in the west, the camp had livened up and even snorts and giggles of laughter were evident if one listened.

Boone was in the cemetery, and as he walked past the graves, his dreams all too real now, many echoes filtering out of his mind as though issuing from under the ground. On the canyon wall had long ago been spraypainted a Khans logo, and Boone approached it, brushing the vivid colors and frightful skull with his rough fingers. They didn't like him, didn't welcome him even now, and he couldn't blame them for it. And though he thought the sight of the graveyard was going to bring him even more unrest, Boone felt the place issuing a sense of peace. It was a sorrowful peace to be sure, but it was peaceful nonetheless, and he didn't quite know how to cope with it.

When he reached the tall ledge of coyote tail, he sat on a rock and gazed over the ever-oranging sunset and felt. He didn't really think or ponder, he just felt, allowing the great shame and misery to issue out of him and take up the sacred space around him. Boone's legs were up, his wide arms encircling them, and he didn't move for quite a long time, except to blink. After so long, after feeling the aching and longing growing in intensity and sitting motionless in his almost meditative state, a tear slid down his cheek, and he didn't move to wipe it away. Several more, for the people of Bitter Creek, for his comrades who all partook in the killing, for the Khans who abruptly lost their lives, for Carla, for Manny, for his long-dead father, for everyone he ever knew and cared about that had in some way left him.

The sun set.

Boone was still sitting motionless when she passed the cemetery and sat next to him, pulling her long knees up in the same fashion he did, but she rested her palms against the ground, reclining. The girl looked pointedly at him, but Boone's gaze for all intents and purposes remained on the horizon. He'd finally mastered that look that she had while sightless in Novac, that look that the Legion recruit gave just before his death, that nowhere-expression that for some reason the blind only had access to.

In a voice thick with grief, Boone began, "For years, I've heard them scream. I come here and it's silent. So much death over and over, and all I can hear now..."

Children, playing a game of tag with Arcade and a few NCR soldiers, laughed gleefully. The sound echoed down the canyon.

The Courier looked over the horizon as well. "There was another reason I was so guilty, tortured myself so much, not just because I blamed myself for what happened with my class. I realized it the night I sleepwalked to the lake. I had so many chances to kill him that day. Or that week. When he spared me, I couldn't pick up one of his many guns and finish him."

And now she looked at Boone, who in return pulled his eyes out of that otherworldly place and fixated his gaze back at her. "I could have done it. All I needed was to kill this one person, and I could have saved so many lives. I couldn't do it though, because he was my Dad, and I just..."

This revelation seemed to stir something within the canyon, as the wind rushed eerily by, causing the tall grass to shake as if with anticipation. Now the Courier turned, straightening her legs, to better speak to Boone, and it was with a quiet and somber voice she said in reply to his thoughts, "For those of us that kill, it's so hard to deal out just death. Even if we try really, really hard. I tried to kill Benny in the Tops, and my gun jammed. I never tried to kill my father, and he destroyed the people I loved. You've saved so many lives, Boone, taken just as many. I don't think humans will ever get the hang of dishing out life and death. We don't have the right to do it, so the right way to do it eludes us. All we can do is try."

Boone's arms were wrapped around his knees, but he now unclasped one to raise, to put on her cheek, in that same strangely gentle manner he was capable of. They didn't take their eyes off one another, she afraid to break the spell and he quietly thankful for her amazing words, for her knowledge in this ill-informed wasteland of a world.

"I'll keep trying," he said, surprising himself.

She brightened at this, pulling her body closer and embracing him, laying her head on Boone's chest. He pulled his other arm around her, hugging her to him.

"Can we stay the night?" he asked, resting his chin on her beret, rubbing her back absent-mindedly. "I just want to...stay here, where it's calm. Think things over." It wasn't much thinking, it was all feeling, but either way, he wasn't ready to leave the peaceful cemetery or Coyote Tail yet.

"Mmhmm," was her reply, "Arcade's already got a tent set up."

"I'm gonna stay out here for awhile."

"I'll stay too."

She was tired; had been through more in the past two days than he cared to think about; Moore, Benny, fighting all those Legion and finding him while hungover and sleepless. The girl seemed to realize he knew this, as she snuggled even closer and insisted on burying her head into Boone's stomach as though settling down for a nap. He didn't mind, actually welcomed her quiet company down here in the canyon of ghosts, and as the last rays of orange descended down out of sight, she sank into a still sleep, while he continued to rub her back soothingly.

The Courier was awoken by Boone; his touch on her shoulders was not rough, but urgent. She sat up, confusedly, a dull ache in her back from laying at such a twisted angle, and rubbed her neck.

He spoke with equal urgency. "You need to get out of here. Legion raiding party coming. Looks big."

She was instantly awake. "What do you mean, get out of here?"

"This may be too big, even for us," he said, and she squinted over the dark horizon, eyes not used to the seeping blackness, seeing nothing but a disturbing stir in the canyon scenery. "Look, I don't need you getting killed now. Vegas. Everything." Boone's tone had a hint of excitement in it, but also a note of urgency.

"You don't sound shocked at all," she chided, rising to her feet. The faint glow of Vegas was visible over the horizon, the Lucky 38 looking as menacing as ever silhouetted against the faraway sky.

"To tell the truth, I think this is exactly what I've been waiting for," he said cryptically, causing her to gaze at him confusedly. The truth was, though Boone had come an astoundingly long way over the months they'd traveled together, he had only just allowed himself to feel some peace earlier tonight concerning Bitter Springs and this small window of light was not enough to change his mind over the matter of his deserved death, over his eternal punishment of a grisly encounter that happened on this very hill.

"Let's go," was her reply.

The Legion had already entered the camp from the opposite side, merrily cutting their way through refugees, through the few NCR troops. The Courier used Benny's gun to put a bullet in one's head, eyeballing his shoddy 10mm. It would work until she picked up something better; not a fan of guns anyway, she cared little for specifics. The girl pulled the pistol from the now-dead Legionaire, holstering Maria, and set about her work.

Arcade was visible only from his bright green gun, and the loud curses that issued out of his mouth as he fought. Most of them were in Latin, though, and as peaceful as he usually seemed, this attack on a rather pitiful group had incensed him to the point where he was equally as deadly as Boone and the Courier.

She wanted to focus on downing the men, but had to juggle between that and jumping in front of terrified men, women, children, sick, dying, crippled, who could not defend themselves. She balanced it quite well, one of the most skilled warriors the desert had to offer, and for some time it seemed that the group was going to hold this Legion raid off. Where Boone hesitated, held back, calculated his every shot with the precision that few could manage, she rushed in, fearless and putting her heart into the fight. Killing with gusto, like the Khans. Arcade met them in the middle, going in for precision shots and wounding those he couldn't quite kill with a first bullet. As they kept coming, the Courier's heart soared with hope, realizing that they may have scored another victory, but Boone's demise was creeping over him like a black cloud.

It would make sense for it to end here. The same calming earth that gave him a brief glimpse into the world of peace earlier would finally take his life as he went down defending its honor. Poetic, dark, but that's how he felt as he fought the swarm. It was too fucking dark to see properly, but again reloaded the rifle, pressing it to his chest, knowing that he wasn't going to go down so easily, regardless of fate.

The Courier and Arcade were now arranging, mid-battle, a barrier of NCR troops and able-bodied refugees with a barrier. Behind their rather scant wall, those unable to move hovered, frightened, and both blonds were plucking up weapons, throwing them in the direction of the troops. Most being wounded, others spooked, they nonetheless held the guns up and protected the fearful souls behind them. Even as the Courier withdrew a stolen machete and plunged it through a Legionaire's side, another drew close to the circle and at the shotgun's firing, floundered backwards.

Arcade paused in his firing to give the girl a morbid, sarcastic thumbs up, and she spun to check on Boone. He was south, down the hill, backing up from a group of advancing men in red, firing rapidly, the fire from the barrel lighting up his grim face every few seconds. The men were swiftly encircling him, but he kept shooting, the patience of a sniper one that required self-control. Control that the Courier didn't really have, as she plunged the machete into a Legionaire's back and hurried down to help the sniper.

She'd only take a few steps when a bark, and a scream, made her snap her head back around. Up the north side of Bitter Springs was a tall, rounded hill, which ran at an 80 degree angle all the way up, at least forty or fifty feet. And running up this hill was a raggedy dressed child...one of the refugees. He must've been separated from the group the Courier and Arcade had pushed away to safety earlier. The boy came out of hiding, sprinting up the hill, in the opposite direction of protection. He was young, and thankfully strong, rapidly ascending the slope. However, following him, and the cause for the bark and his cry was a sinewy, ragged Legion mongrel. It was literally swallowing the gap between them.

The Courier jerked to attention, immediately looking back down at Boone. If there was any chance she could alert him to the dog, have him take it out in a single shot...when she glared back down, she realized he hadn't seen. For good reason, too; the tall man was more than busy because the Legion had almost closed the gap between him and the canyon ridge. The Courier then spun around to Arcade, where he jovially emitted another Latin curse shortly before a tall recruit tackled him, the blond dodging his blows and hitting the ground hard. Like a rocket, the Courier shot off across the camp. Even with the gravel providing no foothold, she clambered up the hill quickly. The only thing saving the child was that the mutt appeared to have a slight injury; a spare bullet or buckshot must have slowed it earlier during the battle. Now they were all three at the top of the hill, running along its slippery, gravelly slope in a straight line.

The Courier couldn't properly shoot though she had Maria. The dog was so close to the child that if she missed, she risked downing a refugee. If she stopped to aim, no doubt the dog would go out of her weak range and attack. Her only hope, and this child's only hope, was for the long-legged girl's heavy footfalls to close the gap further until she could hopefully shoot the mongrel at a closer range. She sped up, but so did the dog. It was then that she noticed I hadn't ascended the precipice alone. From behind her, a crack of a shotgun rattled her teeth, and the dust chattered with the shot. Grabbing the beret, she ducked while running, desperate to not get shot in the head. Once is enough for anyone, after all.

Now there were four in this race. Up front, an able-bodied boy of about ten years, breaknecking along the canyon ridge for his life. Close behind, a weary but agile hellhound, trailing in third, a sweaty blond girl in boots and hoodie, ducking at every shot, and last but not least a well-armed Legion Decanus, who no doubt wanted to be the one responsible for bringing down the easily-recognized girl now dubbed the "Demon Courier."

Avoiding this Decanus gunshots was slowing the girl down, and something needed to happen. She didn't know if Boone was even capable of holding a gun at this point. She was not the crack shot that he was, and was teetering on the edge of a fall that, if happened, would likely kill her. She had no time to stop and think, to stop and aim. She HAD to make the shot. The boy's strength was wearing out, though the dog's was not. Then it happened; he tripped, just as another shotgun blast rocked her from behind. The frenzied Courier dodged to the left, the only thing in her vision the huge Legion dog as it rose up, pouncing, muzzle aimed at the soft fleshy neck of the child. When the boy came down to land on his stomach, the dog rose in the air, and she locked her knees, stopping abruptly, realizing that a perfectly still target was just what the Decanus behind her needed. He was still running full speed with a double-barrel pointed at her head.

Her boots slid forward possibly a feet on the gravel, momentum causing her to lurch forward after her legs had locked. While almost skiing across the canyon peak, Maria was withdrawn, the Courier's hands coming together in a wide arc to clasp the weapon. The boy covered his head with his hands, the dog fell through the air, and otherwise motionless the Courier squeezed the trigger as the Decanus behind her shouldered the shotgun, in disbelief at his own luck.

The dog connected with his claimed prize. Twice as large as the skinny boy, his body tackled the already-downed refugee, crushing him. He was dead. Like the cold, calculating Boone, she had hit her mark spot-on, seconds before the animal touched the child. Underneath a dog corpse, the boy screamed, and she fell to both knees, twisting her torso about as the Decanus raised the shotgun a final time. Now she was the boy, and he was the dog, and she was dead.

She found that she couldn't close my eyes-they widened instead, and the last thing she saw was the crazed look in this murderer's eyes as he pounced. Then his head exploded. The corpse crumpled. The Courier dashed out of the way seconds before the heavy body hit the earth hard. Now on her hands and knees, her vision darted down amid the torn tents and bloody bodies. He was there, deep down in the valley, lowering the scoped rifle. Boone stood in the middle of a circle of dead Legionaries.

There was more work to be done. The girl pulled the boy out from underneath the corpse and pointed him to the shelter of the refugee tent where the makeshift guard-line protected those within, and then they both slid down the hill, the boy shivering in shock, the girl using both a 10mm and Maria, dual-wielding and continuing to shoot on her way down the tall slope.

They tore through so many between the three of them that Arcade even got a little arrogant with his shots, but one final wall of red drew up to lambast the sniper just as the blonds exchanged another pair of thumbs up. Now they both rushed down, the Courier spying Boone behind the Legionaries, his twisted snarl deadly, his rifle raised as he seamlessly took out the pack.

The Courier and Arcade drew their own weapons, the girl crying out as another damn dog grabbed her leg and tore her flesh. She had been running so fast that the sudden bite jerked her off both feet, and she hit the ground, clubbing the mutt and scrambling to sit up as another advanced. With so few men in red left, the dogs were running helter-skelter, and she shouted to the group of NCR huddled in front of the refugees, "Stay where you're at! Almost...out of this!"

Arcade had passed her by, now he skidded to a stop and spun toward her. She waved him away and then grabbed her leg. "Help Boone!" she yelled, then grunted as she sat up on her knees. The girl was going to have to get through the rest of the night limping badly, and she didn't hesitate to pick up a shotgun in the hands of a dying Legionaire. He stared at her from where he lay mortally wounded, and as she stood, biting her tongue for the pain coursing through her, she hissed, "Do you want me to shoot you, or not?"

He had been shot several times, hacked either by her or Boone who also carried a machete, was in immense pain. The man on the ground nodded to the girl, who in turn gave a curt nod of her head. "All right." Then she blasted him in the face with the shotgun. And now, hearing the rapid fire of Arcade and his cry, paired with another crack of Boone's rifle, she limped down the hill toward the pair.

Arcade was in front of Boone, and now rushed a Legion recruit. One of two left standing. As the doctor tackled the recruit for unknown reasons to the Courier-later it would be revealed that he'd ran out of ammo-Boone rushed the other, forgoing his gun merely for pleasurable reasons, hitting the Decanus with the butt of his rifle and pressing the rifle to the bloody skull on the ground. Arcade's tackle was no good; though he succeeded in ungrounding the man, the recruit's gun hand was out, aimed at Boone, and he squeezed off three shots in succession before Arcade finally got him to the ground, seized the pistol, and pushed it forcefully to the man's chin, firing for him.

Deadly silence descended across Bitter Springs canyon as the large body of Craig Boone, suspended in air only momentarily, flew gracefully down away from the darkened sky and onto the blood-littered ground.

The Courier tripped in her haste, got back up, stumbled, limped, clawed her way past Arcade, who had already turned and met her shoulder to shoulder as they both ran toward him. The crags were full of loose dirt and gravel, and so it was this that propelled the doctor and his friend forward to the fallen soldier. Boone did something uncharacteristic; he tossed the rifle from his hands as he lay on his back. It was as though he was dismissing it from service. The sobbing Courier met him, knelt, flanked by Arcade. They hovered, blocking the sunlight.

The doctor was shaking as he viewed the damage; three gunshot wounds. One in his arm, one in the shoulder. The third was in his chest. Already Boone couldn't breathe; he choked for air, eyes closing as though he couldn't wait to get to sleep. The Courier shook her head violently.

"No...NO! Not you, Boone, please, say something!"

Arcade was still cursing in Latin, but now in a voice that was almost hysterical. It wasn't the loss of blood. It wasn't the damage done to the man's lung, even. It was something else; tension pneumothrax, a deadly condition when air was caught between one's lung and chest cavity. Arcade was flustered, knew the symptoms, but there was little he could do other than jam a catheter in and hope to god it wasn't already too late. He muttered a few more seconds, then scrambled to his feet, yelling at the refugees. Their entire medical tent was in shambles. But he had to find an Angiocath needle, now.

"Please, please," the Courier said, realizing she had no tears left. Boone turned his head to the side and lifted his non-shot arm up, grazing her face with his gentle touch. But he had no strength to speak. He was fading. After all this time, his premonitions had been accurate. His hand fell. She wailed.

People in New Vegas saw their Founder as a recluse, a powerful yet strange man who lived an even stranger life, having survived not only nuclear war but an additional 200 years. People who had known Robert House in life thought of him similarly strangely in his later days-the mega-millionaire closing his casino doors, walling himself up, refusing both family and friends that attempted to stop by. Though he still donated his rolling millions to his causes, namely the building of the vaults, the fortune of Las Vegas, his work with space travel and robots, the man wanted nothing to do with humanity it seemed.

So when the papers, radio talk shows, and word of mouth began to spread the news that House had finally kicked the bucket, there was less of a sadness than a relief. The overbearing freak of humanity was gone, and especially to those in the NCR and the Legion, they had one less thing to worry about. To the tribals of New Vegas, who already figured House's heir to be the sniper and scientist-toting blond girl, they were intrigued. It had been stressful enough to follow rules set by a bunch of robots and a smiling computer face. Would things get better or worse with the Courier around, someone far more friendly, someone who could waltz into the casinos with no physical limitations?

Some were skeptical of her intentions. House survived 200 years and three months after the girl shows up, he's dead? It smelled like a rat. Others thought the irony was too coincidental; House lives over two centuries, and this girl is shot in the head and climbs out of her grave unharmed? What sort of mysticism was at work none could tell, but crazy conspiracy theories shot around Vegas. With them the new, upgraded and far more dangerous-looking Securitrons patrolled, and the mass continued gambling, drinking, partying as they always had, though now with their interests piqued.

While the girl and Arcade were both in tears over the impossible fact that their friend was alive, looking up at them, while Vulpes was busy crossing the desert with his triumphant stash of weapons, while the King anxiously awaited to hear from Julie Farkas, the fate of Elder McNamara, while all the casinos continued to flare up their lights and noise and NCR, Brotherhood, Omertas and all the rest jovially threw their money away at the tables, nobody had mourned the death of House, who had actually been dead some time when Yes Man rolled out the obituary notes, waiting until delicate Vegas had regrouped itself.

Something no one except possible those like Beatrix Russell, or Raul, or even the space-case Jason Bright could sympathize with was the plight of House, the reason for not only his reclusive ways but his opinion that humanity needed him or would flounder in the darkness forever. He lived a hard life, perhaps one even as lonely as the Courier, an orphan before finding his spot in the world working with his passion. Robots, mechanics, science, all of that. House had everything, and those living in the Mojave in 2281 couldn't even begin to fathom what everything was. They never had what those before the Great War had. The luxuries of life.

Things were clean, bright back then. One could walk into a grocery store, marvel at the vast amount of food therein, enough to feed hundreds. The lights would be on, the floor would be shiny, well-dressed people would be milling around picking and poking at the walls and walls of fresh produce. This way of being permeated into every public place. Movie theatres, theme parks, restaurants. Everyone either had a car, or a bus pass, or a bike or scooter, everyone hustled and bustled and at the top of the crowd sat the beloved, funny, intelligent Robert House. Life was good-wonderful, even.

But he knew, not through some Boone-esque premonition or psychic powers, that it would come literally crashing down. Not because of what he did, but what others could and would do, and at this realization House didn't run, or hide, or attempt to save only himself. The man spent millions building vaults, negotiating with the military. He could not have cared any less about the politics of War. House was an innovator, a thinker, with no time for silly squabbling. Ambitious, he began constructing the Lucky 38 with its laser turrets. The Securitrons. Pip Boys. Everything for the preservation of mankind. He had great ideas, ideas that obviously had worked, for out of the radioactive rubble and dust crawled humans countless decades after the world had died.

But while House worked, dedicating his time to self-preservation and humanity, he knew that he would lose everything he loved. When the bombs fell there would be but a shadow of what he was used to, and even if his family-wife, children, countless friends, some so close as to even be called brother, sister-somehow survived in a vault, they would die later, because there was no sense in preserving them as well in the catacomb of a respirator. So he distanced himself. House could no longer go to parties, could no longer strut amid the classy people he loved, couldn't even walk down the magnificently lit strip without thinking how hollow and empty the world would be once it was gone.

And so he turned to life shut in the casino, spending his last years there with his robots, Victor among them. He personality-programmed several robots with his favorite people, still needing some sad semblance of human interaction, and he ruefully shut himself in his chamber years later, after the bombs had dropped, plotting how to get the lost Platinum Chip. Though his body festered, his mind did so only minimally, for Robert House had a brilliant mind. Past all of the corruption and greed, he soon learned to prefer robots and computers to humans. Not that he didn't have small amounts of faith in mankind's ability, and he did still want to help them with space travel, efficiency, but machines had saved them from the wrath of humans, had saved him, and that was what he remembered while lying dormant, lonely, in the chamber those two centuries.

It is one thing to wake up in a wasteland of a world, seeing only glimpses by way of pictures or posters or books to what once was-it is an entirely different thing to walk in the former, to try and survive without cynicism in the latter. Yet the one man who had done so, and had many good deeds to his name, went without mourning. Even the Courier with her heart, and Arcade with his wisdom, had no time to spare to mourn as they went on desperately trying in a human way, to save humanity. But perhaps they didn't need to mourn. House's legacy lived on, and they among others would not forget it-even people who didn't know Mr. House could see the streets full of color, could appreciate what he did for them. It was a quiet, dim voice of respect, but it was there all the same.

On the Strip, the lights sparkled beautifully, illuminating up the night and casting a glow throughout the desert, and even in Bitter Springs where the trio were now, the Lucky 38 holding its creator captive for all of eternity could be seen across the horizon.

Somewhere in the darkness Boone could hear the faraway girl pleading with him to speak, but he was so tired, so sleepy, he just couldn't muster up the energy. The pain in his chest suddenly subsided, and he felt weightless. Time to sleep, time to die, and he'd lived long enough to know that the group had saved Bitter Springs.

A funny feeling hit his stomach; it was the same motion-sickness he felt when they rode the rail down to the Cats. He was flying through the air, or time, or space, or something. Boone kept his eyes closed, afraid to open them, as the Courier's voice finally faded away forever. He would miss her. Dying hadn't been so hard, not as hard as he always thought. It was every bit as sweet as he'd thought.

The flying-feeling went away and Boone was suspended in a glowing whiteness, the same whiteness that had surrounded him in his long-ago dream of Carla. Though his eyes were closed, he could sense the bright light, and his intuition told him that when he finally got the courage to open his eyes again, this would be his new home. So he did have a soul.

And there was more; around him, there were figures, all standing back, all silent. They were all as peaceful as he was, all dead. Some he knew, some he didn't. He felt the presence of those downed at Bitter Springs, and felt their forgiveness. The spirits of the dead were no more vengeful than their quiet graves in life, and now he could go among them as an equal.

There was no pain in his chest, no weight that bore down on him emotionally or mentally. It was a strange feeling. And yet, he couldn't open his eyes. Boone, dead, didn't realize that the Courier was still wailing beside him, saw that he'd stopped breathing, saw no life left in him, and Arcade had returned with a catheter needle to see the peaceful-looking man as he'd never looked in life.

He wanted to open his eyes, embrace the whiteness and whatever lay ahead of him. His crimes were forgiven. He knew the peace that Carla felt. Someone approached, throwing a shadow over the warm light that filtered through his closed eyelids.

"Are you ready?" a warm, loving female voice issued.

At those words, Boone saw everything. He stood, confused, in the dinosaur at Novac as a pink-wearing girl brandished a shotgun clumsily at a Cazador. He saw the bright lights of Vegas, clutched Alexander. He glared at the blond wearing Caesar's Mark before turning coldly away, he saw her lifeless body float down the Colorado through his scope. He saw them sitting at a poker table, he shook hands with the King. He watched the musicians at the Luxe tune up their ageless instruments, he kissed the girl among missile-fire. Boone watched Arcade contently reading a book, saw the Courier fall into a pit of icy black water, fed Rex a biscuit, saw Mr. House laugh onscreen, felt her hand brush his while they stood inside the dinosaur. Boone saw Jack and Diane run towards him, brandishing Legion heads, saw Manny doubled over in laughter at his remark.

In his plethora of images, Boone saw one final shot; the Courier, his beret perched on her head, her hair billowing out around her, pointed to the side. She was grinning. In the direction she pointed lay Vegas, under a shimmering night sky. She winked at him, green eyes dancing.

He'd promised her, after all, that he couldn't always be there. Reminded her of mortality. He couldn't always be there for her, with her.

In a choked voice, Boone answered the female's question. "No."

As soon as the words were spoken, the suspension in air was gone, and he was in a smooth free-fall, that same gut feeling returning as he flew away from the bright light and spirits, and slowly, as the world fell away, Boone felt his wounds returning. His arm ached, his side. His shoulder, and his back began to throb, and a tightness in his chest prevented him from breathing properly.

He was breathing?

Arcade had jammed the needle into his lung, despite the fact that the man had stopped breathing. Now he was trying to convince Boone's heart into beating by way of compression, his hands together on the man's chest. The Courier lay on the ground beside Boone, unable to even sit up while she let Arcade do what little he could. She was no doctor, but she had seen the lack of breath, felt the lack of heartbeat. He was dead.

The fall culminated, for Boone, into a rapidly painful hit on the ground, and he opened his mouth to protest, inhaling. Arcade was knocked backwards but the suddenness with which Boone inhaled, sucking in air for the first time in several minutes. He choked, feeling frozen, but then his undamaged heart picked back up the pace, pumping blood once again. The needle in his chest, attached to the catheter, was spewing out blood as well, and Arcade fell over himself at the medical miracle.

The Courier, like a zombie, went from prone to sitting upright. The scared refugees and troops were now drawing closer, and the girl splayed her long arms out, fingers extended, afraid to break the spell that was Boone breathing. As the group slowly advanced, and as Arcade tried unceasingly to compose himself, Boone opened his eyes, blinked once, and slid his gaze over to the Courier.

He smiled in spite of all the pain.

Though the two blonds could be ecstatic for a short amount of time, Craig Boone was nowhere near "mostly alive" and in fact was far closer to "mostly dead", so after the initial shock of seeing him restored, the two had to work with all their might to prevent him from slipping away again. They were frantic, they were running back and forth to the medical tent (the Courier actually did most of the running, while Arcade did most of the yelling and more colorful Latin phrases) yet a peace had descended on the entire camp while those who were able disposed of the hated red bodies, and aided the doctor and the other wounded in what ways they could. It was as though amid calamity came a giant wave of peace, the ghostly settlement of Bitter Springs, full of spirits, quietly telling them everything would be okay.

Within two days, Boone was standing again, though he did so painfully and while wrapped up in tons of bandages. He was eating like a ravenous beast, his strong body urging him for more and more fuel to help replenish itself, and when he wasn't eating, he slept, recovering. After the second day, he insisted upon walking, and was able to do so without feeling dizzy or faint. Arcade summed this up to the seven Brahmin steaks he'd had for lunch. The Courier had merely grinned from ear to ear when Boone's withering stare hit the white-coated doctor.

There was still a long way to go, but Boone voiced that he quite badly wanted to be back in Vegas. It was something that Arcade and even the Courier agreed with; and why not? There, they had a magnificent place to stay, established reputations, a civil if a little depraved community, and lots of alcohol. Even Arcade, who disagreed with the morals Vegas offered, had grown fond of staying there, missed his friends at the Fort. The Courier, after her personal adventure, wouldn't have minded staying out for a week partying with Vegas citizens, with Kings, with NCR. Not that those things played as primary thoughts on her mind though: she was stuck to Boone's side there in Bitter Springs, as was to be expected.

They were making plans to leave, packing up what little supplies they needed to hold them over until they got back to Vegas. The Courier hadn't spoken to Boone this morning at all, as she was so busy with saying goodbye and ensuring that the camp had everything it needed. Now, as she slung a shoulder bag onto her back, tightening the shooting gloves she wore most days, the girl pondered the whereabouts of the slow-moving sniper. Arcade was by a tent, and pointed down the hill knowingly. Now the Courier turned, realizing Boone was in the cemetery again, and headed towards him.

She smiled at his back; he was standing stooped over, surveying the canyon with a tilted head. Just as she slowed in her steps, wondering if this would not be the opportune time to save him, scampering footsteps passed her, and the girl looked confusedly at the small form galloping down the mountain. It was one of the refugee children, one of the many she'd played with over the past few days, and now the little girl fled towards the cemetery.

The Courier had stopped now, pausing as the figure tugged at Boone's cargo pants. The soldier turned and looked at the child as though he'd never seen one before. The girl was not fazed.

"Hey...they said you're leaving today. Are you really?"

"I am."

"But why? You saved us. What if the bad guys come back?"

Boone was now facing the child, and the Courier still didn't move.

"They won't come back, not for awhile anyway." Boone's lack of wording ability filtered over into conversations with children, which could be either far more easy or far more difficult than conversations with adults.

"And if they do," the girl guessed, having paid attention to the adult conversation, "We'll be somewhere else then, we'll be in a safe place 'cause we're moving soon?"

"That's right."

She held up her hands, elbows straight, and Boone looked weirdly down at her, not understanding. The girl was smiling hopefully, and the Courier, a slightly dopey half-smile on her own face, explained from the hilltop, "She wants to give you a hug, but you're too tall."

Boone jerked his head toward her, surprised to see her, then glanced back at the child; gingerly, he lowered his bloody, beaten, large frame to one knee, and the six-year-old wrapped her arms around his neck. As Boone patted her back awkwardly, the Courier's smile widened and she crossed her own arms over her chest.

There was hope for him yet.

The child, content with the hug, chirped another thank you to the sniper, and then pranced just as quickly back up the hill. Boone, not able to stand back up immediately for fear of tearing his stitches or hurting himself too much, braced his palm against the ground and slowly rose. The Courier moved forward to help, but the child jumped in front of her, throwing her arms in the air too. "And you, you helped save us too!"

Far more motherly than Boone, and comfortable around the little ones, the Courier at once stooped and gave the child a hearty hug. "We're happy to help. You take care of your mom, sweetie." They parted and the girl ran off, the Courier smiling after her. When she turned back to view Boone, she was surprised to see him so close; he'd walked halfway up the hill. Surprisingly, he held out a hand to her, which she took and made the short jump down the three foot canyon ridge, standing level with him.

Boone faced her, light from the sunrise falling onto his face. "Time to go, I guess?"

"We can stay longer if-"

"No." His voice wasn't as harsh as it usually was, it was softer. The Courier unwillingly chalked this up to the meds that Arcade had once again pumped Boone full of. She also chalked up the fact that he still held her hand, put his other hand on her shoulder, to the meds.

"Okay. How're you feeling?"

"Alive."

"And how does that feel?"

He couldn't tell her how it felt, how the knowledge of knowing he picked life, felt. But Boone knew this much at least; he'd chosen life when he could have given up and died, but at that moment he saw too much good worth fighting for, worth living for, and she was among it. He had barely been awake, or coherent, what with the drugs, and had a lot to sort out emotionally. The patience of a sniper, though, is one of life's most well-kept secrets.

"I'm not used to it...a little lost, I guess." he responded in answer to her question, speaking more than he had in days, in weeks. Maybe longer. At least, meaningful speaking.

"From what you and Manny have told me, you've always been a little lost."

He raised an eyebrow and she smiled, exhaling and beginning in an upbeat voice, "Well, time to head back to-"

She was cut off by Boone leaning in to kiss her, abruptly. Though stunned, she of course didn't pull away, but kissed him back without embracing him. This was only because she didn't want to risk bumping one of his many stitched up gunshot wounds. The hand he'd held with his own was dropped and he instead opted to reach up and cup her chin with his hands, either wary of his wounds like she, or not requiring a closer touch.

First he pressed his lips to hers momentarily, then didn't hesitate to part his lips further, feeling her slight breathlessness as she parted suit, then Boone inched closer, drinking in the softness of her mouth, holding her chin so gently she thought she'd topple over. His breath was swift, his lips and tongue commanding, yet not in a hungry or desperate way. He was instead communicating a strong desire, a want, something he didn't quite understand but wanted despite that fact. He broke the kiss several minutes later, and as the Courier sputtered to regain her senses and remember her name, he stared at her curiously.

Just as she blushed and broke into smile, and Boone's lips were on the verge of curling into his own subtle version of a smile, high-pitched giggles from a nearby rock were heard, and the couple turned to see several more refugee children flee up the trail. Now the Courier's blush deepened, and Boone raised his eyebrows in defeat.

She really needed to hound Arcade about what chems he used on the sniper.

Although Julie Farkas was more than happy to keep the Elder, recovering from his gunshot wounds, at one of the many tents in the old Mormon Fort, she hastily agreed when the friendly, now-stressed Ambassador gave her the option of bringing him to the Embassy. When Arcade had opened the door to the Lucky 38 rather unceremoniously, the Freeside doctor was enthralled that she was stepping inside of a place long abandoned-quiet since pre-War times. Here, they had lowered the bleeding white-haired man, Arcade had ran to the elevator to get supplies while Julie stayed with McNamara.

Shortly after they'd done what they could to stop the bleeding, the doctors agreed that the abandoned casino was the best place for him to stay. Julie was furious at the NCR, while Arcade was mostly stunned that they had the boldness to confront each other, right there on the Strip. Both were sad that one of the few promoting peace and allies against slavers, ended up being gunned in open daylight. Arcade brought down a bedroll and blankets for them, Julie gingerly scouting what food and supplies she could out of the abandoned, eerie kitchens and employee facilities.

And so she stayed there in the dark room with him, coming out to blink in the bright sun and speak only to the Ambassador, several of the younger Brotherhood scribes, and the King. He seemed out of kilter, told Julie he wanted her back in Freeside and so did everyone else. She brushed it off, comforted the black haired man while agreeing for arrangements that would take McNamara to the Embassy, reassured each and every Brotherhood member that their beloved Elder was recovering handsomely. Many days later, when Arcade, Boone, and the Courier were on their way 'home' from Bitter Springs, she prepared to meet several NCR soldiers who would escort McNamara. Not taking any chances, the Brotherhood were there, and the King had informed Julie he'd send a few Kings "over the wall" as well despite the vast amount of caps it would cost him.

McNamara wasn't as restless as Julie would've been cooped up in a tomb for days, but then again, he was probably used to it, so he didn't complain the entire time. The man had taken a total of four shots, though Moore had emptied her magazine. Thanks to his steel plate, the only real threat was the pair of bullets that had torn into his leg, threatening hemorrhage and gangrene. Because of this Julie had forced him to keep his standing and walking at a minimum, and now he was taking his longest walk in a week-to the Embassy. Crocker himself would be outside to greet the man, and now Julie cleaned up the last of the dishes she'd been using to feed them both over the past few days.

She was surprised that Arcade had allowed them to stay here, or that the matter was up to Arcade in either instance; when the tall researcher had asked his blond gun-wielding friend during the aftermath of the battle, whispered the request to her, the latter had shrugged and holstered her weapon. "Do what you feel is right." Arcade was not the one to really take a stand, had his pushover moments but for the most part remained neutral. This was something that had always bothered Julie-his lack of fire, of passion, for helping others. It was as though he felt he couldn't or didn't have the place despite his brilliance. If Julie could thank the Courier for one thing, it was for the changes she saw in her friend. Arcade now seemed aware of his own capabilities, at least somewhat. It was with some form of authority he handed her the keycard and made her promise to not enter the elevators: "you wouldn't like what you see up there anyway" or to allow anyone else entrance. Not that he had to worry. She and her very important patient needed solitude, sanctuary.

The pre-War space could best be described as surreal, she'd come to judge. It was quiet, lonely. McNamara, as stated, dealt with it quite well in the darkness. She brought him from her humble abode in Freeside, several medicinal books. The man read without complaint of the barely-there lighting. When he wasn't resting, he asked her many questions about the world around them-about the NCR, about the Followers. The Brotherhood seemed a topic he didn't want to discuss, so she left it at that. He was an intelligent man, and softspoken as well as dignified. She found the company particularly soothing after dealing so many months with the snappy Freeside drug addicts, gamblers, and wanderers.

Now the Elder stood, insisting on wearing his long cumbersome robes as he exited despite the fact that they were a nuisance. His men and women would expect to see him that way, he argued, and to discard the formalities was assuredly a sign of weakness. So it was almost to the door that he made it, dubious Julie in tow, before he doubled over and grabbed a railing for support.

"Stil a little weak," he mumbled, and she slid into the crevice of his arm and side, supporting him. "Let me help you."
"I must-"
"Having friends willing to help you isn't a sign of weakness," Julie said, and McNamara stopped, turning as she waved the keycard over the reader, the first set of doors locking behind them, the second set slowly moving open. McNamara was gazing at her strangely.

"Friends?"
"Well, yes," she said, seeing his intense stare and pausing, still supporting him. The notion that McNamara had a friend seemed new to him, and he blinked at her several times. The man's innocent, rather bewildered stare spoke to the kind doctor's heart, and they gazed at each other for a moment. She was enchanted by his naivety, he by her warm, loving soul, and just as the white-haired man opened his mouth to speak, someone cleared their throat very loudly.

Julie and McNamara turned, facing a wide array of people. Crocker, a few NCR, at least ten of the Brotherhood, and four Kings. It was the King himself who'd cleared his throat noisily, and now he raised an eyebrow, unamused. "Feelin' better it seems, we ready to do this?" Crocker stared at the King incredulously, confused by his sudden concern with Vegas matters.

"Indeed," McNamara said, removing his arm from Julie's shoulders, forcing himself to walk, painful as it was. He stood rigidly and then stroked her cheek. "You've been very kind to me. The Brotherhood and I will remember this. I hope you'll stop by the Embassy."

Julie smiled. "Of course."

Extremely hesitantly, as though aware that over twenty pairs of eyes were boring into his skull, McNamara stepped forward to hug Julie. She, being one of warm embraces-as noted by the King-didn't even flinch but hugged him back quite heartily, with no reluctance. He kissed her forehead, then moved towards the Brotherhood. They began exchanging 'how are you's' and the Elder shook hands with the Ambassador, NCR eyeing the Brotherhood warily but curiously. The King stepped up to Julie.

"I didn't know you were coming," she said in a motherly voice. The King was notorious for disliking the Strip, preferring Freeside in all forms. To see him concerned about its fate was an oddity indeed.

The King was still unimpressed by the display Julie and McNamara found appropriate for right there in front of the Strip. As if this were the only thing on his mind, he ignored her comment and said, "Whole lotta healin' goin' on while you been shut up in there?"

She was still too intent on helping McNamara to notice the jealousy in his voice, and put a hand on his shoulder, smiling as she moved forward to speak with the concerned Brotherhood as well, give them her medical advice. From behind her, the King frowned.

The Courier awoke with a start, puzzled by the loud clanging she heard. They were only one more night out of Vegas, the trio sleeping out in the wastes with the big city glow sneaking onto the light of their little campsite. When she looked at her feet, she saw a trail of tin cans, which had been suspended on top of each other and the bottom can tied to her ankle with rope. Arcade, who was awake and reading a magazine, grinned sheepishly.

"He did it," he said, and she glowered over at the sleeping Boone, who lay next to her.

She couldn't blame them for wanting to be cautious; and now with the clanging, Boone had awoken as well. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking over at her.

"It's fine, go back to sleep, I'm awake until morning," Arcade decided, putting his nose back in the magazine.

The girl lay back down, scooting closer to Boone, who unhinged his arm prop and painfully settled back into position. She put her hand gingerly on his side, said in a low voice, "How're you feeling?" Not normally one to dote, Arcade had taken serious note of her doting on the sniper since that night they shared sorrow in. Now he lowered the magazine.

"I'm fine," Boone said despite wincing, and one of his hands came unlaced from behind his head to circle her shoulders as she cuddled into the nook of his side, afraid to get closer for fear of hurting him. She closed her eyes, recalling the dream: leering toward her, a man with a hidden face and dog cowl had approached, dodging all bullets-Vulpes Inculta. When he advanced, he lowered the hood and was revealed to be Benny, who then laughed maniacally and shot her in the head.

She supposed discovering her past or no, she was condemned to a life of bad dreams.

However, still exhausted, she was just slipping off to sleep, and could feel Boone's breaths at her side dictating that he, too was falling prey to the Sandman. She took the risk, knowing where his bullet wounds were located, to put one hand on his chest, and Boone sleepily rubbed her back, as though reassuring her that he was indeed going to be okay.

"All right," Arcade said loudly and suddenly, dropping the magazine. He stood, and Boone's eyes squinted open, the Courier rolling from her side to view the man. "I don't care if I have to drag both of you out and put a plasma rifle to both your heads..."

They stared up at him in shock, and he said, flailing his arms, "When we get back to Vegas you two are going on a date! No use trying to argue with me, no point in diplomatic bullshit! You're both going to go out, eat dinner, have a nice goddamned time, or I'm going to throw myself in front of McCarran's monorail!"

The Courier stared at Arcade, then glanced at Boone, who glanced back, then they both turned their gaze back to Arcade.

"I think that's a good idea, Boone, what do you think?"
"Sounds fine."
"Thanks Arcade." She smiled, and the pair settled back down.

Arcade, expecting a fight, dropped his hands defeatedly. "That's it? That's all I had to do? What...well, why...?"

"Goodnight," came the muffled reply.

They arrived in Vegas at dusk the following evening, the Courier heading immediately to the Embassy and seeing the Elder, stooped over in an armchair, reading documents given to him by the Ambassador. They chatted, agreed to meet the coming day, and she left. Arcade returned to the Old Mormon Fort to a very relieved and tired Julie, and they reminisced on his adventures while tending to patients. At night, the trio met at the Lucky 38 and had a quiet, tired dinner, then retired promptly. Arcade had glared at the other two over their meal; Boone intercepted the Courier's hesitant grin with, "Tomorrow night at six."

"You better."

"Tomorrow, six." Boone looked to his side, where the Courier sat. She nodded.

"Tomorrow's great."

Arcade pressed them. "And where are you taking her?"

Boone floundered at this. "Er..."

"Good grief. Do I have to lead you both through this?"

The Courier, looking just as confused as Boone, exchanged a look with the sniper. They weren't used to the concept of a date. Arcade rubbed his temple. "You should let her choose."

"Wherever I want?" The Courier's eyes lit up. Boone almost smiled.

"Sure."

"Ultra-Luxe."

He groaned. She only smiled happily, and Arcade shook his head.

"But they're so weird."

"But I never get the chance to really dress up."

"So what's wrong with dressing up and going to the Tops?"

"I own the Tops."

"Gomorrah?"

"You want to go on a date to watch hookers dance?"

"I..."

The next morning, Arcade sat in the abandoned cocktail lounge, slumped over a drink. The Courier, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed even at 7am, emerged from the elevator and glanced over at his second-tier seat. "What are you-"

Arcade was looking out onto the horizon, or rather, the lower balcony from the lounge that extended outside. He nodded in the direction of the double glass doors, and outside, the Courier watched as Boone, back to her, popped his own neck and then rubbed his shoulder gunshot wound gingerly.

"Ohhhh." She ascended the short flight of stairs and then joined Arcade at the booth, sliding into the seat and pressing her nose to the glass. Boone, entirely unaware that they were watching, began massaging his shoulder, rotating it as he stepped forward and looked over the imposing scenery below. He took off his shirt.

"So this is where he sneaks up to at seven in the morning," she said, nose crushed to the glass.

"I assumed you knew. Honestly all I wanted was a drink, and we needed more supplies brought down to the suite, but then I saw him and thought what the hell. I didn't want to be running around, in his way, so." He motioned at the drink he'd made.

Her eyes were glued to the window. She put her lips to Arcade's straw. "Isn't seven a little early for alcohol?"

"Call it Saturday indulgence. You're drinking all of it."

"What does he do up here?"

"What else? Even though he's damn near falling apart, needs to take it easy. No wonder I have to re-stitch him every two hours."

Boone had slid his boots into the crevice in between railings and was now doing sit ups. The Courier watched intently. Arcade agreed with her, "Though you usually have horrible taste, I'll give it an impressive view. What's your favorite part?"

As they shameless ogled the sniper, the Courier thought intently about Arcade's question. He was speaking physically, of course; Boone had much to be pleased about in that department. He was not only tall, but darkly handsome, with a furrowed brow and undoubtedly luscious lips. His physique was stunning from both the front and back, his wide shoulders both defiant and protective, his arms sinewy, his hands both rough and so tender, gentle, all at the same time.

But she really thought about it; what was her favorite part amid so many favorite parts, of someone who was so outwardly withdrawn, secluded, unpleasant? There was Boone's loyalty. She could only imagine how fiercely he'd protected Manny back in the day, only imagine how devoted to Carla would have felt. Boone had only recently held a loaded gun to an NCR superior's head, not something to be taken lightly, to defend the Courier. He'd shrugged off the advances of a well-to-do gambler to fight for her honor, as well. Boone's sense of loyalty and comradery were out of place in a dog-eat-dog desert.

Then there was his serious nature. She was hardly serious, skipped over potholes and giggled at jokes made by Freeside children, but Boone rarely found humor in life. This was a negative thing only because the Courier longed to see him so happy, but she appreciated his ability to stop and judge each situation, his ability to hesitate and even the patience he exuded while hesitating. It made his every word seem more sincere, more thought-out. Boone had self-control that the Courier wished she had.

Then there was the simple matter of Boone's heart. To others, his heart probably seemed as withered up as the flowers that curled underneath his glare of doom, but she knew that the man loved too much for his own good. Had he not loved Carla, he wouldn't have been so broken, had he not cared about the group of people fleeing the canyon that day, he wouldn't have been so tortured. Boone, like her, took little pleasure in the necessity of killing, especially to those who deserved it. His own heart had been trampled on, through no fault of his own, though he blamed himself daily.

He'd long since abandoned the sit-ups and now worked on push-ups, a sheet of sweat lining his bare back. The Courier's head was almost through the window. She said simply to Arcade, "He really has the best ass ever, doesn't he?"

Arcade and the Courier didn't tire of watching Boone throughout his routine, but decided that an obvious ambush would only serve to darken his scant light mood, and so they scurried off to the casino to make breakfast, the Courier complaining of the lack of light and making a note to find the casino's power supply after they ate. The two spoke of the Brotherhood of Steel and NCR possible truce while they cooked, leaving the sniper alone on the balcony, far above Vegas.

Though many can relate to the reason he had chosen this place as his workout and "thinking" area, only a sniper would see the true beauty of the Lucky 38's balcony. It was the supreme nest of nests, an area where he could see everything and everyone for miles upon miles. Boone routinely carried a scope with him, binoculars as well, and when he wasn't exercising could sometimes be seen perched on the edge of the structure that made Dinky the Dinosaur look like a midget. He surveyed the Wasteland both out of habit and out of necessity.

After he was sufficiently fatigued, Boone sat down on the concrete in a very non-tactical position, bringing his knees up and crossing his legs at the ankles, draping his long arms over his knees and wincing at the multitude of sore spots that shot pain consistently through his torso. Boone was still breathing hard, and ran the back of his hand over his brow, his eyebrows raising in a very non-Boone expression as he looked over the post-nuclear Nevada sunrise.

Everything had always seemed clearer up here, where a strong breeze always blew, cutting out the noise and banter from below. And now, Boone could see things clearer in general, so the view was nothing less than spectacular. He thought not about how the land had looked pre-War as the Courier did every time she spied the horizon, but instead thought about how it could look in the future. If they ever cleaned up, rebuilt. A New Vegas, redefined by the unity of the people who lived in it. It was a nice thought-naive perhaps, but nice all the same, and Boone could humor his naive side now and then.

He thought, often while up here, of Bitter Springs. This morning when he tried again to conjure up images of the bloodshed, he saw only the quiet, lonely cemetery, felt the same odd stillness that now washed over him drowning out the echoes of screams. Despite what he thought he knew, going back there had helped him. His nightmares had turned from countless replays of death to ghostly encounters of a quiet midnight sort, the latter more suited to Boone's enigmatic nature. Though he was shaped by the NCR into a robotic sort of fellow, the sniper had always been empathetic, mysterious, almost always quoting some strange foretellings-in the past few years, of his own demise it seemed-but now he could feel his intuitive side awakening more, that same small cryptic voice in his head demanding that he not lose hope.

A few years ago, when he was married, Boone had dreaded the Legion. Back then, they fearlessly roamed, taking captives and parading around the Colorado post-dam defeat with their heads held high as though they'd just won the battle, not lost it. Now they geared up for a second strike, and forces were conserved. Less parties traversed the wastes, Caesar preferring to save up manpower for his crush at Hoover. Boone knew that many, many people wanted to live through a second Legion defeat, and some who hated the Legion were in the Legion. Even now, his bare chest glinted with the silver recruit coin he'd been given by curly-headed Alexander before his untimely death.

So many people killed, so unjustly. And he was still alive. And for once, Boone was happy to be alive. Things were going well despite the fact that he had gunshot wounds littering his body, despite the fact that Caesar had thousands at his disposal. Even despite the fact that Colonel Moore was spitting fire at him and his friends back at Hoover Dam. He wondered for a few minutes why he couldn't bask in this feeling of being happy even still, even after the realization that he wanted to live. Then Boone realized something he never would have stumbled on pre-Bitter Springs. Through all that happened there, and then later with Carla, and his first born, every bit of emotion he held was stoically turned against himself. He couldn't grieve for anyone, not the countless people he'd killed or his wife and child whom he'd also killed. Boone was too busy hating himself to give them that deserved respect.

Part of this stemmed from his soldier training; showing grief was frowned upon as was showing anything else and Boone was one who mastered the art of the Mask better than most, but some other more psychological part of him just couldn't bring that grief to surface, because it was being smothered by loathing, hatred, regret, ten thousand other feelings that didn't have names. In the peace of the grey morning, with no sound in his ears but the wind, Boone thought about Carla, thought about each and every face in the canyon. He didn't see the battle in his eyes, didn't see Carla's head through a scope. Instead, he pictured her at their wedding, giddy smile on her face, saw the somber and sleepy cemetery.

With his eyes finally fixed on that point in the horizon that both the Courier and the Legionaire Alexander had been able to see, some faraway forever that loomed above the stretch of Mojave sky and sucked one's soul away from body and halfway into it, leaving one's soul suspended mid heaven and earth, Boone let tear after tear slide down his face. He didn't move or wipe them away, but sat just the same as he had been while he finally, finally mourned all the loss in his life.

It had happened; she couldn't decide what to wear. The Courier had her head in a wardrobe, a gold dress on, two different black heels on her feet. After raiding her "nice" clothes, she turned to the wardrobe on the left, figuring it wouldn't hurt to try. This was her own private "trophy" closet, which contained clothes she never actually wore unless a situation called for it, articles she'd gathered in her travels. The Legion suit she'd worn while getting shot was in the closet, as well as the denim jacket given to her by the King. She actually laughed despite her nerves and butterflies when she realized that in the shoe rack of the wardrobe, a huge Centurion hat lay. She'd taken the helmet for its sheer cool look long ago after getting on the bad end of a small traveling party.

Now she put it on her head; it seemed oddly fitting with her gold dress. Not bothering to change out of the separate shoes, she waltzed from the room and struck a pose in the study doorway. Arcade, reading the paper, looked over his glasses disapprovingly. Boone, busy applying chalk to a pool cue, raised an eyebrow.

"What do you think?" The helmet's fan spanned at least a foot.

In a very non-Arcade voice, the doctor snapped, "Go take off that ridiculousness immediately. It's insulting." He sounded less like a friend and more like a very disapproving older brother. Maybe even a dad, the way he glared over the black frames at the Courier. She slumped her shoulders when she realized Boone was gazing at Arcade with a look of surprise and awe, one of the few times the sniper showed any favor towards him at all. As Arcade glared and Boone gave the Boone stamp of approval in the white-coat's direction, she stomped sulkily out of the room.

Twenty minutes later she returned, sans-helmet, with matching black heels and a black lace dress; the layer underneath was a dark crimson. She wore black fingerless lace gloves with the outfit, which she'd found in one of the Lucky 38's hotel rooms. Her hair was down and wavy, longer now than it had been before. It brushed inches past her shoulders and hit the middle of her bare back. When Boone exited his own room, she had to fight to keep her jaw from dropping, while he did the same. He was in a simple black suit, no tie, but a jacket that silhouetted his large frame-also taken from a hotel room. His white undershirt was buttoned up, ironed perfectly, suiting someone who was in the military for so long.

They gaped at each other, both of them cleaning up impeccably well, and as she stepped up to Boone and he tried to remember how to tell someone they looked nice, beautiful, Arcade interrupted from the doorway of the study. "Really? You can't take off the berets even now?"

Boone glared over the girl's shoulder, the misty-eyed expression he'd been saving for the Courier diminished. She turned to Arcade as well. "No, he's rubbed off on me," she grinned. Arcade made a disappointed noise and slammed the door, disappearing into his newspapers once again. He'd actually been waiting for them to leave, because as he'd told the Courier over lunch, he found a written memoir from House on the terminal-House post-war, House dictating into text form his own efforts at rebuilding Vegas-and Arcade believed these were key in maintaining the independence of the area. He wanted to go up to the penthouse and peruse through them, but had been waiting on the couple to scram.

They scrammed, heading out onto the busy Strip and drawing eyes along the brightly lit streets. The two could not have been more awkward, Boone just awkward by nature and the Courier feeling very out of sorts all dressed up and with her assumed bodyguard as her date. Usually they lazily strutted around the Strip together, looking carefree even if the situation was tense, but tonight they both looked more rigid than normal. Nonetheless, nobody could argue the couple's good looks, or the fact that they complimented each other so well. Both were tall, he classically masculine, she resembling some tall feminine Elven princess. His skin was bronze in the spirit of a weathered Mojave soldier, hers was pale and ivory thanks to years of living in the snow and subsequently bundling up until one could only see her eyes. Though they may have looked nervous, they both walked pridefully, and turned heads through the city in their matching red and black, looking like the King and Queen from a deck of cards.

When they got to the casino, it was actually Boone who made the plans-she couldn't discern whether this was his tactical nature once again taking charge or if he felt some obligation as the man on the date to lead the way-bar, dinner, gambling. The usual order which put dinner first was shrugged off by both of them as they suddenly felt that alcohol would improve the awkwardness of their situation. Also, they'd arrived at five, and dinner at the Luxe was a large affair that didn't start until eight anyway, so they had plenty of time to kill.

After the first round of drinks though, before they could even strike up some forced conversation, a doting White Glove stopped by, gave them complimentary cocktails, assured them dinner was free, asked if they'd visited the bath house, the large indoor pool. Of this last remark, Boone was outwardly skeptical, but the Courier always felt like exploring and accepted the offer the man gave to lead the way. She dragged the sniper away from his shots though he did have time to down two more, and they made their way through the luxurious casino, still drawing eyes. The White Glove Society could now in theory call the Courier their boss, as House's death was known and she was the heir to the Lucky 38, but they looked on her more as a celebrity than their boss. The group appreciated anyone who could fit into higher society, and despite the girl's poor upbringing, she fit seamlessly and attracted crowds with her performances.

So they were given access to the bathhouse complimentary, of course, and handed freshly folded towels and graciously turned over to the attendants of the large facility. Obviously, neither of them intended to swim, but Boone was doubly dubious at the sight of swimmers and loungers. He stood by the doorway, crossing his arms as if to say he disapproved while the Courier weaved around, marveling at the architecture. The Ultra-Luxe was the finest hotel, and reminded her of a castle with all of its weaving corridors and hidden rooms. The theatre itself was a great find, and this luxurious pool added to her favoritism of the place. She scampered around the crowds while Boone grabbed another drink from a passing waiter. Just as he saw her finish her round of exploring and suggested they go back to the bar, the girl went into a door to the right of the entrance, and he sighed after her.

"Are you done-" Boone stopped at the sight of the room; it was foggy, steamy, humid. He decided the best course of action was to down his drink, and the Courier poked her head out of the fog moments later. She gestured. "It's a sauna!"

"What's a sauna?"

"Errr..." she didn't rightly know. She'd only read about them. Benches lined the wall, one swimmer sitting back against it, eyes closed. Now she tried to recall what she did remember about them. "They're used for...health purposes? They..." She was good with science, with medicine, thanks to her quest for knowledge on her father's 'miraculous' survival, but the exact idea of what a sauna did was lost in the haze of fog and the fact that Boone was glaring quizzically at her, drink in hand.

She did remember, despite the distractions, that it was supposed to be a relaxing place (the lounging stranger was a testament to that) where massages were often given in a therapeutic setting. As if to test this theory, while Boone was mid-sentence on giving a reason why they should leave the room and indeed the bath house itself, she raised her hands to his shoulders and began massaging. Boone tensed, and she did a half-circle, coming to stand behind him and continued the deep rhythm on his shoulders.

He hadn't, surprisingly, flinched or turned away, but now he seemed even more on guard.

"What the hell are you d-" Boone couldn't finish his sentence; the massage felt too good and she smiled a little naively, unaware of just how good it felt.

"They are used for massages, saunas that is," she clarified. Their speech was either drowned out by the classical music on the speakers, or the recliner wasn't bothered by their close encounter, for he continued to relax by them. Boone said halfheartedly, "Stop."

"Why? Your shoulders are really, really tense. When's the last time you had a massage?"

"Just..."

He was melting. Although she didn't know it, couldn't know it as she couldn't see the look on his face, the way he was locking his jaw or closing his eyes in bliss, the Courier had just found the secret to Boone's undoing. He'd never actually had a proper massage, only self-administered or pre-pop massaging by back doctors from the NCR. Carla wasn't the type to massage, so Boone had never even asked. Now he forgot what he was saying, and forgot the drink in his hand.

"Just what? Lower?" She didn't want to risk hurting him; after all, he was little more than a human pincushion with still-healing gunshot wounds. But at the same time, she didn't mind the feel of his hard muscle underneath the jacket at all. She was tall enough, in the heels, that she could lean up and put her chin on his shoulder, which she did now.

"Bar." Boone's usual low speech ability had fallen down the toilet even faster thanks to the massage. She nodded, and they left, him downing the drink and tossing the glass unceremoniously onto the tray of a nearby White Glove, the man's indignant look lost under the mask. Boone made a mental note before he got wasted that he would, one day when this mess at the dam was all over and when he didn't have bullet wounds rifling his body, ask for a proper back massage from the Courier. Just the spare few seconds of kneading his muscles had made him weak-kneed.

Thought stored safely and tucked away in his mind, Boone could now focus on drinking with his best friend.

Craig Boone was not a religious man despite his pondering of some repercussions in the universe, some idea he had about karma. After tonight, he just might consider the worship of alcohol, though. It had always brought him more good than bad, admittedly, but tonight the good outweighed the bad by light years. He sat on a stool at the blackjack table, good-naturedly playing a game he didn't have a poker-face advantage in, one he relied on the cards for far, more than his own unreadable expressions. To his right sat a tall gambler named Brice, and farther down a giggly girl named Dawn. The dealer was an of course polite and gracious White Glove named Susanna, and Boone didn't mind her so long as he didn't look at her creepo mask. On his left thigh was perched the also very-drunk Courier.

"Not taking any chances on someone else flirting with you," she'd said after her whiskey with cola, recalling the long-ago event in which she'd displayed horrendous jealousy over another woman's advances. Not like she had anything to worry about, as Boone even though to himself that he was ogling her too openly. Even last time he'd not so much as blinked at the other woman, snubbed her actions. And how close had he and his companion grown since then?

Apparently close, because she hadn't left her seat on his lap, looked quite comfortable swinging her legs and chatting with the other gamblers in the friendly tones Boone could never manage despite his best efforts. So he contented himself with the now-and-again comment in the lighthearted conversation, and the blackjack table. Though they'd only been playing a short while, the Courier already had several fans approach, recognizing her either as the "Courier Risen from the Grave" or as the "White dress soprano" from the shows she still made appearances at.

Boone took all the attention on the Courier, which had become routine by now, in good humor, but he did give dark warning glances to those who approached ogling her the same way he did. It wasn't that she didn't look worthy of their stares, but Boone had always been protective of her, and maybe now he was jealous in the same way she had been, of him. Either way, he did realize something unrelated to his own glowering look at the men eyeing the Courier. Of them, many were sleazy, but others were rich, or else handsome or friendly, and extending out of the casino and all over the expanse of the Southwest, all potentials for her to go enjoy drinks and cards with, but it was herethat she was, and she wasn't here with Boone on one of their many obligatory missions or with him because he was good backup.

She leaned toward him, nestling, offered her whiskey and nuka-cola, which he took and drank from, and he marveled again at her closeness to him. He wasn't the Arcade of straight men, he wasn't someone witty or intelligent or outwardly sympathetic or well-versed in an ancient Dead language, wasn't understanding or romantic. He was Boone...he was the grouch, the ex-soldier, the one the Khans lovingly referred to as "a fucking murderer" when the Courier wasn't within earshot. Boone could've, if sober, wasted time wondering why it was he who got the girl on his lap, or why a million other things, but instead he just passed the minutes feeling happy about it in his subdued Boone way.

That is until the loss of alcohol interrupted both their happy moments, and the dealer, ever one to please, suggested a slight intermission for the card players while she restocked the deck and chips. Brice shrugged and headed towards the restroom while the Courier slid off Boone's lap and he stood. Together they headed for the brightly lit bar, and the only thing on Boone's mind was food and drink. "Appetizer," he said simply, and she responded, tapping a finger on her chin.

"Do they serve those at the bar?"

"We still have awhile before dinner. Starved."

"You're always starved."

"So that means I'm starved now."

She scoffed, but then almost immediately moved in closer, and in an on-guard sort of way, not an intimate one. The Courier put her hand on Boone's shoulder, and he dipped his head as she said in a low voice, "Boone...over there. Those men have guns?"

He glanced where she was motioning subtley with the tilt of her head. The men looked undoubtedly out of place with their farmer shirts, cowboy hats, shotguns. Boone scoped out the room; everyone else was giving the strangers curious looks but no one appeared alarmed, and the staff in their creep masks looked just as impassive as ever. But then Boone noticed another newcomer sitting at the bar, looking rather miserable, and the Courier voiced his own opinions, leaning closer to him.
"The guy at the bar...they're protecting him."

Both of the Mojave wanderers really were drunk and didn't quite need another drink, but as they were both the curious type-she more than he-and thirsty, they approached the bar anyway. The Courier took the empty seat next to the man in the cowboy hat, who threw a sour look over his shoulder at her and Boone. The latter preferred to stand, feeling that he both needed to be on guard should this random encounter end up disastrous, and also because sitting and standing was getting inevitably harder the more drinks he had. So while she sat, spinning on the stool to face the sorrowful stranger, Boone put a hand on her shoulder and leaned his elbow on the bar, ordering another round.

"So...what's the story? Got a name?" she was even more charming, if slightly slurry, when she was drunk. The stranger obliged.

"Name's Gunderson...Heck Gunderson. I lost my boy." He looked near tears, and Boone grimaced at the thought of a display of emotion from such a hardened man, but the Courier put one hand exaggeratedly to her chest, taking his hand with the other.

Oh god. Not tonight. Not the one night they could just fuck around and blow caps and get wasted. The one night they could do that, and her damn bleeding heart was reaching out to some old man's son who was lost in who the fuck knew whe-

"...the hotel somewhere," Gunderson had finished, and the Courier looked beseechingly at Boone from her stool as the bartender slid their drinks to them. Boone glared down at her as Heck Gunderson finished, "I'd be so...so obliged."

He didn't break his glare.

"Don't give me those eyes."
"Pleeeeease. We've got...to help." She spun around in her seat and then stood, standing up and pressing against Boone. Though this was almost too much, he retained discipline.

"Not going to work."

"But Boone...what if we just look really quick before dinner, gamble after?"

"I know you. You'll turn every rug over until we find the kid."

She grinned, knowing this was true, and then put her hands on Boone's shoulders again.

"What if I promise you we'll make it back before dinner aaaaaaaand" she was so drunk she teetered on the elongated word, "gave you a proper massage. Tonight. At home."

Home. Was that what it was?

Boone glanced past the gorgeous blond to the pitiful man in the cowboy hat, and she began kneading his shoulders again, to which he closed his eyes.
"Fine."

Heck Gunderson's son went missing hours earlier. He had to be somewhere inside the hotel, according to the father. And Gunderson himself earned at least minuscule sympathy from Boone because the cowboy was certain the white-masked weirdos had something to do with the mysterious disappearance. The Courier and her drunken date headed toward Mortimer for information, someone Boone knew only as a real stuffy bastard in a top hat. While they were walking to his area, the girl's drunken intuition matched Boone's wariness.

"I just..I just think this has...you don't think the rumors are true..."

"I dunno," he sighed in his deep voice, pulling her forward when she tripped over a step.

"Dff-thanks-I just feel like..." Mortimer stood at his desk, helping a customer. The Courier put a hand on Boone's arm.

"Let me talk to him." Her intuition, uncanny enough that had she lived pre-War one would call it "cop intuition" was enough for Boone to shrug and focus his attention on a fountain in the opposite direction, while she straightened her hair and smoothed her dress to make a good impression on Mortimer, no doubt probably about to flatter him, use her female powers to make hi-

Boone turned to glance after her-she was still standing in place, pushing up her chest. He ogled.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"They...adjusting them, if you must," she replied, as he turned eight shades of crimson.

Now she pushed her breasts together happily and Boone snapped, "Stop it," glancing around to make sure no one had noticed the strangely arousing act.

"They look much better," she decided merrily, ignoring his tone, and he was stony faced in reply as she surveyed the view from above. Extra cheeky thanks to the alcohol, the Courier shook her shoulders and said with no measure of intimacy, "Don't you think?"

It was a good thing his tan hid his blush, still the sniper was red. He actually couldn't answer this one, not because he had no words, but the stern chastising words he'd intended on issuing were stuck in his throat, and he could only stutter, "I...you, I-"

"Yeah, you think so," she waved dismissively, and approached Mortimer's desk. Now that she and those weren't in his line of sight, he stared at her back and shook his head dismally. Without a doubt, underneath the pretty combed hair and immaculate dress with now adjusted cleavage, she was still a nut.

Mortimer was indeed charmed by the Courier, and she was actually quite uncertain of her exact words that led him to speak so sadly about the missing Gunderson. She chatted on with the same charismatic demeanor she'd grown famous for, and on a whim, decided to test her earlier theory.

"I know of the Craving," she said seriously, referencing the cannibalism commonly practiced within the old Tribe. This was something she knew she could be killed for, well maybe not killed because the White Gloves were pussies who carried around canes like a pack of grandpas, but still, she knew it was a risk to speak of. Mortimer responded beautifully.

"Then you'll know," he said in desperate tones, "What an ordeal I'm facing." When Mortimer confided to the woman with the comforting-looking bosom, she tried to put on what she hoped was a sympathetic face. Though intoxicated, she knew the seriousness of the situation. Mortimer's men had put Ted Gunderson in the freezer. He was to be the White Gloves' dinner. Either she made really excellent sympathetic faces while drunken, or Mortimer was staring blatantly at her chest and not her face, as he told her of Heck Gunderson's fearsome wrath. How if he found out, everything was going to go so terribly. How they needed to have someone for dinner and return the young man safely back to his rifle-toting father.

The Courier was not a brash woman, typically; even when fraternizing with the enemy she retained a coolness unheard of and could cleverly lie and get away with it, a talent she'd taken advantage of on many occasions. She didn't mind the lies themselves, for they were always used to help people in some way, but every now and again the woman grew disturbed with the advances and lack of limit her manipulative nature extended to. He was at the moment attempting to persuade her to kidnap a replacement for Ted, a young man whose name she didn't bother to listen to while Mortimer fussed. Someone who lived outside the city limits.

She propped one elbow up, furthering the chest view. The girl gestured towards Boone, who at the moment had dropped his glasses into the fountain.

"What about my friend over there?" she inquired coyly.

Mortimer glanced over her shoulder. Boone had taken off his jacket and now rolled up one shirt sleeve, muttering curses, and fished in the glistening waters. The Courier's eyes were on Mortimer, whose eyes were on Boone's rippling bicep.

"Hmmmmm..."

With a triumphant splash, Boone pulled his arm from the fountain, glasses in tow, then dropped them again.

"Fuck..."

"Little rugged..." Mortimer decided. "Gamey even, but I suppose he'll do quite nicely."

Boone punched the water in frustration.

"His meat is of the finest quality," she said seriously, then as Mortimer ducked underneath his desk to unlatch the kitchen key and hand her a weapon, she stifled the biggest laughing fit of the decade. His meat was of the finest quality and the girl didn't recover in time for Mortimer to resurface, so she quickly turned her laughs into coughs.

"My goodness, are you all right?" Mortimer inquired as he slid the key over.

"Yes...yes, my apologies," she gasped, wiping away a tear.

From behind them, Boone had succeeded in withdrawing the shades and was now air-drying them by flinging them wildly to and fro-they slipped out of his hands and disappeared into the flora, the large indoor fake trees the casino boasted. As they exited, an "ow!" was heard from a gambler on the other side. Boone frowned.

This was better than wandering around turning over planters and couches, she tried to convince him, as Boone drunkenly stumbled around the bush and snatched his sunglasses away from the confused-looking gambler who held them. He put them on, then realized they were still wet, and finally contented himself with tucking them in his jacket pocket. This had weight, they had something to do. A mission, a very serious one, in which they would have to both delicately appease Mortimer and his men, secretly return Ted Gunderson to his father, and later expose Mortimer for what he truly was at the White Glove dinner party-which the Courier had been invited to weeks before, as she was both revered by the casino and technically their flesh and blood boss.

And as they arm-in-arm, heads together decided that step one of their plan was to get into disguise, heading for the nearby elevators, the Courier tripping again and Boone catching her, she broke the intense conversation to say, in a hushed voice, "Boone, did you know...your meat..."

"My what?"

The elevator opened. She was overcome with the giggles. Boone was not amused and feigned the most serious face he could muster with his friend doubled over, now laughing uncontrollably. When the ding signaled their empty ride, he dragged her into the car and pressed the close button forcefully.

"Your meat..." she gasped.

"What the hell-"

"...is of the finest quality. Did you know that? Mortimer wants to...eat your meat..."

They had to knock out or otherwise incapacitate two White Gloves and don their outfits, complete with mask. Boone was not happy about the task, too drunk to care enough to protest, but this?

"I don't get-"

"He wants to cook you."

"Oh." Well that wasn't so- "WHAT?"

"Relax," she cooed, as the car halted. "We're not going to cook you."

"Well I'd assume not. Just what the hell did you SAY while you-WILL YOU STOP DOING THAT."

She had been adjusting the cups again, rather innocently juggling the pair of -

"But Boone...just know. Your meat is of the finest quality."

"Stop." He pulled her wrists down and glared at her. Just as he was opening his mouth to say more, he looked up and realized that a large group of gamblers, freshened up from their hotel rooms, were standing in the hallway waiting on the elevator and now stared at the pair with astonished faces. Boone blushed, again, and the Courier craned her neck to see them with Boone still holding onto her wrists.

"Oh hello there," she said.

"Hey, you're that singer in the really big theater," one boy commented.

Boone let go of her, spun her around, and put both hands on her back, pushing her out of the elevator. She moved reluctantly, shaking hands and smiling at the still-confused group as they emptied out of the hall and into the elevator. When the door closed, Boone sighed with relief and the pair moved expertly to a darkened corner, where they slid into an alcove shared only with a large indoor plant.

"So what do we do now?" she whispered loudly.

"Wait for someone to come by that we can ambush," he growled. "Take their outfits." They'd get nowhere with someone recognizing the Courier every five seconds. She needed a damn mask. And that meant he did, too.

"Well dress, it's been fun," she said, and as she raised her hands up once again toward her chest, he slapped them away and covered her cleavage protectively.

"I'm getting sick of you doing that," he snapped.

She only stared at him in the dark. He glared menacingly, but then looked down and realized he was pretty much holding her -

"Goddammit."

She grinned.

He dropped his hands.

She kissed him swiftly, leaning through the branches of the indoor plant and embracing him while she unceremoniously forced her way into his mouth, an aggressive kiss which left Boone's eyes wide open for a moment as he gaped and flailed, then just as he found himself and decided to return the favor, she pulled away.

"Goddammit," he repeated, breathing heavily.

"Just know," she said, poking him in the chest, "He called you rugged, and I said your meat was the..."

"Finest quality," he finished lamely, hearing footsteps in the corridor.

Arcade was dressed in tails, a glass of wine in his hand, Bach blaring out of the speakers of the penthouse with such ferocity that the glass was shaking. Now he settled down on a large armchair in front of House's once-control monitor, Yes Man's big stupid face smiling sappily down at him as he kicked his feet upward, propping them onto the counter.

"Robert House, though I do not know much about you, I do know you had exquisite taste in both wine and music," he said jovially. The doctor stretched, yawned, took a sip of wine, and then began conversing with the too-eager robot. "Yes Man, I'd like to see House's documentation or journal entries concerning the building of New Vegas after the war. Anything pertaining to the organizing of the Chairmen, White Gloves, or Omertas. In addition, whatever you can find out about the organizing of Freeside and surrounding areas."
"Got it, sir! Right away," Yes Man said, and continued to stare dumbly at the devastatingly handsome Arcade. Although his existence at the moment was lonely and even humorous, considering he planned to get trashed and perform research, Arcade was content, for no company was better than bad company, and he had the casino to himself to enjoy. Not that he minded the Courier or even Boone, but Arcade was a solitary genius at heart, loved the reclusiveness that House had also thrived in.
Little did he know how disrupted his night was going to get also.

"I need another drink," Boone said untruthfully-not that he didn't mean it in earnest, but the point was no, he did not need another drink. He tried to overpower the male White Glove with minimal force but the motherfucker kept beating Boone with his cane, as though this were not a fight between two built men but one old man and one annoying dog, so that Boone finally punched him in the face. The man was knocked cold, and Boone had dragged his body into the men's restroom, reluctantly redressing and now standing in front of the mirror, beret in coat pocket. He adjusted the buttons on the jacket, staring back at the white mask that now covered his entire face. He was snarling, but to anyone else he looked just as blank as all the other creeps.

Suddenly there was a yelp, and Boone heard scampering footsteps on the carpet outside; he ducked through the open doorway, cane in hand, and saw the Courier tripping by, her shoes off, and worse, her dress off. She had a humored look on her face, and as she ran pointed behind her. "She woke up!" The White Glove came around the corner, brandishing her cane, and the Courier disappeared, but then turned down the adjoining hall, disappearing from sight while realizing what was in Boone's hand.

"You didn't take her cane?!" Boone spat after the girl, watching the White Glove run by undaunted, paying no heed to him as he was dressed-complete with mask. Then the Courier reappeared on the same end she'd entered from before, and Boone looked away, unable to make eye contact with the girl who now wore a corset and underwear and hose-he almost had a nosebleed, admittedly. She grabbed his cane and rapped his hand with it. "Don't criticize me!" she cried and then spun just as the White Glove, hot in pursuit, rounded on her a second time. She bopped the White Glove hard on the head. The woman, whose dress was also half-off, having been undressed by the Courier, crumpled.

"You're so fucking bad at this when you're drunk."

"Shut up and help me move her."

Boone was trying not to stare, and failing miserably.

"I said help me, dammit Craig Boone, unless you want me walking around half-naked."

He didn't answer.

Ten minutes later, two very tall and stumbly White Gloves made their way down a set of stairs, preferring to avoid as many people as possible and therefore also avoiding the elevators. There was no other place for them to go but the kitchen. Once there, they had to find Ted Gunderson and get him out. But what then? They had to tread carefully. The chef would be expecting meat, Mortimer's thugs expecting Boone to be in the freezer. Without that element, there would be chaos, and the pair would be at the mercy of an entire society of once-flesh eaters.

Still, though this situation was so complex, the Courier knew the first plan of action was to get Ted Gunderson out. His father was a powerful, important man, and all hell would break loose the longer his son was missing. Boone and the Courier walked quickly to the kitchens, shoulder to shoulder, unlocking the door and then remaining impassive when they saw the pair of workers with incinerators, aimed at a wall of Brahmin meat. The couple both froze, feeling that the entire mood had gone from surreal to sinister, and then bypassed the nonchalant flamers to head down a set of grimy stairs.

"I have no idea how to navigate this thing," she said worriedly as they descended. It was no heartening sight what was below. Narrow, claustrophobic hallways, lit only by dim red lights, washing the color out of their already white masks and making them look not like ghosts but instead underworld demons, a look of stony impotence on their faces. They paused in the corridor, then ducked when they heard footsteps. The place underground was nothing less than a maze. A maze bathed in the color of blood and echoing with suddenly malicious noises, clangs and bangs and demonic rattlings, to be more specific.

They'd fled at the footsteps, and now ducked into what was apparently a storage cupboard, complete with knives, pans, and-

"Skull," breathed Boone, backed up against the opposite wall, horrified. Being drunk made everything seem more out of place, and so it was that when he hit the other storage rack with his back, another human skull fell from the shelf above him and bounced off his head. The Courier made a strange squeaking sound, the best she could muster to keep from screaming. She clapped both hands over her mouth, then exhaled through her nostrils. Boone froze-the sound had knocked several other metal containers and they clattered in the aftermath.

Now the Courier had recovered, and reached towards the wall, grabbing for a large butcher knife. She handed another to Boone. "Better than nothing," she said, and he agreed, tucking the weapon into his belt. They had the canes, but if the canes had seemed silly before now they suddenly seemed as useful as a teddy bear against Caesar's Legion. The two pressed themselves against the shelf even harder as footsteps approached from outside, echoing with the ominous sound of the apocalypse, as though the red rider on his horse of War was now walking grimly through the halls to sweep everyone away.

The door was ajar where they'd entered; neither dared to touch it, to close it, because at that point the murderous deathly harbinger of doom would know someone lurked in the cabinet of knives and skulls, would turn his visage of death toward them for certain. As the clicking of steps grew nearer, Boone risked a look away from the darkened hallway to peer across the small space at his friend. She was stuck to the wall, and though the sight of her face would have normally brought him comfort, he instead saw a grisly white-faced spook where her face should've been. Boone, still feeling the effects of the alcohol, actually almost cringed at the face. He instead glanced down at the familiar tall, thin figure-this hadn't changed, was the same lean long woman's silhouette she'd always sported.

Now he gazed at the chest for the sheer purpose of familiarity. The Courier, who stared at the door until the footsteps had passed, glanced back to him. The wanderer had stopped in the hallway, feet away from them. Her mask was beyond eerie as she gazed at Boone, but in the dim red light of this hellhole he couldn't see that she was focusing away from his equally eerie mask and instead at his wide shoulders, broad chest, both now twice as noticeable thanks to the too-tight White Glove tuxedo.

The apocalypse bringer seemed to remember why he'd come down this hall, and the footsteps started again, disappearing after a few minutes toward another corridor. Boone and the Courier both exhaled, feeling as though they'd just avoided Satan himself. Now the tall man gingerly reached over, not stepping forward because the skull grinned up from the floor at him, and pulled the closet door shut.

"Kinky," the Courier breathed, and he glared at her, though she couldn't see it through the mask.

"Not now," he said distractedly. "We've got to get that kid out of here." If the freezer was anything like this space, Gunderson was likely soiling his pants at the moment. The Courier seemed to agree, for the ghostly red-white mask bobbed up and down at him. Boone locked the door from the inside, shutting himself up here with stripped bones, grinning skulls, gleaming knives, and another demon from the underworld. He had a plan, but reached up and pulled the demon mask off his friend's face before he risked speaking of it, as though the mask had prying ears.

He paused when he pulled the mask away, remembering just how beautiful she was. When surrounded by the dusty Mojave the Courier looked like a ghostly slip of silk with her white skin and blond hair, when surrounded by snow she looked like an angel with the golden strands and translucent pale. Now here bathed in red, she looked instead like a knowing scribe of the Underworld, everything having a red tint, even those large gleaming eyes. She in turn pulled his mask off.

"You've got to..." she was gorgeous, even being an Underworld scribe, "get Gunderson out. I have to go into the freezer. I'll deal with anybody who comes in. Let's find him together, then you run him upstairs as fast as you can."

She did not look pleased with this plan.

"They're cannibals, oh god," she said as though she'd just realized it. "I can't leave you. What if...what if I come back and you're a Boone stew? I can't-"

"There's no other way," he snapped, interrupting, tightening his grip on her mask.

"Boone stew. How about I go in the freezer. I know I can take-"

"You don't think I can take those fuckers with their canes?" He was slightly offended.

"It's not that...I just...I don't want to..."

"It'll work," he said confidently. "You're faster than me at navigating back up, too. I slip in there just in case someone comes looking, you get the boy out, then we'll..." Then what?

Eh, who gave a fuck. They were in a closet with skulls and spiders. A stew didn't seem so bad.

She hugged him tightly. At first Boone was alarmed by this; she only did so when she felt there was sufficient reason for breaching his little bubble, and she was obviously concerned about him. Trying to be reassuring, he patted her back awkwardly, then she said, "But they know your meat..."

"Oh my fucking god, will you shut-"

"...is the finest..."

"..the hell up about..."

"quality."

Half to shut her up, and half because he wasn't sure what exactly lay ahead, Boone kissed her. Mid-lip-lock he realized what he was doing and pulled slightly away, only far enough so that his lips brushed hers when he spoke in the Boone-esque grumble, slurred by both desire and alcohol. "I thought we decided we can't do this. And here we are..."

"Maybe we spent so much time talking about what we can't do we didn't focus on what we can do." She kissed him back, biting his lip, and Boone made a low rumbling in his throat. This was definitely not the time. If he had thoughts of saying fuck it, and just ripping her clothes off and taking the Courier regardless of 'we can't' -and he had thoughts like that plenty of the time, especially since Bitter Springs-they were smashed by the fact that not only did red white ghost demons flutter and lurk outside, but also by the fact that whether he pressed her to the floor or wall, red skulls were there ready to glare at him from their empty eye sockets, spiders and centipedes and who the fuck knew what else irradiated horrific abominations crawling out of the cavities of their bones to leer at him while he-

"Not...here," he said, unable to pull away, and she tightened her hug. Somewhere below all the endorphins and hormones Boone could feel his gunshot wounds throbbing with the pain, but thankfully the alcohol helped numb the feeling. Shit, he'd forgotten about that. Even if this was a ritzy presidential suite instead of a skeleton closet, even if he said fuck it and ravaged her as he so wanted to, he had the dexterity of a ninety year old man thanks to the fact that his torso was barely held together in several places. Maybe the cane was a sign.

"Not here," she agreed, licking his neck, which only made Boone grip her more firmly, tilting his head against the too-sweet indulgence. She pulled back. "But I think after this is over..."

"Yeah."

Now they stared at each other again, both of them crimson-stained, both of them equally frightened and aroused. Boone then did something with that reassurance that even he didn't expect; there amid spiders and skulls he smiled at her, raising both eyebrows with the sideways grin he so rarely sported, before pulling the White Glove mask over his handsome square face.

"Gunderson," he said, eager to move on, if only for the renewed faith that the night would end well, no matter what they encountered on the way.

"Right," she seconded, unlatching the door, and this time they held hands as they exited, and she pulled him down another of the hallway mazes.

The Courier had inherited more than a crazy streak and wild eyes. Her psychological conditions were not only triggered by the treatment she received as a child, but also the fact that she was genetically wired, predispositioned, to live a life bordering with paranoia or a sense of restlessness. Her father had perhaps been a man of peace in his very young years, but the Legion brought out all his deepest issues. The place where he lived almost two decades of his otherwise repentant life showed the darker side of his, and his daughter's, nature.

Though she'd plagued his nightmares during his stay at the Legion cam, it wasn't a nightmare this night but a simple memory he was reliving. He and his old war partner, Caesar, were sitting in the latter's tent and reminiscing. To Graham's displeasure, third in line Vulpes stood vigilantly by the dictator's side, as though he still didn't trust the Burned Man. From his quiet tone, the Legate muttered his daughter's name.

Vulpes's eyes shot to him; the blond's look went from sour to disturbed, as though he recognized the elegant name, and now Caesar, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, glanced over at Graham. "You know," he said, "I always wondered why the hell you gave her that name. Directly to spite me?"

"I named one of them Greek, the other Roman," Graham explained tiredly, yet again. He'd had this conversation with Caesar years before, when the girls were tiny. "I studied both religions and languages with the Followers and found them equally mesmerizing." Now he shrugged. "I just happened to choose one first, then the other."

"Yet it was the one with the Greek name, the weaker name that survived your onslaught," Caesar pondered, lost in his own religious beliefs, wondering over the irony. And so it was during this silence that Graham faded back into the memory, Vulpes bristling behind them.

The younger girl had just been born, and Graham and his ally Caesar had stopped by the small, almost forgotten mountain home to check up on the woman the Mormon missionary refused to abandon after he and Edward had saved the Blackfoot. As the young Graham was already turning into a brute of a man, Caesar was sure he could eventually sway the man's faith to his own and the warlord didn't protest these very rare visits. Far to the East, and North of Utah there lived beasts, wild horses, that they would use for travel. Now both on horseback, the men pulled in the reins and surveyed the quiet shack.

The older blond girl, the one named after a Grecian, emerged first, her cautious and light footstep stunning the hardened Caesar. She was young, barely four, and had not spent much time with her father. Still, she didn't run eagerly to the horses to reunite with him. Instead, she stood oddly stoic by the doorway, surveying both men, who'd left their troops down the mountain for this short detour.

The woman emerged cradling a baby, and Graham made an exclamation; despite his hardened, cruel exterior, he was at that time still capable of some form of loving, yet as the woman approached with the baby, so did the young blond child trip toward them, light pink dress on, brown scarf hiding her face and covering that golden hair. Caesar took an interest in her, both because she was a beautiful child, and because she had a look on her face that only Graham himself was capable of until now it seemed. It was a cold look, of indifference and suffering, and to see the stare on a child so small was something even traveled Caesar hadn't encountered.

She knew who he was, in her small child way. Knew he was powerful and would soon become more powerful, resented him because he took her father away from the family. While Graham spent small amounts of time there, he filled her head full of the knowledge that she was the one in charge, the one left to watch over her mother and sister. Graham had no sons. He would never have sons. She was the best he had. Still, despite her watchful glare, when Caesar atop his horse motioned to her there in the snow, she obliged and walked stonily toward him.

Graham had dismounted, held the new baby, chatted with the woman about its healthy birth. They were speaking the little girl's name, a strong Roman name which Caesar himself approved before the child's birth. Now the older sister was at Caesar's horse, and he didn't dismount but instead held out his hand. Like less of a child and more of a spirit, she took the large weathered hand and was swept up onto the saddle, perched standing in front of the seated dictator. With her small height, they were almost eye to eye, and she stared down at him, nonplussed.

Still, despite her blank stare, her eyes were uncanny. A fire lurked behind them.

He was pleased.

"How old are you now?" he addressed, calling her by name, and she held up four tiny little fingers, affirming his guess earlier. Caesar nodded, smiling-ever charismatic, even with the children, who loved him. She seemed less impressed than most.

"You know what I think," he said. "I think I could take you with me this time. Me and you and your dad, what do you say?" With such knowledge, resoluteness, she would make a fine Priestess. She wouldn't be condemned to the life of slavery, would instead be revered among her people. "I'll have you read all the books you like, I know how much you enjoy reading already, such a smart girl. You can grow up and be a teacher, and teach all the people of the New World. I'll give you pretty robes and dresses, take you out of the snow, you'll see the whole planet. We'll give you a huge tent just for yourself, give you slaves to put up your pretty blond hair." He poked her cheek. "Put makeup on you. Make you like a princess, every day. What do you say?"

"I'm going to be a fighter, like Daddy," she responded with a hardened tone, to which Graham had glanced at Caesar warily. The man only laughed in reply.

"You sure are, you know that? With a name like that, you're not just going to sit around and read dusty old books. You're going to make a name for yourself, aren't you? Will you come with me, and fight with me?" He had no idea why he was so mesmerized; later, after realizing this was in fact the same Courier who was now taking over the New Vegas strip, Caesar realized he'd intuitively felt her power, even then as a small child, and wanted it for himself. Hell, he still did. He was pleased with his own ability to recognize potential, as he had in Graham, a simple missionary, as he had in Vulpes, a young scrawny captive of a Utahn tribe.

"I don't want to go with you," she'd said in that stinging four-year-old way.

"You don't want to travel around with your Daddy?"

She paused at this, glanced over from where she perched atop the horse, standing there as though she had not a care in the world, and looked at her father, who had eyes only for the new baby. Turning back to Caesar, she said in a well-trained voice, "No thank you. I want to get down now."

"Okay, but you just remember," and here he addressed the strange-sounding Greek name again, "don't ever give up with your fighting, or with your learning. Both are useful, and hand in hand, they'll make you invincible."

He poked her in the belly, which made her give him an even more disapproving look.

"I won't."

"Get away from him!" Vulpes's voice was not his own, it was not the smooth, hollow droll he resided in. Instead it was a shriek, a shrill and desperate yell, and he moved to put distance between Caesar and Graham, the latter of which loomed over him, the impossible height restoring the man to his former grisly visage, a Legate condemned. Lucius leapt between the leader and his once-second-in-command, supporting the dictator and cursing in Latin.

"I didn't touch him, you fool," Graham contended, nonetheless moving into a defensive stance. Vulpes longed to kill him now, loathed having the thing in the midst of their camp, was entirely too sick of looking over his shoulder constantly, but Caesar's pained voice interrupted.

"Leave him...he didn't do anything," and now he cradled his head in his hands.

"My lord?" Lucius said confusedly, helping Caesar back to his throne. The Praetorian and Frumentarii that littered the tent now backed up, to give the pair breathing room, while looking warily at Graham.

"He didn't..." Caesar gritted his teeth. "He was trying to help me up...I need to lie down."

It was beyond disconcerting to see the man look so in pain, but now Vulpes's gaunt face turned from his lord and master to the impossibly large, inhuman Graham. How like his daughter he was, so tall and proud, standing as though unafraid of anything, despite the fact that twenty Legionaries encircled him. He was glaring impassively, the whites of his eyes trained on the dog-skin donning Vulpes, who now hastily moved past the group. Lucius, like a helpful son, supported the dictator as they moved behind his throne toward the bed behind the curtain.

The Legionaries all watched Caesar, supported by Lucius, disappear, with Vulpes on their heels. As Vulpes was the next-highest on the chain of command, one Legate shouted, "Orders, sir?"

Vulpes spun on his boot, his eyes wild with a misunderstanding he'd never felt before, his heart beating with the realization that beloved Caesar was indeed sicker than everyone had first thought, and the secondary realization that Graham still stared expectantly at Vulpes. The Legionaries had their weapons trained on Graham.

"If Caesar says do not harm him, then you obey!" he spat, once again losing his velvety tone of voice, replacing it with an animalistic snarl that he reserved for his angriest, or most lustful-bloodlustful-moments. With a final glare, he sped into the back room of the tent. This was a feeling Vulpes didn't often encounter-fear.

Alone, the savage fox tromped away from the Fort, away from home again. This time he was not on either a relaxing Frumentarii raid, or a self-worth task of weapons retrieval. This time he was not flanked by his men or Legion recruits. He had a task that brought him no pleasure at all, one that he'd agreed to at Caesar's pained command.

He was the best tracker in the Legion. He was also the most deft at fitting in, retrieving a subject, getting out. Vulpes alone could and had, walk the Strip nonchalantly, blending in with the ingrates there for one tactical purpose or another. This wasn't a mission he did out of combat necessity, but one he was embarking on out of sheer need, need of a leader and of someone that deep down, though he didn't know it, he considered a father figure. Caesar alone had seen his potential, had taught Vulpes the ways of the world and the law of the land, stayed the hand that would crucify him and brought him up as one of the most vicious, powerful men in the west.

And now he was at great risk to medical problems, his health failing and putting him in an almost bedridden state. Vulpes knew nothing about mechanics, didn't want to know a thing in the world about the strange instruments resting, uselessly, at the foot of Caesar's bed. There was one thing he did know though; Vegas housed some of the most brilliant and capable doctors in the Mojave. It was only several days there and back, and he would not fail to bring back someone worthy.

He should have been relieved to set foot outside of anywhere Graham lurked. Vulpes should have been refreshed by the sight of stars and desert landscape, the Wasteland he had put in so much work for, had killed so many for, feeling like freedom under his feet, but he was more lost in that moment than he'd ever been in his life.

Heavy as boulders, his feet carried him onward, the boots thudding loudly against the dirt, a blank expression drawn across his face. The deep midnight blues and pale ghost whites of the desert swam in front of Vulpes's blurred vision, and he found himself lost in a memory, as both Caesar and Graham had been earlier. The girl's true name, one she didn't use since rising to glory in Vegas, spoken by her father had set off the stoic Frumentarii leader's own recollection of knowing her as he had so faintly, so long ago.

"You two are the only ones to answer every question correctly," the teacher said, giving both blonds a rare treat in the small, sweltering classroom in Southern Utah, compliments of the Followers of the Apocalypse. It was a candy, which the woman placed lightly on first his desk, then hers. They never spoke to each other, but both Vulpes and the then-not-Courier had glanced at each other, sharing in their stroke of good luck.

Around them, the mean children as usual whispered about Vulpes. How he was strange. Odd. How he was a freak, and his small ten year old fist crushed around the candy, his ears ringing and the familiar feeling of hatred, of superiority, washing over his thin frame. And so he could feel along with the stares and the whispers, one big green-eyed pair of eyes trained on the back of his whitewashed hair.

After the class had cleared out, she remained in her seat, and without the fifteen extra classmates to taunt him, sour young Vulpes had turned to stare back at her, loathing the way she sat with her ankles crossed, a simple pink dress-raggedy, but proper-on her thin frame. She was putting her books into an even more ragged bag, for the moment not looking at him. He realized something as he watched her cautious, dainty efforts to not harm the already charred books, realized that she was his intellectual equal, that she like him had the means, the brains, to excel. He also alighted on another similarity.

"You don't have a mom either," he said awkwardly in his small, quiet voice. She glanced up sharply, hiding the big black bow used to tie her hair back from view.

"No, I don't," she replied curtly.

He didn't know what to say next, so he had mulled over the information for a moment, casting his timid watery eyes down toward the floor. This may have been one person he could ever half understand, someone who didn't join in the teasing and pestering. Vulpes was different, in many ways, many of them bad ways that gone unchecked would lead to sociopathy. Being young as he was, he didn't know this at the time, but instead dwelled momentarily on the fact that this blond girl was his equal and didn't treat him as anything differently.

When he'd turned his head back toward her, to open his mouth and attempt for the first time in his life, friendly conversation, she had gone, the desk sitting empty, sunlight spilling from the hot Utah summer sun into the dusty seat. Vulpes had frowned, and turned back around, speculating his now crushed candy.

The memory faded, but just as soon as the wisps of that hot, strange summer day dissipated, another arose, taking its place, a teenage Vulpes barely risen to manhood, being bound at the wrists and dragged not kindly, towards the looming wooden cross. He didn't fight or resist-to do so was unbecoming-instead he'd merely marched stony-faced as the Centurion barked curses, spitting at the young man's feet, and the chaos that ensued Vulpes's certain demise was broken by a simple, warm, "Wait."

He'd chanced a look behind him, turning as every other head in the group to see Caesar, sitting proudly on his throne, leaned forward in his casual way, one arm suspended in the air. Everyone was spellbound, and Vulpes, sweating viciously, blinked rapidly to push the sweat out of his eyes as Caesar gazed at him with a look akin to one a father gives a son. "Wait." He'd said again, almost happily, and then lowered his hand to rub his chin, now seemingly delighted with the failed recruit who would soon be buzzard carrion.

Caesar had, that day, saved his life.

Now Vulpes found his eyes still watery not because of sweat or a hot, dusty home state sun, but merely at the realization that he'd failed in killing the Courier at their last meeting, despite everything, despite the fact that he would've been revered, he would've solved their problem, she deserved it...but he hadn't done it, and also because Caesar may have been beyond saving.

If he could, he would live to see the man recover from his illness. Vulpes was strong, but he had his quirks and his necessities, though he never spoke of them. Without a doubt, one of the things that kept his own dark spirits writhing as they did was the charismatic dictator, who he proudly stoody by from day to day. That's why he couldn't fail in retrieving a doctor. To think what would happen if Caesar...

...that would not be thought of.

Far away from the Fort, Vulpes inhaled, not a steady breath but a shaky one, and step by step lost his footing until he fell to one knee and then the other, a lost and forlorn little boy for perhaps twenty, thirty seconds. After he crumbled, he would regain the lost footing, arise again, push his emotions down into the bitter depths where they frequently lurked, and his mission would succeed as his missions always did. Such was the way with Vulpes.

But for now, he pressed a palm to his face and not understanding why, for his own heart was foreign to him, Vulpes wept. It was lonely in the desert tonight, lonely as if there were no Caesar, lonely as if the Courier with her pink dress and black bow had just left her seat unceremoniously, leaving Vulpes alone and tormented.

Somewhere in the mist and shadow, a coyote howled, sharing his misery.

Boone rested his head against one of the storage bins, cringing at the thought of what lay inside it. Despite the fact that he was both grossed and creeped out to no end, he looked quite relaxed, sitting on the floor lounging as though he hadn't a care in the world. Truth be told, he really didn't; he had only to lay in here for security purposes until the faithful Courier returned and they figured out what the hell to do next. She'd have some brilliant plan; she always did. Even when inebriated, her mind gears flew at a pace Boone didn't care to match.

He closed his eyes, his brow lowering, and listened to the loud hum of the freezer. Everything was dark in here, which he was thankful for; as a sniper, he scoped his surroundings at every opportunity, and he really didn't care to know how many human bones littered the floor or shelves. He'd always known there was something off about this place, and though he'd heard rumors years ago about the cannibalism, Boone would have never dreamed his heebie-jeebies had anything to do with that far-fetched possibility.

So he sat, and waited in the darkness, only opening his eyes once to look up at the steel ceiling where his breath fogged in front of him and cut out part of his view. There was a hatch up there, one that no doubt led to the massive fan he could hear clanking away. He noted it, but didn't give it much else, the ton of alcohol in his system making a dangerous pair with the frigid temperature, lulling the normally alert sniper into a grey fuzzy area where he unwisely dozed off.

The Courier hadn't really meant to hit that dickhead Ted with the cattle prod...it just sort of happened, and when he fell prone to the floor, she fretted with moving him to the bed. The high voltage would have him knocked out for a short time, but she intended to make it look as though he'd fallen asleep in bed. The young man hadn't gotten a look at her face when she pulled him out of the freezer, but antagonized her the entire way upstairs, initiating the accidental blazing hit with the cattle prod. The voltage was set perfectly to stun someone-presumably the cooks had left it that way so they could pre-incapacitate their meals-

She'd slipped out the back door, sent word down to Heck Gunderson's men that the son had returned, presumably none the worse from some drinking binge, and was now trying to casually stroll through the open corridors towards the kitchen. It was difficult; with the weight off her chest knowing Heck Gunderson's boy was safe, now her worry was for Boone, and she would've much preferred to run, duck and hide her way back down as she had on the initial voyage up from the basement crawling with corpses and cannibals, but it was too risky. Better that she keep the mask on, saunter amiably through the gamblers and other White Gloves, and not draw attention to herself.

For a drunk person, she kept her balance very well, especially considering that she still wore heels. However, a certain lurch took over her step as she bypassed Mortimer's desk, staring stonily ahead. He didn't know she'd donned the mask of one of their people, and all for the better; if something were to go wrong, and it still had plenty of time to, Mortimer wouldn't recognize her at fault. Although there were plenty of blond females wearing the mask, she was certain he'd know who she was. She held her breath as she tried to walk normally.

Mortimer was disengaged, not even paying attention to her, but a small beep issuing from his desk monitor made him turn to an intercom on the wall. The Courier's eyes slid sideways in her mask as she attempted to see what he was doing. The terminal was apparently connected to a sound device, or system, becaus he now held an earpiece up to his ear and listened intently. After a moment's pause, "Oh, good. So the replacement is ready for Phillipe?"

Whoa, what? Wasn't Phillipe the head chef? Replacement?

"Yes, we've just gotten word of Gunderson's reappearance. Marvelous. The dinner is saved after all."

The Courier's faithful legs kept propelling her forward at the medium-paced jaunt, or so she supposed, because the orangey glow of the corridor swam past her vision, but she felt heavy as a lead weight. Dinner was saved. Dinner was saved? She couldn't run, in fact was having a hard time breathing, but she caught the last earful of the hushed conversation.

"Have Phillipe start the meal as soon as possible...you have my go-ahead. Mmm, yes. Ta-ta."

The smarmy ta-ta made the Courier second-think her course of action, made her want to turn around and beat the creep with the cane until he didn't have a face left, but there was something more important, and as soon as she had disappeared from the room that housed Mortimer, she broke into a dead run toward the kitchens.

As she skidded through the door and her eyes fought to re-adjust to the total blackness, room illuminated only by the pair of flamers aimed at stretched Brahmin skins on the opposite wall, the Courier realized she needed backup, a better plan than run in with cattle prod a-blazin'. But what? She ducked into a nearby power supply room, glancing hurriedly around, and spied a lonesome barely-lit terminal. It was her only chance at this point. Thanking her psycho of a father for her heavy interest in everything technological and science-savvy, she set about hacking the terminal-easily done-and then finding a way to get an email to Arcade...not so easily done.

Bach was a favorite of Arcades, and not even simpering Yes Man-whom Arcade loathed as much as Boone-could lower his bright spirits. Though he hadn't a musical bone in his body, Arcade was boisterously conducting as the organ notes blasted through the speakers, and though he seemed disconnected, Arcade was actually enraptured with the data he'd found from Mr. House's private logs.

"He wanted to keep Freeside in the slums...willfully put people in the streets to separate from inner Vegas! What a slime. How could that man exist!" Not having seen what the Courier saw, the death of the Mojave with House saving what he could of Vegas, Arcade had far less sympathy for the eccentric old man. As he rambled on, the notes of Toccata and Fugue in D minor were interrupted when a small blip informed the doctor he had one incoming transmission from the Ultra Luxe.

"What?" Arcade said audibly, his voice lost in the booming organ, and then he said louder, "Yes Man, retrieve that transmission."

"Of course," and the words popped up immediately, replacing the various files Arcade was browsing through. The message was short, quick, and urgent-he knew immediately who'd sent it.

"Arcade-I don't know what to do. They're making Boone stew. Finest meat. Please, help."

"Yes Man," Arcade snapped, then paused to re-read..."Boone stew?...locate the terminal that message was sent from."

As though Yes Man knew the urgency of the situation, he responded without his usual flair, "Yes sir, terminal located. First floor of the Ultra-Luxe hotel, power supply southwest wing."

"Shit...Do we...do we have any way of contacting other than a return message?" It seemed unwise to send her an email right away. If she had to be on the move, he would sit around waiting for a response, and if anyone else read it, then whatever situation she desperately wanted to keep secret wouldn't be secret any longer.

"Every casino was equipped by Mr. House with security cameras," Yes Man suggested. "I do have the power capability to re-route their-"

"Fucking brilliant," Arcade breathed, his loathing of House from a few moments ago dissipated. "Get me every camera on the first floor."

Toccata faded, and the AI knew better than to ask what track be played next. A silence filled the penthouse in the wake of Bach as Arcade stood. Suddenly, at least thirty small images littered the large screen, all of them showing little people dots silhouetted in a green and black filtered image. House, while not particularly nosy, had indeed wanted to keep an eye on the tribes he put in his beloved casinos, after he became incapacitated. Arcade scanned row after row, then, "There! Camera-" he squinted, pushed up his glasses, "Number 32."

The other cameras faded as Yes Man enlarged the scene: thankfully, the camera was to her back, and Arcade only recognized the Courier from her towering height and hunched posture over the terminal. She donned the attire of a White Glove, and now he rubbed his chin with his hand. Arcade expertly tapped the console, opening up a small window that allowed him to reply to the message she'd sent, but not before asking Yes Man:

"I'm assuming House had full intercom capabilities with his employees? The sound system can be transferred to this console as well?" he was eyeing the intercom at the desk. Arcade's genius streak seemed to amplify when he drank, something he didn't often do.

"It sure does," Yes Man affirmed, and Arcade rapidly typed a response to his friend.

"Got you on camera. Find an intercom, you can use the crystal radio inside to receive a transmission from the Lucky 38. Talk there. Boone?"

On screen, she looked over her shoulder, ducked, reappeared, read the message, and nodded. Though she didn't know the location of the discreet camera House had installed pre-War, she gave a thumbs up to the air; a sign to Arcade that she did in fact know how to set up the crystal transmitter. Then her hands flew across the keys, a moment later the blip signaling her message's arrival.

"I don't know where he is. He was in the freezer but I don't think he's there now. Talk soon."

To himself, Arcade said aloud, "I send them on a date and Boone ends up in a basement freezer. Why am I not surprised?"

Boone lay still as he awoke, a pounding like he'd never felt before issuing from his head. He didn't open his eyes, but kept them squeezed shut, knowing this was going to be one hell of a hangover. He wondered at the cold feeling on his back-had he really passed out in a bathroom? It definitely wasn't the plush carpet of the suite back at the Lucky 38. He grunted, feeling the headache worsen, and remembered a bright flash of light, then blacking out. Then Boone realized something even worse than the hangover or the headache or the fact he couldn't remember his drunken night.

He was naked.

Boone leapt up, and found out the difficult way that he wasn't on the floor, as he'd presumed earlier, but instead had been laying on a large counter. Apparently the White Gloves were secure enough in their talents that he hadn't been tied or strapped down-yet-so he crashed to the grimy floor, bringing down pots and pans with him. Now fully awake, Boone scrambled to his feet, grabbing a baking sheet to cover his unmentionables and cloaking his glare of doom with the darkness.

The White Gloves who were to prepare him for dinner were apparently conversing outside, but that ended when they heard the loud clatter. The red lamplight that washed over the dungeon kitchens allowed Boone the luxury of seeing them barge in the door, but upon glancing down further noticed that someone had taken the liberty of marking his body all over-at first he thought he'd been tattooed.

"What the-" Boone held up an arm, the one that wasn't holding the baking sheet over his privates, and turned the arm. He wasn't tattooed. He had been marked for cuts, like a Brahmin. CUTS? He couldn't gaze in wonder at the rest of the dotted lines marking their way around his broad chest and stomach and legs and thighs-indeed, they were on his back though he didn't know it-because now a barrage of White Gloves burst through the door, realizing they hadn't quite killed their prey yet.

"Do we shoot him?" one asked.

"Phillipe said he has to butcher-"

Boone picked up another frying pan, and held it up defensively. He was taller and broader than all of these skinny cannibal bastards, so he swung the pan as though he were Thor and this was his Thunder Hammer, hearing a skull crack. Then another white flash, and he barely dodged one of Mortimer's goonies' cattle prods. Boone was wary of the instrument which he realized had brought about his headache and blackout, but there were too many of them to take out with a pan, especially when he was in the fine state of nudity, exposed and in danger. Boone's sharp eyes picked through the darkness and memorized the kitchen space, and he hoped against hope for a miracle.

The White Gloves kept coming.

Arcade typically hid his emotions with a smirk, or a snide comment, or in dire circumstances a sigh and an eye roll, but now he spat out the wine he'd just put on his lips, spraying red liquid all over the huge monitor. Not even bothering to wipe his mouth, Arcade shamelessly gaped, his jaw dropping and eyes bulging at what he realized was a very marked-on and naked Boone. The doctor's attention had moved to the camera when he saw the odd commotion on the table; Boone had been lying there, had fallen, and now stood upright, in all his chiseled nude glory. He was covered in dotted lines, an obvious signifier of the fact someone intended to cut him into Boone chops.

"Boone stew," Arcade said, realizing what the Courier meant.

Then, a crash of tinkling crystal fragments as Arcade's wine glass clattered to the floor, and the spell was broken, for at that moment a small army of White Gloves pounced into the room.

"Shit!" Arcade said loudly, though it was enunciated more like "SHIIIIIIIIT!" and he hurriedly summoned his now partner-in-crime. "Yes Man! What do we..."

A flash of the Strip, brightly lit, powered by the huge generators underneath the Lucky 38 ran through Arcade's mind, and he slapped a palm to his forehead. As stated before, Arcade's genius really took a turn for the better when he chose to indulge in alcohol. It could be contributed to the fact that he wasn't so self-conscious while drunk, trusted in his own decision making.

"Eureka!" he proclaimed, then as he held up one glorious pointed finger, added, "That's not Latin!"

Just as Boone was about to abandon hope, and just as the Courier had finished un-wiring the downstairs intercom, fitting the little crystal to the conductor and hoping her elementary mechanical skills were good enough while intoxicated, something no one expected happened. The lights, their angry red blood color seeping onto the walls, were cut. Every piece of equipment, every humming freezer and refrigerator and oven and everything, lurched to a quiet stop.

It wasn't just in the kitchen. At his desk, Mortimer looked up sharply when the pretty colorful fountain lights shut off unexpectedly. At her desk, Marjorie groped underneath the cabinet for her flashlight, the gasps and giggles of the casino patrons nearby causing her to start. The Courier, hunkered down in some deserted corner of the floor, paused with the crude earpiece halfway to her ear. No one quite knew what to do, and everyone froze.

Everyone, that is, except Boone. He knew what the darkness was for, and had after all memorized the layout of this large butchering area. Soundless, the sniper slid past the fumbling White Gloves, who couldn't see an inch in front of their own creep masks, much less see a catlike sniper in the perfect blackness slinking away to the exit he'd noticed earlier. No one saw or heard him leave, except for a triumphant Arcade, who pumped his fist at House's console.

"YES!"

The cameras were ran through the generator, and cutting the Luxe's power supply hadn't hindered their ability to spy on the kitchen area. Boone's dotted back disappeared, and from Yes Man, "Intercom B6324 has been disconnected, hooray! I'm detecting a low-key electromagnetic field from the crystals in the device-"

"Route outgoing voice transmissions to that one," for Arcade didn't intend on broadcasting his voice to all of the casino, as no doubt Mr. House had done many times in the past. A light went off on the console, and Arcade pressed the TALK button by the little speaker.

As the Courier draped the metal over her ear, still listening for any skeletal noises in the deathchamber, Arcade's voice so near made her jump.

"He's outside one of the main inner kitchens. Lock the doors after you. I'll guide you, but I can't keep the power off much longer. Go straight."

She was effectively blinded, and held one hand out in front of her as she trusted the voice of her friend, trying to trip through the corridors quietly as the curses from annoyed cooks and cleaners filled the dark, rancid halls.

"Turn left. Be careful! There are two against the wall. Stay put. Let them pass."

She was plastered to the wall.

"Do you mind, while we're doing this, telling me what exactly happened?"

"I can't help that his meat's the finest quality," she snapped in a whisper, scurrying onward, blinded, and Arcade saw that she was nearing the small refrigerated room where Boone had retreated to, and was now hiding in, out of Arcade's view. There was no camera in the small side room, no need for one.

"He's close. You want to feel on your right-no that's your left, Jesus are you still drunk? on your right...there will be a door handle...open it, Boone's inside. Once you close the door I'm going to avert power to avoid suspicion." Everyone knew who controlled power on the Strip. A few minutes would surely be overlooked, but anything longer than that and Arcade and the Courier risked the unpleasantry of not only the Luxe, but all its patrons.

"Oh and, might want to prepare yourself," Arcade noted, recalling Boone's clothing situation. "I'm going to keep the intercom on, yell if you need me."

What had he meant, prepare herself? The Courier slunk along the wall and felt, just as Arcade foretold, the door handle. She was too drunk to really care how he'd managed to navigate her through the dark corridors or how he knew where Boone was. She just wanted to see the sniper, wanted to grab him and get the fuck out of here. She pulled open the door handle, and as Arcade said, pulled it shut behind her. Inside of course, there was nothing but blackness, but as she turned, lock in the door, she felt nothing but a large weight against her head and a loud, ringing crash.

"Goddamn-in the head-why-"

The Courier thudded to the floor just as Arcade cut the power back on. She hadn't been knocked unconscious, but that was only because Boone, being one of faraway combat, hadn't really hit the mark hard. Also, there weren't many pans to pick and choose from in here, but he'd bent a huge baking sheet over her head. Now his eyes widened as she, in the dim red light of the room, rubbed her crown and looked up, squinting to see who had attacked her.

Holding the pan desperately to his groin, Boone stooped. He was terrified, even his nudity took the backseat to the fact that he'd just whacked her upside the skull with a metal pan. He extended his hand, a concerned look on his face.

"Are you all right?"

She eyed him, the look on her face going from confused to pleased, and with a big doofy smile, she suddenly proclaimed, "Boone-appetit!"

Though Boone and the Courier thought time had dragged beyond the point of reality and they were now stuck in perpetual midnight, the fact of the matter is that it was only now nearing dinnertime, and they were not the only Mojave-dwellers who felt that time stood still as if in mockery of their plight. Even as Boone was slamming a metal pan into the Courier's already damaged head, the King was pacing in his large suite.

He loved his boys. He really did. All of them. He knew each King by name, knew their stories and listened to their tribulations. They were his men, his friends, his family-even with the hole where Pacer stood, blaring in his face every day, the King was happy with his gang. He just couldn't stand being in here one more day though. Not only the memory of Pacer, but the fact that he was the King of Freeside, and liked to keep appearance up, begged him to leave. He was, admittedly, lonely. And lately a certain Followers doctor had been heavy on his mind.

Her plate was as full as his; and perhaps she and she alone could understand the great plight he faced, with everything stirred up on the Strip. With loved ones dying, with their fate hanging on a string, with the bold and dangerous, sometimes reckless actions of the Courier and her posse (one of them including one of Julie's own men) upping the ante for everyone who passed through.

He didn't want to just talk. He had plans. You couldn't really have a meaningful conversation with a dimwitted blond groupie, and the King left those to his men. He was becoming more and more restless, and to be honest, enjoyed his talks with the Followers doctor. But it seemed rather lame of him, on such a beautiful, warm night, to go sit outside a grungy tent and dwell on impending war and doom. Why not be a King, take a lady out for dinner, possibly get Julie nice and toasted so she'd at least dance with him at the Wrangler? Though she'd come to several of his shows, the woman at best propped herself up on a far wall, arms crossed, too uptight to join in the festivities.

He knew she had it in her though...somewhere, and he was determined to at least try and coax it out of her. Alcohol or no.

Why was he so nervous? The King stooped over the mirror, raising one dark brow, furrowing the other the way the original King did so often. His own handsome face glared back at him, far more serious than usual. Where was the King's easy pace, lopsided grin? Maybe Julie wasn't the only one who needed to loosen up. He momentarily chugged from the bottle of whiskey that sat on his dresser. With a hiss, and a shake of his head, he manned through the burning sensation in his throat and then departed the suite, heading for the Old Mormon Fort.

Unlike Boone and the Courier, the King didn't overindulge in alcohol, and so it was with his usual swagger and not tripping over his own feet that he set foot inside the Fort, many of the women's-and men's-eyes lighting up at the celebrity in their midst. King was not one to milk the crowd, and he headed straight for the help desk.

"Where's Julie?" he asked pleasantly, lopsided grin there and devilishly enchanting.

The girl blinked, batted her eyelashes, but it was another doctor from behind her who piped up, "Headed into the Strip about an hour ago."

The King straightened. "The...the Strip? What the hell for?"

The doctor shrugged. Apparently she was not concerned, but the King, owner of Freeside, took this as a personal affront-why would anyone want to spend time in the Strip?

"Jesus," he snapped, annoyed, "Pretty damn soon I'll be the only one left in these outskirts. You mean to tell me Julie Farkas is at the New Vegas strip on a Friday night, at -" he glanced at his watch, a rare gift to have in the desert, but he was King after all- "Seven in the evening. What, is she gamblin' it up at the Tops?"

"I think she mentioned the Embassy," one of the girls at the desk chirped up bashfully, quietly.

"The...the where? NCR?" Damn it all to hell, politics? He wanted to take her out for a nice steak dinner and she was -

She was probably handing out hugs to all the poor NCR boys and girls. Tellin' them bedtime stories. Nursin' their boo-boos.

The King now pursed his lips, the curve naturally making him look skeptical. He lowered his dark brow, and waved a hand dismissively at the girls. "Thank ya, ladies," he said lamely, never forgetting his manners despite his irritation. Though the last place the King wanted to see was that goddamned Strip...he really wanted to see Julie.

So it was that he, quite annoyed, presented his passport, walked through the gates, and immediately attracted the attention of the Vegas crowds. Everyone, regardless of their interest in the Strip, wanted to see THE KING, and so he had many stares, whistles, claps, gawks, whispers, points. All this should have fed his ego, but with each step closer to that goddamned NCR Embassy, the King's tension grew, the whiskey not doing its job of liquid courage.

"Hey Jules, I know you're busy tendin' to the weenies, but can we split?"

"Farkas, you a politician now? Takin' on the Dam?"

Every single thing he tried to think of sounded accusatory, angry, and that wasn't how you asked a woman to dinner. Nobody knew women like the King, but being in the Strip really was bringing out his pouty, spoiled side. He should've been escorting her down one of Freeside's familiar strolling streets, not being stared at by a bunch of hooligans come to blow their caps on a damn lighted-up-like-a-crazy-person's streetful of...

McNamara was so easy to talk to; he was gentle, and innocent, and yet so wise about so many things. Julie had never been so captivated by a single man's speech before, and she counted herself lucky that she got to hog the Elder to herself, fretting over his wounds as any good doctor should. She wasn't charming like Arcade, didn't have his tools of speech or flattery or that winning smile that disappointed so many women and stayed in the hearts of so many men. Had he been her competition, McNamara wouldn't have looked at her twice.

But so it was that he seemed captivated by her as well, and they exchanged their love of technology while she dressed his wounds. Crocker had given the Elder his own suite, the too-kind ambassador lounging in his work quarters. Though he sat and chatted with Julie and Nolan for the first five minutes, he soon waved himself away, allowing the doctor to nurse her patient, returning to his office. The silence between them was not awkward, and every time Julie looked up from Nolan's bandages, she saw the man staring at her intently.

He was curious in his solemnity; he did have the air of someone high in prestige and power, had a shock of white hair and impossibly dark skin for someone who survived so long with no sunlight, yet up close and personal, he seemed almost boyish, eager. She was annoyed with herself for feeling so giddy and girlish around the man, but it was a way Julie rarely felt. Her life was preoccupied with the worries of Freeside, the worries of the world, and she was the one everyone looked up to, the one everyone came to for their problems.

Well, her and the King...

She supposed Nolan was in the same situation. He was the man in charge. But where he and Julie fell too-similar was their style of being in charge. They ruled benevolently, seeking to help others, listening to all, dishing out justice, fairness, equality. They were uncannily alike in their leadership methods, actually-forgoing the violence the Courier preferred, or the swagger the King resided in so easily-Julie and Nolan were quiet thinkers.

But Nolan saw a different side to the peaceful doctor. Like himself, she had a fire, an almost crazy passion that she kept contained, shelled up-passion for helping, for her people, for life in general. While he may not have outwardly displayed his own ravenous craving for living life, having spent so long safely biding his time in that godforsaken bunker, he could see it etched in her brow, or even by the stylish, edgy way she wore her hair. The woman had a bite. He was captivated by this, as well as by her deep, watery blue eyes that always seemed to gaze into some Julieuniverse far, far away in a distant galaxy.

But for all this fire, she had a wall up between them, and he could sense it. Elder Nolan McNamara was wise, but rarely rash, and he really had no plan of what to do about Julie. He liked her company. Would that suffice?

"You've got a strong immune system for someone with such low exposure to sunlight and Vitamin D," she commented, moving from her standing position to sit in front of him on her stool. She mindlessly pressed on one of the bandages on his side. Nolan had removed his shirt, as well as the steel plate he as an Elder had to don, in order to allow her to rebandage him. Now he took her hand, which smoothed the gauze on his side, and slid his own hand up her arm.

"The bunker had artificial sunlight lamps," he explained quite logically, pulling her close with his other arm. Much to his surprise, Julie didn't resist, but she did continue the mindless medical chatter.

"That explains the high level of melanin in your skin."

"Vitamin D receptor ligands have been shown to increase the activity of natural killer cells," he responded as though it were quite important, but now Nolan boldly pulled her forward from her own stool onto his lap. Julie's awestruck gaze upped a few notches from its normal, and Nolan even more boldly slipped his hands around her waist.

He breathed onto her neck.

She responded by saying, "Ligands have also been shown to...enhance the phagocytic activity of macrophages." Oh Arcade, how do you shut the hell up about medical bullshit when-

"This isn't...too much, I hope," Nolan asked tentatively, as though her barrage of complex terms made him doubt her involvement. He brought one hand up to her neck, then trailed his fingers to her chin, forcing her to look at him. To her surprise, she smiled, a girlish, goofy un-Julie smile.

"No."

Nolan didn't need telling twice. He quite suddenly pulled her down to him, at the same time straightening to meet her lips halfway. Poor Julie, abandoning her own interests too long, wasn't sure what to do or where to hold onto or what to think or feel, but she didn't really have to worry about it as they were both quite captivated by their chemistry, by the kiss. Nolan, while benevolent as she, did certainly have that power to him, it was more than evident in the way he held her face protectively, the way his body was rock hard against hers.

Julie had been crazy in her younger years, had toned down the crazy when she decided to dedicate her life to the Followers. But now she felt one of those crazy urges resurfacing, was just plotting WHAT to do to McNamara while he now bit her lower lip, now growled wantonly while they traded assaults of the mouth and tongue, and then-

"OH, HO HO."

The sound was almost humorous, if not for the mortifying fact that it meant someone had walked in. It could've been an NCR soldier, it could've been God forbid, her career was over, Crocker-but no, when she spun around in the barely-lit room the figure in the doorway was none other than contrasting to Nolan's every feature, King of Freeside.

He had a look of not even bewilderment, but dazed confusion, disbelief, a smile stuck on his face as he held his hands palm up. Crazily, Julie remembered a similar pose from Arcade when he'd walked in on her and the King many months ago. Now the King shook his head, opened his mouth, and Julie stood up abruptly. He was about to explode, and he had every right to-what the hell had she been thinking anyway? Was she crazy? This was an NCR facility, not a-

Before the King could begin to weave a beautiful tapestry of obscenities, McNamara, not impressed, asked in a curt voice, "I don't believe you knocked before entering my quarters."

"You? Oh. You. Okay." the King stuck his head out the doorway and read the sign, then looked pointedly at the shirtless Elder. "You're Ambassador Crocker? Your quarters, is that what this is?"

McNamara stood, weary and not willing to exchange sarcastic comments. The King put his hands in his pockets and advanced, in that slow stroll he was known for. But Julie could feel the heat radiating off of him.

"Guys-" she started meekly. It was as far as she got. The King rounded on her.

"You wanna' know, Julie, what I was doin' when I trashed ol' Ambassador over here's" the King thumbed towards Nolan, who scowled, "quarters? I was tryin' to find you, yeah. Lookin' real good, makin' me feel like a fool like that. What the hell, woman-" he flailed, and McNamara, showing an aggressive side he'd never displayed until tonight, interrupted, "Do not speak to her in that manner. She is not to beckon to your whims."

"Nolan-"

"Julie!" The King was incensed.

"King..." she wasn't quite sure what to do. She could reason with the King far better than McNamara, she realized, but he looked in no mood to talk and she saw in the flash of his eyes, something she hadn't noticed before. Hurt. Insult.

She also smelled whiskey on his breath.

"A King?" Nolan said, drawing himself up to full height.

The King's eyebrow raised threateningly.

McNamara pressed, "I believe I know the Noble system quite well, and there are no more Kings."

The King stepped up to the white-haired man, every bit as aggressive as the former.

"In about two minutes, there's not gonna' be anymore Elders, either," he sneered, and Julie took this opportunity to step in between them, sandwiching herself. The King still sneered over her mohawk at Nolan, who stared stonily back in his almost eerie way.

"Can we please just calm down? Please? We're in an Embassy, dammit!"

"Cool as a cucumber," the King coined, and then seemed to realize that indeed, he was in an Embassy. A place he didn't want to be, in a Strip he didn't want to be, walking in on something he didn't want to see. Though he really thought McNamara needed a punch in the jaw to keep his attitude in check, the King was more confused and hurt than angry, and he leered seconds longer before tearing away from McNamara and Julie.

"King's out. Have fun."

It wasn't to the dark-skinned man, but to doe-eyed Julie that the King gave a final look of malice before storming out, knocking over everything on the Ambassador's desktop, and slamming the door in a fit of rage. Julie had time to chirp one "Wait!" before he was gone, and Nolan shook his head slightly at what he considered an immature display for attention. When Julie attempted to run off after the white-coat, Nolan held her wrist gently.

"Don't go," he said, in a voice that wasn't aggressive at all. It was a lonely voice, and Julie turned back to him.

"I..."

Nolan saw the pain and confusedness in Julie's eyes right away; he was after all, highly intuitive and empathic, especially amongst his peers and equals. She looked more than crestfallen, highly disconcerted. He couldn't bear to see her look like that, not the woman who'd painstakingly stitched him up, the woman who led her troops and doctors and the hopeless through every day with her head held high. When she said nothing after several moments, he nodded.

"I understand. You should go."

Julie's eyebrows raised; she didn't want to go, simply because she didn't want to be alone. She was always alone. Her nights were spent in the small prison of a Fort, in her humble abode where no one ever came to visit. Even during the day, though she had a sort of companionship with each and every person in the Fort be it patient or doctor or other, Julie was alone in her thoughts, worries, fears, regrets, hopes, dreams. And Nolan surely understood that loneliness. She could tell he did, feel that he did.

She floundered, losing her usually polished ability to speak how she felt. McNamara was used to saying things he didn't want to say, being in his position, but this one was particularly hard. For a few brief seconds, he'd forgotten the tortured feelings of being buried in a bunker for years, the claustrophobia that seemed to define his entire demeanor. The weight of his position, the people he was in charge of had dissipated, and sweet Steel, he had been blissfully light while Julie spent those seconds wrapped around him. Now, his shoulders slumped.

"I wasn't aware." He was speaking of her relationship with the King, which Nolan didn't know wasn't a relationship at all. "I apolog-"

"No!" She seemed eager to spew some words out, not minding if they were usual Julie-par. "I...wanted- we, er..."

At this, his own saddened expression lightened, and his too-blond eyebrows raised hopefully.

"Goodnight, Doctor Farkas."

"Goodnight, Elder McNamara." Her voice contained none of the peacefulness that his had; defeated, she turned and left the Embassy, and it wasn't until she was safely back on the cement of the Strip that Julie let the tears fall.

The King, meanwhile, had stormed out in such a frightful fury that the few drunken NCR soldiers merely stared sappily after him as he tore through the building, knocking over more things, finally exiting and slamming that door behind him as well. The others gave him a wide berth, for the man looked like nothing to be trifled with as he stalked away. He didn't want to see Freeside. For once, the enraged man was sickened at the thought of home. Possibly because it reminded him so of Julie, because they were the de facto rulers of the area.

Instead, he headed for the nearest brightly lit place, blinded by anger. He was going to get good and drunk, and damned if anyone spoke a word to him that wasn't simpering. The King was on a reign of terror, as it were. Just as he entered the large double doors, Julie had stepped onto the street, and he had no idea that for a moment, she was so near to him. She didn't see the white coated figure step into the building, and so the brush went unnoticed.

She had a cattle prod with her, thanks to Mortimer the freak, and so Boone, refusing to leave the lockable storage freezer with only a pan as covering, stayed put while she retraced her way back to the kitchen, where the White Gloves had disappeared, though they could be heard moving swiftly through the halls nearby. Though she was dressed fully, mask and all, it was still disconcerting to hear them skulking about like demons. It only took the girl seconds to see the pile of Boone's clothes laying helter-skelter on a nearby counter. She snatched them up and left the eerie room, keeping her eyes straight ahead. Many skins lined the walls in what was apparently the butchering room, and she didn't care to inspect any of them too thoroughly. The dried blood on the floor stuck to her heels.

Boone rarely smiled, but something close to a smile crossed his face as she tossed him the White Glove pants, shirt, jacket, shined shooes, and finally she giggled giggled while waving his black silk boxers in front of him. The man's relieved expression turned to a glower, and with his free hand (for the other held his clothes and boots in front of his nether region) he snatched the underwear away.

"They were so smoooooth," she said slyly. "Those didn't belong to the White Glove."

"Why the hell would I put on someone else's underwear?" he snapped, not moving.

"I guess one does need to pamper oneself, when one has the finest meat," she said, and he pointed at the door.

"Get out."

"Those freaks are out there looking for you," she whined.

"I'm not getting dressed in front of you."

"Well I'm not going back to Hell's Kitchen alone."

"Well then..." he huffed. "Turn around."

"What?! Oh come on."

"I'm serious."

"Like you ever aren't."

He glowered more. She rolled her eyes and turned around to face the door. Her back was to him, and Boone narrowed his eyes, pausing to see if she would turn back toward him. When she proved to have loyalty to the metal freezer door, Boone quickly shrugged into his boxers and pants, pulling on the white shirt and jacket just as a door neither of them noticed, opened from the opposite side-not a dimly lit red hellhole, but a brightly lit, still dingy main kitchen was on the other side, and the balding man standing in the doorway as Boone slid on his mask, spinning on the spot, the Courier mocking his move, smiled evilly.

"They told me there were false White Gloves down here, and one of them happened to be the main course," this man sneered. He pressed a button on the outer wall, and the door nearest the Courier clicked-a hidden lock on the other side engaging. Now he stood between them and the kitchen, where a huge pot boiled with seasonings and juices, awaiting the main course.

"Oh come on," the Courier complained loudly. "A hidden lock? I mean really. How many people do you keep holed up in your damn kitchen. Wait, never mind, I don't want to know."

Boone was more to the point. He stepped boldly out of the freezer and cocked his head at the impudent little man. "Pretty stupid of you to take us on by yourself then," he snapped, rearing his fist back. Though his face was covered by the stupid mask, and he didn't have the best aim when he wasn't 500 yards away, Boone's fist still connected beautifully with the man's mouth, and the Courier rushed past them. The only other door to the kitchen was on the opposite wall, and she hurried to lock it.

The man reeled, and just as he was about to crumple, Boone picked him up by the collar. Raising his fist again, the Courier stopped him, "Wait! This...this is where they're preparing the meal." She pointed at the man, whose nose was now covered in blood. He winced at Boone's glare, but the girl said happily, "You're Phillipe!"

"That's right, maggot," he snapped and winced again as Boone pulled his fist back farther.

"Let him go, Boone," she urged. "He has to cook the meal. We can expose Mortimer this way! We'll just use Brahmin meat in place of...Boone meat. And, then they can have dinner and,"

Boone rolled his neck impatiently. "I thought we were just fucking getting out of here."

"Don't you see! This is perfect! This idiot just gave us the perfect plan to expose the cannibals. We have him cook the meat, they eat it, Mortimer gives his speech, after everyone thinks they've killed you, we show up and expose them. It'll be so easy!"

"You've lost your fucking mind if you think I'm helping you!" Phillipe said, undaunted now by the threatening fist. He writhed, but Boone had an iron grip. "My recipe, my baby, it'll never be the same if you use inferior meat. I can't let you do this! I-"

Boone punched him again, and the Courier's eyes lit up when amid the cut up vegetables and flour littering one of the counters, she could see a leather-bound journal. It was already open to the correct page. The page of a neatly-written, almost OCD spaced out, recipe. Now she waved it as triumphantly as she'd waved the silken boxers belonging to Boone.

"Your recipe," she said. "Phillipe, you've got no choice but to help us."

"Who ARE you!" he yelled, enraged, and then opened his mouth to scream for Mortimer's pack of wolves, the White Gloves tasked with silencing the intruders so as not to spoil his intricate plan-but his cry fell short as Boone first punched, then elbowed him in the face. Phillipe fell to the floor, Boone kicking him aside unceremoniously, and the Courier's face fell as she scanned the recipe.

"If we're going to do this, let's do it now," the sniper contended, eyeing the doorway warily. "I don't trust the lock, if they try to come in to see the chef and he doesn't answer, we're in for more trouble than one cattle prod can handle."

He hadn't seen her now extremely upset face. But the Courier waved the journal around, dismayed. "If no available Demi-Glace Gold, you can substitute 1 cup of homemade demi-glace" what the fuck is Demi-glace?! Did the writer of this recipe realize we are living in a post-apocalyptic wasteland?"

Boone looked at her strangely. "Demi Glace is a meat sauce. You make it by combining brown sauce and Espagnole."

She glared at him through the mask so vehemently he almost took a step back.

"What the fuck is Espagnole?"

"A mother sau-"

"Forget it, I DO NOT want to know. What I do want to know is, how the hell do you know this?"

Boone looked offended; at his extended hand, she flopped over the recipe book. He scanned the tiny, neat print, squinting, and said nonchalantly, "Manny taught me."

"Manny..."

"He always made dinner. For all of us. Used to be just me and him... Then, me and him and Carla. He knew everything about cooking. One of his passions or something."

She was gaping. "Manny taught you about sauces."

"This recipe is hard, but I can do it. I just need-"

Loud footsteps echoing down the hallway made them both look up.

"...I need..." he was going to say time. But the Courier understood.

"A diversion."

"You can't go out there."

"What I can't do, is cook. Arcade thought this one Brahmin steak I made was a petrified dog dro-"

"Fine," Boone interrupted, for the footsteps were closer. "Just keep them out of my hair for...fifteen minutes." He eyed the counter; most of the ingredients were laid out, some made, others in preparation. Tenderizing the meat would take the longest time, but he wasn't about to even mention that little tidbit to the Courier.

"You don't have hair," she reminded him, and he rolled his eyes. She disappeared out of the door, and Boone immediately bent over his work, channeling the good old days when Manny had taught him all the intricacies of delicious food. Every other sniper pairing in First Recon voiced their jealousy to Boone, and when for hours the younger would be poised with his eye down a scope, unwavering, he would notice only the smells from the campfire and had to fight to maintain his position. Boone was a quick learner, one of the best, and Manny was more than happy to prattle off about every bit of gourmet cooking topic one could wander onto. While Boone was deep in memory of Manny's fondness and unmatched ability to cook, he heard a severely unexpected noise.

She was loud, as a general rule, and she had a cattle prod. The Courier really sucked with any non-melee weapon-granted, she could hold her own, but it was obvious to Boone she'd never had any proper weapons training-but she was quite something else with any melee object. He'd watched her beat down enemies with pool cues, golf clubs, god forbid that sledge hammer. A cattle prod would've made him comfortable if he were in her shoes, but she was all but invincible.

However, she didn't plan on getting caught. She was going to be misleading, loudly -he assumed, yelling or taunting- drawing the goons away from the kitchen. Boone didn't care about the noises, could effectively block them out and focus on cooking, had they not been the noises she expelled. From the echoey corridor came a loud moan, and then a sigh, and then a shriek of passion, and Boone fumbled with the box of seasoning, dropping it, then knocking over a canister of flour.

"Oh, yes! YES!" she shrieked. "More! I want more!"

WHY had she thought it appropriate to feign-now she was using the cattle prod to rhythmically hit a metal wall or door, her explicit noises and moans of pleasure keeping time with the-

She's been hit in the head too many times, he fumed, forcing himself to focus, as the footsteps picked up in pace, headed rapidly toward the noise. Her voice faded, but his heart didn't stop beating like mad. Boone, frustrated, pounded the meat hammer into the Brahmin steak so forcefully it cracked the cutting board.

Julie cried her way toward Freeside, but stopped by the foreboding tower. She sniffed, realizing that she didn't have to be alone; Arcade lived in the casino now more or less, and he wouldn't turn her away, would he? Julie didn't like confiding in females. They were so judgmental, so picky...she realized, ashamed, that she was the same way sometimes. Rigid, set in her ways. She felt so confused at the moment, needed advice. Arcade was not one to chastise or condemn for personal choices. And that Courier...Julie knew she wasn't like other girls. She was more a man than most men in Freeside, really...it was at least worth a try. Going back to the Fort, being surrounded by all the helpless and needy and grumpy doctors and crabby guards...she just couldn't handle it...

Julie, still blubbering quite pathetically, humbled and head swimming with images of Nolan's tan skin, the enraged stare on the King's face, thinking of the embrace she'd shared with the Elder moments ago and how intense, warm, it was when compared to the kiss she'd shared with the King what seemed like centuries ago...how that kiss was so hesitant, innocent-

She pushed the outer intercom button, one that House had stopped answering centuries ago. Hiccuping back a sob, she awaited a response, hoping that they would take pity on someone so miserably lost.

Arcade watched the fake White-Glove disappear from the kitchen, could very faintly hear little snippets of conversation through the radio crystal wire which the Courier still wore attached to her ear, and his eyes widened at the loud moans he suddenly heard through the speakers. Thanks to the wine, Arcade's cheeks reddened. "Those are pretty impressive noises for a female," he remarked in a tone of near-disbelief.

Mid-Courier-orgasm, a loud beep cut into the staticy smut, and Arcade jolted. Yes Man knew the face all too well, and said in spite of the Lucky 38 camera pointed directly at the large double doors, "Julie Farkas with the Followers is outside. Should I answer the call?"

"Yes, yes, go ahead," Arcade said, pressing his palms to the console, squinting at the little image of the mohawk-donning doctor. The Courier sounded quite fine at the moment. A pause of static, and then,

"Is there anyone there?"

"Julie," Arcade exclaimed, for her voice was full of sorrow, "What's wrong?"

"Can I-" she was sobbing, he realized, and Arcade frowned. That was so unlike Julie. "Can I come in?"

"Of course," Arcade said, and then, "I'll come down and let you in." Hoping that the Courier wouldn't need his assistance for at least a few more minutes, he departed, rising from the chair and jogging to the elevator.

Phillipe had awoken once-Boone solved that problem by kicking him hard in the head, the smell of perfectly seasoned and cooked Brahmin floating around the room like a heavenly mist. Amazingly, he finished the meal and dragged Philippe to the corner freezer, stuffing him in unceremoniously while the Courier continued to wail her pleasured moans from distant corridors.

Now he fretted, stuffing the large dishes onto carts, setting up the gourmet dinner the way Manny would have. Boone exited the kitchen, looked around, then hesitantly entered a nearby staff room. White Gloves milled around, and though he felt naked, exposed, they didn't notice the sniper, only a few turning their eerie masks to look at him. "Dinner's ready," he said uncertainly, voice muffled behind the plastic, and several of the waiters moved past him, ready to cart out the steak and appetizers and ten other courses. None of them knew Mortimer had ordered human to be cooked instead...

Stonily, Boone forced himself to walk, not run, as he set out looking for the Courier.

Arcade was taken aback when the sobbing Julie threw herself onto his lean torso, and he patted her back comfortingly, simultaneously retreating into the darkened casino, rubbing her shoulder and prying her away. "What's happened?"

"Stupid, guy, stuff," she said, and then, "Do you have any coffee?"

"Oh man," he responded, relieved. Arcade actually smiled. Boy issues he could handle beautifully. And he did make a mean pot of coffee. Arcade nodded toward the Snack Bar, reluctant to take Julie upstairs only because he considered this the Courier's home, and he didn't intend on inviting guests up without her permission. Besides, the restaurant was in perfect condition, if a little dusty. Pausing to push a desk intercom, Arcade instructed Yes Man to keep a vigilant eye on the cameras and alert him if anything went awry.

But considering how things had sounded earlier, they were going just fine.

The White Gloves didn't miss the presence of Philippe as they filed out with tray after tray, and Boone guessed this was because the man was an insufferable bastard. As he rounded a corner, he crashed into an out-of-breath masked woman, and she almost toppled over. Recognizing her tall height, Boone pulled her up, and she flashed him a thumbs up. "They're miles away."

He wrenched their masks up, one hand on his and one hand on hers, then Boone grabbed her, forcing her up against a wall. His tongue found its way in her mouth so abruptly that even the overeager Courier was taken aback, but soon she shivered with delight and the unfamiliar feeling of his large hands coursing all over her curves, something she hadn't felt since forever ago in Novac. In moments she'd wrapped her arms around his neck, and he broke the kiss to mutter,

"You're a bitch."

"I take it that means you enjoyed my choice of diversion."

"I'm about to enjoy this more."

"I can't even make a Boone meat and Manny sauce joke."

"Bitch."

"Finest quality."

They kissed again. Suddenly Boone realized it didn't feel foreign, it didn't feel dangerous-well yes, here in Satan's lair there was no feeling of security, but kissing her, running his hands up and down her, felt quite normal. This could have been after-effects of large amounts of alcohol, it could have had something to do with the fact that while their lips and tongues locked, she was smiling, it could have been the simple fact that tonight, date night, both their hormones were through the roof (as well as everyone else's in Vegas, apparently-something in the water, perhaps) but for whatever reason, it was becoming habit, and he felt his inhibitions slip away, a wonderful feeling to the tortured man.

One he wouldn't get to feel for awhile. Rapidly approaching, running footsteps sounded. The pair broke their kiss, breathing heavily already, and both pulled their masks down, eyeing the red corridor and then making a break for it in the opposite direction. Boone grabbed the Courier's hand and they sprinted, twisting and turning and miraculously missing any other wandering kitchen helpers. The group of men behind them were catching up though, and as a unit gave a cry when they rounded a corner and saw the fleeing duo before them.

Then a gunshot sounded, and both Boone and the Courier ducked instinctively. "Oh, shit!" she said. Neither of them had any weapons other than the cattle prod. Boone nodded to a nearby metal door, signifying one of the many horrific freezers, and without a second thought they plunged into it, pulling the door closed.

"Fuck fuck fuck," the Courier hissed in the dark. "It won't lock. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Arcade!"

There was no answer.

"Dammit Arcade! You suuuuuuuuck!"

Boone was fumbling in the darkness; she reached out, trying to find him, but he was throwing shelves on top of one another. "This is the freezer I was in," he stated breathlessly. "There's a hatch that leads to the air vent system up here. Just have to-" a creak, then a crash, then electric sparks flew from the ceiling. "...pull out the fan."

She gaped, but he didn't see it; he could barely make out her pale masked figure as he climbed the now shambled shelves, a human skull crushing under his foot, and Boone held out his hand to her. "Come on!"

She gaped seconds longer, snapped out of it, and allowed him to haul her up to the vent, stuff her through the opening, then she scrambled through the icy chill of cold air as Boone muscled his way up behind her. With total darkness leading the way, they crawled hurriedly forward. The Courier was horrified; she HATED closed spaces, had in fact inherited claustrophobia from dear old dad, and could barely breathe as they hands-and-kneed forward. Boone paid less attention; he'd been in far worse places while camping, but the fact that the group had now burst into the empty freezer was making him move quickly. He could hear the shouts of surprise, the cry of realization as they saw from the light spilling in through the open doorway, the stack of shelves and the disembowled fan.

They were climbing up after them.

Coffee had calmed the savage beast that was woman; Julie, though still in a fit of heartbreak, was listening with doe eyes turned toward her fellow doctor, who waved his hand as he supplied, "The King's so unlike you Julie. So laidback. You have to understand that's his appeal to not only you but all of Freeside. He has this insane amount of power and just coasts on it effortlessly."

"He's wonderful," she agreed, sipping the warm liquid.

"But the question is, what do you want? I mean, if you want some sort of crazy desert romance, I'd go for the King. McNamara seems more grounded, more...well,"

"Exactly like me," she finished. She propped up her chin with her elbow. "I don't know what I want."

She sighed loudly, and Arcade sipped his own coffee, shrugging. "Who does?'

"I WANT TO GO HOME," the Courier wailed, after climbing several awkwardly small vertical ladders, ascending at an alarmingly fast rate, though the sounds of Mortimer's men were close behind them. Thankfully they'd only fired a few shots, the danger of a ricochet imminent. With no light to lead them, they had nothing to aim at, and who knew when the tunnel would curve? Even the Courier didn't know, and in the darkness had crashed headfirst into an L-bend many times. Now they were stories higher, and she exited the vent to topple onto a spiderweb of rotting wood.

"It's so damp in here," Boone marveled, toppling out after her. There was a ton of ceiling space; dim light from below allowed them the luxury of seeing it. Both scrambled to their feet, and the floorboards creaked. "Moldy, too. Where the hell are we?"

"Gotta go," she answered, running forward. Behind them, a triumphant shout signaled that the White Glove hitmen had found the exit hatch. In scant lighting, across the wooden frame, they ran at breakneck speed. Shots sounded now, more readily since they were in an open space, and Boone fought to hold his companion's hand as they both dodged.

"This room's so big," he yelled over the thundering of footsteps and the creaking of wood. "Where ARE-"

The stress too much for the centuries-old wood, which was not built for supporting humans, caved suddenly. The Courier and Boone both felt that familiar pull in their stomachs, then they free-fell, blindly. Suddenly, light appeared below, and a large-stars? The Courier held her hands out, caught what was a large canopy with mini lights in it. Boone, still holding her, grabbed on as well, and instead of falling straight down, this heavy fabric caused them to swing forward. He was silent; she yelled as they were pitched two stories, the cloth carrying them forward, finally ripping and dropping them the last ten feet into the heated indoor pool.

The reason for the rotten, moldy wood was apparent, and their location obvious. The pair didn't even pause amid the screams and gasps of the hotel patrons. Soaking wet, they recovered, dashing out of the pool and sparing only one quick turn backwards, witnessing the pile of flailing men behind them fall without the luxury of a swinging curtain, into the water. Then they hightailed it past everyone else, the Courier yelling, "Back to the bathroom! Time for a change of costume!" Nobody knew the two rogue White Gloves were actually the beloved soprano singer and her purported lover, and Boone nodded his approval as they cut through the empty hallways. The White Gloves were settling down to their private members-only meal, the hotel patrons all headed towards the Gourmand for 7 o'clock dinner. They encountered no one.

Until-

The Courier, inches ahead and blinded by that motherfucking mask, crashed right into a man and his date. The woman was thrown back by her weight; she collided fully with the male, Boone falling to the side and righting himself once she'd let go of his hand. The pair, when hit, rolled across the carpet and she ended up on her back, dazed. The man she'd tackled was on top of her, and she smelled the strongest stench of whiskey she'd ever smelled emanating from him. She squinched her nose shut at this, but the man, pulling himself up by his arms, didn't move from his position on top of her and in fact squinted to get a better look at her.

She didn't know her mask had broken in the back with the wreck of a hit, and now her face was exposed to the stranger. But was it a stranger? She blinked, twice, wondering why nothing except her head ever got assaulted, and then realized that the too-handsome King was laying on top of her.

"You're purty," he said, apparently more drunk than she, Boone, and Arcade put together, and Boone, now helping the man's date off the floor, turned and looked at the pair abruptly.

"King?"

"Shhh, don't..." he put one finger to her lips. His eyes crossed, a byproduct of 2 centuries old whiskey. "Dont...tell 'em...our secret, man you're pretty. I ever tell you that?"

Boone's face was luckily, hidden behind the mask.

"King, what are you..."

"And to think, I had you in my bed once." He giggled, GIGGLED, and she couldn't help but giggle with him. "I know."

Now it was really lucky that Boone's face was hidden behind the mask. The King was too drunk to get up. "I ain't feelin' so good," and his Southern accent was so pronounced it was almost unbearably cute. "Real sad. Lady here was gonna take me to her room, show me a good time." Sad, the King of Freeside had been reduced to a drunkard in the Luxe, whoring himself out to random female gamblers. "I forget her name though."

"OH!" the girl said, and stormed off presumably to her room, disgusted by the display.

"King...we gotta help you up," the Courier writhed underneath him. But he collapsed, burying his head in her chest, closing his eyes.

"I..."

Boone reached down to scoop up the man. "Goddamn," the sniper noted, his own anger fading, "Is he asleep?"

With the King sitting solemnly on a plush, upholstered bench, the Courier and Boone had ran to the bloody, unconscious White Gloves, quickly stripping down in opposite bathrooms and donning their own clothes, Boone never quite feeling so happy to pull his beret down over his-as the Courier felt the need to point out, hairless-head. When they stepped back out, he found himself admiring that dress again, and she smirked at seeing the familiar bereted Boone.

"That mask was doing nothing for you," she noted.

"Or you."

"We've gotta get the King out of here. I don't know what's going on, but..."

"I've got the dinner," he nodded.

As the Courier nursed the King to his feet with promises of more alcohol and something to punch, Boone headed toward the Members only room, getting entrance granted on his reputation alone. Perfect timing, and it was about time something had gone right. Mortimer had just expressed the true nature of dinner to the many gasps, few screams of the White Glove Society. The older patrons sat stoically by as Marjorie's color drained from her face.

But then she and Mortimer both noticed Boone.

"You!" Mortimer gasped.

"Surprised to see me?"

"I think you'd better leave, now is not the best time!" Marjorie interrupted, incensed, realizing that Boone had heard Mortimer's confession. Boone, speaking more than he ever did, and with a slight slur, put his hands up in a Courier-esque motion.

"Don't worry. They didn't get the meat they wanted. I can guarantee you all that what you're eating is Brahmin flesh, not human." The row of masks were on him.

"How!" Mortimer was horrified. His men were still looking for the rogue White Gloves. Not this man...this main course.

Boone unbuttoned his jacket, then ripped his shirt open. More gasps as he exposed the still-drawn cuts dotting his torso and stomach. "He captured me and tried to kill me. But I made sure the chef put Brahmin meat into the recipe."

Sighs of relief, mixed with loud mutterings, and Marjorie's head looked like it would explode. She turned from Boone to Mortimer, and her rage was palpable. Boone knew when to exit, and he backed up just as the civilized dinner turned into a homicidal rage. He closed the large doors, softening the sound of curses, yells, and screams of rage, then walked nonchalantly back towards the entrance of the casino, buttoning his jacket.

Several days had passed since Vulpes left the Fort in a desperate one-man capture mission. He was just outside of Vegas, and though he didn't know it, currently stood at the exact spot Benny had stood months earlier, wearing the man in the checkered jacket's same exact expression, on a ledge overlooking the well-lit city. When Benny had stood, weight shifted to one leg, head tilted to the side, his brows drawn and mouth tight, he was thinking of everything he'd gone through up to this point, and the city that would soon be his. He should've been relishing the thought that he now had the Platinum Chip, should've been sneering down at the city he planned to overtake. But his primal instincts, instincts humans had perhaps reawakened in the years after the fall of mankind, told him to be wary. That something unsettling would happen.

Vulpes had no desire to own Vegas, no gnawing feeling that his own goal would be unachieved. In fact, he felt more than confident; he'd already hid the Legion outfit in the pack he wore over his back, a simple traveling case. Now he donned the familiar fedora hat and brown suit, complete with tie, that he usually wore into the Strip. It had never failed him before. And the night was still young-as far as Vegas was concerned, it was barely dinnertime. So the seeming-traveler had no hesitations of the like of Benny's. He was unsettled though, over a recent conversation between Caesar and himself.

Upon returning with the great news of munitions retrieval, Vulpes had graciously knelt before Caesar, who didn't hesitate to praise his young Frumentarii leader. Vulpes hadn't even cared about the glaring eyes of Graham behind him as he cherished being back on his leader's good side. Things had finally returned to normal. And then, just as Vulpes rose-

"What's that?" Caesar didn't mince words, now raising his eyebrows curiously at the long scratches down Vulpes's cheek. There were three, and they ran from his temple to the edge of his lip on the left side of the pale face. Vulpes stiffened; such a mark would surely be considered a weakness in battle. The fox was known for getting out of pinches without so much as a ruffled collar, but Caesar had surprisingly laughed it off. "You have an ego on you, Vulpes...careful with that. Somebody's going to teach you a lesson. Or was it a coyote?"

"I was frivolous," Vulpes agreed defensively, remembering her animalistic voice, I'll kill you with my bare fucking hands! how she'd ignored the fact that he had a Ripper, how she'd tossed her death-dealing machete aside carelessly. How he'd been so baffled by her sheer courage and brutality, he'd not only failed to defend himself, but had allowed her to rake his flesh and leave it bloody. "I will not be so frivolous next time."

"No harm done then, lesson learned," Caesar shrugged, too happy about the arrival of weapons to give more than a second's thought to the scratches.

"And nothing of my girl?" Graham piped up from his lounging seat, his eyes so in-depth on the page of Scripture he was reading, Vulpes had no idea he was even aware of the conversation. Caesar crossed his arms, reclining, and Vulpes turned to the ex-Legate, who reluctantly closed the book and almost seemed to glare behind his bandages. Vulpes suspected that Caesar felt that having Graham under his own watch was far safer than letting him roam freely about the Utah. It was far harder for the man, flanked by ten guards, to lead a rebellion against the Legion, in the sanctity of the Fort.

Vulpes, not fond of lying, was stoic, prepared. As his eyes slid to the side, he said in an almost bored tone, "She didn't appear. I don't believe she ever received word of the trade."

"Right." There was a hint of near-cruelty in Graham's voice.

"What would you think," Caesar began, "if, hypothetically, Vulpes here killed your daughter?"

"Honor and the grace of God would prevent that sin from ever taking place."

"Honor is for the weak," Caesar dismissed. "I've given him orders to kill her without hesitation if he has the opportunity. Him, and all of my men." The dictator also loved keeping Graham around to irritate him, it seemed.

"And they continue to fail to do so," Graham countered thoughtfully. "It is not their place."

"My finest come from the state of Utah. You're from Utah, and that girl of yours is Utah-born too. I've never seen anyone like you in the heat of battle, and she's already made a name for herself in Nevada. I don't see anyone more fitting for the job than another Utahn." He nodded at Vulpes.

"You're from Utah?" Graham said, surprised, still staring at Vulpes in his cruel yet almost bored manner.

Vulpes nodded solemnly, hoping against hope the father didn't realize he'd spent time with the girl when they were both children. A secret punishable by death, no matter Caesar's exceptionally great mood. At the young man's nod, Graham narrowed his eyes but stayed silent behind the mask he perpetually wore. After a few more moments of the intense stare, Graham's eyes slid back down to the book he was reading.

Caesar had nothing to say for a moment, and Vulpes was likewise struck dumb. He could sense that in some absurd mystical way, Graham knew not only his secret, but also the origin of the scratches. His heart pummeled in his chest, and suddenly the Frumentarian's glory over the mission's success had evaporated into the desert air.

Now, days later as he stood where Benny had stood shortly before burying the girl, the chill of the Mojave seeped through the unfamiliar light fabric, and Vulpes crossed his arms, feeling the red-hot glare of Graham senior all the way across the desert, and realized he was about to walk in the territory of Graham junior. She had Vegas as her own, and offered the people there something akin to hope, faith for their own independence. Foolish of them, but this thought seemed like something the old Vulpes would say. The old, confident Vulpes, who didn't have a dying master, the old confident Vulpes who didn't have three very long deep scratches down the side of his face.

He descended the ridge, prepared to infiltrate the land of Graham Junior.

Boone honestly didn't mind the King. He didn't get along with very many people, but he had the King to thank for saving the Courier's life several times in one way or another. Plus, the man just had a feel-good air about him that Boone's strong instincts picked up on, duly noted. He was a good man. Right now though, Boone wanted to kill him. Or at least leave him in the Luxe, not caring if he ended up as King stew. The sniper was sure the black-haired man's meat was of suitable quality.

He wanted to continue this exploration of his relationship with the Courier, had never felt more comfortable, dare he think again, more right about pursuing whatever it was they had. The hole of a desert didn't seem so lonely, he'd just realized tonight. He wanted to lay with her, talk with her, do far less honorable and more exciting things than talk. And he had preferred to start that portion of the night out while escorting her back to the Lucky 38, both of them exhausted and sweaty and sore, and close to each other. Instead, due to her obligation to the King, which Boone didn't share, the white coat was in between them. They each carried an arm, and he was decent at walking, even better at tripping forward.

He didn't want to go back to the Impersonation School, he'd begged the Courier. Didn't want his men to see him a drunken mess, although he gave no hint to her of the mysterious reason he had wandered into the Strip and gotten plastered alone. It was so unlike him that she was mildly concerned, and just as he had offered her his bed so many months ago, she offered him hers. This was another point which Boone could have slapped a palm to his face over, but he refrained, busying himself instead with glaring at the ground while they teeter-tottered their way back to the casino.

Halfway there, a very concerned Arcade Gannon met the trio, staring in amazement at the almost whiskey-coma'd King, and then glancing from Boone to the Courier. "Well, that worked out well, didn't it! What...exactly..." he gestured toward the white suit.

"We're going to let him crash," the Courier responded. "Rough night for everyone, I think."

Arcade caught Boone's glare, and then said warily, "Ahhh...uhhhhh...are you sure-"

"It'll be fine," she said, and her tone declared she expected no argument about who to bring in her casino, so Arcade threw up his hands.

"Okay, yeah, sure. Let's just..." he fell into step with them, the only one aware of the King's reasoning for blackout drinking. A few moments later though, he tugged at the Courier's elbow, beckoning her behind them, and after giving Arcade a strange look she shrugged off the King, leaving Boone to drag him forward by himself. Her steps slowed to match Arcade's, and the man declared in a low voice, so the King couldn't hear, "Julie's at the casino too. I left her so I could come make sure you'd gotten out all right. She..."

The Courier obviously found this out of the norm, but shrugged. "She can stay with us too, if she needs it. It's not like we have a shortage of rooms."

"Well..." Arcade desperately tried to motion toward the King with facial gestures, implying that getting the two of them in the same vicinity was a bad idea, but the Courier was too tired to even care about his subtle expressions. She yawned pointedly, blinking at him, and he waved a hand in frustration.

"Fine. I'll get her upstairs then." He sauntered ahead, long legs carrying him along faster than the rest of the group. The Courier once again took half the heavy, cursing potato sack that was the King. But he shrugged both of them off, demanding to walk, and she and Boone warily danced with him across the pavement, amazed that he didn't fall flat on his face.

It was to no avail; though Arcade hurriedly showed Julie to a room in one of the top suites, directly under the Presidential floor, then promised to come back soon, she realized woefully that he'd pushed her out of the chair faster than she could grab her coffee. The woman was one of no vices, but fuck it, tonight she wanted coffee. She pushed the elevator button, then quizzically glanced up when the light informed her a lift was coming up already.

When the doors opened, she saw a strange sight, especially in this old ghostly place. The sniper, the Courier, and the King stood in the elevator. They all stared at each other confusedly, and then Julie-hallucinating, no doubt, pushed the close door button. Just as the trio were sliding out of view thanks to the thick metal doors, the Courier, the only one aware of the situation, pushed the open door button from inside.

"What're you waiting for, get in," she said with a note of humor, and Julie still stood in the doorway, her big watery eyes fixated with a stare of disbelief. The Courier, afraid the door would close again, reached over and pulled Julie in by her white coat. Now the doors closed behind her, and no one spoke, still. The King finally folded his arms, his angry glare showing through even the obvious gallons of alcohol that faded his expression.

Boone was perplexed, felt strangely invaded to have this many people at the casino, but could sense a strong tension between Julie and the man she so pointedly gazed at. His glance went to and fro between them, waiting for the spark to hit. Sure enough...

"What, not enough men at the embassy for you?"

"How rude! What are you doing here anyway?"

"Sayin' it like she owns the place. Do you hear that?"

"I came here because my friend is here. You know, someone who isn't mean."

"Yeah right, a friend. Don't you mean an employee?"

"You're impossible!"

"Least I have some pride."

The Courier and Boone both stared at each other, completely baffled, and she shrugged, shaking her head, implying she had no idea. His brow lowered as their voices raised. He actually put a hand to his temple, massaging it as Julie and the King both went into full-on shouting mode.

Arcade, in the Presidential suite, was humming to himself as he briskly crossed the hallway, preparing to go down and meet the Courier, King, and Boone. He would explain the situation to his blond friend as soon as possible, but for the moment only wanted to avoid any further conflict. He'd sent Julie downstairs and lamely made up some excuse to buy him time, but before he could even get to the button, he heard muffled shouting from below. The doctor raised an eyebrow, and just then the doors opened to the sounds of un-stifled yells.

The King was yelling about Julie's "trysts with white headed demons" while she, near tears again, combated with talk of "someone who has groupies in his room all day most certainly won't judge anything I do" and Arcade couldn't even get a word in edgeways before the Courier pressed a hand to his chest, pushing him backwards and growling, "What the hell did you do?"

"What did I do?! I didn't do any-"

Boone threw up his hands, clearly finished for the night, and made toward the kitchen. As Arcade tried desperately to explain in broken words, the issue between the quarreling pair, Julie and the King continued to fight alongside them. The Courier was fuming, Boone was contenting himself to heat up a can of soup. He realized that he was still in the damn tuxedo, and more than anything wanted to don his simple t shirt and cargos again. So the sniper held his breath and swam his way through the shout-filled hallway, intending to head toward the room where he kept his own clothes, but then a whine from Rex caused him to turn his head.

Boone looked at the dog; apparently not even aware that his own master had just barged in the doorway, Rex stared instead into Arcade's room, and Boone knew better than second-guess the dog's judgment. He peered inside the darkened area, Arcade in the hallway too busy being glared at by the Courier to even notice this invasion of his privacy. Not of course, that Boone enjoyed snooping, but Rex was highly disconcerted by something in the room. Be it a hat or a rat, Boone figured it was better safe than sorry.

He scanned the darkness expertly, then his eyes alighted on something extremely disturbing. Gannon had a walk-in closet that now stood slightly ajar, and though any normal human would've only saw shadows upon shadows, Boone was a trained sniper, and he saw something more. Silhouetted, standing rigid in the closet, was a figure. This startled him at first, but with a growl from Rex, Boone immediately went on the defense. He slipped into the dark room, leaving the others behind him to continue their yelling match.

In the closet, the dark figure didn't breathe or stir. It faced him, still as a statue, and Boone withdrew his pistol, not needing to squint to make out the shape of wide shoulders, a squat head, large legs and feet spread apart in a ready stance. Rex still stood in the doorway, whining, as if telling Boone to come back. But the sniper crossed the room quickly, silent as death itself.

Boone wasn't afraid-he'd seen more horror in the past few hours than he cared to think about, and nothing could really frighten him at this point, and while everyone was busy pitching a bitchfit in the hallway he knew they'd pull it together if someone had in fact infiltrate the casino...and someone had-but his heart was still beating rapidly as he approached the unmoving figure. Adjacent to the closet was a dresser with a lamp on it; Boone hated using pistols one-handed, but he had no choice as he reached over with his left hand, pistol extended with his right, to switch on the lamp.

A soft golden glow emanated from the room, barely illuminated the still-black figure in the closet. Gingerly, Boone put his toe to the door as he grabbed the gun again with both hands...and kicked the door open. He awaited the pounce, or cry, or gunshot to come. Instead, the figure stared blankly at him, and Boone actually jumped backwards.

It wasn't a person at all. It was armor.

The can of soup was now scorching in its pan on the stove, black smoke issuing upward and going unnoticed by the shouts in the hallway. The Courier had not lost her animosity toward Arcade, unintentionally taking out all of her frustrations from her admittedly horrible date-though no fault of Boone's-on the doctor, who had insisted they go through with the whole thing. He was backed into a corner when a hulking figure-the tuxedoed figure of Boone, to be exact-rounded on him, something in the sniper's hand, and he didn't hesitate to grab Arcade by the throat, dragging him away from the Courier. This shocked her, and she hurried to follow the pair.

Boone, enraged, slammed Arcade up against the wall. The King and Julie showed no signs of wearing out anytime soon, so Boone had to yell equally loud to make sure his voice was heard, as he roared, "ENCLAVE?"

"Boone! What are you-"

He waved the thing in his hand; it was a heavy armored mask, a frightful visage, one the Courier didn't quite understand. She jumped at the open closet door, where the now-headless Tesla armor stood vigilant. Arcade had, in fact, just finished re-constructing it today, bringing it from his chest with the Followers, a locked and bolted chest that he never opened unless he was utterly alone. The date had been the perfect time to put together his father's armor.

Arcade, normally not easily frightened, nonetheless stared at Boone wordlessly. Finally, when Boone took him by the shoulders and slammed his head into the wall again, the doctor feebly tried, "Now, if you could just hold on-"

"Arcade!" the Courier cried, holding the mask Boone had dropped. Just the glaring eye protectors sent a chill up her spine, and she looked away from it just as Boone, unsatisfied with Arcade's pinned location on the wall, shoved him away from it. The man backpedaled, his calves hitting the bed, and he sat on it.

"You're reacting a little bit rashly-" he suggested, but Boone, so angry he could barely speak, would have none of it.

"ENCLAVE! That fucking organization..." he was all riled up, and the Courier bit her lip.

"Arcade, they've shown support for the Legion before," she said quietly.

"Wanted to kill off everyone on the planet," Boone supplemented, speaking of the Forced Evolutionary Virus, and now Arcade jumped away from the bed, dodging the lamp that Boone now threw at him.

"It's...not what you think," he protested, near tears. Boone's glare was death itself.

"So this is why you never talk about your past," the Courier said, in a tone far more hurt than accusatory.

He dodged another random item that the sniper threw-Boone had too much respect for the Courier to punch Arcade point-blank as he had Phillipe only a mere hour ago-and then Arcade's brow lowered, his own anger bubbling to the surface. Unlike Boone, he was emotional at the moment, and his voice wavered as he snapped, "It's all very well for you, Mr. NCR, to throw around right like you own it. You condemn my people, but-"

"Your PEOPLE?" The Courier shrieked. Julie and the King, hearing the shouts and crashes, had paused in their own flurry of an argument to come stand in the doorway, jaws dropped at the unfolding scene.

"What about Bitter Springs?" Arcade was shaking. "What about that? Now who is the perfect soul-saving organization?"

"Arcade!" her voice was horrified now.

"I'm leaving," was his reply, as Boone approached, ready to choke the life out of him.

"I...this is too much right now."

"Get the fuck out then, Enclave!" Boone snapped, throwing the helmet hard at the opposite wall. It crashed into a mirror, and the Courier burst into tears. Julie's hand was over her mouth at this sudden development into the mysterious past of her colleague, and the King just stared, immediately sober. Arcade turned to the group, ashamed, continuing to hold back the tears, and the Courier was the only one he spoke to- "I'm sorry...just give me some time, okay?" before he left.

In the resonating silence that followed, in which Julie still gaped, the King stared, Boone fumed, and the Courier cried, Rex whined and pawed at the elevator door after Arcade.

The Courier, though the most emotional of the group on a daily basis, knew that she was still in charge, so she forced herself to regain composure. "You're both still welcome to stay here," she began, and Julie looked for a moment like she wanted to hug the tall blond, but after seeing the skeptical glance from the King, she resisted. "Julie, you can-"

"Arcade already gave me a room key," she responded, watery eyes huge. "It's on the floor down from us. I'll...be up if you need me. I just need some time to think. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." The Courier had nodded, still striving to blink away tears, and Julie departed for the elevator. Now the King, rubbing his temple, waited for her to swallow before she pointed to the large master bedroom where she herself usually slept, keeping her promise to give up her own bed. He thanked her, paused long enough to give her a reassuring hair ruffle, and closed the large door, leaving the Courier and Boone alone in Arcade's now empty and trashed room.

She crossed the threshold and sat on the bed, putting her chin in her hands. Boone stood in the doorway a moment longer, then followed her, though he didn't sit down. Everyone's mood had been utterly ruined, and now he wanted nothing more than to get her out of this room where the Enclave armor stood stoically in the closet. "Where are you going to sleep?" he asked hesitantly, and she looked up at him.

"I don't know if I can sleep. I..."

He took her by the wrists and pulled her up, and to her surprise, hugged her. She closed her eyes against the warm embrace, crying silently this time, and realized that Boone, underneath his initial flood of anger, was just as upset as she. They both loved Arcade in their own weird ways, Boone's way of caring being even weirder than most people's. How she felt about seeing the terrifying armor made her already miss her friend, though he was more than likely out taking his own turn at heavy drinking. She knew that he would come back, if sheepishly, and offer an explanation. She knew it would be an excusable one. She knew Arcade was kind and rational and would never support the horror that was the Enclave...would he?

She had a viselike grip on Boone, one that she couldn't shake. Everything from tonight, the few hours that had spiraled on until they felt like weeks, had drained her emotionally, and he seemed to sense this, because instead of questioning her further, he hooked one arm under her knees and carried her bridegroom style outside of Arcade's room and into his own. Once there, he put the girl gently on the bed and turned, heading toward his own closet. If he had to spend one more minute in a tuxedo he was going to beat his own head through the nearest wall. God forbid a nasty surprise be lurking in his own clothing space, but there was nothing except his own clothes.

Boone sighed with relief, and wrenched off the jacket and white shirt. It was only then he realized his chest and arms still bore little dotted roadways along them. He sighed, rolling his eyes, and headed towards the bathroom. A shower sounded nice, anyway.

Arcade hid behind walls of mystery, lies, and heavy sarcasm. It had always provided a good defense before, but he'd never had any friends before. Nor had he gotten close to anyone outside of his mother's circle. The humiliation of witnessing everyone's surprise and anger-everyone he cared about-was heartbreaking. The Courier, the most ferocious friend he'd ever had. Boone, rough around the edges, but a good man. The King, peaceful and non-assuming, Julie...the sweetest, most kindhearted Follower the Mojave could ask for. And they had all gaped, or shouted, or...

He had thought the Old Mormon Fort was where he was headed, to his familiar tent, but that proved to not be the case as he walked by, tears silently pouring down his face, hands stuffed in his long doctor's coat. He didn't want to go there. Who knew where he wanted to go. He didn't have the slightest clue. Somewhere, a woman screamed, and glass broke as someone crashed through a window. Freeside hadn't changed without Arcade. Just as he walked by, eyes blurry with tears, he spotted one of the many gamblers heading toward the Old Mormon Fort. The man didn't speak or nod, which was just as well, because Arcade wasn't in a mood to talk.

Yet at the sight of Arcade, this stranger paused, as though confused, but the blond didn't even have the sarcasm left in him to spout out some smartass reply as he usually would. Instead he walked on by, head down, and didn't even have time to cry out as the gambler, who'd let Arcade pass, crushed the wet rag down onto Arcade's nose and mouth, making him gag. The stranger had an iron grip on his throat, cutting off his windpipe, and after a few more seconds, Arcade was down.

Vulpes let him sink, rising and straightening his hat triumphantly. He'd gotten his doctor.

Judging by the hellish time she'd had in the past few hours, not that it wasn't without its fun, Boone was not surprised at all by the fact that the Courier hadn't moved from his bed during the time he scrubbed off the lines from his chest under the warm cascades of water. Now he sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from the girl, doing the familiar routine of setting his boots aside, unlaced and ready for him to dash into. Counting out shells and dispersing them in each of the pockets on his tactical vest. It was completely unnecessary, but it was a habit that he liked.

He was deep in thought. Arcade's unveiling still disturbed him, but he was less angry and more curious. Of course, Boone was always angry about one thing or another, so he wasn't completely cheery as he flipped through the shells, but he had a gnawing feeling, a foreboding sense of loss concerning the enigma of a doctor. Which was understandable, given the eerie nature of the Tesla armor and all the ghosts it conjured up. The Enclave put the Legion to shame in terms of grisly glory. That organization made Caesar and his nitwits look like a league of babbling ass-scratching baboons-not that they needed much help with their idiotic views and battle logic, as well as creationism propaganda-but how could someone so full of the will of peace and knowledge and all that noble bullshit ever condone the Enclave? It chilled the sniper.

He was content to mull over these thoughts as he finally finished his task, folding the vest and laying it beside the boots, when a stirring behind him, one he hadn't noticed, cause him to sit up more rigidly. Then cold hands touched his sides, diving underneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt. They slid upwards, willing the clothing away, and Boone didn't resist but instead allowed the Courier to rake her fingers, shirt cloth in tow, upwards. He relented and shrugged the shirt over his head, discarding it at once, but he turned his neck to the side warily, not looking at her but down at the blankets beside him.

"What're you-nngghh," the noise was far less human than animal, and he pursed his lips shut not because he thought he needed to shut up, but because the kneading on his shoulder muscles rendered him absolutely wordless. The Courier had, seemingly weeks ago though it was mere hours ago, promised him the treat of a real massage. She was uncharacteristically tender past all the gunshot wounds, and paused to momentarily trace a line up his spine, causing him to shiver involuntarily.

"You didn't wash off the lines on your back," she said quietly, with the first note of humor he'd heard since Enclave boy decided to rain on their parade. Boone snorted despite himself, humored at the thought that his back was labeled for dare he say, the finest quality meat cuts. Had tonight even happened? It went from great to terrible then more terrible mixed in with great and human skulls and finest meat and too much liquor, to horrifically awful down the drain Arcade what the fuck why...and now her light fingers ran back up the line, causing goosebumps to spring up all over his body? Before he could inquire of the genuity of the situation, she was back to massaging him, and Boone's underdeveloped speech slipped off the radar into blissful silence.

She wasn't handicapped so. "Despite the fact that you and I are entirely not normal and can never have a normal good time...I had a good time tonight."

He blinked, rising from his life-coma, thick brows kneading together. In a throaty voice, so bad with speaking due to the trance, Boone asked in disbelief, "You didn't?"

"Didn't you?" She was obviously referring to the time they spent before returning to the casino.

Boone tilted his head, a perplexed look on his own usually emotionless face, and then he said hesitantly, thinking of the misadventure, "Except for the parts where we were almost killed...yeah. I did."

He could feel her smile. "You really did?"

"Really."

Now she flattened her palms against his shoulders and ran her nails down his biceps. Boone twisted his torso to face her. The room was dark, and the only light he had to view her with was what his pupils could gather from the deep black of the suite. He saw the shining green eyes, luminous and never losing their wild white edge even in so little light. She leaned forward, hair still up, and Boone noticed the soft curve of her neck, something he'd never heeded before. She wasn't something timid or small, nor was she dainty or even girly. Definitely not a Carla.

He muttered her name in a ponderous way, and she cantered her head.

"What?"

"I..."

What was this feeling, then? He was quite content to classify what he'd felt throughout the time he'd met her. At first, he was annoyed by her. Then he was intrigued, simply because she'd helped him solve the mystery of who sold his wife. As days wore on Boone became exceedingly impressed by her wisdom, not to mention her charisma. Needless to say, the only woman he'd ever spent time around-Carla-was not very charismatic. It was a strange adjustment. At times, when she cried in her sleep, or when they'd trekked up the mountain to unveil her hideous past, he felt pity for her, sorrow, a helpless feeling. He knew there were parts to her that hurt, that he couldn't fix. When she defied him, or out-witted him, he felt so mad he probably could have thrown her off Dinky with no remorse. In their motel room in Novac, during their heated romps around the Luxe tonight, Boone knew all too well those feelings; cravings, they couldn't even be given an emotion. He'd wanted to consume her.

But what was this, where he had no heart for pity or anger or pride or lust? He simply stared at her, found her captivating and beautiful in her wrinkled gambling dress and messy hair, was mesmerized by the way her eyes looked both peaceful and chaotic, admired the curve of her neck and her unceasing compassion and wanted to both protect her and set her free, give her the world and just stay this close forever, not caring if they ever left the comfort of the dark bedroom. A partner, a friend, a lover, they'd been around the scope of things, were still testing the waters on each front, but this strange emotion was so baffling to Boone, so foreign that he could've pondered over it hours, had she not been sitting so close and looking at him so intently.

Rather than explain what he couldn't explain, the strange emotion that he couldn't pinpoint or name, Boone lifted two fingers and ran them along the beautiful neckline, barely touching her chin and willing her through his gentle motion toward him. She pressed forward, breathless, and this time when their lips met, something far more meaningful than the lustful thoughts of earlier penetrated his brain. It was an almost thoughtful kiss, but the most tender kiss he'd ever received, as though she knew the tornado of unnamed desire and feeling on a quiet rampage through his heart and head. Boone was thankful for the slow, deliberate feel of her lips on his, but he finally moved backwards, both lowering his bruised body down to the cushion and pulling her with him, using both his absurdly gentle touch on her back, and urging her forward by catching her lower lip between his teeth and tugging, not in a demanding way-rather a loving way.

Achy, sore, in shock, and in utter bliss, Boone looked up at her in the nonexistent light. Before, he'd felt hesitation-yes, even in the motel room, when she'd crawled coyly on top of him and assisted him in unleashing his pent-up lust and frustration, he'd hesitated-but now he felt less hesitant and more in awe of the fact that such a woman lay so close. In the calamity of the night, he felt a sense of calm, and he lowered his hands from her waist to her thighs, over the dress, then down to her knees, sliding his palms underneath the fabric of the skirt just as she'd done with his shirt earlier. As Boone caressed the softness of her upper legs, she moved to kiss in that same gentle way, his ear, then his neck. Her breath was hot, her lips warm, and his eyes closed.

Despite everything, he'd never been happier in his entire life.

"Boone?"

He opened his eyes. Absurdly, the first thing out of his mouth was, "If you make a finest meat joke-"

She looked at him, shocked at this completely off-topic and inappropriate allusion, and then she grinned. He grinned back, and pushed a blond wisp of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear.

"Will everything be okay?"

"One day."

"Promise?" The faintest, faintest hint of innocence was evident in her voice, something Boone had never heard before.

"No."

She smiled.

Usanagi, or any of the very few doctors existing in post-war landscapes who happened to be extremely knowledgeable in the areas of neuroscience or psychology, would have not been surprised to hear that once again, the Courier was dreaming of Liam. She or any reputable physician would have shrugged off the fact that the little boy seemed to be given a life of his own-speaking to a trusted loved one, in particular a dead one, and putting words in their mouth was actually a quite common happening among the traumatized. And though the Courier couldn't quite remember it, she was deeply traumatized.

So though she by now knew she was asleep in reality, the Courier sat on the floor, long legs drawn up. She was simply observing, by crackling firelight, as Liam painstakingly wrote his full name. "Liam Verne Kenworthy" was scrawled on the paper at least thirty times already, and the six-year-old, brighter than most ten year olds the Courier knew, lived to better his own knowledge. He was a finicky, strange one, but she loved him for it. The name was cringe-worthy and Liam knew it, always getting angered when someone teased "Verny". But he also hated half-doing things-if he was going to learn to write his name "tiny" the size adults wrote, he was going to learn the FULL name.

The Courier, who was in actuality at the moment the Teacher, was wrapped in blankets, hands clasped around her legs. It was a strange feeling to have her hair down, without a beret or hair tie, and try as she might she couldn't get used to it. Liam erased a wiggly "a" and then spoke abruptly, changing the tone of the conversation.

"Are you going to kill him?"

"...Kill...him?"

"Your daddy."

She blanched. "I didn't know you knew that's who he was, Liam."

"I didn't before, but I do now."

She didn't quite get that, but as this was a dream, she supposed it wasn't required to make complete sense. And she didn't quite know what to say, and had forgotten that Liam was still awaiting her answer. After a few moments of silence, he reiterated.

"So are you or not?"

"I don't know. I don't even know if he's still alive." She shuddered at the thought. Vegas demanded so much of her time lately that she had put all of the fear of her father behind her. She'd also been keeping so close to Boone and Arcade that little opportunity for alone time presented itself. Liam was full of enigma tonight.

"He's alive."

"Okay, well in that case, I guess I should kill him huh?" Talking with a six year old had never been this strange, she was certain.

Liam shrugged. "Do you want to?"

"He..." the schoolhouse was abandoned, it was dark outside. The only light came from the fire. Outside, snow blew against the structure and caused it to creak and pop. Would another flaming Molotov cocktail crash through the window in this dream, as it had so many others? Dreams where she was reliving the death of her class, their parents? Liam put down the pencil and approached, his own strange grey eyes luminous in the orange light.

"He killed everyone. My mom, my sister, our settlement, other settlements. He killed..."/iyou./i "Everyone I ever cared about. Why would I not want to kill him?"

"Then why do you look so sad about it? Aren't you supposed to look mad?" Liam had known little of the Courier's angry side, or her justice-craving side, but he knew her well nonetheless.

"You come from him," he continued. "You got to see all of him at his worst, but you are him at his best. When you do that thing and get mad and your eyes flash white, it's like him. But you only get mad when good people get hurt, or when something's not fair. And when people get scared of you because of how scary you are, that's like him too. But you get scary to the bad people who want to be mean. You're strong and tall like him. You're smart like him too. People like you the way they used to like him. He used to be a leader. You're a leader."

She was struck dumb, leaning forward with her forearms on her knees, crossed, listening aptly.

"Why are you telling me all of this?"

"So that you won't be sad later." Liam was staring back just as intently. He seemed quite real, not dreamlike at all. "You don't deserve to be sad. That's why Benny happened."

The conversation had plunged from eerie to nonsensical, at least to the Courier's ears. "What about Benny?"

Liam fidgeted, trying to get comfortable while sitting on the wooden floor. "When we knew you, you were quiet and shy and didn't trust anybody. You didn't believe anybody or want to tell your problems to anybody. My family wanted to help so you told us some stuff, but it was really sad because everything that happened made you feel bad, every day you woke up. You were scared. When Benny happened you forgot to be scared and sad. It was all blocked. Now you can live the way you're supposed to."

She didn't realize it, but she was not only crying in the dream. While she lay sleeping in the Lucky 38, tears coursed down the girl's face. Beside her a large, rough hand with a too-gentle touch brushed both cheeks, wiped tears away.

"What Benny did was bad to do, but sometimes good comes from bad. If all that bad didn't happen you wouldn't be so good. You wouldn't be so smart, or so nice, or so pretty either I think. Benny saved you kinda. The you that everybody knows now. I wish I coulda known you. I mean, I liked you when you were here. I just wished you weren't so sick and sad always. That's why the gun wouldn't go off."

"What gun?"

Liam grinned and held up a finger gun to her temple, then fake-fired it. He made a clicking noise with his tongue and then giggled as if he knew some secret. The Courier, unable to contain her own grin when looking at his cherished face, the face she wished she could remember more than just in dreams, had no idea what he meant.

"Now that I know everything, you're going away, aren't you?" she asked. Usanagi had told her the dreams and visions were her brain trying to work out her past, piece together a story from what it knew. That's why she'd imagined herself inside the school, that's where she'd arrived at the conclusion that it was her, not her father, who claimed responsibility for the incident. But the Courier knew her horrible, bleak past now, and so ghosts of dead boys weren't needed.

He nodded, the grin dissipating as he put away the finger gun.

"I'll miss you."

Liam stood, not responding, and in his bare feet, crossed the short space between them. He hugged her ferociously, and the Courier-Teacher shrugged out of the blankets, wrapping them both in the thick fabric and hugging him back. Enveloped by warm blankets, they continued to embrace, and she said through tears, "I'm sorry for everything, Liam."

"Tell my mommy and daddy when you see them," and now the own child's usually secure voice had hints of sorrow in it, so much that he could not finish his sentence. She hugged him tighter.

"I'll tell them."

The fire faded into the darkness, and the wisps of dream faded likewise. She slept for several more hours, though it wasn't an easy sleep. Thoughts of Liam, Arcade, her father, and for some reason Vulpes Inculta, were idly running through her mind.

Usanagi would of course, give the same diagnosis to Boone's dream. Unlike the Courier, he had no idea what lucid dreaming even was, let alone had the ability to conjure up whatever he wished to see in his dreams. Mostly as they were about unjust death and heartache, he figured they were his punishment. Boone accepted his dreams the way a masochistic slave would accept a beating-with no objections. The fact that Carla was in this dream was only a surprise because like one other quite meaningful conversation he had with his dead wife, she was alone, feet together, back toward him, and they were alone.

Around them, the same whiteness that almost scorched his eyes last time glistened.

When she had her back to him, she was pissed. It was her little foot-stomp that undoubtedly preceded the move, then the crossed arms and stiff neck as she spun in place, not allowing him the luxury of seeing her angry. Boone, not the smoothest when it came to conflict resolution, had either tried to turn her around or threw his arms up and walked away in his own frustration. Now he was puzzled-what on earth had he done to make her angry now?

Thoughts of earlier ran through his head, the Courier, the Luxe, the Courier again. More Courier. Ah. Yeah. Well. That'd do it. Usanagi's prognosis would have included his own guilt over feeling so strongly about anyone other than Carla, who he'd been dedicated to for just under three years. Now he dragged his feet toward her, slightly more capable of communication than he had been while they were married, but no master of it by any standard.

"Carla..." he started, but she interrupted,

"She's a bitch."

"And I like her for it. And a lot of other reasons too. Craig Boone," yep, she was angry, first and last names, "you told me to move on, if you were to ever die, in the note you never got to give me. Stop being a hypocrite."

"You didn't exactly just die," he began, voice full of warnings of malice, but Carla was the only female to ever override his tones without even batting an eyelash, making even the Courier look feeble when arguing with Boone, and now she snapped, "How dare you throw out that doctor."

Arcade? Carla was giving him the crossed-arms-I'm-not-looking-at-you over that?

"I didn't throw him out," Boone replied simply. "He left."

"He wouldn't have, if you weren't being so violent."

"Violent like the Enclave?"

She didn't reply immediately, but when she did, her answer didn't quite make sense at all. "Do you still have that picture of our wedding?"

"I...burned the house down, Carla."

"I meant the other one."

He kept a small, wallet-sized photo rolled inside his scope, the one thing he could always count on. This one wasn't the standard smile and pose picture; instead, he was making his usual stony face which that day was actually brought on by too many nerves. Carla was beaming in it though; a rare full-on radiant smile that made even Manny admit that possibly no one was as beautiful as she. Boone loved the smile, loved the picture. He'd never told anyone about where he kept it, least of all his wife, who knew her way around the innards of a scope as well as he knew his way around a dance floor.

"Yeah."

She didn't speak, but he couldn't help to wonder if the question had a more significant meaning, He put a hand on her shoulder, attempting the old turnaround trick. Sometimes it had worked, and sometimes she slapped the hand off. The latter was the case this time-her dainty hand swatted at his large one, and Boone backed off.

"Can't I just look at you? I've seen the back of your head for the past two years." Always in dreams, always through his scope. His hand dropped to his side, and he started defeatedly at the wispy, perfectly combed hair. Why would she be so upset over what happened with Enclave Arcade? Carla wasn't typically one to care about Boone's anger, had shrugged off without caring his arguments in the past (except for the ones with her, naturally.) What made her so irate now?

"No," she said in response. "It's better if you don't."

"Are you that mad over this?"

"No. But it's still better if you don't."

"I don't understand."

"Do you really want to see me, after all this time?" she asked with a hint of irony, as though suggesting it to be a bad idea. Boone pondered. He was forgetting her face, as strange as it may have sounded. He wasn't forgetting her, not by any means, but the icy crystal eyes, the perfect skin, the arched brows, her too-thick black eyelashes and perfectly shaped lips were hard images to conjure. He spoke honestly, as he always tried, though it was difficult.

"I don't...want to forget you."

"You won't."

Of course he wasn't going to forget who she was. But if he couldn't remember her smile, or her frown, or her smirk, or the way her eyebrow lifted when she got "that" tone, wasn't that as bad as forgetting who she was? As if she could read his mind, Carla's head shook from side to side again.

"If anything happens to that doctor, I'm going to be really pissed, Craig Boone."

The ONE dream he has about his wife, and she's not mad because he's in bed with another woman, but mad because a secretive Enclave faggot got exposed and then left to cry about it somewhere? This was why dreams were punishment, but he didn't feel he deserved this one. Boone frowned, and Carla faded as he drifted off into deeper sleep.

Usanagi would have attributed his subconscious feelings of guilt over Arcade leaving to the combined guilt he felt over being with the Courier and killing Carla. But the truth of the matter is that Boone wasn't guilty about what happened with Arcade at all.

The Courier awoke, and it was still dark. She felt disconcerted upon waking, hours after she'd had the dream with Liam. It wasn't that-the dream had been far better than some she'd endured-but something felt not right. Spooky, even. She was on her back and lay there motionless, trying to orient herself and shake cobwebs from her mind.

It was then she realized weight pinned her down. In the past this had been an indication that she was tied, as it was with the Omertas. But no ropes restrained her. Though the room was dark, Rex (who now lay on the bed at her feet) pawing open the door had allowed light to filter in from the hallway, and now it lay across the bed in translucent golden sheets. She blinked rapidly, lifting her head up to survey what exactly lay across her shoulders and chest.

Shockingly, it was Boone. As long as she'd known him he'd only slept one way-on his back, arms behind his head. That was how he laid down every night and exactly how he woke up. But now she lay on her back, and he was turned on his side, head curled down onto her chest. His other arm went across her torso and clasped her shoulder, hugging her toward him. One leg was draped over hers too, bent and encircling hers as though to hold on better. He wasn't sprawled out randomly, either. Such a careless sleeping position seemed unsuited for rigid Boone, anyway. He rather seemed cozy, as though he were snuggled with a favorite pillow or teddy bear.

Rex, at her feet, twitched his ears mid-dream. She wondered if his doggy dreams included those from the time he spent with Caesar, or if he'd retained those memories at all when he got his new brain. His eyes were closed and the blue lights surrounding his brain pulsed slowly. The Courier remembered what Liam had said in the dream. Her life. Second chances. Rebirth. She realized that not only had she risen from the dead, but so had the man who clung to her now, whose warm breath on her chest made goosebumps rise on the flesh nearby. Boone had been quite out of this life when Arcade jammed the needle into his lung. His instant inhalation had not been only one of shock, but was the breath of life. Maybe not just her, maybe everyone got a second chance. Or maybe her magical powers were contagious.

Boone had pinned her arms to her side, but now she wiggled one free. He didn't stir though he was typically a light sleeper, and she flexed her numb fingers. Over two hundred pounds of muscle laying on her limb for several hours wasn't the best solution for blood supply, and now they tingled with the return of it. She then lay her arm over his bare, wounded back and drifted back into sleep. She should've been happy, she should've been blissful really with the realization that she had a second chance, that Boone had a second chance, that everything would one day be okay whether the sniper admitted it or not.

But for some reason she just couldn't shake the feeling that out in the desert, something was amiss.

When Arcade awoke, he felt the same pressure, the same restraint the Courier felt while Boone slept embracing her. Unlike the Courier, Arcade had no muscley sniper draped on him-instead, he felt as he groaned with a headache, tight ropes bound his wrists behind his back. Further examination proved that he didn't lay his head on a pillow, but on a very uneven, very pokey rock.

"Hngnghh," was all he managed to get out as he opened one eye, pulling his torso upwards from his laying position. Arcade didn't know it but he rested on the edge of a very short precipice, a ledge only several feet high, for he was up in the uneven crags of the mountains, on his way to-though he didn't know this also-the Fort. He heard the crackle of a campfire nearby, and confusedly turned his head, raising up further, and saw Vulpes. Once out of Vegas, the man had donned his familiar attire, dog head perched on his own.

"Aaggghhh!" was the doctor's reaction to this, and Vulpes, knelt at the fire, gazed at him interestedly. Arcade was so shocked he attempted to half-scoot, half-jump away from the man and ended up doing a backwards somersault over the precipice. Vulpes's interested stare turned to concern as Arcade kicked up gravel and a cloud of dust rose up, but it was no use; he was tied to a nearby short tree. Like a dog on a leash, the doctor could go no further than what the rope allowed. Soon, panting heavily, Arcade reappeared, his tall frame hovering past the short cliff. He shook his head and more dust fell out. His glasses were covered in it.

"What...who...how?"

Vulpes was not normally this civil, but the man held the key to saving Caesar. So he appeased him. "My name is Vulpes Inculta. I am the leader of the great Caesar's Frumentarii."

"Frumen...ha, oh, Caesar, oh boy." Arcade actually laughed, and Vulpes raised an eyebrow as Arcade struggled armlessly to crawl back up the cliff. He examined his ropes, the ropes tied to the tree, and tugged at his own restraints to test them. Not giving up, he approached the tree where Vulpes had tied him hours earlier.

"Can I ask why the fancy rope work? I'll assume if you're a brain slave to that dictator, you're not enlisting in the Navy. I doubt you even know what that is. If you're going to torture me, make it brief. I'm not squeamish about blood but not a fan of seeing my own."

Vulpes was taken aback at the man's rudeness. "Watch your tongue, or I will cut it out. You won't need it to save Caesar."

"Save...excuse me, what?" Arcade was impressed with the man's expert rope work, but that just spelled more trouble for him. At this last, however, he turned his head sharply from the tree trunk to the dog-wearer. "Saving Caesar?"

Vulpes rose slowly, like a cobra about to strike. He tilted his chin outward, saying in as cool of a voice as he could manage, "Caesar has fallen deathly ill. And you are a doctor."

Arcade laughed more loudly now-Vulpes scowled deeply. The blond man had even thrown his head back at what he considered the Legionarie's joke, and now his grin couldn't be contained as he answered, "You really think I'm going to save him? Forget it. Kill me now and spare yourself the trouble. I'm not fond of saving people who kill and torture and enslave. In fact it's a goal I strive to not achieve."

Vulpes had only half been expecting this-count on his luck as of late to find a doctor who despised his leader-but his own anger and desperation spoke for him as he moved forward faster than a striking viper. Part of the rope laying on the dusty ground was wrenched forward over Arcade's head, brought back in a crushing grip around his neck, and Vulpes kneed the man in the stomach, bringing him down. A very large knife was pushed against his throat, and now the Frumentarii leader snapped, "I will not kill you for refusing to help us. I will sever your leg at the knee and melt the wound close so you do not bleed to death. Then I will force feed your own raw flesh to you until the leg bone is picked clean. You will be a crippled slave, and your leg bone your beating cane. To do all of this would bring me great pleasure, but to save yourself, you will save my Master."

Arcade choked, then coughed, against the rope. He was losing consciousness. Vulpes pulled back tighter, ground the edge of the blade in closer.

"Intellegis, medici?" he purred angrily. Though his face was screwed into a grimace from the pain, Arcade nodded slightly. Vulpes released his grip on the rope, kicking the white-coated man into the dust. "Good."

Arcade coughed, shaking his head violently as he was unable to bring his hands to his throat and massage the sore spot there. He spat blood, then struggled to inhale against the still-crushed windpipe. Vulpes put the knife away and slowly moved back to his spot beside the campfire. There, still slightly angered, he knelt again. A slight buzzing, a familiar sound to Arcade, filled the air.

"If there was one more thing I did not want to see, an Enclave eyebot would top the list," he said loudly to the sky, as he lay on his back still catching his breath. Vulpes looked up warily. Sure enough, up the rocky crag came the loyal strange looking device. Standing again, the Legionairy moved into a defensive posture. "Will it attack, slave?"

"I'm not a slave," Arcade replied, "and unfortunately no. He is programmed to engage whenever I or..." at mention of the Courier, Vulpes suddenly had the realization that this was the doctor who traveled with her. "..attack someone. Do you have a gun I could use?"

"It is her robot? Are you able to give it orders?"

"You know," Arcade said in such an ironic tone that it was almost poisonous, "If I could give him any USEFUL orders I could. But I try not to associate with Enclave property any more than Legion brain zombies. I guess you can see how well my night's going."

"You have a sharp tongue."

"Gag me."

"I propose cutting your tongue out as I mentioned earlier."

"Although no notably important veins run into the human tongue, several capable of heavy bleeding do exist and with the right swallowing techniques, and trust me I'm good at swallowing-will cause blood to enter the trachea and lungs, and I would essentially asphyxiate. So, go ahead."

ED-E stopped short at the sight of them, his program recognizing Arcade's voice. He hovered, quite friendly, beside Vulpes.

"I am happy to hear that your medical knowledge includes ways of ending your own life, though you won't need them after Caesar has recovered."

"How sweet of you to offer to kill me and not torture me."

"They are not mutually exclusive."

"Oh, goody!"

For several days, things seemed almost normal despite Arcade being gone. Julie went back to work, the King back to rule over Freeside, and the Courier with her loyal sniper stayed in the area, spending a lot of time in the Embassy. McNamara had been working with the ambassador for the past several weeks, and the two were getting along famously. They had both agreed assistance from the Brotherhood came with a price, and while that price-a ceasing of hostilities on both ends-was in the works, they made their plans for the Dam. Moore had caught wind of the plan, and according to the ambassador, intended to get him sacked over it. She was attempting to raise the report all the way to Kimball.

The Brotherhood back at the bunker were both excited and nervous; most of them had never fought, much less visited Vegas. To Hardin's great delight, he was able to schedule them on rounds-that is, each week a new group got to go on leave and visit the city and the Elder. The Courier, with the deed given by Benny, bargained a free stay for every Brotherhood member at the Tops. The young people loved it there, and the Rad Pack were tickled to death with the gang's power armor. Tommy took it upon himself to be hospitable and every so often would buy a round of drinks or even dinner for the group.

But if the Brotherhood, particularly the younger members, saw Elder McNamara as their leader or patriarch, they saw the Courier as the matriarch. She walked the Strip ceaselessly on one errand or another, always in her red beret and pink hoodie, always with a friendly smile. Unbeknowst to the Elder, because he would surely protest, she supplied her new support with caps to spend while in the city. It was really not as counterproductive as it may have seemed (though she cared little for the money) as the caps came from House's safe. And the only place they were spent was Vegas.

The Elder himself was quite jovial despite the terrible welcome he'd been given. When the Courier met with him, he gushed about how many wonderful things he'd been missing, made her promise to give him a tour of the city once he could move around without limping or cringing. He was especially interested in House's technology, and had the ability of shrugging off Moore's hostility when it was brought up in conversation. Boone thought this unwise-he mentioned to his blond companion that Moore had a lot of sway with the higher-ups, not only because of her rank but also because of her reputation-but it would be dealt with in due time. The Courier was still miffed at the other woman, who slanderized not only McNamara and Crocker, but the owner of New Vegas as well.

And so time passed, and Arcade and his captor reached the Legion camp with no word returning back to Vegas. The girl had begun to worry, but Boone could not have cared less about the dismissal of the blond doctor. He hadn't minded Arcade and in fact begrudgingly owed him his life, but the secrecy of a life admiring the Enclave was too much, no matter the situation.

Besides, he secretly enjoyed having the casino to himself and the Courier. It reminded him of the days so long ago when they used to wander the desert alone, before she ever met the other man. He sometimes missed the wandering, but was more than content to sit and listen to the radio or idly play with Rex while she sat nearby, nose in book or terminal or House's notes. He would pause in listening or look over while having Rex in a headlock, to view the look of intense concentration on her face, the threading of her eyebrows, the tilt of her head. If she noticed him staring, she never reacted to it. Some nights, he made dinner while she washed clothes, or else they both shamelessly snooped through the gigantic penthouse and all its pre-War mysteries. One night while up there, they watched a movie on the working tube television. It was an old classic, about a pair of boys and a haunted circus. She lay her head on his chest and he put his arm around her. They had poker night, with Cachino's insistence, at Gommorah. Boone made sure to lose spectacularly several times, attempting to distract golddigging females, but he really didn't need to as he made it abundantly clear he had eyes for only one woman.

She would mention Arcade though, eventually, and he would sigh or rub his temple, or else shrug and not respond. Her comeback was always the same-she frowned and chewed her lip. After a full week of no Arcade, she headed to Freeside, straight towards the Old Mormon Fort. Before she could get there the girl was hailed by a King, and she halted as he approached. Rex barked happily-she never traveled alone now, even to the bordering city-at the familiar man.

"Hey you! Good to see you. Got a minute?"

"For a King? Who would I be if I didn't?"

The young man smiled sheepishly and then said, "Actually, not for me. For the King himself."

"Oh, sure. What's up?"

"Not sure. He just told us if we saw you to have you stop by. Said it was nothing urgent."

"Lead the way."

When the King asked the Courier to have a seat, his tone and demeanor were so serious that for a moment she wondered if she were in trouble. Feeling like a reprimanded child, she joined him at his table and waited awkwardly while he rubbed his hand over his forehead, searching for words.

"I'm terrible at this." He half-smiled through his grimace, and her eyebrows raised doubtfully. Rex was wagging his tail, oblivious to his master's plight, and stuffed his nose into the King's hand hopefully. The King patted his muzzle and then said, "I need some advice."

Advice? She knew nothing of hair gel, leather jackets, or Freeside. She waited awkwardly. The King looked around as though he were embarrassed, then glanced back at her expectant face. He actually chuckled, then scratched the back of his head. "Gah, man, times like these I wish Pacer was still around. He'd tell me to snap out of it, slap me around."

She crossed her arms, eyebrows raising even higher.

"Maybe that's why I'm feelin' like this anyway. Not havin' Pace, I mean. Maybe it's just a void or somethin'. I dunno." She was nonplussed, mostly because she'd privately hated Pacer, but the Courier didn't interrupt his badly constructed rant. Instead she narrowed her eyes.

"I just, there's not many females I talk to, I mean there's groupies but, well, you ever try havin' an after-sex snuggly talk with-" he glanced at her expression, "-guess that's a no. Well my point is you just can't do it. Specially not when the subject is females. And I need to talk to a female about a female."

"Go on."

"Julie."

This made her brows lower, her expression going very serious all of a sudden. "Oh. OH. Oh. Yeah, what's up?"

"That's just it, I don't know. See," he leaned in over the table, looking slouched, and she mimiced the move so that their heads were together. "That night few weeks ago when we spent the night up in your place, we was fightin' because I walked in on her in that Brotherhood boy's lap."

The Courier was perhaps a poor choice to talk to about anything. Romance was not her forte and gossip was a thing she had little experience with. She blinked, not understanding, and when the King paused dramatically, she didn't respond at all. When he was clearly waiting for her reaction, she simply said, "Which Brotherhood boy?"

The King sighed and put his palm over his face, running it downward, and then said exasperatedly, "McNamara. Ol' Whitey."

Now her jaw dropped and he got the reaction he was hoping for. Her eyes as big as dinner plates, the Courier said in a hiss, "WHAAAAAAT?"

"Yeah. And well-I was...the reason I was tryin' to find her was to..."

She was back to being entirely oblivious about any subtle hints at romance.

"Was to..." he made a motion with his hands, indicating the rest of the sentence.

"Have sex with her?"

He again facepalmed. Realizing that the girl was absolutely nothing like the others he talked to, he decided to put it in plain terms, the way he would've with Pacer, though Pacer would've already understood the situation, because he knew the King like a book. The black-haired man propped his elbow up on the table.

"Look...I like Julie. A lot. Maybe even more. She ain't like any other woman I've ever known. I don't know what to do about it. I think I may've made things a little harder on myself over the past week...you tell me what I should do."

"Ohhhhh." She once again stared in baffled surprise, and then threw her palms up. "Look, King, you're really talking to the wrong person here. I mean, look at me, I'm a fighter, I'm up to my neck in dirt and blood all day long. I don't know anything about romancing. I thought that was your forte." The man had a heart-shaped bed for fuck's sake.

"Yeah well it usually is," he responded sadly, "That's the thing. Normal King stuff don't work on Julie. Maybe that's why I want somethin' to happen so bad, this could just be me thinkin' on it too hard but gah, I can't stop thinkin' about her. And what do you mean you and romance. I saw you and your boy at the Luxe and you two both looked pretty lovey."

"I...what?"

"I was drunk, but I wasn't that drunk. You two are the Vegas pair."

"No...no we're really not."

"Were you or were you not on a date? A fancy one too."

"Boone and I are not together." She stated it firmly, her cheeks reddening.

"Well you sure coulda' fooled half the desert." He shrugged. "Whatever you want. But either way, don't help me none, does it?"

"Well," she replied, happy to get the subject turned back around to him, "Have you tried talking to her at all?"

"Since we screamed at each other, no. Not sure how to go after that."

"Ah." She paused to think. "Well, you have to do that. I mean, what else would you do? Julie is pretty no-nonsense and she'll be cooled down by now."

"What do I say?"

"Uhhh." Good question. Why didn't he listen to her when she told him she knew nothing of love, or even strong like? She'd never had a relationship unless you counted her and Boone's tumultuous whatever it was, that had only manifested recently really...a relationship with a socially-challenged sniper who'd shot his own wife in the head, or the fact that she had sex on more than one occasion with a man who shot her in the face. Healthy relationships were not really her thing. You could blame her exposure to unhealthy relationships at an early age, perhaps.

Still, the King knew she was best-suited for job if only because of her problem-solving ability. And the fact that she knew Julie fairly well, was on good terms with the doctor. He thought out loud while he awaited her response. "I just...she has this way about her nobody else does. She's got those big ol' eyes too, just full of some kind of far off place. Makes you think it ain't so bad even if it is. And she's got funky and cool in her somewhere, she just covers it all up with that lovey dovey doctor bit. I know just as well as I know myself, Julie's a lot deeper than she looks. When I think about her, I wonder what she's goin' through, want to jump right in there and help her, be next to her, take a bullet for her," and he raised his eyebrows at this, since it had ironically sort of already happened, "Well...take another stab or two for her, anyway...she makes me feel like a big ol' kid and I'm the go-to guy for everybody. I want to tear my hair out around the woman. I want to go sit next to her and watch sunsets and...ahhh." He waved a hand. "I must sound like a fool. I surely do sound like a fool. Only fools rush in I guess, but some things are just meant to be."

The Courier's jaw was dropped, and when his eyes returned from their wanderings and his little soliloquy, he viewed her skeptically. "What?"

"I just...that.."

"I guess you don't know the feelin', hell it's probably just my own dunce showin' through."

"I do know the feeling." She had been thinking about Boone.

Arcade very unwisely made snide remarks about Caesar even while washing his hands and preparing for the operation, and Vulpes made a mental note to put him in the most intense pain of his life after Caesar was back on his feet. But the Frumentarii leader, one of very few allowed in the back tent, turned his back on the operation as it was in progress. He couldn't bear to look.

Instead, he thought of the same thing that'd been running through his mind the entire trip back. It had taken him twice as long to travel with the doctor, who made it quite clear he intended to push every button the Legionnaire had. There was little hope of him escaping, and Arcade had even made several annoyed comments about how he had nowhere to go even if he did run, to which Vulpes replied with a stony silence. Vulpes didn't dare sleep, nonetheless, so he went the week without resting so much as once. Arcade noted this and as usual, had something to say about it. Sour Vulpes refrained from cutting his tongue out only because he half-believed Arcade's previous threat of suicide.

"You look tired, pumpkin. You've got a long journey back with me in tow, so why don't you get some shut eye? Just like this." Arcade lay down, closing his eyes and sighing with pretend comfort. He snuggled with a rock, then sprawled his long legs across the windswept grass.

"You are insufferable."

"And you are a part of the Legion, which makes you insufferable as well as stupid."

"Perhaps I won't kill you after you save Caesar. Perhaps I will make you live as a servant to the Legion for your insufferability."

"Then in that case you'll be forever plagued with my insufferability."

"Not if I gouge out your eyes. You won't be able to tell who is giving you orders."

"Then I'll just have to be insufferable to every Legionaire who does. Not a bad trade. I can do that."

Vulpes sighed, too tired to continue the banter, and looked up at the night sky. The stars twinkled brightly, and he wished for nothing but a bed, a blanket, perhaps a fresh pear. Arcade, never missing an opportunity, glanced over at the rigid soldier and saw where his blue gaze was tilted. The doctor eyed the stars as well. "Isn't this romantic? Me, you, the stars, these ropes, your smelly dog hat, promises of torture...you know, I just don't get how a guy like you is single. Totally escapes me. I for one love the smell of dog hide. Nothing quite like it."

Instead of falling prey to the doctor's endless wit again, Vulpes asked something he'd never ask anyone else, under any circumstance-perhaps lack of sleep had made him slightly inebriated.

"Do you know a lot about the heavens, slave?"

"My name is Arcade, and I'm not a slave," the blond said without pause, "and yes, I mean, I know they're there. Why, is dog-breath interested in an astronomy lesson? Caesar's instruction of how you should rape and pillage and be general dickheads not enough of an education?"

"What is the name of the red one?"

Arcade, now extremely interested, ceased in his unkind remarks. With a glance of disbelief, he turned to the captor and looked quizzically at him. The doctor was far less than stupid, and with a glimmer of hope and realization he asked, "Do you mean Mars?"

Vulpes shot him a nasty look; Arcade returned it with an intent stare.

"Yes."

"What about it?"

"What is it?"

"Well...it's right there." With his hands tied, Arcade could only nod. Vulpes looked at him, then back up at several thousand stars.

"Where?"

"There." Arcade nodded again. When Vulpes shook his head slightly, the doctor said in a far less obnoxious tone than he'd used before, "You could probably see better without the hat and glasses. I can't imagine a dog head is the best for viewing."

Vulpes, too interested to argue, removed his hood and visor. As he did so, Arcade scooted closer, situating himself at an angle behind Vulpes so that he could see with the other man's perception. The Legionary turned to get the doctor's guidance on how to find Mars, and when Arcade saw his full face, the doctor stared. Vulpes misinterpreted this and scowled his sour scowl. "What is it?"

"Just uh...though you'd be a little older," Arcade said, and then cleared his throat, glancing over the red-cloaked shoulder. "Look up there."

Vulpes turned away, and Arcade gave the back of his head a strange glare before looking up as well. "Do you know any constellations whatsoever?"

"Only Ursa Major," Vulpes said solemnly, and Arcade snorted.

"You learned that from Caesar?"

"No. The Followers of the Apocalypse." Though little thought was given to matters outside the wounded earth, the star cluster was actually a part of a storybook a teacher read to them once. Vulpes never forgot the location of the big bear once he found it.

"The...really? I'm not even going to ask. Ok, so you see that constellation. And the dipper part?"

Vulpes nodded, and Arcade leaned in closer. "The dipper's bottom left star is called Phekda. Trace a straight line down... You're looking for a really bright star. It's only a little bit above the horizon just yet. Do you see the bright star?"

"Yes."

"Good! That's Regulus, in the constellation Leo. Look east of it. Where all those little dusty looking stars are, and in the middle, the orangy-red thing?"

"Yes."

"That's Mars."

Vulpes stared. It was so small, though it did outshine most stars around it, even the bright Regulus the only one close by comparison.

"What is it? Is it a star?"

Arcade sat back and Vulpes turned, wanting an answer immediately. He glared at Arcade, who only half-smiled and said in what he hoped was a tone that wouldn't get his head sliced off, "It's a planet, just like Earth. Only slightly, and I mean very slightly, less inhabitable. I know you were taught that Mars was the god of War, and that's a very, very, very old legend that was told on earth."

"What about-"

"Caesar being the Son of Mars?" Arcade knew the lies of the Legion very well. "I'm afraid that's simply not true." He still had his head intact. That was a good sign. "Mars is just a dusty planet, with probably more clean water than Earth, though it's all frozen." Vulpes looked away to stare again at the bright orange dot. "The Ancient Romans had Caesars too, you know."

"Why do you tell me this?"

"You asked me about Mars."

"But you lie."

"Why would I do that?"

"To vex me."

"Okay, probably, yeah, but I'm a man of science. I know that's an ugly word to the Legion, and this is why-the things they raise you on are lies that can all be disproven by Science. And you should have some respect for the genuity of science anyway. It's going to save your damn beloved Caesar's life."

Vulpes turned sharply and glared. After several moments in which Arcade hoped he would still have a head, the young man surprised him greatly by asking one final question, "And by your honor, you believe what you say to me is truth?"

Arcade glared warily back, seeing Vulpes's hand twitch on the Ripper handle.

"Yes."

The other man's back was to Arcade once again as he wearily turned toward the orange light.

Now Vulpes involuntarily turned to glance at the doctor at work; Arcade had cursed under his breath in Latin several times already, and with each foul word the young soldier's heart skipped a beat. He was worried for Caesar. Arcade had made no promises, under plenty of threats of death and colorful torture (Vulpes had a full arsenal) and so the possibility of Caesar's death was imminent. Since their return and Arcade's first examination of the unresponsive dictator, Vulpes had overheard severel recruits mention that Caesar's death would be a minority-since he didn't even control the army anymore, it was likely that anyone would notice the older man's death.

Vulpes, while ensuring his doctor had an undisturbed nap and good meal before his arduous work began, had crucified the recruits for their words. He had no time to rest, still diligent, still worried, and the toll of dark circles under his eyes remained hidden by his visor, which he'd only taken off when Arcade had shown him the star-er, planet, Mars. Now he couldn't bear to look down on the bed and so focused on the doctor.

Arcade was bent over, his long white doctor's coat shrugged off, a simple t-shirt underneath. He paused to push his glasses up with one finger, and Vulpes saw with a terrified jolt that his hands were coated in blood. The mans' face was impassive, though beads of sweat cascaded down his brow, and Vulpes suddenly lost all heart to hurt him, whether due to the fact that the sight of Caesar's blood made his stomach drop to his feet, or due to the fact that Arcade was making such an obvious effort.

Then he started singing under his breath, a child's song in Latin. The doctor muttered the words in a low tone, but Vulpes caught the lyric-he'd replaced the words so that the tune sang "death to the dictator."

Vulpes turned away, anger bubbling underneath all his fear.

They were in the penthouse again, and the Courier hadn't hesitated to help herself to the silken nightgowns that House for some reason stored in his too-large bureaus. She truly believed it was merely a hospitality measure in case he had a woman sleeping over, for the one women's clothing drawer was barely touched-but she tried joking about it nonetheless. Boone was not amused.

She lay on the couch backwards-that is, the bottom cushion she rested her back on, her long legs draping over the back of the couch and her head lolling over the front. The tube television in front of her was turned on, and she pressed buttons on the remote to activate the movie file she'd located and chosen for tonight. Rex lay happily at her feet, and Boone emerged from the penthouse kitchen with two Sunset Sarsparillas in hand, wearing no shirt, but still donning his beret and cargo pants. The Courier craned her head toward him and Rex wagged his tail as Boone handed her a drink and then sat beside her, on the floor. Her head was right beside his, and she looked him up and down.

"House had a ton of silk pajama pants, you know. I saw a red pair that would look especially fetching with your beret." Though he hadn't drank tonight, she had, earlier at the casino. He scowled.

"I'm not going to wear some other guy's silk pajamas."

"I see how it is."

"Good."

"Don't sass me."

"Don't tell me what to wear."

"I..." she snickered, and he cut his eyes sideways, taking a drink from his own sarsparilla.

"I bet you're wearing your silk boxers, though. Protecting the finest-"

He glared at her. Her face was sideways as she still craned her neck to look at him, and Boone put the glass bottle calmly down. Then he painfully-thanks due to the gunshot wounds-lifted himself into sitting position on the couch. She lifted her head to follow his path, and Boone contemplated one of the little square cushion pillows before lifting it, tugging at the ends to test its strength, and then putting it over her face and pressing down.

She flailed, half-laughing and half-gasping for air, and slid forward, in danger of falling headfirst onto the floor. It wouldn't have been the first time the Courier proved dangerously clumsy, and Boone grasped her thigh to prevent her descent. Without his hand pressing on the pillow, it fell away, and she continued to giggle, shoulders shaking. Boone grasped her by the waist with his other hand and forced her upwards. She folded her legs, settling on his lap, and dissolved into a giggling machine with her head buried in his neck.

At the moment, though sober, he felt the effects of her soft skin and silken bedroom attire against his chest as fluidly as any drunk man. Boone sighed and let her finish the laughing, and then she pulled back to stare at him. His face was level with her chest, and he wasn't struggling so hard to tear his eyes away-she was drunk, after all. What would she care?

The Courier regained what shred of composure she had left, and decided against another meat joke for the sake of Boone's sanity. Now she wiped her eye as she looked down at him.

"I'm so sorry. You have to admit, at least there were a few day's space between the jokes."

"Next time I won't stop holding the pillow."

"Cheer up Daddio."

"I'm cheery."

"You don't look like it."

"Trust me."

"Is it because you're staring at my breasts?"

"...Mostly, yeah."

She took Boone's hand and placed it, palm down, over her breast, and he withdrew it as though she were on fire. She giggled, and when he scowled with disapproval, she put both hands on the sides of his face.

"You really don't want to...anything?"

"I...of course. I just don't want..."

"To mess up the partnership? To suddenly have restrictions and limitations put on you by the hassle of a relationship? To feel guilty because you're still a widower and you-"

"I don't want you to feel like that's all I want," he interrupted in a cascade of syllables, and she stared at him intently. Boone had little choice but to gaze back at her as she held his head in her hands, and he exhaled nervously.

"Why on earth would I think that? And why on earth would you care if I did?" Was this what the King was talking about? This whole "bigger picture" stuff, was Boone feeling it too? He put his hands over hers, pulled them down, and amazingly, lightly kissed her fingertips.

"I don't know. I'm not good at this stuff. You wouldn't feel that way?"

"No, I wouldn't, and I bet there's something you are good at."

She lowered herself, pressing down further on his lap, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Boone didn't resist when she kissed him deeply, something that was not only happening with increasing frequency, but something that she finally didn't feel strange about doing. She knew the softness of his lips, the smooth unmatched caress of his tongue well, and at least in that sense they already felt like seasoned lovers. When they embraced, she could only think of him one way for some reason; the way he was in Novac. The Boone whose first word to her was "goddammit," the Boone who surveyed the desert night through a glass and metal scope, Boone of the dinosaur mouth.

He had changed in so many ways, just as she had changed in so many ways, and they would both continue to change whether for better or for worse, but he was still that man she met so long ago, would always be that man. And truth be told, even though she really wanted to punch him in the head that night and several nights following the start of their companionship, she'd cared about him back then. When the Courier tore the kiss apart and started a hearty assault on his neck, Boone tensed, placing one hand on her back and the other on her thigh and pushing her impossibly closer to him. He believed her when she spoke simply to him about not feeling like this was the only thing he wanted...he believed her always.

Boone's hand on her thigh found the edge of the lace where her night dress fell, and he slid his hand underneath it, bringing his palm up to her stomach. Deftly his other hand went under the wispy fabric too, where he brought his arm to circle her back and side. The sniper felt her shiver at never having felt him so close, a muslin-thin curtain of silk separating them. His stationary arm was hooked around her, and now his roving hand slid up to her chest, and he ran his palm over, then cupped her covered breast. The Courier gasped, then murmured incoherently, and he squeezed the soft roundness in response. She wore a bra, but no matter-he expertly moved both hands to the back clasp, tugging the restraint off and tossing it to the floor, discarding it.

The Courier was unknowingly making his exploration more difficult, as both her suckling on his neck and ear and the soft purrs and urges she whispered urged him to just sit in bliss and drool for all eternity, but the feel of her curves in his hands argued that he should continue what he was doing. So he struggled against the conflict, the best conflict of his life, and finally picked a winning side when he dipped his head forward, moving in one long strike to trace his tongue encouragingly from the center of her chest up to her chin. He nibbled on the side of that impossibly long neck, longer now that she'd thrown her head back, before returning back down to her chest. All that remained was the silken cover.

As he reluctantly lowered his hands from kneading the beloved pair, slid them back down towards the ends of the nightdress to peel it off, she pulled him in for another deep kiss, and he paused. It was then that a noise from the window made both of them jump; a loud slam, and then a recording of a familiarly-played tune.

Boone jolted, holding the Courier by the shoulders, and they both glared at the window to the darkness beyond. Even Vegas's bright lights didn't filter into the night at this level, so only a deep pitch-black starry night awaited their gaze. But Boone could see better than that; with a growl, he snapped, "Fucking...robot..."

ED-E was playing his theme repeatedly, slamming his robot head into the window. A single balcony level was on this side of the penthouse, and the Courier slouched, clearly not pleased. She turned back to Boone, moved forward, but the damned thing increased his volume, the tune causing Rex to bark with an annoyed tone, as though urging his masters to get the hell off their sex couch and shut up the noise.

The Courier glanced back at him. "Okay, look. Don't move. I'll just...let him in. And...just don't move."

Boone glared.

She hopped off him and scampered over to the door in nothing but the little red silk. He ruefully watched her go, and then sank his head onto his hand. He tried to catch his breath as she slid the glass door open and ED-E entered.

"What is it, you damn metal jerk?" she asked absent-mindedly, closing the door after him as he hovered around. The thing was usually left to itself, didn't have a fear of outdoors and in fact wandered around Vegas as amiably as an Enclave robot could. Why it so wanted to see them now was not only highly inconvenient, it was suspicious.

Sure enough, it was Boone, not her, who noticed it. "He's carrying something."

"Where?"

"Hanging off the edge of his bottom left antennae."

She plucked what looked like a rag tied to a string off the machine. It looked at first glance like a spare bit of trash, but when she unfolded the pair, she realized the gravity of what she was looking at, and her jaw dropped.

Boone's hopes flew out the window. "What is it?"

She turned to face him and held up the objects. One, the rag, was actually a white patch. It had been ripped off of whatever article of clothing it usually fastened to, and on it was the familiar sign of a Followers doctor. The other article was actually not a string but a necklace bearing the Mark of Caesar.

She bawled, tears rolling down her face as she yowled miserably and without restraint, clutching the fabric. Boone was rubbing her back idly.

"B...b..but howwwww," she stammered, "How did he...put this..."

"Who knows what happened," Boone began. "But Arcade isn't stupid."

Her worst fear was that this was not genuinely from Arcade, but merely a Legionary who wanted to gloat. That after they'd killed him, they tied this on the meandering ED-E...

"How...where would he g-get..." she brandished the hated coin, and Boone lowered her flailing wrist. "He couldn't just...taaake this from someone-"

Arcade made the mistake of falling forward when the man kicked him in the back; when he fell, bracing himself on the dust by pushing his palms onto the desert ground, blood from his nose splattered onto the boot of another Legionary, who promptly kicked him in the face. This one hurt far worse than all the others, and the doctor could feel his nose break. He would've grabbed it with both hands, but did not want to draw attention to it.

After a moment of Arcade being blinded by pain, blood dust and dirt in his eyes to boot, one of the men wrenched him up from his kneeling position by the hair of his head, Gannon unable to cry out in pain by this point. He was so exhausted he barely choked, coughing blood, as he was raised upwards.

"On your feet, profligate," one jeered, and another, "Will you call Caesar your master now?"

"What kind of man is it, that beats into submission the will of servants?" his voice was farther gone than raspy, it was wheezy, and thick red crimson spilled out from his lips when he spoke. Shoulders heaving, dizzy and now with a sharp pain issuing from his poor nose, Arcade wavered on the spot. For his trouble, and his response, he was punched in the stomach.

"No point in degrading myself," he choked out, shaking the blood from his pale blond hair, "if you're going to torture me anyway."

They didn't care that he was a doctor, didn't care about the success of the operation. They only knew this man as the Courier's companion, and fully intended to treat him like the vermin he was while they awaited Caesar's return to consciousness. Arcade was thrust to the ground again, and this time when he steadied his fall by his hand, it was stomped on. He did cry out this time, hearing the splinter of bones and feeling the crushing devastation on multiple bones in his left hand, but he didn't try to move or yank the hand away, which allowed the Legionary to dig in deeper.

As the men laughed and jeered, the sea of onlookers parted hurriedly with the arrival of someone very angry...someone very important. The man shoved recruit after recruit aside, knocking down the Decanus who crushed Arcade's hand. When the assailant fail, Arcade grasped his left hand in his right, cringing and hugging the broken digits to his chest. He could have wailed like the Courier, but he bit his tongue. Arcade was not a brave man. He was not impassive, he was not stoic, he was not Boone. But he was too afraid of what would happen to him if he showed further weakness, to succumb just yet.

Vulpes Inculta, flanked by the dog-head donning Frumentarii, pushed the circle away. In a loud voice, not his usual smooth tone, the man shouted a curse in Latin. And then, "Fools! The Master has not even awakened yet and we may need the slave's curing hands if he is to survive. What manner of stupidity is this?!"

Even Arcade was startled by the fierce tone and gnashing of teeth, and he tenderly touched his nose as Vulpes's men subdued the rowdy others, most of whom looked terrified. Inculta was a man with the imagination and the authority to force death in unthinkable ways, and he never hesitated to perform those imaginative deaths on his own kind. The Decanus tried to scramble away, but Vulpes's foot held his neck firmly in place.

"Speak!" Vulpes snapped again, not even bothering with his Ripper. Arcade suddenly wondered if he might vomit because the pain in his hand and nose were both excruciating, and he decided that if he did vomit, he'd do so on the fallen Decanus. Preferably sooner than later, because Vulpes looked quite close to killing the feather-wearing soldier.

"Th..the Burned Man! He said we-he said we had to-"

"You took orders from him?" Vulpes hissed, sounding exactly like a snake, and Arcade paused in his plans of vomiting to say confusedly, blinking out from under his swollen eye, "The Burned Man?" He knew the tales...the Burned Man was a legend as bogus as this Son of Mars horse shit.

"We didn't...he threatened to kill us all!" the Decanus could barely breathe, he was losing consciousness. "When you left he...I don't know...! He talked to us, made us...made us think Caesar was lost..."

"Where is Graham?" Vulpes snapped, his hiss turning into a growl, and Arcade gaped under the blood. "Graham?" It was the name on the Courier's holodisc, one he'd never told her. Because he knew who shared it. And it just couldn't be possible. No, there was a mistake, a misunderstanding.

"Right here," came a low, deadly voice, and now the Legionaries parted like a Red Sea to permit the too-tall man entrance. Arcade stared, taking his first look at the Burned Man of Legend, and Vulpes remembered why he'd been scared of Graham in the first place. The ex-Legate stood tall and broad, even with his burns boasting more muscles than men half his age. His face, though hidden, reeked of sternness and danger.

This humanization of a Legend did not make him less frightening. It made him even more so. Even Arcade drew back at his approach, all the while recognizing the slow, loping walk the man sported. It was to every match, the Courier's. As the kneeling Arcade peeked from around Vulpes's legs like a scared child, the other man was for once not backing down in fear.

"How dare you defy the will of Caesar in such a manner? Have you sabotaged his bedside too?"

"I have done nothing," Graham dismissed, blinking down at the white-haired doctor. "But you've brought a spy, an old enemy of the Legion, one of our own kind," Graham's tone was not impressed.

"Spy! This doctor was taken outside of Vegas with no one around," snapped Vulpes, "I would never endanger the Fort by drawing attention to my actions. Unlike you, I am successful in my endeavors."

"I will kill you now if you so wish to remain insolent."

"You will not harm the doctor, or myself!" Vulpes was finally standing up to the schoolyard bully, and everyone around was gaping. "Twenty you may kill, a hundred, but still more will come, and you would die without ever atoning for your sins. Which is what you so wish to do, isn't it?"

Graham reached out, grabbed Vulpes by the neck. He was so tall and strong that the thin frame was lifted right off the ground, and Arcade cowered at hearing the familiar crushed-windpipe sounds emanating from the Frumentarian leader. Vulpes choked, Arcade glanced around at the men. They too seemed terrified of the Courier Senior, and he knew that Vulpes spoke the truth. The Legion would follow Vulpes, would put down Graham. And so the doctor fought with his own predicament.

As Vulpes choked, Graham pulled him close. "Men like you know nothing of your own atonement."

The Decanus didn't feel like moving from his spot on the ground, and though several others reached for their weapons, none were drawn. It was Arcade who in a flash had drawn the shortsword from the fallen warrior's hip sheath, Arcade who now plunged forward and stuck it through Graham's foot, up to the hilt.

With not a cry of pain but a roar of rage, the giant let go of his iron grip, and Vulpes fell to the ground, crashing down on top of the already bruised Arcade. They fumbled for a moment, both scrambling to back away from Graham, who effortlessly plucked the knife out, and the Legionaries, recognizing the danger of the man with a knife, plunged in. Vulpes made it to his feet first, and Arcade, captive now simply by slave collar, reeled backwards as well.

Lucius's voice roared above the others as he yelled for his men to contain the Burned Man. They did so, barely, and Vulpes dashed away. Arcade paused, unsure what to do, until Vulpes nodded to him. They left the mob, condemned to not harm Graham by will of Caesar, but they could hear the shrieks of men who fell prey to the knife nonetheless. Soon the recruit sent to get the slave collar would return, and perhaps that would be the only thing to calm Graham Senior. In either case, Vulpes was more concerned with the safety of Caesar, and he intended to ensure nothing had happened to the dictator in the short time he'd been attempting sleep for the first time in over a week.

Arcade had completed the surgery, leaving Caesar to sleep off the sedatives, warning that there may still be a chance of his demise despite best efforts. There was nothing to do but remain vigilant, and Lucius had taken Vulpes's post after the younger started to hallucinate. As they trudged up the hill, the shouts from the men growing fainter, Arcade gasped while trying to gingerly mop blood away from his face, "That's...that. That man was her father."

"Yes," Vulpes said, then looked over strangely. "You did not know?"

"We didn't even know he was alive. What was his issue with me?"

"Quite the opposite, actually. He, now a Christian man, sought to save his own Utah tribe from the Legion by diplomatic talks with Caesar."

"So in theory, he was the good guy about to kill the bad guy-you?"

Vulpes didn't know what to say. He'd never thought of it that way.

"He abhors the Legion. He abhors Caesar."

Arcade muttered, nursing his broken hand, "Well, too bad our Courier will never get to meet good old abhorring daddy."

"What?"

Arcade had no idea why he was confiding in this beast of a man who'd captured him and dragged him to go save Caesar. "We...had a disagreement. I left in the heat of the moment. She thinks I've gone for good. She has no idea where I am."

"You believe that the eyes and ears of the Mojave, the owner of Vegas, will not know where to find you or come after you?"

"My luck ran out about the same time as Boone found that armor," he said mysteriously, and just as Vulpes was about to enquire, Arcade cleared his throat and said loudly, "Well, time for old Caesar's checkup. Let's hope he's not snuffed it, for my sake."

She had scavenged the most powerful Magnum in the desert. Nothing the Mojave had to offer could blast away like this weapon, and she knew just who she was taking it to. The man in white. The man who had ruined the last glimmer of her existence. Thanks to him, there was no hope of learning to read, no hope of her ever rising above the addictions and the tribulations her little tribe in outer Vegas endured. Her sister was gone too-she couldn't really blame him for that, but it was icing on the proverbial cake. With the poison, she walked boldly through the gates to Freeside. She could feel the breaths of ancestors by her side, and so it was that her head was held high, not cast down like it would have been any other day

The King fretted, pondered on what the Courier had to say, shooed the groupies from hanging out in his room and pawned them off on too-eager Kings as he paced in his room. The black-haired man glanced at a shoddy, non-working pocket watch that he left placed on his bureau. "Pacer, Pacer," he chided, for that was the old owner of the watch, "What would you tell me to do about all this mess?" But the watch, and Pacer, remained coldly silent, so he tucked the gold into his own coat pocket, and the King once again left his abode, this time heading straight for the Old Mormon Fort.

She was high of course, higher than she'd been the night she couldn't commit suicide, but she wasn't weak like she was then. The gun was heavy in her hands, and she had no holster, so she held its slippery handle in her own sweaty palm. The girl was barefoot, and she'd removed her usual ornamental helmet, removed her ill-fitting clothes and shoes, instead donning what she didn't know wasn't a dress but an under-dress. An item off one of the many corpses she'd looted over the past few weeks. The thin silk was white, with thin straps and a long hem that billowed past her knees. Everyone in the tribe found it ridiculous, and she would never be allowed to wear such a thing there. But then, after tonight, she would never be going back.

The drugs in her system combined with the humming in her head caused her walk to be slow, lurchy, as though she were sleepwalking. She didn't feel the rough cement under her bare, dirty feet, didn't pause to wipe the tears from her dark-ringed eyes. The King and other bodyguard stationed at the gate entrance both gaped after her, not wanting to comment merely because the glint of steel was menacing enough. They watched her go, her long blue-black hair trailing after her and giving her the appearance of a banshee or spirit, then turned to each other to exchange a baffled look.

She didn't have to wander far; the streets were empty except for the here-and-there rat or sleeping bum, but as she passed a large brick building with a heavy wooden door, her eyes caught the only thing as clean white as the under-dress she wore; his jacket. He was coming directly toward her. The girl stopped, her heart dropping to her feet, and past the numbness induced by chems, she started to feel again. Hatred over losing the ones she loved, jealousy over the fact that she could never be like this person. Want-she didn't know what she wanted, perhaps the freedom to be addiction-free. But a fiend is born into addiction, mothers passing on the drugs in the womb, so that the babies are born already craving tainted breastmilk.

He walked at a brisk pace, for Freeside was not a great place to be out alone at night, even if you were the King-though she had no idea who he was-but he slowed when he saw her. She was still staring at him, pointedly, staring at how beautiful he was. The man moved so that he would pass by her, but she stopped him with a tragic, "Wait."

He halted, hand in pocket, and tilted his head toward her. He was possibly twenty feet away, and now she walked toward him. The man's eyes moved warily from her face to her hands, and at the dangerous and gruesome items they contained. With a look that clearly beseeched for understanding, he stared at her face again and said in a calm, low tone, "What can I do for you?"

She stopped directly beside the large wooden door to the brick building, and for a moment the only thing that breathed was the wind, ruffling her hair and not touching his. She blinked, and then slowly raised her hand-not the one holding the gun, but the other one, that clutched a head of dark hair. Under the hair was a decomposing skull. The man just stared, still looking utterly confused, as she brought it to eye level with him.

"This is yours."

"Excuse me?" Everything about him was so beautiful, so much better than her. Even the lilt of his voice had a note of magic in it that had been sucked out of her so long ago.

"My people collect the skulls of those they kill."

"Who are you, exactly?"

Before she could answer that question, the large wooden door creaked and the young girl snapped her head to the side. A silhouette of a mohawk emerged in the dim light, and the white coated man moved toward the figure as though desperate to have her move. Before he took two steps, the young Fiend had pulled the Magnum, held it to his chest.

"Don't move!" she screamed desperately, holding gun in one hand, head in the other.

"King-!" the mohawked woman breathed, clapping a hand to her mouth. Other than that, she was frozen too. The man spoke in a solemn voice.

"Julie, get back inside the Fort."

"Sweetie, what are you-" the woman approached, and the young girl flinched away.

"Don't come any closer!"

The gun was trained on the man in white, so the other obeyed, pausing in her steps. But she continued to speak.

"Lower the gun, nobody is going to hurt you. We're here to help you. We can both help you."

"Help me? Do you know who I am?"

They were both silent. She stared at the man named King, whose palms were up in a surrender gesture. She awaited, and finally he shook his head.

"Then do you know who this is!" she brandished the rotting head again, pieces of stinking flesh hitting the cement. The King grimaced, waiting for her finger to slip on the trigger, but shook his head again. Finally the mohawked woman spoke.

"Just calm down, sweetheart. You've taken a really large dose of Jet. I can fix your addictions for you. He didn't mean to kill him. It was a fight and things got out of hand. But you're here now and we have all the tools we need to get you on the right road, but you've got to put the gun down."

The King stared at Julie as though she'd lost her mind. He kept his hands in the air, but privately wondered to himself, how did she know who the decapitated head belonged to when he didn't? Who had he killed? Well, plenty, but he'd never had an encounter quite like this one. The face was so decomposed he probably couldn't have recognized his own victim if she thrust it any closer to him-and he was hoping she wouldn't.

"Who...?"

"That's the head of the Fiend who stabbed you," Julie provided, "the one you shot."

"His name's Teo!" shrieked Lydia, the gun shaking, and the King winced again. Her lip wibbled and her wrist vibrated.

Hurriedly, Julie agreed, "Yes, yes. Teo. That's Teo."

"I'm sorry," the King said suddenly, and Lydia tensed at the sincerity in his voice. "I killed your boy, and now you're here to kill me and you happened to catch me not surrounded by my own, in my own town. Fair's fair, go ahead."

"King!"

"Julie," he snapped. "Let a King go down with honor. I'm a man, killed a lotta' men, fair is fair."

The little girl crouched in her rags, her hands in fists. She waited for the snow to splatter red with blood, waited for him to find her and hack her to pieces. Though she shook from cold and fear, her defiance stilled her. The only thing that shuddered other than her small fists was her breath, fogging in front of her. The green reeds even, remained still. Loud footsteps thudded closer, and she knew the end was coming. He was coming.

Suddenly a stillness descended over the mountain, over the lake, and the little girl with the big messy bow in her long blond hair paused, listening to the silence. Something rustled nearby-was it an animal? She had nothing to protect herself with, figured she wouldn't live much longer anyway. Her father had just killed her mother and sister and many others. Though the night was long, he was a skilled hunter, was perhaps fifty feet away from her. Yet this silence seemed to demand her attention-everything will be okay, said the snow, the cat tails, even the still water behind her.

The little girl looked slowly over to her right, toward the rustling. The sight she saw caused her big green eyes to widen, a look of indignation and disbelief crossing her young face. It was a ghost-it had to be a ghost, because it wasn't real. It was a very tall woman, stooped in the reeds and not very well hidden due to her height. She had a red hat on her head, hair tucked up into it, but even from here the child could see its rich golden color.

Now their eyes met and they stared at each other. The little girl was mesmerized by the older woman who now lurked in the grass with the stillness of the night. She looked strong, wise, if a little tired. Her own green eyes held a sadness in them, but hope as well. In her own very rough and very gentle way she was beautiful, but slightly frightening as well. The child was not afraid.

The shadow fell over them, and the little girl gave one last doleful look at her cat tail ghost companion before allowing herself to be pulled upwards.

"Monster!" he exclaimed. Though he growled it, he shrieked it as well, his voice leaning on two octaves. She pursed her lips. "Afraid Daddy's going to kill you? Where are your tears, where are your screams! You've been running but now you're caught!" he shook her violently, and her teeth clacked together.

She remained silent.

"I can't do it, venomous little wretched damned beast but I can't do it. MONSTER! The only fucking imp in the world who didn't cower to me." He raised one hand, the hand that wasn't holding her fast, and backhanded her. Instantly, blood gushed from her nose and mouth, but she didn't move to stop the flow. "Even blood won't make you cry. Won't bring out your demon. You're useless!"

He flung her to the side of the lake, where she landed hard on her back. The stars were particularly visible tonight. She glanced up through the welling tears at Mars. She didn't move, waited for him to retrieve his axe or knife or whatever it was he intended to use on her.

"Leave, live! But you'll always be alone, always!" This chilling, shrill yell would reverberate in her ears as whispers, chants, shouts, songs for years to come, until Benny all but silenced them with a shot to the head. She lay on her back, dazed only a moment longer, until the man's footsteps disappeared over the mountain. Then the girl sat upright, checking to make sure her teeth weren't out of her mouth, mopping the blood with her raggedy dress.

The dubbed monster stood, and darted into the darkness in the opposite direction, not once looking back, ready to start her life alone. The calmness that had descended when the lake ghost woman appeared was still there, a cloud of hope among misery ingrained into the child's system. She would leave the mountain, she would enroll in a school, once she found one. She wanted to learn how he survived that fall.

After that, who knew?

"I didn't come here to shoot you," Lydia snapped impatiently, her heart thundering in her ears.

Both Julie and the King looked at her, gaped at her, and she brandished once again the head of Teo.

"I came to deliver this to you. You have to take it."

When the King hesitated, not willing to bring his hands down of their defeated palms-up pose, she screeched in that same inhuman voice, "Take it!"

He grabbed the boy's head by its hair, swallowing every sickened feeling he possessed, struggling not to gag at the stench of dead flesh. The skull, barely held together, sagged under his fingers, the hair threatening to detach. He tightened his grip, horrified for it to fall, and now Lydia said while staring at the King, "Shameful that your girlfriend is one of our kind and she doesn't teach you the traditions."

Warily lowering the skull in his hand, still not entirely sure he was going to make it out of this alive, seeing as how the Magnum was pointed at his chest, the King looked over at Julie. She had a ponderous look about her as she corrected the girl, "Half, actually."

At his stare, and Lydia's glare, she continued in her soft tone, "My mother was raped by a Fiend and got pregnant with me. She raised me by herself, but he came for me later...kidnapped me when I was fifteen, and I lived with them for several years. When I turned eighteen my father gave me the choice to stay...or leave. I left."

"You don't know our plight," Lydia said, sounding both disappointed and angered, and Julie crossed her arms.

"Maybe not firsthand-thanks to my mom, I never got the chem addiction, and I made chems for the Fiends, it's how I started my medical career. But I've walked the walk. Trust me. Let me help you, please."

The girl knew that Julie had Fiend blood only due to intuition. No other clues had been given to her. They knew each other, they suffered by each other...they died by each other, too. It was insulting that this half-breed could walk and talk normally in society, it wasn't fair. Lydia's high had reached its peak, and her weak wrist trembled with the weight of the heavy gun. She pushed the King's chest with it.

"Teo was..." her voice broke, and tears streamed down her face now. He was forced to look into her eyes. They were black, hollow, empty, but somehow so simultaneously full of sorrow and hatred. Dead eyes, from someone so young. "He was all I had. He was the only person I ever had, to keep me here. Now that he's gone, there's nothing. This desert has nothing."

"I..."

"Thank you," she whispered, and closed her eyes. Before he understood what she meant, Julie had leapt forward, shouting, "No!" but it was too late; Lydia flipped the gun around and fired, the barrel stuck toward her own chin. In the flash of gun smoke, her head exploded, and both Julie and the King were splattered with crimson. "Nooo!" screamed Julie again, and she half-tripped, half-fell into the King's arms. He dropped the grotesque gift and enveloped the doctor, who wailed into his chest. One hand was on her back, the other wrapped around the side of her face so that she couldn't look down and see the corpse. At her cry, several other Followers came out the heavy wooden door, and the commotion alerted loitering Kings, who jogged around the corner in the opposite direction.

The King himself was standing there, jaw dropped, as the moon rose over another night in Vegas, and another Fiend found the only peace possible for Fiends-lack of existence.

Vulpes was back on top of the world again.

He rose his head slowly, eyes meeting the familiar sight of the man who'd saved his life and allowed him breath for each day since. The silly worries he'd had earlier, the fears about the planet Mars, the woes about the Courier and his own inability to kill her in the past, the dread with which he thought of life without his Master-all that had melted away like a Mojave sunset, fading into a black night where no discouraging light could seep through.

Vulpes was back to himself. At least, for the moment.

Caesar was awake, had insisted on getting dressed and at his throne, though he looked far more relaxed than he usually did. The dictator lounged, glancing up at the four men in front of him. They stood in a semicircle; Vulpes, Lucius, Graham, and Arcade, each with their hands folded in front of them almost ceremoniously. He glanced at each of them in turn, then cracked a half-smile.

"It's good to be back."

Vulpes crossed his arms; Lucius nodded slightly in agreement, but both Graham and Arcade were tight-lipped. The former looked unscathed, not entirely pleased at the healthy outcome, but Arcade, who sported the only slave collar, looked terrible. Tending to Caesar without ability to treat his own wounds amid his own unceasing quarrels with the Legion-which led to more fights, more torture,-had given him not only a broken nose but a busted lip, a huge cut that ran from the side of his head to his eyebrow, countless bruises, broken blood vessels in his both eyes. His glasses were long gone; they had been broken by a jeering recruit. Vulpes had tried to reason with Arcade the same day Graham killed ten men that if only he would submit, be a good slave, then the men would stop their assaults, but Arcade had obviously ignored him.

Now that Caesar was better, Vulpes realized he was so happy he didn't quite care how Arcade looked. And though the man had saved his life, even the dictator himself couldn't find the time to spare words to the blond. Instead, he nodded to Vulpes. "Thank you."

"My lord."

"Lucius...I see other than a few minor disturbances-" including a slave stabbing an ex-Legate in the foot- "things have gone smoothly since I became ill. Well done."

Lucius nodded again. Now Caesar turned his shrewd gaze on Graham.

"You killed my men."

"Sadly, not enough of them."

Caesar sighed-he looked less amused with the brute than annoyed, something Vulpes for one was thrilled to see. "If I turn you loose on the NCR, are you going to beat them down like dead wheat too?"

"It is doubtful."

"You know," Caesar said, squinting, "You could win your Dead Horses sanctuary by helping me." With no "headaches" haunting him, the dictator was more than capable at tactical decisions. Vulpes lifted an eyebrow as Caesar continued, "If you go to the White Legs, lead them alongside Lanius and his troops, you'll take the Dam, which means I'll have Vegas. I'll grant you your Zion, for now and the Legion's eternal reign."

Graham's eyes misted over, obviously relishing the thought of having Utah remain untouched by the barbarian tribes, but he said, "I am no Legate. And the White Legs are my enemy. Not my troops."

"You're a good leader, you could do something Ulysses obviously couldn't. You'd be fighting for your greater good," Caesar pressed. "Stay, fight at the Dam with me. You have my word I'll send nobody after you when you go back to Utah."

"With your Rome in Nevada, I would have the Legion to the West of me and the East of me." Graham was obviously not going to be easily swayed, so now Caesar rested a hand on his chin.

"Uh-huh. I guess you could say that's a possibility. What I know is, I can't have you killing my men while we gear up for battle, it's counter-productive. What I'd like, and what you'd like, seem to go in two total directions." Now the man's voice had a hint of remorse in it. "I wanted to reconcile. I acted in haste at the Dam four years ago. I wanted to prove a point. I did prove a point. Before that, we were invincible together. I know there's no reconciliation now, Joshua." It was the first time he'd spoken the man's first name. "I don't want to be looking over my shoulder day after day with you haunting me. I'm sure you feel the same about me."
Both men were now silent. In their silence, Vulpes, Lucius, and Arcade all turned to look intently at Graham. Finally, the contemplative man who had given so many of his traits to his daughter, answered, "I will not fight with you in battle again. Zion is not negotiable. I did not come to bargain. The Lord did not intend for my reasoning with you to end in brutality, with me leading a tribe of my own enemies."

"Four days," Caesar countered, "Think on it, and we will talk again. In the meantime..."

"I won't kill any more of your weaklings."

"Dismissed," Caesar said in a careless tone, and Lucius gave a final nod as Graham sauntered away-he'd tended his own wound, the wound given by Arcade, and was without a doubt the most frightening thing to ever have limped. It deterred his visage none whatsoever. Vulpes stared at Caesar, glowing, a moment more, before turning to his post beside Caesar. He had nothing to take care of, was on duty for several more hours. He stood by the throne as the dictator paused before addressing the last man he'd called-Arcade-and instead Caesar said, as though in afterthought, "Silus."

The hulking figure who stood sentry at the front of the tent now moved forward, his sulky sneer and dark locks causing even the nearby mongrels to withdraw. As though Arcade were invisible, Silus shoved past him and stood expectantly in front of the dictator, fully ready to accept more gloating or whatever it was the healed lunatic felt like dishing out.

"Silus. Lucius tells me that you didn't move from your post at my tent when the commotion down at the slave pen happened."

Unimpressed, Silus stared stonily.

"Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Nor, Lucius tells me, did you move from your post during the entirety of my surgery."

"There were no orders given," Silus said almost aggravatedly, as though he were about to be called stupid and was giving a rational explanation for his actions. Caesar remained uncharacteristically patient. "Which would've put you on a single post for days on end, with no relief. Did you at least eat?"

"I drank water," Silus supplied, looking dubious, and he stared for a moment at Vulpes, who did not meet his eyes.

"So, in short, you've shown to me the dedication you once did," Caesar said in a pleased tone, and now Vulpes stared at Caesar as though he were an alien. Likewise, Arcade turned and stared at the tall, broad Centurion, whose sour expression didn't brighten.

"I think you've served your punishment enough," Caesar finished. "Return to your century, and maintain vigilance."

Looking as though he'd been slapped, a strange way to repay Caesar's gratitude and good favor, Silus nodded and retreated, leaving Vulpes to fume silently and Arcade to sigh, knowing at long last the time had come for him to be addressed. The blond was staring at his feet, weary and hopeless, awaiting whatever horror the man would unleash. No doubt Vulpes had told him in their private meeting, when he explained Graham's actions to Caesar, of Arcade's hatred toward the Legion and his refusal to accept the delusional man as ruler.

"Slave," he said, and then in a gentle tone, "Doctor."

At the second word, Arcade rose his head, tentatively staring into the older man's eyes.

"You saved my life. It's become clear to me that I was wrong on several things. I shouldn't be the first to turn away science when it is brought to me as a gift that saves my life. You will stay here and offer your skills for as long as you are able?"

"I don't really have a choice, do I?"

"No." Caesar fidgeted for a moment, then drummed his fingers against his chin. "But is there any request I can grant you to make your time less miserable?" At Arcade's withering look, bloodshot eyes nearly dripping crimson, Caesar continued, "I can't stop the men from beating you if you keep your tongue. That is out of my jurisdiction. What you do dictates how they treat you. I will give you a place to sleep, rest, tend to your many wounds. But if there is anything additional I can do, you do have the one request."

Arcade pondered on this. He had no tears left, really didn't have tears in the first place, but something within him wanted to cry. Suppose they did take the Dam? He would be here forever. Suppose the Courier and Boone led the NCR to victory. Either he would become a prisoner of war, or else die in the aftermath. They wouldn't look for him. Not only did they not know where he was, they didn't care. The one place he'd felt at home was taken from him. Daisy was a dream away. Arcade was now formally an outcast.

Instead of crying, he looked away from Caesar to the ground again. Though he didn't know it, the cold eyes of Vulpes were on him, the man's sharp gaze tuned solely on the bruised and battered doctor. For a moment, the twinge of compassion and guilt that stayed Vulpes's hand toward the Courier, resurfaced. So strange that even amid the glory of alive Caesar, the emotion could glimmer. Still, he said nothing, patiently awaiting the man's answer.

Finally Arcade turned his own eyes back to meet the dictator's, and in his usual confident tones he said, "I do have a request. I don't know how long this will last, and I'm going to be the first to tell you I hope I get put out of my misery before long. Until then...don't call me slave. I want you to speak to me like a human being. My name is Arcade, that's what I want to answer to."

The sheer amount of audacity this man had shocked Vulpes; as his ears were ringing from the affrontery, Caesar merely nodded and responded with, "As you wish, Arcade."

The King and Julie made a very somber trip out into the Wastes; she carried a box and he, bridegroom style, carried a corpse. The pair didn't speak, they simply walked, and Julie navigated by graffiti where they should go. Without either the Kings or the Followers to offer backup support, the two de facto rulers of Freeside boldly stepped into the shelter of the small, dwindling tribe.

Lydia's body was recognized only by the tendrils of long black hair that swayed from her stiffening corpse, and one of the Fiends ran for the chief. The man answered only to Motor-Runner, but when he heard the news, he emerged from the concrete building without Julie or the King having to speak. A wall of loyal followers rose up behind him, however; they raised both shoddy melee weapons and stolen guns toward the strangers.

"What is this," he boomed. The two Freesiders stopped at the approach. The Fiend Chief waved off the group of bodyguards, but continued to walk toward them. He was huge, built, making even the First Recon sniper that the Courier hauled around look like a weenie, as the King would call it. His skin was dark, baked from the sun, and his headdress was not only comprised of a Brahmin skull and unrecognizable skins and feathers, but also colorful fabric and a mounted human skull. Across his chest was a breastplate of bones, metal trinkets and keys clanking off strips he'd tied to his broad arms. His entire left arm, shoulder, breast, neck and face was adorned with a faded, greening tattoo bearing strange designs.

His eyes were dark, plagued the same as his daughter's had been.

"She killed herself with this," Julie offered, holding out the large weapon. The man snatched it away, turned it over, impassively stared at what was his daughter's dead body in the arms of the King. The two of them, of course, had no idea that the girl who walked to Freeside just to preserve a tradition and personally thank the man who enabled her to freedom, was the daughter of a chief. The King didn't know that such a thing even existed. Now the Fiend's eyes slid from Julie to his daughter, and he held out his arms.

"It was foolish of you to come here without weapons or soldiers." He cradled the lifeless form.

"We just wanted to make right, right," the King offered.

"She would not have wanted to rot where you come from. I thank you."

Julie held out the box-one of the man's bodyguards warily took it as well. Inside it contained many syringes, all of them filled with the same mix of ingredients...a solution that when injected, help to subside cravings for addictions, could even sate the addictions themselves. The Fiend glanced strangely up at the woman with the mohawk, and she hurriedly retreated to be closer to the King. Though she had ran with them many, many years ago, she did not trust them, or feel comfortable around them.

When she returned to his side, he took her hand.

To the Fiend Chief, the King asked, "Is there anything..."

Julie finished. "...we can do?"

A rather grim smile flickered over the other man's face, and he shook his head.

"Peace will not come to us under any circumstance. Abandon us, there is no hope."

When he turned away to carry his daughter inside the dwelling, the other Fiends still looking captivatedly at the box and at the newcomers, the Chief said in his low, melancholy voice, "Never return."

They walked back to Freeside, and never returned to the desolate area under the whispering interstate ramp.

A rare Mojave thunderstorm had of course descended down upon them. Boone had long ago abandoned his glasses, which kept fogging up, and now he squinted past the sheets of rain, barely able to make out the pale pink hoodie in front of him. She climbed quick, slipping and sliding, undaunted by mud; it was a struggle just to keep up with her.

The Courier reached the top of the rocky hill and stood upright, on the edge of a great ravine-one flooding thanks to the storm, one hundreds of feet high, one they had to cross by way of an even higher bare hill that ran alongside this mountain. She turned in a circle, examining the treacherous road ahead, and as Boone finally clambered towards the top, still standing fifteen feet below her, he caught sight of her face. The hood had been pulled over her beret, but it was a fruitless attempt to keep out rain. Rex hadn't paused for breath as Boone had, and so the dog bounded up, whining, as she turned.

Her face was utterly wretched. It was one of hopelessness and despair, and though her memories of the past were thankfully too few and sparse to keep her in a sick state of turmoil, her eyes held that pain, and it was so agonizing to look at that he forgot the lambast of rain and wind, lightning and thunder. The girl's hair had come out from under the beret and whipped madly around her face. She was on the verge of tears, easily, and as he mopped rain from his own forehead, Boone watched her waver. They could stop for a moment, easily. It was in her nature to plop down on the ground unceremoniously and have a good cry-she'd even done it several times in their journeys-and Boone prepared to shrug out of his backpack so he could go to her side.

Just as she glanced alongside the too-high mountaintop and down the ledge, allowing Boone another glimpse at her heartbroken expression, she surprised him by clenching her hands into fists, throwing the hood back, and expending the last bit of energy she had taking the forty-five degree muddy rockslide at a breakneck run. Her long legs jetted, boots catching whatever footholds they could, and now her hair whipped around with the force of the wind, catching buckets of water. Boone, stunned, re-shouldered his rifle and followed suit, tearing up the dirt and gravel, Rex bounding alongside him. His eyes were on her back.

She was a leader, even if she didn't accept or believe that. She had the most reason out of anyone to just sit on the ground, give up, turn back, even just rest. But she of the most reason would be the least likely. As he struggled not to fall to his death, a loud thunderbolt sizzling through the sky with accompanying lightning, forking into the purple clouds didn't interrupt Boone's thoughts-he wished he could trade her places. Release the burden, give her rest, something, anything.

Five minutes later, she was at the very top of this desolate natural bridge, and it was only Boone calling her name that made her stop. She glanced down at him, for he was still several feet below her, and now out of breath they both paused. The tears that ran down her face were rendered invisible because so many raindrops blended in, and Boone struggled to gulp down the thin high altitude oxygen, what little of it there was.

He had to yell at this short distance to be heard over the rumblings of more thunder, the roaring of the water below, and the pounding rain. "Do you remember what I said in Bitter Springs?"

She shook her head, indicating not a negative response, but a generic shake telling him she wasn't sure what he meant. He took a step closer, inhaled, exhaled. "When we woke up and I saw the party coming. After I told you to leave."

She hesitated, still not fully facing him, and then slowly shook her head. Boone continued despite his voice already growing hoarse from walking in this ill weather, breathing the cold frosty air. "I said, I thought it was exactly what I was waiting for. Do you remember that?"

Now she nodded, her soaking wet blond eyebrows threading together confusedly. Boone shook his head dismissively as if he were ashamed of the words. His loud voice barely carried to her. "I was wrong."

He took the next few feet slowly, carefully, stomping upward to stand by her now. Where they stood was extremely dangerous-one misstep and the muddy goo would carry them right down to the raging river in the ravine. At best one would catch oneself on a spare tree limb or rock and suffer broken bones, but as they were heading toward the Fort, it was not something they could afford. Standing only inches away, her voice was still at a near-yell thanks to the yowl of wind. Thunder cracked.

So it was at the Fort Boone thought his demise, his self-earned demise, was coming. She confirmed that by shouting, "This?"

"What?"

She pointed east, the direction they were heading. Still shouting, "This is what you were waiting for?"

He shouted back. "No."

His face was screwed up, eyebrows lowered, eyes squinted, lips drawn into a grimace. He struggled to keep yelling while being so short of breath.

"You."

"What?"

"I was waiting for you. No matter what happens...you were what was meant to happen. To me."

Every time Boone spoke of his own deserved fate, he spoke of death, and she shook her head.

"I was meant to kill you?" she bellowed. He shook his head again.

"You saved me."

"We haven't even..." more invisible tears. "We're not even..."

"It doesn't matter."

With all the yelling, they sounded angry at each other. She was too emotional to compute, and she wrung her wrists, not knowing how to respond. Boone took her hand, as they stood with their feet planted firmly on the edge of the world. He gripped her slender fingers with his broad ones, and yelled.

"I love you."

She had little choice but to get her guts up for this visit; Julie was not looking forward to having to face the Elder again, but she'd also promised herself as his primary doctor. He would be expecting her. The man was healing fast, but that was only because of her dedicated care. His good relationship with the friendly ambassador ensured that he had a place to stay that was both dark and quiet, two things he was used to in the bunker and two things that he, unlike the rowdy brothers and sisters who loved the big city lights-preferred. Julie knocked on the door and heard no response. He was probably asleep-after all, it was early.

She gingerly pushed open the door, and saw an empty room. Moving her doctor's bag from her right arm to her left, she propped up her hand on her hip. "Huh."

The Freeside doctor walked the corridors of the Embassy for several minutes, hoping to run into the Elder, but she saw neither his deep blue robes or his shock of white hair. Finally she leaned over the receptionist's counter, where the girl sitting at the computer eyed her mohawk dubiously.

"Hello, I'm looking for Elder McNamara, with the Brotherhood?"

"He's not here." The woman was cool, detached, and furiously typed at the terminal.

"What do you mean he's not here?"

"We're not sure either," a voice spoke up behind her. Julie turned.

"Crocker! It's good to see you."

"You too doctor. Now I don't want to concern you, your patient was up and walking around since your last visit, and left about three days ago. Hasn't been back but said not to worry about him. Seemed antsy."

"He shouldn't be-"

"Hey, I tried to tell him the same thing. Wouldn't listen. Do you know of anything that would make him all riled up? Didn't seem like things were right with him."

She felt her cheeks reddening. "I'm...I'm not sure."

"Ahhh well, you know, they were down there in that bunker a nice long time, and before that their Elder sort of threw them to the wolves-" he pointed at himself and chuckled, the girl at the monitor rolling her eyes- "so I'm sure it's nothing more than your serious case of cabin fever...the stirs...then again...I'm no doctor."

"And neither is he," Julie said chidingly, "So he shouldn't be out."

"I'm sure he'll turn up in a few days. He wasn't mad or upset or drunk or anything when he left. Just seemed...I don't know. A little anxious maybe. But definitely not in a bad state of mind. Anyway, I bet you can spy him a mile away in those robes, so if we see him, we'll let you know."

"Thank you," Julie said, then after chewing on her lip, "Did he say anything about where he was going?"

"Nope. Said not to worry, he'd be back, that he was going out. I guess he went over and told his second-in-command to look after the troops that are here. Which, not much to look after, just a bunch of kids blowing caps. I sent him a message, the Knight in charge that is, asking if Nolan told him where he was going, and he said nope. I guess they don't really question authority."

Julie wanted to protest more, but there was nothing she could say or do. However, she also felt a deep pit of guilt rise up in her stomach somewhere; Nolan wasn't fully healed, and if anything happened to him because he left after their...encounter...she'd never forgive herself. Shoulders slumped, the woman walked out of the Embassy and onto another bright Vegas morning.

The morning wasn't so bright for Arcade. A Legion raiding party had killed a traveling caravan who happened to have a doctor in their midst, to bring back the odd-looking supplies to their new Legion doctor. Forced to pick through the stolen loot and put it in medical bags, Arcade spent the morning in silence, under the cold eyes of Vulpes and the other Legionaries in the tent. They were in Caesar's tent, of course, and now Graham entered as well, quietly crossing the area and turning his focus on Arcade. After trying unsuccessfully to avoid Caesar, who said, "Lanius is coming to see you today," Graham rounded toward the throne.

"Your Legate stationed at the Dam? But why?"
Caesar shrugged. "Said he wanted to see you."

"I will assume he does not think I am trying to-"

"He knows perfectly well your intentions," Caesar interrupted. "As to what he wants, I'm not sure. Sent a scout saying he was on his way hours ago."

With one final irritated look toward Caesar, Graham turned back to Arcade, took a seat, and withdrew a 1911, which he proceeded to take apart right there on the table, beside Arcade.

"Tell me about her."

"Excuse me?" Arcade was wiping off a stethoscope.

"I wish to know about my daughter. I believe you're acquainted with her."

The doctor narrowed his eyes at the stethoscope, and then said hesitantly, "Yes, I ...knew her, quite well. What do you want me to say?"

Caesar, overhearing from his throne, piped in, "If you want to know if she's inherited your skill, I think we all know the answer to that." He'd only met the girl as a child once or twice, but he recalled both times vividly. "I don't think we have much more in common with her."

"She definitely does not thirst for power," Arcade noted, "Nor does she believe in divinities...of any kind." He said this pointedly to her father. "And actually, I doubt she'd remember you at all."

Graham looked at the barrel of the gun, his eyes, and voice, somewhere far from the Fort. "I believe I made quite an impression on her."

"Not to someone with acute amnesia and long-term memory loss," the blond snapped back, picking up a bonesaw and inspecting it. "When she was shot in the head she lost all memories. Barely even recalled her name."

For a moment, those watery eyes looked almost forlorn at the fact that his daughter didn't know him. Before he could speak, he was once again interrupted.

"That name," Caesar said, snorting. He'd always hated it, personally affronted by his partner's choice. "No wonder she doesn't like you."

"I considered a biblical name," Graham admitted. "But the Greek named seemed to fit such a child with eccentricities. And I rather liked the idea of naming my first born daughter after a princess."

Arcade said nothing, but frowned at the dirty bonesaw as he cleaned it in the bowl of water. Her name wasn't Greek. Well, not the name he knew her by, anyway. And trying to imagine Joshua Graham wanting to call anything 'princess' was almost morbidly frightening.

Graham was so silent, so strangely subdued that Arcade felt compelled to continue after a brief silence. He sighed. "She's a wonderful woman. She is thoughtful, and kind, and extremely intelligent. She's brave. Doesn't run or hide, doesn't stop going no matter what. Keeps to herself, but if you need her help, she's always there. If you give her time, she'll solve the answer to any riddle-but usually doesn't need time. She's fast on her feet, faster in her head, has a mouth on her too. Her only flaw...her emotions-I'm just going to take a stab in the dark here and say that's something she's inherited-sometimes they'll get the better of her, but she never stays down or mad or upset for long. She is one of the best people I've had the privilege of knowing in my now quite pointless life." He picked up a scalpel.

Caesar looked very nonplussed, and Graham's hidden face betrayed an ounce of proudness mixed with sorrow, but Vulpes frowned for the first time all morning. During the time he had known her, he would've described her exactly the same way. As Caesar shrugged off the praise for the girl he wanted dead more than anyone else in the Wasteland, his guard looked gloomily at his feet. Graham, though seemingly upset, was satisfied and asked no more, something which Arcade was thankful for, at least.

While Graham was mulling over undoubtedly, his daughter, over a broken-down 1911, and Arcade continued to silently sanitize his instruments, Caesar was looking over war plans silently. Thus all three men were preoccupied when the curtain parted and a hulking figure-Legate Lanius-stepped inside the dictator's tent. He was flanked by Aurelius and Silus, both of whom he commanded. Everyone turned, Arcade shrinking away almost instinctively, and Graham staring at the man who had taken his spot as second in the Legion. In a flash he'd re-assembled the gun and now holstered it, hesitantly rising from his seat and facing the newcomer.

"So," growled the low voice behind the mask, "You are Joshua Graham."

Graham's boots crossed in a slow circle in front of the man. He didn't look impressed, or frightened. As usual, he was hard to read not only because his face was masked, but also because he was a visage of calmness and while at the Legion camp, disinterest.

Lanius was likewise unreadable, but everyone else looked at the very least, interested. Caesar especially; he knew Lanius had little loyalty to the Legion in itself, and Graham was someone who the warrior didn't really have an opinion on (other that the obvious opinion that he should not have taken the punishment Caesar delivered to him.)

"You show a great deal of courage, or foolishness, in coming back to the Legion," Lanius began.

"I ask a man who I helped for two decades, to reconsider his unwise battle plans," Graham countered. "I put to rest rumors of my death, I cease the constant stream of assassins and spies sent to retrieve me." Caesar shifted uneasily-he had in fact been sending both over the state line for the past four years. "I will die when the Lord decides I have done enough, not until then."

"We follow the same path in many ways," Lanius agreed, perhaps not seeing eye to eye on the religion, but hinting that his own confidence was just as sure as Graham's. Arcade, from his side seat, actually began to feel a bit of remorse for Graham despite his initial dislike and fear. The man was definitely no ordinary Legionary, though what he was remained a mystery.

Lanius withdrew something-thinking it was a sword, Graham already lifted his gun, but it turned out to be a large, awkward Brahmin-skin sack. In explanation, the Legate said, "I was given the camp, the tent, the belongings of a Legate. All items were ordered burned to properly cleanse my reign."

Graham folded his arms, now looking intensely unimpressed, but Lanius nodded, holding out the sack. "Except for this. I found it of beautiful craftmanship. And even my tribe, the Hidebarks, knew of this present."

If the Malpais Legate had any clue of what Lanius was referring, he didn't show it; instead his dark brows were lifted in the inquisitive way his daughter shared curiosity; now Lanius handed over the bulky package, which Graham began to unwind at once. "I had hoped that its second christening would be you fighting your second battle at Hoover Dam." Here, Caesar smirked. "But it is yours."

With the final flap of hide folded away, Graham lifted his ceremonial weapon upward. It had been a gift from the Blackfoot tribe, who idolized the translator Joshua Graham after he helped lead them to victory against their opponents. While Caesar was busy basking in the glory of being a Followers-turned-warlord, Graham was teaching the tribes the English language, reading them Bible stories of hope and triumph, tending to their wounds. Even at the time his preferred weapon was the Utah-made handgun, but the tribe bestowed on him a painted, feathered, bedecked axe.

It had a strap, woven from dyed fabric in a tribal pattern, so that Graham could sling the weapon over his shoulder like a rifle. Feathers were tied around the hilt, and some sort of wood burning tool was used to cut more emblems into the handle. The head featured a very small painted symbol-the Christian-like Followers of the Apocalypse symbol, for which Graham was known, at the time. He turned the axe over slowly. While the two Legates stood face to face, one basking in memories, Arcade finally gestured to Caesar: time to pull the staples out.

Though Vulpes protested, Caesar was adamant that he could be alone in his quarters while the examination and de-stapling of his cranium commenced. Arcade was not stupid enough to try anything, and even if he was, Caesar knew how to defend himself. The dictator thought it demoralizing to have a private examination in front of his followers, and in his stubbornness, Vulpes relented. Though, unbeknowst to Caesar and Arcade, he got relief from Lucius and slid through the thick folds of fabric in the back of the tent, standing feet away with only one red curtain separating him from the pair. Though light was scant, Vulpes could see them both, tinted red, as Arcade began to remove the staples carefully. Caesar sat on the edge of his bed.

"So tell me, Arcade. What do you think of your friend's father?"

"Are you sure you want my opinion on that? Well..I mean I know you did douse him in oil and set him on fire and push him off a cliff, but..."

"You will come to find that I am not as easily stirred by words as the others, Graham, Lucius, Vulpes..."

"Well in that case, I think that religious or no, he's horrifying. He makes me want to run and hide and imagine comforting things like monsters in my closet."

Suddenly, Vulpes remembered what he'd seen in Arcade in the first place.

Ceasar winced. Robotically, Arcade said, "Sorry. The skin always seems to want to grow around them really fast. Bear with me. On the subject of Graham, how if I may, did a Mormon missionary rise to the top of a polytheistic empire? That seems a little counterproductive."

Caesar shrugged. He was thrilled, in fact, with the doctor's company. He hadn't had a person of intelligence to talk to since...well, Graham, if you counted the times he wasn't obsessing over his own religion. "He was Mormon when we met, a missionary. It wasn't until we took over the Blackfoot that the Roman bit came up. It was easy to take over those mindless tribes with the Son of Mars route...I'd read every text you can imagine on the empire, and that's what I wanted. A New Rome."

"And Graham just didn't care you were preaching yourself as a prophet, instead of his God?"

"Mormons embrace a strong belief in free agency," Caesar supplemented, and Arcade nodded, showing his understanding of the term, something that the now highly disconcerted Vulpes failed to comprehend. "I was left to my own devices. He to his. Although now I regret letting him have so much freedom to worship. In the end it's what tore him away from the Legion."

Arcade was silent. Vulpes was in shock. The man he so admired, chatting with a near-stranger about his own deception? The world seemed to crumble, and the Frumentarian slipped out with all the noise of a shadow. He didn't know where he was heading, but the camp seemed like a joke. A lie. Arcade had been right in the first place. And who else knew? Lanius? Lucius? And he left to look like a puppet, cleansing the earth as he'd been instructed?

He had conveniently dropped the instrument, something that would have looked like an accident if anyone had the mindset to notice, which no one had. It lay on the carpet while he took Caesar's blood pressure, and Arcade had gently toed it underneath the bed. It was hard enough to work with a broken hand, but to juggle his concentration between counting the pulse and scuffing his shoe at the small metal object, Arcade had focused twice as diligently.

It worked and no one was the wiser. And no one stood in the dictator's quarters as he re-entered. Arcade was not only extremely efficient with medicine but with computers as well, and he'd asked permission to see if he could recover any valuable information from the terminal of the broken machine. Caesar had grown very fond over him just in the past short week and a half, and relented, though Lucius did nothing but raise an eyebrow.

It had taken every bit of self-control Arcade had to force intelligent and philosophical conversation with the hated man in red. Gaining that trust, confidence. He knew he'd fanned the fires of Caesar's debating mind, and he'd tried to play off that as much as he could stand. In his own pathetic sleeping quarters, surrounded by slaves and filth, Arcade lay and stared hopelessly up at the ceiling, wanting immediate relief. He thought about Vegas, about Julie and her gang, about the Courier and Boone and Rex...but mostly, he thought about his father.

Arcade closed the part in the curtains, hiding himself from view of Caesar, of everyone. Then he turned to the bed, dropping down on all fours and fishing out what he'd discarded there earlier-the scalpel. With a mixture of fear and fascination, he turned it in the light. It could get no sharper. He paused to sit on the bed, and Arcade tried very hard to remember his only memory with his father.

He was held up at a lab, getting blood tested-Enclave scientists were Nazis about ensuring no contamination, and this last mission had been high-risk. Arcade's mother brought him into the facility, amazingly-the one and only time she ever had-to see his father before the release. They couldn't enter the biohazard area, but many Enclave members milled around in the containing room, where outsiders could mingle. It was to this room's one window that Arcade's mother held up her only son, barely two years old. His father was simply awaiting the 'go-ahead' from the scientists, and he propped his own arm up to the glass window. As Arcade's little blond head peeked over the window ledge, Gannon Sr's face lighted up in a big, toothy smile. It made his scarred, harsh and handsomely bearded face seem less frightful. Indeed, he looked like a golden teddy bear when he smiled.

Now Arcade slapped his small hand to the glass, his version of waving a hello, and instead of waving back, his father had laughed, a soundless laugh through the voiceproof glass, and held up his own hand, palm to the window as well. Their hands were so close to touching, fingers spread out, exact twins. Little Arcade had glanced at the hands, his so small, smooth, white, chubby, his father's hand so large, weatherbeaten, rough, hardy. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach, a sad feeling, because he missed his father. The toddler could barely speak, much less put this feeling into words. When the scientists waved him out, his father had immediately grabbed Arcade, planted a kiss on his head, ruffled his fluffy blond hair, and then clamped the large Tesla helmet on his head. It caused the child to teeter and then flail into his mother's legs as she laughed at the sight.

Now Arcade knew what that sadness was, that feeling as he'd held his hand up to his fathers. The fear of not being good enough, of never living up to the hero that was Israel Gannon. The knowledge that he would not only be denied the comfort of ever knowing if his father approved of him, but the sheer fact that this life, this half life with a collar around his neck and philosophical old-World values banter with Caesar, this life where his best friend was ashamed of him, this excuse for a life would sicken his father. His mother, too. They deserved better. He was in no position to give anyone better. The only thing better was death.

Funny thing, death. He already felt dead, as though this were merely an act that would have no outcome. He wasn't affecting the fate of anyone by being here, was certainly not helping the world in ways he had wanted to help it. Julie and Emily would be okay...Daisy would be okay. The Followers had strength in their numbers and Farkas was their best leader. Novac was a quiet, sleepy town where she could peacefully rest until the end of her days, and she deserved that. The Courier had Vegas, had people who loved her. She had Boone to look after her, not that she needed it most days, but Arcade knew he would be there until the end nonetheless. All in all, things looked bright for the future of the Wasteland.

And he couldn't ask for more than that.

Arcade stood, shaky, saying his silent goodbyes to the people he would miss, but who would undoubtedly not miss him-and he lifted his shirt, looking straight ahead impassively as he slid the scalpel to his bellybutton, pressing down to test its strength. The little blade was mean, biting through skin effortlessly, and he held his breath as he prepared for the next break of skin, the one that would kill him.

He hoped that somewhere, someone, anyone, would remember him. Even if the Courier felt betrayed...even if Daisy was getting on in years or even if Julie had her hands full. He just wanted someone to have a loving memory, the way he had loving memories of his father.

Just as Arcade exhaled what he was certain would be one last, miserable breath, the side of the tent caved inward violently, a loud rip signaling the destruction of the heavy cloth. He was standing too near the wall when this rude interruption occurred, and the doctor was thrown backwars, scalpel falling harmlessly from his hand. A mass of blue and then brown tore through the destroyed wall, all but tackling Arcade. He landed roughly on his back, another form falling on top of him.

Nolan McNamara and twenty Legion dogs were now inside. The former, wielding a huge sword and donning his familiar blue robes, was what lay on top of him. Twisting, brandishing the sword and decapitating a leering dog, the green-eyed man looked down in amazement. "Doctor?"

Nolan was apparently wearing something extremely heavy underneath the robes, because Arcade could barely breathe. He grunted, and Nolan swung the sword again, this time stabbing a beast in the heart. "Are you all right?"

Arcade could only grunt again, "Hnnnnghhh," for most of the weight was on his stomach and groin area, and he flailed in utter and total disbelief. Nolan realized he was doing a poor job keeping the beasts away by sitting on Arcade's lap, so he rolled quickly to his feet and began cutting down the dogs as Arcade crawled hands and knees away, still so confused he could barely breathe, let alone speak. It was then that he realized, though he hadn't been paying attention minutes before, shouts, gunshots, explosions filled the camp.

Nolan wasn't the only one who'd arrived.

As if to prove this point, just as Arcade had enough breath to rise to his knees, still staring in wonder at the deep slash of sunlight drifting through the dark tent, and in it, silhouetted, a twirling knight killing ten times his weight in ferocious dogs, a yelp and a popping sound from above caused the doctor to snap his head up. One of the beams at the center of the tent had just broken, due to a heavy weight on top of it. As Arcade gaped, something large descended amid cascades of crimson fabric, something heavy that barreled into him. He was lost amid the sheets, hearing the yapping of dogs and the yells of Legionaries, and finally the red was jerked away.

Now in his lap, sitting sideways, was the Courier.

When she tore the cover off and saw him, the girl immediately let out a loud, happy cry, and threw her arms around him. She didn't hesitate to plant her lips directly on his and kiss him so forcefully that he fell backwards. Before he could protest this, she'd already pulled away and held his cheeks so firmly in her hands that he was afraid his skull might crack. Then she hugged him again.

"I'm so so sorry, we came as soon as we heard. I love you Arcade, we don't care about-"

He would've hugged her back had he not been so bewildered, but she was on her feet in no time, dragging him through the torn, useless tent, and just as Arcade was regaining his footing, Boone appeared. Crazily, Arcade noticed that they were both in NCR Ranger armor, heavily tactical and smooth-fitting clothes that made them look far less like wanderers and far more like serious, dedicated soldiers. Their red berets were the only colorful items of clothing they had, and as Arcade took them in amid the burning Fort, Boone shrugged a large rifle off his back.

It was Arcade's plasma rifle.

The sniper thrust it toward the doctor, and just as the Courier opened her mouth, she caught sight of Nolan. She looked as bewildered as Arcade.

"How...?"

The Enclave robot ED-E hovered near him, firing his laser weapon at the dogs and recruits now assaulting the Elder, loyally protecting the protector of technology.

"Three guesses," Boone snapped.

Arcade shouldered the rifle.

"Together, then? How did you know-"

"We got your message," she breathed, and then nodded down the steep hill where they should go.

"Anyone else?"

"Just us," she smiled.

Boone piped in. "We figured a good old-fashioned storming to save a friend would be the best route."

"And apparently we were followed," she completed, eyeing the Elder. The Courier's weapon of choice was not her usual machete; she'd stepped it up and had a large, evil looking chainsaw across her back. The ripper-donning Legionaries were surely shitting themselves; the ones that weren't carved in half. As he looked from her to Boone, he let his eyes linger for a moment; the sniper looked purely dashing in all-black, and an ironic smile was finally on his stern face. He looked quite alive and quite happy. Arcade was stunned.

She tugged at him. "Let's go!"

They turned as one, but as Arcade took the first bastard in red into his sights, he said to no one but himself, "My message?"

He had not once attempted to contact them.

The Courier never left Arcade's side at the fight; swarms of men and swarms of dogs plagued them, and over the sound of gunshots and yells, and amid the splatter of blood and guts emitted by her chainsaw, she shouted the story to him. ED-E had shown up with his patch and the Mark of Caesar, and they departed that night. They told no one of the departure, not even the reliable King, so great was her protective fury. The only additional backup they had was Rex, who looked quite happy to be chewing up his former masters. Boone, she said, had loved the idea. But they didn't come unprepared; the entire camp had been set up with mines, the pair of them forwarding a barrage of missiles from a handy sight on a nearby mountain, the same mountain where what seemed like years ago, Boone had sniped Legionaries while she made her escape.

It seemed to be a suicide plan, and thus they had told no one. She assured him the road had been arduous, but there was never a more necessary journey. When Arcade tried to apologize amid gunshots for his secret-keeping, she told him to shut up. Talks for Vegas, she amended, and they continued fighting side by side. When Boone shouted for backup, she tore off down the mountain, but not before giving Arcade another kiss on the cheek. It was then that Nolan, trading his sword for a one-handed submachine gun here and there, stepped up to tell his story.

"You see-" sword through an eyeball, "The eyebot was programmed with an algorithm that allowed me to-" decapitation, "hear and see its latest report, I got a log of the speech between your two friends." Nolan first stabbed, then shot the man in the face. He got the sword out of the body by putting one foot on the other man's chest and pushing, hard. Now he and Arcade were back to back. "I did feel quite useless. Vegas left me with a slight heartache. I thought it would be best to-" a nice shot right through a right eyeball, exit wound causing the man's head to explode, "-lend my services to the people who have helped me the most. I am, still wounded and a bit tired but,-" Nolan's voice was so silky smooth, Arcade found himself entranced by it, "the journey was riveting, exciting. I do miss such adventures."

He hacked away until his latest victim's head finally tore from his body. Arcade grimaced.

"Where is this infamous Caesar?" Nolan inquired, and as they turned from the about-face, a slight break in the wave of infantry, the two men finally had a chance to openly stare at each other.

And stare they did. Nolan's robes were cut, tattered; underneath, shiny steel glistened in the afternoon sun, and the only thing brighter than that was his too-blond hair, gleaming white, looking windswept and perfect for running one's fingers through. His dark green eyes glittered as he gazed at the doctor; Arcade had never looked more beaten up, had never looked more like his own father with a gash across his nose, across his forehead, and the most chiseled face in the Mojave.

"Who?" Arcade breathed.

"I..."

"Fools!" shouted a shrill voice, and gunshots sounded, parting the two as they fired at a nearby rushing mutt. Both Arcade and Nolan jumped at the voice, one that Nolan didn't recognize, but one that Arcade had learned to disregard over his short captivity.

Vulpes Inculta, looking rabid, approached them, throwing down his own gun.

"You're free! Leave!" He was mad with rage, on edge, and Nolan looked confusedly at Arcade.

The blond was quick. "It was you. You sent them a message, you took my patch while I was asleep!"

"Yes...but time is running out... GO!"

He didn't get a chance to say anything more than that; as both green-eyed men continued to stare, baffled, a horrifically large and evil looking thing descended on Vulpes like the apocalypse itself; long dark fingers grabbed his throat from behind, lifted him off the ground. Arcade backed up, Nolan followed suit, as the Burned Man pulled Vulpes over a foot into the air. He did not smile.

"I promised you, your day would come. And so it has."

Arcade was more conflicted than he'd ever been in his life; for reasons unknown to him, Vulpes had warned the Courier that he was going to the Fort? It was thanks to this slaver, this miserable man who killed for fun and pleasure, that his beautiful friend and her followers had ravaged half the camp? And was Graham truly an ally? He would possibly kill Arcade, who'd stabbed him days earlier-just as soon as he'd kill a Legion officer-and yet Arcade remained frozen, grasping McNamara in horror as he helplessly watched Graham choke the life from Vulpes.

Suddenly, the Frumentarian was thrown to the ground with such force he bounced; he wasn't breathing properly, was instead gasping for air so forcefully he coughed up blood, holding one hand protectively to his throat as he attempted to crawl away; Arcade finally found his recourse and stumbled forward to pull Vulpes back, hooking his arms under the fallen man's shoulders. McNamara trained his gun on Graham, who seemed to not notice or care that Vulpes was getting aid.

From his back he withdrew something-something the now-departed Legate Lanius had recently given him-a too-large, too-heavy brutal looking axe, the same axe that had cut down entire towns, the same axe that cut down the door to the Courier's schoolhouse. Though Arcade was not at any of those events, not in any of those towns when the Legate stormed them, he cowered at the horrific sight.

The man's eyes gleamed with nothing but white as the light left the day and for the first time in years he swung back his axe, sights set for the young Legionary who he'd vowed to make pay for his crimes. Vulpes, in turn, blocked his vision with his own forearm, waiting for the death blow to strike.

God help the Legion-Boone had gotten ahold of a Ripper, and though he always felt clumsy and double-left handed when dealing with melee weapons, nothing was a more beautiful song than cutting through Legion flesh and getting doused in blood. The Ripper sang, and he'd never really enjoyed himself this much. With every downed man in red, he recalled the mercy deaths he'd issued as a sniper, his own wife's mercy death, the pain and heartache wrenching right out in this very gruesome and morbid way of therapy. He would've been sad had he he known that the group missed Legate Lanius by only a few minutes, but hey-you can't get everything in life.

Yet one thing could disturb his utopia of Legion gutting; a shrill cry, one that did not sound like the Courier but one that was the Courier. His head snapped up and he saw the same thing that the others saw-Caesar himself, cruel Ballistic fist attached to his arm, drawing back his arm. There was no way to dodge, and she saw that. Caesar punched.

Up the hill, closer to the Courier, Arcade, McNamara, and Vulpes all snapped their heads up at the cry, and astonishingly so did Graham. He paused, death strike mid-swing, spinning just in time to see Caesar's machine-aided punch hit her directly in the chest. She sailed backwards, landing in a black and red and blond heap on the dust, coughing violently. The dictator moved forward again, pulling his arm back for another punch.

She had survived the first one thanks to her reinforced armor. Her metal breastplate had not survived. And she would not survive a second assault. She lay on the ground, gasping for air, and fumbled for her chainsaw. She was fast, Caesar was faster. To everyone's surprise, before Boone could toss away the Ripper and unshoulder his sniper, before Arcade could intervene, before Vulpes could even shout, the Burned Man roared an outrageous yell that seemed to make the mountain tremble, "MONSTER!" and his long legs carried him down the short hill and directly to Caesar's back.

The Courier, from her spot on the ground on her back, only saw what Boone saw through his scope-the head of an axe, buried firmly in Caesar's skull, the bulging eyes staring forward for a moment before he fell face first onto the Courier. She paused at the frightening sight, struggled, scuffled away. There she sat, gazing at the axe almost interestedly, trembling as Boone raced up the hill and Arcade and Nolan fell over each other to move forward. Vulpes, on the other hand, slunk away, eyes on the Fire Man. The Burned Man.

He righted himself, almost in disbelief at what he'd done, and the man now stared at her with a mix of shock and satisfaction. He towered over her as he had when she was a child. "Monster," he whispered again, thoughtfully, and pulled the axe from Caesar's head. Boone reached the summit, out of breath, and stood protectively by Arcade as they all, spellbound, watched the tall man reach out one weathered palm to his daughter.

She looked at the hand confusedly and then stared up at him.

"She's too little to learn to chop wood! That's dangerous, Joshua!"
"You're not too little, are you Monster?"

"Monster, Daddy's got to go back to help his friends and the Blackfoot. Take care."

To Caesar. "I'm going to be a fighter, like Daddy."

"What's for dinner, Monster?"

"MONSTER! The only fucking imp in the world who didn't cower to me."

As the word monster ran through and through the killer's head, the Courier with the scarred cranium, with the golden blond hair, with the red beret, the chainsaw across her back and the deadly Ranger armor on her tall frame, her father helped her to her feet, and then said in a very quiet tone, "Andromeda."

At this, Boone, Arcade, and Nolan looked very confused; the only one who didn't was Vulpes, for that's the name he had known her by as well. As if to reaffirm he hadn't heard wrong, Arcade called tentatively, "Andy?"

The Courier stared at Graham's hidden face while he still clasped her hand, the Fort around them still in shambles. "Andromeda," Graham said again, and she assumed that his astonishment and continued staring was a byproduct of her own popularity-not connecting her father to the axe, or to Malpais Legate, she nonetheless said, "You must be Joshua Graham."

He paused, realizing that amnesia prevented her from knowing him-knowing his atrocities, knowing his responsibilities-and he instead said, unholstering his gun, "Let us rid the Mojave of this Fort, together."

The all-grown-up Courier smiled at her father.

Graham had anticipated things to go some other way, fully thought that he would be faced with a woman who either wanted to kill him or scream at him for his atrocities, but thankfully (and he felt ashamed he thought it a blessing) she was staring at him with mild interest and a bit of apprehension.

While the others, realizing they had a new ally-a Mormon-returned to their fighting, one Legionary exited his own tent to find the Fort in disarray, and he dropped his prized plumed helmet at the sight of Caesar, dead on the ground with an axe embedded in the back of his skull. The warrior didn't join the fight, but he made a single fist, clenching so hard that blood fell from his closed palm and dripped on the ground, mixing with the rest of the shed blood.

As he did God's work and cleansed the grounds of every foul murderer and slaver who lived there, Graham realized fighting beside the Courier, that it was a blessing she hadn't made the connection between them. Not for his sake, but hers. If amnesia granted her the ability to start new and remember the atrocities in her past with a subdued, hazy gaze, then all the better. If it were a decent prayer, Graham would've prayed for her to remember nothing. But that wasn't fair, not when it was all his fault.

He wasn't using his axe-it was a weapon of nostalgia, a weapon from a time in his life when he lived surrounded by hate and lust and fear-but instead Graham emptied magazine after magazine into the men he once supported. His hawk-like eyes picked up one lone figure heading toward the river, toward the Legate's camp. But this was no scout, no ordinary pigeon-boy...it was a Centurion, easily identifiable from the plume on his helmet. As Graham paused, reloading, he realized who it was, and he decided not to shoot. He felt that there was something salvageable about that particularly Legionary. He would let God handle it.

Maybe an hour passed before the camp was empty of warriors. The slaves that managed to survive were fleeing, ignoring the pleas from Andy to stay behind, take refuge. Their freedom sapped too long, the pathetic creatures instead rushed out the broken Fort doors without a second glance back, and the Courier let them. Finally, the small group stood in a circle amid all the death and destruction, and suprisingly Boone spoke first.

"Let's go home."

The Dam, the Legate's Camp-they could all go to hell today, because today a battle had been won, a dictator killed, a friend rescued, peace secured-for the moment. Justice served, heroes intact, with Arcade once again proud to be alive, they were just about to all share a group smile and congratulations when the Courier looked over Boone's shoulder and saw Vulpes standing there.

At her pause, the other three turned to look; Boone immediately raised his gun, but she put a palm flat against the barrel and pushed it down, stepping away from her rock and strength to stand past Arcade, past Nolan, to the Legionary. His expression was strange-he squinted as though having a hard time seeing, but otherwise remained impassive and motionless. The wind stirred his kilt, the leather reinforcements tapping against his knees, but Vulpes had no weapon drawn and his arms were limp at his side.

"Vulpes," she said in a very strange tone. "Thank you for-"

"Do not speak to me." His voice was venom, and she paused, not understanding. He went on. "I live a lie, I loved a lie. My only solace in the human son of a higher power, taken from me." It was only two days ago the conversation between Arcade and Caesar was overheard. "What I could salvage now lies on the ground, blood at my feet. You and I. We were given nothing. But now you have achieved everything. My everything has now been destroyed."

She didn't speak for several minutes. The girl removed her beret, letting the long blond tendrils fall, and for a moment she looked like the same lost girl who'd known him before. She finally spoke.

"And so what now, Vulpes?"

"I do not want you to be my savior. Those days are over. I do not want to belong to another man, kill for another man. Hate, and greed, and misery-that is my language."

"Please, come with us," she protested. "Once...we worked for the same cause, survival. Can't we do that again?"

"No." Now his eyes were even colder. "Caesar is dead. My savior is dead. My other savior is now an enemy."

"We're not your enemy."

"But you are." The teasing, cruel tone had crept back into his voice. "I cannot kill you. I kill my victims. Ones I cannot kill are my enemies."

"Will you go to the Legate?"

"Lanius? He can have his lie of a Legion. If men can become gods under mistruth, misguidance, then no peace exists for me."

"I'm sorry about Caesar," she said honestly, realizing that he was the equivalent of a father to Vulpes. Just as her own father had betrayed her, caused her pain, so had Vulpes's. They shared an eerily similar fate.

"We walk as enemies, Andromeda," he said simply, and turned away.

She let him go, sighing at another defeat, another loss, and Vulpes Inculta departed the Fort for the last time, stepping carefully over the bodies of dead comrades, dead slavers. He tore the insignia of the red Bull from his uniform as he did so, discarding it beside a tilted crucifix which bore a rotting corpse.

Surprisingly, the long-winded and religious Malpais Legate didn't speak.

After a very long time, Boone went to the girl's side. "I can still get him from here, if you want."

Surprisingly, it was Arcade who spoke, for the Courier could not.

"Let him go."

They walked very far; they were all too tired to make much conversation, and ED-E decided to blast New Vegas radio over their heads, so that there was no awkward silence for the long hike. Seeing Hoover Dam across the horizon on part of the trip only heightened the Courier's anxiety, because not only was a storm brewing figuratively over the foreboding structure, but inside Moore sat brewing. She would have to be addressed...nobody looked forward to it less than the blond.

Still, her thoughts remained as relatively empty as the static which ED-E emitted in dead radio patches, for she couldn't process much more than "continue taking steps." They finally found a suitable spot to camp, high in the desert hills, and Boone single-handedly began the campfire and dinner. Arcade, grateful to finally get some decent food and sleep for the first time in several weeks, plopped down on a large rock. The Courier, on the other hand, needed to "wander" and so she took their canteens to a nearby high mountain spring, while Nolan approached Arcade.

"Your collar?"

"I..oh yes," Arcade had honestly almost forgotten the laborious device, whose activation switch was probably buried under ten dead Legionaries at the moment.

"May I?"

Arcade hesitated, and Boone, though thirty feet away, scoffed. Nolan continued, "With all due respect, I doubt there is anyone more qualified than myself present."

"I guess you're right about that," and so, leaning very close to the stiff doctor, the Elder set about deactivating the self-destruct mechanism, his eyes trained on the device while Arcade watched him warily. When the doctor tensed, the Elder gave him a look he often gave the younger Novices.

"You can trust me."

"I know I should, I'm sorry," Arcade sputtered, "I just...not used to it, you know?"

Boone shook his head and threw another piece of firewood onto the now roaring fire. He wished his hearing was far less superb than it was. With nothing else to do, he got up and wandered away to help the Courier.

"The Brotherhood of Steel can be far more benign than their reputation allow, even to your people," Nolan said, continuing to work on the device, a note of hurt in his voice.

Quickly Arcade tried to remedy, "I...I didn't mean the Brotherhood, I meant the part about trusting...I don't tend to trust so-wait, my people? What do you mean?"

Nolan nodded toward still-leering ED-E. "The Enclave, of course."

Arcade's eyes grew wide, his jaw struggling not to drop. "How-you-who told-?"

"My people have a way with technology...I was able to extract the information from ED-E while I attempted to find the reasoning for your departure."

He had unlocked the device with his skilled hands; the metal made a clinking sound as it fell from Arcade's neck, and Nolan's fingers brushed Arcade's neck as he gently removed it, running his fingers over the chafed area where the collar had broken the skin. He didn't move his eyes from Arcade's neck, still staring with that thoughtful, understanding look.

Arcade was still gaping. "You...knew my history? And you still came?"

"Your friend the Courier was right about one thing, they were setting out on a suicide mission, despite their best interests. I of all people understand the glory in such a reckless endeavor, but I would have never forgiven myself if they didn't return and I was the only one who knew. I thought it was a bad idea to bring my troops into such a matter-they are needed at the Dam-but ED-E voiced the independent idea of embarking on our own. I am not fully healed, but I can walk, and the blade is a second walk to me, something I am proficient at to say the least. I hope it wasn't...intrusive."

His eyes met Arcade's at the last word, and the bewildered doctor could only continue to stare, his cheeks flaring up. Oh god, he thought to himself, I'm blushing. Am I seriously blushing? That's pathetic. I just killed half the Legion and I'm blushing...

"I've never...I mean." Arcade licked his lips. "I didn't expect anyone from the Brotherhood would want anything to do with saving someone Enclave-born. I just...it's not intrusive, it's shocking. In-in a good way," he finished hurriedly.

"Good men are good men, regardless of any status placed on their heads at birth."

"I agree. I.."

He knew that the Courier deserved to ruin this moment epically for him, waited to hear her loud voice calling out something entirely unrelated for the sole purpose of destroying the spell. But her voice didn't come, something he was both happy for and upset over. He'd never been in this situation, had never been both blown away by the shock factor of someone so easily accepting him for his past, and someone with such an intense gazing stare. Arcade was afraid to say anything himself, either, because look at what he'd done for Boone and the Courier many times over. He was just skilled at ruining moments.

"You look very disturbed, doctor," Nolan noted. "Is something the matter?"

"I...no." He felt like being very honest, something that Arcade was never inclined to do concerning his own feelings. He had, after all, lived a life of solitude with his own past, a closed emotional barrier carrying over onto even his closest friendships. But now that his secret was out and Nolan hadn't even batted an eyelash over the word 'Enclave' Arcade really had nothing to hide, did he? He spoke rapidly, as usual. "I just tend to ruin good moments like these. It's a talent, you could say. If I say something stupid-which, this sounds stupid I'm sure-then I'll regret it later while I'm sitting sourly by the fire wondering what romantic dashing guys who sweep people off their feet would say. See? Like that. I have a talent for things like that. Why am I too quick-witted for my own good, oh God..."

He slapped a palm to his forehead; amazingly, Nolan smiled, a grin of solid white breaking through his deep tan skin. He was flattered, to say the least, and took Arcade's wrist, pulling his hand away from his face. Growing even more serious, Arcade continued to blubber, "You're-literally-a knight in shining armor, although I guess no literally you'd be an Elder in shining armor, but the irony is still there... I mean the point is you're one of those dashing romantic heroes, what do you say in situation like this? I know you know what to say. I guess I should...stop...talking...now."

Nolan put a hand on Arcade's bruised cheek.

Somewhere downriver, still searching for the wandering Courier, Boone stuffed both hands over his ears, clenching his face up in a look so painful you'd swear he'd been shot. Had the Courier been within earshot, she would have chided him and told him he could learn a thing or two from Nolan-had he advanced with the same level of noble chivalry and romance that the Elder did, he would've scored a lot more points with her and ladies in general-but she wasn't within earshot, and so Boone struggled to walk faster amid the rocky crags as Nolan dropped his sincere smile, a very serious expression crossing his face.

"Would you mind very much if I ..." he trailed his thumb over Arcade's lower lip.

The man in glasses still looked beyond shock, but he gave a minute shake of his head, and Nolan took his hand from Arcade's cheek and slid it behind his neck as he pulled the Enclave doctor's head forward, meeting his lips tenderly. Hesitantly, Arcade leaned forward, finally returning the embrace by putting his own hand, the one that wasn't broken, onto the back of Nolan's neck, threading his fingers through the soft hair.

Boone couldn't find the Courier because she'd returned to the camp, was standing by the campfire, and now dropped her jaw unabashedly as she watched the utterly romantic advance. ED-E twittered approvingly, and she nodded, still dazed, in agreement with his bleeps. Rex chuffed, seemingly more in agreement with Boone.

Late that night, after everyone else was in bed, the curiously quiet Burned Man, who accompanied the small group across the river, finally folded the page down on his Book of Mormon and pocketed the Scripture, standing slowly and staring at the flames of the campfire which he'd been reading by for hours.

"Late night studying?" piped up a voice behind him, and he turned in surprise, unaware that anyone had remained awake after the rigorous day.

"Have you ever read any of the Scripture?"

Her arms were folded, her eyes weary but still merry enough. Shrugging, the Courier responded, "I'm sure I did when I was younger, but I don't remember it much. I didn't have much time for it, as I recall." Assuming correctly, the Courier gathered that Graham knew of her hardships in her pre-Courier life.

Quoting from memory, Graham recited in his gravelly voice, "Only take heed to thyself, and keep thy soul diligently, lest thou forget the things which thine eyes have seen, and lest they depart from thy heart all the days of thy life: but teach them thy sons, and thy sons' sons."

Andy's arms dropped to her side, and she didn't speak for a moment. When Graham realized she was looking away, rather thoughtfully, he spoke again in a less assured tone than when he was citing Bible verses. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"I have been told you think very little of the Word, and the Way. Everyone has their own path, but I find myself wondering."

"Ask away, but be prepared for an honest, Gentile answer."

He ignored the obvious jest, and said while packing his small bag, "Forgiveness."

Now the Courier again folded her arms across her chest, and in the same rather sarcastic tone she'd been using through this entire awkward religious discussion, she responded, "I see what this is about. I appreciate your interest in everything that happened to me, and I'm going to assume you know a lot more about my father than I ever will, so I'll do what I said and give you my honest answer. The man is probably long since dead, I can't remember anything past the usual nightmarish horrors, and honestly if it wasn't for him, who knows how I would've ended up. It's not a perfect world, but I'd like to stay a little optimistic and blame him for a few of my better qualities. Like the insanity, maybe."

Joshua Graham said nothing in response to this, but he had finished packing, and now he buckled the last buckle on his Salt Lake SWAT tactical vest, and after several minutes in which he didn't respond, Andy finally asked, "Where are you going?"

"Back to the Fort. The hour is late, and I've seen no troops coming from the other camps to offer aid. I can set it afire now and leave before morning-"

"What, are you crazy? Just burn the Fort? Alone at night? How will you get off that island?"

"If I do not survive, it is God's-"

"Bullshit. I'm coming with you."

"I insist you don't," and now Graham's tone was more severe. Lesser men might've shrank away, but Andy wasn't any kind of man, and she just stared skeptically.

"I'm coming with you. I won't help you burn the place if you want, I can kind of see your sweet revenge in doing that alone, but at least let me stand by on boat watch so you'll have a way back."

Graham seemed to rethink this, and with a final glance at the campfire, he moved past the Courier and toward the bank at the now-abandoned Cottonwood Cove, eyeing the small boats there. As he tossed his supplies into the boat and prepared to step in, the Courier reappeared at his side and untied the small craft. Graham paused and then shrugged off the ceremonial axe.

"Before joining forces with Edward, I was a simple translator who had a lifelong dream, obligation, of spreading the word of the Church. From the Grand Canyon, things began to change. Rationality gave way to emotions. Translating orders turned into giving orders."

Andy paused, slowly straightening and dropping her hold on the rope as the Burned Man extended the obviously tribal axe. "I became less of a man to the people of New Canaan while I became more of a warrior to the tribes around Utah, Arizona, Colorado. Before I knew it, my entire meaning of life had switched, and I went from a gunman to...this."

Andy instinctively stepped away from the axe, which Graham turned slowly in the moonlight. Something near the shore splashed, and Andy, thinking it was a Lakelurk, shifted uncomfortably. She wasn't prepared for Graham to hand the axe over.

"I uh...I have bad experiences with-"

"I insist that you take it. At one time, it belonged to a man who used language, words, to unite people together. I have no use for it anymore."

Andy wiped her hands on her pants, and when she hesitated again to take the axe, her father reminded her, "From what I saw today, you have quite the talent with hand-to-hand combat."

The girl laughed, and with a feeble 'thank you' she took the weapon, holstering it over her back thanks to the embroidered strap, and after Graham helped her in the boat, she pushed them off onto the lake with the oars. For a few minutes, Graham was silent and the only sounds were the lapping of the waves against the edges of the wooden structure. Then Andy broke the silence with, "So you did know my father."

Silence was her answer.

"I don't guess he's still alive," she pressed in a defeated tone.

Graham now stared off in the direction of the mountains, the Dam, and his eyes looked bluer than they ever had. He looked as he did when he contemplated the scripture, the closest to peaceful that Joshua Graham indeed ever looked. Honestly, hesitantly, in a weighty tone he replied, "Caesar ordered his death years ago."

Andy for once had nothing to say, but she stared very strangely at the man opposite her in the boat.

The next morning, as everyone packed up, Boone searched for his companion and found her staring East, into the sunrise, a blank expression drawn across her features. He tested the name in his mind, running over it. Andromeda. He'd called her Andy from the moment she met him, and Andy had seemed so right, so natural. Andy, simple, quick, spunky, bold. Easygoing. Intellectual. If you'd asked him to pick a better, more fitting name for her, Boone would have never been able to do so.

Andromeda was leagues away from the simplicity and curtness of Andy. Andromeda was regal, wise, sounded like the name of a great leader or victor. Indeed, though Boone didn't know it, the name meant "leader of men" and there couldn't be anything more true about her destiny or fate. She led people she didn't even intend to, such as the leaderless Benny, who had taken a page out of her book and ensured the safety of the Mojave no matter whose rule it came under. Andy was brave, Andromeda was courageous. Andy was cute, Andromeda was beautiful. Perhaps an Andy when he'd met her, she was by now without a doubt an Andromeda, and he stared at her lovingly.

She looked stunning in the black armor, looked like the eye of a hurricane in her power, silhouetted against the grumbling black storm-clouded sky. As she narrowed her green eyes against the wind, Boone thought again of her father. He knew who Graham was the moment he laid eyes on him, thought intuition told him Andy had no idea who the man was, and Boone thought it wise to leave that mystery wrapped up. Now Boone realized how uncannily alike the father and daughter were. She wore his axe slung across her back. Fates are hard to predict, and all so full of blood, but Boone didn't pity her anymore, though the look on her face was one of sorrow. He couldn't pity someone so wonderful.

Without saying anything, because he knew she wanted her solace, the sniper turned back toward camp and the other two men. He thought for the first time about the fight he had with Arcade, how he'd ran the man out and unwittingly caused his demise. Just a plethora of feelings today, Boone felt guilty for his part in Arcade's capture, for his harsh words. And as the guilt entered his brain, so did the dream with Carla. She'd been angry at him, had not only scolded him but...

Boone was wiping the lens of his scope idly, with a cloth, just another habit that was as second-nature to him as breathing. He suddenly recalled what she'd said in the dream or whatever it was. Something so completely nonsensical, as dreams tended to be. She'd asked about the picture.

"I didn't throw him out. He left."

"He wouldn't have, if you weren't being so violent."

"Violent like the Enclave?"

"Do you still have that picture of our wedding?"

"I...burned the house down, Carla."

"I meant the other one."

"Arcade," Boone called, sliding his fingers over the scope, pondering, going off one of his hunches, one of his deep intuitive notions that rarely made sense to anyone else. The man pushed his glasses over his bruised nose as he turned.

"What's up?"

Now Boone deftly unscrewed the lens as Arcade, seeing the strange intensity with which Boone looked at him, put down his bag and then walked away from Nolan and Rex to stand in front of him. Boone, hoping he wasn't going to regret this in a few moments, and feeling very stupid as Arcade crossed his arms expectantly, withdrew the curled photograph from the innards of the scope. He handed it over with two fingers.

"What've you got," Arcade said lightly, then pulled the edges of the picture apart. His eyes widened behind their black frames. "Oh. Oh my. Carla."

Boone glared; he'd never shared her name with him. His dead wife wasn't a subject of conversation, typically. In a tight voice, he said, "Explain."

Arcade was staring intently. "I'd recognize Carla anywhere. She was forced into moving east with us...when we left Navarro. I mean I was tiny but we had to take special care of her, she was just a little tiny baby."

"What are you talking about?"

Arcade didn't notice or didn't care about the tone of Boone's voice. "Of course my mother dotes on everyone, only had me and wanted a sibling, so she was always offering to babysit. I guess you can see how much interest I had in girls, so I wanted nothing to do with it. She did have great fashion sense though, even as a little girl. When we decided to split, I fell out of contact with her. Poor Carla. She was babied by the Remnants...and she wanted absolutely nothing to do with any of it. She was more paranoid than any of us, because they killed her parents."

"Carla told me her parents died in a vault."

"Carla's parents were killed by NCR once they found out where they were hiding," Arcade said, handing the photo back. Realizing the gravity of what he said, he softened his brisk tone. "I'm really sorry. I know she thought she was protecting you by not telling you. She...was tortured by it. I think that's why she chose Vegas. Easy to blend in, nobody really pays too much attention to you there. Well unless you're a hooker. But I mean..."

Boone was always bad at speaking, but this was a particularly bad time. Arcade seemed to realize this, for he backed away.

"I'm...sorry."
The sound of voices rose outside the door, and the King pulled his velvet blankets higher over his head, grumbling in his throaty morning voice. He recognized one of the gals, Mindy, speaking with one of the Kings. Was that Aaron? The King rolled over and stuffed his face into the pillow. Hopefully they'd realize he was too tired and achey to move or be hospitable and warm. It wouldn't have been anything dangerous-if it were, they'd already have beaten the door down.

The voices carried through the door.

"But it's already almost noon! The King never sleeps in this late...he never did back when I was in bed with him..." Mindy, goddammit, go awaaaayyy.

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind you guys stopping in," that was Aaron's drawl. "If he's havin' a cozy, he'd still like to know you all are okay. Scared us, runnin' off like that. Julie gave us word that you were all out and nowhere to be found."

This time the King lifted one edge of the pillow off his face at the recognizable voice of Andy the Courier. "I mean, I don't want to disturb him, we just really wanted to say hello and give him the good news about Caesar. If he's sleeping-"

"I'm telling you," Mindy...don't make me put you down like Old Yeller, the King thought, "We've had our fair share of long nights and they never lasted this long. We need to check on him."

As though to prove her point, the groupie bashed open the large door.

The too-blond girl in her awkwardly tiny nightdress pushed through, and the Courier, Boone, and Arcade almost fell through the doorway, the only thing preventing them being the lack of space between the door frame. The King, Aaron, who had his palm leaned up against the door, did in fact stumble inside.

At his bed, the King shot up, velvet covers falling to his waist. The Courier's eyes widened as she realized he was shirtless, his chiseled chest and biceps shining in the afternoon sunlight spilling in the nearby window. His usually impeccable hair was standing up in every direction, having gone a step above and beyond bedhead. He blinked rapidly in the sudden light, offering a very tentative half smile.

At the combined exclamations of the group and Boone's mutter of "fuck" when he toppled forward, another figure shot up in the bed; this one was shirtless as well, but she modestly held the blankets up to her chest, only her bare shoulders glinting. Her hair, usually sticking straight up anyway, stuck in even more directions than normal, matching the King's. Her thick black liner was smeared, and she could do nothing but smile the most awkward smile of her life.

Boone did his usual grimace, shaking his head and turning immediately away as though he'd just witnessed something catastrophic, the Courier's jaw dropped unabashedly, and Arcade tentatively drummed his fingers to his upper lip while drawing back. "Oh god ew," he refrained, and grabbed onto Boone's tactical vest to be pulled away. The groupie, shocked and perhaps as disgusted as Boone, stormed out and the King, seeing his chance, immediately followed suit.

Now only the Courier, jaw still dropped, stared at the couple. Julie looked like she wanted to die on the spot, but the King's half-smile curled upwards even more.

"Sorry!' chirped Andromeda, grabbing the door handle. "I just...we just...oh you two!" she gave an odd squeaking noise before pulling the door shut, and the King turned back to Julie with that same look on his face. He snickered.

Astonishingly, she giggled back, pulling the blankets up to her mouth.

"C'mere," he said, pulling her closer, "Time for round...what was it, ah hell who cares," and as he wrapped one bare arm around her and leaned in, the door opened again. The couple paused in their almost-kiss to stare again at the Courier, whose eyes glittered mischievously. She giggled and gave a thumbs up to the King, who laughed and returned the motion. Julie just stared, confused, as Arcade appeared in the open doorway and used his unbandaged hand to grab her by the collar of her uniform, dragging her away. "Come on," he said patiently, "Mommy and Daddy need sleepy time."

She thumbs-upped them once more before Arcade succeeded in pulling her down the hallway, and Boone shoved the door closed.

The Courier was in fine spirits after leaving the sleepy couple in Freeside. They still had a full day ahead of them, so they made their way into Vegas and straight to the NCR Embassy. Not a single person in the group wanted to make the journey-they would've all much preferred to go enjoy a nice afternoon in the Lucky 38, reminiscing over their reunion, but time was running out for the Dam, and when asked, the Courier still shrugged about what her plans were. Strategy for such a tiresome battle wasn't foremost on her mind, and when Crocker welcomed she, Boone, Arcade, and Nolan warmly, he seemed reluctant to discuss as well.

"We've got the President on a high-priority radio broadcast all the way from California...he called the meeting between Moore and myself, and specifically requested we wait until you showed back up. I've given him the go-ahead so it'll be only a few minutes. You should know Moore gave him her version of what went down on the streets, with the Brotherhood and all. I don't know exactly what she said, but he's not happy. He did just want you," he nodded to the Courier, "but I figure when the Red hits, you'll all be together anyway. "

"Damn right we will," Boone growled, and the four took their place at the conference table. A shallow screen faced them, and only the Courier lounged as though this were a normal meeting. Everyone else was tense, and only tensed further when the screen cut on unceremoniously, half of it split between the unsmiling image of Kimball, and the equally amused Colonel Moore. The President gaped at the four strangers, and then his eyes alighted on Boone.

"How dare you sit in front of me and wear that beret," Kimball growled. "You held a gun to the head of a Colonel and you want to act like you support the NCR?"

Boone, for once, had no trouble speaking. "I support what the NCR stands for, democracy, protecting the people and ensuring freedom. Moore's scare tactics aren't NCR standard."

Moore could've killed him through the screen. Arcade arched a brow.

"And," Kimball spat, "You, with those robes...You're the fool from the Brotherhood who left your hellhole. What business do you think you have in this meeting?"

"Other than the troops I've negotiated with your very kind Ambassador, to lend to your cause at the fight for the Dam, and the fact that your Colonel shot me multiple times for no apparent reason other than her own personal grudge, nothing but mere curiosity," the Elder's voice was smooth and calming where Kimball's was full of rage. The man lowered his brow.

Moore spoke. "I've spent four years of my life trying to save my own neck from the Brotherhood. Don't act innocent in this."

"I believe, during the time your neck was in danger, my Brothers and Sisters here in Nevada were underground."

The Courier, mulling over how much Moore's voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard, intercepted. "The NCR's hostility comes from being spread too thin out here. You're fighting for the Mojave and losing a lot in the process. You're forcing these soldiers out into the wastes and there's absolutely nothing in it for them, they're miserable. There's already animosity, already fighting and hatred. You'll unite nothing at this pace, Kimball."

"And what military advice do you think you have to offer, you're a Courier," he dismissed.

"I have the full support of the Boomers, the Khans, the Brotherhood of Steel, the people of Freeside and Vegas, not to mention the Securitron Army, the Gangers and Chairmen, and citizens of Novac, Goodsprings, Primm, and the Super Mutants and Nightkin in Jacobstown. For all intents and purposes really, I'd say I have a huge advantage if not necessarily any advice."

Nolan crossed his arms smugly; Boone's brows lifted behind his sunglasses.

Kimball seemed to chew on this, though Moore's face didn't change at all-the venomous woman was quite adapted to her stoicity and could've given the old Boone a run for his money. Finally, the subdued President got out, "So you want to push the NCR out of the Mojave."

"Not at all." Arcade's eyes slid to the Courier as she spoke now with some confidence, crossing her own arms like Nolan. "I think the NCR could become invaluable to the desert. The unification and protection of citizens is something everyone's best interest. But too much pushing and you're draining all the soldiers' resources as well as will to fight. Plus pissing off the locals, which means they're spending more time fighting the people they're sworn to protect. I don't want to see the NCR leave. I want to see the NCR display humanity and diplomacy."

"Saving what's west of Hoover Dam from the atrocity of the Legion is not humane?" his voice rose angrily.

"Not when your only goal is to reap the reward of electricity for yourself, no."

"That is not our only goal," he began but she snapped so ferociously that even the warhawk paused.

"Then start acting like it! Listen to your generals, your commanders, listen to the rangers. Listen to the people who settled this land you're stomping all over. Peace can't be held by force...it can only be achieved by understanding. You're going to end up thirsting yourself out here in this landscape. If you want to take a page out of the Ambassador's book and try diplomacy and democracy instead of this clever mirror-image to Caesar's Legion razing across the desert, get the greed out of your system. For your NCR's sake."

Kimball looked as though he'd been slapped; Moore's eye twitched.

"We will send our forces to your aid, if you will have us," Nolan said calmly to her. "What happened in the Strip is forgotten."

"We are thankful," the President choked out, and Moore didn't dare refuse the offer. She didn't speak.

"I'll be speaking with the other commanding officers at the Dam, with your blessing, Mr. Kimball," the Courier said, standing up idly. "We have a lot to offer you, and I'm willing to help the NCR's reputation in Vegas. But the NCR has to earn it. Will you work with us?"

"I suppose I have no choice," he said begrudgingly. "You may make your plans. I suppose we will speak again soon enough."

"Yes, whether here or at the Dam," she agreed. "One more thing...Colonel Moore."

"Yes?"

"When I visit the Dam I'll be bringing Nolan along, he's in charge of the Brotherhood and needs to see what his troops are getting into. If he doesn't come, I don't come, and you don't get their help. Got it?"

"Understood," she growled. And the Courier added as though she'd almost forgotten, while Arcade beamed up at her and Boone did a half-snarl half-smile in the Colonel's direction, "If you think about setting foot in Vegas again you'll be gunned down before you make it to Freeside. I've ensured that. Have a taste of your own animosity."

Offscreen, where neither his President or his Colonel could see him, Crocker flashed a smile and an enthusiastic thumbs up. Even Nolan allowed himself a chuckle at that one, and the Courier reached forward to turn the transmitter off.

"Welllll that was productive," she said, slapping Boone on the thigh. "Let's go show McNamara Gomorrah."

"I don't necessarily think-"

"Shut up. Time to get trashed."

There were two levels to the penthouse; the lower consisted of several guest rooms, the large dining room, seating area, lounge, and kitchen. The higher level which had its own balcony and looked down into the luxurious party area, consisted of the master suite and bath, and another sitting area, this one more private. Boone was seated backwards on a chair, shirtless, slumped forward with his chin on the edge of the wood. The Courier stood behind him, redressing his bandages and pausing in her medical work to massage his neck or else kiss his broad shoulders, both of which actions caused him to close his eyes, drool, growl, or any combination of the three.

He was watching Nolan attempt to teach Arcade noble steps of sword fighting. Both of them were drunk. The Elder crashed into a robot, knocking it over- "Blessed Steel!" and Arcade snorted loudly as he bent to right the downed Protectron...but by now the Elder was interested in the deactivated hunk of metal. The Courier laughed.

"It's good to see both of them lightening up a little," she said as Arcade howled; Nolan had dropped the metal right on his foot.

"They're pretty drunk," the sniper noted, "Where do people learn to dance like that in the Enclave and Brotherhood? Never taught us any dancing in the NCR."

"Manny could teach you," she advised. "He's a great dancer too."

Boone frowned, then leaned farther forward, closing his eyes in ecstasy as she massaged his neck. "Novac."

"Do you miss it there at all?"

"I miss some things." Neither of them, amazingly, were drunk. They'd been so busy keeping up with their friends in the bar that their energy was expended. Also, neither of them felt the need for liquid courage anymore; since their moment on the mountain top, the two had never been closer.

"I miss just being alone and seeing the desert at night, nothing's more serene than that. Don't miss the thoughts I used to have. Festered up there. I'll never forget sitting up there and watching you come into town. Looked like a helpless, hopeless kid."

"I am a helpless and hopeless kid."

"And I'm a dancer."

Nolan had somehow managed to activate the Protectron. When it fired a warning shot at Arcade, the doctor kicked it, causing the machine to short-circuit and fall once again on its side.

"Noooooo," Nolan said regretfully.

"You're supposed to protect humanity from technology, not try to kill them with it!" Arcade scolded.

"You will address me as Elder." He sat stubbornly, trying to repair the machine. Its arm fell off. "Oh dear..."

"Sometimes I think you'd like me better if I were made of metal," Arcade was still scolding.

"Where is that luxurious, wondrously technological armor you have?" the Elder asked in a slurred voice, fiddling with the robot. "You should wear it to bed."

At this, Boone ran his hand down the front of his face. The Courier got the hint.

"Don't worry, I'm just finishing."

It was darker than dark in the unfamiliar too-large bed, the only light in the room the faint glow of stars over the horizon. As Boone followed proper procedure-take off boots, unlace, put pistol in left boot, put knife in right boot-the Courier, who had busied herself with her own bedtime preparation apparently, suddenly appeared in the pitch black and sat herself on his lap.

"This seems familiar," he noted ironically, and put both hands on her thighs, feeling upward. "Where were we?"

When his palms rounded her thighs and slid around behind, he realized- "You're not wearing any clothes."

"I did before and that didn't pan out as I recall," she said smoothly, and draped her arms around his shoulders. Boone's hands were finding their way upward and around to her front, as he dumbly repeated, "Any clothes."

"I could go put some on, if you wanted," she replied sarcastically.

He responded to that by pulling her closer to him and closing his mouth over her neck, biting down and then tracing his path of bites with licks. She let her head fall back, welcoming the assault, and deftly her own hands unbuttoned his pants.

Boone was already breathless from indulging in her soft neck and breasts, but now he raised his head and gasped, "Quality meat...any time now..."

"I just want to make sure you're wearing silk boxers to protect it," she replied.

"If Arcade-"

"Or ED-E-"

"Or Biscuit-"

"With my bare hands-"

"I'll help."

He was impossibly strong, picking up the girl and tossing her on her back on the large bed. As he hadn't done since rubbing snow in her face in Jacobstown, Boone straddled her lean form, this time pausing to shrug off his own cargo pants before lowering himself onto her and once again burying himself in her chest.

"You didn't disappoint," she said happily, feeling the silk against her skin. "Now take them off."

"Maybe I shouldn't, maybe I should just let you make all your meat jokes and I'll stay modest."

"Maybe I'll call for Arcade."

He laughed, a low breathy laugh, one she hadn't heard in ages. Boone complied, shrugging out of the silk and pulling the satin sheets over both their forms as he reluctantly moved from straddling her, to her side. The laugh seemed to catch him off-guard as well, and she lay complacently on her back, eyes on him in the too-dim light.

"Still waiting on an intrusion?" she asked innocently.

"No," he responded. "You're just..."

After he didn't say anything for several seconds, Boone put a hand on her throat, running it over to her shoulder and threading his fingers through her hair. She closed her eyes and smiled.

"I don't want to lose you."

"You won't."

"Sounds familiar."

"I've already been shot in the head," she reminded him. "I promise, you won't lose me."

"I believe you."

"Then kiss me."

He did, leaning over and lowering his lips down onto hers in what was first a timid and reluctant embrace, but at the static thrill of each other's embrace, the pair quickly escalated the kiss into first a passionate, and then a frenzied locking of lips; Boone was no longer hesitant as he pulled her closer and for the first time since Novac, dared to go lower with one hand. Without pausing, he parted her legs and his fingers found where to warm up.

The sniper finally hesitated, always calculating whether he wanted to or not, but she of so many vocals clawed onto his shoulder and said entreatingly, urgently, "more!" to which she didn't have to tell him twice. With all the vehemence of a starved man, he worked his fingers inside of her, feeling powerless to stop what was happening despite the fact that she clung to him for support. Andy writhed, gasped, moaned, and Boone finally had the strength, due to his own growing urges, to pull his face away after sliding his tongue and teeth across her neck and ear. For several more agonizingly long minutes he watched her caught in ecstasy under the stars.

Without a warning, Boone withdrew his hand and she gulped for air, popping her eyes wide open and glaring at him with a stare of gloom and doom such as he'd never seen. She was too in shock to smile or offer a Courier-like word of encouragement, because at the moment her brain was coping with the fact that she'd just been denied the wonderful pleasure he offered over the past unmeasurable amount of time. However, what he hadn't anticipated in her confusion and indignation was for her hand to reach down and grasp him, which made him exhale and then grunt. He forgot his name, everything going out the window but the sensation of her bare hand on his bare skin, and he realized that she was still pulling herself to him, guiding her onward.

Now that the moment had arrived, the man wasn't sure he could take it-so many thoughts and fears and memories ran rampant through his mind that they all buzzed into one loud humming motor that disrupted any coherent ideas he could've cooked up in the heat of the bedroom. As he, like a robot, mounted her, she on the other hand felt a calmness in the calamity; no running thoughts, no overwhelming, confusing emotions-she felt desire and love, and to this day she thought of Boone in the dinosaur, standing sentinel over a sleeping desert town. If sleep was little slices of death, Boone was only life in a village full of dead. To her, he was that same life, the one walking a different, difficult path in a deceased, decaying world.

She could've told him to pause while she explained all this to him, but Boone's eyes were distant with passion, and instead as he lowered himself, she managed with bated breath, "I love you."

This shocked him, and entering her shocked him, and his own hiss of an exhale was drowned out by her moan of indulgence. That moan rattled his thoughts and pushed them, cascading into an abandoned well of darkness, away from the moment. The moan urged him on, and he didn't pause but instead ran himself inside deeper. Now she really did hold onto him for support, not just with her nails digging into his shoulders but also with her too-long legs, which she raised and wrapped around his lower back.

Entangled with the Courier in a way he'd never been entangled before, and in a way he'd often dreamed about, thought about, and in fact completely enjoyed, Boone remained motionless for only a moment, planting a loving kiss on her lips this time and wrapping his own arms tightly around her. "Andromeda," he muttered aloud, the first time he spoke her true name. It fit nicely.

She seemed to agree, for she responded with a kiss as well, and with that confirmation he began moving rhythmically, his lips still touching hers while she moaned, the cool satin sheets at his back and the soft wonder of a woman underneath him. Boone and the Courier went from slow and hesitant, again, to reckless, passionate-he pulled her hands off his shoulders, holding her by the wrists as he pressed down into her over and over-her moans soon turned to cries and yells of passion, which only made him more aggressive. It was fire playing with fire, and the two finally knew no bounds as she vocally urged him onward and he responded accordingly, brushing her hair away and pulling it back to assault her neck with more bites. Not forfeiting, she raised her head to him and sank her own teeth into the flesh of his shoulder, which drove the sniper mad with desire. He would cause her to cascade into pleasure, he would work the long-awaited release from her first, and he growled this in her ear as she gasped.

Nolan ducked as the berserked robot flew around the room. It was squealing and running as a Protectron should not, firing laser after laser. Nolan was under the table, and Arcade, standing on the kitchen counter, sounded for all the world like Nolan's nagging husband already when he beseeched, "DO something!"

"I-my gun is downstairs!"

"Well...but you're the expert with these things!"

"There is surprisingly very little data and research available pertaining to the-"

"Don't you speak robot to me!"

"Why don't you get down and kick it again!"

Suddenly Rex bounded forward, snapping his own steel-reinforced jaws at the power panel-when the electricity zapped through him, the grounded metal dog didn't move. The overload effectively cooked the machine and still squealing, it sizzled to a stop. Both men crawled out of their spaces, delighted, and just as Nolan said, "About that armor-"

Without the loud noises of the robot and their own yells at each other, the pair heard a distinct, very enthusiastic moaning coming from the bedroom.

"Yeah I think now's as good a time as any," Arcade said, and they all but tripped their drunken way toward the elevator.

He kept good on his promise, and smiled down at her as she calmed down from her high, still shaking underneath him, still tied tightly to him. He was already exhausted-she was a lot to keep up with-but after she regained her breath, the Courier surprised Boone by pushing him to the side, then on his back; his strong arms moved to her waist as she settled on top of him, and his own relaxed posture paired with the too-good feeling of being deep inside her was too much; she tantalized him, however, by lifting her pelvis forward and denying him any further pleasure.

So be it then-he lay there, catching his breath as she made a chore of licking his chest, and now she threaded their fingers together and rose to kiss him deeply. Ringing in his ears still not subsided, he was focusing only on her tongue and lips when she surprised him by pushing herself down on him, then she drew back in another moan while he was left to fight the wonderful urge to let go within seconds. When he finally did release, cursing and gasping and holding her tightly, she stared down at him with stars in her eyes before he pulled her down, and they spent the time catching their breath between soft kisses and mumbled, incoherent words.

The boy ran the dark, deadly streets, knowing that it was only a matter of time. Though his legs were long and he was by no means unable of running fast distances, the older boys would overtake him. He was only ten after all, and they were a whopping thirteen-decades apart in boy years. Freeside seemed to always look this black, even in broad daylight, but unluckily it was not daylight. It was midnight, in fact, and the adolescent (if you could even call him that) was not fond of this treacherous path through alleyways. It was possible too, that Fiends were here...sometimes they crept into the area around the railroad, and if that were the case, he was fu-

"Incoming!" shouted one of the older fellows, Seth it was, a skinhead with crazy light blue eyes who loved the sight of blood. He tackled the younger boy, prying open his hands as he squashed him. "Oh, whadda we have here? Is this dinner, runt? Let's see...baked mantis, I'll take that..."

"You dumb shit, you busted the bottle of Brahmin milk!"

"Hold his head up while I kick him."

"Don't!" the garbled child, face in pavement, felt his thick hair being yanked up while the boys whaled on him. He struggled against their heavy weight, not making any progress against their assault, and it was in fact on his fourth kick to the face that he finally wiggled his stolen pocketknife out of his own pocket and stabbed the blade into Seth's thigh.

This trick worked; the boy howled and landed a punch amid streams of curses, but now the boy scooted on his butt out from underneath the large foe, withdrawing the blade and stabbing the next. Several others in the gang backed up, but then forward stepped William, the biggest, meanest thirteen year old in all of Freeside, and his lip curled. William, the son of a prostitute and chem addict. He held up a machete threateningly, and the smaller boy knew William would break his knife-wielding wrist before he had a chance to even think about defending himself.

"I'm going to skin you alive, and sell the skin to your mother," William declared. Then as he gazed at his victim, who had blood smeared all over his tender young face, the machete quivered in his hand and he continued, "Oh that's right, I forgot! Your mom's dead, isn't she? And so's your dad. Nobody to miss you. You're pathetic, you know that? Never amount to nothin'. I mean really Dad'll say I did Freeside a small favor."

The boy on the ground merely wiped his blood-covered nose-if he was going to die, then die and be done with it. He supposed it was justice enough anyway. He really didn't amount to anything. And he had too much self-respect to argue with a creep like Will.

"AAGHHHH!" William gave a cry and fell forward suddenly; from the cloudy night sky the silhouette of another skinnier, paler, weaker boy withdrew his own knife from the tall child's neck. "That's MY small favor to Freeside, ya dick," came the snobby voice, and now there was no contest-what few teenagers remained felt the sharp slice of the newcomer's knife. He was not hesitant about sticking the blade in the neck area, as the group soon saw. The two left unharmed fled, and now the skinny, dopey looking child turned to his battered friend.

"Your eye's gonna' bruise."

"Yeah well. It's better than bein' dead."

"Rick...when are you just gonna say fuck it and get a gun? A real gun like Dad's. Dad would find me and shoot me if I ever took one of his-then again he may just shoot me yet, the bastard-" here they both laughed at the illustrious use of such a grown-up word, "but you're an orphan now. You can't just walk around and expect to be left alone! You gotta start bein' a grown up."

"I just don't get it, I don't get why they have to do it."

His friend offered him a rag; the child mopped the blood off his bruised face and stood, black hair matted against his forehead, a glint of some reserve in his deep eyes. "I just don't get where the respect is."

"Ain't no respect in Freeside, shouldn't be either. Look at us. Rags." The savior grinned.

"That ain't right, no. Respect is a good thing...I know it is..and we all deserve it too."

"Yeah yeah. Let's get out of here before one of those metal guys comes nosin' around from Vegas."

The pair split, running barefoot through the night. The boy who'd saved his friend carried William's machete. "This is the coolest! I can't wait to try it out!"

"Hey, by the way," the bloody nose was almost done, so the child discarded the rag, "Thanks, Pacer."

"Anytime, buddy. Wanna try out the machete on the rats?"

"Let's hop to it."

The King inhaled confusedly, awakening, hearing Pacer's voice echoing in his ears. When he lifted his head from the pillow, the room was dark. He felt the cool sheets on him, and something else; as he turned his head he saw Julie laying there serenely. The black haired man smiled his little half-smile and lowered his head, staring at the high vaulted ceiling and mulling over thoughts of his friend.

Arcade was restless; Nolan had departed in the early morning to go back to the bunker. Though many Brotherhood were out exploring the Vegas area, many remained back, and the Elder had to support them as well as make plans for a more permanent, stable home for his group. Now the sun was high in the sky, and Boone was milling around the casino. To Arcade's surprise, the quiet man had set off with Victor's AI to find the main power supply to the lower level; Boone of all people mumbling something about the casino being "too damn dark" and this left the scientist to mill with his own thoughts.

Caesar was dead. The very thought made him numb and giddy with excitement, especially when he ran his fingers over the scars the slave collar left on his neck, or when he thought of the bright gleam of the scalpel as he'd held it up, seeing it as his only way out. Yet this victory came with a heavy toll...he knew the Legion would make a move soon, and despite the fact that Arcade would've loved to see Colonel Moore plowed down by a Decanus, the NCR had to win the fight at the dam. They had to. Or Vegas was fucked.

These were not the pleasant morning-after thoughts he'd longed to have after finding a man that not only accepted his Enclave background but embraced it as a part of Arcade...though he should've been as light-hearted that day as any in his life, the doctor's glasses were skewed and his hair was a mess. Late in the day, and still no sign of the blond who seemed to have all the answers. The girl with the plans. Their leader. She was still asleep in the penthouse. Tentatively, Arcade descended the elevator and found Boone in one of the workstations, Securitron at his side. The man wasn't wearing his usual scowl, Arcade saw, and appeared simply deep in thought as he turned a wrench into the mess of electronics.

"Is Andy awake?" Arcade asked bluntly, taking advantage of the lack of Boone's glare.

The sniper looked up, seemingly surprised to see Arcade standing so close, and then looked back into the panel. "I woke her up for breakfast but she didn't want any. Fell back asleep."

"Is she okay?" Though it had sounded like the night went well, it was extremely unlike the blond girl to lay in bed past noon.

"She was asleep when I left her," Boone countered, "So I don't know." He looked up at Arcade suddenly, as if just realizing his error. "Should I go-"

"No, I'm sure she's just exhausted," Arcade couldn't help but grin at the realization that if she was, it was entirely Boone's fault, "I'll go get her up."

Where he usually grunted, Boone actually gave a nod of thanks before diverting his attention back to the task at hand. Arcade spun on his heel and briskly headed back toward the elevator.

She was in bed, all right, and the curtains were pulled, and the lights were off. The white-coated man struggled to see in the darkness; the master bedroom in the penthouse was particularly dark, and he tripped over a night table when approaching the bed. The Courier was facedown in a pillow, her blond hair crazily splayed out around her. Arcade could see she had barely bothered to dress, wearing one of Boone's white undershirts, and the blankets hid her lower body from view.

"Er...good morning, sunshine," he said tentatively. She didn't move. "Are you alive?"

Now she turned her torso, and Arcade moved toward the curtains, opening them only enough to allow some golden sunlight to seep in the room. When he turned back to her, he was both shocked and saddened to see that she'd been crying, her eyes puffy and her expression somber. Arcade stood dumbly by the window, and the Courier said in a thick voice as she sat up, draping her arms over her knees, "He's dead."

"He? Who...oh."

"But I was so sure...the Burned Man. It can't be, but I wanted him to stay..."

The girl had her own uncertain vibes about the Burned Man, who had mysteriously disappeared one morning soon after the Fort was nothing more than a wall of black smoke in the sky. While NCR troops celebrated over at the Dam and the rest of the group slept, the Burned Man had taken his silent leave, a carefully wrapped package containing a custom-engraved 1911 and a book of Scripture his only goodbye to the Courier. Though she would have never recognized the dead language, Arcade noted that the gun's ornate engravings were written in Greek. The same language he'd chosen for Andromeda's name.

Okay, so Arcade at least wasn't the only one not retaining a high from mindblowing sex, that was comforting. Arcade felt that he was, for once, not the person to speak to-he had adored his own father beyond words, definitely idolized him, and had no reason not to because his father despite reputation, had never hacked up a classroom full of children and their parents. How does one really move past that? Not to mention the hacking up of a town, of his own daughter...his wife...involuntarily, the doctor shuddered in the cold room, feeling the chill of the mountains return.

Secretly he hoped he'd never have to go there again.

To the Courier, he said, "Did you ever really want to get to know the man that...you know...ruined your life?

"My life is different now." Now she openly bawled again, and Arcade couldn't help but to sit on the edge of the bed, compelled to listen. Amid sobs, the girl pressed her palms onto her eyes and howled, "I just wish-"

She gave up and collapsed onto his chest like she used to, and Arcade didn't hesitate to hug her fiercely, not understanding how she felt in the slightest but feeling terrible anyway because he knew she was right, deep down. Whether or not the man deserved it, it was a terrible thing for a daughter to be robbed of a father. Regardless of his own crimes. He knew that in time the Courier would come to see that it was better this way, better that she had only these memories and the strength they gave her than some failure of a relationship. Now probably wasn't the greatest time, and so she sobbed awhile longer, until she suddenly pulled away and turned again, facedown onto the pillow. She could lay despondently like that for awhile, so Arcade waited a few moments, remembering his own encounter with the man he secretly knew was Andy's father.

While the others slept, Graham read, and Arcade feigned sleep. Then, out of nowhere, "I know what you are."

"Um, excuse me?" The doctor had lifted his head from the pillow abruptly, betraying his own false sleepiness.

"Your quarrel with Andromeda. She told me about why you left. How you were captured. She feels terribly guilty."

"I'm so not having this conversation with the Mormon ex-leader of the Legion," Arcade countered, and he decided sleep wasn't an option. The tall man shrugged out of his sleeping bag and headed toward the nearby overlook, figuring another set of eyes keeping watch couldn't be that harmful. And there he'd sat, sulking over the fact that yet another person knew his deep, dark secret, until a shadow fell over him and Arcade stood, confronting the cold-eyed Graham yet again.

"There are many people in this world, even this world, who feel guilt, Mr. Gannon." Graham's raspy voice was somehow kind. His eyes most certainly were, despite their hardened look. "Some of them deserve to. The Lord knows I do. You, however, are not one of those people."

"Well uh. Thanks." Arcade responded lamely, now unable to meet those eyes. They had always seemed so cruel, but now they looked entirely the opposite-a paragon of good, a well of empathy. Which was the true Graham, Arcade would never know. And again to yet another person, Graham seemed to speak words that could only come from a divine source, having the talent of speaking of precisely the right thing to upset someone.

"Your father may not have lived long enough to say it, but you are a good man. A good man who doesn't deserve to live in shame and fear of himself. Or anyone else, for that matter. I know that whatever you devote your life to, Mr. Gannon, will be a world of success, for you've been given all the talents needed to succeed."

Arcade seemed to hesitantly open his mouth, but no words escaped. Graham continued. "You may not believe in a higher power, or the Word of God, but what resides in your heart is the spirit of love for your father, and that is something that can never be extinguished. It is enough. If you would allow yourself for even a small amount of time to remember how much he loved you, how devoted he was to you, then you would realize how full of worth you really are."

Now the good doctor couldn't speak for the lump in his throat, and Graham's glistening eyes glistened a bit longer as he recited, "Though an army encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war arise against me, even then I will be confident." The shimmer faded, and now it was the Burned Man's turn to look away as he said in a much softer voice, "I admit the sin of envy against your father. He did not live to see a good son grow up, but he was also never faced with daily remembering the scars he would issue on a nation."

Arcade almost wanted to hug Graham, he sounded so sincere and so sad, but that fleeting notion was scattered to the four winds when the taller man's eyes slid back to Arcade and their harshness returned, even though it was only fleeting. However, Graham did one thing very un-Joshua-like, but intensely Andy-like: he squeezed Arcade's shoulder. Perhaps the hardest thing for him to say yet, the older wanderer confessed, "The fight for the Dam was upon us. None were pressured as hard as my men and I. We would win, I knew in my heart, and I was right." The Legion did manage to hold the Dam-it was only in Boulder City that they met their defeat, Arcade knew this well- "I knew it was coming. The reign of the Legion. I was already growing ashamed. Afraid, restless. I knew there were rumors of my daughter, the teacher, in the nearby mountains. When I made the journey back, it wasn't to sate more bloodlust."

Now Graham dropped his hand from Arcade's shoulder, and the dimness in his eyes reached a new low as he looked away, back toward the camp, toward the innocently sleeping blond who would never hear the words from her father's own mouth. "I wanted her dead to spare her from seeing the Legion, from seeing what I had become. I wanted all of them dead, for that same reason, but none so much as her. And she was the only survivor."

Arcade nodded in an awkwardly sympathetic way, but he still struggled to speak. Before he could do so, Graham turned fully away and walked toward the camp. While Arcade watched from a distance, the Malpais Legate withdrew the packaged gun and Scriptures, setting them alongside the axe, which lay by Andy. The sprawled-out girl didn't move at the intrusion, and Graham seemed to hesitate, contemplating touching her hair or her face. One look at his own hand and he disgustedly put it away, righting and striding past the campfire into the darkness of the Mojave night, leaving Arcade to wipe the cascades of wetness from his cheeks.

Sighing, returning to the present, Arcade stared down at the Courier, picking the locks of her twisted hair idly. "Are you going to be okay?"

Muffled "yes."

"Want me to bring you anything?"

Muffled "no."

Although he hated to bring it up, Arcade hesitantly started, "The dam..."

She said nothing. He didn't really know where to go from there, and the girl poked her head up from the pillow after several more seconds' silence. "What about it?"

"I guess I just wondered..."

She stuffed a pillow over her head, her voice rising. "I don't know what you want me to do! I'm not the dictator of New Vegas!"

"You're the leader of what we've got," he countered, realizing just what that meant. That meant that yes, at the moment, she was de facto leader. Not just of he and Boone, but the entire city. It was mind-boggling, but true. As though she were reading his mind, the distraught Courier went on a rant she badly needed.

"I won't do it anymore, I won't make these decisions for everyone, I won't keep doing it because if I do I'm going to be just like Mr. House, I'm going to become the savior for this fucking city out in the middle of the goddamn desert, I don't want to be a benevolent dictator or an enlightened despot... fucking kidding me? I'm a wanderer, a killer on a bad day, a mediator on a good day, I'm not the damn Queen of Vegas. I don't want that. Won't do it." Her tone of stubbornness was icy, and she stuffed the pillow back down like a clam retreating to its shell, and Arcade sat in silence.

"You're right," he said quietly. "That responsibility shouldn't fall to you, at least not you alone, it's not right or fair no matter how good you've led us up until here. But then what?" He was thinking aloud and she seemed to know this for she was still stuck headfirst in her clam shell, refusing to budge. Arcade's eyes glazed over and his politician mindset took over. Though he was well-versed in science, socio-economic policies got him hard, and now he trailed off.

"A representative democracy, in which we gather a panel of people who are in a substantial amount of power already, with enough authority to exercise swift and resolute initiative in the face of changing circumstances...people who know Vegas and will put their best efforts for the city forward, people we can trust...Are you listening to this! A Cabinet, an executive committee, which votes on laws and-are you-hey."

She reluctantly removed the clam shell pillow. "I'm listening. Go get your Cabinet then."

"Really?" His face brightened. "But who? And where...?"

Doomed to continue making decisions, at least for a little while, she sighed and said, "I don't know. Julie, Crocker, the King, Cachino? The Jacob guy who runs the Tops now, some kids in Freeside, Nolan obviously...whoever you want, I don't care. And you should have the meeting in the Lucky 38. It's the headquarters, after all."

"The People's Republic of New Vegas," he said dreamily, and as he'd gotten her go-ahead to set up the casino for such a wonderful political regime, the doctor rose to his feet and prepared for the glorious task ahead. Being a slave in the Legion would've been a sorry way to go indeed, but Arcade thought his father might just be happy to know he was organizing the first semblance of a good old-fashioned republic for the hapless, lost city of New Vegas. It wasn't perfect, but it was damn near it, and better than the option of just having the Courier point her finger and bark directions for the rest of her days. They could even set up a constitution, they could make laws which the Securitrons would enforce...they could help Freeside, finally.

Arcade patted her head idly once more, though he failed to notice that she'd removed the pillow and was now smiling wryly at him; it was good to hear the man speak with conviction, and that's precisely how he'd just spoken. He tried to continue to console her, saying in some faraway voice, "Get to feeling better, dear," before she replied, "Get the fuck out of here, and close the damn blind," while still smiling.

He did just that.

Even as Arcade stepped into the mechanical room, peering around Victor to say to Boone, "She's...okay. She's upset..you may want to go up and check on her," and even as Boone scratched his brow and inquired further, the Courier rolled around in the majestic bed and said aloud to perhaps the ghost of Robert House, perhaps just to his empty penthouse where the wind whooshed eerily by, "I bet it was shitty for you too, wasn't it...I bet you wished you could've just had your cake and ate it too without all the bullshittery of saving the world."

Then she dozed back off into sleep, never thinking that in some supernatural way, Robert House of all people would be the one to offer her some strange, depressive solace-at least, unlike her father told her for years, she was not alone in how she felt. Not alone at all.

He was agitated as he sat on the edge of the large bed, the sprawling bed where centuries later, the Courier would lay and pine over her own agitations-House was a perfectionist and one hell of a planner, and so far tonight everything was going as planned. The party was a venomous success, probably one to headline the papers of Las Vegas and New Angeles this coming Sunday, and his guests had either retired to their own suites or their neighboring hotels.

All but one.

He'd drugged her, not that he needed to, because Jean was never one to complain if he asked her to spend the night, but the orignal plan was to ensure her unconsciousness would prevail until he could hardwire the neuro-transmitter, program her personality into his own computer system. He'd done it with several already; most of his favorite servants, a few friends, and a plethora of past lovers and business partners. Eternity was a long time to spend alone, and although House would rather be alone than in company most of the time, he could bet that once the chamber was ready and preparations complete, he'd be aching for a companion.

The procedure was harmless, of course; all it required from the sleeping Jean was for two metallic wired "stickers" to be applied to her temples, and his hardware took care of the rest. House was unfailingly a genius when it came to electronics, but this was one of his less "useful to the world, fun for me" gadgets that all mad scientists have. Though he doubted a purposeful endeavor other than allowing his own personality to exist via AI in the worst-case scenario would prevail, the machine nonetheless pleased him, his own cleverness a light in the darkness that was unfolding in the war-hungry world.

So, that had been the plan, yes? Many other friends including the intimate kind had their programs all zipped and ready to unpack into the database, why should Jean be any different? In fact, she should be the most important-and was-for House to be with throughout eternity. He stood, moving from the bed to open the curtains and view Vegas below; a city ablaze with lights, lights stretching as far as the eye could see, awaited him. The familiar view gave him solace under normal circumstances, but he was just too damn agitated to find it soothing now. House turned.

He'd re-dressed in his red robe, finding no need for the discarded tuxedo, but Jean had insisted as she usually did on wearing her dress, declining his mass storage of women's lingerie he kept just for these purposes. And now she slept soundly on the bed, passed out not only from the sedative he'd put in her drink-also harmless-but also from the intense session they'd shared hours earlier. The lime-green dress stood out against the dark sheets, her pale skin glowing serenely in the lamplight. Despite all his misgivings, he smirked at the sight of Jean.

He just couldn't do it.

She was the last-everyone else was "ready" so to speak, but Jean was last, because she was the most coveted, the most special, he had to ensure that the uploads were operating at 100 percent before attempting to own her personality. And it was, and now was the time, because he knew what came next. War...but before that, no more parties, no more public appearances, no more nothing. He would close the doors to the Lucky 38 forever, he would live his life as naturally as possible until the day he reverted to the 'keeper' as one might call it...he wasn't sure what else would happen, but he knew that she would die. She and everyone else. He couldn't save them. House was only saving himself because he knew he was integral, he knew without him Vegas would crumble, and to keep another human captive in this place was as cruel as it was selfish, greedy. The thought of Jean being killed in the War to come devastated him, as did the prospect of war itself.

So that's why it was important to just attach the damn shit, before she came out of her sedated coma.

But he just couldn't do it.

He realized this, had no reason for it, and was angered by that. But House, as badly as he wanted his mind to work as smoothly as a machine's, to solve his own problems with the ease he solved machine problems, was not a machine, and so it was with a very pronounced sigh that he lay in the bed again and hesitated to look over again at peaceful Jean. Before he fell asleep again, not looking forward to the morning at all, he thought about her. She'd been raised as a simple farmhand, gaining Hollywood only through her looks and charm. All the other girls, Marilyn, Jane, Betty, the ones who attracted House and were attracted to House, he'd met in Vegas or Hollywood on one of his bouts. All of them were glamorous, glitzy, larger than life-they were all exactly like Vegas itself, and that's why he cared for them so. They were unassuming, reckless, fun. He liked that.

But Jean, able to blend in with her stunningly gorgeous looks and marvelous wit, one that rivaled his own, was not so. She didn't like the drapes of diamonds or the too-red lipstick, she refused to bleach her hair. The girl was honest, up-front, kind. She was creative, intelligent, generous of heart and of attitude. She didn't admire House for his charisma or endless charm the way the others did, nor did she even turn a cheek at the towering casinos he'd built in Vegas, in Reno. She loved his mind, she loved the way it worked. Though she didn't understand many of the mechanics and logistics of his creations, she begged for explanations anyway, her eyes lighting up while he spoke of Vendotrons and Securitrons and robotics. He made her models, little robots programmed especially for her, and her own Vegas apartment was full of his creation gifts.

What element that House essentially was-a robotics and outer space maniac-so was she, in her own gifted, creative way. She painted pictures and wrote stories of science fiction, stories so wonderful that he had them printed and published, and kept copies in his own library. She would read him poems about life on Mars, about friendly aliens and cooperative alliances in the future of outer space, and though she couldn't grasp robotics the way he did, she certainly grasped the marvel of the future the same way he did and her stories and poems showcased that. Their dreams aligned as one, yet she would never share his future.

When he completed his tasks, when centuries later men were in orbit, he would dedicate these acts to Jean, and he knew this already. Fitfully, House slept.

When he awoke, she was awake, smiling at him, mumbling something in her small-town-girl country drawl about breakfast at the Gourmand, and for the first time in his life Robert House wanted to say fuck it all, he WOULD go to breakfast with her, war would come and he'd be blasted away happily by the side of this woman, but his rational side prevailed, stifling the emotional side the way it always had, and he interrupted, "I want you to go."

"Go?"

"That's right, it's over. Please leave." The words were empty, like gravel in a can rattling around.

She laughed. "What's over? What is in your head?"

Gravel in a can. "I don't want to see you anymore."

She realized then that he was serious; as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, she sat up and stared down at him as though he were an alien from one of her stories. "Can I ask just what the hell you're talking about?"

"There's nothing more for me to say. I've moved on. I don't want to see you, ever again."

What followed was to be expected from the emotional Jean; a tirade of cursing, crying, even screams here and there, at one point her begging him to speak to her, but he just remained robotic throughout it all, citing his own creations and using their strength to pull through the stormcloud, and when Jean finally gave up and ran out of the room, bursting into tears again and smashing a sentry robot to the floor, he realized exactly why he couldn't rob her of her personality, why he couldn't be satisfied with hearing her electronically-altered voice issuing out quirky comments and snorts of laughter...he loved her, and nothing else would ever be good enough.

The Courier awoke, partly because Boone had entered the room and partly because she was jolted out of House's own miserable dream, or recollection, or whatever it was, and she knew it was real-she was bawling just as the emotional Jean had bawled, and it took her some time to adjust to the present, where the sniper stood in the doorway baffled at her outburst. She pressed her hands to her eyes again and shamelessly blubbered away.

What she hadn't known, what House hadn't known, what even Jean hadn't known, is that the night before she left in a storm of emotion and broken robot, when she embraced House for the last time, she became pregnant. Years later, when he paced angrily in the penthouse awaiting the Platinum Chip, and nothing else entered his mind, she ambled gracefully through the streets, still loved and still famous, with a new famous movie star husband, and an heir to the House fortune-a boy-who would never grow up or learn anything about the now-recluse in the tall Vegas casino. Jean and her son were visiting Washington DC that October, far away from Las Vegas and Edward House, both physically and mentally. They died instantly.

It was what you'd call tumultuous...a few hours ago he had been telling her how pretty her crystal blue eyes looked in the desert sunrise, and now he was stomping around madly like a child.

"No no no no, and no. I don't care."

"This is integral to the-"

"Julie! I don't CARE! I run Freeside, not Vegas!"

"And you don't trust the Courier of all people in that place? The Followers? I thought we were a team!"

Arcade had made his first stop-the old Mormon Fort-and convinced Julie to come to the Lucky 38 that night for a meeting...a meeting over dinner, in which he said the fate of New Vegas and Freeside would be discussed. Not one big on politics, but definitely one to better the lives of Freeside, she'd already said yes for her and the King. Apparently, she'd jumped the gun-a move very un-Julie-like.

"They're cool, we're cool, but I'm NOT about to just dive right in with the city politics, this is how shit's been ever since I took over and I ain't goin' to go around mussin' that up! What do you think I am, some kind of pretty boy do-goodin' savin' Vegas abandonin' Freeside junk-collectin'..." now he was just rambling, his accent causing most of his words to be cut off before they could even be completed. He shambled around in his rage, Julie rolling her eyes and crossing her arms in frustration. Finally she cut him off before he could break something else.

"YOU do what you want, King of Freeside. I'M going to dinner with Arcade and the others."

"So yer against me now too then?"

She unhinged her arms and stomped her foot, a great amount of display of anger for her. "No! None of us are against you!"

"What's so wrong with Freeside?"

Nobody could give a withering look like a doctor. He continued. "Okay, so there's a LOT wrong with Freeside. But shit, you weren't here before, back when I was growin' up here, and besides, things've already started to get better thanks to Andy an' her pals. It's too much treadin' on toes callin' a meetin' like this! My toes!"

"Well, your Royal Highness, you may or may not have noticed, but things are always in a constant state of change. You either keep up, or you get dragged under the current. Soon your toes won't be the only thing getting ran over, especially if the NCR is willing to work with Vegas and you aren't."

"Baaaaaahhhhhhh." Why was she so smart? Why did she talk back? Pacer had agreed with everything he said, Pacer would've been standing beside him defending him to this nutcase of a woman. The King flailed his arms again and stomped out of the Fort. Julie turned and stomped back to her private quarters at the Fort. Emily, her eyebrows raised over the rim of her glasses, muttered, "Well, that went well," from her spot at Arcade's old desk.

If someone had told the Courier upon first meeting Boone, "Goddammit...don't sneak up on me like that..." that he actually had a strong sense of empathy and in the right circumstances could be very comforting, she would've laughed until her sides hurt. Now she was crying until her sides hurt-crying about her father, crying about House's dream, crying about the Dam and anything else she could get out of her system. And he understood, and even envied her; if only he were able to get out such emotion, he wouldn't have to dwell on it inside perhaps.

Although his own father wasn't an axe murderer either, Boone had none of the godly-father-love Arcade had for his dad, so it was easier for him to speak to the girl about why what she'd done was right. Mostly though, he sat on the bed and held her tightly. After she'd blubbered out more about her father and monster and something about Mr. House having his heart broken, she was silent, and Boone pulled back to look at her.

"I'm sorry," she immediately said.

"For what?"

"Carrying on."

"You've barely had time to think since we've got back...much less grieve."

"Grieve." She nodded slowly as though she'd never heard the word. "Is that what I'm doing?"

"Seems normal to me." He shrugged.

"I just don't want you to think-I mean, I'm happier now than I ever have been, it just..."

"It's okay." He didn't say much, but he meant what he said-this she knew. She smiled slightly at the words, words which most would find empty or lacking, but words which she found fulfilling and sincere. At her smile, he smiled back ever so slightly. Wanting to change the subject, she exhaled, "How's the power?"

"Slow. House re-routed all the electricty to basically overload his little refrigerator up there, so I have to manually re-connect the shit to go to the casino. It'll take me another hour or so. Arcade said something about dinner?"

She nodded, chewing her lip. Boone read the subconscious gesture and interpreted, "Do you need me to do anything?"

"Actually...if you don't mind. I don't really feel like it, and I know you're on good terms with them...would you be up for taking the monorail down to McCarran and seeing what the story is with Hsu and First Recon at the Dam? Normally I wouldn't ask but..."

"It's fine."

"I know you're on good terms with them."

"Yeah."

"I just don't know what Moore's hiding...but I know if we can get anyone in the NCR to support us, it'll be Hsu and First Recon. You can feel free to invite them to dinner too...I don't know if they'll actually want to come, but it would be nice anyway."

"So the Lucky 38 really is opening back up...in a way."

"In a way."

Boone continued to give her the sniper stare-a shrewd, calculating look that he couldn't mask with kindness, even if he tried. "Are you sure that this Fort thing is all that's wrong?"

"I feel sick, but that's probably a combination of running all over the Mojave, burning down the Fort, and then running all the way back. I guess getting hit in the chest with a Power Fist didn't help anything."

"You should have Arcade check you out."

"I'm fine."

"I don't care, do it anyway." He was stern, protective, and this made her smirk again, although he didn't return the gesture this time. "I'm serious. You've been through a lot. And we've got a long way to go. I'll finish up the power, then head over to the airport. I'll take Victor." Traveling alone was not a luxury they felt they could afford, especially with Caesar dead and Vulpes on the loose. Although something told her Vulpes was nowhere near the desert...

When she nodded, bundling up under the blankets, he moved to leave, then paused as though he'd forgotten something. As the Courier settled back down into her dark tomb of a bed, Boone stood over her and amazingly, tucked the blankets in around her. Then he stooped farther and gave her a kiss on the lips before exiting. As she hugged a pillow, tired, achey, with a ringing headache and heartache enough to fill the Grand Canyon the Courier readied herself to plunge headfirst back into her delirious thoughts and dreams and who knew what else, she spared one more smile for the ex-NCR.

Astonishingly, Arcade was at the train station when Boone showed up, but he wasn't riding to McCarran. He was actually going in to speak with Mr. New Vegas, the infamous radio jockey, political Hoover Dam bullshit that Boone didn't care about. As Arcade nodded his see-you-laters to Boone, the other man suddenly stopped him in the dark rail station.

"Do you...is he waiting on you?"

Arcade glanced at the glass door, then back to Boone curiously. "No...not at all...when I requested via transmission earlier he told me anytime." Now Arcade glanced at the wall clock, one of the few still working in the city, which proclaimed another train wouldn't arrive for half an hour. "Why, what's up?"

"I was wondering..."

Arcade was far less intuitive than Boone, but his intelligence thankfully made up for that. "Ah. You wanted to know more about Carla. Now's as good a time as any, really." The station was abandoned. At night it would fill with drunken NCR patrons, who were either going to spend their hard-earned caps, or had already spent them in the city, but midday the place was still as the grave. Arcade took to a nearby station bench, and Boone followed him, dragging his feet.

Arcade didn't need prompting, and he knew that Boone was bad with words. So he pushed up his glasses and started, "Ok, where to begin? Navarro was lost by the time Carla came around. From what I remember, and you have to know I was really young and she was way, way younger than me...her parents were both officers for the Enclave. I know they came to my dad's funeral, but that's about all I remember of them, and that was before she was born. See, after the NCR er...kicked us out of Navarro, we tried to stay and integrate with the rest of the citizens. But the Brotherhood and NCR were united if you can believe it-if only to usurp us. They hunted down anyone who even whispered Enclave.

So it was when Carla was maybe three or four that her parents died." Arcade was not a sensitive man, was in fact a bit on the insensitive side, but the look in Boone's eyes told him to steer carefully. "From what I understand...she saw. Was hiding under the bed. I don't know that they wouldn't have captured her, but once we-we being my mother, I, the other Remnants, heard the news, we all ran over in the middle of the night...since no word had been given about a little girl. And sure enough, she was there." He didn't mention the look of horror plastered on the tiny child's face or the fact that she was sitting and shaking in her own filth, and had bitten her nails until they were bleeding.

"I think to be honest, Carla was what made everyone finally say, it's time to go. We didn't want to risk anything like that happening again. It hit everyone really hard...except me, like I say, I was a stupid kid, didn't want to leave my home or place my dad...yeah, well anyway, I fought tooth and nail, and so did she. There were others in our age group, we all ganged up on the adults. But my mom, Daisy...they all stuck to their guns and I'm thankful for it now. We probably wouldn't have managed to get out so lucky.

Anyway, back to Carla. When we moved, like I say, she was the baby. She got pampered, doted on, she was pitied and primped and fussed over like nothing you'd ever seen. I have to admit I was jealous...but there you go, stupid kids. My mom ground it into my head that I had to protect everyone smaller than me, but I did it because that's what my dad would've done. So I looked out for her. She was really quiet, really sullen while we traveled, and I don't blame her. She was smothered, and scared. When she got to Vegas I guess...I guess it just appealed to her. She's the one single person I can think of who, when I think "What the hell do people see with LIVING in Vegas?" I go, "Okay yeah I get it." Vegas makes you forget, you can be so busy out making friends and having fun and living large, bright lights, lots of people, and nobody ever has to know your secrets."

Here Arcade paused, letting the story sink in, and he glanced past Boone into the empty train tunnel. When he spoke again his voice was more subdued, his pace far slower than his usual rapid tone. "Life is hard when you're hunted. Whether it's justified or not. It wasn't with us-we were just kids-but that didn't make it any easier, knowing you're in the right. It doesn't surprise me that Carla never told you about her past, or made up her past. I would've been far more surprised if you did know. I'm sure she wanted to tell you, just like I've wanted to tell so many people. But everyone has those closet skeletons, you know? It says a lot about her that she married someone NCR despite all the trauma. Definitely says a lot."

Boone's reply could've been forecast by just about anyone, "Yeah."

Arcade suddenly felt extremely awkward, only because Boone looked so lost sitting there beside him on the bench. Thankfully, the creak of a train was not far off, and as it sounded, the doctor stood. "Anything else?"

"No."

"See you tonight then?"

"Yeah."

Giving up on being friendly, Arcade hurriedly crossed the crosswalk and headed toward the DJ station, leaving Boone to ponder as he'd never pondered Carla before, while waiting for the train to approach.

The Courier lay in bed, eyes swollen from too much crying. She really was turning into Mr. House, she though ironically, turning on her side and looking at the thick curtains. It had to be at least 2pm already and she hadn't budged except to make excessive trips to the bathroom. She was sick, dammit all to hell, and she'd sent her family physician on his merry little way to recruit Vegas chairmen, so to speak. Chairmen. She thought of Benny.

Now she rolled over on her other side, toward the dark door Boone had exited hours earlier, and a shadowy figure stood in the doorway. The Courier paused, unsure if she should grab her father's axe, which she'd stowed under the bed, or if she was actually seeing what she thought she was seeing. After all, she'd gone nearly a day without food or water. The only thing she'd done is cry until she threw up in the toilet-multiple times-and lay in bed. She could very well be hallucinating. But no, she wasn't...the dark figure stirred, and in the dim light, she could see it move forward.

It was Benny.

The girl bolted upright, her jaw dropped, but Benny did nothing other than close the door and approach her as though he routinely dropped in the bedroom for a visit. He dusted his jacket; it was covered in dirt she saw, as well as blood-and then shook the desert sand from his hair. As though he were still displeased at his appearance, he tsked, and then looked up, meeting her eyes. She was still laying in bed, but had grabbed the axe.

"That's the welcome I get? Tell ya, life ain't easy, but come on..."

"Just what in hell's name-"

"I'm back!" He threw his arms out. "Back from the dead. Just like you. How's it feel bein' on the other side, babydoll? Well I guess you didn't off me, but I mean...same old song and dance, ain't it? C'mere, I need a - hellooooo, mama!"

She wore only Boone's shirt and underwear-now she bolted out of bed and brandished the machete. "Get away, whatever you are!"

Benny shook his head. He looked none the worse for wear-a little pale, definitely dusty, perhaps, but he wasn't purple, nor was he rotting. How could he have survived? It didn't make sense...she held him while he died, she saw that there was no life left in him. Had she been as reckless as he? Who patched him up, what Doc Mitchell and Victor combination had found him out there in the middle of nowhere?

"You been' with the red hat, huh," he said, looking crestfallen. "You just forget ol' Benny once he's outta the picture?"

"What!? No, of course not! You're not...you can't be..."

"Will you just let me-"

As Benny attempted to embrace her, and as she meekly tried to brandish the axe, the door burst open again, and the Fire Man entered, kicking in the door and pushing Benny aside, rushing to his daughter. His eyes burned white. "You need to learn how to use this thing," he lamented, jerking the heavy axe away and as she screamed, he swung it with the force only Joshua Graham could muster, landing it in the same spot Vulpes's ripper tore Benny open.

"NoooooooooooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Her own screeching wails woke her up, and the girl screamed to the empty, dark room for several more seconds, just for good measure. She was sitting up, sweating heavily, her blankets a mess from the kicking fit she'd had while sleeping. It had been a dream-not one bestowed upon her by House, but one out of her own delirious imagination, just a dream. She turned to the doorway just in case...it stood empty.

The lack of a checkered jacket in the doorway made her feel more lonely than she'd felt in her entire life. The Courier decided she was one step too close to the raving lunacy that had become House, and she made her way downstairs, to her own bedroom. She showered, poked at Sugar Bombs and decided they were disgusting, ate a pear, and then moped pointlessly around, finally ending up going through her things.

The first picture she'd had of her and Liam was burned mercilessly by the Legion. Liam's mother had given her another photo though; an exact replica of the wallet photograph, one untainted, no sun fading on it. The girl held the photograph up to her nose and looked with longing at the little boy. For months, ever since Benny shot her in the head, he'd been restless, loud in her dreams. Now he would be silent. The deed was done. She vividly recalled the last conversation they'd had.

"You come from him. You got to see all of him at his worst, but you are him at his best."

"Why are you telling me all of this?"

"So that you won't be sad later."

Although she thought she was fresh out of tears, she was not, and new water edged out of her eyes, but this time she cried silently, all while staring at little Liam. Liam, lost on a mountaintop, his father and mother equally lost as they mourned their one spot of sunshine. The very name Liam meant 'willpower' and it seemed he urged the girl to have her own, that he agreed with Boone and Arcade and everyone else who would hear of the story in years to come. She had done the right thing.

The Courier hugged the photograph one more time before tucking it away, and then began the hunt for her pink hoodie. With Arcade, Boone, Rex, ED-E-even Victor out of the suite, she felt lonelier than ever, possibly because the thought that Benny was watching her was fresh in her mind.

She probably just needed fresh air.

The trip to McCarran was a miserable one. Boone thought of Carla, of her subdued nature and her reclusive habits, her chagrin at moving to Novac with Manny, her detest at the thought of Boone re-enlisting after his term was up. How she begged him not to, how she refused to speak to Daisy Whitman. He felt blindsided, he felt stupid. How had he not known? Couldn't she have told him? They were going to have a baby together, fuck's sake. If he had known, he would have...what would he have done? What he sensed were Carla's last words to him was her snapping at him for blowing up at Arcade. Hating the Enclave had been bred into him by the NCR. He was ashamed of himself, ashamed of the whole damn sorry situation, but there was nothing he could do.

So though he moped into the airport, his spirits heightened at the familiar sight of so many red berets. They heightened further when the recruits, fresh out of California, mistook him for one of the Battalion's enlisted, saluting him and admiring him the way they had back when he worked for the NCR. Further still was his mood heightened when he paused to shoot the shit with the small group of milling snipers, who filled him in with the latest news-decrease in Fiends, increase in just about every other detestable thing encircling the airport like hungry vultures, bullshit orders from Moore which they all shrugged off, Hsu's growing impatience with Oliver's "sit and wait" policy. He actually found himself talking and acting like the soldier he'd been before Novac, before Bitter Springs, inviting the group to the casino just as if he owned the place.

After his walk down memory lane, his spirits heightened, he went to Hsu with all the respect he'd never had for Moore, told him of the Courier's intentions, and unbelievably got the man to agree to meet him in Vegas that night. Hsu looked stressed, tired-apparently Kimball had the bright idea to fly over from California and oversee shit at the Dam, give a 'nut up or shut up' talk, and he was demanding that First Recon supervise the event, so that he wouldn't get his own head blown off. Boone found this almost humorous, but Hsu found it exasperating. He seemed relieved that the sniper had insinuated they work with the Courier.

"Whatever plan that girl has is going to see NCR pull through this better than anything anybody else has," he declared when Boone proposed the meeting. After saluting him, the sniper walked out of the terminal, out into the sunlight-suddenly he didn't want to take the rail back. It was only about an hour's walk, after all, and the sun was bright, the wind favorable. He wanted time to think, alone time (as alone as one could get with Victor and Rex by one's side) and so it was with high spirits he set off, walking toward home. Back to the Courier and the now-lit casino of the Lucky 38, where he could find what little stability he had in this life.

As he walked, the young man thought about First Recon. Many at McCarran had asked why he hadn't re-enlisted, and his answer remained the same-he was by the Courier's side. He didn't know if he could bear to think of another incident like Bitter Springs, but he also knew that he'd never let a situation like that happen to him again. No more following orders like a Brahmin. Boone discarded that long ago by holding a gun to Moore's head when she threatened his friend. But there was a lot about the NCR he missed...he missed the comradery, he missed protecting and helping. He missed Manny. He was part of a team then, and though bullshit politics got in the way sometimes, he always had that team.

Now he was so enraptured with his own fond recollections of his time in the First Recon Battalion that Boone didn't even notice the hasty geckos as they tore across the open waste toward him. "Pardner?" Victor inquired just as Rex barked madly, and the sniper paused, then raised his weapon. Not wanting the Securitron to cross fire, he announced briskly, "I've got it," and without glancing into the scope, fired three shots, all of which hit their marks. Several other beasts tore forward, and it was then that Boone realized-

"They're chasing somebody," he muttered in disbelief-who the hell would be out here in Fiend territory? Given, the Courier had seen to it that Nephi and the other, Boone forgot her name, were well taken care of, but that didn't mean this was a clear patch of land. He wouldn't have walked back without both the robot and the dog. But whatever the geckos were chasing wasn't a Fiend. It wasn't even as tall as the geckos. Boone barely had time to raise his scope and peer through it before Rex barked again, unable to contain himself, and tore off across the blown-apart cement. Boone followed suit, looking through his sights again.

Was he seeing this right? He couldn't have been, and so he moved the crosshair over the remaining beasts, taking them out one by one. But he still jetted forward, and by the time Rex had bounded on a gecko, snapping its neck with his metal jaw, the running figure had now reached Boone, and it didn't hesitate to tackle him. It only hit him waist high at maximum, but this imp was a skilled climber, for it shimmied up his torso and latched on. He held the rifle out from both shock and for safety, then peeled the thing off him, setting it on the ground.

She held her arms out stubbornly as though she intended to be picked right back up.

"You saved me. I knew you'd save me. But I have to go with you now, we have to hurry!"

Boone shouldered the rifle and then bent down, feeling dazed.

"Who-"

She took the opportunity of him bending down to move forward with her embrace, but this time she didn't collapse onto him in a desperate hug. This time, she moved one grimy hand very gently over his face, pulling off his sunglasses and discarding them without the blink of an eye-and Boone was transfixed as she played her small grubby fingers over his eyebrow, cheekbone, and temple, just the way the Courier had months before. Now she ended the exploration by poking his nose playfully, but a doe-eyed look still remained on her face.

"Do you remember?"

Boone had no idea what to say to that at all.

She thrust her arm forward; in her hand was an equally dusty T-Rex figure. It was so close to Boone's face that his eyes crossed when he looked at it. She pulled away.

"In the dinosaur, just like this one, a man in the dinosaur with a gun, and now I found him," she said, and her little voice sounded to him as though it came from another planet-Saturn, he decided (only knowing about Saturn thanks to the Courier and the REPCONN facility) because it was full of a strange echo. She was enigmatic, and he could tell she was quite special.

He still had no idea what to say. Apparently she didn't care because she stared at him and then continued, "I want to go now. I'm tired and I need water, please."

He handed her his canteen without thinking twice. Boone gave her the same shrewd once-over he'd given the Courier this morning. The girl had long, dark hair and big almost otherworldly eyes, so serene and out of touch, bloodshot as though she constantly cried. Her little face was covered in grime, and so was the raggedy dress she wore. She was barefoot, and new and old scars littered her dusty legs. A bow held back her dry, desert-blown strands of hair but was doing a poor job as it was almost coming untied.

"Where are we going?" he asked dumbly in response to her statement.

She'd gulped from the canteen with both hands and now brought the water container down and gave Boone a look as if he were a mutant.

"Home."

"She's been exposed to more than we can even fathom," Julie said in a quiet voice. "She has high levels of radiation, which I can fix, it doesn't look like she's had any decent water in possibly a few years. She's malnourished, on the edge of scurvy actually...and she's gotten a lot of second-hand exposure to chems. I'm amazed she wasn't too dehydrated to talk to you when you found her, Boone."

"She found me," he corrected pointlessly, still in a haze. Julie crossed her arms, not impressed.

"Either way, thank you for bringing her to us. We'll take good care of her." She sighed. "That asshole St. James is already dead, or I'd go...I don't know what I'd do, but it wouldn't be pretty. I don't know how to even go about finding her family, if she even has anyone left. She can't produce a last name, and Dolly...I don't think that's her real name. It seems like a nickname the Fiends gave her." Julie's brow had an unusual darkness about it as she said, "Trust me...it's something they'd do."

"So she's just going to stay here with all the drunks and gamblers?" Boone usually didn't speak so much, but even Julie's withering gaze didn't do the trick. Besides, nobody's looks worked with Boone. He knew every look in the book, had perfected most of them. And unlike the King, he was not captivated by her crystally blue eyes.

"Do you have a better idea in mind?"

He hesitated; the girl had seemed quite happy to enter Freeside with Boone, even allowed Julie to take her alone into the tent for a thorough examination, and now several of the refugees the Courier had brought back, who were staying at the Fort, assisted in finding the child some decent clothes and giving her an impromptu bath. She would be well guarded here, not only that but surrounded by the benevolent Followers. She would have all the medical attention she needed-she would at the casino too, we have Arcade, his thoughts interrupted madly...here she had everything she would need, but still...

Stop being selfish, some part of his brain urged. And that was all it was, selfishness, for Boone felt an empty part of him fill up slightly while holding the small hand all the way back to Freeside. And he never would have found her, or saved her, had he not taken the road instead of the monorail. Was he already being possessive? He tried to sate the thoughts. It had been a long morning.

"I guess you're right."

Julie nodded, seeming satisfied, and Boone unceremoniously turned without a word of thanks, to leave the Fort. As he passed the welcome desk, he suddenly heard a plethora of very vulgar screams, followed by a cry. Boone along with the two workers at the desk turned to see the child burst out of the farthest tent. Her hair was still wet, but otherwise she'd been scrubbed clean and bandaged up, the only smudges on her face being the deep circles under her eyes.

"I won't I WON'T!" she screeched, in a voice so commanding it gave the Courier a run for her money, and she tore across the patch of desert past Julie. Boone stood dumbly in place as the girl cried, a Follower's doctor scooping her up to return her unceremoniously to the tent. "Dinosaur man!" She was slung over the woman's shoulder, one hand holding out her now cleaned T-Rex, the other reaching pleadingly. Julie's eyes were wide. However, trying to help, one of the Followers at the desk supplied, "She'll be okay. Just go ahead and go...we'll settle her down."

Julie seemed to agree as she moved forward; Dolly had bitten the Followers doctor and attempted to flounder out of her grasp, her arms and legs flying out in a fury of mini punches and kicks. Boone was still staring dumbly as the mohawked doctor said in a distressed tone, "It's the chems. They'll take some time to get out of her system. The sooner you leave us to work, the better-"

Boone was already rapidly walking across the dust, and he sidestepped Julie with his eyes trained only on the girl. She was now clambering over the shoulder of the doctor, and for one moment he thought she'd fall; now she leapt the five feet between them and he closed the gap, catching her in his arms and feeling her small frame once again glue itself to him momentarily. But then she pulled away, and her momentary smile at seeing him approach was gone-just like the only other lady he cared about today, the child had puffy eyes and a wretched expression.

"Don't leave me here," she said in a clipped, high-pitched voice, and Boone found himself replying, "I won't."

"Don't leave me, Dinosaur Man."

"I won't."

"Are you taking me home?"

"I am."

Now her face lifted and she flopped against him, no more an enraged monster-funny word that, so seemingly cruel, but he thought it only with the best intentions-now she was just a tired, exhausted little girl. Julie did give a little smile at seeing the usually stiff and grumpy Boone softened by the small form in his arms, but she said nothing as he exited with a tentative, "See you tonight," to the mohawked woman.

How was he ever going to explain to the Courier that he'd brought home not a stray dog, but a stray child?

The girl was hesitant, withdrawn almost, but she seemed secure enough with Boone around to poke at the slot machines, crawl under the card tables. As soon as they were finished exploring the first level, him patiently following her around and staying close, marveling at the strange little girl, the elevator doors whooshed open and the Courier emerged. Initially, at the sound of the metal creaking, Dolly had taken refuge behind Boone's legs, but now she peeked out and saw the blond woman.

She wore a black dress, and Boone recognized it as the dress she'd worn to go to the Tops what seemed like a million years ago. At first he wanted to ask what the occasion was, but then he realized they were after all having a dinner party-a dinner party, as though they were a family...-and then he was too captivated by how radiant she looked to say much of anything. The Courier herself gave out a gasp as she took in the now brightly-lit casino-Boone had forgotten that the overhead lights were new to her, and she turned in a full circle, happy and shocked look on her face, before finally seeing him.

Dolly spoke first.

"She's so pretty! Isn't she, Dinosaur Man. She's beautiful."

The Courier looked over sharply, bewildered at the sound.

"Yes...she's beautiful."

The blond approached tentatively, and at Dolly's hesitation she said in a kind voice, "You don't have to be afraid of me, sweetie. I promise. And is that a dinosaur in your hand? I love dinosaurs."

He'd forgotten she used to teach; her way was flawless, and Dolly drew out from behind Boone, clasping his hand for good measure. "You...like dinosaurs?"

"I sure do! In fact, I was even in a dinosaur's mouth once. It wasn't a real dinosaur. Your friend there, Mr. Dinosaur? He used to sit up in that dinosaur's mouth all the time."

Her eyes lit up. "I know! I want to see that dinosaur."

"Well you know what, I bet if you hang around here long enough, we'll go back and visit one of my friends who lives in the town where the dinosaur is."

"And you'll come too?" Dolly asked Boone, tugging at his arm. "Won't you?"

"Yeah." He suddenly realized that he wanted to show Dolly Novac, that he wanted to hoist her on his shoulders inside the mouth and show her every inch of the Wastes as he'd seen it for years on end. The thought made him smile, but the Courier was already busying herself with giggling with the small child-"His name's Dinky, isn't that the most ridiculous name you've ever heard?" and they both laughed.

"Can I go to the table with the chair?" Dolly asked, pointing toward the snack bar, and the Courier motioned.

"You can go wherever you want, sweetie."

Confident with the pair of them, the little girl bolted again, eyeing the bright red chair, and now Andy the Courier gave Boone a look.

"Mind explaining?"

"You really do look beautiful. You're glowing."

"Uh-huh. And mind explaining?"

"She was being chased by geckos."

"And?"

"And..." he suddenly realized how passive he was, how passive he'd always been, and as she crossed her arms in a mock-angry manner, still giving him the look, Boone finally found a subject he was willing to put his foot down for. "And she's going to stay with us. Or with me, at least. She doesn't have anyone else."

"I want details on this, but not before I send you to make dinner."

He almost gaped, then caught himself. "You're serious? You don't mind?" He was expecting a fight, like a child who brings home a stray puppy to mother.

"Why would I mind? I love kids. I was an orphan, more or less...what am I going to do, turn a child out into the wilderness?" She "tch"ed him, and he scowled. "She can stay, of course, until they find-"

"I don't think they'll find anyone." Boone hadn't been looking forward to this part. "St. James."

Now her eyes opened wide and a look of near-Joshua-Graham-hatred rolled over her beautiful, glowing features, causing her to look indeed like a monster. "That son of a bitch. I'm going to go dig him up so I can kill him again."

She'd hacked him with a machete after reading the slave ledger.

"Julie at the Fort will probably help," Boone dismissed, then pressed on, "I don't think this is one of those...temporary situations."

She stared. "You mean it? You really think..."

They both turned to stare at the little girl who was now diving Mr. Dino under the table. She made a gnashing noise, then looked with delight when a peg fell out of the chair.

"Are you sure about this, Boone? This is a huge commitment you're making here."

"I've already made up my mind." It was so strange to hear those words coming from his own mouth. It felt good. He suddenly wanted to kiss the Courier. He realized with some surprise, that he was excited. Giddy, even.

"Well...in that case..." she paused. "I've got your back."

"I don't mean to obligate-"

"Too late. My casino, my rules. Remember all that time ago? We could have everything. We, not you or me." She looked relieved, and smiled a still-shaky smile. "You go feed her, she's thin as a stick, and I'll go hunt down Arcade and find out how many mouths we're stuffing tonight."

At the door she paused and turned on the step, glancing after him. "Should I just get a catered order from the Gourmand?" She could barely get the words out without laughing.

"Kiss my ass of the finest meat," he replied as he opened the refrigerator in the snack bar, searching for food for Dolly.

Boone had done more than brighten the old casino floor, he'd downright reawakened the entire place, given it a breath of life such as it hadn't seen in 200 years. Arcade showed back up right on time, helping the Courier slide booths and tables out of the way, making a large dining area as well as opening up one of the lounge areas. While they tossed around chairs and booths and tablecloths, Dolly remained glued to Boone, wary of yet another new face-the doctor. Boone was a capable cook, and he felt strangely serene in the kitchen with the little fairy of a girl sitting on the counter, watching his every move, questioning everything he did. He found he had patience for her that he would never have for any adult, something that pleased him. While she was mostly thirsty, drinking glass after glass of water from the sink, he also made sure the plate beside her was full of vegetables, which she gnawed on thoughtfully as her watery eyes followed him.

He intended to look presentable for dinner; while the stew boiled and the roast cooked, he told Dolly that he would be going upstairs to change. Her response unveiled how little time she'd spent around normal humans... "Change what?"

"My clothes. We're going to eat a nice dinner, and..." he motioned to his dirty white t shirt.

"So then I have to change clothes too."

He glanced at her outfit; baggy shirt doubling as a dress from the Followers, clean but nothing fancy. And she was still barefoot. Before he could respond, she asked, "Since I'm a girl do I get a pretty black dress too, or do I get the other clothes, the one the man is wearing?"

"Good question." Boone exited the kitchen, the child not being left behind of course darting down off her perch and following him, carrot in her mouth and dinosaur in her hand.

"Andy."

The Courier was massaging her back and griping at Arcade about something-her backache, possibly-but turned obligingly. "Do we have any clothes for Dolly?"

"I'm sure there are some in one of the hotel rooms, but let me check for sure. In fact-" now she looked past him at the lurking shadow child- "Honey, do you want to go upstairs with me and get dressed? I'll fix your hair up and put shoes on you."

"And a dress."

"Of course a dress."

As Boone watched them go, he couldn't help but feel that strange swell of happiness again. The child reluctantly took the woman's hand, enchanted by her charisma and beauty but still wary of leaving the sights of Boone. Andy winked over her shoulder, and Arcade piped up, "Oh honey, isn't that sweet, now how about Daddy Boone coming over and helping Arcade with this huge fucking table?"

Arcade was in awe at the table. The feast was served, so to speak, and everyone was enjoying each others' company-business after pleasure, this was Vegas after all-and he couldn't help but gaze around the table in awe of the people who showed up, the people the Courier opened her doors to, the people with an interest in the future. Crocker, of course, and Nolan-but also Hardin, a man Arcade had only met briefly, Cachino, Julie and Emily from the Mormon Fort, the dark-skinned, bright-eyed Jacob from the Tops, Usanagi from North Vegas, and perhaps most impressive of all, Hsu and several First Recon members who'd had no duty tonight-they took the monorail up at once. Betsy was there. Arcade was seated to the Courier's right-she at the head of the table, and Boone across from him, to her left. The man looked sharp enough in the black shirt, but the little girl sitting on a stack of books beside him looked positively magical. Her long black hair was tied back, away from her face, a large floppy black bow holding the hair. And her dress was a darker hue of periwinkle, complete with sash and pearl necklace and buckle shoes. Boone spent most of the meal instructing her on how to use her knife and fork.

And of course at the head of it all was the Courier, her own string of pearls around her neck, her golden hair down and wavy, her black dress highlighting her slender neck and arms and ample chest. She was surprisingly not as talkative as normal-then again, maybe not so surprisingly, because look at the whirlwind of change around them. Anyone was apt to feel overwhelmed and she had the right.

Still, as everyone got to know each other, Hsu and Emily openly flirting and laughing, Arcade couldn't help but feel positive, certain about the future. He wanted to hit the fast forward button, get through the cut-ups and Boone, smiling so uncharacteristically as he prodded the gentle hand into using the fork, and Andy, ever the delightful hostess...he wanted to sit and talk about, well, everything.

Apparently the conversation had started somewhere; that somewhere was Cachino and Jacob.

"But yeah, it don't do no good til we figure out where we're gonna be when that day hits."

Jacob agreed, "Yeah, and I don't even know where the NCR'll be."

Hsu chimed in, looking away from Emily, "What I'm thinking is we'll probably disobey orders...feign radio malfunction, and just go in straight lines. It's obnoxious, because Kimball is going to be flying in and he keeps bugging me to send snipers, send snipers, to cover for him. Taking up the best soldiers for his own personal use, waste of time."

"What we could do," the Courier piped up, that gleam in her eye evident-the same crazy gleam Graham possessed- "Is use that to our advantage. We're at the Dam, oops, time to storm Legate's camp?"

The table laughed and Hsu chewed a piece of Brahmin steak thoughtfully. Cachino interrupted, "If it's okay with you all, I'd like to keep my men on the home front just in case the fight comes to Vegas."

"I think that's a fine idea."

So they'd shifted to battle talk, and that was fine-Arcade preferred the political aspects, but war is war, and if there wouldn't be a Vegas after the Dam, that certainly needed to be addressed first. Hsu, the Courier, and Crocker led the conversation, the more neutral parties like Julie keeping quiet, and Arcade was deep in thought himself, despite listening closely to the conversation. He was daydreaming of all they would transform New Vegas into. A place of plentiful resource, abundant power, ways to help people. While he became misty-eyed and struggled to hang onto each word, the door suddenly opened.

"Nother face to feed!" Victor the butler warned, rolling haphazardly down the entryway ramp. "Figured, boss, it'd only be right. Our fella here, after all."

Through the doorway, squinting in the sudden bright light of the casino, stepped the King. He ambled, hands in pockets, looking curiously around the coveted landmark, and finally his eyes lit on the table. He sauntered forward meaningfully, as the Courier answered, "Thank you, Victor."

To Emily, Julie muttered, "This better not be one of his asshole schemes."

To the table, the King spoke up. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it earlier, folks." Several rose, including Boone and the Courier, both in respect at the newcomer and to sidle over, help him get a chair around the table. Crocker shoved one down toward Julie, who begrudgingly put it beside her. The King's eyes lit over Nolan's white hair, and then toward Andy, who smiled unwaveringly at him. He remained standing.

"Truth is, I been a fool lately." Now everyone paused, even Boone and Dolly. Her potatoes fell into her lap as her fork jittered. "I don't like change, and I don't like doin' things that don't concern me, or at least I feel don't concern me. But I guess sometimes you've just got to give into the change...and not all change is bad, not at all." He glanced toward Julie again; this time she smiled. To her, he said, "You forgive me?"

"Just like when you wrecked my tables over Rexxie being sick," she responded briskly, and scooted over. He took his seat and they smiled at each other a moment more. Everyone at the table gave their joyous hallos to the infamous King. While he was introduced to Hsu and others, shaking their hands, his other hand brushing Julie's fingertips, Arcade went back into daydream mode. Not for long, though.

Suddenly, Andy gave him a very alarmed look, snapped, "Arcade!" and then without even excusing herself, bolted from the table. The King, helping himself to a plate, paused with a Brahmin steak on a skewer, looking after her, and Boone's head rose from where he and Dolly had been playing with Mr. Dino. He stared at Arcade accusingly, and the doctor shrugged. Julie too looked concerned, and Crocker perhaps jolted them into reality with, "Better go check on her?"

"I'll be right back," he amended, and Arcade leapt up after her, realizing as he jogged across the red carpeted floor that she was headed for the bathroom. She'd already disappeared into the room down the hall, and he ran through both sets of double doors, utterly confused. When he finally knocked tentatively on the door marked "Women" she surprisingly answered by opening it, looking ragged, out of breath, and teary-eyed. One hand held her stomach.

"I'm really sick," she breathed, a delicate shade of green, and he realized she'd vomited- "I don't know...I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Okay, sit down," he said, spinning in place, seeing the doctor's bag on the shelf of the luxurious casino bathroom. She plopped onto the waiting area's sofa, still out of breath, and Arcade began the routine check; eyes, mouth. Pupils were contracting normally, she was breathing normally other than the exertion from running and puking. As he withdrew the stethoscope, Arcade moved it over her chest, and then inspiration struck.

"Hey where do you think you're doing with that thi-"

"Oh my god," he said in a voice as horrified as it was excited, "You know, I am going to get a second opinion on this, but I'm pretty sure-"

"That's exactly what it is," Julie said, removing the stethoscope. She was less enthralled than Arcade, having dealt with this many times over.

"No, no, that absolutely cannot be," Andy replied. By now she was sweating so heavily her hair was sticking to her forehead.

"Can't it?" Arcade and Julie hovered, too close, over the girl, and she stood abruptly, pushing past them.

"Nope, it can't."

"I'd say ten weeks," Usanagi-most skilled of the doctors-declared; by now the crowd at the restroom was growing, and the Courier burst into tears.

"Can't you-get it out? Isn't there a pill or a, a...something to just make it go away? I can't, this isn't-Arcade, punch me in the stomach-"

The abortion pill was actually one of the more popular items used by Gomorrah prostitutes. Arcade, however, spoke up. "Listen to me, okay, I'm not talking in terms of good old-fashioned nonsense here but just simple ration. This is a shock for all of us, but a rash decision isn't the way to go. You have to take time for these things, you just need a nice hot bath and-"

"Don't worry," Usanagi assured her, "If we need to abort the baby-"

"It's not a baby! It's not," now she shook her finger at the Asian doctor, "You know as well as I do that this thing in here is still tiny, barely big enough to exist, at ten weeks...it's a fetus. A fetus, and I want it gone."

"Andromeda," Arcade said sternly, and Julie looked over sharply at the name, "Calm down. Everything will be okay. Just listen to me..." and as he'd been trained, he combined with the other two doctors began to give her the "options" talk, one she sat numbly through while dinner continued with only slight pauses outside.

While Hsu and the First Recon group cracked up at something Cachino said, and Hardin even managed a laugh, Boone looked toward the door. With Arcade and Andy both gone, he was the default head of the household, but he felt uncomfortable with now three doctors being ushered in.

"What's going on?" he grumbled to himself, but Dolly answered anyway.

"She's really sick, and she'll get sicker in awhile."

Mid-way through the doctor counseling, the Courier pulled her hands upward, pressing them on her face, and as she sucked in air as though suddenly realizing something, she suddenly reached out and grabbed Arcade's arm. "CanIspeakwithyoualoneplease," she breathed, and pulled him out of the bathroom. Usanagi and Julie stood awkwardly there, both of them slightly flustered and excited.

"What do you think?" Julie asked.

"I don't know if she's necessarily the most stable candidate for a mother," Usanagi answered honestly, "But she does have a considerable amount of compassion and power."

"She'd be fun," Julie said with a giddy smile.

"Ten weeks ago."

"Uh-huh."

She slapped his arm. "Don't you remember!"

"Not really, no."

She put her head in her hands. "The Omertas."

"Holy shit, the Omertas raped you that night?"

"SHHHHHHHHH. No!" She glared at him. "No. Benny saved me before they could."

"Oh, well..." he sighed a sigh of relief, and her glare topped the charts at his misunderstanding.

"What?" he asked hesitantly.

"Benny saved me that night."

The Courier was a master of being calm in chaotic situations, but this one took every ounce of what little energy she had to get used to. She'd lost her appetite, that was for sure, but when the doctors sauntered with her back to the makeshift dining room on the casino floor, she insisted she was fine, just a slight case of food poisoning ("That's what I get for eating at a campfire," she'd supplied and Usanagi and Julie and Arcade all nodded in agreement) and so the group moved over to the sitting area.

"I think we can afford to send half the Securitrons to protect Vegas front and back," she nodded. "They won't be spread too thin, and the Kings can give backup in Freeside."

The King nodded at this, and then Hsu commented, "I can okay the discount for supplies from Gun Runners for the Kings and Omertas."

"Not gonna' say no to that," Cachino scratched his balding head.

Boone looked at the Courier-she had turned a delicate shade of green, but seemed to be struggling through it. Beside her on the couch, with Dolly sitting on the floor nearby using the coffee table as Mr. Dino's fort, he muttered, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she admonished in a low voice, and then, "Do you want to take her up to bed? It's getting a little late..."

He nodded thoughtfully, still looking concerned, and then mumbled back, "Are you sure?"

"Later," she pleaded, and Boone relented, standing up. The girl stood up at once, and they departed from the group. The Courier sat on the couch, writhing in misery-of all the things she wanted to do, sitting and playing party host was not one of them. Still she suffered through it, and Arcade continued to give her looks which seemed to read, "Don't worry, it'll all be okay."

The Courier had found a trunk belonging to some unlucky patron of the hotel who obviously had a child around Dolly's age; for convenience she'd lugged the whole thing up to the Presidential suite. Dolly tore into the clothes; she was amazed that yet again they'd have to change what she was wearing. She looked with amazement at the white cotton night dress Boone fished out of the clothes trunk.

"Why isn't there just one thing to wear everywhere? Why do you people change so many times?" She snatched the dress and pattered into the adjacent bathroom, and Boone crossed his arms as the periwinkle gown soared out of the open doorway.

"Well that wouldn't be the most comfortable thing to sleep in, would it?" he asked.

"No," she agreed, and then, "The Fiends changed my clothes if they wanted to dress me up, but if they got bored of me then I wore the same thing all the time."

He wished the Courier would've let him get a few more shots in on St. James, and Motor Runner as well.

She reappeared, the nightgown over her head, and covering her face. She bumped into the the doorframe, and Boone immediately stooped over to pull the fabric down. Her dark head of hair poked through the neck hole, and she grinned in a most secret way, causing him to smile as well. She clambered past him onto the big bed, and Boone somehow knew better than to say, "Lights out soldier" and leave the room, though he didn't know how he knew that. Instead he sat on the bed by her as she pulled the heavy blankets aside, making a nest out of the fabric and curling up on one of the pillows.

"I've never slept in a bed before, a real bed," she said, then frowned. "Not that I can remember."

He handed her the dinosaur toy and she clutched it. "Well, you'll be sleeping in a bed from now on," he promised her.

"Did you ever sleep in the dinosaur?"

"No," he said truthfully, swinging both legs up on the bed and reclining against the wooden headboard. Her big blue eyes were on him, enraptured, as he continued, "I was always working when I was up there."

"It was a work dinosaur? You were working on his teeth? Like a dentist?"

He had to smile. "No. I wasn't working on the dinosaur. I was working while standing inside his mouth. He was tall, so I could see things all over the desert when I stood up there. That was my work, looking for things in the desert."

She liked this, he could tell by the gleeful smile that crept onto her normally very sad-looking face. The girl then asked, tugging on his arm, "The lady in the dress. She's like me."

"She's a lot like you."

"Something bad will happen and make her very sad."

"What makes you say that?" The genuity in her voice frightened him; Boone was superstitious, not one to take omens lightly. Plus, the faint watery glow in her eyes urged him to believe she was telling the truth.

Dolly didn't say how she knew, but she did give him more insight, "The bad man in red...his fault."

'Bad man in red' really didn't specify anyone, but Boone could take a few guesses as to who it was. Dolly seemed bored or perhaps just exhausted with the output of information, for her thick-lashed eyes fluttered, and she yawned, "Can you sing?"

"Sing? No..."

"The Fiend ladies would sing sometimes, sometimes for me, sometimes for other people, and they would sing really pretty. I don't know the words."

"Andy can sing. But I'm not much of a singer."

"Can you tell me a story? Motor Runner would read sometimes. But I don't have any of the books."

The thought of Motor-Runner setting the child on his lap on his throne embellished with human skulls, reading perhaps the Cat in the Hat, was for some reason a highly disturbing image. Boone shook his head. "We can look for some books tomorrow, but there's none here."

"Then tell me a story. Tell me about something."

"What do you want to know about?"

Astonishingly, she pointed past Boone to the nightstand where a miniature orb sat, placed there by the Courier. "That."

Boone turned, grasped the smooth glass in his hand, and shook it, handing it to Dolly.

"Snow...it happens only in the high mountains. I went up there once, looking for a place called Griffith Peak. I didn't know anything about the snow, except for that it was cold..."

Before the King left, he gave the Courier a hearty hug, and surprisingly so did Julie. She whispered, "Let me know," before the couple exited, and then it was just Nolan, Arcade, and the Courier. As the Brotherhood Elder stood to offer help in cleaning up, Arcade suddenly intercepted with a nod, "Can I...?"

She nodded.

Arcade turned to the white-haired man. "Andy's pregnant."

The Elder's eyes widened and he broke out in a wide smile. "Oh, congratulation-oh dear," at seeing the look on her face. "This was not something you anticipated."

"I'm not pregnant, stop saying it like that," she scolded Arcade, "There's a fetus, and I don't want it."

The Elder looked disturbed. "You and the sniper, you-"

"It's not his," she said miserably, wondering why the earth didn't swallow her whole.

Surprisingly, Nolan didn't seem to mind this at all. "Not his perhaps, but it is still yours. Why is it such an abomination to you?"

"Because, babies are things you plan for when you're married and settled down, not things that just pop up in the middle of war. Are you kidding me, I'm a terrible choice for a mother."

"I would disagree," he said gently, threading his fingers. "But personal opinion aside...I agree, this is something you plan for, under ideal circumstances. I believe as a race our circumstances have not been ideal for almost two centuries. Think of your past. You have been denied so much happiness before...is this another knife in your side, or is this the change of pace? Everything you've survived has ensured you to be the most fair, compassionate, wonderful mother the Wasteland could hold. Not only that but you have armies at your disposal, friends, even some so close you would consider them family-" here Arcade nodded, "A secure home and income-what is preventing you from your joy?"

She stared at him without words.

Arcade stepped in again, this time his voice slow and reluctant. "I'll support you no matter what you do. But I think you should at least tell Boone."

"What! Why? Can't we just-" she made a defeated gesture, and then dropped her arms. "It'll break his heart. Have you seen how happy he looked today with Dolly? Can't we just get rid of it and then I'll tell him?"

Arcade crossed his arms. She continued to protest.

"It'll break his heart, Arcade. It really will. He's finally, finally happy and this has to happen?"

The Elder sided with his other half. "He deserves to know. I'm sure he, like we, will support you."

She stared at the two men, unable to compute for several minutes, and then finally lowered her gaze. "Fine...I'll..."

Arcade uncharacteristically gave her a hug.

She didn't even bother changing out of the dress; she'd poked her head in the large room where Boone lay, Dolly beside him, and she realized he was telling her a story. The little girl's face was silhouetted by the dim lamplight, and Boone raised his head. She pointed up, indicating that she would be waiting for him in the penthouse, and he nodded. After Dolly fell asleep, he would meet her there. Dragging her feet in the heels, the Courier went back to the elevator.

Surprisingly, as she sat on the sofa in the dress, clutching her hands worriedly, she didn't cry. She wasn't thinking of Boone, either, or what she would have to say to him, or his reaction. The First Recon beret was on her head; now she pulled it off and turned it to the emblem. "The Last Thing You Never See" glinted in the light, and behind it, something black gleamed. Beetle-dark and smooth, and now she pulled out Benny's jacket button. The girl held it in her palm, still not able to cry, but thinking about what Nolan had said.

A perfect future would be one where she and Boone lived happily ever after in their casino, raising their own children, riding around as saints of the Wasteland. She even giggled at the preposterous thought. A Benny was a joker, a trump card, the kind of card the dealer throws in to just...fuck up the whole system...House had once dotingly referred to her as his own trump card, and she'd often thought of herself and Benny as the two wilds, the two who could affect the future in unprecedented, sometimes alarming ways.

She thought she was a pretty unpredictable person; she gave just about anyone the benefit of the doubt provided they weren't shooting at her, she'd made friends in strange places all over Nevada, she had chopped off her own father's head and now carried his axe as her primary stopping force, she'd finally found a man who cared, she killed a dictator. She even, she thought ruefully, had sex with a man who shot her in the head. Yes, for all intents and purposes she was quite the unpredictable mess, and it was no wonder Boone hesitated for so long to give her any piece of his heart whatsoever.

But Benny, the other wild card, had just gone above and beyond in the unpredictable factor, and as though he'd predicted his own demise, went so far as to ensure in some way, he'd live on. She laughed at the thought-that was exactly something he'd do-and the Courier turned the large black button over and over in her hand. Yes, it was very much like Benny and she bet that if she could tell him the news, he'd be thrilled. More thrilled than she, certainly. This was not what she wanted, not at all. It entered her head that Benny selling weapons to the Legion wasn't what she wanted either. And look how that worked out.

Suddenly, she couldn't help the catapult of memories that surfaced. It was probably guilt over what she had to do to the baby-fetus-fetus, not baby-that she was thinking of Benny, but part of it was just fond recollection. Storming into the Cat's basement, confronting him, the way he snapped, "Hey yeah, fuck you!" as she'd stomped back toward her electric rail car. The way he morosely shook his head ages ago in the Goodsprings Cemetery, right before firing the gun. His assurance as he held her white-gloved hand before leading her into the ballroom to dance. "You just trust me dolly, I throw you, you land, we'll be the Cat's cat's meow," and his wink. Smoke filling both their nostrils as he passed her not only the detonator but also his gun. And then one vivid memory that stood out, one she had put in the back of her mind with all the other memories she wanted to live without.

One of the performances at the Luxe...she didn't remember which one, and it didn't matter anyway-mid-song she almost lost her voice at the sight of a familiar yet unfamiliar face in the crowd. Continuing to sing like a robot, she looked out of the decorated mask at the figure-though he was not in his usual checkered jacket, it was him all right-and he looked more polished than usual, staring at her with a captivated look. They couldn't take their eyes off each other as she continued to belt out the notes, not heeding them now, and his serene smile went to a strange one, a smile which seemed to hide sadness...it was as though, at that moment, Benny knew this was it, this was the end of things, he sensed with his keen senses that there would be no more dances, no more rendezvous, no more anything. Still he smiled, and she struggled to smile back, but her face had been hidden by the mask. That night, she'd stolen into the audience to find him, but he apparently had left as soon as she exited the stage.

Now that same sad smile was etched into her brain along with the funny feeling being in the air gave her as he'd spun her around in the pink dress. Or their first night in the Tops-oh god, she was wearing the same dress-or their first night in the Cat's Meow. Let the Ben Man have his fun, will ya. I'm harmless. To you, baby. We got us a half an hour before dinner appearances be made. I can't think of a better place to spend it. Harmless? You call this harmless, Benny? She laughed again, this time a choked laugh, and sighed just as the door to the elevator slid open and Boone descended the stairs.

She watched his light step, his unusually light step, down the path. For the first time since she'd met him, his shoulders weren't heavy, his face wasn't pinched with anger or guilt or sadness. He looked perhaps how he would've looked before Carla's death, before Bitter Springs even. It took years off his age and he for once looked 26. A year older than she. Had Carla lived, Boone would've already had a son or daughter the same age as Dolly-uncanny, really-he would've been settled down in Novac, where Manny now stood sentry alone.

She was 25, and what had she accomplished? A lot. More than anyone. She wasn't blind to this. But a family? The girl suddenly realized she had accomplished her fair share in the terms of family. She had Arcade, she had Boone-she had her extended family in Julie, the King, McNamara...she had Liam's family, far in their sleepy mountain town...she'd even gotten to see her father's face one last time, not with a murderous, drug or psychosis induced rage plastered across his features. It was a look of love, and pride, and regret which he'd given her. The man had killed Caesar to save her life.

Actually, he'd saved two lives.

Yes, she'd come quite far in respect to family. There was only forward to go.

Boone sitting on the sofa beside her jolted her back into reality, and she crushed the button in hand, holding onto it for dear life. He looked at her strangely, then said with a raised eyebrow, "What exactly is going on?"

Boone may not have read encyclopedias and he may not have known about all nine planets before she explained them to him, but he was not stupid, especially in ways of intuition. His face had a guarded look, and now she fumbled for words as she never had around him.

"I don't really know how to say this. And first I just want to say I'm sorry. All I want is for everything to be okay, for us to have everything like we said, and now we're so close but-"

"But what?" His eyes darkened, and for a moment he looked like he had when she first met him.

"Just trust me before I tell you, I'm going to take care of this and it won't make any difference, I promise." She suddenly felt as though she were going to throw up again, but she blinked back tears and continued anyway. "You just need to know..."

"Is this about Dolly?"

"No," and her voice was strangely empty, hollow, like wind through dead reeds.

Boone's brow lowered. "You and me?"

"Just me," she said, and he stiffened, bracing himself. She knew what she had to say would devastate him, but how would he react? Would he break down into tears? God she hoped not, it would be alien to her. Would he get mad, would he leave? There was really no way of telling, because he looked so guarded, and she fumbled for a moment. She realized this was one person who wouldn't want her to call the damn thing a fetus, but she couldn't bear to say baby, so she simply blurted, "I'm pregnant."

His eyes widened, as she prepared for the hurricane, she suddenly remembered what Nolan had said only half an hour earlier. It may not be his, but it is yours. Hers. Mine... she thought, and for a split second, one fleeting instant before she was consumed by Boone's stare, she thought the word mine with pride.

He still hadn't spoken, or moved, and she stared back at him with equal stoicity, waiting for the volcano to erupt, but finally he spoke in a very careful, closed voice, "Are you sure?"

"Three doctors heard two heartbeats," she said, eager to have it sink in. She couldn't stand the frozen look on his face, wanted to see rage or tears or hate or contempt or whatever it was she deserved.

None of the above happened. Boone slowly broke into the biggest, dumbest smile she'd ever seen. His own voice was choked, as though there was a lump in his throat, and now he stared at her intently, the same stare she'd fallen for, the concerned-shrewd-sniper stare, his glare without the malice. "You're really sure?"

"You're...not...mad?"

He shook his head, trying to look serious. But the head shake was painfully slow, as though he were underwater. "No..."

Realizing that while he was in shock like this, she may have had a chance to remedy the situation before it really hit him what was going on, and so she quickly threw out, "I already talked to the doctors and they're going to take care of it and said I should be fine because it's so early on and we can go fight at the Dam just like we said we would so nothing changes, so it's okay." Suddenly, those same words that had given her so much comfort and hope in the extravagant bathroom while she was surrounded by the doctors, sounded so hollow and cruel here in the penthouse with Boone staring like a fool and Benny's button in her hand. What was this motherly compassion? The hardass Courier didn't feel so hardass, but the look on Boone's face interrupted her thoughts.

"Take...care of it? What do you mean?" Now he looked crestfallen...she didn't understand.

"I..." Did he even realize... without trying to sound so condescending, she asked, "You do realize who this fet-er, you do realize whose baby this is, don't you?"

He stared at her strangely. "It's yours."

The Courier smacked a palm to her forehead in spite of herself.

"Dammit Boone, this is not the reaction you're supposed to have."

Sounding genuinely hurt, he replied in a low voice, "I've had one baby taken from me already...what do you want me to say?"

She gaped, and for once had nothing to retort.

Even more astonishingly, he still had more to say. "I thought you said today we were ready...Dolly...you're changing your mind?"

"That's different," she protested. But was it? Was it, really?

Boone had gained such a voice for himself over defending his decision to keep Dolly today, he didn't seem to want to put it to rest, not just yet. He hated himself for what he did to Carla, certainly, but the fact that a harmless, barely alive being had to be sacrificed plagued him just as much if not more. A face he hadn't seen in ages, the face of the pregnant woman in Bitter Springs, the Great Khan, floated before his eyes, and he found himself saying, "Please don't do this."

This was too much for her, and she threw her hands into her lap. "It's Benny's! That night...before we were captured..."

"I don't care," he said honestly. "Don't do this. Don't you see that this is how it's supposed to be? I used to think I had my fate pegged out, I thought I knew the plan. But the plan wasn't what I thought. I don't think it's what you thought either."

She really couldn't cry anymore, but she started to anyway. As Boone's still dumbfounded face blurred out of her vision, she saw in her mind's eye Benny's saddened smile as he watched her sing. His plan wasn't what he'd thought, and Arcade finished cleaning up together, mostly in silence, the somber predicament of the Courier washing out any thought of happiness they'd had at the dinner party. Arcade didn't really give the girl his true opinion, because he knew she didn't want to hear it, was too distressed to compute it, but he thought she deserved the child simply because he knew how great parents could be, how great mothers could be-he'd loved his own so, so dearly. She hadn't experienced any of the positive factors of parenthood, of family...her most pleasant family memories included being the sole survivor of several axe murders, and chopping her father's head off.

Speaking of, the elevator doors opened, and both men turned from the dining area sink to see her scampering toward them in her high heeled shoes. As Arcade prepared to drop the dish in his hand and comfort her, he saw Boone emerge after her, and-were his glasses fogged up with steam from the dishwasher? Was Boone...? It had been eerie enough seeing the man give his little reserved half-smiles at the child named Dolly earlier today, but now he was...

And she was...

"Arcade."

"Dear God, what."

They were grinning.

It should've been cute, he should've caught on, it should have been instantaneous, but he was creeped out by their too-wide smiles. It wasn't a sight common in the Wasteland, especially for the tall sniper, who took the half-steps at Andromeda's side and stood there, trying very hard to wipe the smile off his face. She wasn't trying to hide anything.

Nolan had spent so much time playing counselor, reading expressions, deciphering body language...

"A splendid decision," he said suddenly, and Arcade started.

Andy squeaked and hugged him; Arcade heard the clank of his armor as she near-tackled him, and Nolan looked surprised for a moment but then laughed and patted her back heartily.

"Excuse me what decision," Arcade asked, raising his voice, and now Boone crossed his arms, smiling smugly, and the doctor edged away in fear.

"Arcade!" she said, then clapped. "I'm...we're..."

He shook his head, indicating that he had no idea. She and Boone exchanged some knowing glance, and then Nolan blurted out-

"She's going to keep it!"

Arcade and Julie, together, grabbed each other's hands and jumped up and down, insanely stupid big grins plastered on their faces.

"No WAY!"

"I KNOW!"

The King sauntered into the Fort and raised a questioning eyebrow. Walking toward his girlfriend and her dancing gay friend, he hesitantly asked, "Do I wanna' know?"

"Oh, I think so!"

"Can we tell him?"

As one, still grasping each other's hands, they turned to the very confused and frightened-looking King and near-shouted-

"We're gonna' have a baby in the family, boys!"

The Courier had actually taken the rail down to the Cats, where Swank had given her full clearance-she ran right up to his office where he sat smoking a cigar and counting money. At her words, the cigar fell straight out of his mouth and he'd burned a hole in his pants, but he didn't care-the man stomped the cigar into the plush carpet and leaped toward her, arms extended, but then paused, "Oh wait, can I?"

"It's fine," she breathed, beaming, and he promptly picked her up and spun her around, planting a kiss on her cheek.

"A mini-Benny! A little boss! Just think of it, Uncle Swank! Has a ring to it, don't it?! I can't believe it, are you sure you're not-"

"-Shitting me." Manny's face was drawn into a blank. While the Courier had went on a solo visit to the Cat's, Boone had met the other sniper at McCarran, where he was stopping on a brief vacation, to see his old friends. They found out about this quite by accident, when Hsu sent a computer message to the Courier and mentioned Vargas. Boone immediately took the rail.

"Totally shitting me." His eyes were like saucer's. "No fucking way. A kid, and another kid? What the hell, how busy have you two been?"

Boone snorted and drank more beer. They were at the food court where NCR milled about on break or lunch. "No, Dolly's mine.." it felt so good to say that, "I rescued her from some geckos about a week ago. But Andy's already been to her first appointment and everything. It's official now."

"You're seriously not shitting me."

"Seriously not."

Manny's face broke into a wide smile as suddenly as Boone's had, and he punched the sniper in the chest, almost knocking him off his stool. "Fuck man, that's great! She's kickass! Now are you gonna' be Mrs. Andy and be all domestic?"

Boone snorted again, this time so loudly that the NCR on the stool next to him did fall off her seat. "I think it's perfect."

"Hey, it is man, it's what you always wanted, except now you've got the city, and the casino, shit! Unless the Legion razes it all, hey you're good!"

Boone didn't know how to mention Dolly's premonition-he wanted to tell Manny about it, certainly, but now seemed to be the most inopportune moment, and he'd rather keep the tone positive...he could see the questions behind Manny's smile, the why, the how, the wondering about how this made Boone feel in relation to Carla, her baby, everything...

"How interesting," the smooth voice issued, sounding like a slithering snake in smooth black water. The teenage courier lay on his back, feeling the boot pressing into his chest, and he struggled to stay awake. He'd been jabbed with something in the neck-was it a poisonous dart?-and his letter taken from him. He was only a few miles out of Freeside, but it was deserted territory unless you were a Fiend or had a deathwish. The man who'd attacked him and taken his letter was no Fiend.

Now the man who crushed the younger man's ribcage with his foot read the letter.

"Very interesting," said the voice again, this time raising in emotion. Excitement. "So the Savior of the Wasteland's little boyfriend has found an orphan. Isn't that cute. And I assume they love her very much, such a kind and sweet perfect little family. And judging by this letter, her aunt lives very near here, is that correct?"

The boy gasped. Everything was spinning. "I-I don't know anything," he said honestly. "I just-the letter-the Followers..."

He relented and blacked out just as the boot crushed the cartilage over his ribcage, cracking one of his ribs.

Dolly, having been exposed to unmentionable chems, was going through a detoxification process, and she was neither thrilled when Arcade approached her with various medicine, or when she lay in bed several nights later with a fever about to break. Though the doctor spent much time at her side, it was Boone she demanded stay close by, and when she finally did fall into a fitful sleep, her peace was broken mere hours later by nightmares.

Andy and Boone, who had taken up residency in the bedroom next door, bolted through the dark doorway and at once he was by the bedside, and the little girl with big sad eyes paused in her screams to sob and pull at her long dark hair. He gathered her in his arms and held her for a moment while she took deep, gulping breaths, and as Andy tentatively approached, putting a hand to the little girl's forehead, Arcade appeared in the doorway again, looking both sleepy and concerned, if that were possible.

"Just a bad dream, that's all," the Courier tried to soothe, now woken up completely. Dolly looked at her in disbelief, then turned to Boone instead.

"But it wasn't, the bad man will come take me away, the same one I told you about."

"Nobody is going to take you away," Boone said sharply, and where his harsh tone would've made others turn away, it only made Dolly more frustrated.

"But he will! You'll see he will, he did in my dream," and now she started to cry again.

As the Courier opened her mouth, Arcade interrupted, "You really shouldn't be up, you need all the rest you can get."

Boone looked pointedly over Dolly's dark head at the blond woman. "He's right."

She stared defiantly at both of them, but Arcade merely raised a brow and said, "I'm going to get a cup of warm cider for her. You go to bed. You're sleeping for two now."

"UGHHH," she said, then gave the sniffeling child a kiss on the head. "Boone will get you back to sleep, sweetie."

Dolly didn't respond, but her big eyes followed Andy as she left the room. Almost instantly she said, "The bad man used to wear red. He changed to black. He doesn't like the red anymore and he wants to take me away."

"Nobody is taking you anywhere," Boone promised again, and continued to hold her while he awaited Arcade's return. She simply stuffed her head into his chest, scared but wanting to believe what he promised.

Boone made a grumbling noise as he opened the door to his own shared bedroom; the Courier was awake and reading. When he entered she looked up, and in answer to her silent question he supplied, "She's asleep," and then "What the hell are you still doing awake?"

"Refusing to let you and Arcade smother me," she said in her charming way, and Boone took a seat on the opposite side of the bed. He paused in drawing up the blankets to glare at her.

"He's a doctor, so he knows what's best, and I'm not going to take any chances for obvious reasons."

She folded down the corner of the page, closing the book, and placed it on the nightstand. Then she lay down, turning towards him, and the cross pout she'd planned broke into a smile when she inched closer, hands wandering quite suddenly. Boone growled, then looked at her, unamused.

"Stop that."

"Make me."

"We can't..."

"Yes we can."

"I know, I mean...but the-"

"It's fine," she said, and at his still unimpressed look, "Arcade said it was okay."

"Fucking..." another growl caused by her distracting touches, "You talk to him about...that?"

"Of course."

"I'd almost say that killed my mood."

"But it hasn't!" She rolled over on top of him and in his strange, forlorn way he chuckled, the noise still sounding out of place for him.

"Not yet."

"So then..."

He pulled her closer.

The woman was blindfolded, tied, and bore a steel collar. She was sobbing, the fabric of her blindfold soaking wet.

"Why are you doing this!" she pleaded. "We didn't have anything to do with this, we don't want anything to do with this...why..."

The silken voice sounded contemplative. It was as though the speaker were looking over papers, or mulling in a library.

"I am simply teaching a lesson," it cooed. "It is after all, what I'm accustomed to. The difference is really the subject matter. The learning process changes little. You are merely a part of the learning process."

"But what are you...what am I..."

He produced a gag, not willing to listen for several more days, this incessant whining. As he pulled the fabric tight against her lips, he was gracious enough to supply her with one last answer: "The lesson isn't for you, ignorant woman. It's for someone far more important."

The Courier was still trying to catch her breath as she lay against Boone's chest, and because he was staring at the ceiling, lost in his own attempt at recovery, he didn't see the horribly mischievous smile that crept onto her face. His hands were numbly at his sides, he was mostly immobilized and had no desire to move, the room was ten degrees warmer than usual at least, and he should've felt just the right amount of perfect to drop off to sleep as was custom after such an exhausting act. But whether it was because he once again was unnerved from Dolly's words, or whether there was something in the air, the sniper was slightly uneasy.

Apparently the woman laying on top of him was not. She lay on him quite limply, and then said,

"That was..."

"Yeah."

"...by far..."

"Me too."

"...the finest..."

"Fuck off."

"...quality..."

"Count on this being one very sexually deprived pregnancy."

"..meat."

"I mean it."

"Oh, I mean it too."

The next morning when Boone went out on the balcony of the Lucky 38's cocktail lounge, he did his usual sweep of the area, something he always prefixed his workout with. Today was only the second rare thunderstorm he'd seen in Vegas, and though the sun was usually blazing across the Mojave, casting an early morning orange on everything, today it was still grey out. He didn't mind the tone, actually; it softened the harsh decay of the Wastes and made things seem quieter, if more somber. And the beating of the rain reminded him not only of his tour with the NCR, when they had a rare flood in Southern Arizona, but also of the time he'd shouted to Andy just before they took the Fort. He hadn't meant to say just those words, but Boone failed with words, and he supposed it was better that way anyway. Cut to the chase, get to the point, and all of that.

He was pausing longer than usual both to savor the warm cascades of torrential rain-the balcony was roofed here so he could comfortably look at it without getting soaked-and remember that afternoon when he'd shouted against the torrents. He never thought he'd feel enough for someone to say those words again, even though it had been years since Carla...since she'd died. His brow furrowed. Those in First Recon, all older than him, even Manny, had considered his marriage as a hasty decision from a youngster who didn't really know what he was doing. They urged him to wait, lengthen the engagement at least, and he'd been too stubborn to even consider it. He had been convinced he was meant to be a family man, a husband and a father, settle down in cozy little Novac and just...

And then Bitter Springs happened, and it was as though the joy and hope got sucked out of his world. He couldn't even be excited for his own fatherhood, he was so enraptured with self-loathing and the feeling that things were about to go more horribly wrong than he could ever imagine. As he saw Carla shoved forward in her slave rags, through the sanctity of his scope, he had realized he was right. So that mindset followed him over the next few years, the "I haven't suffered enough" mentality...and now here he was.

What a change, wasn't it? A picturesque little dusty house in a picturesque dusty town, he and his best friend working as soldiers, his wife a housewife, baby on the way. Now he was in the middle of the city, living with the woman whose father was the most notorious serial killer of the century, a woman unstable and ungodly rich, who carried a baby from the man who'd shot her in the face, a former Enclave citizen turned doctor who spoke fluent Latin and still had original Enclave Tesla armor, and of course the highlight of the past few weeks, an orphan raised by Fiends with a smile full of chagrin and prophecies of well...nothing good. Just as he smiled at the horrendous asymmetry of his past and present, the glass door opened, and the highlight of the past few weeks stepped through to the outside, just as thunder crashed.

"What are you doing out here, Dinosaur Man," she said in a disapproving voice as Boone whirled away from the railing.

"Dolly! How'd you get up here? You need to go inside, it's dangerous for you to be this high up."

But she'd already crossed the balcony, the lightning flashing in her mirror eyes, and an almost obsessed smile alighted on her normally blank features as she gripped the steel railing.

"I followed you silly," she said, putting her chin on the rails, and Boone realized she was still in her nightgown.

"You're making me nervous," he said honestly, and tried to hook his hands under her shoulders and pull her off the railing, but just like when she'd latched onto him, she was stuck to the rails, and they struggled for a moment.

"I won't fall," she promised. "Isn't this just like your work at that dinosaur?" One of her hands tightly held her own Dino toy. "That you stand up here and look for things in the desert?"

"Dolly," he said in a warning voice, kneeling and continuing to hold onto her from the side, "Will you please stop hanging onto the railing? It's wet, it's slippery."

She pouted, then frowned, then made another face, then mimiced his own fatherly glare, and finally she realized she was up against the King Glarer in the Mojave, and she slid off the rails, standing instead on the smooth concrete. He wasn't finished. "And you're barefoot. You're going to get sick."

She grunted, and it sounded so like his own grunt that Boone paused, at a loss for words.

"How do you look for things in the desert when things in the desert are so far away?"

His rifle was laying by the door, several feet away. He nodded to it, pulling her by her nightgown farther away from the edge of the balcony. "I use the scope."

"Is that like binoculars?"

"Sort of," he said proudly, glad of her impressive vocabulary. She'd said every syllable. He didn't wonder how she actually knew what they were, couldn't imagine Motor-Runner going bird-watching any more than he could imagine him reading Cat in the Hat. "It's a little harder to see things through a scope."

He stood, and opened his mouth to tell her the conversation was over until she put on shoes and at least a jacket, but she chirped, "Show me?"

"Show-"

"I wanna see through the scope," and she headed for the rifle. Boone grabbed the barrel just as she held out her hands toward the stock, and he held the gun up, looking at her in disbelief.

"Dolly! You can't just go around picking up guns...this one's always loaded. You have to be more careful."

Her shoulders slumped as though she were bored with him, but then she pointed at the gun, her attention span too small to worry about his scoldings. "Is that part the scope?"

"I...yeah, it is," and now he began to unscrew one of the clamps on the scope. "Do you really want to know how-"

"Yeah, yeah!" Now she smiled with that same intensity as when she'd first seen the landscape over the balcony, and she even held her hands up and jumped, standing on her tiptoes on the cold concrete. Boone stooped again, unfastening the scope, and he was too touched by her enthusiasm at learning something he enjoyed to chide her immediately about her lack of shoes or jacket.

When he held out the object, she snatched it, held it to her eye like a looking-glass and pressing her eye up to it, frowned, turned it the other way, did the same. He actually laughed, and said, "I told you it was harder than binoculars."

"Well I want to know, I want to see the desert the way you do."

"Okay, here." She was exactly the same height as the railings and unable to see over them without climbing, and he didn't want her to sit or lay on her stomach on the wet concrete, so he picked her up and held her with one arm while she continued to turn the scope over. He put it her hand, then held his over hers as he brought the glass near her face. She squinted, trying to close one eye, and he instructed calmly, "No, it's okay. You can keep both eyes open. What do you see?"

"Grey and a circle of black and black lines." She pulled away angrily. "It's not working!"

"Sure it is," and he took the little black object from her and put it up to his own eye, rolling the bearings and staring down the sight. Though he didn't know it, Dolly was watching him intently.

"I can see a person's farm, they're growing corn and it's ready to harvest. The corn's bright yellow already. It's going to get beaten down by the rain. And I see.." he looked left. "There's a molerat digging through garbage," and she giggled at this. "He just turned over the can. And over here, someone just turned their house light on...they must be waking up."

When he put the sight back into her hand, she was still staring at him intently from the crook of his arm where he held her, and she touched his cheek with her cold hand. "Okay, show me."

This time, when she raised it to her eye again, she mimiced his intent stare, and kept both eyes wide open.

The Courier had put on the Ranger armor again-jet black, a new breastplate replacing the one the Ballistic Fist had shattered, the only color on her outfit the red of her beret, she walked across the threshold of the Lucky 38 to meet McNamara. He smiled when he saw her.

"They're outside," he said gently, speaking of the troops. It was time to take the Brotherhood to meet the NCR at the Dam. She nodded thoughtfully, and then said with a sigh, "Okay, let's get out of here before Boone or Arcade come down and tell me I can't go, tell me to stop walking so much because it hurts the fetus."

"Are you sure you're-"

"Yep, she shoved both pistols into hip-holsters, and McNamara saw another splash of color-red, the head of an axe flung across her back. "I've got a few things to make clear to the Colonel, I'm not letting you go there alone. I already had this fight with Boone and Arcade last night. We're good. And it's still early...if we make good time we can be there tonight. Is this going to be the only group?"

"No, there are still more in the bunker, making preparations," he said in his gentle voice, and he allowed her to lead the way outside. The soldiers wouldn't mind being left in the rain; they wore power armor and were just as snug and warm as if it'd been a sunny morning instead of a rainy one. The Courier pulled on dark gloves and for good measure, black mirror sunglasses, and as she straightened the glasses she remarked, "Shame the underground electric rail doesn't run to the Dam." She shrugged into a large overcoat.

"The what?" The words "electric rail" were basically sex to Nolan's ears, and as she opened the doors to the casino, staring at the sea of metal, he cared for nothing else. "I must know about this rail."

There was a bleakness about the Dam-not only because Moore's anger had increased in the past weeks and now messengers drew straws on who would have to give her reports, because she was so unpleasant-but General Oliver sat in his little mini-Fort doing nothing as usual, and the word of the Legate's explosives, an unprecedented amount of artillery, was spreading around the Dam like wildfire. Kimball was coming, it was said, in several days. But he was not bringing more soldiers. It was, to the NCR, a lost fight.

In the high towers of the Dam and all around in nests scouts and snipers stood, both recruits and seasoned Rangers, and as the rain poured on them the loss of hope seemed to melt away like the dust coating everything around them. The Rangers in their gas masks looked as impassive and unconcerned as ever, but the less fortunate recruits kept mopping the water off their faces, cursing at the storm and at their sad predicament.

Until six-thirty in the evening, when they turned their sights to the road leading to Hoover Dam.

Over the crest of the hill came a remarkable sight, and everyone, from scout to ranger, gaped as they saw first two figures tromping through the storm-they were both in what looked like robes, fabric billowing out in the wind, hoods on their head. One was dressed in blue, the other black, and their faces were hidden both by the hoods and the gale force rain, but the sight behind them was unmistakable even in the dim light and sheets of water; perfect rows of soldiers donning the coveted Power Armor, all carrying rifles, all marching in time. There were at least one hundred of the silver-clad soldiers. The rain glinted on their steel, and behind the gas masks, all the rangers gaped, or else smiled stupidly.

The pair of NCR soldiers stationed at the entrance to the Dam moved forward, and those who couldn't see from their nests raised their scopes to witness the sight. The greeter moved hesitantly forward-was this a trick, was this the Brotherhood? As the young woman hesitantly lowered her own rifle, the blue-cloaked man lowered his hood to reveal a head of white hair that shone even brighter than the metal helmets of the soldiers behind him. Confused, the recruit turned toward the other leader, who followed suit and lowered her own hood. At the sight of a red beret and golden hair several Rangers laughed aloud or cursed happily, and at the Courier's glowing smile, the rest of the NCR began cheering.

It wasn't a myth, it hadn't been a story or a rumor. The Brotherhood of Steel was allying with the NCR against the Legion, they were here, the regal man in blue their leader, the woman in black and red their mediator. Even the torrents of rain and wind couldn't mask the calls and yells of the soldiers, and as the greeter heartily shook the hand of first the Courier and then the Elder, the stoic soldiers in the Brotherhood lifted their steel-enveloped heads, intaking the majesty of the Dam and the calls of their now-comrades.

Arcade did not look impressed; not at all. Julie warily unfolded the letter, her eyes scanning quickly over the writing. With each bit she read, her heavily-lined eyes grew wider, her mouth drawing into a very surprised O. And Arcade crossed his arms over his chest, moving his damaged hand very carefully. He was fuming under the surface. She read part of it aloud in a voice wracked with disbelief.

"...and as the legal guardians are NCR citizens this custody matter falls under the rights of NCR officials to dictate, and any illegal or otherwise punishable action will have the subject held accountable for his or her own actions."

"That's right," Arcade said dryly. The letter was sealed with the stamp of the NCR, the double-headed bear gleaming in its gold-flaked paint. "Apparently that area outside of Vegas is close enough to one of their little camps that it's considered by anyone who gives a damn, NCR territory."

"And that would make Dolly's aunt and uncle-"

"NCR citizens."

"They really took this custody matter up with the NCR officials and haven't even bothered to come by and ask us about her? We haven't heard a word."

"The Followers sent out the notice of the found girl, right?"

"Right." Julie looked very troubled. "I mean, yes we wanted to see if she had family, but..."

Arcade's tone was sharp, and he glared down at her. "Julie, Boone loves that little girl like she was his own. Aunt or no, blood family or no, there's no way you can let those people take her away from him. It'll break his heart, and that's no exaggeration."

She looked so upset, he could hardly stand to be so harsh. Her eyes watering, she said, "But we, Madison, she was just trying to help...I just don't get how this is legal considering they've never made any attempt to contact us or even visit her!"

"Dolly is happy. I haven't even told Boone about this letter, he'd flip out and probably start gunning down any NCR he sees." He snatched the paper back. "God forbid that I'm going to have to tell Andy."

"Doesn't she have enough sway with the NCR-"

"That's what I'm hoping. She's good at talking about things like this too...she may be able to reason with the aunt and uncle. I'm telling you though, if we get another letter like this at the casino and Boone sees it...he's going to have your asses, and quite frankly I don't know that I want to stop him."

Now taking a stand for herself, Julie said in a firmer voice, "Arcade, we were just trying to help and do the moral, legal thing. I had no idea that place was NCR territory-" she was not a personal fan of the NCR "-or that her relatives would be so...weird...about all this."

"Yeah well, taking that chance may just well serve to ruin a man and save a little girl. It's not like living with Fiends gave her any stability. And I can't think of a better pair to raise someone so lost."

"Madi was just doing her job," Julie repeated with little conviction.

"And I'm doing mine. Not as a Follower, but as a family member. See if you can't talk to that family. You're the one with their contact information, not me. Or see if there are any loopholes in the NCR law."

She crossed her arms. "I'm a doctor, not a lawyer, Arcade."

"And I'm pissed that I even have to make mention of this." He wadded up the embossed, sealed letter. "Let Kimball himself come down here and wave the law in my face...this is Vegas. They can pretend like they give a shit about morality, but..." Too angry to continue, he shook his head and exited the Mormon Fort.

Julie sighed after him.

The only NCR member to not welcome the Brotherhood with open arms was, expectedly, Moore. As the troops fell into form at the front of the Dam, she crossed her arms and stared with a half-glare, half-sneer. The guards beside her saluted Andy and Nolan, who saluted back, but Moore didn't uncross her arms. The Courier approached the Colonel.

"Here's your troops...try not to shoot any of them while they're here."

She spoke in the closed, stoic voice of a trained soldier. A war machine.

"The New California Republic appreciates your aid in this time of need. Thank you."

"You are most welcome," Nolan said, his warm voice sounding so unlike hers even when he was being semi-sarcastic. Moore must have noticed this too because she raised the faintest of brows, looking even more nonplussed. As though she'd been waiting ages to say it, she continued in a pre-meditated voice, "We have plenty of barracks on site, but I'm afraid I won't have any quarters for you. I hope you don't mind sleeping with your troops."

Andy almost slapped her across the face, but as the embarrassed soldiers gaped at the lack of respect their Colonel was spewing, Nolan did something just as good as a slap- "My brothers and sisters and I fight as one. I would never mind sharing quarters with them and in fact consider it an honor to be with such strong and brave soldiers." Several of the Brotherhood shifted at this, and he pressed, "But I won't be staying here, regrettably. I will be returning to Vegas, where if I remember correctly, you were banned from."

The Brotherhood were grinning under their helmets, and a few NCR hid subdued grins or looks of shock. The kindheated Courier, who never sneered, sneered now. "That's right, the same Vegas where the Kings have been ordered to gun you down if you approach. Same way you tried to gun down Nolan. You know, I didn't even tell the Kings to do that either. The King himself did. He was pretty disgusted with the whole display. But the point is, Moore, we've left someone just as competent as Nolan in charge of the troops while they're here."

"If I may introduce Head Paladin Edgar Hardin," and now Nolan stepped aside, the large, angry-looking man removing his helmet and nodding with disgust at Moore. If there ever was anyone more unpleasant, more sour, more of a total dick than the Colonel, it was the Paladin. The Courier and Nolan had made the decision before coming, that he would oversee the Brotherhood's part in the Dam fight. Hardin was of course, pleased about this. He loved being in charge. He agreed wholeheartedly when the pair brought the idea up. And though he wasn't on the Strip when Moore fired shots, he heard about it firsthand from the younger members who were there with the Elder. Now Hardin glared with the contempt and animosity that didn't quite cross over on Moore's face, and she looked, for a split second, disturbed.

"We'll be return-"

Suddenly, a Courier rushed by, mumbling his sorry and then saying with bated breath, "Colonel, this just came-"

The Courier glared at the younger male, as the Colonel took the envelope and turned it over. It bore her name and the address of Hoover Dam, and for a moment Andy narrowed her eyes. Why did that writing seem familiar? Narrow, spiky, almost slashy letters. It wasfamiliar...but no...it couldn't be... Moore tucked the letter into her pocket and then turned back to the pair. Unimpressed, Andy folded her arms. The other courier looked around, realizing he'd interrupted something extremely important, and reddened, backing out. Nolan watched him go with an incredulous stare, and the Courier narrowed her eyes again.

"We'll be back." Something about the letter had changed Moore's demeanor, and she no longer seemed to be in the toying mood. Nolan may have very well noticed this, for he said in his mock-sincere voice, "It's been a pleasure Colonel. Please take very good care of my troops. If you don't mind, Hardin, Andromeda and I will go to the barracks and I shall speak with the Brotherhood one last time before we depart for Vegas."

"Dismissed," Moore said in a clipped tone, and the Courier snapped back, "Likewise."

Two days later, upon their return, Nolan and the Courier were both surprised to see Arcade downstairs in the casino, busying himself with one of the terminals. As she sauntered toward him, the girl piped up in a worried voice, "Where's Boone and Dolly? Upstairs?"

Arcade turned, pushing up his glasses. "No...they actually went to the Fort. More medicine needed for Dolly's recovery, that and I think she likes Julie checking up on her more than me...she always gives me this really untrustworthy...glare almost, wonder where she learned that...anyway." Now he really paused, seeing the look on her face and the note in her hand. "What's wrong?"

"Letter from the NCR?"

"Oh shit, was that on the door? God, I bet Boone didn't even see it."

"...I'm confused, Arcade. Seizing custody of NCR citizen...?"

He sighed, dipping his head. "Not like you need more stress, but..."

Boone and Dolly were taking their time on their way back to Vegas; Rex was with them, and whined excessively when they passed the King's school, so he obliged on a rare stop to take the dog back to the King. Rex sort of floated around like the Courier, going here and there, but in all fairness they'd had him awhile this time. The dog was thrilled to see his true master, and the King likewise, making no big deal about getting out of his chair and wrestling around with the weighty cyberdog. Even Boone couldn't help but shake his head as the formidable King spoke to the dog in near-baby-talk-Dolly found this enchanting and barraged the man with her six-year-old twenty questions-though it was more like a hundred questions, and the King proved to be as competent at child banter as the Courier.

After their visit and promising to stop by more often, the sniper and the child exited once again to the still-overcast Mojave afternoon, but what they didn't know was that while they were socializing, having stopped by the Fort, a certain Followers doctor named Madison had sent an email transmission to the nearby NCR embassy. And because of that, a group of NCR Rangers stood impassively outside, dark smudges on the otherwise light landscape. Boone knew nothing of their reason for being there, but he tensed immediately. Dolly darted behind his legs. She pointed past the Rangers, to something-someone else; he saw the dark figure as it stood leaned against one of the buildings, not just a random Freesider. She screamed, and then, "The man who wears black!"

The circle of officers rushed Boone, and he was taken aback both by their speed and by the fact that they didn't want him, but the girl. He wasn't too taken aback to punch one of them, though, and the child's piercing scream brought out two Kings and surprisingly, Julie Farkas from the Fort. The latter came at a run, knowing immediately what was happening, and as Boone struggled to throw off one of the Rangers, the King himself stepped outside, his jaw dropping at the scene; three Rangers subduing the heavily built sniper, who was cursing streams of profanity that even the King had never heard; the other Ranger taking Dolly by the waist and throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, heading out of Freeside.

At the King's stare, his men paused, and Julie appeared, pressing both hands to her face as she watched the men continue to hold Boone back. They wouldn''t draw their weapons-even for NCR, to open fire so close to the Kings was utter suicide, and now the man in the white coat snapped, "Help him!" and the readied black-haired men leapt in to join the fight. Julie broke into a dead run toward Boone, who was strong but couldn't fight off six men at once. All the while, nobody seemed to notice the dark figure, who suddenly dissipated, leaving no trace but a wisp and glimmer in the cloudy afternoon.

Once the sniper was free of the grasp of the Rangers, the Kings moved forward, more of them spilling out from the building, and the King shouted angrily, "Why the hell is ever'body fightin' on my front door these days?"

Boone gasped; his nose was pouring blood, and he had a huge gash on his temple. Julie moved forward, immediately pressing a compress to his head, and as she held it there, the King drew his own pistol and the sea of Kings and NCR paused. He tore off one of the gas masks and aimed at the man's face.

"All right, soldier boy, you gotta' lotta' nuts, not that they'll serve you too well after I blow your head off," and his men pulled their own pistols out, aiming them at the other Ranger's necks. Everyone was breathing heavily, and the Ranger without a mask now said heavily, "Just calm down, all right? I'm just following orders."

"Orders are to kidnap a little girl and gang up on one of your old soldier buddies? Since when, and who the hell's givin' orders?"

Julie looked horrified-Boone was too angry to immediately interrupt and demand that the King first find out where Dolly was being taken to, then kill his assailants-but the King tilted his head as the Ranger spat out.

"I...I don't even know. We were ordered here just a few minutes ago...something about custody rights and this legal...shit I don't know, we just were told we'd be killed if we didn't get the girl out of Freeside...I guess she has relatives or something? We were told we had to stop the sniper, told he'd put up a fight."

"Uh huh. Now who the hell in the NCR would order some shit like this?"

The man's face screwed up painfully, as though with distaste. But he didn't dare not answer, not with the pistol so close. "Who do you think? Moore."

The King stared over at Boone. "You know this Moore."

"I'm going to kill that bitch with my bare hands." Boone shrugged off Julie, moved to strangle the Ranger instead, but then the doctor jumped in front of him.

"No! Wait...King, Boone, please! King...I...I know the address where they're taking her. Oh god I'm going to get fired if anyone finds out I let out classified information. Please just...let me help."

Boone narrowed his eyes, seemed to fight the urge to strangle the Rangers very badly. The Kings kept their guns trained on the men for good measure, and finally the sniper narrowed his eyes, breathing heavily with his still bloodied nose.

"I'm listening."

Julie had made good on her word; she'd given the address in the Followers database to the sniper, who immediately set out in the direction of Foothill. As she watched him depart, near-hyperventilation, she realized the truth again: depending on the NCR's reaction to this, she could lose her place as head of the New Vegas chapter of the Followers. Not that the NCR had anything to do with them, but it was a general rule that they weren't to meddle in these political affairs. Arcade would've had a field day, but she was nervous. She didn't want to stir up anything. She didn't want the conflict. She didn't want the attention. When Boone tore out of the Strip, shrugging off her attempts to at least stitch up the gash over his eye, the King moved forward to comfort her, but even that didn't help Julie.

In the midst of conflict, he'd torn off a helmet of a man, held a gun to his head. Julie saw it vividly, and she knew in her heart what the King was capable of. He hadn't even blinked when he threatened the man at gunpoint. The King was a survivor, he was not one to be trifled with even if his gait was amiable and his smile was charming. This was part of the reason she was so ...reluctant at first, when he proposed that they stop "beatin' around the bush" as he'd called it. The King was a highly emotional being, and she knew that he led his men with his heart less than his head, but the instability frightened her.

Her father was after all like that-a beloved man, of course, from a Fiend standpoint. Strong, tall, good speaker, big heart. He was unpredictable though, and moody, two things that she saw reflected in the black haired man. Julie knew she'd been so attracted to Nolan simply because he was the opposite. The epitome of peaceful. Quiet, reserved, a man who listened to his heart but didn't let it get the better of him when he needed to use his head. Someone just like her, or so she'd like to think, but what she just did...giving Boone an open door to go do who knew what to the NCR and the family of Dolly...

The King could see that she was badly shaken-beyond shaken, actually, and he opted to steer her gently toward her own bunk on the inside of the Mormon Fort. The King had been here several weeks before, while the Courier, Nolan, and Boone were in the middle of taking down the Legion forces at the Fort. There she'd finally opened up to him, finally broke that tough Julie-wall that was so non-evident but so there. He remembered it, and so did she. In fact, she recollected it as her ears rang with dischord and the King's drawling voice.

He was trying to talk to her; had drunkenly serenaded her out the window one night, cornered her as she strolled through Freeside another, and she had said some cool, calm words to him. The shock of Arcade's past being revealed, of this newcomer named Nolan who was so like Julie in so many ways, plus what had happened at the Embassy...it was all just too much for her, and the King in his childish way hadn't been helping anything.

But this night, he'd ambushed her. Waited in the darkness of the Fort until she had passed the last patient tent, her mind full of troubled thoughts as she drew near the door to the side tower. It was then that not his usual white-coat appeared from the shadows, but instead a full leather outfit, the blue-black matching his hair, the King stole from the night and grabbed her by the shoulders. With a half-angry, half entirely scolding look on his face, he kicked the door to her quarters open and pushed her up the stairs. She was too surprised to even cry out, but when they arrived in the dark, shadowy loft bedroom, he let her shoulders go and she slapped him.

"What's wrong with you!"

"What's wrong with you!"

"You've been acting crazy!"

"I am crazy! I can't stand not talkin' about us, now it's time to talk doctor."

In the flickering candlelight, his brown eyes were even more devastatingly broody. She had crossed her arms and turned away. After the initial anger ebbed away and she realized she'd just slapped a man who had to literally corner her in her own loft before she would talk to him, Julie relented, "I just..."

"Don't you remember," he chimed in, "That day I got stabbed. That tent."

"Arcade's tent."

"That kiss."

"I remember."

"So why I ain't I as good as ol' Whitey?" God damn him, but that accent was near-irresistible no matter what he said. "Don't you remember how that felt, or how it feels all the time Julie..." he was exasperated, throwing his arms about theatrically. Hers were still crossed, she was still looking at his shadow and not facing him. He paced.

"I remember how it feels. I know how it feels." And she realized suddenly that she really, truly did know.

"Then why?" Now the anger had dissipated from him, and his tone was thick with grief.

She turned to him and said in a very embarrassed tone, "Because I'm scared. How's that. I'm terrified of you."

He looked utterly confused. "Of me?"

"Of you. You're this reckless powerful big-hearted ...you're a...King! for God's sake...and I'm...a doctor. Nolan is safe, don't you see? He doesn't have that intensity...I mean he has his own intensity..." her eyes glazed over in remembrance of the kiss, and the King looked very unimpressed. She pressed on.

"I spent my whole life out of control. Now and here I have that control again. I can't...give that up..."

He had stepped closer to her, staring at her with that same angry intensity.

"That's bullshit."

"I...I know it may sound like it, but I have to-"

He interrupted her by kissing her, and it was in stark contrast to the way Nolan had kissed her. But then the King was the black to Nolan's white, the up to his down...instead of a hesitant, barely restrained passion, he unleashed on her, and she had found herself unable to pull away...

Now he was looking at her worriedly. He'd sat her on the bed, was holding her shoulders again, calling to her as though she was not right across from him but instead miles away. "Julie? Julie!"

In time, he had realized that despite the fact he didn't want it, change was coming to the Mojave. To Vegas. Freeside. The King had realized he must adapt to the change. Perhaps in time Julie would realize that though she thought she had some semblance of control, especially in contrast to her old life, no one has control any more than the molecules in the ocean have control of the way the water moves.

The Ranger was fast on his feet despite the fact that the child was fighting him with every step. However, as much as this coveted little form writhing in the hands of a stranger was exciting, he mustn't tarry. He not only had to arrive at Foothill Village before the NCR, but had to impersonate the girl's relative...there was no one else home to take her. So the shimmery spot that was actually a man quickened his pace, the only visible fragments of him the slight imprints his boots left in the dust, and a watery glaze through his frame, as though he were a living summer wave of heat.

Perhaps the Ranger didn't notice this, but the girl did, pausing in her screams and yells and pummels to view the bootprints made by an invisible force, to see the desert sage parted by a tall, slim thing that had no visage. Her bloodshot, tear-filled eyes widened in horror when she realized exactly what it was that was racing them to the house. Even though she didn't know exactly what it was.

Only when he entered the dark house, where the windows were covered and only cracks of the warm daylight got in, did he bother to deactivate the stealth armor. Today was the first day he'd removed the captives' blindfolds. A middle-aged woman, a man, the man's father. They were all tied in the living room, had been since his arrival. Ever since the dissolution had taken its toll on his mind, the captor had been reaping the benefits of Science, which included gassing his victims. It made for easy captivity, after all. No struggle.

Though he knew after this, he would willingly struggle with several more victims just to sate that cruel side. It was a fun sport. Too bad this one dictated precision instead of fun. In either case, he was proficient.

They were still gagged, but the eyes of the family widened in a horror similar to Dolly's when they saw the tall man enter. When the button was pushed, he flickered as though appearing in a musician's show, fluttering in and out of visibility while the armor returned him to the here and now as far as vision goes. He was tall, too tall, and now his silken blond hair stuck up with sweat as he removed the helmet. Icy blue eyes trained on the trio, he smoothed his hair and then crossed the room, his black skin-tight Chinese stealth armor allowing him to move even more silently than normal.

"We've got a package on its way," he said in a warning tone, then lifted his brow. "I trust you to not make any sound when the Ranger drops it off, else I'll have to lengthen your punishment tenfold. Killing the Ranger was not in my contract. As much as I loathe them, there is someone more important to get a message to."

Their gazes were undoubtedly terrorized as they looked at him mouthlessly. He almost smiled; the look was one with which he was familiar, one he'd so dearly missed over these past few rough months. Even before the Legion he was taming the false courage of man, wrenching out the nerve of every suitable human and animal. He was a pyschopath as much as the Burning Man ever was-where the former used theatrics in gore, blood, maiming, the latter used theatrics in words, threats, torments...torture.

He spoke to them, feeling particularly talkative only because he was so excited. "I suppose what's next, you ask? You want an answer after all this time, yes? Not that it will help your fate, but I am an obliging Master, so I will tell you-" he pointed one long, thin pale finger at them as though accusing them of something bad, "the lesson is about suffering. Loss. One of those banes in humanity's side. Loss that makes the ones who feign invincibility, writhe in agony. Not your loss. The loss is theirs. Hers. His." He was rambling now, and to the three sitting gagged and bound on the floor, he made even less sense than he had before. His eyes had a sudden icy glare to them, as though he relished his own words. But his voice remained as cool as ever. "It pains her to see him suffer, and suffering is something he was always good at. I'm simply here to give him another reason to suffer. Just to kill the girl? Not good enough. But I think what I have planned instead will...enlighten everyone."

He crossed his arms. As though stating the daily schedule at a daycare, he continued matter-of-factly, "I am going to torture each of you in front of the child. She'll have full reign of the house, I've secured every door and window to ensure she won't be able to leave. And after I cut out your eye, or perhaps snip off your nose or cut out your tongue," speaking to them each in turn, "I'll let you chase her. You can do whatever you'd like-urge her to run, beg her to close her eyes, whatever it is family does, you see-but she will witness your slow and torturous deaths either way. I will kill one of you each day, and on the third day, return her to the Strip. Do you see how this game will destroy her...and destroy him...it is a chain reaction. I learned that term from a science book. I've been reading you see. Do you read?"

The woman was crying soundlessly but violently, sucking air through the gag in her mouth. He tilted his brow disapprovingly. "Of course you don't."

A knock sounded at the door, a knock accompanied by a child's cries of rage and anger.

And for the first time since this ordeal had begun, Vulpes smiled.

The child was strangely quiet and stoic through Vulpes's teasing and cruel words. Though he didn't know it and couldn't guess it, she'd been through far worse for her age than the threats of a man in black. The Fiends were a crude, emotional bunch, and she'd endured their punishment and witnessed their killings her entire short life. Her eyes were glazed over in a protective mask while he spoke smoothly, but every now and then tears would brim through, and Vulpes relished these. In truth, she wasn't crying because of whatever mean words he said, but instead crying because she remembered things Boone had said.

"Well, you'll be sleeping in a bed from now on."

"Don't leave me, Dinosaur Man." "I won't." "Are you taking me home?" "I am."

"Dolly! How'd you get up here? You need to go inside, it's dangerous for you to be this high up."

"I can see a person's farm, they're growing corn and it's ready to harvest. The corn's bright yellow already. It's going to get beaten down by the rain. And I see...here's a molerat digging through garbage. He just turned over the can. And over here, someone just turned their house light on...they must be waking up."

Andromeda, the beautiful lady. She'd said, "Well you know what, I bet if you hang around here long enough, we'll go back and visit one of my friends who lives in the town where the dinosaur is."
To Boone, Dolly had pleaded, "And you'll come too? Won't you?"
"Yeah."

She'd never see the town with the dinosaur. She'd never sleep in a bed again. Vulpes had already snatched the bow out of her hair, crushed it under his feet. The child could forsee things that weren't her own demise, but now she felt hopelessness encumber her, and so stood quite solidly by when Vulpes began his torture of the strangers. He may have told her their names but she didn't listen, instead filling her head with the voices of Dinosaur Man and Beautiful Lady, drowning out what little of the screams from the tortured people she could.

The man in black laughed when she curled into a corner, he threatened her with force-feeding the woman's blood if she didn't look. As she'd looked when Motor-Runner sawed off the heads and stripped the bones of flesh to make his prized skulls, now she looked and whimpered. The Fiend had expertly sliced the corpse skin and spoke carelessly to her, but he did not torment her purposefully in this way, did not tear her hands from her ears when she plugged them to drown out his drugged ramblings. Motor-Runner was less of a father than a brute, but even he was amiable compared to this terrible, terrible man with white hair and blue eyes.

The man now seemed to have an idea, and he moved toward the girl. "My little captive," and now he stooped, looking like a spider bending its legs, "I do not see much sport left in him. Would you like for me to torture him, or would you like to play a game and see if we can't spare him?"

She had such a tiny voice when she answered, "A game please."

"A game! So be it." Vulpes flourished upwards, turning to the very upset older man, and tilting his head. "The child is smart, like I, she enjoys games! Here is a game of skill then." He reached into his own pocket, withdrawing a round, green thing, and held it out to the bound and gagged man. It was a pear. "Move an inch, let it fall, and I will pluck the hairs from your head like fleas from a dog, until your crown is crimson with blood." In his weirdest display yet, Vulpes put the pear on the head of the old, trembling man who was trying very hard now not to tremble. Now the torturer turned back to the girl bundled up on the ground.

He handed her a gun.

"Shoot off the pear, you wretched thing, and I will kill him quickly. If you miss..." here he tsked, and as he let the gun slip into her very weak grasp he added, "Aim it at me, and you'll regret ever having been born." She knew she couldn't anyway; the moment she did, he would use that strange suit to turn nearly invisible, and she would never be able to hit him with a bullet. He would capture and torture her, if she tried. So instead she aimed, hands shaking, at the old man's unfortunate pear fruit. Again, tears slipped out.

"Only one shot, one bullet, is this any of the skill your new family has taught you? I wonder..." while he was enjoying himself, she tried very hard to imagine how she might point the gun at the fruit and hit it. The old man closed his eyes, and she steadied the weapon. Dinosaur Man had taught her how to breathe, after all, though he didn't know it-she watched him exhale through flared nostrils when he aimed the rifle, and she knew how to let all the air go from her lungs and make the gun stop wobbling as it was doing. Locking her elbows, she channeled the tall, hulking figure of Boone and let the oxygen out of her lungs, feeling the weapon stop its terribly frustrating jolts.

She fired.

Vulpes's laughter sounded more like hollow disturbances in the realm of sound-they were empty, cold.

She'd missed...the pear.

She'd shot the man in the face.

Now she did weep, hiccuping and dropping the gun as she pressed her little hand to her face, and Vulpes laughed more as the corpse slumped to the side. He plucked up the pear and bit into it, grinning voraciously, and Dolly hid her face in shame.

"I don't think this means he won, little girl!" Vulpes began. "Another game!" He wrenched up the woman, who was missing an ear already, by the hair of her head. She had no way of supporting herself as her legs were tied, so it was by force of hair alone that she swayed under his grip. "What will it be for dearest Auntie?" Blood trickled down her neck from the open wound, and he tossed her down, displeased with her low amount of energy.

"Or how about-"

The door was blown open-Vulpes faltered, startled at this. It had been bolted four times, the hinges solidifed. It would take an insane amount of energy to splinter the wood the way it had been splintered, and now the shadow stepped out of the sunlight and into the dark room, kicking the pieces of the door out of the way. Shoulders heaving, the look on Boone's face was absolute murder.

"No." How could this be? How did anyone know of his plan? Were these people the gods they denied existing, how-

"I'm going to fucking kill you," Boone snapped in a deadly voice that would make even Vulpes's blood run cold if it wasn't already, and though he was feet away, the irate man landed a crushing punch to Vulpes's face, sending the thinner reeling backwards and tripping over his tied-up captives. Behind her gag, the woman screamed and moaned in the hope that this signified the end of her nightmare, but when Vulpes righted himself, he looked downright ugly. Despite the blood that shattered his face and streaked by his too-blue eyes, he was grinning horribly, and he rushed Boone.

He shouldn't have been grinning, because this was not part of his anticipated plan-he'd gone through so many pains to make sure everything was a secret-how could he torment Andromeda from this angle, without thoroughly thinking out his colorful plans for Dolly and Boone? but smiling horribly seemed to offend those he tortured, at least it had in the past, so he did it out of habit. Boone was not impressed. He grabbed Vulpes by the throat and began choking him, violently slamming him up against the wall in the process.

Dolly bit her nails; she knew what would happen next-when Vulpes suddenly disappeared, Boone's eyes widened in shock, and he felt the elbow to the face before the kick to the groin. Then the watery figure, what he could see of it, swiftly moved, and Dolly yelped and leaped away, covering her hands as it deftly picked up her discarded gun and shot both the man and woman remaining alive on the floor.

If he couldn't torture him, damned if they would be saved. They were his. No one else's.

Boone sensed where the man was, lunged, dodged, landed another punch on Vulpes, and then snarled, "Fight me, you fucking pussy. Show yourself."

"That would be counterproductive," Vulpes hissed, and a cloaked pistol wavered in Boone's face. "I'd hoped you could live longer, but you're such a damn problem. Either way, her loss will be..." and here he mock-pitied his own voice, "...so significant."

Boone's eyes widened as he realized he wouldn't be able to dodge a bullet in the darkness with an invisible pursuer, but then with a rather Fiend-like cry a small figure shot through the air, having jumped from the counter where she scrambled up. Now clutching onto an invisible Vulpes the way she'd clutched onto Boone that day, she clawed at him in a sinister way, causing Vulpes to cry out and drop the gun. Dolly beat his head with her little hands and tore at the place where his eyes would be, and when he stumbled too near Boone, the man reared back and threw the hardest fist in the Mojave. Both Dolly and Vulpes flew back, and the little girl detached just as the man's back broke a wooden shelf. But now Boone stooped, grabbing the pistol, and shot after shot rang out.

It was no use-Vulpes was gone. The soldier's sharp ears picked out the sound of the silent villain outside of the house, running rapidly away, though it was impossible to tell in what direction. He'd exited the busted door, and Boone glanced at the slump of bodies before scooping up Dolly. Now she hugged him without abandon and he hugged her back without hesitation, unlike the first day she found him. With her in his arms, he stood in the doorway, hearing the fading footsteps. His own nose was bloody from the elbow to the face, his lips busted and now throbbing as he pressed them to the little girl's long tendrils of black hair.

From his pocket he took the dinosaur, and she clutched it almost as tightly as she clutched him.

Setting her down, kneeling in the sunlight, he pried her away and gently examined her. She was unscathed, though full of tears and with a dust-ribboned face, and at seeing her so untouched he sighed, a long drawn out breath brimming with relief, and she spoke in a dumbfounded tone.

"You came and saved me."

"Of course I did."

"The man in black said nobody would come and save me."

"Well, I'm going to find the man in black and break his mouth into pieces, and he won't be saying anything after that."

"But he said..."

Boone put a hand to her shoulder and then on her head, and said in a very serious tone, "Listen to me, Dolly...I don't care what he says or does, he's not taking you away from me. Nobody is."

It wasn't a smile but a look of disbelief on her face, and she blinked at him, nodding slowly.

He carried Dolly, who was weary and slept on his shoulder, in one arm. She was draped over his shoulder. In his other, he held Mr. Dino, and he was just outside of North Vegas when he saw the figures running toward him. The Courier, flanked by five or six of the Kings.

"Oh...thank god," she said, and didn't mind the fact that Dolly slept on his shoulder, pulling them both in for a hug. "What's happened, the fam-"

"Not now," he snapped, and she pulled away, looking at him oddly. He didn't want the girl to hear that what was left of her pitiful family had just been murdered, and he said in an even more strained voice, "Vulpes."

The Courier clapped a hand to her mouth. "No."

"Why are you out here? You're...you need to be inside."

"Toting a fetus doesn't make me allergic to sunlight."

"It's dangerous out here."

"I've managed twenty-five years with only being buried once."

"I don't want you to leave the casino."

"I don't want you to act like you're the boss."

"I'm being serious, Andy."

"I'm being seriouser, Craig."

He hugged Dolly as he glared at the Courier, then kissed the mouthy blond on the cheek. "Let's go home."

"That still sounds like bossing. Can you tell me anything?"

The Kings dragged their feet, forming a protective barrier around the beloved trio as they walked toward the city. Now the Courier took the dinosaur and Boone found himself using his free hand to take hers. Girl in tow, woman in hand, he began, "It was never them. He wrote the letters, he called the NCR."

"He called Moore." she supplied. Boone's face turned very ugly.

"He's gotten his hands on a stealth suit."

"Oh shit..."

"He wants to toy with us. In fact I got the impression he really wants to toy with you, since he was all about killing me."

She looked offended at this, but said nothing, grasping his hand more tightly.

"That's an uncomfortable closeness, and an uncomfortable amount of resources he's got his hands on," she said finally, miserably.

"We just have to be careful. And you need to stay put-"

"Would you like to push House's corpse out of its little tank, and put me in? That might be safest."

"Are you ever going to listen to me when I try to protect you?" He had a hint of misery in his own voice.

"Probably not."

He sighed.

The Courier couldn't feign healthfulness as they re-entered Vegas, but she managed to stomach it until they hit the Lucky 38, then she broke away, cursing, and made for the luxurious restroom on the casino floor. Arcade and the King looked expectantly past her running form to the hulking figure of Boone, Dolly still thrown over his shoulder, still asleep. Arcade put a hand to his heart.

"Oh, thank god...we weren't sure if..."

"She's fine...she just needs a bath and a bed," Boone said, realizing how thankful he was that this was true. "Andy...?"

"Fine, she's fine," Arcade said, and the King crossed his arms, following the doctor as they made their way to the sniper. "Moore-"

"So I heard. And Vulpes."

"Holy shit."

"Vulpes?" The King looked expectantly at Boone, who shook his head and nodded at Dolly's form.

"Later."

The King nodded thoughtfully, and Arcade tentatively asked, "The...relatives?"

"He killed them." Boone looked away from the blond and to the other man. "Thank you for helping me back there."

"Nothin' doin'," the handsome middle-aged man shrugged, then, "I better get back to Julie. She's in a fit. Didn't wanna stay here til you got back, worried sick you's gonna go off the deep end there for a minute."

"It's not me we have to worry about going off the deep end," Boone said contemplatively. Perhaps at one point in his life, this would've been true...but no more. "Vulpes already has."

The King lowered his voice, despite the fact that they were alone in the large, abandoned casino. "You know, she just thought she was doin' the right thing. That doctor of hers, Madison or whoever, was the one connin' her into sendin' them papers."

"It's fine." The awkwardness was still palpable. Being around an angered Boone made walking on eggshells seem like a walk in the park.

The Courier reappeared, looking very sweaty and blurry eyed. While she crossed the red carpet, she pointed out one of the high windows where the afternoon sun drifted in past the thick dust, and snarled at Arcade. "I thought you said it was morning sickness."

"A common misconception," he said with a weak smile. "It can occur at any-" he trailed off at her Boone-worthy stare.

The King snickered, then put a hand to the side of the girl's face, his own personal goodbye, and then the man clapped Boone on the shoulder before exiting. "I'll see you all later," was his final speech, and Arcade crossed his arms.

"Andy?" Boone shifted Dolly, who snivelled rather pitifully in her sleep. "Can you get her out of these clothes and give her a bath? She's covered in dust and grime."

The blond nodded and he very carefully handed her over. Dolly awoke with the motion and stared at Andy for a moment. The blond stared back. When Dolly didn't smile, the Courier attempted. "How're you feeling, honey?"

"Bad and sad and mad. I want to sleep in a bed."

"You will, love, but we've gotta get you into some decent clothes first, okay?"

"And will you put a new bow in my hair?" the little girl was recalling how Vulpes had crushed her own beneath his black boot.

"Of course."

With one more look toward Boone, they headed toward the elevator, and Arcade stepped closer to the sniper, who was visibly shaken, as though the act of handing Dolly over to someone else caused him great pain.

"Are you okay?"

"No." Boone took his glasses out of his pocket and put them on. "I'll be back."

"Where are you-"

"Take care of the girls."

As Boone slammed the door, Arcade grumbled after him, but didn't argue. He felt very sorry indeed for whoever was about to be on the receiving end of Boone's rampage.

Arcade had supposed it might be Julie to incur the wrath of Craig Boone, but he was only half-right. Had he not been too caring to leave behind a six-year-old and a pregnant woman, the sniper would've walked his irate walk all the way to Hoover Dam itself and drowned Colonel Moore in the Colorado River. However, since this wasn't an option, and he was very sorry it wasn't, he instead made his way to the Embassy, throwing open the door and causing the receptionist to jump. Several recruits stared at him in awe as he passed-this was the ex-First Recon guy, this was the sniper who lived in Vegas with her, after all, and he was as much a celebrity as the King of Freeside.

The celebrity gave everyone who met his lens-covered eyes a look of utmost loathing, and nearly kicked in the door to Crocker's office. The fellow sat at his desk, and lucky lucky-was mid-video transmission with Moore. Crocker's face dictated that she was putting some sort of pressure on him, but at the sight of the red-beret donning man, his face almost brightened at the intrusion. However, he then caught the look on Boone's face, and his smile faltered; not paying attention to the man whatsoever, Boone pushed past him and glared at the monitor. Moore drew back almost immediately, and then began, "You're inter-"

He pointed a finger at the monitor, wishing so badly that he could crush her head between his two fists instead. "You fucking called those Rangers to take her away because of some personal fucking grudge."

"Don't try to act heroic." Her lip curled. "I've been contacted by the Rangers who told me about your little assault in Freeside. You're going to be prosecuted, First Recon or no. I've sent the paperwork to Kimball."

"I don't give two shits what the fuck you've sent to Kimball," Boone snarled, and Crocker's jaw was dropped. He knew better than to intervene. "The person tipping you off about the relatives was Vulpes Inculta."

She knew the name-everyone in the NCR knew the name-and now she looked dumbfounded.

"That's...ridiculous. Impossible. Besides we received confirmation that the Fort-"

"We ransacked the fucking Fort and everybody in it, but I watched that motherfucker walk away with my own two eyes," he bellowed. "Now he's running loose with any excuse to antagonize the Courier. You wanna talk prosecution, how about endangering the lives of NCR citizens by giving classified personal information to spies?"

"You wouldn't dare."

"You stupid fucking cunt. Don't tell me what I would and wouldn't. I'd hold a gun to your head myself any goddamn day."

Crocker almost smiled.

"Those NCR citizens, whose life you endangered, are dead."

She was silent. He was breathing heavily.

"Vulpes killed them both. Not only did I watch it firsthand, but so did the six-year-old. He'd had them tied up there for days from what I saw. So you go and talk to Kimball. You're safe as long as you stay out of Vegas...for now."

"Are you threatening an NCR officer?"

"Just throwing out facts. And one more warning-don't you ever, ever give an order just because you think it'll make Andy or I, or any of us, come to some grief or heartache. I'll see to it myself, if I have to...but you won't play any part in personal revenge."

She looked shaken, but continued after fluttering her long eyelashes. "I don't respond well to threats against my person."

"And you're going to see how well I don't respond to your bullshit person."

She bared her teeth and pounded her fist on the keyboard on-screen, ending the transmission. Boone turned from the monitor to look at Crocker, who looked half-baffled and half-entertained.

"Feel better?"

Boone flared his nostrils, expression unreadable behind the shades. "Actually, yeah."

"Want coffee, lunch?"

"Don't mind if I do."

"I'm going to hear it from her later, I bet. That was great."

"Yeah."

"Wanna fill me in? It sounds like we may have to file a formal report with the NCR over this..."

"Sure."

He was back to his one-sentence words...all was right with Boone.

"You coming too?" The Courier asked Hsu, who was buckling his own tactical vest. The man shrugged, "I don't see why not. Gorobets will be here with the rest of his men. It wouldn't hurt to have a face-to-face with Moore and hopefully Oliver. They need reasoning with." Hsu said this discouragingly, as though he were embarrassed of his superior officers. "A voice from inside the NCR may not mean much to them, but it won't hurt to try."

"Good point." She did him the favor of snapping the buckle across the back of his vest, and Hsu glanced back at her.

"So is it true?"

"What?" The girl could be a little oblivious sometimes, despite her strong intuition. Hsu looked at her pointedly.

"The rumor...?"

She squinted, still not understanding, and just as he waved his hand to tell her to forget it, Boone piped up from where he lounged against the wall, "It's true."

"What's true?" The Courier was stuffing her hair under her beret.

"Shouldn't you be staying in Vegas then?" Hsu said in an almost alarmed voice.

"She won't," Boone said, "We broke about half the furniture in the Lucky 38 arguing about it last night. She refuses."

At this, Andy beamed. She finally understood what they were talking about. "That's right, and don't you forget who's in charge," she replied sternly. "Hell nor high water is keeping me from going to the Dam. Besides, Kimball requested me for protection personally."

Boone was not impressed. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

"You have bad feelings about everything."

"You're not just endangering your life. It's not just about you anymore. I would think you'd understand that."

"And I would think you would understand, if I sit at home like a good little woman and something happens to Kimball, or Moore leads the NCR to some half-assed failure at the Dam...then later the Legion manages to take the Dam, and I lose you, or Arcade, or anyone, and just sit up in my casino waiting for them to come get me, there's going to be two wastedlives that suffer because of it."

"It's a damn speech, and you can't just for once sit and let someone else do the work." His voice was venomous.

"No, I can't." She turned and looked at him, Hsu bending down to tighten his hip holster and trying to avoid looking visible at all. "You're overreacting. It is JUST a speech after all. Besides, It's not in my nature to just sit and wait. I know it's dangerous. It was dangerous from the start. If it didn't stop me then, it's not going to now. And what happens if I sit in my nest for the next eight months? Then I'll have a baby. Then a kid. Then a teenager. And you won't want me to set foot outside through any of it because you're smothering me and god forbid anyone get a scratch or scrape on them. I'm putting my foot down now. I'm not to be coddled!"

He made a growling noise but said no more; Hsu smiled uneasily. The Courier crossed her arms and beamed again. "Now, where were we?"

Arcade rarely smiled but he was almost grinning as he took his spot in front of the desk with Crocker and Nolan on either side of him. Had Julie Farkas been there, she would not have believed the executive air the blond doctor had about him. Though outspoken and always self-depreciating, Arcade could be talked sternly to and made to do anything against his will; his backbone was a front with very little to back it up. She knew this, though she was one of the few who knew him that well. Now, he had found that cause to believe in enough to bolster his confidence, make him assured in what he was endeavoring to do.

"I'm scheduled to be at Hoover Dam in less than 24 hours," Kimball, on-screen, said with a hint of sourness, "But this...this proposal is something I..." He was looking at the screen, presumably with the report that Arcade had sent him only a day earlier. The three waited. Crocker had a hard copy of the report on the desk, and now the ambassador thumbed through the papers. "It needs to be discussed as soon as possible, I feel."

"I thought you might feel that way," Arcade said blandly with that same executive grin.

"Who drew these plans? They look extremely intricate."

"Thank you," Nolan said smoothly, "I did attempt to construct the ideals with legitimacy in mind."

Kimball looked through his monitor at the group. In a contemplative voice he said, "You're the Elder from the Brotherhood, correct?"

"Indeed." The man threaded his fingers.

"As an Elder you have had extensive research in both the development and creation of such technologically advanced materials, then? First as Knight, then Paladin?" Kimball knew the ranks well, as did any NCR president. Nolan nodded in reply. Kimball continued with a hint of respect in his voice, "And you're certain that this can actually be executed? The Brotherhood is willing to build it?"

"Indeed we are," he said triumphantly. Arcade intercepted, "The materials are already available, and in perfect working condition."

Nolan agreed, "All we have to do is take them apart and move them to the surface. After speaking with the Courier we've agreed that the service should be open to the public -for a fee, of course. There are enough Brotherhood personnel and Securitrons to guard the stops and stations. You won't have to sacrifice your own soldiers to support it."

"This would mean a whole new future for Vegas," Kimball said in a voice rife with awe. "The travel from places like Goodsprings, Primm, Novac...it's almost too good to be true."

"With understanding how the electric hardware works, and possibly the materials to lengthen the lines, we could make state-wide transits in the same fashion." Nolan's eyes had a glow about them when he talked about technology; Arcade glanced sideways at the handsome visage. "It would take years of course, and patience, but it is feasible. We have such a well-preserved model, replicating the structure will not be difficult for the Brotherhood to do."

"Okay," Kimball said, massaging his forehead, "I suppose now I have to ask you what it is you want in return. I know we can't get something from nothing. What you've got here is too good to pass up, but I feel like what you're going to ask is too big for the NCR."

"Not at all," Arcade said confidently, "In fact I think it's the fairest trade you could give."

There was a moment's pause in which the air was thicker than blood, and then the now-leader of New Vegas said, "The NCR gives the HELIOS facility back to the Brotherhood."

Kimball looked as though he'd been slapped, but as he didn't immediately protest, Nolan used his gentle voice to prod, "The facility has been restored to working condition with the power routed to Vegas, so there is little for us to do other than maintenance. But we would like to use the energy to supplement the growing electric line as well as ..." here he paused, "..having a safe and practical place for my people. One where we do not have to live underground and hide, a place where we can come and go, be at one with the technology, a place to call ...home."

Kimball was looking with longing over the blueprints of the electric rail system Nolan had drawn. He was a president-he did see more than battle and bloodshed, after all. He wanted security for his people, protection, a good future. To give the Brotherhood access to a hard-one important site was madness-several hundred of his own men had died while overtaking the plant in the first place. Were their deaths in vain? Kimball spoke slowly. "I okay'd the orders to take over HELIOS years ago, when we first ran you out. It may have been a necessity at the time-in fact I do believe strongly that it was-but the time for that necessity is over. I could use those troops elsewhere, and the power plant will still be helping the NCR and its citizens without being occupied by us."

The room was silent, and all three men stared dumbly at the President of the New California Republic. Kimball nodded with the resignation that he'd just made a weighty decision and finished, "I'll sign the agreement and bring it with me to the Dam. And before I leave for the Dam...I'll give orders to evacuate HELIOS. After the rally at Hoover Dam, would you be willing to meet at HELIOS itself and discuss this further? Time is of the essence, and I feel these are things we need to tackle in person."

Dumbly, everyone stared at the monitor. Even newly self-assured Arcade wasn't sure how to approach this. His mouth was moving, but he didn't have words. Finally, after the dark-haired man on-screen raised an eyebrow, Arcade nodded. "That sounds ...great."

The glow in Nolan's eyes had turned misty and he blinked rapidly, his own grin emerging from his usually bland expression.

While Aaron Kimball's voice boomed through the loudspeaker and Boone steadied his rifle, keeping watch with the other First Recon members, the Courier at her post looking nothing less than bored out of her mind at the pep talk, hours away in Vegas Arcade, Nolan, Crocker, and the others were literally dancing a jig. Nolan's robes twirled as he spun and the group was nothing but excitement, Arcade skidding across the floor to send a transmission to the Followers and let Julie know the good news. Their joy was barely containable, but it would be very short-lived.

The Courier had never set eyes on General Oliver, as he kept himself nobly holed up in the Dam 24-7. She really had no interest in meeting him either, as she personally found the man to be a buffoon and someone far less admirable than Hsu, Gorobets, Boyd, or any of the great NCR personnel she was on the same level with throughout this entire ordeal. To be perfectly honest, she wanted to throw up when the Ranger nodded at her and Boone to go to his quarters, partially because of the whole fetus sickness, and partially because she'd just been Republic overdosed by Kimball's speech of cheese and smarm. One good thing had transpired and that was a complete lack of Moore. Boone didn't say anything, but Andy knew his disgruntled expressions well enough to read between the lines: he'd said something to her, and whatever it was explained why she wasn't out here in the sweltering heat while the President boomed his pep talk.

But then just as their group was ushered down toward General Oliver's office and Kimball was descending the stairs surrounded by five of the gas-mask donning Rangers, Boone lowered his own scoped rifle with a look of shock crossing his face. Two of the other guards turned and looked in the same direction, away from the Colorado. The Courier glanced at her sniper; his jaw was dropped and he looked utterly confused. Now she snapped her head to the side, squinting in the afternoon sun to see a small army of-Great Khans?

Andromeda ran to the side of the tower and leaned over, gripping the stone wall so hard her knuckles turned white. For a moment she looked not like a soldier but like a princess in a castle, leaning over and waiting for her prince to sing. Instead of a prince, the large, dusty rag-tag group were approaching, some riding on Securitrons. Securitrons? Boone looked just as in disbelief, and just as one of the guardsmen in charge snapped, "What is this-"

"Wait, wait...let me..." She dashed down the outer stairs and Boone was on her heels.

"Why are they?"

"I don't know! Hold your fire," she snapped at the Brotherhood and NCR guard, running past. The blond clapped one hand on her beret as she flew down the path. Boone paused only long enough to growl, "I've got a bad feeling about this," before taking off after her.

But the NCR lookouts in the towers saw several more things; in fact, the only clear path was that overlooking the Dam itself. Through the trees and through the sky, they were being enclosed, and the lookouts hastily jabbered to send word to Oliver of what strange things were heading their way.

Dolly sat rather glumly in the Presidential Suite, playing with her dinosaur and looking warily at her babysitter-the only person Boone had trusted leaving her with. He sat in a chair, idly flipping through a magazine, giving the mistrustful child her space. Then finally, "You ...sit in Dinky's mouth too?"

Manny looked up.

"Every day."

"I get to go there one day, that's what the Dinosaur Man said. Well the other Dinosaur Man."

"Sure thing. You'll love Novac."

She made the toy T-Rex headbutt the table leg and frowned when the cloud of dust settled over her face. Victor stood nearby, and piped up unceremoniously, "Looks like the Securitrons have reached the Dam, accordin' to my radar!"

Manny chewed his lip for a moment. Then, "...Good." He hesitated to show any sign of the impending disaster at the Dam, didn't want to scare the child. He knew Boone would kill him...that is, if Boone was even still alive. It was he who'd gotten the distress call from the Dam, who alerted Arcade, who alerted the Khans themselves. He only hoped it was enough. From the sound of the transmission, the Legion hit was going to be gale force. And here he sat, cooped up in this dark, creepy casino, protecting his best friend's adopted child. Manny's heart was in his chest, but Dolly finally turned her uncanny eyes to him once more.

"Don't worry, Dinosaur Man," she said in a very odd tone. "The Man in Black will be hurting someone else today."

Jack's dopey smile and Regis's eyeroll awaited her blank, almost angry stare.

"You what? The NCR hasn't sent out any distress call!"

"Well, we got one, and we're here to help. Your boys in Vegas gave us some guns, gave us some robots, sent us on our merry way. Legion horde, so they said."

She still looked at them dumbly. Boone gritted his teeth. As if they needed any help looking strange to the NCR. "There's nothing here."

Just as he finished the sentence, a loud wailing siren was heard coming from the Dam, and everyone turned in the direction of the Troops, where the shiny steel Brotherhood recruits ran to secure the lines, side by side with the brown NCR troops.

"The distress signal," Boone said confusedly, and Andy shook her head. He turned away and put his hand on her shoulder firmly, and opened his mouth. "You have to go-"

She shoved away from him and ran again, this time back toward the Dam, and this time when Boone ran after her, cursing loudly, the large group of wheeled bots and catcalling Khans ran with him. At the crest of the hill, her and everyone else's heart did a drop-a wall of red, massive and unrelenting, faced them.

Though the Courier and Boone hadn't anticipated this, and stood numbly with their jaws dropped for a split second, the Khans had every knowledge of the group's arrival and didn't pause in their running steps, nor did the Securitrons alongside them. Moments later, Andy remembered her tactical side and yelled, "Inside the Dam." The structure was massive, and needed fortification. Flanked by several Khans, the red-bereted pair made their way inside to view a horrific sight; the Legion had already broken into the structure and were now doing their best to destroy everything and everyone in sight.

"Guess this ends now," Boone said resolutely, finally unshouldering his rifle.

"Guess so." She agreed, and the pair opened fire.

It was pure carnage inside and out. What the Courier and Boone hadn't focused on, something that the watchers in the tower gaped at even as the Legion approached, was yet another group coming from the Southwest-these were far closer than the Khans and had taken the road and kicked open the doors to the Dam even before the Vegas pair crested the hill with their entourage-a smooth-looking group of vagrants who catapulted explosives across the river, who threw supplies to the unprepared NCR soldiers. Since the group was making it obvious who they were supporting, the Bear didn't question the arrival but went to the front lines side by side the group, flanked by the frightening-looking Brotherhood members.

But on the inside, the Khans and what few NCR were left were the only companions to the black-armored pair as they made their way down. One of the scientists stuttered out something to Andromeda about the Legion attacking underneath the Dam as well as on top of it. The quick-thinking blond turned to Boone as they hunkered by a large boiler. Amid the shouts and gunfire she spat out, "We have to get these bystanders down to the reinforced barracks...where Oliver is...at the bottom inner level I can open the Dam, right?" The scientist nodded. Boone's eyes lit up momentarily as he realized her plan. "When the water comes through the Legion forces behind it will be ground up in the turbines. But we have to hurry." She nodded to the stricken scientist. "Where are the others?"

"Badly defending themselves in one of our labs-"

"Lead the way. And tell me where and how to access the controls to the turbines."

With a small army of Brotherhood Paladins and Great Khans at their heels, the Courier and Boone rushed through the masses of red. When a Centurion, smiling under his helmet, brandished a Super Sledge at Boone, the man's reply was to stab the Legionary with the barrel of his rifle, using so much force that the Centurion's eyeball was forced into his brain, and Boone didn't even wince at the splatter of blood that crossed his face. As the soldier fell prone, the Courier bent toward the ground and picked up the fallen Sledgehammer. She grunted at the exertion, and Boone snatched it away. "You can't carry things like this while you're..." he knew her fascination, even obsession, with smashing things. But the weapon was impossibly heavy, and she was in no condition to be lifting heavy things.

"Then you carry it," she said, drawing a silver and gold pistol from her breast plate, one weapon he hadn't seen her pack.

"I can't-"

"Do it!"

Half because he was good at being told what to do and half because he didn't like being yelled at, Boone drew the hammer back and let it collide with a Decanus who was advancing from behind. As Andy landed her first headshot with Maria, Boone's face was again covered in blood and he smiled suddenly. "That...felt good."

"Why do you think I use them?" she growled.

The group pushed their way downstairs, gathering the frightened technicians and tossing them weapons from the fallen Legionaries; Fantastic was among them, audible with his "Whooaaaa shit, man!" as Andy tossed him a machete and he dropped it clumsily. He refused to detach himself from one of the taller Paladins, who would later take off his helmet and reveal himself to be none other than Hardin. Fantastic leached onto the Power Armor as they hurriedly descended, Boone having a less than difficult time adjusting from long range to lambasting the red-clad warriors with his kinetic-energy-storing sledgehammer. With him in the lead, they cut a path down several flights of stairs, the Courier barking orders to pick up the wounded along the way. When Fantastic shook his head profusely at helping an NCR soldier with a bleeding, nearly severed leg off the floor, Hardin pulled the redhead off by his fiery hair and thrust him downward, stomping on his back to ensure Fantastic had no choice but to follow orders. When they finally burst into the lab, it was dark, abandoned, and the Khans barricaded the doors while the Courier organized the group.

There was little time to spare, and she only barely made sure everyone had a weapon and was at least stabilized, tearing open the laboratory's first aid kits to throw gauze, chems, whatever equpiment she could find toward the scientists. "Whatever you do," she said, cutting the lights, "Keep it dark, and keep quiet." Several wounded were moaning or crying. "Try to stop the bleeding, don't take any bullets out unless you know what you're doing." She pointedly shoved Fantastic back. Boone paused in his handing out of weapons to enjoy this-he desperately wanted to kill Fantastic and was even more annoyed by the fact that Andy always seemed to like him, giggling at his stupid jokes and idiotic bragging. Fantastic grimaced as she reached forward again, but then a voice spoke calmly.

"It's all right. I have medical training. I'll make sure he doesn't lay a hand on anyone."

The group turned; emerging from one of the back doors came a white-coated familiar face:

"Ignacio!"

The brunette's serious face looked even more serious; his eyes seemed to have a forlorn glow about them that suggested intense sadness. It occured to the Courier that he had followed Fantastic to the Dam merely to prevent any disasters. Suddenly she felt even worse for the Followers researcher. Realizing that someone had summoned the Khans-and she didn't even know about the other group helping out above ground-she suddenly looked past Ignacio to the communications room he'd been standing in. 'It was you who sent out the distress call!"

"No," he said, looking rather intrigued. "The radio signal is far too weak, and there seems to be a problem with the hardware. I believe someone has triggered a system overload...I can't get any contact outside of the Dam to assess our situation properly."

She stared dumbly. "But then who..."

"We gotta go if you want to turn on those turbines," Boone said impatiently at the door. The Courier reached over and squeezed the sad scientist's arm, and he seemed to want to reassure her with, "I will help them, go." He looked utterly shocked, and so did Boone, when she instead of nodding and leaving promptly as she was known to do, grabbed him in a tight embrace. Ignacio stood numbly there, realizing that before the day was over, one or both of them would very well be dead. So he returned the embrace, and she left the sanctity of the hidden room, left the Khans to blockade the door and the doctors and engineers to tend to the wounded with Ignacio in charge, his glowing eyes reflecting his deep sadness while the woman of the Mojave took the battle toward the control panel for the turbines.

The King listened to the good news over the radio; while Arcade and Nolan were busy celebrating, having received no word of the Battle at the Dam yet, while Vegas continued on its normal weekday afternoon grind, Mr. New Vegas told the black haired ruler of Freeside and everyone else listening about the few details of this historical treaty to be signed by the Brotherhood and the NCR, details he'd gotten from the information sent by Crocker. The entire Strip was abuzz and gossip ran high; and now the King turned from the mirror to smile at the patient cyberdog who lay curled up on his enormous bed. Rex's tail thudded against the velvet sheets.

"I know I know, you wanna go on a walk...we can do that. But I ain't leavin' without fixin' my hair, an' that can take some time."

Turning back to the mirror, the King glanced again at the happy dog. Over Rex's shoulder was a window that looked out over Freeside's east area, the high floor the King lived on making even the gate easily accessible. And now through the window he saw two of his men clearly running through the street, away from the gate, towards the headquarters. The King lowered his comb. "What the..." Now he turned, seeing something he couldn't quite comprehend. Somewhere downstairs a door slammed, and the King dropped his comb.

Approaching the gate with a large battering ram in tow, as well as a wall of archers, was a sea of red Legionaries. In military formation, they walked stiffly forward, hard lines of the group making them seem like one large swimming rectangle of fire ants. The King's eyebrows raised even as his jaw dropped; by now the Kings were running upstairs and the sound of Mr. Vegas was drowned out by the thuds of their thunderous footsteps. And as they burst in the door and started yelling, the motionless King could only think of one thing; how much he missed Pacer.

The King's footsteps pounded on the already drumming street, rife with citizens. He never knew just how many people Freeside could hold until they all came from their hiding spots, filled with terror at the impending doom on the other side. When he reached the gate to Vegas, the Securitrons all stood stoically by. The King skidded to a stop despite having full clearance. "Where the hell is-" then he saw amid the disgruntled soldiers onscreen, the one wearing a cowboy hat and idle smile.

"Victor! Victor. Where is Arcade?"

"Hidey Kingy! My you sure are in a hurry aintcha? Arcade's at the Embassy at the present moment, I reckon. If you want to-"

"Just tell 'em-" it was the only time in years the Mojave hosted two archaic American accents speaking to each other - "Tell 'em...the Legion's at the East Gate. Have him send whoever or whatever he can. I gotta go."

The screen flickered, snapped aside, and suddenly Victor's face turned very ugly.

"Legion at the East Gate?! Well that won't do at all, no it won't...I'll send him that word right now Mr. King. I-" But the King had already ran off again in the opposite direction, back toward the East Gate. He pushed through the throngs to get toward the Old Mormon Fort, where he could already see Julie outside, looking worried and directing people inside the huge structure.

"There's more of them," Boone said in-between shots, as the set of double doors creaked open and more red poured out of the dark, dank corridor. He and the rest of the group had traded in the melee weapons for rifles, and the only one not shooting was the Courier, whose head was bent over a terminal as she cursed multiple times, trying to get the access code to the turbines. It changed daily, but the scientist who told her where to find this machine didn't know today's code yet. So now she was hacking it the old-school way, and having a difficult time of it.

"I'm trying," she snapped in reply, not bothering to do more than glance up amid the echoing rifle fire. Boone's Super Sledge was propped up against his leg as he aimed, and grudgingly slammed the stripper clip downward, pulling the bolt back and continuing fire.

The Courier cursed, losing her iconic patience, and slammed her fist down on the keyboard. A hopeful bleep made her jaw drop-she'd correctly input the correct password. Now the window obligingly opened for her to start the turbines and she did so without pausing. At her dumbfounded look, Boone looked away from the scope and at her with the same shrewdness. A loud shotgun blast rocked the group and they all hastened to a crouching position. Moments after, the Courier snatched up a fallen NCR radio which lay by a motionless NCR soldier; the radio was active and working, and she immediately switched the channel.

"Audio support," she breathed happily, and then, before another shotgun could be fired, a huge rumbling was heard, a great terrible noise that filled the hollow chamber and rattled everyone's teeth. The Courier was the only one who didn't seem to mind as she squinted past the falling dust and yelled their coordinates and intentions into the radio. "Roger that," the deep-voiced dispatcher agreed, also not bothered by the apparent earthquake. The metal seemed to be moaning, and the Dam structure moaned with it. Boone struggled to remain upright. "What the hell-"

Hardin was faster on the uptake. "The Dam's been opened!"

"Right," the Courier agreed, tucking the radio into her utility belt and once again unholstered Benny's gun. She seemed unaware that the pseudo-Romans were advancing, despite being almost shaken off their feet. "Let's go!"

The group dashed from the sanctity of the large desk area and flew toward the staircase; the approaching Centurion, who weilded the shotgun, spat, "Cowards!" before Boone flung his own rifle over his back and swung the Super Sledge unceremoniously. He didn't bother to stay and beat down the other Legionaries who'd entered the room, despite wanting to; with the hammer over his shoulder, the sniper was the last up the metal staircase. More shots rang out from both sides; Hardin paused, bullets from the Legionaries simply flying off his Power Armor as he shot back at them, but one of the Red Army's bullets found its mark-Diane gave out a cry.

"Diane!" Jack and the Courier both yelled, but it was no good, the man's bullet had made its mark and she was already crumpling, dead. With a cry, Jack caught the blond's body before it fell on the stairs. With Hardin in the lead, the group made their way up, the Courier putting her hand over her mouth as the Khan let out another howl of anguish and the doors of the floor above the group opened to reveal yet another Legion troop. On the metal staircase, they were trapped. Boone turned toward the lower level, Hardin toward the upper, and in the middle, squished between Power Armor and more Khans, Jack embraced Diane for the last time.

Though Hardin and Boone were both still firing while they were human shields, it was the fated pistol Maria that put a bullet in the head of the Legionary who'd shot Diane. The Courier was in the middle of the group as well, but she was tall enough to see the group below them. As the man with the gun flew backwards, Boone voiced what was on everyone's mind, "We're not getting up those stairs. Or back down."

Hardin spoke through the thick metal helmet. "We can push past this group up front. But not while they're behind us. Outsider?"

"Out of ammo," Boone supplied, tossing the rifle. "Need to make a break for it one way or the other."

Andromeda opened her mouth, but in reality she had no plan either-but she didn't need one. Jack let out a war cry that would've made any Khan proud before leaping onto the metal railing. He held his balance incredibly well, despite Andy lunging for him, perhaps the only one who immediately realized his intentions. "Jack, no!" But her voice was lost in another cry he issued, this one far more contemplative and rifled with hatred, the same cry that Manny called just before he was hanged by a cold-blooded Decanus- "Long live the Khans!"

Jack's jump carried him far; with a hatchet in one hand and a machete in the other, he landed on a recruit's head and the hatchet went into the man's brain. The group watched for a moment as one man took on ten, and won for a moment. Then Jack, swinging his machete into another Legionary's throat, turned to the crowd on the stairs. "GO!" he yelled, as though it were obvious and they should've ran the moment he jumped away. The cry did at least jostle them into motion, with the Head Paladin leading the group to another fight on the stairs.

"Jack!" the Courier cried again, not believing the sacrifice, but Boone's arm was around her torso and he dragged her up the stairs, walking backwards so that he was protecting her from the barrage of bullets on the next level. Without the pursuit of the men below them, they had a clear path and half the Legionaries to take down. The barbaric fighters looked terrified of the Power Armor and they had every right to be as the Brotherhood stepped up to cut them down. The Dam was still thundering and shaking around them, and as Boone stepped to the front line with the Super Sledge he yelled, "They won't be coming through the turbines anymore!"

The Courier was breathing heavily, her palms on her knees and her head lowered. She was doing nothing to stop her tears, but she shook her head. "Then we go up. And after that ...to the Legate's camp."

North Vegas looked even less pretty than Freeside; with no walls to help contain the Legion, the people there were sitting ducks for the red army. Many were already dead, and those in the high rooms of the Ultra-Luxe looked on in horror at the burning soil. The White Glove Society had walled itself and the casino up-for all intents and purposes the place was dead. The patrons of Vault 21 were likewise shuttered down, but Jacob and the rest of the businessmen at the Tops pulled out their best finery and weapons and met Cachino and the Omertas on the street. Arcade was there, but he did not look anything like Arcade; donning Tesla armor, he walked with Nolan, whose only defense was the large Chinese sword at his side.

The men split the remaining Securitrons half and half-half to aid Freeside, the other half to lambast the assault from the North. Even now, the loud cries from the Legion outside could be heard the faraway east wall, and Arcade, removing his frightening helmet, yelped the action plan to Cachino. The NCR at the Embassy would split and each take a gate as well, and the casino owners were to stay and defend their turf. Riflemen were set up by the Vegas gate, overlooking Freeside, in the event that the Legion got that far. Then the odd-looking pair of men departed to assist Vegas's slums.

The Dam was a sight; white water spilled over the concrete runway, roaring louder than anyone could've anticipated. The rumbling was drowned out by more sounds of fighting, yelling, and thick gray smoke littered the path across the causeway to the Legate's Camp. The Courier stood, baffled at the sight for a moment, and then, "Just go!"

The group ran, and it wasn't far through the smoke and ash that they met their first resistance; gunfire rang out and the clash of metal against metal was heard. The Legion was also hindered by the piles of smoke they'd created with their meager attempt at a blackout, but many on both sides fell. The Courier was fast on her feet, far faster than either Boone with his hammer or Hardin in his Power Armor, and so she broke ahead of the rest. But it wasn't far that she got before the fighting and sound of Dam water was interrupted by a familiar tune. The girl paused, tilting her head, and then turned, grime already resting on her sweaty face from the ash floating in the air.

The tune repeated itself.

"ED-E?"

The robot moved awkwardly, and she soon saw why-it was carrying something lodged in its back antenna. She attempted to dislodge what looked like a stick, but this was no stick. The Courier holstered Maria and lovingly pulled the weapon down.

"My..axe," she said with a note of disbelief, and ED-E chirped consolingly, and still hovered. Something else was attached. The Courier pulled the metal box off the back of the eyebot's mainframe, where it had been secured with thick wire. It was wrapped with a note.

In sloppy, last-second handwriting that she recognized, was, "Maybe that Vulpes bastard did teach us a thing or two."

With her father's axe in one hand and Benny's detonator in the other, she gave one last smile. "Arcade."

The Courier knew there was only one way: forward, over the Dam and to the godforsaken camp, but that didn't change the fact that she couldn't see up from down or hear among the gunshots, crashing of the Dam, explosions, the yell of the NCR dispatcher through the radio she carried on her hip. She was blinded, thoroughly, and choked back the smoke as she tucked the detonator in one of her many pockets. The NCR and Legion could spend days tearing each other apart. But she didn't have days. The blond turned to look behind her in the direction of Boone and the others, contemplating going back. There was nothing but smoke and shouts.

She looked forward again, where a Centurion strode towards her amiably. He held a ripper. The Courier wiped her hand on her thigh and gripped the axe. This Legionary recognized not only the familiar weapon, but the height and lean build of a Graham, and the cold, killing green eyes that flashed white in their insanity. She was death on two legs, and she approached.

After razing more of the lingering Legionaries, the girl paused amid the screams to take off her beret; she knew it made her more recognizable and the Dam if not the Mojave depended on her getting with radio range to the Legate's camp. The causeway over the Dam was a gauntlet, and for every swing she took and blow she dodged, once a bullet grazing past her right leg, the girl feared more and more that she would never get across in time. By avoiding the battle and running along the precarious edge of the Dam where the water roared under her and thunder sounded above her, she'd managed to cut a clear path past the majority of the fighting. Somewhere back there was Boone. Would they make it out of this? It seemed odd to think not...they had made it through so much, but...

She turned forward, squinting as the wind cleared some of the smoke away.

"Oh, no." She was nowhere near halfway across, but halfway across, a huge Legion party loomed, one of the Legate's personal troops. They walked in strict line formation, and mixed in with the rumbles of thunder left over from the arriving spring storm, the Courier could hear the drum beats. The red flag was raised among the ranks and flew just as assuredly above its men as though they'd already won the battle.

The Courier's heart fell to her feet at the sight. For the first time in a long time, she felt no hope.

The King was not suited for a war and neither were his men. Still they were the ones holding the rifles, sitting uncomfortably high on the buildings, leaning over the gate and throwing explosives down onto the army below. Waiting behind the gate was a wall of Securitrons, all plastered with the grumpy soldier's face on their screens. The King's hair ruffled in the wind, the heavy afternoon sun momentarily disappearing thanks to ominous-looking storm clouds. The red-clad men employed the battering ram in the fashion of their ancestors, using its force first dent, then crack the heavy doors to Freeside. Stray troops had taken to climbing the walls on the other sides where the reinforced walls had gaps, but everyone waited; there was no way to keep them out.

The King was atop the building where Mick and Ralph's store were; the two men had hastily handed out guns upon the word of the Legion arrival. Though Jean-Baptiste insisted on standing down with the wall of Securitrons, his sister stood by the King holding a vicious energy weapon. When the gate gave a final groan and the Legion cheered, spilling into Freeside like blood out of a wound, the man still remained motionless. He contemplated his home and all the good he'd tried to do for it, all the good they'd talked about doing at dinner. He thought about Pacer saving his ass countless times in their youth, thought about Julie and how she only tried to help everyone.

The robots on wheels didn't hesitate to open missile-fire. Legionaries were blasted, along with cement and shrapnel, stories high. The cloud of dust was tinted pink, mixed with blood, and even as it brushed over his face and once-white jacket the King didn't move. He could've been supposed in shock, but in reality he was just lamenting the present. He was proud of his humble past, and didn't know if he had a future, so there was really nothing else to do. Behind the Securitons and Jean-Baptiste, who'd already gone nuts and was somehow miraculously avoiding being blown up while taking out three men at a time, the Enclave doctor from Freeside stood beside an Elder from the Brotherhood of Steel.

If only it didn't take evil to unite men, the King thought tragically. Still, it was something. More and more were spilling through, some overtaking the Securitrons, who wheeled backwards carefully as they continued to open fire, and the King spoke to someone he considered an enemy, the Van Graff- "Now's as good a time as any, huh?"

"Sure is," she said heartily, and the pair, followed by several Kings, shouldered their weapons and opened fire from the rooftops.

She'd just torn through a barrage leaving twenty Legion men dead only to get to an impasse; the Courier felt hope leave her just as the clouds sapped the earth from its warm sunlight. It wasn't as though she could backtrack or enter the nearby forest; on one side of her the huge dam loomed, a great space now full of foaming white water, and on the other side the whirlpools created by the turbines would suck her under even if she fancied the idea of leaping into the lake. And she didn't. There was only forward to go, and forward was death.

The Courier felt her eyes well up with tears; whether this was just her emotions on the rise, or a byproduct of the hormone overload, she didn't care. She had expected to be on her way back to Vegas, back home, by now, Kimball in tow. She felt sick, she was tired, her blond hair was covered in soot and sweat, she wanted to throw up, and all this smoke and ash reminded her painfully of the day Benny had died.

Her knees gave out, and the black armor she wore thankfully had knee pads because she hit the cement hard, her entire leg muscles going limp as she now sat on her butt, the epitome of hopelessness. She knew she wouldn't let them take her alive-no, they'd enjoy that too much, and she knew she wouldn't sit idly by and wait for them to come kill her. She would rise up to meet them in battle as she was intended to, but for just a moment the girl put everything else aside and felt very, very sad.

She reached into the vest's utility pocket where she didn't store bullets but instead a folded up beret, and behind that beret's emblem was tucked a large black button. The Courier withdrew her pale hand and extended her fingers. The short nails, bitten and red, were caked with dirt and dried blood, the palm covered with the blisters that weren't optional when one held a weapon ten hours out of the day. The smooth button looked so out of place, black and shiny, glinting off the nonexistent light from the now-cloudy afternoon. She gazed at it, then back up at the approaching army. The front lines were now no more than seventy feet away. They would soon catch sight of the hunkered down blond despite the shade of black smoke. She'd have to suicide-plunge, but the girl couldn't help feeling the wave of nostalgia even in the approaching army. Was it right, killing House? Assuming responsibility for Vegas? Being so intrusive on every single fucking tribe and group 100 miles around here? She lowered her gaze to the button again, and felt for some illogical reason that things were going to be all right.

She should've already put the thing away, should've gotten to her feet and shouldered the axe and prepared for this suicide run. But the girl tilted her head when she heard something above the sounds of the drums, which thudded under her feet, something louder even than the crashes of thunder or the assault of the water pouring out of the Dam, the NCR dispatcher's voice, being cut out more and more frequently with static yelling at her hip, or the gunshots and explosions and cries of death and despair lost in the smoke all around her.

It was a whine, a very unsettling whine, one that sounded larger than life and so shrill the girl's teeth chattered. Just as she looked sharply up to find the source of the terrifying noise, the NCR radio issued a loud, strange buzzing-interference. Suddenly through the channel, the girl heard a strange thing. Children's voices. A girl, no more than ten by the sound of it, called in a chipper and upbeat tone, "North Tower to B2904121 -Lady, proceed to stand, maintain maximum forward speed! What's your airspeed?"

Thinking she must have absolutely lost her mind and wondering if a spare Legion bullet had hit her head, the girl slowly pulled the hand-held radio up and stared at it as though it were an alien. The frequency was overtaken by whatever disturbance caused it, some close-signal interruption, but then another startling voice issued. This was another child, a boy, this time with a very recognizable voice. "Hello North Tower, this is Lady, roger that, airspeed 240 at Foxtrot Lima 240, approaching dark area! Air strike imminent!"

The little girl couldn't have sounded happier about whatever an air strike was. "Roger that!"

The Courier, baffled, dropped the radio as the whine grew loud and shrill enough to hurt her ears; clapping both hands to the side of her head, she stumbled to her feet as a huge dark mass unlike anything she'd ever seen floated toward her. The woman squinted at the shadow, then her green eyes widened impossibly when she recognized the structure from its resting place in Lake Mead. The fucking thing was flying through the sky, getting closer and closer, and she could only stare slackjawed as it made its way smoothly over the Legion forces.

The girl knew what would happen next, because she listened to Pete's ridiculous story and saw the wall mural at Nellis. Black things would fall from the plane and explode; as she leaned against a short tower, gripping a rusty side ladder for support, the B-29 slid gracefully over the Red army and unleashed its barrage; the men had already fallen out of formation and were yelling, tripping over themselves, stumbling, some shooting in vain at the aircraft as it dropped its missiles down onto the Dam's causeway. The Courier, one accustomed to explosions, was nonetheless flabbergasted as she watched the once-perfect array of deadly warriors blown into the air, off the sides of the Dam, consumed by fire. The peaceful air tank quite stoically sailed on, and without their close range, the radio communication that Andy had overheard was now null.

She watched the revived aircraft sail away with its whine growing steadily quieter, and let go of her iron grip on the outer ladder. Though many remained in the group she'd just moments earlier been overwhelmed by, most were dead, many were injured beyond repair. Along with many others in the smoke and ash she cheered and ran on, still clutching the button for dear life as she held the axe in her other hand, ready to cut down the failed wall of Legionaries as though they were a forest of already burned trees.

The Courier crossed the causeway, listening to the shrieks of missile fall from the Boomer's artillery in the distance and hearing the other battle noises all melting into one huge meaningless noise. She would've mader her father proud, cutting down easily sixty men with nothing but the axe; she was dodging shortswords and Rippers and bullets the entire time, but she crossed.

The whine of the B29's engine was now not a frightening thing to hear but a welcomed noise, despite the now thick grove of trees that separated her from the Legion camp. Hoover Dam was surrounded by high altitude Nevada forest, and the battle had spilled from the Dam itself to this area. She didn't know who was driving who back, still had no sight of Boone, but hope had not only returned, relief had set in. This was doable. This was being done right now. This would be over soon.

Then as she left the smoke-littered causeway and entered the rocky tree-lined area, the crack shot of a pistol echoed nearby-very nearby. The girl's kneecap was rocked with deadly pain, and she gave a cry-the bullet hit its target, and nicely too. She had the sense of mind to throw the axe over her back where it hung from the leather strap, then both her hands went to clutch the knee as her cry died to a whistle. It was her left leg, shot not quite directly to her kneecap but just below it, and now she shifted all weight off it and desperately tried to regain composure.

The assailant and his men, all donning red, stepped from the trees lazily. He still held the gun, and now he fired again. The Courier screamed as the second bullet, a 9mm round, tore through her right calf. He approached at a swaying walk while the girl had no choice but fall completely to the ground now, her right leg giving out from under her. She pulled herself up with her arms, heading toward a foxcrawl position, and as she grunted and cringed, the man pulled the hammer back.

"Don't move again, Courier, or the next one's for your pea brain."

She continued to breathe heavily, but said nothing, pain from the double gunshots causing stars to explode in front of her now misty eyes.

"Why...you..."

"On your feet." He snarled rather lazily, like a male lion, at his men. "Get her on her fucking feet."

To the Courier, "It's just a short walk to the hill from here."

"The...Camp?"

Two Legionaries moved forward and grasped under her arms. She complied, straightening her bleeding, useless legs and trying to limp forward. There were six of them, including the familiar man who'd shot her. But he shot her to cripple her; he obviously had something else in mind on this hill he spoke of. It couldn't be good, whatever it was.

"Not the Camp."

He turned away, his red cape and locks of gorgeous hair the only thing visible to her. On a rock, she stumbled and fell, and the obvious leader of this small rebel group turned with a severely annoyed look. "Pathetic."

He was tall, hulking, far bigger and broader than any of the men. He stepped back and grabbed the girl unceremoniously, throwing her over his shoulder as though she were nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Benny had held her once in a similar fashion, but this man didn't look happy in the slightest about having a perfectly sculpted female derriere on one side of his face or the longest legs in the Mojave draped over his torso. Then again those long legs were bleeding profusely all over his already-red uniform, so this could have been part of the origin of a displeased look.

But the truth was, he always looked displeased. With the girl in tow, still biting her lip and blinking away tears as the bullets screeched with pain with each little jostle or step, they made their way up the rocky mountain overlooking Hoover Dam. There was no point in her struggling, so she didn't, nor did she mock the enemy. If truth be told, she was still numb-not from the pain, but from feeling- and perhaps the hopelessness had returned. With no way to see her destination, she instead looked over the ever-distant battlefield, watching the men and women exchange fire down below. Many were dead, even Securitrons littered the causeway, casualties of war. The fighting hadn't spread very far past the entrance of the Dam, however-not a good sign, as it seemed the Legion were pushing forward more and more. The whine of the B29 was very far in the distance. Presumably it took a lot of wind and space to turn the behemoth monster of a craft.

If she got lucky, they'd be careless next round and blow her sky high. Anything would feel better than this degrading and painful walk of shame. She finally did start to cry, shame being the cause instead of physical burden or loss of hope. She was ashamed that she wasn't fighting, that she just wanted to sit and go home, that she, the Warrior of the Wastes, didn't want to be a Warrior. She wanted to be a mommy, a teacher, a gambler, a lover...anything was better than this. Prostitution was looking pretty good.

Finally they crested the hill and the group stood proudly around what it was they made; the girl couldn't see this, however, as she was still butt-first and could only see the historic battle unfolding. No red beret either. Not that she could see anything through blurry eyes. The carrier heaved a sigh, his only yet display of fatigue, and shifted as he stopped walking.

"You're the heaviest woman I've ever carried."

"Gee, thanks."

"You weigh as much as some men."

"You always did know what to say to a girl."

He lifted her off his shoulder and put her face to face with him, holding her arms as she was only able to half-stand with one leg.

"Most of the slaves are starved by the time they reach me. That and the Legion likes petite women for various...duties." He almost smiled, a cruel and still handsome smirk that she'd seen many, many months ago. Before she entered the Strip. Before she even met Boone in that dinosaur.

"That sounds charming."

His dark green eyes were intense, and he looked rather stoic, staring at her now. The girl's face had not a single shred of emotion left on it, her only expression tiredness, but tears streamed through the grime on her face and created two smooth rivers of pale.

His voice was blank. "You're crying. Are you afraid?"

Her voice was equally blank, tired. "You just shot me...twice. And you actually came back. I never expected..." Andy closed her eyes, shaking her head slowly as though she didn't believe her eyes. She didn't.

He glared now, narrowing his eyes, and then turned her around so they faced the same direction. Now he hugged her close as his eyes misted over with obvious pleasure in his creation. Subdued, she leaned against the hard armor and listened to his glorifying speech. It was something everyone in the Legion seemed to be good at, these heroic vomits of words. Perhaps nobody did it with such a bored, impertient tone as he.

"Know why I picked this hill? It looks right over the Legate's fort. We may die here today, but the person responsible will die too. I came back to the Legion and you've destroyed everything I worked so hard for. My whole life. I was the youngest Centurion in the Legion. That used to mean something. Now what does it mean?" He didn't expect an answer. "Means nothing." The Centurion pivoted himself and thus the Courier he supported, gesturing toward the nearby platform on which Andy supposed she was going to be standing soon. Thick, black oil was smeared on the wooden beams. The Legion was notorious for their burning crucifixes and stakes. She should have been afraid, but the wry voice of her captor had her almost hypnotized. She closed her eyes.

"You'll die, and I'll watch you be destroyed while you watch everything I worked so hard for be destroyed. It doesn't matter who wins here today-thanks to you, I already lost everything. After Caesar..." he shook his head. "The end of my way of life. It's going to be marked by the end of your life."

Her eyes remained closed, but now as he shifted her forward, the girl stumbled and said in confusion, "The Legate?"

"He doesn't know or care what we do with you. Or that you are even here, although I guess he suspects it. You are everywhere. But I don't give a damn about the Legate. Or the Legion. This is personal."

They walked over a sit foot circle of a dug-pit-a pit coated with gunk and kindling, to a rather pitiful, five foot high platform. It was less of a platform and more of a large plank with a flat base on top. Today's crucifixion carpenters weren't really overzealous in their efforts. The Legionary carried the girl there as though this were some pre-War wedding ceremony; one arm still around her, the other holding her shaking hand. Shock was setting in, her adrenaline crashing to a halt and the very essence of her fighting nature coming to a close at last. She had no escape plan, had no willpower or strength even if she did one. Joshua Graham may have been able to take out six Legionaries in full dress, one of them a Centurion, while sporting a gunshot in each leg, but she was not her father, and she was tired.

Before he abandoned her to sit and drink with his fellow Legionaries, the man pushed the dirty, tangled locks of blond hair away from the sides of her face and despite the dried blood and dust and sweat, he said in a completely different tone than he'd used the entire time she'd known him, "I was wrong about one thing."

Still holding her face in his hands, he moved one palm to her throat, first caressing it with his thumb and then putting slight pressure on it. Curling his lip, the Centurion said wryly, "You're not an ugly worm."

"Comforting, Silus."

"Glad you think so. Worm."

For one, sickening moment, she thought he was going to lean closer and kiss her, or do worse, but his hands remained where they were, his face steely.

"I came back because I had nowhere else to go," he explained in a near whisper, and now their faces were painfully close, their eyes meeting, his hand unceasing in its pressure and her tears likewise unceasing, "No fancy home, no welcoming friends. And since the loss of Caesar...egotistical as he was, stupid as he was, we have lost our way. What little light of hope I had before, for a future, was destroyed. Even now the camps are undivided, the Legate...restless. The Legion will fall. I know this. Yes, I know it. You needn't look surprised. I knew it would fall in McCarran. That's why I wasn't willing to die for a man or his ways. The others are sheep. It was a man they followed, not a way. But whatever it was, whatever he was, it was all I had." Silus slid his hand to the back of her neck and he was finally showing emotion, his voice wavering and his teeth bared as he said to the impassive woman, "We tribals traded our way for Caesar. Now there is no Caesar."

She stared at him with that tired look, but said nothing and did nothing to stop her own tears.

"Rest assured, Courier...your efforts have not been in vain."

She closed her eyes.

"And for that, you pay with your life."

Silus, as though he were setting a lady of the 1850's on a horse, gently lifted her and placed her on the small platform, where she sat on her butt and looked down at him. The wind stirred his thick black hair.

"Stand." He turned to one of his men. "Bring the torches."

Silus was passed a foot of rope; he motioned to the Courier as though she were a dog, and kneeling from her platform, she held both hands in front of her. He tied the ropes tightly, as she knew he would, his dark locks of hair falling into his face as he looped knot after knot. As she stared down from her perch at him, the girl found herself saying, "I'm glad it's you."

"Is that so?" The pressure on her wrists was excruciating; one would think she'd gone mad, and maybe she had, but this dejected, "it's over" feeling had taken over and she thought only of speaking honestly. Not escape, not war or glory, just saying how she felt, even if it was to the person about to burn her to death. Silus didn't seem to mind her lack of attitude, her sudden loss of Wasteland Savior attitude. Perhaps his words about the Legion's inevitable crumble calmed her, or so he contrived, and he didn't care either way. Unlike Vulpes, he took no heed for the mental state of those he was about to kill. Slaves were one thing, but this girl was another.

"Yes. What you did I mean...when you were captured by the NCR. I know the Legion called it cowardice, but I call it practicality."

Silus shrugged, tying the final knot. "So do I."

She stood, though painfully, and her right leg was rendered completely useless, so she held it up and, hands tied in front of her, stood wobbling on her left leg. It hurt unlike anything she'd ever felt, and she strained to stay steady as Silus's men brought their torches to the brush surrounding the pit. The dry wood went in flames immediately, and she knew it would be a matter of mere minutes before the licking red and orange found the platform, found her. Despite the dejection she felt, the girl's heart started to race, and she was afraid.

Silus watched the flames, satisfied, for a moment, and then turned his attention to the road. "Look, here comes the finale now. Good timing."

"F...finale?"

Also unlike Vulpes, Silus seemed perfectly fine with carrying on conversation with someone he clearly saw as an inferior. He nodded, hands on hips, toward a dusty road that clearly led from the Legion camp. A huge party with unprecedented numbers, marched out in military fashion, carrying some sort of caravan along with them, Brahmin pulling carts as big as some of the broken-down cars littered along the Mojave. The Courier was having a hard enough time seeing through the approaching flames and smoke, and she tried to hold her breath while balancing up there, looking completely idiotic on one leg. Silus was grinning. "Before Caesar's passing, he made a wise investment and one that would ensure the Legion's perseverance at the battle. The troops sent out earlier that were gunned down by the mysterious ...thing, in the sky, were merely a decoy force. This is our real assault."

They were heading toward the Dam. The Courier could barely move, let alone magically put her tied hands to her back belt loop and ninja out some sort of attack, but that hopeless feeling was going away as she saw the large carts rolling down the hill, approaching the Dam. Benny, the man with dreams to rule New Vegas, had given up Vegas, had dedicated his efforts to this cause. This cause. Swank had told her he went with his men to the canyon to personally deliver the detonator to her. Just Benny couldn't do anything. Just Andy couldn't do anything. Together, sometimes hand in hand, and sometimes across the desert from each other, the pair rocked the very foundation of the State of Nevada. Benny and Andy, together, were a stronger force than House, than the entire fucking Legion.

Perhaps she was insane-well, no, not perhaps, she was-but that aside, it was either her obvious insanity or some pseudo-religious force of will, or maybe it was just a miracle, but just as clearly as she heard the gunshot blasts and the march of the huge Legion party, numbering hundreds upon hundreds, just as the girl smelled the sulfur and burning wood around her, she heard Benny's voice, disembodied and just as amiable as it had been in his stress-free moments in life. Just you hold on, doll.

At the voice, one she hadn't heard in months, she shot upright, breathing heavily as though she'd just surfaced from deep water, her jaw dropped. Tears sprang from her eyes, and she sobbed loudly, a look of torment and intense emotion crossing the dirt-streaked face, and Silus finally looked away from his pride and joy-Benny's pride and joy, to the crying girl. He mistook her outburst over the soothing voice as an outburst over the hopelessness for the NCR to win the fight after the missiles destroyed everything in sight. Just as he opened his mouth to torment her, he was interrupted by a beep.

beep. beep. beep. beep. beepbeepbeepbeep.

He froze, and she hiccuped, almost falling over again, her heart thudding in her chest impossibly loud. Silus, angered by the sound of something obviously technological, turned to the girl and eyed the silent radio-it had broken in the fall. She stared at him, jaw dropped. The detonator obviously had some sort of tracking device, alerting it when the explosive trucks were near. Or so it seemed, anyway; that was the best hypothesis she had, and as Silus glared, snapping at his men, "Search her! Go around back, the fire hasn't caught there yet!" she could do nothing but stare back, jaw dropped.

It only took one of the Decanii to find the obvious, flashing device on the rear of her belt, and he wrenched it off, causing her to stumble and almost fall facefirst into six foot high flames, which were getting closer by the second. "Sir," the masked man said, handing over the box, which still beeped alarmingly, to the man. The Courier closed her eyes as the black-haired Centurion took the device from his comrade in arms, turning it over in his hands and looking severely annoyed at the incessant beeping. She tried to exhale; the Legion not only hated technology, they loathed it, and his next step would either be destroying the piece of machinery or throwing it onto the fire, where it would burn by her. Not caring if he got displeased by the maneuver, she sank slowly onto her knees as though begging for pardon, and lifted her tied wrists to her face, still crying.

Silus was nonplussed by her display of defeat, and still more annoyed by the beeping. He unhinged the detonator's thin cover, exposing the small inner portion of the device. There was a small red light, flashing along with the beeps, and several buttons. He ran his thumb over the panel, almost in an idle way, and then, while the Courier's face was still buried in his hands, Silus out of some sick, twisted curiosity, pushed the button to detonate.

Boone knew the inside of the Dam well; every First Recon unit member had to memorize just about every NCR stronghold floorplan, and he'd always gotten irritated as hell during the exams, labeling blueprints of places he'd never even heard of, let alone wanted to visit; what the point was of knowing these maps to someone trained to snipe from mountaintops or crow's nests, he could never fathom. But now, after seeing the Boomers, and worse, what was on the hill, he knew he had to back inside and get to the radio tower and communications room. He shoved through the NCR personnel and jumped down a flight, ignoring the stairs and running across the large engineering facility at breakneck speed. No more Legionaries had crossed into the inner area here thanks to the Courier's technological skills; they were drowned, and water flew through the turbines and jostled the entire structure with its brute force.

Boone skidded to a stop, turning and re-directing himself; was it the west wing, or the south? Time was of the essence, and he had no one here to help him. Just as he made a step, crossing the littered bodies of Legionaries, NCR, and Khans alike, to the South, a too-familiar voice caught his perfect ears and the sniper bristled, turning at the sound of the argument. It was here on this floor where he and Andy had placed the wounded and civilians; and voices were raised. One voice sounded like nails on chalk, and it was because of this voice that Boone momentarily abandoned his rescue mission and marched toward the sound of the fight.

A female engineer ran to the sniper and clutched his broad chest, a look of fear in her eyes. Before he could ask what the situation was, the petite girl said breathlessly, "She's lost it.. She's lost her mind, she thinks they're still coming, she thinks we have to sacrifice ourselves and she won't let the others leave. Is it true, the Dam's lost? We can't go outside. She's really lost it, please help! I know you, you're that-that girl's husband...the one with the other red beret. You can help us, can't you?"

He was trying desperately to pry the girl off him, but unsuccessfully; she may as well have been sewn onto his jacket. Finally Boone wrenched her back and said in a clipped tone, "No more Legionaries will be coming up through the tunnels. You're safe out here. Stay here. I'll get the others." Leaving the lab wasn't really the greatest idea, but it sounded like staying there was going to get someone killed by the shouting. Boone kicked in the door to the lab and halted; there, Moore waved a gun carelessly about, her eyes psychotic. The others were huddled in the opposite corner, even the wounded dragging themselves pathetically away from the enraged woman.

Moore looked deranged, her curls askew, her pupils dilated, as she turned to Boone and caught sight of the black armor and red beret. "Report soldier! How long until they take the Dam!"

He glared at her, a glare that would kill anyone else on sight, but she had long since departed this plane of existence, in mind anyway. "Nobody's taking the Dam. We're holding our own out there."

"Just as I suspected," Ignacio, the strange, doleful Followers researcher mumbled. He was standing protectively in front of many of the civilians and engineers, Fantastic huddled behind him. The redhead poked his head out, looking terrified. Ignacio glared at Moore. "You are frightening these people for your own cause."

"We won't give them the satisfaction of capturing us!" she roared happily. "We'll all be dead by the time they get here, no rapes or tortures or crucifixions. Everyone will go together, here in NCR's Dam."

"You've lost your fucking mind, you crazy goddamn bitch," Boone spat. "Let these people stay here, and get out there and fight with the rest of your soldiers."

"This is no NCR battle." She was...was she slobbering? Moore looked like she could either shoot Boone at any second with the revolver she waved around, causing the others to duck and cringe, or perhaps bite his neck and chew up his arteries. She'd seen one battle too many, and the pressure of keeping the Dam had caused her already high-strung mind to collapse. Boone stood his ground as she ranted. "Khans are here! The Brotherhood. These are our enemies, they've betrayed us and that little fucking blond cunt...they're all working for the Legion! We can't let them win!"

"If you don't put down that gun I'm going to put you out of your misery," he snapped. "I've got to save Andromeda, I don't have time for your shit." He could almost feel time draining away.

She spun away from the horrified onlookers to point the gun at Boone. "You always were a real pain in my ass, soldier," she breathed, and then white dashed forward. Ignacio had made a move to her gun just as she fired, pulling her wrist up and causing the shot to fire at the ceiling, drywall raining down on Boone as he ducked instinctively. Then Moore, incensed, spun toward the doctor, who backed away and was pulled back toward the crowd-another coat of white flashed and she shot twice more, knocking Fantastic into Ignacio, and as she prepared to fire past the now crumpling ginger and to the original interrupter, Boone fired two rounds; one knocked the revolver from her hand, the other hit her directly in the chest. She reeled backwards just as Fantastic had, and now the sniper extended his arm and shot again; her vest protected her from much of the blast, and he wanted to make sure she would be good and dead-but as it turned out, he didn't need the second shot; Moore had tripped into a shelf full of toxic chemicals, and whatever spilled on her from above was ignited by his gunshot. The woman's desert fabric erupted into flames, and she howled as her entire body was set on fire.

"Goddamn motherfucking cocksucking fuckface," Fantastic exclaimed, but everyone else just stared at the sight of Moore reeling around, getting more and more engulfed in flames with each oxygen-enriching dash she made. Ignacio was stooped, his fellow researcher in his arms, and those sad eyes glowed as he looked at the bloody man. Before he could speak, Fantastic turned away from fiery Colonel and said, "Don't worry man...give it a minute and this fucker'll stop beatin'."

"Why did you do that?" Ignacio said, completely stunned at the man's ignorant, fatal bravery. Fantastic, as though he didn't have two bullets in his heart, shrugged nonchalantly. He began to bleed from his mouth.

"Shit man...I dunno...you saved my ass plenty of times, from blowin' up."

Ignacio's jaw was dropped. He cradled Fantastic. "You mean to say...you are giving me credit for the work I did beside you?"

"Hell yeah, and only because I'm dyin', you dickface."

"Thank you, Fantastic. I'm ...I'm sorry." The golden glow in his eyes seemed to radiate for a moment, and Boone finally realized something about this man that he hadn't before; Ignacio contained the genetic makeup that created ghouls. Slowly, perhaps, but surely, increased exposure to radiation would cause his life to elongate, would cause him to turn into one of the foul creatures that remained haunted by their past life. This was probably the cause of the sadness that Ignacio radiated, a partial reason for his seclusion. Though he looked to be in his thirties, chances were he was much, much older already. This look into the other man's life caused Craig Boone to feel sorrow for a moment, a touch of the sorrow that Ignacio felt constantly. To never be able to be close to another, or create offspring, because he lived some vampiristic elongated life and would watch his loved ones and children wither before him while he clung to his own body. It was a personal hell, to be sure. One he didn't deserve, at all.

Fantastic was now cussing Ignacio out about something, tons of "fucks" and "stupid whore"'s issuing from his bated breath, and Boone left the group and the sad pair knelt on the floor. He had something more important to him than the fate of the Dam to take care of. The sniper tripped, leapt over the bodies laying on the floor and headed to the tower. From here he could easily intercept the transmissions that the Boomers were using, jump onto their channel and ask for assistance. What kind of assistance, he wasn't exactly sure. The men on that hill had guns trained on the woman he loved, had already shot her twice. She may not have been able to see him, but his eyes missed nothing, and he knew that if he took a chance and swiped someone's head off with a bullet, she would pay, and she was utterly defenseless. But he had a hunch that those crazy asses in the airplane could help, though he was clueless how. They were his only chance.

As the terror known as the Legion made its way through Freeside, one man, reclining cat-like on top of a building, finally deactivated the stealth on his black armor and contemplated the fruit in his hand. A ripe, green pear, perfectly tinted a healthy shade of coral on one side. He turned it in his spidery fingers and then brought it to his lips, sinking his too-white teeth into the soft flesh of the fruit and missing the feeling of tasting something equally sweet; the neck of a woman, or silken breast, crushed and bruised under his bite.

The man had suffered wounds, not so long ago; a broken nose by an elbow to the face, namely, but despite all that he cleaned up exceedingly well, and his blond-white hair shone even in the dim grey afternoon light. He was ready for today, had made many plans for this. He'd known for many, many months the time the Legion would strike the Hoover Dam. They couldn't win that fight. Most certainly not. If they won the Dam they wouldn't win Vegas, and what would happen to Andy? She had to stay on the top for awhile longer, at least until every last strand of sanity and happiness had been sapped from her quite beautiful body. That was why he sent the false distress code from the Dam, had Securitrons and Khans and others scrambling to a battle before it even began. He would assure her triumph, Vegas's triumph. Even better that she and that idiot of a sniper weren't here; he was cumbersome to deal with, she a difficult enemy to take on. And he didn't want to kill either of them yet...the sniper would be the last one of his victims, for he was the most important.

But today was a good day for playing cat and mouse, and he hadn't killed in weeks...he was growing restless, and bloodthirsty. He came to this town because many that Andromeda loved resided here, and he would slaughter what few he could in the chaos himself, and take the bodies elsewhere to have them sent back to the girl via courier-how quaint-in pieces, mangled and destroyed. That blond doctor was a potential candidate, though he looked tiresome to deal with in that Enclave armor...and the man's thoughts unwittingly went to the time they'd spent together traveling to the Fort, when the doctor enlightened him-no. The Doctor lived today. He would live many days. He had earned his respect.

But that Brotherhood member, the one with the sword. HE could be potentially useful with his stitched head mailed to Andromeda in a box. He was a strong fighter, though, and had already taken out his share of the guards, and Arcade seemed intent on protecting this man. It would be hard to get him without taking out Arcade as well. Decisions, decisions. The man on the roof took another bite of pear and munched thoughtfully. Surely there was someone in this crowd whom Andromeda loved...someone who had a piece of her heart, who-

Ahhhhhh. It was like music. The man batted his eyelashes as his cold, steely eyes landed on the bloodstained white coat and the man inside it, a tall, handsome black haired man, who fought bravely but had no Arcade to protect him...a man whom Andy adored, even had eyes for if she was honest.

Vulpes smiled, and tossed the pear over his shoulder. He unfolded himself just as a feline, and took the Power Fist, idly running his long fingers over the cold metal. The King was going to suffer one hell of a blow to the head, or chest, or stomach-or twenty blows, or fifty. Did it matter? Cat and mouse.

The ex-Legionary, in his tight-fitting Chinese stealth armor, dropped the two stories effortlessly. Invisible, he advanced.

The black of behind her eyelids was nothing but black, but then Benny was there, a vision of so long ago in his checkered jacket, aiming a gun at her head just as he had before, although this time he winked at her, and when it fired, the world lit up, even in the black of closed eyes. The Courier opened them then, just in time to see the detonator fly out of Silus's hand, and a more important sight; the long train of Legionaries was blown fifty feet in the air in a deafening explosion that rocked the very platform she knelt upon, and she held on for dear life as the men around her hit the ground.

"CHRIST!" Silus exclaimed as red turned redder, the blood and guts of men and beast alike reduced to mincemeat as the series of explosions triggered by the detonator took out every last man around. Nine hundred men, the skeleton of the Legate's army, had just been destroyed thanks to a detonator that beeped at just the right time. Andy's jaw was dropped and she didn't move to brush the flyaway blond strips back. She was stunned, too much to move despite the engulfing flames which now licked at the wooden pedestal and threatened to catch onto her Ranger uniform.

The girl exhaled as she looked at the carnage. The whole mountain was catching fire now. It started to rain, but the sprinkles wouldn't be enough to put out Benny's explosion anytime soon. She may have been rendered unable to walk, may even be burned alive like a witch at a stake, but goddammit, they'd won for sure now. "We did it," the Courier breathed happily, in a whisper only she could hear, talking not to the NCR or to the Securitrons or the Khans or even dear sweet Boone, wherever he was...that last vocal tribute was for Benny, and she should've been content to sit here and die as she was five minutes ago. Perhaps it was the explosion, or some inner motherly voice telling her to get the fuck up, there was a baby inside her and it demanded life, but something made her shakily lift up and look toward the horizon.

The sky was dark, rain now splashing down around her, not offering any resistance from the fire that caused sweat to pour down her face in buckets, but something darker was coming right for them, its wings spread wide and the whine of its engine sounding like a cry of glee. The Boomers inside had probably almost lost their gunpowder at the sight of such a beautiful explosion, one that was at least a hundred feet long and forty feet high. Perhaps they were coming to investigate the source, or just drop more bombs in celebration, but either way, they were headed right for her.

The Legionaries saw this too, and Silus snapped his head around at her. "Don't even fucking try to move...you won't get far. You'll burn up there or I'll kill you and then set you on fire." They hesitated unsure if the B29 was going to open up its bowels and share with them a gift of armageddon, but as the great plane sped toward the crest of the mountain it showed no mal-intent, which was indeed strange. The Courier caught sight of something strange hanging from the belly of the beast, though; a ...string? A tail, as of a kite?

The Legionaries were too in awe and shock at the sight of a huge fucking tank of a plane bearing down on them to do anything except stare, or in one case, run flailingly toward the burning mass at the bottom of the hill, and even the brave and dashing Silus buried his dark head with his arms as the shadow descended. Fucking Christ, was it going to crash into her, was that their plan for redemption? But now the thing that she assumed to be a tail was closer, and though she could barely stand, she allowed her jaw to drop in complete and utter disbelief at what it was.

From a single, thick cable strung inside the plane and hanging out the deploy hatch, thirty feet from the bottom of the B29, a massive hulking frame had one of his rugged hands wrapped triple around the cord, a knot making one hell of a makeshift foothold as he leaned forward with his other half, extending the long arm toward her. The Courier didn't change her expression as the pilot dipped the nose down for an extra close encounter, and she raised her bound arms as the man on the rope hit his mark; her battered body thudded into Boone's and she used every ounce of upper body strength she had to wrap herself around his wide shoulders, his other arm finding its way around her waist and back to the cable as the merry Boomer pilot whooped through the radio and pulled the nose up hard, causing both Boone and Andy to yell obscenities as they flew now twenty, now fifty feet from the surface of the earth just as the flames consumed the spot where she'd been standing.

Silus still hadn't looked up.

If supporting the heavy woman and holding his own strength by a cable one-armed was difficult for Boone, he didn't show it, instead looking rather indifferent about being one of the only Post-War, if not the only Post-War military personnel to ride air suspended. She shrieked happily when the nose of the beastly machine rose and the pair swung forward, spinning around. Despite two bullet wounds and emotional trauma enough for ten Grahams, she was laughing, her hair billowing out around her. The ground was very far away.

Boone had never played the role of white knight before, instead he usually grunted and cursed his way through hardships, although there was one incident that left him holding a baking sheet to his private parts and sporting black fillet-marks for a week or more...however, if there was a white knight moment he could be proud of, this was it, and he kissed her there while everyone in the Dam who remained-now shaken from Benny's explosion, watched in wonder. There were simply no Legion forces left. Not for today, not for any day in the near future. And the ones who were dying possibly felt some peace in this, among them a young, shivering Novice who wore the Power Armor of another.

On the ground, Hardin looked away from the sight of the Courier and her companion circling with the bird as though it were a god rescuing its beloved children from the apocalypse, and to the man who'd just saved his life. Hardin, though a Knight and head Knight at that, had little use for theatrical life-saving moments. This young man had just saved his life by taking a Super Sledge blow, however, giving Hardin a chance to kill the assailing Legionary. Only seconds after, the whole forest had gone up with what looked like another atomic bomb, and in his heavy armor, Hardin stooped, removing the helmet from his wiry young helper, though he had a clue who it was simply because he recognized the power fist.

The older man removed his own helmet shakily. "Ogier. Why..."

Ogier, however, couldn't speak. His eyes were closed, his expression peaceful. While the NCR shouted victory, Hardin pressed his palm to his face, pulling Ogier to him with the other arm. There was nothing heroic about what the brown-clad Republic shouted, claiming "victory." When the old watch the young die before them, that is not victory. Kimball emerged from his safehouse, rushing to the stand to make another speech, and the world seemed to move very fast as Rangers moved forward to take the Legate's Camp. Doctors began shouting orders to lay the wounded, and supplies, along the causeway. And though the young boy now as lifeless as the armor he wore said nothing to Hardin, the man could sense his lingering spirit. It wasn't in vain, don't let it be in vain, and Hardin felt his hatred for the NCR, his hatred in general, ebbing away over the fact that someone else's sacrifice had given him a longer life.

Yelling over the motor, the pair shouted up into the bowels of the plane, hearing the instruction from yet another familiar voice; hold on tight, they were going to pull the rope upward. So Boone and Andy held on for dear life, as if they weren't already, while the rope jolted, now shorter, now shorter still, and soon she was being hauled over the metal lip into the inside of the plane. It wasn't much to the average pre-War person, probably-just a little hole with an oxygenated tunnel leading forward, and the cargo area packed full of standard-issue missiles-but they were in the fucking air goddammit. Jack moved to close the hatch, requiring Boone's assistance as the two men muscled the creaking, blowing door closed. Andy sat on her butt, looking around in wonder, as Janet crawled forward. "They said you'd been shot."

"Oh...yeah, I guess I have." Adrenaline had kicked in and Andy was not the least bit aware of any feeling in her legs, at all. Boone spoke up.

"They're going to fly us back to Vegas. You need Arcade."

She nodded; there was no point in arguing, as the fight was over for the Legion, the NCR could take care of themselves, and nobody this side of the Rockies was as qualified as Arcade in poking around the Courier's flesh. She looked pointedly at him. "How is it there?"

"Haven't heard. I'm sure the Legion attacked there. Radioed in a Fiend attack at Golf, McCarran too. Legion and raiders both trying to take over."

"I'm sure Cachino didn't let them get anyyywhere near Gomorrah," she said with a hint of humor, and then looked toward the tunnel leading to the cockpit. "Can I?"

"Yeah, sure!" Janet said enthusiastically. "We were the only ones able to lift the missiles to be deployed. So they stuck us back here. But go on up!"

In a rather pitiful fashion, Andy hobbled with one good knee, crawling on her elbows through the thin pipe. Boone hesitated, not knowing how to feel about such a small space so high up, but at the hopeful sight of her rear end, he hastened through anyway. When the blond poked her head through to the cockpit, her eyes were sparkling at the magnificent sight.

"Oh my god."

The Mojave was spread out before them, the luscious greens and browns intermixing beautifully with the pale gray of the still-stormy sky. She'd ridden in a car once, the wind blowing in her hair, the desert melting away too quickly, but this experience made that one look novice. The Courier's chapped, bleeding lips parted, an exhale causing the mist in her eyes to shimmer as she realized, pulling herself up to stand, stooped, clinging to the pilot's chair-she was flying. Maybe not in the fairy tale sense of the word, but it was magic all the same.

Everyone joked about the Wasteland; though she couldn't have known it, pre-War folk even made snide comments about this western desert. Nothing to it, nothing in it, it was just dead space before the bombs turned everything into dead space. The desert was so big, and so empty. It got chillingly cold at night, as though the earth couldn't be bothered to expend its energy warming a place no one cared about. When little Arcade and even littler Carla stood in any of California's great cities, when the Courier had walked the streets of Old Salt Lake City, when Boone spent his younger years in New Vegas, they all had one thing in common, they felt in place, they felt comfortable. Civilized, in whatever meager way the post-war world could have civilization. But the Mojave denied everyone that feeling. Not in a ruthless way, but in a humbling way.

When Arcade, watching over the younger girl as his mother insisted he do, stepped from the safety of their caravan tent and, holding her tiny hand, stared up at the open desert morning sky, he'd stared much the same way as the Courier-when Boone had taken up First Recon, he used an old radio tower as a nest during training, and he and Manny both sat up, hunched over and breathless, staring out over the majestic nothingness. They and so many others before them had felt a small part of their power as people die, or their perceived power, at any rate, when staring at that void. The most egotistical, the most self-assured man or woman was made to feel like the tiniest little ant at the bottom of a large, dried up fishbowl. It should have been a terrible feeling, and maybe somewhere alongside the state of awe, it was a terrible feeling. But Andy did not feel terrible.

She did not own the desert any more than Dinky the Dinosaur owned the desert. Her love of the desert owned her. She cried while staring out over the beautiful scenery. The tip of the Lucky 38 was already visible as a dot in the distance. The co-pilot turned, pivoting to see the girl's face as she hunched over his chair. "Beautiful, ain't it?" Lines had vanished from Loyal's face as he smiled. The Courier nodded, still unable to speak, and knelt to prevent the damned throbbing in her legs from getting any worse. She was now eye level with the seated man, and she turned to her left; the pilot seat.

"Wanna see what this thing can do?" Pete piped up, barely recognizable from his bomber jacket, leather hat, goggles, and long scarf. Slowly, the Courier nodded, a ridiculous smile finding its way onto her very tired and dirty face. When Pete yelled and pulled the throttle, they were pitched upward, the metal groaning, and in the back, Jack and Janet cursed as they were thrown backward like rag dolls. Andy knew the Boomers too well to not latch onto Loyal's seat; both Loyal and Pete yelled, "WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" as the plane jerked high into the air and Andy shrieked with laughter as she held on. Boone wasn't so lucky; with a "SHIT" he too was pitched backwards, but his large frame got stuck somewhere amid the machinery and he flailed to get free, turning slightly green as the earth disappeared from the window and the sky moved forward.

"TO VEGAS!" Pete chanted, and then, Loyal and Andy echoed, "TO VEGAS!"

He pulled hard on the controls again and Boone slammed into something else, yelling "FUUUUUCK" and reminding himself amid the chaos, to drown that kid the next time they were on land.

Vulpes's first blast knocked the King not only off his feet, but across the dust and onto his back, where he slid an additional ten feet across the rocky pavement, having the sight of mind to roll onto his side, grasping his abdomen. Unlike Nolan McNamara, the leader of Freeside didn't carry a personal frying pan in his arsenal of defense, so now he boasted at least two broken ribs, several more cracked or threatening to break. The man who self-proclaimed he "kept the spirit alive" was now very close to death, and he crawled away. It was no good though; no one noticed, amid all the fighting, the nearly-invisible figure stoop, and then haul up the King by his collar.

Vulpes deactivated stealth; his sneering blond face was inches away from the King, whose mouth was pouring blood. With the hand not holding up the battered King, Vulpes held a switchblade. "Have you seen the way she looks at you, the way she always has?"

"What'n hell're you talkin' bout," the King mumbled, gasping for air, wishing for death. His perfectly gelled hair was tousled, his white jacket now almost completely covered in dark crimson, both his own blood and that of the men he'd killed. Vulpes turned his own cheek to the side, revealing the scar that the Courier had put there; the lines where she clawed his face after he'd killed Benny. Now Vulpes pressed the blade to the King's temple, over his eye.

"The way she looks at you. She always has. I don't understand it. When we were children, she never spared eyes for anyone, for me, yet you she finds...flawless."

"Who!" the King bellowed his eye widening, as Vulpes cut a line from his forehead to his eyebrow. Now the King pulled away, landing a punch despite the crackling sound coming from his ribs, and Vulpes's knife slashed down his cheek all the way to his chin, a bright red line opening up. The King fell onto his back, unable to breathe, and he choked up more blood as Vulpes frowned. "You've got two more left," the blond scolded, putting his foot on the King's stomach. This made the other man yelp in pain, and he grabbed the black-clad leg and threw it far, too far for someone in as much pain as he. Vulpes was caught unaware; though he tripped and fell, he recovered quickly, the King rolling over onto his stomach on the pavement and staring down the enemy.

"If you're gonna kill me, come on," the brave Freeside King bellowed, and Vulpes's sneer turned into a sick smile, "I don't think just yet."

The King pulled his pistol, Vulpes lunged forward and kicked it away, pulling the man to his knees by way of grabbing the thick black hair, and then plunged his knife into the King's gun hand. The blade went through and now the King could only grunt as Vulpes kneed him on the face. Grasping his knifed palm with his other hand, the King was thrown onto his back a final time; he was spent, the blood was simply spewing out of his mouth now, and his nose as well, but just as he looked to the grey sky and muttered, "Julie..." a shadow crossed it. A faint outline of a giant bird, silhouetted black against the almost-black. And then another shadow, a very near one, blotting out the light of the clouds.

This was someone-no, something jumping over the King's head and barrelling right toward Vulpes. The King lifted his battered head. "Rex!" he choked.

The gigantic cyberdog had knocked Vulpes over just as he was about to administer another blow, and now he snapped and bit and growled with a ferocity unmatched. Vulpes howled as Rex sank his teeth into his arm; the ex-Legionary reeled back as the German Shepard tossed the bone in his mouth to and fro, snapping Vulpes's arm. The King saw an abandoned pistol, a casualty of war, lying no more than six feet away, and he forced himself to slowly crawl toward it, every tendon screaming, every bone in his chest poking and protruding in ways that it shouldn't have been.

Rex's snarls were fearsome to hear, and now he was intent on ripping Vulpes's leg off, or so it seemed. When the man tried to grab at Rex's neck with his good arm, the dog bared his teeth and snapped at that too, so that Vulpes, in trying to run away, fell and had to deal with the wrath of a metal dog on top of him. The King grabbed the pistol, though it shook in his weakened hands, and he slid the safety off, turning on his side and trying to take aim. Just then, two things happened; as he aimed, Vulpes finally withdrew his Ripper from his belt and plunged it forward, directly into the heart of the dog; this finally stopped Rex's deadly assault; and the blond man with the scarred face activated his stealth. The King was too shocked to fire; the gun dropped from his hands, he fell forward, and from behind him, a gunshot sounded.

The King turned; the semi-invisible Vulpes spewed red for a moment and then pushed the heavy dog off him and stood, fleeing yet another bullet from behind the King. The black haired man didn't even turn to see the hulking figure of a de-helmeted Arcade Gannon, who'd finally arrived with Julie Farkas in tow, both of them staring with a look of deepest hatred to the empty space that now contained Vulpes. The King, who had no strength left, forced himself over to Rex, forced himself to pick up the now whimpering dog's head and hold the beloved animal's chin in both hands. Rex looked up at him sadly, whining more loudly now that the threat was gone, and he struggled to scoot closer to the man he'd called master for a long time.

Around Freeside, the battle had died down. As a result of the Securitrons, the Kings, the NCR, and the Locals, the Legion had no chance. The shadow that the King saw earlier was descending, dropping off two very important people at the East Gate; outside the broken doorway, Boone fell to the ground, standing, and caught Andy as she slid from the rope as well. Carrying the wounded woman, the sniper hurried through Freeside, where he almost immediately ran into Nolan McNamara.

"Is it-"

"We have ran them away, it is finished," he said in that calm voice, reassuring the sniper.

"Thank god."

"You mean there was a battle here? This looks like regular old Freeside to me," Andy said jokingly, still in Boone's arms. She was woozy from lack of blood, and neither Nolan or the man with the red beret laughed at her feeble joke. The bodies of many lay around them. The usually dusty gray streets were literally running with blood. Nolan had an edge to his expression, and Boone caught the nuance.

"What is it? Who?"

"That way," Nolan said somberly, and, Andy holding onto his shoulders, he broke into a jog through the street, seeing the small crowd already forming. Tesla armor glowing, Arcade had his back to them, as did the gentle mohawked doctor of Freeside. There was one face missing, and Andy said it first, "The King."

He pushed past the onlookers, the sad and war-torn mass, to see something that made him almost drop the woman he was carrying. There on the ground sat the King they were looking for, looking not at all regal, looking more like a man about to die. He sat on the ground, his handsome face screwed up into a very ugly expression, tears cascading down his face unashamedly. The man spoke only to curse at Julie when she tried to approach; he still had a switchblade lodged into his hand, but he seemed to be focusing on only one thing, the thing that made Andy clap a hand to her mouth and made Boone loosen his grip on the girl. In the King's lap rested Rex's head, and his eyes were closed. The dog was dead.

Boone didn't have to loosen his grip; Andy struggled away from him, forgetting that she didn't have legs to walk any more than the King had lungs to breathe with; she stumbled and fell at the man's side, already dissolving into a flood of tears that matched his own. She reached toward the dog, her hand shaking, and it was Boone that grabbed her shoulder from behind to stop her from touching Rex.

The King ran his hand through his hair, completely and utterly lost, and for the first time since anyone could remember, Boone willingly took off his beret, his own tears sliding down from behind the thick shades he wore. Somewhere in the distance, the whine of the B29 echoed, and the sobbing of the King was the only other audible noise.

Andromeda awoke and opened her eyes, however the world remained dark. She lay motionless, wary of her surroundings, and blinked. Nope, still dark. She assessed where she was; somewhere on a dusty mattress, that's for sure...but it did have clean sheets, and a blanket was drawn over her. She was on her back, facing the sky, which didn't exist-only black. The girl inhaled and found it surprisingly painful to do. Then a sharp pain echoed through the dullness of her slow thought process, and she winced; her legs felt as though they were on fire. She realized her last memory was of seeing a dead Rex by a dying King, and now she sat up with the urgency that she was famous for.

"Whoa, easy," a familiar voice said, appearing out of the darkness, and Andy realized that she was in a tent, and it was night judging by the lack of light filtering in through the cracks. The voice was Arcade's; he sat on a rickety wooden chair at her side and smiled at her.

"What...what happened?"

"It's over," he said in a strange tone, and she let him push her back down on the bed. Her armor was gone, a billowy gown replacing her clothing, and she realized that not only were her legs bandaged, but so were several deep cuts on her arms and shoulders. She also realized that Arcade was not in his Tesla armor, but instead wore the regular doctor's coat, stethoscope slung around his neck. And he wasn't the only one in the tent. Boone sat beside him, also in a fresh change of clothes, a plain white shirt illuminating his figure in the scant light. Dolly was slung over his shoulder, her head jammed in his neck. The girl was asleep.

"It's over," she said, looking again at the ceiling. The lack of any light only made her feel more disoriented, though she realized that she was probably pumped full of chems. Arcade nodded slowly, understanding that she was having problems adjusting, and Andy pressed her palms to her forehead. She remembered the Boomers...oh god help, she remembered Silus...she remembered crying at the sight of the Mojave, and chopping down Legionaries with her father's axe. While she processed, Arcade intercepted, "You really, really need rest. I'd love to sit here and dote, but there are a lot of Freesiders who need a doctor."

"It's fine."

He stood to go, and then, to Boone, "Want me to put her to bed?" The sniper looked down at the dark head of hair, and then over at Andy, whose shining eyes were full of torment, and reluctantly nodded, handing over his precious monster child to his friend and scooting closer to Andy. As it turned out, Dolly's bed was a floor mattress in the same tent as Andy's "hospital" bed, and after Arcade had tucked her in, he exited the tent, leaving the pair alone. Boone at once turned his full attention to the woman, putting his hand on her head and running his thumb with that ghostly gentle touch, over her eyebrow.

"How do you feel?"

She pondered this for a minute, feeling the own grime in her hair, inhaling and almost tasting the smoke still left on her skin. The girl didn't give a long-winded response, but instead of the usual 'I'm okay,' she replied after a halting pause, "I am tired, and stink of war."

He, a soldier, knew better than to reply with words of consolance or praise. He just sat and stroked her eyebrow. She seemed to be deep in thought still, and after another pause she turned her head to him, eyes full of tears. "Is there a way I'm supposed to feel? Shouldn't I feel victorious...or happy, enlightened we've got what we were fighting for? Isn't there another emotion that I'm just...not...getting?"

He shook his head slowly, as though considering it himself. Looking down at her with a hidden expression, Boone said, "No. The people who thrive on war, the politicians I guess, they always put that out there, but the people who are a part of it never really glorify anything. Maybe the idiots, but they always get blown up." He smiled grimly. Thankfully, she returned the smile.

"What have I missed?"

"You fainted earlier. I guess you've been out about seven hours. Everyone's cleaning up Freeside. Even the gamblers from Vegas stepped out to help. Place looks better now than it has in years. We had to lock up the Fort because everyone wanted to come in, get a look at you...if you thought you were popular before..."

"The King?"

"Five broken ribs, collapsed lung, broken nose, internal bleeding, critical condition. They think he's going to make it, but I hear he's already requested Nolan's breastplate."

"Ev...everyone else?" She couldn't bring herself to ask about Rex; she already knew. A weighty sadness that had long since been in Boone's eyes was now reflected in her own, and he didn't cease in his light touch as he answered, "Lot dead here. We carried them to the Vegas gate and made a mass grave, everyone from Cachino down to Crocker were burying people today. But a lot more lived, and they've already patched up the East Gate. And the Dam...I guess Oliver hasn't been found yet, so Hsu was ordered by Kimball to take his post. He's here, by the way."

"Kimball?"

"Yeah. Made his way here by Vertibird. Wanted to stay at the Lucky 38, but I told him no...sent him to Vault 21 instead. Guess he got a suite there...when you're feeling better, of course-"

"That's fine."

She didn't have to say anything else, because Boone's voice dropped as he said, "Rex got his own spot. We found out from some squatters hiding in the King's school that he whined and whined to be let out, and nobody would unlock the door...so he jumped out a window. Said he went straight for the King."

They were both silent for a while longer, and then she said, "How are you doing?"

"Good. Just...it's a lot of death to see in one day. I used to think that going apeshit on the Legion at the Dam would be either the end of me, or the end of my problems." He thought of Moore, of Ignacio, of Fantastic, of Oliver, of the countless men he'd killed. "I saw a lot of hatred in a lot of people's eyes, and I recognized it. I know how hatred like that feels, and it isn't pleasant. Doesn't really make you remember what it is you're fighting for."

This was more than he was accustomed to saying in one go, and he settled down for a long spell of silence while she mulled over his words. He was right, she realized. No matter what side one was fighting on, a mass killing was rarely a morale booster, and Boone was tortured as it was without the added macabre, unwanted battle. She saw the spark that moved in his eyes ever since his rebirth that day at Bitter Springs, start to waver, and the girl sat up on her elbows and pivoted toward the doctor's table, grabbing something.

Boone sat back, confused, and she wordlessly slipped the instrument's hooks to her ear and pressed the flat end of it down on her stomach. She was concentrating hard, having some medical experience but lacking the precision of someone like Julie or Arcade. After a minute, though, she successfully withdrew the stethoscope's earplugs and pressed the metal down on her stomach while holding the upper half of the device to Boone.

He looked at her confusedly, not understanding why she thought it so important to listen to her stomach, but when she implored him by shaking the stethoscope, he took it and put the uncomfortable plastic and metal into his own ears. She held a finger to her lips, silencing his almost-verbalized question, and then waited while he focused, his eyes trained on a nearby tent wall.

Boone suddenly realized what he was listening to, and his face lit up in a way it never had before, ever...not in her history of knowing him or being intimate with him, or close to him, or drunk with him. Years fell from his face and he felt the simultaneous torture of remembering his own almost-child, while being presented with the fact that there was life within life. The truth was, without Boone, the girl would not have made it out of the Hoover Dam area alive. He'd saved more than one life, and the second was one so important to him that he couldn't really quite fathom what it meant to him.

His brown eyes filled with water and the shine that was dimming, and he hesitantly removed the earpiece, putting aside the bell of the stethoscope and replacing it with his own hand, palm down, over her stomach. She was smiling at him, and now he returned the smile, and it wasn't a sad or reproachful or even a reluctant smile. It was almost giddy, and they grinned happily at each other for several seconds, and then Boone's stare once again turned serious as he took both her hands in his, putting them gently on her chest, and then said, "There's something...I never told you."

Her own smile dimmed. "What do you mean?"

"It's..." he hesitated. "Something I could never bring myself to say. I was always listening to everyone else say it to you, and that got old, and I never thought..." the whole truth was that he never thought he'd be in this position with her in the first place, and he for some reason had the hardest time saying this to even his wife. It was because of his intense superstition, really; Boone always worried that voicing his opinion of something pleasant, showing affection in this completely honest way, would curse him and any chance at happiness he had. It may have been stupid, but it was his way, and he knew no other way. The Courier stared at him expectantly, conjuring up something in her head far worse than what he actually intended to say.

"You're beautiful."

The tent that had, weeks before, held a sleeping Dolly and a subdued Boone and Andy was now filled not only with friends and family, but with laughter and the smell of something delicious, cooked up by none other than Manny. The King had threatened to roll out of his hospital bed and break everything breakable in the Old Mormon Fort if Julie didn't move him from his quiet, secluded, boring room and allow him some socializing time. She finally relented when the hard-headed man actually almost took a tumble, several of his own boys preventing him from hitting the floor. Now he too was holding his sides painfully as were the rest of the guests as Andy retold the story of Benny's detonator.

"His face...you have no idea! His face, his eyes," she recounted Silas's horrified expression as he'd blown up half the Legion with the press of a button. Papa Khan was laughing so uproariously his horned helmet threatened to shudder right off his head, Manny the Chef was holding his sides painfully, Swank was wiping tears away. Even Julie and Arcade in the corner snickered and Boone's smile looked genuine and not forced. Andy's eyes bugged nearly out of her head as she first mimiced the Legionary, then flailed her arms about in imitation of the explosion. The King was crying; he was attempting to tell her to shut up before he busted out of his stitches, but he couldn't get that far for fear of not catching his breath.

Boone, while still smiling, surveyed the room from behind his sunglasses. Nolan was there, as well as Liam's parents. The couple had made the long trek alone at hearing the news from Marcus; the Courier had been gravely injured. She was speechless at seeing them, and welcomed them heartily. The pair looked quite out of place in their fancy pre-War clothes, clothes without dust or wear and tear and grime. Now they laughed alongside the Wastelanders, though, all differences forgotten, and Boone couldn't help but smile wider. When he threaded his hands through the long dark hair of the head that rested on his shoulder, he hugged the girl closer to him, as though it were the most precious thing in the world. It was.

"We cannot take you with us," Jason Bright had said in his morose, yet soothing voice. "The mutation, I'm afraid, is barely generated at this stage. Though you've lived many years beyond a normal human already, the trip into space would kill you. I'm sorry."

"I understand," Ignacio had replied in all honesty, not expecting to fly with the group. He really hadn't wanted to, to be honest; religion wasn't his calling nor was the idea of leaving this planet very wise or reassuring, but the largest and perhaps only group of ghouls in the Wasteland would be departing as soon as they found the means, and this made him feel lonlier than ever. Ignacio threw his bag over his shoulder and nodded his farewells, with Chris seeing him to the door. The human didn't know of Ignacio's mutation, nor did the Followers scientist care to tell him of it, but the balding man did make a pronounced "God you're so damn ugly," as the dark haired man exited the ruined building.

As he warily crossed the grounds to the once-magnificent facility, the wind ruffled his dark hair and he had thought back ruefully on the conversation. Jason had actually saved him from one of the more taunting members of his clan; a Brotherhood member, sinewy despite the necrosis, had slammed Ignacio up against the wall, fingers clasped around his neck, and the ghoul had every intention of killing what he assumed to be a human until he saw the slight gleam of radioactive glow in the man's dark pupils. At this, the ghoul smiled, baring hideously decayed teeth, and said in that growl of a voice, one that Ignacio thankfully didn't have yet, "It'll all fade away for you, and you'll be alone."

Ignacio had struggled against the iron grip and gasped for air before responding in ragged breaths, "I am alone."

"You think you're alone. Wait until the humans make you an outcast. Wait until the skin flakes and peels, burning and burning until your nerve endings get exhausted, die out. Wait until you cry until your cheeks are burned with salt, and then you lose your eyelids-thin skin, they go first-" here he tightened his grip, "After the eyelids go, you can't cry anymore. And you'll die for a drink, die for a kiss, die for something worthwhile to touch you."

He had grabbed Ignacio's throat harder and slammed the man's head into the wall; the researcher saw stars, gulped for air at the sudden release on his throat, and now the ghoul took his own palm and put it flat against Ignacio's face, running his fingers across the man's cheek in a sick caress. The man didn't dare to flinch, though the feeling of rotten skin on him was almost more than he could bear.

"See how it feels? Do you want this?" The ghoul's eyes widened in anticipation for Ignacio's answer. "You're like the desert, you crumble and crumble and as the years go by you crumble more. But you just don't ever fucking go away. You don't get washed away or fade out of sight. You're still a huge fucking eyesore on pretty little America. They rebuild...we can't be rebuilt. Why don't you end it now?"

"Thomas," snapped the usually ethereal voice, and the ghoul snapped out of his spell, spinning on his heel toward Jason, who approached in a gleam of radiation, his normally serene blue eyes looking clouded with grey. "This human is one of us. Will you cast out one from the Creator?"

Thomas had stomped off wordlessly, giving one last cold glare to Ignacio before he did so.

Now, months after the rockets had been spotted soaring across the sky, Ignacio thought about the encounter as he handed over his coat and emblem to the mohawked Followers leader of the Mojave. Julie Farkas looked at him with a troubled air, but his sad gaze gave nothing away. Humans couldn't sense ghouls the way other ghouls did, and to her he just looked like a sullen middle-aged man, something he was glad of. From behind, one of the tents erupted in laughter and Julie reluctantly took the folded coat and documents.

"We need you, Ignacio," she argued in her soft voice.

"You are left in good hands," Ignacio argued in his monotone. "I won't worry about this chapter of the Followers of the Apocalypse. You have been good to me. I thank you."

"But where will you go?"

He shrugged. The real answer eluded him, although he'd been thinking about Jacobstown, although he couldn't tell her this without arousing suspicion. Instead as he shrugged again, he thought of the rockets, almost wished he'd gone on that suicide mission.

"Won't you at least come in, and say hello? Manny made delicious-"

"I don't think-"

"-Andy's inside too."

"-that's very appropriate, no. I'm sorry."

Somewhere else in the desert, in an abandoned gas station, a figure had moved with jolts through the abandoned aisles and found his way to the restroom, where he collapsed yet again; it took every ounce of his energy to move, but he'd finally found a shelter with supplies where he could clean and stitch his wounds. By the time he was halfway recovered Andromeda and the others were laughing the night away with a warm meal in their stomachs. Now he pulled himself up to the mirror over the sink. There was no hope of electricity in this lonely place, and the desert wind howled outside as though wishing to share in his agony.

The man deactivated stealth on the suit and gazed at himself in the nearly nonexistent lighting; he'd long ago abandoned the helmet because his face was too bruised to wear it. Once, this face was smooth and bright, as pale as his childhood friend Andromeda's, as intricately carved as the most romantic Roman statue. Now, the gaunt cheekbones and circles under his eyes were more pronounced than ever but still-hidden by the barrage of scars and cuts that now plagued it. The three scratch marks she'd given him after he'd killed Benny were now pin-thin and white, still visible under the new gashes. A broken nose, still with an open gash across the bridge, was compliments of Boone's elbow. Also from Boone was a deep scar on his temple where the sniper had punched him so forcefully. Thanks to Rex, his left cheek was nothing but a mess of ragged, torn flesh, and he didn't even recognize the lost, defeated glow in his eyes.

Vulpes brooded in front of the mirror, his glassy grey eyes unfathomable as he thought about the battle. He had sent the distress call. He wanted her alive. He must have her alive. Not only that, but how could he let the Legion win? The Legion and their Lies didn't deserve to rule the Mojave. She did...she did deserve it, but it was his duty, his job to make it hell on her. Never give her a moment's peace. Torment that reign of the Mojave, yes. He'd been doing a shitty job of it, a terrible job, but no more. After this last great battle, Vulpes learned his lesson. He had to leave the passionate flights of bloodlust behind, he had to be more calculating.

But it was so hard to do. He loved killing. And he hadn't yet had the pleasure of seeing her face, the smooth expression torn apart by loss and grief. THAT was what he was living for, wasn't it? There were many cold truths Vulpes Inculta faced in his life...most of them far more outlandish and unbelievable than this one, but the cold truth he faced as he looked at his own broken face and imagined hers, glowing and smiling, was that he didn't save her because he wanted to keep her alive for one more day of torment. At least, that wasn't the only reason. In whatever small capacity of his twisted heart he still cared about her, still threw her into the mix with the thrill of death, the joy of pain, the ecstasy of breaking someone's will. The pair of things, Andromeda and his collective obsessions, were not mutually exclusive, but she was something else, something different, and he only halfheartedly daydreamed of smashing in that pretty face or licking the tears she cried for her lost loved ones in the days to come. The hard truth was that he cared for her, and he didn't know what that would mean for either of them when the future did turn its wing and become the present.

The weathered-looking Powder Ganger, one of Swank's tag-alongs, sat beside Andy. The others were still having their merry fun long into the night, partying and celebrating, but Julie had finally shooed them outside to the open area, insisting that her patients get their rest and privacy. After dragging his feet, Boone finally left with Manny, Andromeda yelling at the latter to teach her sniper how to dance at some point during the night. Dolly had fallen asleep in bed with Andromeda, and even Arcade had disappeared from the peaceful abode. But now Mark, the Powder Ganger who traveled with the head of the Chairmen, entered and sat by her side solemnly.

"You said it beeped."

"What?" She was for all intents and purposes, done...hours of talking and entertaining had left the Courier's already scrambled egg in a near puree state.

"When the Legion went by. The detonator."

"I figured it was a tracking mechanism. Was I wrong?" She was looking oddly at him.

The man shook his head. "I've worked as a mechanic years before prison. I ...made that detonator myself. There's no reason it could've gone off outside that Legion camp."

She was still sleepily rubbing her eyes. "Malfunction?"

"Highly doubt it. The only sound it made was to schedule a timed detonation, which would've counted off the time in half-second increments. I set it up that way but there's no way in hell someone with that in their back pocket could've rigged it randomly. As a mechanic, I'm just curious if there was any other explanation you might have."

Andromeda's eyes widened, and then glistened at the realization.

"Only one, but I don't think it'd satisfy your mechanic mind."

The confused Powder Ganger stared at her for a few more minutes, and after the obligatory small talk, he left the tent, and the Courier lay on her back, looking through a hole in the top of the tent at the thousands of stars looking down at her from the Mojave sky.

Thank you, Benny, she thought silently, and she could almost hear him in her head, chiding her for being in a position where he had to save her life again, making the scales uneven.

Ignacio had escaped Julie, but just as she walked dejectedly back toward her office with his uniform in hand, Arcade's brow lowered in curiosity as he watched her go. The blond saw the door to the Fort shut, and now he slipped away from the laughing crowd inside Andy's tent to follow Ignacio. The brunette was ambling down the broken street, and now Arcade's lip pursed as he shoved his glasses up and trotted behind him. If Ignacio heard the man approaching, he did not react, continuing his steady gait down the road.

"So you're just going to give up, then?" Arcade asked in a rather angry tone, and Ignacio didn't even miss a step. Still the blond's long legs brought him closer and closer to the scientist, who did not respond. Arcade continued. "Just leave now, not even try to fight this? Not talk to the doctor in Jacobstown-who by the way, says you never stopped by-what are you going to do, hide out in Camp Searchlight? After all the-look at me dammit," and now the doctor reached out and wrenched Ignacio's shoulder. The other spun on his heel, facing Arcade, who was glowering.

"You have certainly gained aggression since becoming the companion of the Legate's daughter. I believe it will work wonders for Vegas's future," Ignacio's voice was soft as ever, not mocking in the slightest.

"The future, right, that thing that scares you so much. After we just got through the Dam, after everything we promised back in med school, you are really choosing this moment to just abandon it all?"

"I've made my decision."

The doctor looked genuinely hurt as he stared down his calmer, quieter colleague.

"Why now? Just answer that. Why NOW, after all this work? When we can focus on finding you a cure, finding something-"

"You do not have to blame yourself for what happens to me, Arcade. The Enclave played a large role in ghoul testing, attempting to re-create the x-factor, with many abominations arising therein...but that is the past. I no longer have the misgivings about what's happened in the past. But I cannot hand over my health to one, much less two, Enclave doctors. It's simply something I don't have the will to do."

At Arcade's gape of disbelief, the man continued, "To answer your question, this part of the desert is finally at peace. Everyone is happy. There are smiles from people, so many people. All is right for a small, small time. I want to leave now, because I want to have this vivid memory of my friends and colleagues...rejoicing in victory, coming together for love and comradery. Would you let me have that memory?"

Arcade stared, a lump in his throat, and finally he said in a thick voice, "I'll find a cure, and then I'll find you."

"Of course," and Ignacio's voice was dampered with hopelessness.

"I promise. I always promised you that."

"It's all right."

"When I find the cure, I'll find you. I swear it."

"Farewell, Arcade."

Andy limped for several weeks, but by the time she was well enough to walk (and running all over Freeside and Vegas, much to Boone's dismay) the King was still bedridden, and he was cranky about it. The Courier was making plans to go back to Hoover Dam (also to Boone's dismay, which he couldn't quite show because he was too busy being astonished by her slight body changes that indicated her pregnancy) but she stopped and spoke with the King often, mostly about the rebuilding of Freeside. It wasn't Andy calling the shots; not anymore, with Arcade's Republic putting together ideas. Ideas for a school, a hospital, a housing project. Today, before the girl departed to Hoover, she stopped again by his now lonesome tent. It was, unsurprisingly, guarded by Kings on all sides, and was one of the few immune to his "I'm cranky and don't want to talk to anyone" moods.

When she entered the dusty tent, he sat there glumly, a strange look on his face. This was not the norm for the peaceful man, who was either smiling serenely with his lopsided grin, or else yelling obscenities about how he wanted blacker coffee. The girl took her seat on the stool by his bed, and blurted out the obligatory, "King, how are you feeling?"

His dark hair was still impeccably combed, his angular face just as handsome as ever. She wanted to reach out and take his hand, or put her hand on his shoulder in a comforting way, but somehow she knew it was always better, at least with the King, to hold back. He was not accustomed to such doting, and she didn't want to disrespect him or make him feel more like an invalid. He was, according to Julie, a tough patient anyway. Instead she folded her hands in her lap while awaiting his answer. Usually it was a "good" or "I've seen better" followed by a quick recap of his improvements and ailments, but today he just stared with that stare, and finally in a very small voice he said, "I lost my two best friends."

She could say nothing, but she did give him a very sympathetic look.

"I lost 'em both, and they both died tryin' to save me." He heaved a loud sigh, and she actually saw his lip tremble. "I gotta fix Freeside, Andy. It's just me now."

"It's not," she began, half-heartedly, but the King cut in.

"It is. It is. It was always supposed to be me, my dog, my buddy from when we was kids. That's all I needed, really. I mean, hell Julie...you know she's an angel, I know it too, but I always saw Freeside risin' up an' up an' up more...it did so good for so long. Then I get my seat cut out from under me, an' I'm half dead as we speak."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, realizing the severity of the situation, and understanding that though the King would recover from his wounds he would never be the same again, her own eyes spilled over with tears. The King gazed into some far-off place, that same place the Legion recruit had gazed before dying in Boone's arms, the same place she gazed while full of Cazador venom. She wanted terribly, again, to reach out and hug him, but again she refrained, and they sat there, he with a miserable far-off gaze and she with her hands tucked into her thighs, tears streaming down her cheeks.

The NCR were still cleaning up the atrocity at the Dam, and the stinking of corpses mixed with burnt flesh from the mass graves greeted the wary-stomached Courier as she crested the mountain, trying not to gag. Boone was with her, as was Arcade, and for their travels she'd felt nostalgic, almost peaceful, were it not for the pronounced absence of Rex in their little clique. Hsu had taken Oliver's place; he looked significantly less stressed but no less busy than he typically had at McCarran, and working rather sulkily by his side was Hardin. The Brotherhood member seemed changed by the fight; part of his edge was worn off, and Andy supposed when looking at him curiously, this was what war did to people. Made them forget their hopes and fears, put want on the backburner and threw them into a whirlwind of death and survival amongst it. Perhaps it was humbling, but she would've preferred to live without it all the same.

Hsu was more than happy to see them; Kimball had returned and helped maintain order while the scientists reorganized the delicate power source. Still, fires loomed to the East, and the Courier tilted her head in that direction to Betsy, who was standing watch next to a young Brotherhood paladin.

"Yeah, we've got orders not to mess with 'em. Guess they're still packin' up. I'd love to take a shot at that Legate, man. He's back there somewhere. But Hsu says if we're too eager, it'll illicit an 'unwarranted response.'" She sighed. "Boy democracy sure is shitty sometimes."

Boone nodded knowingly, but Andy wasn't interested in politics. "They haven't tried anything, being so close?"

"Actually, no. They're probably sewing themselves back together and making plans to head back to whatever garbage dump they crawled out of. It's nice to think of going and just finishing them off, but most of us-the ones who are left-are too sick and tired to put up a fight with NCR regulations and Hsu." Now she flashed an uncharacteristic smile. "General Hsu."

"Really?" Boone's eyes widened.

"No official ceremony until we get this place fixed up, Kimball says...but he's going to stay so we can properly get him decorated."

Boone looked stunned, a rare sight, one that Arcade and Andy were both staring at. Ever since the Dam, ever since Bitter Springs even, he'd begun to show such a wide range of emotions it was alarming at times. Now he stared in happy shock. Betsy was still grinning, and she continued, "Still gonna be based out of McCarran, still going to head First Recon. How about it, you comin' back to us, Grumpy?"

Now he scowled, but then almost smiled, and both blonds were looking rather bewildered. So this was how his face had worked before the tragedy. He snorted at Betsy.

"I don't-"

"Bullshit. Let's go inside, talk. Here comes my relief now." Another red beret approached, and the three plus Betsy turned toward the entrance to the Dam. She launched into the gossip of how Hsu's promotion came about, and just as everyone disappeared into the darkened doorway, Andromeda turned, holding the heavy metal door and turning almost instinctively toward the forest that loomed nearby, the same forest where she'd been dragged to during the fight. Something pulled her toward it, and as a group of Paladins passed her going out, she held the door open for them, then closed it without going inside.

The forest was smoking, full of twisted trees and gapped in the middle by remnants of explosion. But she saw something amid the trees that caused her heart to stop, something that was far outside of NCR boundary and something that, had Boone been the one to spot it, would have had a bullet in its cranium almost instantly.

Standing on the mountain top facing east stood a lone Centurion, his red headdress ruffled by the wind. He was looking down toward the Dam, unmoving. Though his face was masked, she recognized him at once; it was Silus.
It was crazy, it was demented. Nobody in their right mind would risk their life in such a careless manner. But then, she was the Courier who'd cheated death, who'd brought together allies and given a people the power of flight from centuries past. It would've been more surprising, really, if she had stayed at the Dam instead of trekked up the smoking black remnants of forest. So she did, varying her sights between the broken, littered ground and the unmoving statue of a Centurion who stood above her. It took her many minutes to crest the hill, but when she advanced she didn't withdraw her weapon, nor he his. Instead he stood, feet apart, one of his hands clamped on his opposite wrist, both arms over his torso.

The pair had an odd history; she actually met him long, long before she'd entered Vegas, and the two had struck up a rather odd exchange. He tipped her off about the bomb on the monorail, and she helped him escape McCarran. Though at the time, she was still naive about who the Legion was, she was intrigued with his decision to keep his life instead of commit suicide as was protocol for the Centurions. And something about him appealed to her dark side, her hopeless side. Silus embodied everything that was her doubt and harsh truth about the Wasteland, and while this interested her, it was not frightening. After he escaped, they had another run-in deep in a canyon. The pair didn't engage in combat, but his words were stinging as ever. And admittedly the last time they met, he was going to burn her at a stake.

Still, he didn't break stance as she approached. She was out of breath and turned, looking over her shoulder at the tiny dot that was the entrance to Hoover Dam. She was barely within shouting distance; likely a First Recon could catch her pink hoodie in their scope if she needed it, but she didn't think she would. On the other side of the mountain she saw thick smoke, but now she turned her sights on Silus. She'd never seen him in a Centurion helmet, but he wore it now, the red plumes fanning forward in a regal manner, complimenting his olive skin and black locks perfectly. Yes, Silus was her antithesis, in every way shape and form. She knew he wouldn't harm her.

"You were expecting me," she said, out of breath.

Silus nodded to the ground, where the girl mopped her brow as she looked; her old NCR radio, one that she'd been given at the Dam during the fight. It had been taken from her when Silus put her on the stake. No doubt the NCR was not monitoring for stolen radios, and she was certain the orders of her arrival had been broadcast.

"Oh," she continued, looking at the man again. He reached forward and she involuntarily flinched; this made his lip curl in a smile, and he wrenched the beret off her head. Dirty, sooty blond hair fell out, and he pushed the hated NCR hat into her hands, where she gripped it feebly. He finally spoke.

"Much better."

She pocketed the beret and they stared at each other for a moment; risking her life, she strangely found herself leaning forward and pulling off his heavy helmet. She thought he would resist, but Silus continued to remain unmoving while she lifted the Centurion helmet. He unclasped his hands after it had been removed, taking the weighty metal and holding it in one hand. Then he shook his head to loosen his hair, black tresses again falling around his face.

"Your legs seem to have healed."

"Yes."

"And I see now what I didn't before. You're with child."

She didn't know what to say to that, since it was obvious, but Silus continued to scan her up and down wordlessly. The girl felt the impulse to inquire about her ugly worm status again, but she really didn't want to test the Centurion, not now, not here, and so she said nothing. The destructive male finally opened his mouth with what he'd intended to say the entire time.

"I've been sent by the Legate."

"Yes."

"He wishes to speak with you."

"I'm not surprised."

"Will you go to him?"

"Now? Here? Alone?"

Silus nodded slowly, as though this should be obvious. Andy raised both eyebrows.

"It was stupid of me to come to you. What on earth makes you think I'd go to him? You're the only half-logical member of the Legion I know." Use your head-that was the next thing she wanted to say, but the chainsaw strapped to his thigh caused her to bite her tongue. But her faith went rewarded; Silus shrugged as if in agreement.

"It was stupid of you."

"So you're telling me you're going to try to kill me now?"

"There would be no practical point, I'm afraid. I'd like to see you dead, but you are bearing the heir of the legendary Legate. That's more important to me than revenge."

"And the Legate?"

"Wishes to speak with you."

"I'm not going to go."

Silus again did not look fazed, but now he walked away from her, and she noticed his gait. It wasn't a militaristic one, not the slinking walk of Vulpes, but instead an almost detached, insolent swagger-one you'd expect someone of his caliber to have, anyway. Silus had been as dedicated to Caesar as Vulpes, with one difference; he didn't give a shit about the Legion, and he told her as much. He protected it, defended it, lived in it, but it was only chance that brought him to the Bull. He could have just as easily ended up an NCR Ranger had opportunity presented itself; his only law was destruction and power-but Caesar had simply gotten to him first. Destruction was the opposite of Andy's nature and cause, but power was something the two shared, and perhaps this was one thing that did frighten her.

Silus walked his walk until he was probably twenty feet away, and when she didn't budge, he looked over his shoulder at her. "Come," he said, and she hesitated, but then he said, "I want to show you something."

Though she was hesitant, she felt the lack of a threat, and advanced. What she saw over the edge of the mountain was not what she expected. The girl paused at the sight of the faraway road, but Silus urged her own by extending his large, sizeable arm and motioning with two fingers, as though she was a dog. When this didn't work, and because she was so intently looking at the parade below, she stumbled on her weak legs and almost fell, he shook his head and took her hand. For a moment they could have been a storybook couple, despite the grime, and the moment lingered as they stood between trees and he put his hands on her shoulders, steering her forward.

Below them, the forest was broken by the remains of the fight; huge craters left by the bomber littered the area for miles, but thick trees still hid much of the faraway Legate's camp. However, a road east stretched out of the reinforced gates, and from it came forth the Legion. Caravans of supplies, driven by slow-moving Brahmin. Children and slaves were in the midst, some on foot and some in the carts, but they all looked frightened, weary. Flanking the lines were soldiers in red, no doubt stressed and expecting backlash from the NCR. They protected, oddly enough, those inside the lines. Andy was shocked to see the slaves clinging to the soldiers, looking worriedly around them in search of dreaded NCR troops.

"Exile," Silus said simply, not one to elaborate.

They were going East...back East where the Legion held power. But, as she'd spoken with Marcus-and Silus, actually-about the inevitable fall of the Legion, 'back east' may never come for these lost people. It may end years from now, Marcus predicted, maybe decades, but it would end. With or without their sanction. She realized what she was looking at, and the Courier stood motionless beside the Centurion.

"Extinction," she echoed, and couldn't help herself from realizing that if she spoke to Arcade about extinction of the Legion, he would be overjoyed if not tickled. This from a man who proudly wore Enclave armor. Suddenly she felt very confused, and agitated. In the throng of people, a child clasped his mother's hand, and Andy felt rather than saw Silus's nod from behind her. She blinked slowly, and then said in a throaty voice, "You're really not going to hurt me, here or at the Camp, are you?"

He moved; she heard the creak of leather and the jingle of something steel, and the girl stiffened as his fingers brushed her neck and she imagined him putting a slave collar on her. However, he did no such thing; something heavy dropped forward onto her chest, and she picked it up as he retied the knot in back.

"The Mark of Caesar," she said a little numbly.

"Mine," he supplemented, stepping aside. "It's the only protection I can offer you other than my word. As I said, revenge is useless now...at least to me."

"Do you think the Legate will honor the mark of a dead man?"

"The Legate honors nothing. I was only sent to retrieve you."

"And if I say no, you're going to take me by force, aren't you?"

"Of course."

"Then...let's go to the camp."

"Good girl."

Side by side they walked through the trees, and her heart never left her throat; she was just as apprehensive as the ghosts on the faraway road below them.

In a strange way, his voice reminded me of the ethereal, sweet-hearted Jason Bright's voice, though his had a sinister note that would beget someone titled Legate. I should have felt horrified, or maybe indignant because here I was, the daughter of the ORIGINAL Legate, some hidden part of me should've felt it necessary to preserve my father's honor against this successor. The biggest part of me should've felt stupid for coming here, and though that voice did resound in my mind, and I blame being around the logical Arcade for it, the voice wasn't loud enough to make me care, and I wondered why.

The voice echoed through his large mask. Silus dropped into the background, something I shouldn't have cared about but did. Why I thought of him as a protector would never really make sense, but how can I explain to you that when in the Wasteland, you can rarely question your instinct? Many elements of humankind eroded away while we stewed in vaults for centuries, and what reason may have festered gave way to stronger instincts. I just happened to be one of many who listened to them without incorporating some universal Fate like Boone, or sardonic, caustic wit like Arcade.

"The Woman of the West," he said in tones of admiration, and I said nothing.

"What if I wish to fight you?" were his next words.

"I've no wish to fight you, Lanius," I said truthfully, already feeling the soot begin to stick to my hair. How much of it was ash, of slaughtered Legionaries and NCR soldiers who'd died weeks ago?

"Because you are weak?"

It was a game of questions, each question of his stacking on top of the other, a fight for dominance, as though he expected to back me into a corner without speaking a statement.

"What is your quarrel with me, then?" I asked, a tone of restlessness in my voice.

He snorted, and it sounded as loud as a bull Brahmin snort. He did embody the Legion in that short burst.

"Brave, to ask me that, after your-"

"The battle is over," I snapped, inwardly cringing at my own proverbial scrotum of suicide. "There's nothing left for you to win. The NCR and combined forces hold the Dam, killing me will not dispute that."

He withdrew his sword, and I could almost feel Silus's cold green eyes on me from somewhere across camp as the blade touched my neck. I didn't cringe, at least not visibly, but I did close my eyes.

"I could kill you now and treasure your lonesome head," and here the blade pressed against the side of my throat. From somewhere deep inside my womb I could almost hear my child cursing my stupidity for even cresting the mountain, but I didn't move, still. "Or you could get on your knees before me and I will reconsider."

One sounded better than the other, and so in the stinky, smoky, nearly-abandoned Legion camp I sank to my knees, taking back my own thoughts of how I was reminded of the kindhearted Jason Bright. Crazily I thought how convenient it would be if his rocket crashed into the camp and killed Lanius, but I'd already stretched my luck pretty far, and I didn't see any cult ghouls in my near future as rescuers. Lanius laughed, a hollow laugh that didn't sound any more full of amusement than my shallow breathing as I struggled not to cut myself on his blade.

"So quick to avoid death, you're smarter than I give you credit for. You have a weapon at your side and don't use it, why?"

More questions.

God, I fucking hated the Legion.

Actually I hated most everyone.

"Because I'm too weak."

"So then, you on your knees, will call me your Master, Woman of the West?"

"No." I wanted to laugh at that one, but I did like my head pretty well.

"Why not? You know how the Legion feels about women...you are a very special woman...and I am now the head of the Legion. Though we're weak here, thanks to you, we are strong in the East. You would be good for breeding, and it looks as though I wasn't the first to think of it."

Hated everyone.

But mostly this guy.

"I won't call you my master. I don't want to die. I've more love and concern for my baby than to get my head chopped off because I wouldn't get my knees dusty for you. But there are worse things than death, even for a woman and her baby, I truly believe that. You're one of them. You don't have any loyalty except your own, but you use other people no matter their allegiance. You hide behind the mask you wear in so many ways, it's filthy, and dishonorable. I respect your power, but you've lost the balance between power and courage, or power and honesty, or you wouldn't hide. My father took his fall. You'll take yours, too. I don't know if you'll rise from your ashes, though. When you crumble the Legion crumbles, and even if I'm dead and can't see it, I'll be smiling in my second grave."

He growled, and I finally spared a look, opening my tired eyes and turning them up to see that impassive mask. I had no way of knowing whether he'd just chop me up there, or whether he'd do something really grotesque, as he was known for...or perhaps he'd just continue to stare blankly at me with his black eye-holes, but while I pondered this crazy being's next actions, he did something very strange; he jolted, and tipped his head back ever so slightly, as though he'd caught a sound wafting by on the hot spring air.

The NCR Ranger was standing next to Boone, and as Arcade rushed up the stairs to the tower, he paused, skidding to a stop by one soldier and one ex-soldier. Something was wrong up here, very wrong, and not just because Andromeda was missing. He was not a "feeling" man by nature, but at this moment he felt a thickness in the air over the sniper that warned him speaking would be unwise. Still, the doctor spared a look over, pushing up his own glasses nervously as he caught the horrific look on the sniper's face.

Boone held his own dusty rifle to his cheek, the butt of the gun jammed so familiarly into his shoulder and his chin barely grazing the weapon as he peered through the scope. The NCR Ranger, who had called the ex-First Recon up initially, stood stoically by and his unreadable gas mask was tilted toward the tall figure in the red beret. Now Arcade took a step back, for he saw such an intense look in Boone's eyes that it rocked his very foundation. The man always had a glare on his face, but this stare wasn't something he usually wore, it wasn't a look of malice or hate or even the usual bitter angst that was so readily plastered across the bronze skin it had become commonplace long ago-he looked torn to pieces. As Arcade now stared in half-confusion half-pity, he saw Boone's lip tremble, saw his jaw tick.

He was about to become unhinged, it was finally going to happen. The last straw had settled, the breaking point was here, and it didn't even occur to Arcade to wonder what was on the other end of the scope. Judging by Boone's reaction it could only be the utterly worst thing to happen in all of human history including the infamous "blow up the world" incident. Any second now, Boone's rage and hatred and pent-up fury over the injustice of the Wastes and the combination of atrocities he witnessed and atrocities he committed, was going to consume him and he would spontaneously combust, and Arcade didn't want to be anywhere nearby when that happened. If ever there were a man capable of a bloody murder and suicide rampage, Boone was the man for it, and the look in his eyes indicated that he was nothing short of capable and ready.

But while Arcade gaped and contemplated dashing back down the stairs, the sniper looked through his familiar lens, where the Ranger had pointed. It took an expert marksman to see what the other man saw, but Boone saw it more clear than anyone anticipated. Through the trees and smoke in his little circle of the world called a scope, he saw a tired, downtrodden woman bearing child stoop and fall to her knees before the Legate. Without realizing what he was doing, simply tying to get a better look at the situation, Boone had stopped when he saw his own rifle's crosshairs pinpointed directly at the back of her head.

And he trembled, a storm raging inside of him.

True, he wasn't alone. He had the NCR with him, he had Arcade. There were still Legion troops ambling about the broken, desolate camp, but not enough to make a difference. If they wanted, the group could overtake the leftovers and wipe them out. But not before they hurt her, killed her, and they would do it in a hideous way, too. He knew this like he knew the inner workings of his own beloved gun, the gun that had killed his wife and child. Boone hesitated with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Arcade waited for him to break.

The Legate's sword was at her throat, his mask glinting in the sunlight. Boone knew his rifle would never be able to penetrate the thick bronze. He'd tried before, actually; the metal was too tough. A bullet dinging off the Legate's mask would only serve to aggravate the beast of a man and cause him to do further damage to this humble courier, the teacher.

His lip trembled again when he realized he hadn't taken the crosshairs from her head. He jolted, and then something strange happened; some supernatural force, or rather what Andy would call instinct, made Boone stare through the scope deeply, deeply into the Legate's black, empty eyes. Not eyes. Eye-holes.

I knew my words sealed my fate; the Legate was a proud man and what defense did I have, really? I guess following my instincts saved my ass, or at least that's how I see it. I stared up at him, waiting for that deathblow, when he tilted his head. It was a sharp snap of the neck, the Legate's attention drawn by something other than me, and then he just sort of hovered there for a moment, head tilted upward. But then his sword dropped, and the few remaining recruits and slaves looked over curiously at the rather dumbfounded-looking form of Legate Lanius.

I stood slowly, not withdrawing any weapons but looking warily around, as everyone's eyes were on me. The tall form thundered downward in a slow ripple of red and gold, causing a near-Earthquake when he finally shuddered to the unforgiving earth. I was trying not to gape, or panic, but I heard the shaken whispers. She'd killed the Legate, they were saying, and it was only true because I could see blood trickling out of the back of his mask and helmet, onto the dry ground. She'd killed him by staring at him, the magic that allowed Joshua Graham to return and the same magic that allowed her to dust off from a grave, just made the leader of the Legion keel over where he stood.

Arcade ignored his better senses and instead, entranced, watched Boone's shot; the sniper actually lowered his rifle, methodically and with a stern hand removed his glasses, sliding them into one of his belt loops deliberately, and then he re-shouldered the rifle. For a moment he was quiet, the stoic Ranger turned in his direction quietly contemplating, and then amid, amazingly, tears, Boone fired.

Nobody would ever know what a miraculous shot it was, to hit from 500 yards a one inch thick circle, against a heavy east wind and without protective eyewear, with tears blurring his vision and a tightness in his chest so hard he could feel it shaking his entire body, but he made the shot, ensuring that whatever remained of the Legion would haunt him only in his dreams, nowhere else.

Weeks after she walked away from a stunned, broken Legion camp, the Courier wore the same blank and vacant expression as she trudged down the hill from Griffith Peak. It was a long walk, especially considering she was pregnant, but after exchanging letters with the quiet family of Liam, she made the visit with rest, relaxation in mind. While there, the couple bestowed upon her several gifts; baby-oriented, things of Liam's. Boone happily took the bulk of presents for the trip back down to sunny Vegas, where Arcade and the others were busy rebuilding Freeside. Despite Boone's grumblings, the trio-Andy, Dolly, and Boone, stopped by Jacobstown, where they rested, Dolly fascinated with not only the eerie resort but also the growling and bumbling Nightkin.

Though the entire Mojave was celebrating the victory at the Dam and even the Super Mutants were more jovial than usual, Andy was rather thoughtfully quiet, her usual charm and wit gone. Even when accepting the gifts from Liam's mother, or getting picked up and hugged ("OH JIMMY, I AM SO HAPPY TO HEAR YOU SAVED THE DESERT! SUCH A HERO") by Lily, she smiled with a faintness unforeseen. Boone was no role-model for happy demeanored expressions or actions, so he said nothing, though his troubled glances didn't go unnoticed by at least one of the Super Mutants.

While Dolly played with the Bighorners and Boone volleyed between obsessing over her safety and throwing the same worried looks at the blond who sat on the steps of the lodge, subdued gaze overlooking the thick green forest nearby, Marcus slowly ambled past Boone and Dolly and stopped on the steps. "How're you feeling?" he said in an almost knowing tone. She looked up, surprised, and the once-human continued, "I've got something I think you should see."

She stared and still said nothing.

"But it's a walk. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," she said, intensely surprised, and glanced at the tall man and bouncy girl in the courtyard. "Should we..."

"We'll let them know. This isn't something I've ever shown a human. But I think you'll like it. I think you'll appreciate it too."

Now completely confused and showing more interest than she had in weeks, the Courier stood and tucked her now very long hair behind the beret. "All right."

Almost forty minutes later, they'd ascended one of the thickly-wooded peaks behind Charleston Cove, and the resort the pair left behind was merely a little dot among the green trees. They had been talking, mostly about the Dam: the Boomers, Silus' curiosity getting the better of the Legion, the coming together of the BoS and NCR. Speaking with a seasoned warrior, one who'd seen and participated in battles that made the one at Hoover Dam seem minuscule, made the girl open up a bit more than she had since returning, and she actually laughed a few times during the talk, her breath cascading out behind her. As they approached, Marcus said, "So tell me, how are you feeling? You seem different, in a lot of ways."

She pondered, snow crunching under her feet. After several seconds, she finally hesitantly said, "Sometimes you just look at something and where everyone else sees victory, you don't see anything. I've had a lot of those lately, not just the Dam. My dad, Boone, Dolly, Vegas, even this little one here. I know I'm damn lucky and I am humbled every day by what's around me. But lately it just doesn't seem to make much of a difference. Silus said something to me once, a long time ago when I first met him. He said, 'humanity died 200 years ago. We're just what's left over.' And more and more I start to believe him. I think about that word, humanity, and I don't really know what it means. I used to think it meant charity and justice and compassion, the more cynical side of me argues that it's destruction and hate and death-THAT'S what humanity is, but now, I just draw a blank."

Marcus made a humming noise. He seemed to be thinking over his answer but in reality, he slowed his step until he was a few feet behind the girl, and his eyes were on her in an almost anticipatory way as they trudged. Andy had spoken her peace and fell silent once more, not noticing the fallback of trees that suddenly transpired at the crest of a hill. A few more steps and it became evident though; they were standing by the edge of a sleepy, small pre-War town, and the snow lay beautifully over the retro buildings and pastel-colored homes. The Courier stopped dead, her face slacking from its dejected stare to a stunned gaze. Marcus smiled at her dropped jaw.

She took several steps forward, noting the compactness and neatness of the pre-War setup and realizing almost immediately that it was a model. The streets were too small, the buildings too neat and compact. The paint was perfect on everything, and the detail was marvelous. What made the place cause Andy's jaw to drop was the props; squeaky clean cars, large nuclear-powered vehicles from the 2070's. Benches, light posts, everything primed for a normal downtown stroll, and the town was full of perfectly preserved mannequins. Women, men, children all dressed in colorful summer outfits despite the snow, strolled motionlessly through the streets, got their shoes shined, sat behind the glass laughing in the barber shop. A woman in a pink dress walked her puppy, a man in an old-fashioned sailor's uniform was stepping off an immobile bus while a young smiling girl in polka dots looked excitedly at him. A gentleman in a fedora offered his arm to an elderly woman crossing the street. Their marble eyes looked as alive as anything Andy had ever seen. Enchanted, her footfalls were barely heard as she tiptoed through the memory, Marcus her shadow.

At the would-be town square sat a small, out of place building, obviously the central command of this place. However, the door to the shack was open, and the girl didn't hesitate to head inside. It was a small one-room shed full of equipment and monitors. Marcus broke the eerie silence by speaking. "They had dozens of these in the mountains. As nuclear energy became more and more a necessity it was tested in every way shape and form, but mostly in the way of weapons. Because mankind..."

"...loves its destruction."

"It sure does. These little towns were set up for different reasons, scenarios, even used in film projects for school, to teach and help humans learn about nuclear energy, and its effects. Particularly the detrimental ones. I've seen imagery and even video of the other sites...a lot of them were demolished thanks to testing. In some of the terminals you can even see private video transmissions where the government sent out warnings to China, showing them the devastation and blast." He actually laughed, a very sardonic sound that made Andy's shoulders droop. "Guess they didn't take the warnings."

"No, I'd say not. How has this place kept its..."

"It's entirely secluded. There was an electromagnetic barrier put up to keep out animals and hikers and the curious sightseers, at least until Lily and I found it. Super mutants and Nightkin aren't susceptible to those wavelengths, so we were able to get in. When I knew I wanted to show you the place I just shut down the security system. It'll stay untouched. The dryness of the air seems to have preserved all the details, too."

"It's such a strange project, setting this all up to destroy it. I mean, everything looks so real, just like the pictures and video. It seems like a lot of work gone to waste. Why bother with all the details, if they were going for scientific results?"

"Humans are good at building things, nobody denies that," Marcus said, stepping past her and beginning to familiarly press buttons on the large terminal panel. The wall of monitors slowly flickered on and off, the image finally settling on one small center tube, which continued to show static and faint imagery of the wooded area nearby. "They're just also really good at destroying things."

The mashup video flashed from the woods here to a different area, showing home made video of scientists and soldiers alike, all happy and smiling for the camera. With the same amazement that most Wastelanders gazed upon pre-War people with, the Courier moved forward. Everyone looked happy, though some looked disturbed at having their work interrupted with a co-worker video-taper. There were shots of the mannequins getting set up, some footage of seismic activity and graphs and charts depicting what could've only been the hypothesis of nuclear fallout. Everyone's hair and skin were perfect and clean, everyone's uniforms were ironed and sparkling. It seemed impossible that people could look so scrubbed and polished, but then the mannequins outside were living proof; they mimiced the stellar appearance of pre-War people who now laughed and shoved each other in their work zone. Quite suddenly, new footage entered; amid the graphs and annoyed faces and friends posing mini-nuclear blasts were released on a multitude of these very forlorn "fake" towns. Houses blew outward, mannequins melted, the imagery turned fuzzy as the cameras fought to keep filming while debris pummeled them from the blasts. A car was blown up, turning over on its side as the mushroom cloud rose upward. Andy could see that a pair of mannequins had been placed inside. Glass shattered and wax and plastic dripped from the now grotesque faces.

Much like when Mr. House showed her the footage of Vegas, the Courier was frozen in front of the taunting screen, watching as it appeared to ridicule her views on the good nature of humanity. Hazmat suits now replaced the fine, exquisite uniforms, and researchers picked up and played with broken mannequins, giving the camera a thumbs up while holding body parts. Other blast sites were more serious, the men and women jotting down notes while looking at the destroyed homes and "people." Marcus spoke again, "I guess it evens out."

She was so good at saying things, but she was utterly failing for something to say when loud humming disturbed them both. The super mutant and the human turned to look out the open door of the small metal work shack, seeing a large blue form trudging up the hill and singing. Marcus spoke softly. "She comes up here sometimes too, let's not disturb her. It's a kind of therapy for her."

So they stayed quiet, exactly where they were, and Lily Bowen didn't even notice them as she crested the hill and broke out into full song, and it soon became clear she was singing Patsy Cline's "Crazy." Why became evident when the Nightkin expertly went over to a lamp post and pushed a button there, and after a few scratches the town's loudspeaker system began to play a very blurred and scarred version of the song. "It's the only holotape we could find," Marcus said almost apologetically, and the Courier still said nothing, watching Lily intently. She did expect the old grandmother to go up to the mannequins, talk to them, ask about their day. Instead she withdrew something far too tiny and delicate for her large hands; a sewing kit. While still humming along to the song, she walked down the sidewalk and paused, straightening a whimsey hat and then brushing the snow off a tailored black suit. When she found a button hanging threadbare from a teenage mannequin, Lily tsked and withdrew the sewing kit, finding a pink thread that matched the color of the pastel suit, and then expertly began to do what grandmothers do best; she mended the button.

For the first time since possibly before Rex died, the Courier genuinely smiled, but she was also crying.

Andy walked in the door of the Lucky 38 and looked around; progress was being made, and it was wonderful to see. Many workers, mostly laborers sent from the Followers at the Old Mormon Fort, had already lugged out the huge roulette tables, slot machines, cash registers. Arcade had donated all of the casino and gambling wares to Freeside, where they could be used to furnish the Atomic Wrangler as well as open up a few more, hopefully one or two other, less shady places of business. It would be good for the failing economy, and Freeside did need all the help it could get.

In place of the best roulette tables in Vegas, the Enclave son and his blond friend had conspired to make the Lucky 38 an ode to pre-War times and a museum for the Wastelanders. They sent out scouts to gather up and take pictures of local places of interest: REPCONN, the dam, even the destroyed and charred Caesar's Fort. The Gannon Family Tesla Armor was donated, standing sentry behind thick glass on one side of the now-brightly lit entrance, and McNamara gave up his own Paladin armor for display on the other side. Brotherhood and Enclave finally stood together in Vegas. Kimball's treaty with the New Vegas Republic was framed and hung on one wall, and a large picture of Benny adorned yet another wall with the Legion certificate framed beside it. The place was nowhere near finished, but it was coming together.

Andy's smile turned to a frown of confusion when she stepped past a few workers and Kings (who were supervising the moving as well as standing guard for the casino) and heard a strange noise; it was a piano, she realized, and the noise was coming from the diner on the second level. The diner was being downsized and workers carried out tables even now, and Andy stepped up one of the back levels and ascended. She didn't recognize the tune, but whoever played had immense skill. Now Andy stepped over the top carpeted rise and stared as Arcade continued his beautiful melody. His eyes were closed, she realized miraculously, and the piano was one she hadn't seen before; it was elegant, ivory, beautiful. She gaped.

Arcade's hands finally came to rest, and he opened his eyes, looking at her with a strange gaze. He pushed his glasses up. "A sort of homecoming gift from the Ultra-Luxe. I didn't know where else to put it."

"How...where...why..."

"Oh please, I was the son of an Enclave officer. I got the best education a boy can get, that is until we were ran out and eradicated..."

"Why have you never..."

"I get antsy when people see me play. Weird, right, I know. I see it as justification that my emotional state concerning the-"

"You should teach the kids!"

"I really don't think that would be such a good idea. You know how I feel about people in general. Keep my distance, do good from afar, et cetera and so on..."

"Arcade goddammit!"

"Now no need to get hostile. How was your visit?"

"Why didn't you ever...!"

"Here, I'll play you another. This tune always reminded me of you. Ugh, I hope the workers aren't staring. This one is called Nuvole Bianche. I'm a bit of a Fiend, no pun intended, for finding old music sheets and studying them. I've come across quite a few, I did think we might reproduce them and give them to the school."

He began to play, and she leaned against the wall and listened, smiling at her friend. Though she didn't know it, it was one of the last times she would ever see him.

The King sauntered down the street, overseeing the cleanup as well as the renovations. Brotherhood members were even now excavating House's underground track to make a ground-level electric rail to Freeside. The rail would run across several key points of the Mojave just as it had in House's life, but now it would have public access and larger cars to accomodate travelers, workers, gamblers, and anyone willing to pay the fare. NCR soldiers, as part of their treaty, were allowed unlimited access to the rail in exchange for guarding its stations along the desert. This was monumental; the first real transportation the world had seen in over 200 years.

The Vegas Republic, as it was getting known to be called, had also donated a huge fund to the Followers of the Apocalypse that Julie Farkas immediately put to good use, opening up one of the condemned buildings and paying for renovations. It was to become a school for Freeside children. The most knowledgeable about school in general, Andy, had painfully agreed to help head the movement, but declined position of teacher "at least until the baby is old enough to enroll." Dolly was already excited to start, and she insisted on going back to Novac to pick up as many dinosaur figures as possible to "decorate" the classrooms. Books were unearthed and donated, several Wastelanders with unused, educated backgrounds stepped forward to apply for teaching positions, and the King already reserved his own classroom for teaching about-of course-the King. But not only the King himself, his ideals, his music and history, the life values of being a King, and of course...how to dance.

Now Professor King sauntered toward the first of many re-wirings for a cable, the eager young Brotherhood scribes too focused on their task to notice his approach. Though he walked with a cane, his gait was still light and easy, his stride truly that of a King. The passerby who saw him, gaped at his celebrity status, didn't see the thoughts that ambled through his mind. Thoughts of Pacer and boyhood, and thoughts of Rex. He could actually smile now; he, too, like Andy, had a more wistful smile most of the time. As he surveyed the changes, the King didn't feel any of the spite or regret of possession he thought he'd feel by letting the Courier help him and his city. This was what he'd always wanted, ever since he was a boy. A good place to live, a decent town. It had been a long time coming, and he'd damn near died at several points to get here, but he was finally here.

It was two years later that the Courier walked from Vegas to Freeside, her arms full of struggling child and two NCR snipers by her side. The gate had been repaired, now looking less desolate and frightful, and more inviting, but then the entire town looked more inviting as a rule. Instead of the dark and cranky Securitrons littering the area, Victor's winking face on all screens greeted visitors on their way in and out. People milled the dusty streets going about business as usual, and the small group turned in the direction of the Followers' School. Andy checked the watch Arcade gave her several years ago; they were right on time. As they approached, the doors opened and children spilled out, thankful to be free for another day, and the small crowd dispersed amid laughter and chatter. One lone brunette walked along, her simple blue dress paired with blue ribbon still impeccably clean from the day's activities. Her head was down, her expression sour.

"Truly your daughter," Andy scoffed at Boone, who grunted and then turned to the blond.
"She wouldn't be so pissed if you hadn't told her Manny couldn't make it before duty turnover."
"I wanted to surprise her!"
"You're terrible."
They both smiled at one another, and the dark-haired child in Andromeda's arms squealed with delight at the banter.

The sullen eight-year old responded to the familiar giggle, and she looked up with a troubled gaze. Then she saw that not only were the too-tall blond and wide-shouldered Boone awaiting her, but a handsome moustached man with an obvious present in hand. The group smiled, and Dolly dropped her book bag and ran toward them, her dark hair lashing out behind her into the desert sun. "Uncle Manny!"

No one was quite sure when "other dinosaur man" had turned to "uncle Manny" but it was probably around the same time "dinosaur man" turned into "Daddy." Neither soldier was uncomfortable with the switch in phrases. It had been months since Manny was able to come visit, but now he dropped to his knee and gladly scooped up the skinny girl, returning her hug. Simultaneously, the squirming bundle in Andy's arms kicked her in the side of the head- "ARRGHH!" and Boone said in a low voice, "He's got your long ass legs, that's what you get."

-and dropped to the ground, running away on his aforementioned long ass legs toward the school.

"Benjamin Graham, get back here this instant!" the Courier shouted in a warning voice, as the two-year-old was in veritable danger of getting trampled by the older kids, who walked in the opposite direction. The head of inky black hair didn't turn toward his mother, but instead he sped up, and now Boone snorted as the woman took off after him. "Gonna have to get a damned leash," she swore, and then paused when it became evident why her son was running in the direction he was; he stooped and picked up the heavy discarded book bag and dinosaur toy, looking at them happily and starting to lug them back to the group. Andy paused and laughed at the sight, before one of the other kids picked up the bag and looked confusedly at the two year old.

"He's too young to go to school!"

"That's his sisters," Andy explained with a hint of humor, as Dolly finally unlatched herself from Manny and now turned to Boone, clutching onto him like a barnacle as she usually did. The boy who'd picked up the bag now gave it back to young Benny, who looked extremely angry at the fact that someone else was stronger than he. The youngster fell over as the heavy weight was unloaded on him, and the older boy gaped. "It's you! I'm sorry ma'am, I didn't know..."

"Don't worry about it," she brushed away, and finally reached the pair, stooping over to pick up her son and the book bag. When mini-Benny started his kicking again, the older child was more helpful: "I think he wants this, he dropped it. What is this, his blankey?"

Now juggling book bag, dinosaur toy, child, and blanket in hand like a true mother, Andy said patiently, "Yes, god forbid he drop it...thank you dear. I'm amazed he even put it down long enough to pick up the book bag. That's a good sign though..." now she patted the dusty fabric, "That means you're going to part with it when I take it to wash tonight, aren't you?"

The little green eyes with dark lashes widened as he slowly shook his head no, and then stuffed the black and white checkered fabric over his face. "Yeah, that's what I thought," she said, giving one last wink to the Freeside boy, who grinned, and then turning back toward the rest of the group. "Let's go eat."

"Can we go up and shoot from the tower?" Dolly begged Andy, who shrugged-quite a feat considering all she carried on her shoulders.

"You'll have to ask Manny that," she countered.

Dolly grunted, a grunt that sounded so like Boone it was uncanny, before turning to the other sniper. "Pleeeease?"

Arcade sat down hard on the bench in Jacobstown, slumping like a teenager and putting his palm on his chin as he gazed out the frosted glass window. He should've been overjoyed at the news the aging Dr. Henry had given him, but he was nowhere near such. His huff went unnoticed by the doctor, who had looked after him since he was a boy, and was quite used to his outbursts by now.

"It's just...it's almost like a parody of me is being made somewhere in the Wasteland. I can almost hear the laughter. Probably someone at the Tops, if I know Andy."

"It's still a step in the right direction," Dr. Henry argued.

Arcade unlatched his chin from his hand, turning toward his father figure and now, co-worker.

"And how is that? We can't stop the effects without some horrific death occuring, that hasn't changed since California. Besides, the slow-acting formula is going to take years, decades to develop."

Henry nodded at this. "It will, and you're going to have to be patient and stick with it, because I don't have decades."

"What difference will it make? I have to find something that works faster, and secluding the X-factor isn't making a difference at all. I don't have any test subjects that haven't fully mutated, and that's who I need to work on... I don't WANT the x-factor injected into anyone, I don't WANT to create more monsters-sorry," he added when Dr. Henry's assistant, huddled over a terminal, grunted- "I want to reverse the process for the already-infected."

Dr. Henry rolled his eyes, not bothering to remind Arcade that had been his life's work, but Arcade pressed his head to the glass, not noticing. "I need more time."

The room was silent, except for the steady dripping of melting snow off the roof, and Arcade's eyes suddenly lit up with a darkness. "That's it. More time. We have the x-factor."

"Don't be stupid."

"No, it's...that's...it! If I have the genetics, then my own body will become an FEV host and I can work without having to worry about the clock. It's perfect."

"No, it's stupid."

"No it's not. You can't change my mind about this."

"Maybe she can," Dr. Henry snapped, motioning toward his assistant. "You've lost your mind if you think changing your own DNA to accept the virus is going to help you create a formula to destroy it."

"I would be the perfect experiment, because I would become forced to find the cure for FEV on myself, and since I haven't mutated to the point that my tissues are useless-sorry again- I can actually make some progress. Not to mention the fact that my life won't end after decades and decades of testing. If I fail I can just use the slow-acting formula we're developing right now."

"You've lost your mind completely."

"I can't believe I didn't think of this before."

"What would your father say?"

Wrong thing to say; Arcade shot up, his eyes glistening. "What do you want me to do? I rebuilt Vegas. I won the Dam fight. I provided for the people in Freeside. I did EVERYTHING I could for the Followers, for the people, there's nothing else and nobody else I need to work for! My dad, if he were here, would tell me good fucking job son, and good luck with your future research!"

One to avoid confrontation, Henry walked out shaking his head, but Arcade was still heated, so he grabbed the vial Dr. Henry had just finished developing. It was the "x-factor", the genetic predisposition for ghoul formation. Without it, radiation would kill a human, with it, they would eventually harden and preserve. With one last glare toward the white coat that now swiftly moved away from him. Arcade rolled up his own sleeve.

EPILOGUE

Winter in the desert was no less biting, no less bone-chilling than winter anywhere else,and especially in this tall mountain range existing alongside what was left of the once-great city of Las Vegas, the Courier quaked in her boots. She had traded in her button-up Victorian style pair for Nightstalker hide cowboy boots-styled after a pair worn by her long-dead father, the Burned Man. She was not stupid; traveling up the treacherous mountains alone could be deadly, and she donned a thick, pre-War fur coat and several layers of pants.

It had started snowing hours ago, and she was not anywhere near where she needed to be. The snow hampered her journey, but it was all the better, Andy supposed. No stars were to be seen; nothing but sheets of white, beating against her scarf-wrapped face where glassy green eyes the shade of peridot peered out. She was effectively blinded, but she still had every intention of making it to Griffith Peak tonight. As she walked, keeping her eyes on the too-white ground, mentally mapping her direction, the Courier thought back to earlier.

She'd been in a strange mood for awhile now. Years and years take their toll on the human psyche, but those with such pride and courage as she lived differently as well as died differently. A bullet in the head hadn't stopped her, a near burning at a stake, countless gunshots and mental traumas had not caused her journey to end. She often contemplated the end anyway, and somewhere along the years of raising her children and the young generation of Vegas, she had a rather unnerving talk with the King of Freeside. He sympathized with Mr. House, stating he understood why someone so publicly admired would want to revert into reclusiveness in their later years.

"It ain't perty to watch the heroes fade out. Now, I ain't a hero, I don't ever see myself as that. But I've come to accept that the people here find me decently important." Years past their youth, both he and the Courier grinned at his unnecessary modesty. "Some of us live so slow we get years an' years an' years. An' some of us live so fast, it's like poof. Up in flames, an' there ain't nothin' left at the end of the big bang except some scrap layin'around. Nobody wants to be thought of as the scrap layin' around."

Boone, dear sweet Boone who grew older without ever aging, was asleep in the large penthouse bed when Andy had slipped out and gotten dressed. That would of course be the hardest part, leaving him, and the Courier had never cried so much as when she pulled out the meager bag of supplies from where she'd hidden it in the closet. So many years together, and he still slept that same damn way, even after rising to his own rank of Colonel and heading First Recon in what the NCR appraised as a "thorough, fair manner". Elbows out, hands laced together behind his head, beret on. She kissed him and he didn't stir, didn't even flare his nostrils or grumble as he would've years ago, and the Courier had reluctantly made her way down to the other suites, silently getting one last look at her other children. Except the two oldest; Dolly and Benjamin.

Dolly had no intention of staying in a pre-War casino for the rest of her days, and the headstrong young woman had long since set out on her own path. That didn't stop her from writing almost religiously and sending Boone some gruesome and morbidly comical gifts and parcels along the way. Ben ran the Tops casino down the Strip and was mostly busy these days with business, even though he frequently stopped by the Lucky 38 for dinner. He still had a room in House's old casino, but Andy didn't even open the door as she walked down the desolate hallway, making her way toward the elevator.

She didn't know that she was not the only one awake at this ungodly hour, insomnia an inherited plague after all, and as the too-tall female crossed the darkened threshold of the Lucky 38's ground floor-converted into a museum many years ago-a dark head appeared from an office doorway. The man slid into the ghostly red light and Andy saw the shadow; she spun on her heel, pistol drawn in an instant, and paused at what surely was an illusion.

Silhouetted in the doorframe, the man jerked his hands up in forfeit and alarm at thev pistol, but then he chuckled, shaking his smoothed-back jet black hair. Cautiously, he lowered his broad hands and adjusted the checkered jacket. Andy, still distraught over her current path and jaw dropped at the figure, was silent even after the man stepped forward with another head shake. "Take it easy, Ma," the son chided, then a look of concern caused his brow to furrow. "Where you goin'?"
"What are you doing here?"
Mini-Benny, mini no longer and in fact taller than his mother, his height rivaling that of Joshua Graham himself, nonetheless had the sheepish look of a child with his hand in the cookie jar. "Readin' through some of dad and House's old bank notes. Business is pickin' up and I ain't sure what to do about it. Ma, get to bed."
Andy had smiled despite herself, and holstered the weapon at her hip, where it had sat for the past twenty-seven years. Her son was still staring at her as though she were an alien, at the red beret on her head, the red-tipped axe on her back, the coat concealing other weapons and her traveling pack. "Boy, you do mean to take a walk tonight, don't you," he said with a hint of admiration in his voice. No matter how old he got, or how much taller than his mother he got, Benjamin knew one thing well and that was to stay out of the Courier's way when she decided to go off on an adventure. Sometimes he'd tagged along as a child, either willingly or unwillingly, but in either case he knew she was capable of taking care of herself, and any insinuations otherwise were not proactive to one's health and well-being.

"I do," she answered simply, and then she turned, too pained to say anymore. However, the blond had a second thought, and turned back to her son, who stood looking confused, the spitting image of Benny from so long ago. The Courier narrowed her eyes, still deep in thought, and suddenly shrugged out of the axe. She handed it over; her son shook his head at first, then gingerly took the melee weapon.
"I want you to give this to your sister."
"Dolly or-"
"Not Dolly. Boone ingrained it into her head from the time she was six that if you can't kill it from twenty miles away with a goddamn scope, it's not worth the energy it takes to kill it. Your younger sister."
"Sure, Ma. But what-"
"And you take this." In what was possibly the hardest decision she'd ever made, but one she felt completely right about after seeing the silhouette of Benny in the doorway, Andy unbuckled the drop holster that held Maria and handed the well-worn pistol over. "What on earth-"
"Don't argue with me, just take it."
"But what in the goddamn-"
"Watch your language, dammit. I'm your mother."
"Yes ma'am. But...how...why..."

The child had his eyes on the shiny pistol ever since he was a boy; one of the NCR craftsmen in Boone's unit had made him a toy version which he carried around until it broke into pieces, which he'd glued back together again and again, but until now Andy had never actually let him hold it, much less let him shoot it.

"It's yours now. I'm an old woman, Benjamin. I don't need to walk around like the Legion's at my back every step of the way. I've got other guns. This one was always meant to be yours. Who knows son, maybe one day you'll shoot a pretty little Courier in the head and -"

"Ma, what on earth do you think I'm going to do with this gun!" Now he sounded annoyed, something that actually took a lot of prodding, especially where his mother was concerned. He'd always been a mama's boy through and through, but his sharp glare was a mixture of confusion and hurt as he reluctantly continued to hold the pistol and axe.

Andy paused at the harsh tone of his voice, and her eyes wandered over his face for a moment before she gave a mischievous smile, one that took years off her own features.

"I know someone you can put fear into."

"Yeah?" his black eyebrows were raised, and he looked skeptical.

"Go north. Black Mountain area, I hear."

"Are you talkin' about-"

"Only if you want to."

"Jesus Goddamn Chri-sorry Ma, Jesus Christ, why didn't you tell me where the fuck he-I mean, oh...fuck it...why didn't you tell me where the fuck that bastard was sooner?"

"Because I'm a mean, protective mother who shelters those she loves to the point of suffocation."

Benjamin rolled his eyes. She continued.

"And you better end up that way, too, or I'm going to kick your ass."

"How come you get to use the language?"

"Because I'm the adult."

"That may have worked twenty years ago, Ma. But I-"

She had suddenly grabbed her son by the torso and hugged him fiercely. The young man was caught off guard, and couldn't hug her back because he still toted her weapons, but when she pulled away he said earnestly, "You sure you don't wanna come up to Black Mountain with me, help me settle-"

"No, dear. You know what to look for."

The calm and handsome face was pulled into an ironic, dark look. "Yeah. I know."

"Then I guess I'm not the only one sneaking out tonight." She winked, but her eyes were full of tears. "Let Boone know where you're going though."

"Yes ma'am."

She turned again to leave, crossed the short steps and adjusted her coat and hat. When Andy turned back to look again at mini-Benny, he was still examining the long-coveted pistol, eyeing it as though he couldn't believe his luck. Maria glinted in the reddish light of the Lucky 38, and a dazed smile was on the young man's face. He glancedup, realizing his mother was staring at him, and he grinned and chuckled as though embarrassed.

"You've always been a good boy," she said, putting her hand on the door handle but not turning away. "You always have made me happy."

"Well hopefully no reason to stop now, Ma," he said with a tone of sympathy, as though willing her obvious sadness away. "It ain't like I'm goin' to disappear or somethin'."

"You're right," she agreed, opening the door to the windy Vegas night where the sounds of the city greeted them both. "No matter what happens, you'll always make me proud."

As though he did it several times a day and was a pronounced expert with the gun, Benjamin slipped Maria into the folds of his checkered jacket.

"G'nite, Ma."

"Goodnight."

Some instinct deep in the son's heart seemed to settle in when the door clicked shut, and he said as though he already knew he'd never see her again, in the most somber voice he'd ever used, "Miss you, ma."

G'nite, Ma. It echoed in her ears even as the howling wind and blinding snow took away all of her senses, and the Courier realized that part of the sharp pain on her cheeks was due to her own frozen tears sticking to her face, cascading down to her chin. She rubbed her eyes on the thick fabric of her scarf, blinking, and then it was that the Courier's instincts took over for several moments.

She had no idea where she was, only knew where she was going. Griffith Peak, hours and hours still away from this stretch of mountain road, but through the blinding night, a single light shone as though a welcoming beacon from a cottage, or cabin. The woman wrapped in fur stared at the yellow, almost liquid light for a long, long time. It was pointless to stop, she knew, and she had no intention of prolonging what she set out to destroy in the first place. But still, something urged her not to immediately bypass this hole in the dark wood, this lonely place.

While she stared, something stirred-a sentinel, still faraway, but no doubt detecting her as she detected it. Something large, brutish, shivering in the cold. A snort was heard in the night air, and the Courier looked from the shadows and snowflakes settling on her eyelashes to the little yellow light that sat possibly a half a mile away, luminescent even through her thick, foggy exhaled breath.

The bright lamp from outside was not the most desirable of light sources, but his eyes were tired anyway, and most if not all he was getting done this night was thoughts. Figures, theories. Not really much that needed writing down. Still he sat at the desk, chewing on one end of his for the moment taken-off glasses, when suddenly the shrewd, logical scientist was pulled away from his research-ful thoughts and toward the window.

Countless years had passed with nights such as this one; every winter seemed like another cycle of death, and he hadn't aged. Just like the supermutants both outside and in, he stayed the same, watching seasons tick by. Winter was a blessing and a curse though; it seemed to make everything even more sheltered and forgotten, and for that he was thankful.

Not now though. Now, he had sudden, strange thoughts that his friend was very near...but what did that mean? What friend? The closest thing he had to a friend now was Marcus, and that was only if you were generous with the term 'friend' which Arcade most certainly was actually stood, taking his chewed-up glasses and sliding them back over his face, and with his hands in his pockets he looked out the window into the storm beyond. He wast hinking of her...he wouldn't think the name, because that would put too much memory, too much feeling into this sensation.

Nonetheless, he remembered those waves of long blond hair, the sparkling eyes, the bold voice and almost insane instinct paired with ferocious intellect. It was far longer ago than he wanted to admit, that they'd traveled together past this very town to Griffith Peak, uncovering her past in the process. The howling wind, the unforgiving storm outside, must have been the reason for his sudden reminder of her. She was much like a winter storm, with a harsh side, Nature's true daughter. Her dark secrets, her troubled heart, just as full of venom and solemnity as these gale force waves of snow. But at the same time, serene, quiet, in her own tall and strange way delicate the way only a woman can be.

For awhile longer, Arcade stared out mesmerized, under the the window where the orb of yellow light fell onto his straw-colored hair, and he saw nothing in the storm, but he felt for Andy. Her losses as well as her triumphs. In all of the coming years, he would never feel as close to her as he did in that moment, staring into a literal black hole of a winter storm where the snow fell around the shivering supermutants, and farther on the mountain, around someone else.

He didn't understand. He had spies, he had ways of knowing things, he was an expert at covertness...and no one had heard hide nor hair of her for over two weeks. She had simply vanished from the Vegas scene. This wouldn't do, as he'd planned for even more heartache. It had been so for decades now. Sometimes he showed pity, other times he reverted to his most barbaric of selves, sending her gruesome notes, presents, or other reminders of his cruel intent.

Through four children he'd done it, one of them being that disgusting Fiend child, who grew up to be quite the formidable beauty. The others were kept safe and sound in the ever-guarded walls of New Vegas, where he had absolutely no sway, even with his informants and sources. She sometimes knew where he set up camp, she sometimes was clueless, but she hadn't come looking for him. She never had, in the decades this private war was waged between them. Perhaps she did it to spite him, knew he wanted to see her hurt and aching, and would never give him the satisfaction.

At least, that's all he could deduce from it.

She still wore his Mark around her neck, he knew, and she never questioned his location or sent anyone for him. The unusual nature of her disappearance made him uneasy though...that was a long time. They were all getting older, slower, but with children and a loving family that he couldn't touch to keep her company, she had no reason to seek him out.

At the moment, he was staring out over the frost-covered Wasteland, safe in the confines of the abandoned Black Mountain. The sun was rising and its golden buttery hue was reflected in his too-blue eyes, eyes marked with age but still colder than any mountaintop snow. His hair, like hers, was a light frail blond, but it was now streaked with white. As all dogs and wolves do, he had only increased in ferocity with old age. Become more dangerous.

He heard the soft crunch of boots on snow around him, and Vulpes turned, expecting to see one of the rather beaten-up looking merchants that sometimes unwisely approached him while he was deep in thought. His look of malice fell when he saw what was something entirely supernatural.

Never, never, never, in all of his years of mass killings, of hangings and crucifixions, torture and slave-trading, had he seen any of his victims rendered as ghosts. It was not a thought that had ever worried him, despite his being a very superstitious man. His jaw was slack as the image of one very familiar dead man walked slowly, almost victoriously, toward him.

The man's dark hair was perfectly brushed and oiled back, his darker brow furrowed as though the sight of snow confused him. His skin was dark, his shoulders were wide and he seemed to have grown in death, now standing taller than Vulpes, who turned and put his back fully against the dilapidated wooden fence.

The dead man, who bore no signs of death and in fact looked healthier for all his years of rotting underground, now raised his oval face upwards and with a scanning glance over Vulpes's features, he smiled. His teeth were equally as white as the clear whites of his eyes, which stood out against the dark skin.

"Finally," he said knowingly, sighing with relief, as though he'd been bored from looking at snow and Vulpes was a welcoming distraction. He shook his head just as he had done that day so many years ago, and Vulpes remembered the smoke, and ash. They were in hell that day, but now, this man surrounded by white snow, a pink morning sky, the thin mountain air around him...this man was a destroying angel.

And when he pulled the pistol from his pocket, somehow Vulpes knew that the cold metal would be laced with flecks of silver and gold, and that those flecks would play off the pastel glow of the rising star in the east, and glint like fire in the black-haired man's hand.

"It can't be."

"Oh, dog boy, it can."