James was riding along the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, somewhere between Canterbury Commons and the old Corvega Factory, when the bullet struck the front wheel of his motorcycle. Up until that moment, he had enjoyed the ride: his black hair dancing in the wind, his wasteland brown cloak billowing behind him. For the first few seconds after the bullet struck, he thought the damage was minimal; sure, it swerved and bumped a bit, but nothing that he couldn't handle.

He thought wrong.

Sally – that was the name James gave the motorcycle – started belching smoke from her front wheel. She started twisting against his will again, and sparks flew into James's face. The air around him filled with an acrid smell. Sally spun out, sending James flying to the ground. He hit the ground hard on his left shoulder, shooting blinding pain throughout his body. Distantly, the distinct taste of iron soured his tongue.

Fighting the pain, he reached into a jacket pocket with his good arm and grabbed a stimpak. He bit off the needle's cover and stabbed the needle into the hurting shoulder. When a depressed the plunger, a flood of warm relief flowed through his body.

Another bullet bounced off the pavement near James, knocking him out of his reverie. He scrambled towards Sally and took cover behind the motorcycle. His 9mm submachine gun still seemed intact, despite the impact.

Thank God it's not broken, he thought, looking over the firearm. Really could've used my rifle right now, though. Despite the stimpak, and the relief it provided, a dull pain still settled in his shoulder. Broken, probably, and he would have to see a doctor once he made it to Canterbury.

It was supposed to be an easy trip – Megaton to Canterbury Commons, a trip he made once a month. Ever since the establishment of the RMRTC, the roads in the Capital Wasteland became much safer.

He stayed low, barely peeking above Sally's carcass. He laid the submachine gun's barrel in a crevice between the handlebar and the chassis. His finger hovered over the trigger, ready to press down at a moment's notice.

"Where are you?" he said quietly. Leafless trees dotted the slight hill that rose above the parkway. Clever ambushers could easily hide themselves in the muck.

A flash erupted by a large boulder about two hundred yards away. A second later, the bullet struck Sally's seat, showering James with leather scraps.

"Should've used a flash hider, asshole," he said as he took aim.

The attackers – whoever they were – sat grouped together by the boulder. The sniper kneeled by the tripod that held the rifle, his body partially obscured by some brush. Two others flanked him.

Another round was fired, this time striking the pavement in front of Sally. James answered with some burst fire that fell well-short.

Back and forth, shots were exchanged. Dust and sweat clung to James like wonderglue, and after twenty minutes, Sally was little more than a broken husk. He grit his teeth; each shot blew another piece of metal off Sally, and his cover further dwindled. The attackers seemed to notice this. As he pressed his body closer to the ground – if he could, he would've burrowed in it – the sniper fired off more rounds with apparent indiscrimination. Every few seconds, a bullet struck the ground around him.

"How many damn bullets does this guy have?" James hissed through gritted teeth.

And then he noticed: the sniper stood alone. The other two attackers descended the hill, each moving in a wide arch around the motorcycle.

James muttered a curse as he checked the submachine gun's magazine: four bullets left. With practiced ease, he replaced the near-empty magazine with a fresh one – his last one.

"Thirty bullets left. Better make 'em count."

The highway around Sally was empty and flat, save for one husk of a car – 2074 Corvega, by the look of it - about twenty feet away. Another bullet struck nearby, jarring James's thoughts. He could reach the car, but it would be risky. Then again, he had taken worse risks before.

The sniper fired a round, and James leaped from behind Sally. As he dashed to the Corvega, he hipfired some shots loosely in the direction of the sniper. Just enough to spook the sniper.

Just as James slid behind the car, he felt a stab of pain by his ankle. A bullet had struck the ground by his feet, just before a dove for cover, and some shrapnel ricocheted into his leg.

"Today just ain't my damn day," he muttered, grimacing from the pain.

The attackers shouted above the sniper fire. "Behind the car," one yelled, as the other shouted, "Go left! I'll go right!"

After another round bounced off the exposed engine block, James jumped up from behind cover – and stared directly into the face of one of the attackers.

"Oh shit," the attacker said right before James fired a burst into his chest. The attacker fell down choking on his own blood.

"Dennis is down!" The other attacker said. He raised his revolver and started firing.

James ducked down and scurried his way to the Corvega's trunk. The sniper fired another round that punched through the trunk's hood. James jumped up and fired another burst at the second attacker, who promptly dove to cover on the other side of the car.

"Cat and mouse, eh?" James called out. "Let's see who's who!"

A sniper round flew through the window, shattering what little glass remained. At the same time, the attacker leap-frogged the car and landed in front of James with his revolver aimed and ready.

"Looks like I'm the cat, bitch," the attacker said. He depressed the trigger.

The revolver clicked, a hollow sound. The attacker looked up, shock beginning to register on his face. James wasted no time in firing a burst into the attacker's chest.

"Should've cleaned your gun," James said as he stepped over the corpse. The revolver was coated in dirt, but there was still a round in the chamber. Must've jammed, he thought.

And then he waited. The true game of cat and mouse. The sniper had stopped firing, but James didn't want to expose himself. Occasionally, he peaked above the Corvega, and the sniper still sat by the rock, a small dot against the brown landscape.

A few hours went by, and the sun had started its descent downward. Sweat dripped down James's face, matting his hair and staining his clothes, but it wasn't from the heat. In fact, the wind – what little there was – carried a slight chill. The stimpak was wearing off, and the dull throb in his ankle and shoulder grew to a stinging pain.

He took another peak over the Corvega, and much to his surprise, the sniper was gone. No rifle, no tripod, no trace remained. As if he up and disappeared.

James scanned the area, making sure that the sniper didn't try to flank him, or otherwise get in a more advantageous position for another ambush.

Looks about safe, James thought after about ten minutes of looking. As he learned from his time in the Wasteland, you could never be too careful.

Two dead bodies, and one sniper missing. It was supposed to be an easy trip to Canterbury, but as James had learned, good things don't last in the Capital Wasteland. With a sigh, he gazed down the road that darkened under the day's waning light. Canterbury was somewhere that way. It would be a long walk.

"Jesus," Ernest Roe said. He dragged a hand across his thinning hair. "And three, you said? You only saw three?"

James grabbed the steaming mug of coffee from Joe Porter, nodding his head to Roe's question. It was well past sunset when he finally limped into Canterbury Commons. Fortunately for James, Ernest Roe – or Uncle Roe, as he preferred to be called – had parked himself by the settlement's entrance, waiting for his arrival. For the past year, James always arrived by late afternoon every second Thursday of the month, so when he didn't show up on time, Roe knew something went wrong. The worrywart that he was, Roe made it his duty to stay up until James arrived.

It was fortunate for James, too. Uncle Roe helped him to Doctor Wanda's place, who patched up his ankle and took a look at his shoulder. "The ankle is nothing but a flesh wound," the doctor had said through a yawn. She then shook her head as if to stave off sleep. "Bullet fragments aren't even lodged in the skin; must've bounced off the bone or something. That shoulder of yours, though… there's definitely a fracture there. The stimpak helped some, but you'll still need plenty of rest." She then stared at James, but the poor lighting in her office cast a shadow across her eyeglasses. "I know that is something not of your nature, but you implore you to try anyway."

James offered a meager thanks, and Doctor Wanda quickly shooed him and Uncle Roe out of her office so that she could grab some sleep. That was how he found himself at Joe's Diner. Unlike the doctor, Joe Porter had no issue staying up late and serving, listening to any new gossip that crawled into town.

"Lemme tell ya': if it was anyone else out there, they'd have been dead," Joe said, nodding his head with certainty.

"I still don't understand how this happened," Roe said.

Joe turned to Roe. "What do ya' mean, 'how this happened?' A bunch of gangbangers jumped James here on the highway! Nothing more to it."

"But Machete and her crew scout the Parkway twice a month, and they've never spotted a lick of raider activity. Not in months. Something's up, and I don't like it."

"Ah, you're just driving yourself crazy," Joe said, shaking his head. "Shit happens."

"I don't know about that, Joe," James said, speaking up. "It's hard to describe. The two guys I dropped were definitely from a local outfit: ill-trained, poor weapons, all that stuff. But the sniper was good; a much better shot than any raider I'd come across before." He turned to Roe. "When was the last time Machete scouted the Parkway?"

"Less than a week ago. She made it all the Corvega factory. Saw nothing."

"Have any of the caravans had issues recently?"

Roe shook his head.

"Look, ever since the confederation formed, the Capital Wasteland has been relatively crime-free," Joe said. "There was bound to be a spike in gang activity eventually. Come on: you guy aren't telling me you actually thought the good times would stay, did you?"

"Joe's right," Roe said. "We have had a pretty good run. How long has it been, a year since the last major raider activity? I guess this is just the world returning to the mean."

"Fourteen months, actually," James said. "I don't know, though. There's still something odd about this. Do you guys know the meaning of a three-headed dog tattoo and of a bleeding knife tattoo?"

"Not sure what you mean," Roe said.

James finished the rest of coffee in a large gulp. "Well, one of the dead guys had a three-headed dog tattoo on his right shoulder. The other dead guy had a bleeding knife tattoo over his heart. I'm assuming they're gang tattoos, but that doesn't make sense."

Roe nodded his head in agreement. "You're right. If those are gang tattoos, why would those guys be fighting together?"

"Exactly. Something's up here."

Roe nodded his head again, and then placed a hand over his mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to stifle a yawn. "Well, if you don't mind, I need to write up a report about the attack. I'm sure the others at the next RMRTC meeting in a couple weeks will want to hear about it."

"I'm sure there will be wonderful discussion." James rolled his eyes.

Roe continued. "You should go speak to Machete about the tattoos. She likes to keep tabs on all the upstart gangs and whatnot. She might know a thing or two."

With another yawn, Roe bid goodnight. Not long after that, Joe Porter closed down his diner for the night. James found himself walking the main street of Canterbury Commons. He found himself thinking of the state of the wasteland as he walked. So much had changed since he activated Project Purity and destroyed the Enclave two years ago. Finally, the main settlements of the Capital Wasteland united in a loose confederation. Sure, there was infighting and petty squabbling, but for the first time in perhaps centuries, there was hope.

"I'm sure you'd be quite proud, dad," James said. Even though he was talking to himself, he could not hide the apparent disdain in his voice.

Machete took a long drag on her cigarette, not bothering to hide the coy smirk on her face. If anything she seemed to relish in taunting James.

"Please don't drag this out longer than it needs," he said with frustration on the edge of his voice. "Do you have files on these guys or not?"

"What's wrong, Junior? You ain't wanna look at me? Take it all in with your eyes?"

James stifled a growl. "Junior" was a common nickname for him, one he despised to no end. But, he knew that Machete – and others like her – reveled in pissing him off with nicknames and jokes at his expense. So he suppressed his anger; showing it would only feed the habit. "I'd pay money not to look at you. Do you have the files or not?"

Machete's smirk dropped to a frown. "Asshole," she said. She stood up and walked to a filing cabinet, pulling out a couple manila folders. "A three-headed dog tattoo on the right shoulder and a bleeding knife tattoo over the heart. Yup. Got their files right here."

James looked at the file's covers: there was "Hound Dogs" written on one cover with a drawing of the three-headed dog tattoo besides it, and the other had "The Bleeding Hearts" written alongside a drawing of the bleeding knife tattoo. He started with the "Hound Dogs" file, flipping open its cover and perusing its contents.

"They're both small time drug runners in the area," Machete said. She was looking outside her office's window at the beautiful Canterbury Commons morning. "Uncle Roe stopped by early this morning, just before you showed. He told me about you're little run-in yesterday."

"Well, based on what I saw, your Hound Dogs and Bleeding Hearts have higher aspirations than drug runners."

"Perhaps. All the stuff you see in those files is all the info we got on 'em."

"Looks like the Hound Dogs are based not too far away – in an old rest stop about three miles from here… has twenty-one members – well, twenty members now." James closed the folder. "This is good stuff, Machete. Where'd you get it?"

"We have a mole in the group."

"I hope he wasn't the one I killed."

"He ain't, I promise."

Pushing aside the "Hound Dogs" folder, James turned to "The Bleeding Hearts" folder. Flipping it open, he noticed that it was much skimpier on documents and notes.

"Those guys are pretty new to the area. Been around 'bout a couple months or so. Ain't enough time to plant a mole in the group, though."

"You barely have anything on them; not even a count on their numbers! Oh wait, it says right here: 'about twenty to forty'. About? And you don't even have an exact location for their hideout? This doesn't help much."

Machete flashed a glare. "I'd appreciate you ain't telling me how to do my job. We're working on it." She sighed, lighting another cigarette. "What we do know if 'em is that they came somewhere from the northeast."

"Where, Baltimore?"

"Again, we ain't got specifics."

James nodded and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "Let me ask you –"

"Please don't."

"- Why are you letting these gangs roam about? Why not roll in with some guns and smoke these raiders?"

Machete scoff, letting out a cackled laugh. "Oh, look at Mr. Tough Guy here! With all his big, scary guns that can take out the bad guys!"

"Very funny."

"It is, it really is." Machete took another drag from her cigarette. "Listen, the people of Canterbury Commons ain't trained killers like you. They ain't trained with the Brotherhood. They're simple folk. We only deal with gangs if they pose a problem. And fact is, the Hound Dogs and The Bleeding Hearts ain't been problems."

"They attacked me, Machete. They've shown themselves to be problems."

"Well, what would you like me to do about it? The next RMRTC meeting is in couple of weeks. I can ask about gathering some recruits amongst the other settlements, but until then, there ain't nothing I can do."

"There is something we can do. We can pay these gangs a visit. Right now." James stood up. "Gather some recruits in Canterbury. About fifteen should do, but I'd prefer twenty. I'll lead the group, and we'll walk right up to their front doors."

Machete's face grew deeply serious. "James, what're you talking about? What the hell is going on?"

"What do you mean? They shot at me."

"No, I mean: these gangs – these are Canterbury problems. Yeah, they shot at you but… well, you don't need to be involved with this. We can deal with them. You don't need to be the wasteland's savior anymore."

James paused a moment, unsure of what to say. "Just get me those recruits."

Author's Note: To all of you that made it this far, thank you for reading! Reviews are always appreciated.