ii. keep your eyes on the prize
in which you learn that things can always get weirder

You used to walk the Mojave. It was a good gig, if you ignored the Legion, and the NCR, and the raiders and robots and wildlife and heat. But it was a good gig. You saw a whole lot of neat sunsets, drank a lot of okay beer in a lot of small towns. Punched a lot of geckos and more than a few men. Sometimes you went home with the stuff you scrounged, and every time you did another piece broke off your heart and fell down to rot at the bottom of your chest. But you haven't been back there in a long, long time.

Sixes has, though. You do your best not to think about the mechanics of that – how the Brotherhood girl can't go back, and the rootless asshole anarchist can pop in any time she likes. Better to think about walking the Mojave. Better to think about that right now, as you head south out of Vegas down the cracked expanse of the Long 15 and feel the old excitement stirring in your heart.

Dry earth and horsenettles. The grim bulk of Black Mountain to the south, a wash of grey against the lightening sky. Securitrons in the distance, rolling along on patrol through the ruins to the west.

It's going to be a beautiful day. You're good at your job – better than you ever expected you'd be – and you enjoy the work, but god, is it nice to get out of town for a while. Breathe in the clean desert air and revel in the weight of a power fist on your arm.

And the promise of a reunion in your future.

You risk a glance at Sixes, keeping pace alongside you. Cowboy hat, dark eyes, unbreakable smile. She looks good. Better than she has done since she got back: she has that easy calm back again. That way of carrying herself. Like she's got a whole pack of aces up her sleeve and she's waiting for her opponent to realise just how screwed they are.

Well enough for you to finally ask, maybe.

"So," you say. "Can I ask questions?"

You seem to take her by surprise. She glances at you in that quick, sidelong way, one eyebrow perfectly arched. A perfect picture of herself.

"You ain't ever needed my permission before," she says, a hint of a question in her voice.

"It's different now," you tell her, shrugging. "You're different."

Sixes' other eyebrow joins the first.

"Can't argue with that," she says. "Don't worry. I'm still your courier."

You know that. But the courier isn't something she is, it's something she does, and while she's proved over the past couple of weeks she can do that the same as ever, you're not so sure it's the same person doing it.

It's hard to know how to tell her this, though. Somehow it seems weird to think of Sixes having a problem that you can help with instead of the other way around.

"Uh, right," you say. "What about my friend, though?"

She laughs, though you have to admit that she doesn't seem very happy.

"I'll always be your friend, sweetheart. Promise."

It feels like the kind of thing that's meant to end a conversation, so you let it go for now; this is a long trip, after all, and you know how to be patient. Sixes is an irredeemable liar, but she won't break a promise, or not to you at least, and she'll tell you everything when she can. You aren't really sure where you're going, but you don't question it when Sixes leads you off the road, towards the ruins north of New Vegas Steel.

The sun inches higher and higher in the sky. You feel the sweat beginning to soak into the padded lining of your power fist. Kind of comforting, in the way that an old familiar discomfort can be.

"Me and Christine," says Sixes, unbidden, and suddenly you jump back to full alertness, your heart thumping against the wall of your chest the way it has done every time you hear her name again. Even now, it hurts; even now, you think your head might fall apart like a smashed mutfruit if you stop and think about her too much.

"Me and Christine," she says again, and this time you hear the unease in her voice. You hate it instantly. Even at Hoover Dam, as the legionaries swarmed across the bridge, she laughed and said that Lanius had better send a few more if he wanted to get the better of her. And now this. "We, uh … we both got caught up in some pretty bad stuff. Worst thing that's ever happened to me, actually, and I'm sayin' that as someone who got shot in the head and buried alive." She hesitates. "Christine got it worse than me," she says softly, meeting your eye with a bravery that frankly takes your breath away. "And she got it twice over, too. She's a nice girl, but you gotta know, sweetheart, she ain't the girl you left behind."

Your eyes travel upwards from Sixes' and come to rest on the scars protruding from beneath her hat. You might not have Arcade's medical training, but you have a pretty good idea what scars like that mean. And that – that happened to Christine, too. That and more than that. Whatever the hell that means.

You were right. Your head is definitely going to fall apart, because it's falling apart right now. Just like Sixes'. Just like Christine's.

"Sweetheart?"

You blink, tear yourself out of the thought. Sixes is looking at you, her face drawn. Neither of you are walking any more, although you don't remember stopping.

"Right, right." You look away quickly, start moving again. "Sorry."

A few more steps in silence. Dirt crunching beneath your boots. Gunfire in the extreme distance, raising a cloud of crows from the skeleton of an old building.

"Veronic―"

"What happened?"

It comes out so fast you hardly even have time to realise you've said it. By the time you do, you've also realised that you're clutching Sixes' arm. Hard.

She doesn't throw you off. She gives you a long, grave look, then she carefully loosens your grip and takes your hand in hers.

"We're nearly there," she says, squeezing it. "C'mon. I'll show you."

But perhaps we're getting ahead of ourselves; let's give you a moment without Sixes at your side, or the weight of the Sierra Madre on your shoulders. Let's give you June 3rd, 2272.

You're eighteen and nervous, sitting in what Ibsen calls the broom closet (even though it doesn't have any brooms in it) and wishing that you had a little space to yourself instead of a narrow bed in a tightly-packed dorm. But that's Brotherhood life for you, uncomfortably constrained by the size of the Lost Hills bunker. Someday maybe you'll be important enough to get your own quarters all to yourself, but for now, you're stuck here in this crappy room on level 2 with twelve other scribes-in-training.

So: the broom closet. It's that or try to sneak outside to the hills, and even you know better than to try and make it past the knights on patrol.

"Thought I'd find you here."

You look up – half relieved, half guilty – to see Christine hanging off the edge of the doorway, watching you with those sharp blue eyes.

"I didn't realise this was a spectator sport," you say. "Close the door already, before someone sees."

She raises her eyebrows. She can only raise both together; you take great pleasure in flaunting your ability to move them independently, a habit that she says infuriates her but which you know she secretly finds sort of charming.

"What, you have something to hide?" she asks.

"Yeah. The fact that I'm skulking around in broom closets, for starters."

"Right. Wouldn't want that one getting out there." She pauses just long enough to show you who's boss, then slips in and nudges the door shut behind her with her knee. "What's up?"

"Nothing. A little bit anxious, maybe."

Christine nods slowly. She doesn't ask what you're anxious about; she doesn't need to. The time is fast approaching when you'll be asked if you want to stick with the Brotherhood or leave to make your own way in the world. With how Christine's parents are about the two of you, you're afraid she'll say she wants to leave, and that you might not have the guts to follow her.

"Okay," she says. "Mind if I try to help with that?"

Perfectly deadpan. She has a poker face for the ages, always has done. But you have an inkling of where she's going here, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips.

"Sure," you say. "Give it your best shot."

She drops lightly to the floor at your side, slips an arm around your waist and her head onto your shoulder, burrowing it into the folds of your robe with a deft twist of her neck. Automatically, you let your head fall against hers, close enough to smell her. Warm and rich, like the wind when it blows from the east. You don't know what's out there to give it that scent, but one day you'd like to find out.

A second passes. Then another. You feel a little like something inside you is melting, in the best possible way.

"How's that?" asks Christine, after a little while. "I have an escalation plan if this isn't doing it for you."

"An escalation plan?"

"Glad you asked, Ronnie."

She tilts her head up and kisses you. Which, you will freely admit, is pretty much exactly what you were after.

"There's a smile," she says. "I'll take that as a win."

"Really? I think you could do better."

"You must be better, if you're making fun of me. But …"

"But?" you ask.

"Well, there is another level to the escalation plan," Christine informs you. "But unless you're feeling brave, we're gonna have to find somewhere even more private before we put that one into action."

You look at her, smiling too hard to answer. And that perfect poker face finally cracks into a grin, her grin, sharp and broad as a wastelander's machete; and you wish that this moment could go on forever and ever, that the difficult choices in your immediate future could melt like your insides are right now; and in a way you'll get your wish, because in the years to come, when you think of Christine, this is what you'll think of: this moment, this closet, that grin that cuts you open as easy as a new knife and exposes your heart to the caress of the scented desert wind.

That was a long time ago. You're not the girl in the closet any more. But you suspect that maybe Christine isn't the girl who fucked you in there any more, either.

"What is this place?"

"It's a warehouse."

"Yeah, I do have eyes, you know. Why are we here?"

Sixes winks and opens the door.

"After you, sweetheart."

Okay. She's a complete ass, but fine, nothing new under the sun. You shoot her a we're not done with this kind of look and head inside.

New build. Very new, actually: fresh concrete, not scavenged. Custom-made doors. No windows, but the walls are thick and buttressed with massive steel girders. This place was built recently, and without regard for cost. Like a giant strongbox.

A huge, solid, completely empty strongbox.

"What am I looking for?" you ask, turning around. Your voice echoes off the vaulted roof like a handful of caps rattling around in a tin can.

"Nothing yet," says Sixes. "This is where exports from the Big Empty arrive. Will arrive, I mean, when they start. Secret room in the back there has a homin' beacon in it. Anythin' that teleports outta the Empty will appear in here. Nice and safe."

Tele―?

She can't be serious. She can't … she is, isn't she?

"Teleport," you repeat. Slowly. Giving her time to contradict you.

Sixes' smile grows broader and meaner.

"Yep," she says, taking a gaudy little machine from her pocket, all diodes and antennae. "And if you wanna get back to the Empty in a hurry – which we do, 'cause it cuts two months off the journey – well, this is the place to be."

You have to hand it to her. No matter how long you spend together, no matter how many times you see Sixes pull some absolute unbelievable nonsense out of her ass – she still somehow manages to surprise you, every single time.

Teleportation. Actual goddamn teleportation! Sure, why the hell not.

"Do you just have spare keys to every single fortress in the wasteland?" you ask. "I mean, you get let into the Lucky 38 – weird, but okay. You get free passage in and out of the Fort – well, lightning can strike twice, you know? You turn up with a magic key that teleports you into the heart of the Big Empty … that's just making the rest of us look bad."

"Heh. Sweetheart, the woman ain't been born who can make you look bad." Sixes tosses you the machine, which is pretty brave of her considering you're still wearing your power fist; fortunately, you manage to catch it in your other hand and not crush it into spare parts. "You wanna do the honours? Fair warnin', we gotta stand real close if we're gonna do two people. The field is, uh, let's say temperamental."

"Do I wanna fire off a teleporter?" you ask, incredulous. "Yeah. I think maybe I do, thanks."

"Well, then." Sixes steps closer to you. A lot closer, actually; enough to make you really feel how much taller than you she is. How handsome. You don't really see her in these terms – she's more like a parent, and would still be even if you weren't an idiot still half in love with your teenage sweetheart – but sometimes it's hard not to notice. "Whenever you're ready."

Ready to teleport into the middle of an incredibly dangerous pre-war ruin? Honestly, you feel like it's about damn time. The past four years have been great – peaceful – historic – but far too devoid of opportunities for punching.

You look up into Sixes' eyes. She's got that look in them again, the one you haven't seen in a good long while now: bright and dangerous as casino lights, the look of someone who's about to get you into trouble.

Well, you think, it's not like there's anyone better to get into trouble with. And you bring your thumb down on the button.

The long and short of it is, you throw up. Apparently teleportation is pretty rough on your insides.

"Yeah, it's hard the first time," says Sixes, patting you on the shoulder. "Sorry, I figured I'd let you have your moment."

"Ugh," you mutter, straightening up and wiping your mouth. "You asshole."

"Hey, only my mom and Red Lucy get to call me that."

You have a real zinger of a response to that, you really do. Something to do with the rumours about her and Lucy and a back room in the Thorn full of chains. Probably toss in something to do with her mother too, why not. But at that point, your brain catches up with your eyes, and suddenly witty responses seem a touch beyond your capabilities.

Before you lie several densely-packed miles of concrete and steel and battered pipework, spreading out across the russet earth like the growth of a massive iron lichen. You see spires and silos, scaffolding and squat prefabs rusting away between the remnants of roads and railways; you see a pack of cyberdogs prowling across a nearby plaza, sniffing at mounds of junk and broken stones; you see, behind it all, a wall of towering steel antennae, their banks of bulbous rings rippling with something like heat haze.

You see two hundred years of old world genius, right there for the studying, and your scribe's heart skips a beat in your chest.

"Empty's pretty, ain't she?" remarks Sixes, cutting into your thoughts. "Murderous old bitch, but pretty."

"There's so much here," you murmur. "We could study this for decades and never …"

"Oh, we will," she says, matter-of-factly. "Just not yet. Place has been runnin' wild for centuries. Gotta tame it first." She jerks her head at something – a door, you realise; you were so busy staring at the crater that you never even realised where you were, a balcony at the top of a tall tower. Centre of the facility, looks like. "C'mon in. My room's in here."

Ah, of course it is.

"Why is it that wherever you go, someone comps you the penthouse suite?"

"Didn't really have a choice about this one, sweetheart," she says, a little more seriously than you're comfortable with, and leads you into a suite that puts your Lucky 38 apartment to shame: open, spacious, clean as only something that never saw the war can be. The centre is dominated by a huge tabletop computer screen, which―

"Salutations and felicitations, sir," says the screen in a voice straight out of an old video, its surface rippling like an oscilloscope with each word. "I see you have brought a guest. Welcome to the Sink."

An AI? And – oh no. An AI that calls Sixes …

You steal a glance at her, wary, but her face gives nothing away.

"Thanks," she says. "This is Veronica Santangelo, a dear friend of mine. We're just passin' through. Back to the Sierra Madre, see that other friend I told you about."

"If sir thinks it best," says the AI, although its tone suggests that it itself thinks otherwise. "A pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Uh … likewise," you say. Should you …? God, you just don't know; you do your best to be good about these things, but sometimes the fact that you're a regular old cis woman who grew up in the world's most aggressively heteronormative bunker just smothers you in awkwardness. "You know we're both women, right?"

"Of course, sir," replies the AI apologetically. "Unfortunately―"

"Unfortunately the so-called genius who programmed every nightstand and coatrack in this room with its own AI personality never foresaw a woman walkin' in here," says Sixes, in a voice that could cut the moon right out of the sky. "Least he was honest about his chances, I guess. But it means that the Sink here don't have the word 'ma'am' in its vocabulary."

"A most colourful summary, sir," says the Sink, completely unperturbed. "I must once again offer up my most sincere apologies."

You almost wince. For something that has neither feet nor mouths, it sure does a great job of putting the one in the other.

"Hey," you say, before Sixes can get mad enough to put a bullet through the poor thing, "y'know, if you like, I could take a look at it? I mean, I was a scribe and all. I know my way around a terminal."

Something leaves Sixes' face, some kind of tension, and you know you did the right thing.

"Yeah," she says. "That'd be great." She glances at the screen. "Sink? Give Veronica here full access. I'm gonna check in with the Think Tank, then we'll move on. Got places to be."

"Very good, sir," says the Sink – which, wow, credit where credit's due, this is a really special kind of obstinacy – and unfolds a little terminal from its side. "Sir may access my code from―"

"Yeah, I'll, uh, leave you to it," says Sixes quickly, ducking out through a side door. "Back in five …!"

You watch the door slide shut behind her, steel jaws closing over the ace of spades on the back of her duster. Then you turn back to the Sink and unbuckle your power fist. Time to see how much from Head Scribe Taggart's lectures actually stuck.

Not enough to deal with the horrific code here, honestly: if this stuff was written down on paper, it would be blotched with coffee stains, unnumbered and left out of order in a mouldy old box file. Fortunately, adding a word to the Sink's vocab is one of the less complicated operations. For some reason the apostrophe breaks it, but you've got it saying 'madam', at least.

You've also been interrupted three times by three different pieces of talking furniture, each of which appears to suffer from a separate major personality flaw. It feels a little like being trapped in some sort of joke, except every time you look up the punchline seems to have drifted further and further away.

"… ignore me, will you? I will see you burn in the all-consuming flames of hell! No one ignores the toaster and lives to tell the tale!"

"Don't mind him," says the tiny securitron that keeps trundling around the room like some fancy old world toy. "The toaster's just like that. But speaking of kitchenware, you wouldn't happen to have any mugs on you, would you?"

Delightful. How long is Sixes going to be, exactly?

"You mean the mugs I told you I didn't have two minutes ago?" you ask. "Yeah, I'll keep you posted."

"I appreciate it!" chirps the securitron. "God, I love mugs. And wish for death on a daily basis."

What the actual hell. Why would someone create a robot just to torture it this way? Not a question you can answer, so instead you just smile at him and walk away to investigate the apartment a bit further. Even outside the central workshop room, there's enough here to keep a whole unit of scribes busy for years: an auto-doc like you've never seen before, some sort of sonic pulse weapon, a hydroponics suite that looks to be an order of magnitude more efficient than anything you've ever seen, a―

A bomb collar, lying there on the nightstand in the bedroom.

You freeze for a moment, caught out by the stark violence of it. You've seen these things before – there are a few in the Hidden Valley stockpile, and when the securitrons razed Caesar's Fort after the battle you had to defuse a lot of slave collars – but there's something different about seeing one here, like this. Knowing that it was once wrapped around Sixes' throat.

It looks rough. Carefully modded by someone, carefully unmodded by someone else – Sixes, presumably, in her attempts to remove it. Which means that the first modder must have been …

You knew there was more to Elijah than he let on, even before Sixes told you what he'd been up to after he abandoned the Mojave Brotherhood. His refusal to tell you what he was looking for in those memory units he had you hunt down. His fury at the NCR taking the Dam, the way he called them children playing with a bomb. You don't much care for the NCR either, but a normal person doesn't see electrical infrastructure and start thinking about deadly weapons.

(And then there's HELIOS One – but even now, with your past coming back to you in big bloody chunks, that's a memory you're not going to revisit.)

Elijah was dangerous. Selfish, obsessive, manipulative. He needed to be dealt with, for everyone's safety. But he was also the closest thing to a parent you had, until Sixes showed up at the 188 and listened to you the way nobody had in almost a decade. And now he's out there chaining bombs around your friend's neck.

Or at least, he was.

You breathe out, force yourself to turn away from the collar. You're really not sure what the protocol is, emotionally speaking, for when one of your kinda maybe sorta parental figures commits unspeakable crimes and gets locked away forever in a windowless vault by a completely different kinda maybe sorta parental figure. It's not the sort of thing that happens to people, you know?

"Well, hello there, sweetie," says a nearby light switch, as your eye falls across it. "Now what is a mysterious, smouldering stranger like yourself doing here in our little old―"

"Nope, can't deal with this," you mutter, and you grab your power fist and storm out.

There's a reason that that closet is your abiding memory of Christine. It's because that's the last time you two were really happy together: one week later, you have the first and last fight you can remember having. She says she's leaving, that she can't stand her fucking parents and the fucking hate in their fucking eyes; you say no, we can make it work, please stay. As predictable as the sun in the sky and the rads in the water. You fight and fight until the noise brings paladins down to drag you apart, and the next time you see Christine is on her way out of the elders' conference room, after she gave her official answer about whether she wants to commit the rest of her life to the Brotherhood.

You look at her, unable to ask. She looks back, unable to answer. You both know that this is it, that you won't ever see one another again, but somehow the word goodbye is just too much to ask. Until it's too late, and there's nothing left but regret.

Who can you turn to? Elijah, of course. Elijah, who alone of all the elders likes your iconoclasm, your reckless curiosity, your refusal to bend to dogmatism. You assume that means he likes you, too. So once you've had a chance to dry your face and put yourself together, you run to his quarters, and he sighs and motions for you to sit down at his side.

"I'm sorry, Veronica," he says. "I know she meant a lot to you."

"How could she?" you want to know. "How could she – I didn't even get to …"

"You know what it's like." His voice is so soft, so gentle. So plausible. "Once you're out, you're out. It has to be a clean break. And you have to know, Veronica, Christine was not happy here."

"But we could have made it work," you protest, tears pushing at the corners of your eyes. You want to control them, to be as tough as you think Elijah thinks you are, but it's so difficult. "I know we could, I just – how come I couldn't …?"

Elijah sighs again.

"You argued your piece," he says. "I don't think you need to blame yourself."

"Then who? Is it her, is that it? For not – god, why didn't she believe me?"

"Maybe she did." He fixes you with one of those piercing looks. "But she would have had to weigh that against the life she could have in the wider world. I'm sure she didn't mean to hurt you."

"Then she shouldn't have fucking left," you mutter, unable to stop yourself swearing. Elijah doesn't acknowledge it, just makes a slight movement of his head.

"I'm sure she tried, Veronica. She wouldn't leave you without anything to remember her by."

And you remember the other week in the closet, and it all falls into place for you, just as Elijah knew it would. You realise what that meant. Why she was looking for you, what the aching care she took of you was meant to say.

"I didn't realise," you murmur, staring into the middle distance. "I didn't …"

"You weren't to know." Elijah lays a hand on his desk. He doesn't do touch – is not normally good with feelings – but you think this might be as close to it as he can get. "She's made her decision, Veronica. All that's left is to make yours."

You think about it. You look up at the man who would never run away and abandon you. The man who leaned on the Brotherhood bureaucracy until Christine was forcibly reassigned to the Circle of Steel, a committee so secret that she was guaranteed never to interfere with Elijah's protégé again.

"Yeah," you say, as the cracks spread through your heart like cobwebs. "I guess it is."

And Elijah's smile is the kindest thing you've ever seen.

He disappeared in the end, too. Like Christine. Like your parents. Like everyone else, when you walked away and they responded with a hit squad.

What you're saying is, there was a reason you yelled at Sixes when she came back after vanishing like that.

You run into Sixes just outside the door to the insane apartment, as she steps out of an elevator at the end of the hall. It's probably a good thing. You have no idea where it is you're planning to run off to.

"Everythin' all right?" she asks.

You nod and smile like nothing happened.

"Fixed the Sink," you say, and she smiles back with unfeigned gratitude.

"Thanks, sweetheart," she says. "Sure you're okay, though?"

You shrug.

"Kinda weird in there," you admit. "What's with the mug robot?"

Sixes raises an eyebrow, which you suspect means she knows exactly what bothered you in that apartment, but she's polite enough to play along.

"Rivalry between Dr 0 and Mr House," she says. "The good doctor decided the best revenge is a neurotic imitation. Men, eh?"

"Hah. Yeah."

Pause. The fluorescent lighting hums and pops overhead.

Sixes sighs.

"C'mon," she says. "I don't wanna be here either. Let's get movin'."

She punches a button and a second elevator dings into place alongside the first. Inside, it's cool and quiet. Air conditioning in the Mojave wasteland. Who'd have thought it?

It's also extremely slow. You stand there awkwardly for a while, fidgeting, and then finally it bursts out of you:

"Sixes, about Elij―"

"He left you a holotape," she says, the words springing from her with as much violence as yours. "I'm sorry, I … I just couldn't say."

"He – he what?"

"Was on my way out." She closes her eyes briefly, struck by a memory. "I found an old bunker in the wasteland a few miles west of the Madre. His base of operations while he prepared for his assault on the casino. And there, he … he'd recorded a tape. For you. Guess he didn't have anyone else in his life."

You're not really surprised. But somehow it hurts to hear it anyway.

"I – I see," you manage, forcing each word up through a throat that seems to be doing its level best to seal for good. "I … can I have it?"

Sixes gives you a sharp look.

"What kinda question is that? Course you can have it, it's yours. Some courier I'd be if I started stealin' my deliveries." She reaches inside her duster and pulls out a thin, streamlined tape. "Here. All yours."

You take it as if it were a baby bird, fragile and alien and stolen. It's very light. Almost feels like an insult that something so important can be so insubstantial. Maybe this is how Sixes felt about that chip.

"We can stop by one of the safer labs on the way if you want to play it," Sixes goes on. "There are plenty of workin' terminals here."

"Thanks," you say, still staring at the holotape. "I … I might need to just hang onto this for a little while. Until, uh … we get back. Maybe."

She nods like this makes sense. Hell, maybe it does.

"Sure thing, sweetheart," she says. "Whatever you want."

Ding!

The doors open, and the sudden rush of natural light finally makes you look up. The fresh air on your face clears your head: you blink hard, tuck the tape safely into your bag.

"Thanks," you say again. "I, uh, I really mean it."

"I know. And I'm sorry it took me so long."

"It's all right. I'm not sure I could've taken it when you first told me."

"Well, that's as may be." Sixes glances out of the elevator, down the little passage into the light. "Shall we?"

"Yeah."

Out you go, into the fierce, familiar light of the wasteland. Up ahead, some sort of radar tower looms out of a labyrinth of pipework and cement buildings; Sixes gives it a weird look and leads you off to the east, down what looks like it might once have been a road, a few remaining tiles half-buried in the dirt.

"This place is pretty compact," she says. "We can make the radar fence – that's the antennae round the edge – by dusk. Should be a pretty safe route. I've cleared it several times."

You nod, barely listening. Is it you, or is your bag heavier now? It can't be. The tape was so small. And yet it does feel weighty, just like Elijah's hand on your shoulder. You feel angry, all of a sudden; how dare he come back into your life, just when you had it sorted? And how dare he come back like this? Who is he to demand that you take his last words, after everything he's―

"Hey," says Sixes. "I ever tell you how I killed Caesar?"

You fall heavily back into yourself, the sun and sweat hitting you all over again.

"What?"

"Caesar," she repeats. "Did I ever tell you how I killed him?"

You stare at her for a minute, wondering where the hell that came from, and then you see the light in her eyes and feel your lips begin to twitch.

"Only four hundred times," you say. "Why? You gonna give me the truth this time?"

"And nothin' but," she replies solemnly, as you make your way off the path and up a rocky slope. "See, I actually smuggled in a shot of turbo―"

"Bullshit," you interrupt, unable to resist. "You said before, the Legion took all your chems off you when they let you into the Fort."

"That's why I said 'smuggled', sweetheart." She crests the slope and turns around to offer you a hand up. "Had it made special by the fine boys and girls at Red Rock Canyon―"

"They're assholes."

"Funny you should say that! That's how I snuck it in. Finger-sized canister. Small fry, really. Had bigger."

"Thaaaat's something I absolutely didn't need to hear."

She clicks her tongue and aims a finger gun at you.

"Every day's a chance to learn somethin' new, sweetheart. Oh, watch your step, there's a junction box buried here and the lid's loose. So, I'm in the tent, facin' Caesar and all his biggest, meanest boys, and I clench real hard―"

You wince.

"Oh my god, Sixes―"

"―and the thing goes off in my ass. Well, you know me, sweetheart, I got more guts than brains, so that's the perfect place for it, and everythin' starts gettin' real slow, real fast. I give it a moment to hit me, then I grab a spear off the nearest guard and throw it right into Caesar's chest."

She pauses to let that one sink in. Around you, the ruins have given way to tumbled rocks and yet more of that omnipresent pipework, snaking in and out of the ground like maggots burrowing through old meat. Something happened here, maybe several somethings; the landscape looks like it's been torn up and thrown carelessly back together.

"I've never seen you throw a spear in my life," you say.

"Yeah, well, guns weren't invented yet when I was a kid, so my family had to make do. Anyway, it worked, didn't it? And there was just enough juice left in the turbo to get me outside before they started shootin'."

"There is no way in hell that that's true."

"Maybe, maybe not," says Sixes, taking out her cigarettes. "But you're laughin', though."

Are you? God, you are.

Imagine that. Here in the Big Empty, Elijah's last words burning a hole in your pocket, chasing an old flame to a place that hurt the most indestructible woman in the wasteland so bad she still can't even talk about it – and you're laughing.

You don't really know how that happened, but you are so goddamn glad it did.

The Empty is a breeding ground for monsters. You see them from a distance: nightstalkers prowling through the ruins to the north, the orange flash of cazador wings through the window of a long-shuttered commissary. You keep a cautious distance and listen in disbelief as Sixes tells you that this is where they come from, that the people in charge here don't even know they can breed, let alone that they've escaped.

"Why did they make them?" you ask, but she just shrugs.

"The guy was pretty vague on the details."

"Seriously? They just … did it? Like without a reason?"

"Better get used to that," she says. "Kinda the guidin' principle behind this whole place. Used to be a point to it all. But they lost their way a long, long time ago. Now they do awful shit just 'cause it's all they know."

That much you understand; it sounds uncomfortably like the Brotherhood, though if the nightstalkers are any indication, you suspect these people have probably done worse. And soon enough, you get your proof: some time later, as you near an old lab built into the side of a hill, three strange men stagger out from hiding places beneath the rusting walkway looping around its concrete flanks. Their heads are like Sixes', scarred and tattered, falling apart in between the straps and goggles holding them together; they wear ragged jumpsuits and clutch eerie axes with blades of blue light.

Is this what happened to― but that's a question for later. You flick the switch on your power fist and glance at Sixes, who nods curtly.

"They're already dead," she says. "Let's help 'em realise it."

You split up as the men shamble across the paving stones: Sixes to the right, you to the left. They falter for a moment, uncertain who to follow, but then the first bullet finds its mark, ripping an axe from its wielder's hand with a roar and the smell of cordite, and they turn as one towards Sixes and her pistol.

That's their mistake: never turn your back on the lady with the power fist. You lunge, hook your free hand into the back of one man's jumpsuit and drive your fist into the back of his neck with a crunch of metal on bone. He falls silently, breathlessly; one of his friends turns, eyes bulging between the mess of leather holding his broken face together, and lifts his axe―

―only to catch a bullet in the small of the back. He stumbles forward, the axe slipping from his hands, and you take the opportunity to finish him with an uppercut that leaves him sprawled in the dirt.

Just like old times. She sets 'em up, you knock 'em down. In the old days it was Legion, though, not … whatever these poor guys are.

The last one looks from you to Sixes and back again, clutching his ruined hand and moaning wordlessly. You glance at her, wanting to know whether this one's yours; she doesn't meet your eyes, just puts another round into the back of the man's head.

"Poor bastards," mutters Sixes, watching him crumple, blood trickling over his strapped-together skull. "Thanks, Veronica. Every time I think I've put all these guys outta their misery, I find a few more."

"Who are they?" you ask. "What happened to them?"

Her sunglasses make it impossible to tell whether she's looking at you, but right now you kind of hope she isn't. You're not sure which is the more worrying right now, the dead men at your feet or the live woman standing over them.

Sixes clicks the switch on her gun and the cylinder swings out with a motorised buzz for her to reload. Calm, steady movements. The only thing about this moment you recognise.

"Most everyone who arrives in the Empty gets picked up by the drones," she says. "They drag you back to the labs, then they cut your brain, heart and spine out. Replace 'em with machines. You're supposed to be able to move your body round by radio control, from the jar they put your brain in, but the operation don't work. Everyone ends up like these guys here."

Now she's definitely looking at you. But you just don't know what to say, not in the face of a cruelty as huge and senseless as that.

"Not me, though," Sixes goes on. "I got two scars in my head, courtesy of Benny. The auto-doc made a tiny adjustment to compensate, and, well." She shrugs. "Surgery worked. Let's leave it at that. It worked. Got all my organs put back in the end."

And she kept going. All of that, these violations, this un-fucking-believable nightmare of medical abuse – she took all of that, got back up, and kept on walking towards the fresh horrors of the Sierra Madre. All for some woman she'd never even met before. Whose name she didn't even know.

More than that. She did it for you.

You feel like you might be sick again. This is … this is not even remotely okay. Sixes has made a career, a goddamn life, out of doing impossible things for any random passer-by, but – they stole her brain. And she just kept going anyway, chasing someone else's ghost.

"Sixes," you murmur. "How – why didn't you just come home?"

She stares at you for a long moment. Her mouth has slipped open a little, like the question never occurred to her before and now it has she can't think of anything else.

"I don't," she begins, but just as quickly stops. "I can't quite say," she says, in a subdued sort of voice. "I guess I just didn't."

You stand there on either side of the corpses. Some distorted voice blares from a distant loudspeaker; far off, a pair of zopilotes beat their heavy wings, setting a course for the carrion you've made. But right here, where you are, there's nothing but your breath and a faint, warm wind.

You're so glad you can't see Sixes' eyes right now.

"I think we should bury these men," she says quietly.

"Okay," you reply.

But some silences are too deep to be broken, even by the bite of a shovel into hard, dry earth.

You work swiftly, with repurposed tools procured from the crates piled up around the outside of the ruin. You're strong, much stronger than Sixes, and you have more stamina, too, but she refuses to stop until the job is done. By the time the three men are below the earth, their stolen dignity restored, the sun is low in the sky and the light is fading fast.

"Getting late," you remark. The first words to pass between you since you agreed to bury the experiment victims.

"Yeah," says Sixes. Her voice gives nothing away.

"Stop here for the night?" you suggest. "We have shelter here."

"Here …?" She follows your gaze over to the ruined lab. "Ah. No, not here."

"Not one of the safe ones?"

"Oh, it's safe now. But it ain't a good place. Neither of us will get any sleep in there." She points past it, at one of those antennae that ring the crater. "We're forty minutes from the radar fence. We camp on the other side."

"Why?"

"Those guys with the busted heads can't cross it. Gotta be a livin' brain in a livin' body, otherwise it pushes you back in. 'S what's keepin' the Mojave safe from the scientists here."

So what are the scientists? Robobrains or something? You almost ask, but then you remember the three men you just killed and decide that maybe you don't want to know. Better just to get clear of this place.

The two of you climb the steps up onto the walkway around the edge of the lab, passing over another inexplicable pipe and back onto solid ground. Not a lot left; it's basically a straight shot across the scree to the radar fence from here, and in the end you find yourself passing through the shadow of the nearest antenna ten minutes ahead of Sixes' estimate.

"Down there," she says, pointing you towards an unremarkable rock formation jutting from the crater's lip. "Found a good spot when I last made this trip. Left some firewood and supplies."

You trust her opinion on this one; she's been walking the wasteland a hell of a lot longer than you. Soon enough, the two of you are set up in a neat little hollow in the leeward side of the rock and Sixes is coaxing a fire into life with her pump drill.

"You know, there's this handy little thing called a lighter …"

She doesn't rise to it, just keeps working on the flame with an engineer's patient hand. It makes you uneasy. Something about her silence isn't right.

"Hey," you say, sitting down and unhitching your power fist. "What's up?"

Sixes keeps her head down, feeding the fire with curls of kindling. Only when it's properly caught does she sit up and answer.

"Ugh," she mutters, settling back against the rock wall with a grimace. "Too old for this shit."

"You'd get bored sitting around in the Lucky 38," you remind her.

"Mm." Again, no joke. Something is most definitely up here. "Look, uh, I … didn't give you the whole story earlier."

Here we go. You lay your power fist down at your side, flicking nervously at the switches. It's a bad habit – fiddling with the pressure controls can damage the pneumatics – but you just can't help yourself.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She takes off her hat and sunglasses. Without them, she looks much older, much more tired. Or maybe it's just being here again. You can't imagine it's much fun, coming back to the place where you had your organs cut out and stitched back in. "That place we passed. Y-17. That's … that's where the med bots brought Christine, after Elijah attacked her. Up till then, she'd escaped the drones, 'cause she's smarter than me, but …"

Oh no. You weren't even thinking about her, for once – too shocked at the thought that Sixes got herself tortured just for you – but now that you are … god, what could have happened to her here? In a place where they pick brains like flowers?

"It was a place for medical testin'," Sixes says, her eyes clouding over. "Full of cages. They locked her up and cut her head up real bad. Stuck electrodes and shit in, it was … sweetheart, the things they did to her."

There's a coldness behind your eyes, welling up like tears and falling in thick, silent clumps down through your body. You want to say something. But your voice has gone off to that same distant place it vanished to after the defence of HELIOS One, and you can't muster a single damn word.

"That's where my friend comes in," Sixes goes on. "The one who gave me the tip. He sprung her, healed her up. We passed his hideout on the way here. And she did get better, I promise. But she's not … the same. Can't read or write no more." She tenses for a second, summoning her courage, and drags her gaze up from the fire to meet yours. "Didn't wanna say earlier," she says. "But I reckon it's part of why she ain't come back. She's hurt too bad to let go."

The fire spits and pops. Behind it, Sixes looks exhausted. Regretful. It doesn't suit her at all.

You wish you knew what to feel. You wish you knew what it was that Sixes is holding back, because you know that she is, that there's yet another shoe just waiting to drop. Most of all, though, you wish you could make her feel even a little bit better right now, the same way she made you laugh when your thoughts got stuck on Elijah.

You breathe in, fill your lungs with the taste of woodsmoke and dust.

"Thanks for telling me," you say.

Sixes twitches one corner of her mouth into something that superficially resembles a smile.

"You're allowed to be upset, you know," she says. "I shoulda told you sooner. Your girlfriend and all."

"She was." You shrug. Which, honestly, is you putting off the moment where you have to let your guard down and be genuine, but whatever. "I don't … really know what she is to me any more. But I know that you're my friend, and that something terrible happened to you. So I think it'd be kinda petty of me to be upset."

You've caught her off guard: her face shifts and the fake smile suddenly turns real.

"Aw," she says. "You tryin' to make an old woman cry?"

"I mean it," you say. "I have literally months to worry about Elijah and Christine. But you're right here. And, uh …" Don't make a joke. Don't make a joke. Don't make a― "Well, not to get all mushy on you, but at this point you've done a lot more for me than they have."

Well, shit. That was kind of a joke. But Sixes chuckles, thank god.

"Now you're definitely tryin' to make me cry."

"Okay," you sigh. "Excuse me for trying to be nice."

"Hey. Never said I didn't appreciate it. And," she adds, turning around and going through her stuff, "by way of a thank you, I'm gonna say you get to be the first person to hear this song I wrote the other week."

You have to laugh.

"You brought your violin?"

"Yep." She turns around again, unsnapping the fastenings on her violin case. "Promised I'd play for Christine. You won't tell her I gave you a sneak preview, will you?"

"I mean, if she asks …"

"Good enough." She grins and swings her violin into place beneath her chin, plucking and tuning. "Mm … hm … okay. This here's a little ditty I call 'Holy Water'."

"Getting religious in your old age?" you ask, unable to stop a wry grin flickering across your face.

Sixes arches an eyebrow and sets her bow to the strings.

"Never say never, sweetheart. Now – one, two, three, four …"

Her voice rises up with the smoke and the stirring of the strings, deep and husky and cigarette-roughened. It's a song about walking, and growing older, and letting go, and the chorus curls under your ribs to get you right in the heart:

My friend's drinkin' whiskey, but I'll have holy water,
I'm a-hopin' to whiten my soul.
All I know is killin', but one day God willin'
I'll find me a place where I'm whole.

Sixes is a born performer, but you're willing to bet that even she can't tell if the wild, desperate longing in her voice is an act or not. You lean back against the rocks, letting the sound and feeling wash across your face, and a tension leaves your shoulders that you didn't even know was there until now.

There are storm clouds on the horizon: there will come a time for Elijah, when you play his tape, and there will come a time for Christine, when you reach the Madre. But right here and now, it's just you and your friend and the warm desert night, rich with music and that unplaceable smell that haunted you as a kid, and if Sixes has any booze on her you're damn well going to drink to that.