It's getting faster, moving faster now, it's getting out of hand,
On the tenth floor, down the back stairs, it's a no man's land,
Lights are flashing, cars are crashing, getting frequent now,
I've got the spirit, lose the feeling, let it out somehow.

Chapter Three: "Loose Lips"

Wind whistled through the valley as Boone hoisted his legs up with a sigh, propping his feet against one of Dinky's faded wooden teeth. His hunting rifle was at his right, discarded out of lack of need. A cigarette dangled between his teeth as he withdrew a matchbook, striking one of the sticks. It crackled to life, a small glow of orange in the darkness, and he brought the flame to his cigarette. Deeply, he inhaled, feeling the harsh smoke fill every alcove of his lungs. As he let out a breath, watching as the silver tendrils of smoke tickle the air, he felt the familiar rush of nicotine course through him.

He tucked the matchbook into the pocket of his pants and reached for a half empty bottle of whiskey. The nights had been slow, and he found the only way to keep himself from going stir crazy was to drink himself stupid. Tonight was no different, and he especially welcomed the warm tingle of alcohol after his encounter with Avery the day prior. Boone hated conflict with a passion. It was a waste of time to be so consumed with arguing and this mentality of his often was the source of conflict between him and Carla. Ironic. His lack of wanting to fight only spurned more arguments.

But this time, his apathy drove the only important person in his life far away from him.

Why was he so unable to just talk about his feelings? What was it that forced him to smother every ounce of humanity he had, to isolate himself every time someone got close to him? Now, he knew he had every right to pissed at Avery. After all, she did slap him in the face and then run to an entirely new province just to get away from him. Was he truly so… awful? He frowned, taking another drag of his cigarette. She had been gone for three months without so much as a letter to let him know she was alive. She was inconsiderate and impulsive with no thought for anyone else aside from herself.

Although… Novac was the first place she came to upon her return. She had tried to apologize, albeit horribly. Maybe the mere fact that she came back meant more than he realized. He frowned again.

Then something caught his attention; a flicker of something in the distance… a person? He tossed his bottle of whiskey at his feet and grabbed his hunting rifle, balancing the barrel against a wooden tooth and peering down his scope. To his dismay, he wobbled a little bit, the dizzying effects of alcohol muddling up his coordination. Once he was able to regain stability he pointed his scope towards the intersection at the west end of Novac. As if on cue, the moment he focused in on the disturbance, he watched as it crumpled to the ground and disappear into the darkness. That definitely was a human. Maybe they were injured.

Without a second thought, Boone hoisted his rifle over his shoulder and shuffled down the stairs. The last thing he wanted to do was a perimeter check but if someone was injured and they died on his watch because of his laziness, he may not be able to forgive himself. Better to be safe than sorry.

As soon as he was outside he broke into a jog. He picked up speed, although running in his inebriated state was near impossible. His limbs felt weak and shaky as he moved, wary of any pitfalls or holes in the dirt so he could avoid tripping. It wasn't long before he was able to see the person in question, their silhouette barely discernible, swallowed up by the shadow of one of Novac's residences.

But as he grew closer he slowed to a walk. Something felt off. He couldn't place his finger on it, but the hairs on the back of his neck went rigid and apprehension tugged at him. He slowly approached the individual, his breathing ragged and labored, his eyes trying to adjust to his dim surroundings. He was about to call to them when he paused. Something definitely was not right here. The closer he got the more he realized that this looked less like a person and more like wayward laundry.

Just to be sure, he brought his boot up and kicked part of the material out of the way only to realize… it was empty. It was just a heap of clothing. This could mean one of two things. The first one being that Boone just happened to see someone's clothing that had blown off their line and overreacted, which was very possible given his intoxication. The second possibility being that someone was trying to draw him out of hiding and far enough from town, which could only mean…

It was a trap.

Click.

Then he heard it; a click, the smell of Rem Oil invaded his nostrils.

His spine prickled with unease as he felt a presence behind him. They couldn't be more than a foot away. He turned his head slightly and froze when he realize he was staring down the barrel of a .44 magnum revolver. Great. His alcohol laden mind tried to process what was happening and, most importantly, how he was going to get out this. It had been years since he was forced to be in close proximity during an attack. His specialty was long range. After all, he was a sniper. But right now, all that mattered was disarming this person. The only way would be to use some of his hand-to-hand combat training from his recruit days. He was rusty, but it'd be worth a try.

Quickly, he ducked, lowering himself below the line of fire. He spun around on his heel and reached for the attacker's arm. His attacker tried to jump back but Boone was quick and caught onto his wrist, swiveling the attacker's arm away so the gun was no longer pointed at him. He parried a blow from his attacker's free hand, effectively blocking the punch with his forearm. Bad move. He felt his wrist sprain under the pressure and he cursed under his breath. His limbs trembled as he struggled to keep the aggressor's blows at bay, his right forearm worsening by the second. He needed to do something to stun this man and he needed it now. That's when he realized, with sobering clarity, that his assailant's stomach was unguarded. Padded, yes, but there was nothing defending him if Boone were to, oh, say kick this guy in the gut.

Well, it was now or never.

Without hesitation, Boone brought his leg up and used his momentum to dig his boot into the attacker's stomach. The person stumbled backwards a few feet and out of the shadows of Novac's abandoned houses and into the moonlight.

Then Boone saw it… the familiar red and black plumage, the notorious football padding, and the crudely-made leather lappets. An incredibly cold sensation spread throughout Boone's limbs as he stared, his mouth suddenly very dry. Right now, he was face to face with a Legionary… and Legionaries didn't travel alone.

He felt someone deliver a blow to the back of his knee and he lost his balance. Without any time to recover, something solid slammed into his side, right into his kidney, and he tumbled forward, hitting the ground with a grunt. The wind was momentarily knocked out of him and he wheezed, struggling to take in air.

There were a few moments of silence before someone dropped to a crouch before him.

"If it isn't the courier's little NCR dog," the man spat at the dirt, as if the mere mention of the NCR left a bad taste in his mouth. "Where is she?"

The tone of his voice was light and affable, but there was an edge to his words, so sharp that they sliced through the still night air.

"Where is the courier?"

Boone glared at his attacker's boots and remained silent, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his temples. Like hell he'd give Avery up, even if he was royally pissed off at her. He felt someone grab the back of his shirt and haul him upwards and onto his knees, a hand coming around to grip his chin. They jerked his head forward, forcing him to look upon the Legionary inquiring about Avery.

The man was wiry and pale, his cheeks gaunt and his eyes hidden behind large black sunglasses. Atop his head was a coyote pelt and it draped over his shoulders and across his chest. There was nothing immediately threatening about him, but Boone knew that when it came to the Legion, their soldiers were deceptively strong. And vicious.

"You will speak when spoken to," the man said evenly, his thin lips twitching ever so slightly.

Boone felt rage swirl in his chest. It was imperative that he kept his cool, but these Legion bastards made it incredibly hard to do so.

"Just slit his profligate throat, Vulpes," one of the soldiers barked.

"Yeah," one of the others spoke up. "Let's see if his patriotism is only skin deep."

A low thrum of laughter resonated throughout the small group. But the man, whom Boone now acknowledged as Vulpes, raised his hand to quiet them. The silence was immediate and Boone wondered what it was like to possess such command. Vulpes must be a high ranking Legionary.

"I often do not give second chances and my patience is wearing thin. But I will ask again: where is the Malpais' whore?"

Malpais. That title sounded familiar. Wait a minute… did they call her a whore? Specifically, the Malpais' whore? His brows shot up into his hairline.

"You might as well kill me," the sniper said in low tone, "because I have no clue where the hell that woman is."

"Ah, so you can talk," the man said in a mocking tone. "Trying to deceive me is unwise. I have been tracking her since her departure from Zion, and I know that she came here," his voice was even but Boone could denote a threat behind his calm demeanor. "I have since lost her trail. It is vital that I learn of her location and speak with her."

Speak with her. What, did they think he was born yesterday? That he wasn't an NCR veteran with years of experience with Legionary tactics? In fact, he should have been killed already for his lack of cooperation. Men had been killed for a lot less under Legion scrutiny, so why they hadn't broken his neck yet was something he couldn't quite comprehend. All he knew was that these men were after Avery, and they were insulting his intelligence by implying that they only wanted a word with her. Aggravation boiled beneath his skin and he sneered.

"Fuck you." Boone made a sound from the back of his throat, gathering up as much mucus as possible, and spat. The glob of saliva struck Vulpes on the cheek and Boone tried not to smirk. That felt good.

The man wiped at his cheek with the back of his glove, his face impassive behind those thick, blocky sunglasses. He shook his head slightly, "I tried to be civil, but it seems one cannot bargain with degenerates."

Boone's satisfaction was short lived as he felt the men holding him tighten their grip, dragging him to his feet. He felt a spike of panic in his chest as his arms were fastened behind his back, a Legionary on either side, holding him in place. Slowly, almost tortuously so, the man named Vulpes rose to his feet. Boone hadn't realized how tall the man was, as he easily towered over Boone by a foot or so and he felt intimidated despite himself. Before he realized what was happening, Vulpes struck Boone across the face with the back of his hand. Boone's head snapped backwards like a ragdoll and he saw stars; an immense, searing pain gripping his skull and throbbing with each heartbeat.

"How should we dispose of him?" One of the men holding him inquired.

"I say we gut him," a man somewhere behind Boone said. "Hoist an NCR flag with his viscera."

"No," Vulpes deadpanned, cool and collected. "I have something else in mind."

That's when Boone felt something strike him in the back of the head and everything went black.

The bonfire crackled and groaned, its hungry tendrils engulfing the dried logs and dehydrated foliage. Flames stretched upward towards the murky clouds, billows of silvery smoke spiraling and trembling on the wind. The drums beat frantically, the low timbre and rhythmic structure of the music echoing around the canyon. Her toes dug into the sand as she twirled, the leather pleats of her skirt unfurling around her as she moved. Heat from the fire kissed her skin and she swayed, allowing herself to be engulfed by the fire's fervor. She let her head fall back and her eyes slid closed, her lithe body moving to the beat of its own volition.

Then she felt it. It prickled her skin and burned, a sensation far more powerful than the ravenous heat of the flames. She came to a stop and opened her eyes, turning to address the origin of her disturbance. Her eyes searched the valley until she saw it- a flash, the moon glinting off of a metallic surface. He was there, his back flush against the cliff face, his pistol hanging forlornly against his hip. His eyes, like two shards of broken glass, pierced her core and she found herself moving towards him.

It wasn't long before she reached him, her hand outstretched in wanting. His gaze flickered to her hand momentarily before wandering back to her face, confusion flashing across his azure orbs. She gestured again and he paused. She watched the wheels turning, his calculating brain trying to process what she was offering. With a frustrated sigh she reached for his hand and pulled, dislodging him from the wall.

They were far from the others but the music still thrummed and filled the air. She buried her face into his chest, her fingers coming up to clench the stiff material of his vest. The pungent aroma of smoke and sandalwood invaded her senses, his scent intoxicating. Tremulously, his hands found their way to her lower back and he pressed her into him, their bodies flush against one another as they swayed. Her heart thumped wildly behind her ribcage, suddenly very aware of their proximity, his fingers burning holes in her skin. Their movement stopped when the music faded and she pulled back, his cerulean orbs searching her face.

Something fluttered in her gut and she inhaled sharply, her eyes never leaving his face. A shaky breath escaped her lips and she raised a hand, placing a delicate palm against his bandaged face. She waited. She waited for him to tell her to stop, to yank away, to cut her off before she took it too far. But he didn't. Instead, he leaned his head into her palm, his eyes sliding closed with a heavy sigh.

She traced a finger along his jaw, bringing herself up on her tiptoes to plant a chaste kiss against his covered lips. "I hate when you do this," she murmured against his mouth

"Why?" He asked, his smoke damaged voice reverberating in his chest.

"Because when I wake up, you won't be here."

She jolted awake.

The room was pitch black, the light from the hallway filtering in from beneath the door. She blinked, feeling dizzy. Behind her sternum, her heart raced frantically, thumping against her ribs as she tried to catch her breath. The void before her was encompassing and she stared, trying to make out shapes hidden in the shadows. She could discern the silhouette of her dresser, and see the sharp edges of the broken mirror against the far wall. Still her room. She felt disappointment tug at her gut and she frowned. She was actually disappointed. She swallowed, her mouth as dry as the Mojave. What had she been hoping for?

She rolled over and fumbled for her pip-boy on the nightstand, bringing it to her face and squinting when the screen flicked on. It was only four in the morning. She let the pip-boy fall against the duvet and groaned, rubbing her hands over her eyes. With a grunt she threw her legs over the edge of the bed, cringing when her feet made contact with the cold wooden floor. She shuffled, half awake and blind to the world around her, feeling against the wall as she went. It wasn't until she reached the bathroom that she was finally able to turn a light on. She grimaced and clenched her eyes, her pupils offended by the fluorescent lighting above the bathroom mirror.

With a sigh she turned on the faucet, giving her face a good splash of cold, irradiated water. If there was one thing she missed about Utah, it was the clean water. Nothing was more refreshing than bathing in water that didn't make her hair turn to straw and aggravate her skin. She turned to the rusty ceramic tub behind her and stared at it with distaste. She needed to shower, but the thought of hopping into that tepid radioactive stream made her scowl in disgust.

With trepidation she turned on the shower and watched the rust-colored water trickle from spout. Maybe that splash of cold water was enough and she could avoid showering for another day. After all she didn't smell, right? With a slow raise of her arm she turned her face and got her nose as close to her armpit as she could, taking in a whiff. Oh. Gross. That definitely was a funky smell. With astounding effort she pulled the knob to the left, trying to draw more hot water from the pipes. She slipped her cotton bottoms off and tossed them aside with a kick, her flimsy black tank top following suit.

She stepped under the stream and shivered as the room temperature water dribbled down her back. The stream was weak, the head of the shower rusted and blocked by calcium build up. After thoroughly shampooing and scrubbing away the grime of the desert, she turned off the shower and exited the tub. With the side of her hand she wiped away the excess condensation from the mirror and stared at her reflection.

Idly, her hand traveled up to the nape of her neck. She traced a finger along her jawline, the tip of her digit drawing imaginary circles against her olive skin. As the pad of her index finger reached her collarbone she stopped, trembling. A faint memory of coarse lips trailing frantic kisses down her neck invaded her mind, the sensation of his fingers against her collarbone tangible. The expanse of skin beneath her hand prickled at the recollection, her nerves alight, breaking out in a wave of goosebumps.

She retracted her hand and shook her head, trying to banish the memories. Dwelling was of no use. She left of her own volition. He understood... and she couldn't abandon her resolve. But now that she was home, she was finding it difficult to care about any of her prior obligations.

Her rule of thumb was to never let anyone get too close. Close, personal relationships and frivolous liaisons only distracted her from her goals. Like now, for instance. She should be getting dressed and preparing for her surprise meeting with House, not longingly staring in the mirror and thinking about him. What was she, a teenage girl? Avery clicked her tongue in annoyance and picked her discarded clothing off of the floor.

It didn't take her long to get ready. She threw her damp flaxen hair up into a bun, choosing not to deal with it today. She pulled out a pair of black trousers and matching long sleeve shirt, hastily pulling them on. Next she laid the segments of her leather armor out on the bed, inspecting them for any holes or weaknesses. If she were to successfully pull this off, it would be downright stupid to walk in with sub par armor. And the lighter the armor, the better. She didn't want to trigger any alarm from House's precious pet robots.

After ensuring that her armor was free of any fault, she shrugged into the cuirass and slid the sleeves on, securing them to her brassarts. The leather pants went on over her trousers, which felt bulky but she liked the added security. She'd had the foresight to pack the necessary supplies before she had fallen asleep, neurotically counting and recounting each of her Stimpaks, Stealth Boys, and ammunition. She wanted to have the inventory of her supplies memorized so she was suitably prepared for any situation—especially ones that involved her and a multitude of bullet holes.

She retrieved her discarded pip-boy from the bed and locked it onto her wrist, pulling up her notes. At the very bottom was a special one she had acquired before fleeing to Utah. It was House's antechamber code that Yes Man had willingly handed over after she killed Benny. Poor Yes Man was probably wondering where she'd disappeared to. Regardless, she'd have to see him after today. So no harm done.

On her way out of the Atomic Wrangler, she saw Francine behind the bar polishing glassware. She approached the counter and came to a stop when a horrible, pungent smell invaded her senses.

She took a step back and covered her mouth with her sleeve. "Dear god, Francine. What is that smell?"

Francine paused her ministrations and gave Avery a bewildered look. "James is cooking some Brahmin steak in the back. Why? Does it smell like it's burning?"

"No, it smells putrid. Are you sure the steak hasn't gone bad?"

"I'm sure. I mean, I bought it from one of the local farmers only yesterday and I've kept it refrigerated," the woman seemed frazzled by Avery's accusation. "I would never serve my customers rotten meat. I don't want them to die. I want them to live so they can continue to spend money here."

Avery's stomach did a flip as a wave of nausea hit her. There was definitely something wrong with that meat, but she didn't feel like arguing anymore.

"I'm heading out today. I might be back in the evening but in case I don't return, here's a few caps to hold the room for me," she dug around her bag and produced a handful of caps and slammed them on the counter.

"Will do," Francine nodded and went back to polishing her glasses.

Avery made a mental note to no longer buy food from the Atomic Wrangler and headed toward the Lucky 38.

His ears were ringing. Why were they ringing? Boone groaned internally and tried to open his eyes, but found that he couldn't. It felt like two weights had been tied to his eyelids and he had neither the strength nor the energy to lift them. He felt something tight around his neck and he tried to raise his hand to shoo it away but found his body useless. A fluorescent light shone through his lids and he tried to turn away, the sudden appearance burning his eyes immensely. And holy shit, did his head hurt.

"Boone? Hey, Boone!" Someone slapped his face. "Are you alive?"

"I don't know, am I?" Boone rasped out, finding his voice. "Sometimes I forget."

"Well, that wasn't depressing at all."

Mustering up as much strength as possible, he cracked an eye open and saw the eager face of Manny hovering over him. "Go away."

At this, Manny laughed. "I would absolutely love to leave you the fuck alone, but I can't."

"Why?"

"Because you need to explain to me why I found you passed out in the middle of the road," he replied flatly. "And also, why is there a slave collar on your neck?"

At this, Boone shot up but instantly regretted it. There was a deep pounding in his temples and he pressed his palm to his forehead with a grumble. The pain seemed to ebb away and leaned back against the frame of the bed, bringing his hand up to clumsily feel for the slave collar. Yep. It was there.

"Can we get it off?"

"Eh, I've tried but it's on there good. Besides, it doesn't seem to be... active. At least, not from what I can tell. It was hard to do a thorough exam since you're wearing it," Manny positioned himself at the edge of the bed with a grunt. When Boone remained silent, Manny cleared his throat. "Don't clam up on me now, Craig. Why the hell is this damn thing on you?"

"Legion, why else?" Boone said curtly, shooting Manny a dark look. "They ambushed me while I was on patrol."

"Legion? In Novac?" Manny paused. "Why?"

"They're looking for Avery," he said with a frustrated sigh. He didn't feel like discussing this.

"Avery... Avery..." Manny's eyes twisted up and he tapped his chin, as if trying to recall some distant memory. After a moment he snapped his fingers, "Oh! That little courier who stole you away. Why were they looking for her?"

"Fuck if I know. All I got from the interrogation was a headache and this fancy new necklace." Boone ran a tired hand over his face, trying to remember the events that occurred. "They did call her the 'Malpais' whore.' The title of Malpais sounds familiar but I can't quite recall..."

"Malpais?" Manny interjected.

"Yeah."

"As in Malpais Legate?"

Boone gave Manny a quizzical look. "You know what that is?"

"Or whom, rather," he responded, his eyebrows knitting together. "Do you remember the Battle of Hoover Dam?"

"Of course," Boone responded. He wished Manny would get to the point. "We weren't at the dam, but you and I were stationed nearby."

"Well, when Caesar attacked the dam he sent a huge wave of soldiers. And who was at the forefront, leading all those savage bastards?" Manny paused, waiting for Boone to put two and two together. After a moment Manny let out a frustrated noise, "The Malpais Legate. He was Caesar's right hand man."

Boone's face fell a little bit as his friend continued.

"But I heard that Caesar was so pissed off by losing Hoover Dam, that he had the Malpais Legate executed on the spot. Lit on fire and thrown into a canyon or some shit."

Ouch.

"But... if this man is dead, why did they call Avery his whore?" Okay. Boone was officially confused.

"No clue," Manny shrugged. There was a pregnant pause and Manny placed a hand on Boone's knee, "Not that I'm upset by it, but why did the Legionaries leave you alive?"

"Probably the same reason they attacked me in the first place: they want to find Avery. They knew she stopped by a few nights ago, but somehow she was able to lose their tail," he said slowly, still trying to process all of this new information. "I'm sure they're going to track my movements. Maybe they think I'll lead them to her."

"That makes no sense," Manny said with a huff. "At least you'd think they could be less obvious and place a tracking device in your clothes or something. Do they want you to know you're being watched?"

Boone was genuinely at a loss and he shrugged, putting his hands up in exasperation. "You know about as much as I do, Manny."

"Do you want me to fetch Avery for you?" Manny suggested. "Maybe she can give us some insight. Do you know where she went?"

"The last time I saw her..." he trailed off for a moment, remembering the hurt look upon her face and the way she slammed the door as she left. He shook his head. "The last time I saw her, she mentioned something about Freeside."

"Ah... that's located in New Ve-"

Manny was cut off as the collar around Boone's neck started emitting loud, repetitive beeping. Boone brought his hands up to the collar and struggled in vain to release it, his heart thumping wildly against his sternum. Manny jumped off the bed and put as much distance between him and Boone as the small hotel room would allow, defensively shielding himself with his forearm. Like that would be of much help. The beeping grew faster, growing more and more concise until it reached a crescendo and... went silent. The collar dislodged from Boone's neck with a hiss and fell into his lap, inactive.

"What in the hell...?" Manny asked.

Adrenaline coursed through Boone's system and he swallowed, apprehensively picking up the device to examine it. He spotted a small mesh screen toward the front of the collar. He blanched.

"Oh, no."

"What?" Boone didn't respond and Manny paced over and repeated, with more urgency: "What?!"

"That's..." he pointed to the small screen located inside the collar, "that's a microphone. Someone was listening to our conversation."

"Then that means..." Manny trailed off.

"They know where Avery is," Boone muttered, anger and panic so evident that his body began to tremble. His knuckles were gripped tightly around the collar and they turned white, before he chucked it across the room. He growled, "Fuck!"

He'd just unintentionally signed Avery's death warrant.

A/N: Hey all! I just want to say I hope you're enjoying this fic so far. I've been working on this chapter since 9AM, editing and re-writing large portions of it. I'm still not entirely happy with it, but it's the best it's going to get. And my apologies if that hand-to-hand scene with Boone and the Legionary was awkward. I found being able to properly express physical altercations in writing quite a challenge.

This is going somewhere, I promise ;D

Also, thank you Xaydin! I am a fan of your fics and I'm pleased to get such a great review from you. I hope I continue to keep you interested!