Author's Note: I'm truly sorry this takes me so long to update. Unfortunately life has caught up with me...ugh, who needs it, right? Anyway, hope you enjoy. =]

Patrick opened his eyes, the throbbing in the back of his head jerking him from his sleep. The light poured in, blinding him, but as he went to block his eyes with his hand he found he couldn't move either of them. He tried to move his body, realising he was on his knees, but something forceful on his shoulder kept him down.

He decided to focus on the floor, knowing it would be nothing but damp ground. However, the ground reflected the light almost as if the light was coming from it, and now that his other senses were returning he could feel the coldness, the hardness of it under his knees. It didn't feel like dirt. It felt...metallic.

His eyesight was coming back now but, hazy as it was, he could see the slight shadows made by metal bolts, the single unrelenting slab of metal under his knees. As his vision got better he could make out the scuff marks of a floor well-used. It didn't initially occur to him to wonder how the hell he had gotten to be kneeling down on a slab of metal but, when his mind finally did catch up to his eyes, he swung his head around violently, looking for answers.

He found them in the man standing in front of him. He looked older, grey hairs beginning to show at the edges of his rough cut hair. His black leather overcoat was shined to a high polish, as was his shoes, Patrick realised, as he found his eyes flicking towards the floor. He was wearing gloves, one hand rubbing thoughtfully at his chin, his eyes examining Patrick up and down with a combination of curiosity and annoyance. He looked like an old soldier, his hard face radiating the experiences of war.

"I don't remember asking for this one," he finally said, his eyes flicking to someone standing behind Patrick.

"I know, he was...let's just say a pleasant surprise" came a voice from behind him. It was a female voice and a sickeningly familiar one at that. Patrick turned again, trying to confirm his suspicions, but the large hand on his shoulder, now that he could actually see it, still kept him down and facing forward. He did have enough room to see Oz beside him, tied up. Still knocked out, however.

"So...who is he then?" the first man asked.

"The one who got away," said the female, striding around into Patrick's view, a triumphant smile stretching across her face. Her long dark hair was still tied in a ponytail, but her leather coat looked washed and she herself looked like she had had a shower.

"Abigail" Patrick growled.

Abby clucked her tongue. "Come now, you know I like Abby better"

"Fuck yourself," he snarled. The man to her right chuckled.

"This one is at least interesting, I'll give you that...but I still don't know who he is" he said, turning to look at her.

"The one who got away" she repeated eagerly.

"Must you be so vague?"

Abby's eyes rolled and she sighed. "I heard you had a prisoner escape, a few years ago. Well...here he is" she answered brightly, presenting Patrick with her arms like he was some kind of prize.

The man's eyes widened a little, then he leaned forward, his eyes squinting as he took a closer look at Patrick. He hummed thoughtfully. "So it is, so it is," he said, straightening up, "I assume you want something for him?"

"A bonus would be nice," she answered.

He frowned. "This wasn't part of our deal"

"We can't change the deal just a little?"

"That's not how we do things," he said sternly.

She sighed again, then nodded a few times. "Ok, ok, how's this...you take him for free, but I get your word that you'll call me first for the next job?"

He looked across at her, his hand reaching up to scratch at his chin again. Then he shrugged. "Very well, you have a deal," he said, offering her his hand. She shook it eagerly. "I should congratulate you," he continued, "we have been searching for the Regenerating Man for a long time. I never believed a lowly bounty hunter would be the one to find him"

"Well, I do try..." she answered cheekily. "Now, where's my caps? I've got a mind to get drunk and a body to get laid"

"Of course you do," he answered wryly. He looked at someone behind Patrick. "Barger, pay her"

A big man stepped into Patrick's vision, his arms well built, his bald head reflecting the lights from the ceiling. He looked like a giant, standing a foot taller than either of the other two. He moved towards Abby, producing a small bag from one of his pockets and slapping it into her open and eager hands, the bag jingling as it landed.

"I guess I'll see you around," she said brightly, nodding at the two men.

"Why?" Patrick managed to growl before she left. She stopped, turned and strode back over to him. Kneeling down, she used one of her hands to stroke his cheek, like a mother would a child. He jerked away from it, but that only made her smile.

"Deary dear...it's not personal. It's just business" she said. Patrick looked into her eyes, hoping to see something, anything. Remorse, triumph, nausea. Anything. But there was nothing. She was as cold and hollow as he knew the Wolf was. As he knew he himself was.

"I couldn't have said it better myself," said the smaller man ruefully.

Patrick closed his eyes as she stood, but jerked as the sound of the gunshot practically slapped him in the face. Hot blobs of liquid splattered across his face, into his hair and, worst of all, into his open mouth. He spat it out and opened his eyes to see what had happened, knowing in his heart what it was.

He was just in time to watch Abby, half of her face missing, crash noisily to the floor, the bag jingling and sliding away as it slid across the floor. There was a gulp, or a squelch, from her ruined face, and then that was it. Abigail Winters was dead, lying spread eagled in a rapidly expanding pool of her own blood, right hand extended as if reaching for the bag of caps not a stride or two from her. Greedy until the end, he thought.

He found he didn't feel much remorse for her though.

His eyes drifted back up to the men. The one called Barger was holstering his pistol in a shoulder strap, while the other, smaller man had taken a handkerchief from inside his coat and was rubbing away at one of his sleeves.

"Maybe less gore next time, eh Barger?"

"Yes, general"

The General rubbed at his sleeve for a few more moments then, when he saw the blood wasn't going away, he sighed and tossed the bloody handkerchief on Abby's body.

"Take this one to Oppenheim. I'm sure he's eager to continue his previous experiments" he said, "And this one..." he turned his head towards Oz, "is so much more important. I'll handle him myself."

"Yes, general" the big man repeated, then, stepping over Abby's legs, he hauled Patrick roughly to his feet. Patrick had the idea to struggle, pulling away as the large hand circled around his arm, but a sharp chop to the back of his neck cut that idea short. It cut everything short, actually. As his vision started to go blurry and the black was closing in, he saw the metal floor sliding under his feet, his boot catching on Abby's outstretched arm, Barger stooping to pick up the bag of caps as they went past. Then everything went black and Patrick was replaced by someone else.

Charity was lying down a few strides in front of Sam, the pair crawling up a small hill. It had taken them a few hours to reach this spot and the sun was high in the sky, but Sam still had no idea where they were going. She reached the top of the hill and motioned for him to join her. He quickly covered the rest of the distance and peered over the lip.

It opened up into a small area, much like the one they had spent the previous night in, only a little larger. The familiar mountains still rose around them, the familiar dirt underneath them. But a very unfamiliar vertibird squatted gently in front of their eyes.

Sam had seen these vehicles only a few times. Firstly, in the Brotherhood forces back west. Then in the West Coast Enclave Remnants secret base, and again when the President of the NCR visited Hoover Dam. All three times he hadn't been impressed.

They looked like metal insects to him. They had a large bulbous body, with another, smaller section at the front serving as the cockpit. A 3-pronged landing gear system held it off the ground and now, just as before, they looked like legs to Sam. The wings stuck out from the sides, ending in engines that could tilt for takeoff and flight.

"I don't get it," he whispered, turning towards her, "why the hell are we here?"

"You can't walk to your friends," she explained, never taking her eyes off the vertibird. "We need it."

"Oh, we is it," he joked, before he realised who he was talking to. She turned towards him, looking him in his eyes, one of the rare times she had done that so far. But, like always, she stared at him with a frown before making her way back down from the lip of the hill.

"Stupid..." he muttered, making a fist and softly beating his forehead with it.

He backed away from the lip of the hill and, when he was sure he couldn't be seen, he stood up and strode over to Isaac and Charity.

"So what's up there?" the tracker asked.

Sam glanced at Charity, wondering why she hadn't told filled the others in, but as he saw her frown he knew it was a stupid notion. "A vertibird."

"A what?"

"A...flying machine"

Isaac mouthed opened but nothing came out. "A...flying...machine?" he finally managed to say.

"You'll see," Sam said, waving his hand dismissively at the man before turning to Charity. "It's your plan...what do we do?"

"Wait here," she grunted before moving up the hill. Sam's hand gripped her arm and forced her to stop.

"You're asking for a lot of trust here," he whispered to her. She jerked her arm away angrily.

"Then don't trust me," she said coldly, before turning back around and continuing up the hill.

"Can we just shoot her already?" Isaac asked. Sam was jerked back to reality, unaware he had been staring at Charity. Or, more specifically, parts of Charity.

"No," he said sternly. "...we need her, for now at least" he managed to add.

Isaac nodded, but looked at Sam sideways, like he didn't believe the words he had just been told. "If you say so..."

"Just stay here" he said angrily, hefting his rifle and following her up the hill.

He wasn't angry at Isaac. Not really, anyway, although the constant questioning was beginning to get annoying. No, he was angry at himself. He kept staring at her, kept giving her chances, kept acting like she was one of them, like she was just another person.

But she wasn't.

And yet, as hard as he tried to force himself to look at her as the enemy, as someone not to be trusted, he couldn't help but find his mind fuzzy, his breathing short, especially when she caught him staring at her. It annoyed him that he did it and annoyed him even more that he couldn't stop himself. She wasn't exactly making it easy either, with all her scowling and cold words. He frowned at the thoughts. He was all kind of annoyed right now, but at least he had something to do.

He lied down before he reach the top of the hill, then peaked his head over. Charity was striding directly towards the vertibird, as if she didn't have a care in the world. Sam seriously wondered if she did.

He shook his rifle off his shoulder and took aim down the sights, scanning the vertibird and the surrounding area. There weren't many places for a man to hide, but it's always better to be safe than sorry. He had learnt that the hard way.

She finally made it to the machine and he saw, through his scope, her mouth working, saying something. Not a moment later a head popped out, young, boyish, with a pair of goggles strapped to his forehead. He was smiling like Charity was a long lost friend, his mouth constantly moving, spitting out questions or pleasantries. She didn't look at him any different than she looked at Sam, so he guessed that frown of hers was just permanently etched on her face. Somehow that made him feel good, although he didn't understand why.

Her arm shot out, her fist slamming into the side of the grinning man's face. He lurched sideways with a surprised squawk, so loud even Sam could hear it, and his cheek crashed into the side of the entrance to the vertibird. His head snapped backwards from it and he disappeared inside the vehicle, only his legs left sticking out. They didn't move.

She took a few steps forward, putting one foot on the lip of the door and pulling herself far enough up to poke her head inside. A moment later she jumped off, looking around the small clearing. Obviously satisfied, she turned Sam's way and waved him over. He himself turned slightly, looking back down the small hill at Isaac. He gave the tracker a thumbs up and the man nodded, grabbing Original roughly under the arm and pulling him up the slope. The smaller man whimpered a little, at the pain, maybe, but Isaac just growled and pushed up the hill faster.

The three of them walked over to the vertibird, Isaac gaping at it the entire team. Clearly a "typical" wastelander, un-used to seeing technology like this. Sam wasn't all that surprised, though. He still remembered the shock he had when he'd seen one for the first time. It wasn't often you had your life turned on its head like that.

Charity had disappeared inside, but stuck her head out as they approached, her blue eyes watching as they approached.

"This thing...flies?" Isaac stammered. Sam nodded and turned his attention to Charity.

"Can you fly it?" he asked. She shook her head, then looked down at the unconscious man at her feet.

"He can" she answered, her voice flat, as always.

Sam took a step forward, leaning in to take a closer look at the man. He noticed Charity twitch slightly, as if she had meant to pull away from him but decided against it. The man didn't appear to be breathing.

"He looks dead" Sam stated. She nudged him with her toe. Nothing happened, so she arched her leg back and kicked out savagely, her foot bouncing off the man's shoulder. He groaned softly at that. So, at least, he was still alive. "Well, we'll need to wake him up...then convince him to betray his own..."

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he came face to face with Isaac's grin, his long and savage knife in his hands.

"My time to shine" he said absently, still smiling. Sam doubted 'shine' was the right word, but he didn't stop him.

He had never had a taste for torture and, as far as he knew, this might require it. And if it didn't, well, Sam had to admit Isaac was a hell of a lot more intimidating than he was.

Isaac dropped his pack and pulled out a canteen. Unscrewing the cap, he nodded at Charity, who looked up at Sam. When he nodded she knelt down and picked the man up, halfway, so he was sitting and she had clear access to his arms, just in case he decided to try something.

Isaac tossed the canteens contents across the man's face with a flick of his wrist.

"Wakey wakey, my man," he whispered, "wakey wakey..."

Eagle's vision came back to him in a blur, scattered images interjected with large blocks of darkness. His thoughts came similarly as dark. He had no idea of where he was, what was happening...or even who he was.

He felt his head moving from side to side, although whether he was doing it himself he didn't know. Eventually a sound came through the haze of his mind, a sharp slapping noise. With each sound his memory, his awareness, came back a little more, until he remembered everything he hadn't a moment ago. As he was just grasping this new found awareness, he found himself staring at the grinning face of a heavily tanned man, his arms bare with only a leather vest covering his well-built torso.

"Here he is," he said brightly, turning to look at a man behind him. This one had a brown leather overcoat on, something black covering his torso. He had a helmet under one arm, dull red eyes seeming to stare directly at Eagle, while his other was stuffed in a pocket. He didn't look all that enthusiastic.

He felt himself slipping slightly until something jerked under his arm, pulling him back up. He looked up, seeing Charity's chin. She wasn't looking at him, rather it looked like she was staring at the overcoat man. He opened his mouth to say her name, to ask for help, until his face was fiercely jerked back down so he was looking at the tanned man again.

"Let's start with something simple, yeah? What's your name?" he asked.

Eagle looked around, seeing both the confines of the vertibird and the seemingly vast clearing he had landed in. "What...what's going on?" he managed to stammer.

The tanned man clucked his tongue, shaking his head disapprovingly. Then his hand shot out, cracking sharply against Eagle's cheek. His head rolled with the blow, tilting to his right, but the tanned man quickly moved it back to its original position.

"That wasn't what I asked. So...what's your name?" he asked again. Eagle opened his mouth to speak, but the man cut him off, raising a large knife up into Eagle's vision, letting it sway in his hand, slowly edging closer to Eagle's face. "And if you don't answer...things get fun" he finished with a smile.

Eagle swallowed. "Eagle," he answered, his voice cracking slightly.

The tanned man frowned. "That's not much of a name..." he looked up, behind Eagle, then seemed to shrug. "Fair enough. You can fly this thing?" he asked, waving his knife around the vertibird. Eagle nodded. "And you're going to take us to...where are we going?" he asked, turning around to the overcoat man. That man shrugged, but Charity answered.

"The Stand," she said. Eagle didn't understand what was happening. Why was she helping them?

"Right," the tanned man said, turning back to Eagle, "so...you'll take us to this...'Stand'?"

"I don't understand..." Eagle stammered, looking up at Charity, "what are you doi-"

He was cut off as something flashed across his face, leaving a sting across his cheek. He thought it was another slap until, looking down, he saw a slight line of blood across the tanned man's knife. The man was smiling.

"I told you it would get fun..." he whispered, leaning in close, like he was about to tell a secret, "...don't think this is the fun either. It gets a lot better soon, trust me..."

"Yes," Eagle croaked, still not completely understanding what was happening but understanding enough to know his life was in danger. "I'll take you anywhere..."

The tanned man frowned and turned around to the overcoat man, who shrugged.

"There you go...easy," he said.

"Too easy..." the tanned man mumbled, turning back around. "What are you playing at, hmm? Going to lead us in to a trap?"

"N-no...what?" Eagle stammered, his voice cracking clearly this time.

"Maybe I should take an eye, just to be sure," the tanned man was saying, leaning frighteningly close, knife turning to just the right angle to be jammed through one of Eagle's eyes. He tried to move away but found he couldn't move, Charity was still holding tight.

"No," said the overcoat man. The tanned man stopped and turned around.

"But-" he started.

"No," the overcoat repeated, this time sterner. The tanned man huffed, shoving his knife in a sheath he had attached to his belt at the small of his back, then striding away. The overcoat man turned his attention to Charity. "Get him up and get him ready, it's time to go"

Eagle was hauled to his feet and helped, or forced, into the cockpit on unsteady legs.

"You heard him," Charity said, her voice flat as always. Eagle wanted to say something to her, turned to look at her even, but her scowl shut him up real quick. His hand rose nervously, began flicking switches, pressing buttons, running through the usual pre-flight routine. They were shaking so bad he had to go back and re-do some of them, and he knew he was about to betray his people, his friends, but at least he was still alive to do it. And right now, that's all that mattered to him.

She seemed satisfied he was doing what he was supposed to so she moved out of the cockpit, the sounds of her feet leaving the vehicle entirely. When he was sure she was gone and, most importantly, unable to hear him, he muttered "traitor" under his breath.

But in that moment, he didn't know if he was talking to her or himself.

Garrett was running. That was all he had known, for as short a time as his memory covered. He didn't know why he was running. He didn't want to know. All he knew is that he was and it's all he wanted to do.

He ran down shining corridors, light coming from strange panels in the roof. It hurt his eyes to look at them so he stopped, but he also found it harder to run when he was looking at things. People went past him in blurs, some wearing white, some wearing green, some standing and watching while others ran this way or that. Some even took swipes at him, but he was too fast for them, just like he was too fast for the others.

It was the only other memory he had, apart from the running. But it was hazy, foreign, like the first moments after a night of heavy drinking when you forgot everything you've ever known. He was moving, floating maybe, towards a shining slab, supported by other shining things, all standing up like they were people themselves. There were two angels that flew around him, covered in white with glowing orange heads. Behind them too he saw daemons, black as night with green eyes, staring at him, trying to kill him with their stares, he knew it.

He remembered the angels pulling, tugging at him, trying to take him apart. They took a part of his arm. It was pink underneath, nothing like the grey they had taken, but it was still his freaking arm. He panicked, began struggling. The daemons came, trying to restrain him, but he was already up and moving.

They moved slow, comically so, and he went through the motions like a practiced dancer. Arm came down, grey against black, and one of the daemons fell. The second lunged, fell right into Garrett's waiting arms as he side stepped. His hands went opposite directions, the daemons head twisting swiftly, a loud crack echoing through the haze of memory and sounding in Garrett's ears even now. The second daemon slipped from Garrett's fingers, landing beside his fallen comrade. Then the low whining noise had begun and Garrett had started running.

It continued, the noise, even now, pushing Garrett on, a sound becoming as familiar as his own heart beat. He flew down the shining corridors, noticing that there were less people now.

Then, suddenly, a gap in the walls and a flash of blue. He stopped so suddenly he almost went head over heels, but managed to stay on his feet and turn around, heading towards it.

It was a room, an office, he knew, although he didn't know how he knew. But it wasn't the chairs, or the table, or the filing cabinets or the computer that interested him, it was the large window squatting on the wall directly in front of him.

It looked out on mountains, what he knew where mountains, strangely blue like the sky above. Clouds hung low around them, swept down them, leaving a fog in the valley below, hiding the ground beneath them.

The window and the room he was in was clearly a very high distance off the ground. He tried to look down, to see the bottom, but even with his head pressed against the glass he saw nothing but rocks and clouds. Nothing that looked like ground.

Down, a voice whispered.

He turned, his eyes frantically looking around the room, searching for more daemons. There were plenty of dark spaces, seeing as the only light was coming from the window, but no green eyes met his, no dark shapes emerged from the shadows. There was nobody, nothing that would have made a noise.

Down, the voice said again. Down is freedom.

"Down?" Garrett whispered into the air.

Down, it repeated. Down.

DOWN!

Garrett felt himself running, out of the room, back into the shining corridors, although he didn't remember telling himself to, or even thinking about it. The voice commanded and he did, which might have unsettled him if he hadn't become so focused on running.

He found a door with the word 'STAIRS' on it, instinctually went through it, and kept running, down the small metal planks that led down. Down was freedom, that was all he knew. He kept repeating it, over and over, the words alone fuelling his muscles, fighting back tiredness.

He kept running down the planks until there were no more planks to run down. There was a door at the end though and he went through.

Light met his eyes, harsh and bright. The room was full of metal constructs, big squares with pointed objects sticking out the top of them, their tips ending in shining balls. They were all placed orderly, Garrett could see, the same number on the right as on the left, but stretching out for as far as he could see. Blue streams leapt around the room, almost haphazardly, jumping from one metal construct to the next. Garrett was fascinated by it. He found himself following their movements, trying to predict where they would come from and where they would go. He was so occupied he didn't initially hear the sounds behind him.

He moved as quickly as he could, diving to his left, but it wasn't quick enough. Something hit his arm, the pink one, and left it stinging, left it in more pain than he had thought possible. He looked down not really knowing what he was expecting to see, but being especially unprepared for what he did.

His arm, from just above the elbow, was missing. The skin was black, charred, like an over-cooked piece of meat.

We won't bleed out, the voice said. For some reason it didn't make him feel any better, nor did it stop him from falling to his knees and howling in pain.

A man entered his field of vision from the right. He was a big man, with big arms and a bald head that seemed to reflect the dancing lights. In his hand he had a large sword, the same, albeit smaller, lights dancing across its surface. He knew that it was that energy that had cooked his arm, although how he knew...he didn't know.

"You're faster than you look," the man grunted, his voice deep. "More trouble than you're worth, I say. And so does the General"

Garrett looked up, his eyes twitching, feeling tears running down his cheeks. But he didn't say a word. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know anything but running and, as hard as he might try, it didn't seem like that was an option now.

"No last words?" the man asked, then he shrugged slightly, "To each his own. I promise you, it will be quick..."

As the man was talking the sword was raised above his head, his bald scalp now reflecting the lights from the sword rather than the ones around him. Garrett sunk back a little, resigned to the fact that his short experience of a life was about to be cut even shorter. He had no regrets, or nothing to regret at least. He wished for more time, as most men do at times like this. He even apologized to the daemons and the angels. Good and evil seemed like such pointless matters now.

No, the voice said firmly.

Garrett felt an unfamiliar sinking feeling. He began to scream, scream his lungs out, but he heard nothing come from his lips but a low growl. Blackness began at the edges of his vision, leaking out until it covered everything, left him with only his screams.

The original inhabitant of the body was gone. Garrett was locked away in the depths of a troubled mind, as he had been for so many years. And now, just as then, a dominant personality took over, more suited to the harsh wasteland environment they were in, a true killer built for the new kill or be killed world.

His name was Patrick, and he wasn't going down without a fight.