"What your favorite sound?" She asked from the bed behind him, laying on her stomach with her B cub breasts pressed into her arms that were crossed under her. Red satin sheets draped over her rear, only her smooth back visible.

He blinked himself out of his daze and picked his head up off his shoulder, raising the glass of scotch in his hand and finishing off the last of it. "My favorite sound?" he asked with confusion in his voice.

"Yeah." She giggled, looking up at him in his leather seat. His back was turned to her. He thought she was pretty, but he'd spent the whole evening staring at everything she had to offer. And he loved gazing out the window into the night, seeing the neon lit streets of New Vegas under him. "My favorite is violin. You don't hear many, but the sound they carry...that beautiful sound.

He smiled at her naturally bubbly nature. She knew how to lift his spirits when he was feeling glum, or calm him when he was tense. He'd been seeing her exclusively for three months, and fucking her two months before that. Started out every weekend. Moved to the weekend plus Monday. Soon it was every other day. He loved the way her body moved against his. The way she moaned on his neck and shoulder, or the way her soft hands dragged their way down his body. She was the high-point of most of his days. "That's beautiful, babe." He replied, leaning back in his chair.

"My favorite sound...you know I love to hear you moan, right?" He leaned his head back and looked at her, his light brown eyes catching her green ones. She giggled and blushed, and he smirked at the sound. "And your giggle."

"Be serious!" She said with a wide smile.

He chuckled and looked back out the window, his smirk remaining. "I'm always serious." He replied, reaching over and grabbing the bottle of scotch. Pouring himself another drink, he thought more about it. "I like...the sound of gunshots." he replied, laying the bottle back on table, taking a sip of the full glass not long after. "They tell me everything I need to know."

She cocked her head to the side, her shoulder length hair draping to one side. "How's that?"

He drew in a breath of chilled but fresh air, perhaps with a hint of her intoxicating scent on the air. "They tell me that someone's going to die. To get get my gun ready. The faster the shots, the more desperate the shooter. He wants his target dead before his target manages to do him in. But the slow, methodical shots...the one's that pace them selves. Those are the dangerous ones. Because the shooter isn't afraid of his attacker. He knows that the poor son-of-a-bitch was dead the moment his gun was drawn."

She smiled at his confidence. He had that way about him. It was a wise confidence too, not one born of ignorance or over-estimation. Race Burton knew exactly what he was capable of. "So, which one are you?"

He stared out the window and into the dark sky. The neon lights dampened the starlight, but he didn't care. A night sky was all the same to him. He took another drink of his scotch and savored the flavor. "I've never fired a single shot out of desperation. I always knew what was coming next. Always knew that I'd pull faster and shoot straighter then other man."

"And what about the day when you don't?" She ask, rolling over on her back and looking at him upside-down, her bare chest rising and falling with each steady breath.

He smirked and looked over his shoulder at her, admiring her beautiful body one more time. He suddenly longed to run his hands over it again, to have his lips pulling at hers, to taste he salty skin. He'd long for that feeling even when he was old and grey. "That day ain't gonna come any time soon, doll. I'll hang up my guns and spend the rest of my life with you before anyone get's the chance."

She smiled, her white teeth showing against peach colored lips. He smiled back and laid the drink down, standing up and walking back over to the bed. She reached up for him, and he crawled over next to her, sliding his arms around her body and kissing her soft, supple lips. Her arms wrapped around his neck and ran through his light brown hair. They made love for the third time that night. On the satin sheets, to the sound of slow music under the watchful gaze of the stars.

Three heavy, steady knocks came from the front door of his suite. He raised his head off his pillow, eyes slowly adjusting to the sunlight that beat through the window and attempted to blind him. He could feel her behind him, feel her ass pressed to his. The knocks came again, and he sighed. Sliding out of bed and getting his lower half dressed before walking over to the door. He ran his fingers through his bed-wrangled hair and pushed it all back. Then reached out, grasping the polished-silver doorknob and twisting, pulling it open.

A chubby, olive skinned fellow by the name of Lawrence stood with his arms crossed in a respectful manner. His thin black hair was greased back and so tight to his head, you could swear it was fake. "Morning sunshine." He said as sarcastically as he could. Reaching a hand out he passed along a set of papers to Race, who sleepily took them and began reading. "We gotta another kill order for ya."

"Jesus, Lu." Race groaned and looked up at the man. "Wish you wouldn't call it that. I'm not a damn assassin."

"No, you're not." Lu corrected himself in a matter of fact fashion. "You're currently Gomorrah's best hired gun, and we pay you well. So technically, you're whatever the fuck we want you to be. If I show up one day with a leather studded cock-piece, you're gonna wear the fuckin' thing and dance on the stage."

"Bite me." Race said unenthusiastic, causing Lu to laugh and smile, patting the man's shoulder. Race wrinkled his brow and looked up. "So this Malcolm fellow really killed four of our guys?"

Lu nodded, causing Race to raise a brow and give an expression of impression as he went back to reading. "Owes us a shitload of caps to. So you can see why we want him dead so bad. And our property returned."

"How much?" Race cut to the chase as he casually red over the report.

"Whoa, what, we already talking price?"

"How much, Lu?" He asked again, finally looking up.

Lu scoffed and recrossed his arms. "Three thousand, two upfront and two when you come back with our shit."

Race blinked a few times, causing Lu to sigh and shrug his shoulders in a gesture of 'what now?' Race scoffed and leaned against the door frame. "Three thousand..." He repeated himself, staring into the man's eyes. "Out of the ten thousand I'm stealing back."

Lu shrugged again. "So? Three's a good deal, kid. Take what you can get."

"You mean pull down your pants and bend over, right?" Race said, tossing the paper back to Lu. "You walk away with seven and I with three, how is that even remotely fair? You seriously expected me to take that bullshit?"

"Oh Jesus!" Lu cursed with a irritated and indignant look on his face. His brow slanted and wrinkled and eyes piercing into Race's. "Kid-fine! Fine, forty five hundred caps. Huh? How 'bout that?"

Race stared into Lu's eyes, thinking about the deal. This man had shot and killed four guys. He either had an advantage or he wasn't a push-over. Either way, both would be trouble. But this...this was an interest. To many crap jobs chasing down junkies who owed caps to the house. He needed a fight that made him feel alive. He needed to look into someone's eyes, someone capable, and see the vibrant panic and fear when they knew they were done for. He reveled in every fight because of that look.

The deal was struck. Race was to track this cheat and retrieve the stolen money, by any means necessary. He knew what that meant. That this Avery fellow was simply fair game. Sometimes, a cat catching a mouse was less about eating, and more about the hunt.
Race turned his head and looked out at the daylight that had overridden the neon streets of New Vegas. A city of sin and debauchery. The world was gone and burned to ash, but some things never changed. He assumed that applied to people as well.

Always going to be someone who runs from what they have to do. And someone who stands and does what he has to. Those were the two kinds of men. And he'd never met anyone who'd stand and do what they had to. The only one he knew of was sitting in the penthouse of the Lucky 38 casino, watching his robots roam the wastes and thinking back on the distant life he once lived as a courier.

His girl had begged him not to go, taken his hand and pulled him back towards the bed. He chuckled as he nearly fell over onto her, but managed to catch himself on the foot-board of the bed. She slid her arms around his neck and kisses his lips fondly, sincerely. He kissed her back with just as much sincerity. There was something there, he thought to himself. Something between him and her that couldn't be denied.
He put on his hat and tipped the front of it to her. She smiled and gave a nod back. Then he left the room, leaving her on the bed. She stared at the door for a minuet, wondering if maybe he'd change his mind and come back. But that minuet passed. And she knew her answer. She brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, laying her head on her knees. Maybe one day he'd stay. Maybe one day he'd hang those guns up and stay with her.

He had a lot of time to ponder as he walked the desolate, abandoned highways and paved roads that spanned through the Mojave. Lot of time to ponder the meaning of the type of man he was. He didn't think he was a bad guy, but knew there would be people who disagreed completely. He felt sorry for those people, but also envied him. The sorry factor came from them not knowing who he truly was, only judging him on what he did. The envy came from them not having to know what it was to do what you had to do.

He'd been a good and quick shot ever since the days of raising bighorner's and brahmin at the family ranch. That was a long time ago, and he even felt as if he were a different man back then. People do change, and he'd imagine he would shed his skin like a snake here soon enough.
Dry and hot wind hit him, sweeping dirt across the cracked highway in-front of him. He reached into his coat and pulled out his canteen of water, taking a sip from it and savoring the refreshing taste. The sun was really beating down today, and he cursed this Avery fellow for making him chase after him in such deplorable heat.

Thee hours passed, and he'd seen little other then some gecko's and a bloatfly. Both were easily dispatched, he'd been dealing with those types of critters all his life. They may have scared him once, but that time had long since passed. He didn't fear much, now-a-days. He'd been jaded by the wastes. But not enough to where he didn't care about anything, despite the wastes having the ability to do so to men and women. That's what he feared. The one's who'd been so jaded and callused by it all, that they no longer felt anything.

Avery seemed like a predictable man, if not somewhat surprising. He obviously had an upper hand in the fight with the four guards that got him into this mess. But he ran all the same, and everyone saw him taking the I-515 and on through towards Texas way. He'd stay that course. He wasn't bold, brazen or ballsy enough to venture to far into the wilderness. And if he did, it was a good thing Race was a good enough tracker.

But he wouldn't have to. Thirty more minuets passed, and finished his hike to the top of a hill and stared down at the slope towards the setting sun. Cars littered the roadway like a child's toys. Over-turned on there roofs and on there sides. Rusted and charred from the great war. There had to be hundreds of them.

But among them all, walked a long figure in dark leather armor. Looked reinforced from where he was standing. The man had short brown hair, and a hunting revolver strapped to his side. A powerful gun, which may have been his advantage. This had to be Avery Malcolm. If it wasn't, then it was some hoodlum going to cause trouble. Either way, they had to be put down.

Race reached to his side and pulled his scoped 9mm handgun and made the descent down the hill. He was careful not to kick and debris or draw any attention to himself. Avery was keeping a modest pace which told him he wasn't aware he was being hunted yet. So Race weaved his way though his cars, thanking Christ that he didn't have to walk to far to find this cheating coward.

He waited until he was a comfortable distance away from Avery. Not to close but far enough back where he was sure he could get a good shot. There was a burned-out car in-front of him, which would help tilt the odds in his favor.
He stepped onto the fender of the burning car, then up to the trunk, then the roof. He took aim at Avery, taking a deep and slow breath. He could hear the rusted metal of the car creaking under his weight, and hoped it wouldn't alert him.

The red-dot of his sights was aimed directly on Avery's back. The cat would have it's kill. But just as he was about to fire, the hood of the car suddenly buckled and crumbled, sending Race's right foot through the roof. He misfired, the bullet hitting a car beside Avery.
Avery wasted no time diving into cover. He pressed his back against a cement road-block, the car which the bullet had hit was in-front and to the left of him. He was fairly well hidden here, but he knew that his assassin was all to aware of his location. He guessed that something sudden had gone awry for him to miss, or that he was just a terrible shot.

Race pulled his leg out of the hole, silently cursing under his breath. He bent his right arm, the pistol pointing straight in the air. He Avery pinned, just where he wanted him. There was no point of hiding any intentions from a dead man. "Avery Malcolm!" he shouted out to the coward. "My name is Race Burton. And you owe our mutual friends some caps, and some blood!"

Avery cursed and pulled his revolver. He didn't have many shots left, and knew that this Race fellow wasn't joking around. He'd be lucky to get a shot off, and even luckier if it hit him and Race missed. Avery wasn't sure he wanted to risk that, so he sighed, then inhaled another deeper breath. "I didn't steal your fuckin' caps! I don't even have ten thousand caps!"

"Bullshit!" Race shouted back, showing a supreme lack of both negotiation skills and of reasoning. Avery cursed under his breath, then looked up at a darting figure that had moved past a open door of one of the cars in-front of him. He squinted and pulled the hammer back on his revolver. "Here's what's gonna happen," Race suddenly shouted.

Suddenly from somewhere in among the wreckage, a lever-action rifle was fired. The bullet clipped Race's side, causing him to recoil to the right and yelp in pain. The figure that Avery had seen suddenly stood up, 10mm pistol in his outstretched arm. Around his waist a dirty silver quilt was tied, and on his shoulder a cut-in-half tire was strapped. These were Viper's, or Jackal's. One of the many dying raider gangs of the Mojave.

Before the fool could even get a shot off, Avery had his gun pointed up at him. He fired once, and the powerful hand-cannon tore the entire top left side of the man's head off. He flew off his feet and to his left, a blood and brain shower carried with the bullet.

Suddenly and all at once, several raiders stood from their hidden positions among the wreckage. Most didn't have a pin on Avery, they only saw Race standing atop of one of the cars. Avery saw this as his chance, and-still crouched-dashed forward as fast as he can.

Gunfire from all side's opened up, and Race barely had enough time to raise his gun and fire twice at Avery before having to jump down and take cover. Both bullets narrowly flew past the fleeing man. Avery scooped the 10mm pistol off his would-be-killers body, and kept running.
Race cursed aloud now, shuffling along-side the car until he was at the front of it. He cautiously peaked around the corner, only to have a hail of gunfire open up on the front of the car. He jerked his head back just before a few bullets slammed into the pavement in-front of him. He counted six, but no telling how many more were in hiding. All he could hope was that maybe one of them would see the fleeing Avery and mow him down, or at-least wound him.

Race heard scuffling footsteps from his left, coming from the rear of the car. He guessed one or two of the raiders decided to try to take him by surprise again, but were either high on chems or just miserable at sneaking. He turned to his left and out-stretched his gun, waiting to see any figure appear. He didn't have to wait long.

A raider came around the corner with another 9mm, but in much worse condition. He was surprised to see Race staring at him with a gun pointed directly at his head. Race fired twice, one bullet going through the raiders eye and tearing out the back of his skull, and the other hitting his cheek and doing the same. He fell backwards and over a concrete-roadblock, his legs draped over it. Race heard one of the raiders curse in the distance.
Soon after, silence crept into the warm air. Race took a breath and gripped the hand-gun tighter. No telling what they were planning now, but he was all too sure that he'd find out all too soon. They weren't crafty, but they were dangerous. Whatever it was wouldn't be elaborate or spectacular, but it would be deadly.

As soon as the thought entered his mind, a sudden clang came from the hood of the car he was taking over behind. A rectangle shaped metal object bounced off and landed at his side. It didn't take him but a split second to recognize this as a grenade.
Out of pure instinct he grabbed it, praying to whatever god would hear him, and threw it back over the car. He pressed to the ground and covered his head, just in-case they had cooked it so it would go off prematurely. But, as he had thought before, they were deadly but not smart.

The grenade skidded off the hood of another car behind the raiders, landing in the front seat. They didn't even have time to scream before it went off, exploding it and the car it landed in. Scrap metal and body parts went flying in all directions as a small orange and black mushroom cloud of smoke and fire rose into the air. The ground shook and Race gritted his teeth. The explosion was much closer then he would have liked.
Avery looked over his shoulder as he ran, seeing the plume of smoke rise into the air. They were a distance away now, and hopefully he would be even further away by the time those raiders got done with race. If not, he knew how to fight, and how to hide.

Race pushed himself off the ground with a grunt, only managing to get on his hands and knees before a hand grabbed him and pulled him over. He rolled onto his back, but with the gun still in his hand and now pointed up, the raider never stood a chance. He fired once, hitting him in the ribs. That was before a figure came up from his side and grabbed the gun.

They fought for it, the raider yanking on it and causing Race's finger to slam against the trigger and misfire. Race began to turn the gun up towards the raider, who desperately fought back against it. But Race had the better grip and better angle in which to turn the gun. It was slow progress, but soon enough the gun was pointed at somewhere on the raider's chest. Race rapid fired the gun three times, nailing the raider in the throat twice and in the chest once.

Blood poured out of the tears in his throat and down his body, red soaking up the dirty grey tank-top he was wearing. He soon collapsed into a limp mound of dirty flesh that oozed blood. But this presented a new problem altogether. Race looked at his pistol and saw the receiver was pulled fully back, telling him he was out of ammo.

Suddenly the man he had shot on the ribs shouted and kicked, his foot connected with the gun and knocked it out of Race's unsuspecting hand. Race looked up in surprise and barely caught the glimmer of a Bowie knife in the setting sunlight.
Race spun on the ground and kicked the raider's knee out of place, causing his leg to buckle and him to collapse to the ground, screaming in agony. Race kicked once more, jabbing the heel of his boot into the side of the man's arm. It barely did much besides hurt and knock him over a little bit, but it gave Race enough time to spin back around and get to his knees.

Once he was on one knee, the raider screamed and launched forward with the knife's blade angled downwards, ready to stab into Race's chest or neck. Race caught the mans arm with both of his hands, stopping the blade inched from his neck. The raider put his other hand on the pommel of the blade and pushed, driving the knife forward even more.

The sounds of struggle filled the air, both men growling as they pushed the knife towards and away. Race clinched his jaw and looked over at the dirty faced raider. His blonde hair was in a messy and short Mohawk, stained with sweat, dirt and possibly blood. The raider's eyes met his for a second, then glanced back at the knife. He growled louder as he tried to force the blade down more towards Race's neck.
And it was working. The blade was moving more and more towards him. He had to think fast, think of something, anything, that could even the odds. He searched over his attackers body, seeing his possibly broken leg turned funny under him. Then he noticed the blood that was running down the side of the man's sweaty torso. The bullet wound form earlier.

Race put all of the strength he could into his left arm, trying his best to keep the knife at-least steady. His hand did have a hold of the attackers wrist, at-least, which meant better leverage. Race suddenly let go with his right hand and swung it as far back as he could, feeling the muscle's in his shoulder strain and the wound on his side pull, then threw it forward. His fist connected right with the bullet hole through the mans ribs.

He screamed in agony and arched to the left, his hand loosening just enough on the knife to where Race could pull it out of his attackers hand and use it for himself. He turned the blade around and lunged himself forward, throwing his weight onto the man and pinning him to the ground on his back.

The raider growled loudly, his hands gripping Race's wrists tightly and forcing them back as the knife drove further and further down towards his chest. This has to end, Race thought to himself. He then swung his knee out and slammed it forward and into the man's ribs, causing him to howl in pain again.

The distraction of the pain caused his arms to weaken, as well as his vision to darken. The next thing he felt was a sharp pain driving into his neck, just above his collarbone. Warm blood flowed out from the open wound and around his neck. Any resistance he had against that knife was now gone, as he found himself having more and more trouble drawing in oxygen.
Race put his hand on the pommel of the blade and pushed all of his weight down onto it with a loud grunt, sending the rest of the blade into the man's neck. Blood shot up like a geyser from the severed jugular, and droplets hit Race's face and the underside of the brim of his hit. He snarled as the warm blood ran down his face, then pressed the blade more to the right, effectively cutting through the rest of the jugular, tendons and mussel.

A choking and wheezing came from the raider as his body violently twitched under him, hands clawing at the gaping hole in his neck and throat. Race snarled again, anger boiling over inside of him. "Just fuckin' die, already!" he screamed and pulled the knife out, holding the raiders right arm down with his left hand and jabbing the blade down into the man's chest.

Once, twice, three times, four, five, six times, seven times. He kept stabbing, screaming in frustration at the now dead man. Blood flew with each violent and quick stab into the man's chest. It splattered more and more on Race's face, hat and duster. He screamed one last time and slammed the knife down into the man's chest, his labored breathing apparent as he remained arched over the dead raider.

Blood ran wildly from severed jugular and the many holes in the dead man's chest. The crimson was pooling under him and filling all the tiny cracks in the faded grey pavement. He stared into the man's fully dilated green eyes, his heart still racing but breathing slowing. He could taste the coppery, salty taste of the man's blood as it ran down his face and onto his lips.

His hand let go of the knife's handle. His muscles were sore and stiff, hand still formed into the gripping claw that held the blade. He looked down to see his working-mans-hands were covered in the sticky, warm blood. It was everywhere. It was all over him.
He stood up off the man with a groan, arms still bent and hands dripping with blood. He spat out the foreign blood in his mouth and stepped over the newly dead raider with he knife in his chest, and over to the one he had shot early. He grabbed the bottom of his grey tank-top and pulled it off the corpse, then began to viciously wipe the blood off his hands and face. It didn't provide him with much comfort, he still knew it covered his duster and armor and stained his skin. He'd need to wash it off.

But now was not the time. Race looked down the long expanse of clustered highway, seeing no sign of Avery. Only the sun setting behind the mountains. "Goddammit." He cursed and reached down, picking his gun back up and exchanging the clip before holstering it.

This would be more complicated then he would have liked. More time consuming. And if Avery wasn't a danger to him, then the wastes that surrounded them both were, surely. Race gave chase to Avery, cursing the man and his life every day that passed. He followed the coward straight through the state, Arizona, New Mexico and into Texas. He'd heard some horror stories come out of this way, and didn't feel all to comfortable being here.

What he couldn't have known, was that they were all true. And among all of them, the scariest had been the tales that locals only whispered in fear. He's heard them in saloons as he made his way from small towns and big cities to even smaller towns. "Ranger Grey walks in the darkness, ready to kill any and all who've done wrong."

Race scoffed and sipped his drink every time. 'What a load of brahmin shit.' he thought to himself. If there was some man punishing people who'd done wrong, then he was a mighty busy man. And Texas would be a mighty empty state.
But the further he traveled into the badlands, he heard more and more of it. No one seemed to know who this man was, but his stories were well known. They talked about him with a kind of reverence and fear. About him being the fastest gun they'd ever seen, or that he could hit his target dead center without even looking.

Race knew better, but there was something inside of him that grew weary of these stories. And the more he heard them, the more he dreaded the next. You'd swear this ranger was Satan himself, come to walk the land and have fun with us sinners. But there was a hesitation inside of him now. If this man were real, and if he were to run into him, he'd have no idea what he looked like.

He suddenly found himself in the position of all the men he'd ever hunted, and he didn't like it. But Race wasn't here for the real life Azrael. He was here for Judas. And a Judas he'd find. One way or another, he would find Avery Malcolm.

But with every damned story he overheard, he felt more and more desperate to just leave all of this behind. There were no such things as ghosts, and myth's about men as raw talented as this Ranger fellow were just myths.

There were no such things as avenging angels. Only devils, wearing men's clothing.