001:

To those it may concern:
This little thing here is a re-write, sorry for no clarifying it earlier, Funky P. For more information as to why, see my bio, otherwise - enjoy!

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SAME THING, DIFFERENT DAY.

One would think that it was entirely unpredictable, but it's actually nothing of the sort.

It's all the same when he awakes, completely identical to countless other times he's gone through it in the past few years. There was a saying for it, he thinks; 'Same thing, Different Day' or something along similar archaic clichéd lines. At any rate, that obscure little saying was nothing short of the truth.

Especially when it came to this.

Without so much as missing a beat, his eyes snap open at the moment of impact, but of course, right here, right now, there is nothing there. He's alone. There's no danger, and he prays that there never will be. Not again.

This doesn't stop him from jolting himself violently into consciousness, however. Sitting bolt upright as his hand slips under his head for the cold, disturbingly familiar touch of his .45 automatic pistol, he expects himself to be there; in the burning aftermath of a recent explosion, with that cursed heavy, loud ringing in his ears, feeling the mass of someone's dead weight across his stomach, facing off fifteen or so NCR prospectors, who move along the desert track before him. The world tilts nauseatingly when his arm flies upwards, his heart thundering, expression set.

But the New Canaanite Missionary, Daniel Ryker, does not pull the trigger. While five years of uncontrollable nightmares can startle him into unwarranted self-defence, a decade or so training can stop him firing off a whole magazine just as easily. He's managed to drop his handgun against his lap before he does something drastic, gaze fixed forwards and chest surging as he tries to catch his breath.

Once he'd calmed down enough to make sense of his surroundings, Daniel frowns when he realises that he'd fallen asleep where he had collapsed some hours earlier; sprawled inelegantly on top of his sleeping bag, still fully clothed and - Daniel then notes as he tugs dispassionately at the straps of his shoulder holster - armed.

At least he hadn't slept with the SMG. That could have been problematic.

Yawning, he can feel the angry crease embedded into the skin just above his temple, likely from where his head had rested awkwardly against the cave floor. Like some weird, Frankenstein welt. Once he's free of his holster, the missionary blinks again, awareness still splintered with jumbled half memories and heightened senses. A glance at the entrance of the cave proves that it's very early in the morning - enough for it to still be dark.

He brings his arm up, squinting at the luminescent hands on his wristwatch. Five fifteen.

Fantastic.

So he struggles out of his over-shirt and scrambles upwards, sluggish and unbalanced as he stands into his shoes and fumbles around to tie his laces. As an afterthought, he recollects the .45 and steps outside.

Out here, everything begins to slow down and the cool breeze immediately chills the nervous perspiration that had gathered at his hairline and collarbones. It's hard to relax straight away, especially after that nightmare in particular, so he's not surprised when he finds himself stood above the edge that overlooks the river. The big one that flows straight through the Sorrow's Camp. A familiar spot where he likes to spend his infrequent minutes of spare time. A few of the Sorrows take one good look at him, realise where is going and then continue on.

This isn't unusual; he's often left alone when he's here - the Sorrows seem to understand a man's need for solitude, something he's immensely grateful for. If anyone was to ask him what he thought about, he wouldn't be able to rightly explain. It was one of the few things that changed. Different topics, different comprehensions - different moods. Regardless, it's very important, because it's a point in his schedule that's just between him and the Lord. Daniel doesn't mind the fact that he's sharing his life with the Sorrows, far from it, in fact, if the situation had played itself out any differently - if his home was still standing, if the White Legs never happened, if Zion wasn't at risk, then he wouldn't think he'd trade it for anything.

As much as he enjoyed their company, however, he needed time alone with nothing but his thoughts and faith. It was time that wasn't spent running around maniacally trying to prevent his worst nightmares from recurring, or, brooding in a semi-depressed haze, but just... Pondering. It was rare in New Canaan, to have solitary times of reflection and even rarer out in the Wasteland proper. After all, nothing in this world is ever peaceful for long. If at all.

This time, however, he's too worked up to stand around thinking. In fact, he has to spend his surplus energy stomping around the ledge so he doesn't end up strangling the life out of someone. It's not something he's particularly proud of.

When he's reached the end of the ledge and turned around for the fifth time in a row, Daniel grits his teeth harshly with levels of unaccounted fury, eyebrows scrunched together as he draws to a halt, folding his arms. It doesn't always happen like this - and that's one of few differences. Mostly he wakes up disorientated. Wakes up to somehow assume that it was just a dream, only to be dragged back to the harsh reality. Times like this, were he comes around after being panicked unexpectedly and inexplicably furious, happened to be the rarest. He doesn't understand the brain chemistry behind the shift of moods, but it's annoying. Daniel, if nothing else, is known for keeping a level head. He's not the kind of person to go around throttling people for no good reason. If it all.

He shakes his head. This is pointless. Stupid. Stupid, stupid.

It's a brisk morning, the sun is pale in colour as it creeps slowly over the walls of the canyon, overshadowed by transparent clouds. He tips his head back, looking up to see if - or, more likely, when - it'll start raining. He can't tell. Though it is beautiful, the wind, while cold, is gentle, barely even noticeable against the crook of his neck. It would be enjoyable if he wasn't so wound up. Again, Daniel checks his watch. It's far earlier than what most people consider normal, but even if he had wanted to go back to sleep, he couldn't have. The likelihood is he'd only wake up half an hour later, this time only screaming instead of threatening to fire his gun, so he decides to just stay awake. The phantom stench of blood lingers in his nose and makes the deepest part of him shiver.

They feel real. The nightmares. Very real. Seven years ago, it had been real. Two months ago, it had been real. Of course, at the time, it never hit him. Either ambling through the ruins of Salt Lake City confused with a busted leg or running through the burning streets of New Canaan with an unfamiliar rifle in his blood soaked hands, it was like he was thundering though some kind of fevered dream.

The Nightmares about... her... though, they are far worse. They aren't like the nightmares he had about New Canaan; a mixture of events real and imagined, what he did, what he should have done, what could have happened and what didn't, even if they did end the same. He dies, when he has nightmares about New Canaan.

It's not his death that wakes him up, though. It's not his death that scares him - it's the price they'd pay for it. The Sorrows. They would be at risk, as would all the other tribes. All 'cause he wasn't there.

The other nightmares, however, are real. Incredibly real. More like flashbacks, every detail, every fleeting image. It's identical, routine and he wakes up every time still thinking he's there. That he's still fighting. Hence the gun, and all.

Daniel shakes his head, running his free hand through his hair as he stares at the river some more. That's enough for one day, he thinks. The wind pushes against his features, causing him to suddenly become aware that he's only stood in a grimy t-shirt and batted pair of trousers. It makes him grunt. His family would have been unamused to see him like this, but nobody will bother him about his rumpled appearance at five in the morning.

At least, he hopes they won't. He's hardly the scruffiest man in the wasteland. God forbid. He can't deal with people this early.

Daniel groans into his hands. Is this what he's been reduced to? By all what is sacred, he sounds just like Mordecai.

The stab of white hot guilt returns with a gasping cough. Pretty unexpectedly, he thinks, considering how long it's been since...

"Daniel!"

The man himself jerks, startled, though admittedly, somewhat thankful for the distraction. Trudging over towards the slope that led downwards into the river and pointedly ignoring the way his hand tightens around his firearm, Daniel frowns - he only vaguely recognises the voice.

While very much unique between themselves, the Sorrows - like every tribe, have a very particular accent or at least some distinct of speech that comes with speaking a language for as long as they have. He should know. His mother's 'Polyglot to end all polyglots' label replayed in his head and he very nearly smiled at the memory. It can't be Waking Cloud because, hell, he recognised her voice when he heard it and he also knows for a definite fact that she's gone out for the day to collect herbs. It can't be Joshua; the man doesn't like to raise his voice, for one, and he and Daniel have an unspoken rule that neither of them pay social calls. So he'd be very surprised to see him.

But seeing one of the Dead Horses happens to be even more surprising.

One of the first things he notices, then recongises, is the heavily decorated baseball cap. From his vantage point, the missionary can make out the shapes of the adornments. Feathers, beads and other such oddities. He doesn't know many of the Dead Horses. He hasn't had a lot of time to get to know them - he's only around them when he's mending injuries, and if they aren't unconscious when he's doing it, the language barrier means they can't communicate all that well. So he grimaces as he thinks back, tucking his handgun into his waistband in order to assist the scout in climbing up the bank.

Aha. Scout... scout... Dead Horse scouts follow cha- Chalk. Follows-Chalk. The memory clicks as he offers a hand out, pulling the panting tribal up the last leg of the slope and wordlessly stepping back. Raising his brow in silent question, Daniel waits for Follows-Chalk to catch his breath.

He doesn't get to ask. The scout gets there first, with a sense of urgency that Daniel doesn't find very reassuring. The boy is panicked - nigh on frenzied even. Nothing good can come out of that.

"I need a healer." the boy declares with a deep throated pant and Daniel gives the tribal a once over. The frown he was wearing doesn't let up.

"Huh." the missionary scratches the side of his jaw. He needs to shave. Again. "You look fine to me. Physically, anyway."

The tribal, somehow, manages to strain a smile. "Not for me, for her."

"Her?"

"An outsider." Follows-Chalk explains. "She came from the northern passage, escaped White Legs. I found her a ways from here."

Whatever medical professional that still remains in Daniel immediately prompted him to turn around and go back into the cave. Making a concerned noise, Follows-Chalk follows, hot on his heels.

White Legs never often leave survivors; as a New Canaanite, Daniel knows more than anyone. Either she's very lucky, or they're still on her tail and both of those scenarios don't advertise much time to spare. "What condition was she in? Was she speaking?" he asks as he tugs on a relatively clean over-shirt, not bothering to button it up but instead just fixing his holster over it. He'll bring the SMG this time, least they get caught out. White Legs and wildlife aside, an outsider isn't likely to know the land - neither are they to be trusted. Stereotypical, perhaps, but the last time Daniel was faced with strangers from the Mojave, they butchered fifty three people.

Better to be safe than sorry. He thinks as he loads the SMG. He's not going to lose the Sorrows. Not another tribe.

Regardless, she'll need help. Even if she is some form of mercenary. He can't see Joshua getting here any quicker than he could, advanced scouts or no, that and the man would just end up taking her here anyway.

"No. I tried to make her get up, but she could not stand. I moved her. Someplace safe."

It's better than nothing. "How bad did she look?"

Follows-Chalk makes to open his mouth, but then he pauses as Daniel hefts one of those old, Pre-War paramedic bags over his shoulder and turns to look at him. It takes the scout a while to make the correct assumption. "Her leg was bleeding, badly and she... erm... she was pale."

"Lots of blood?"

The scout nods.

"Big wound?"

Again, he nods. Paleness and major blood loss, possible symptoms of hypovolaemic shock. The wound presents opportunity for numerous general infections and considering the usual wounds he's been dealing with here, it'll be deep incision. If the wound is as bad as Follows-Chalk says it is - which, considering how hard it is for him to assess damage at the best of times, didn't seem likely - then she will be running out of time quickly. Hopefully no major arteries would have been severed. That, and the White Legs often lean heavily on potions too. If that's the case, then his job is about to get much harder. He pauses at that, reaching across the table to grab a few bottles of antivenom. He'd have to ask one of the Sorrows about replacements. He's running out.

Add that to the fact that the Northen Passage is a good few hours away, that she's likely been moving around for a long time if she's got this far into the valley and it looks grim. A few minutes is a long time to be bleeding, or unconscious, never mind hours.

It's hardly an optimistic sting of thoughts and Daniel nods towards Follows-Chalk.

"We need to hurry - take me to her."

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He does, and they end up arriving at the mouth of a cave a good hour and a quarter later. It's one of the few natural systems Daniel actually recognises; a good six years ago, he had scouted a few of them out in order to relive frequent bouts of boredom. Cueva Guarache is one of the many survivalist' dwellings in the canyon, and the closest one to the Narrows.

Like he expected, the white handprints around the entrance mark it as a taboo area, but interestingly enough, Follows-Chalk doesn't seem to hold such superstitions and boldly makes his way inside.

"- Say angry ghosts live inside. Not that I believe in angry ghosts. They're just spooky old places, right?"

Daniel nods. "Uh huh, nothing but old traps." he knows this for a genuine fact, he's cleared away - or rather, nearly stood on, enough of them as it was. Though judging by the relativity fresh White Legs' corpses shoved over to one side, he hasn't got them all.

He was clever, the Survivalist, Daniel will give him that.

The Survivalist. The Father in the Caves - Randell Clark. Daniel was very aware of just who the man was; a defining figure of the Sorrows' tribe. The number of notes left on separate computer terminals, and then, the folded paper in his duffle bag had been enough evidence. At first, it was rather alarming that this one individual, a former soldier inhabiting the National Park just after the Great War, managed to shape an entire belief, but then, he didn't find himself all that surprised. Admittedly, a lot of the Sorrows' history is unknown, lost over the course of many generations, but it's known that at some point they began calling themselves the Sorrows, and attempted to search the caves in the region for traces of 'the Father'. After their scouts disappeared, it seemed clear to them that individuals seeking out the Father would be taken from them, and so they began marking pre-war buildings or tech with a white hand mark, declaring them taboo.

The terminals shed some light into that. It's interesting as much as it is tragic.

They also brought forward an issue Daniel had been profoundly worrying over for the past five years. These terminals, the words of Clark, would essentially pick apart their beliefs and while that would probably make converting them to Mormonism far easier, Daniel was in no hurry to use them. He'd made it clear, first to Matthews - the man responsible for training him as a Missionary all those years ago, and then, to Joshua far more recently, that it was best to keep it under the metaphorical hat. Who is he to go around poking holes in their religion? That wasn't fair, nor was it morally correct. It was something the sodding Legion would do. If he did that, bluntly presenting the evidence and proving them wrong, he'd risk wrecking several generations of general good naturedness and peace - something that is, incredibly rare in the Wasteland.

He hadn't the need, anyway. He'd been having some success as of late in regards to his missionary work, regardless of the truth behind Randell Clark. A fair number of the Sorrows were up for learning more - he'd been communicating, surprisingly, well with Waking Cloud and White Bird was no longer trying to throttle him at every passing moment. He doesn't need to go parading the truth around, especially where it wasn't wanted.

As for Clark, he and Joshua had found him eventually. Located his remains after a two day trek. In silent agreement, they ended up giving him a proper burial. It was the least they could do, all things considered.

Well. Daniel could do more, he supposes. He could keep them safe.

He does wonder though, what would happen if they ever did find out. If one of the Sorrows came across the evidence. Guess he'll just have to wait and see, he supposes. He'd support their decision no matter what it was. That, he decided years ago.

The cave entrance leads down into a steeply descending corridor. At the bottom of the slope, the path seemed to split, one fork curving left and the other going straight ahead and then, to the right. Although his memory is hazy, he does recall the dense, once heavily-trapped wall of bush - a defence mechanism, one that at the time, he had to skirt around and only managed to completely disarm with Joshua's help. The bear traps had been moved, but parts of the tripwire still remained. Daniel also assumes that Joshua had put the rigged shotguns to good use, because they aren't here now either. Further on, past the bush was the doorway that led directly into what was once Randall Clark's chambers.

It's silent when they enter - it's not a good sign. Follows-Chalk hurries cover towards the southern end of the chamber, the raised platform it seems, still stands. At the west end is a workbench and just beside it is the ramp that goes into the designated sleeping area. It seems the scout had placed her down here, because Daniel can practically smell the blood as soon as he gets within a few meters of her.

It doesn't take him much longer to actually see it.

Edging closer, Daniel drops to his knees and lowers the paramedic's bag out of the way, but still close enough for him to reach it quickly. Follows-Chalk stops near the entrance, filtering nervously and wringing his hands. Although he'd rather the boy stay out this, he can't see in this light - so Daniel hands the scout one of those Pre-War heavy duty flashlights. It's a cumbersome thing to have to carry around, and he can't say he's glad to be rid of it for the moment. The bright light rips through the semi-darkness, illuminating the space and then, the injured form below him. When he can see properly, he presses his lips into a thin line and draws out a harsh breath.

She's not in a good condition. At all.

It was her left leg that was damaged and the blood had long since seeped through her trousers at his point, pooling on the mattress under her. Dark waves of hair, an exposed shell of an ear, shoulder blades rising in sharp arcs through her shirt. And dying, of course. That was his first impression of her. The second comes in the form of rapid medical deductions, observations coming first. The injured leg is askew, but that's because of how Follows-Chalk had rested her, rather than any potential injury. When he goes to inspect, he realises that it's not a bullet wound, but rather a machete's doing - the skin and muscle has peeled away so he can see white streaks of bone. That's bad. Very bad. Beyond deep tissue. So he resolves to tend to that first and foremost.

Before everything, he has to cut away the trouser leg and he tosses the fabric over his shoulder without as much a care, examining the wound properly. Next, he does the logical thing and pulls on a pair of elastic gloves, least he winds up transferring anything harmful. Grabbing a towel, he then applies as much pressure onto the wound as he can. A glance at her expression shows that she might not be as unconscious as he first thought, because she frowns in pain. Angular features suddenly creasing up with the sudden jolt.

He indicates for Follows-Chalk to help, and he leaves the scout to apply pressure as he roots around his bag, looking for a stimpack. It'll help with the clotting, while she's not bleeding as profoundly as what he'd expect - it's a large wound and he can't be too certain. She's just lucky she hadn't actually served an artery. Very lucky. So he jabs it further up her thigh and she winces again, this time managing to let out a half grunt, half yelp of sorts. Stimpacks are designed to hurt on purpose - it's a universal indicator as to how healthy someone is. If you can't feel pain, chances are you're either high, or something is wrong. The fact that she reacted makes Daniel somewhat less concerned then he was before. She's reacting to stimuli.

Once the bleeding has stopped completely, he starts giving the wound a small, quick clean with napkin and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He'll have to clean it properly when he gets back to the Sorrows' camp, but this will do for now. Kills bacteria before it can create any infections. Simply a precaution as he starts wrapping a series of bandages over it. For the first few layers, the blood seeps through, but on about the fifth, it stops and Daniel watches for a few minutes, somewhat unconvinced. Nothing seems to happen after that, so he works on securing the bandage. The major threat of blood loss and possible infection quashed, he checks over the rest of her.

A few scrapes and cuts, nothing too serious - he'll have to stitch up a few cuts on her arms and face. She'll have a lot of bruises, that's for certain. She is in hypovolaemic shock and that's his next concern. She's not far enough that he needs to pursue drastic measures, but she'll be in need of medication. Dopamine if he has any. Epinephrine- no, he grimaces. He's out of that. Norepinephrine...? He wishes. He hasn't seen any of that in a good four years. Regardless, Daniel can't exactly deal with it here and he turns towards Follows-Chalk, expression firm. "Put the flashlight in the bag - I'll need you to carry it for me."

The boy adds everything up pretty quickly. "You'll be carrying her?"

Daniel gives him a grim smile. "Judging by how she looks, she doesn't weigh over a hundred pounds, let alone three. I can manage."

The look Follows-Chalk gives him tells Daniel what he's thinking. That it won't do any of them any good if they walk into an ambush, or are attacked and heck, Daniel has to agree - but he doesn't have much of a choice. The scout just clenches his jaw as Daniel snakes one arm down through her arms and around her chest, wrapping the other securely around her knees before flipping her over and jerking her clinically up into his arms in one quick, practiced motion. He pointedly doesn't think about the way she's being held up against his chest, like some sick parody of a bridal carry. Instead, he just starts moving. Trying to keep his movements steady as he weaves through the cave system.

When they get outside, the sun's intense heat makes him grimace. They can't stay out here for much longer, half turning to make sure Follows-Chalk was behind him, he nods, before making his way back through the river.

She groans, then, properly and her eyes slowly open. Even unfocused and bleary in shock, they're a flat and foreboding grey and she stares at him confused for a few moments, the smallest crease evident on her forehead. Daniel just fixes his gaze back to the canyon walls, working purposelessly on.

"You hang in there now." he tells her.

Same thing, Different day.

Right.