005:

»«○»«○»«

THE COMMITMENT OF FRIENDLY RIVALS

Today wasn't exactly going the way he'd hoped.

"Down!"

There is a moment, a split second before the explosion, where the entire world just seems to stand still. It wasn't like with the Tar Walkers, Daniel had noted absently, painfully, as he'd spun his head around to face the direction in which Jessica was facing in light of warning. There were a few frenzied milliseconds and all the air seemed to be sucked out of the general vicinity, like the canyon itself was taking some kind of horrified gasping breath. He'd been standing just before the steps of Ranger Substation Peregrine then, in the agonising slip of time preceding what was likely to be a very, very nasty turn of events.

He should have moved. Done something. Anything. Yet he didn't. His feet should have been moving, but they weren't. It was kind of ironic, actually.

But Daniel hadn't noticed that. Jerking his head away from where it was pressed against the ground, he clambers onto his elbows with only one seemingly lucid thought.

There's sand in his mouth.

He can't remember how he happened to get sand in his mouth - well, now that he thinks about it, clumsily grabbing for his handgun as he struggles to make out just what he's actually looking at, he's not very sure of anything at the moment, besides the fact that he seems to be alive -though, that could be up for debate, but the fact that he has sand in his mouth most defiantly is the most concrete. He gags. Oh yeah, it's there alright. Coating his teeth and tongue in a gritty metallic-tasting sludge that he realises, with an odd sort of detachment, seems to taste a good deal more like blood than it probably should be doing.

So, he thinks, after a moment's hazy contemplation, that there's blood in his mouth and suffice to say that development in particular was rather sickening on a number of levels.

He blinks, then, after a few seconds and having fallen back against the solid frame of the Station, he barks out through a sore throat.

"Jessica!"

Something snaps. Jerking, the corner of his scripture digs into his lower ribs from where it was strapped against his holster, just under his arm. Its presence makes him relax somewhat instinctively.

"I'm alive!"

She is indeed; he can hear her moving towards him with that particular half limp he's used to acknowledging without actually acknowledging. Now that he knows she's alive, he can focus on the main thing; the blood has to come from somewhere... unless it's not his, and someone else's, which makes the whole situation suddenly a heck of a lot more problematic. He feels the inside of his mouth cautiously with his tongue and, to his surprise, finds a definite lack of missing teeth or open wounds. The inside of his bottom lip appears to be split, if only slightly, so that's defiantly not it.

A tentative attempt to breathe through his nose reveals the source of the rest of the blood; alarmed, he heaves up a poor amount of it, given that it is pouring copiously down the back of his throat. Bringing his free hand up tentatively, he manipulates the bridge of his nose firmly, hissing out and tightening the grip around his handgun when he comes to the conclusion that it's broken.

So far, so usual. He lowers his hand, then idly thanks the Lord that it's his nose, rather than anything more severe.

It still doesn't explain why there's sand in his mouth, though. He spits it out some more with an intense level of difficulty. Now there is less sand in his mouth. Yet still no explanation. How the hell did he get from being on his feet to being on the...

The second explosion was smaller than what he was originally anticipating. Perhaps it was nerves - fear, or it was his memory playing a factor, but either way he expected far worse. The grenade is tossed over the side of a nearby rock formation and it tumbles down a few feet before exploding, by that point, Daniel has heard the faint clank - remembered what that particular noise means and had half dragged the limping Courier behind the stairway again, behind some form of cover. Before them, there is the lick of fire ahead along the middle span of the immediate canyon, some six or seven feet away, blending into one in the distance. The shrapnel dug into the floor at various intervals and the ground was kicked up and disturbed from where the force had an impact. The huge ball of varicoloured fire belched outwards, before coming in on itself and seemingly vanishing, leaving a series of smoke-rings to float more slowly after it.

The vague shape of Jessica's head comes out from his blind spot and she's lucky that he's dazed, otherwise she'd likely be filled with numerous .45 shaped bullet holes. She seems to realise this too, but neither of them say anything about it. Instead, she just remains as she is, pushed up against his shoulder with her arm - the hand of which was armed, across his lower back. Her face scrunches up into a frown when she notices the blood dripping down onto the floor. "You're bleeding." She notes, simply and he gives her a grunt in the way of reply, dismissing it without meaning to come across as petulant. It makes her expression harden even more so and she looks as if she's about to argue, but he silences her with a jerk of the chin. She follows his line of sight.

White Legs.

They're silent killers - Daniel now knows that this was just another ambush. How long they had been stalking them, he doesn't quite know. This isn't the first time; the tribals usually hide behind trees and sneak along bushes, waiting for the precise moment to attack.

From what he can see, there's five or four of them and the first is thinner, armed with a number of throwing spears, who is shortly followed by another male, who is carrying something vaguely alike a bolt-action. The rest of them fan out along the side of the ridge. He means to get a better look, but he has to choke out another mouthful of blood, sand and spit in a gag reaction before he can stick his head out. "How do we deal with this?" Jess asks, snapping the slide of her handgun back with a soft click. Daniel examines their positions again, but he's none too sure; he's not a fighter. He's not. Sure, he can best most people when it comes up close and personal, but planning an ambush on top of an ambush is a little out of his range of qualifications. He's a missionary, at the end of the day and not even a militarized one, like Anthony, or heck, Joshua. Daniel supposed to be away from the firing line, stood over the injured. Making sure they don't lose anyone else. Not adding to the number.

"Just go with it!" He barks instead, hopelessly, figuring they'll make the most of the element of surprise and flinging the bag off of his shoulder, popping out of cover and firing blind as he runs over towards a huddle of rocks opposite them. He doesn't get to hear her reply. Skidding to a halt, he steadied himself and popped out again, firing at one of the White Leg's along the ridge. His handgun clicks dispassionately and he moves back, sliding another magazine in painstakingly. The White Leg he had been aiming at was armed with the .45, he realises, because the general area he had been a second ago was suppressed, a worrying amount of bullets hammering into the ground in its wake.

Talk about choosing your enemies wisely. He pulls the slide back, heavy weights snapping back with a reassuring clank. Perhaps he should go back to using the SMG too. Even the odds.

Then he realises that his SMG is strapped against his medical bag and he very nearly kicks himself.

There is a shout, numerous shouts actually, but the sound of pain was one of the more noticeable. One less ring of gunfire sounded in the thick of the firefight, which could only mean one thing. One down. Jessica distracted the White Leg long enough for Daniel to snap back out again and put a bullet through his leg. Another foot, realistically and he would have had him in the chest - enough to be a downer for good, but the reasons play in his favour he supposes, as the White Leg topples over the side of the canyon and falls down into the river way below them.

He gives the general area he is in a glance. If he could just get enough cover, he could make it across the ledge and-

The White Leg he was aiming at is suddenly shot clean through the skull. It doesn't come from Daniel, and he's pretty sure that it hadn't come from Jessica either, so he ducks back against the rock again before it's ends up being his skull in the firing line. It's because he's further towards the left now that he catches them in the corner of his peripheral; two of them are moving in on the Courier's position. Swearing under his breath, the Missionary clambers over the rock without actually thinking about it, crossing the expanse and firing blindly at the two approaching tribals. All seven bullets are emptied by the time he gets half way and in wayward panic - because, good Lord, this was a stupid, stupid idea - he snaps his hand upwards, jerking the empty magazine out and tossing it over his shoulder.

He's about to change directions and bolt back into his former cover in serious reconsideration of his actions when someone, or something, slams into his lower middle and sends him rolling down a slope that leads downwards towards the river. Daniel imminently senses the cover, but he also recognises that has bigger problems and he automatically throws himself into that bizarre instinctual mode of self-preservation when he realises that it's a person who has collided into him, lashing out at the perceived threat without a coherent string of reflection. It happens easily, all things considered. Grappling whoever was pinning him to the floor, reversing their positions rapidly so he's the one on top, thrusting his elbow out to beat them in the vague region of the face, or neck. Whichever is nearest. Whichever is going to bloody hurt.

"Daniel!" The ragged, deep tone grounds his panic rapidly and the missionary relaxes his arm, lowering it before he was just about to beat it towards them, but he's still breathing too hard, his jaw set and he's still with the indication to beat the ever loving stuffing out of the figure before him. Thankfully, he's more back in control than he would have been, or he would have done it by now. That much is sure. They must sense that too, because instead, a familiar grip keeps his hand from moving and Daniel finds himself staring down an immediately recognizable crystalline blue gaze.

Well, how about that.

Joshua Graham does not say anything in regards to the situation, merely half pushes Daniel off and grabs the younger missionary's .45 as he clambers upwards, sliding a full magazine into the handgun, pulling the slide back in consideration before handing it back wordlessly. Daniel takes it, picking himself and leaning against the cover. "There." he points towards the rocks he was behind originally. Jessica had managed to separate herself some from the two White Legs and she seemed to be considering her next move. There's still another three on the ledge.

"You're bleeding."

Daniel nods. "Yeah, I know. I know."

An angry burst of gunfire sends him back into cover, Joshua too, but he seemed to perceive the attack way before Daniel had done and was subsequently less alarmed.

"Now."

Daniel jerks his head up. "Now wha-..?"

But the Malpais Legate had already scrambled up the side of the slope so he was level with the White Legs, leaving Daniel to struggle after him. By the time he rounded the nearest rock, he got a clear view of another tribal moving across the expanse of the ledge, and fired. The first bullet caught her in the shoulder and she twisted, stumbling over enough or Daniel to get a better, more accurate shot and shoot her through the chest. That left four more-

A body falls from cover and right under him. With a pent up growl, he just manages to hop over it and he's left facing Joshua again. Beyond, a good ten to fifteen metres away, one of the White Legs runs at them, arm outstretched with a large, somewhat menacing and vaguely terrifying looking knife in their hand. Neither of them shoot in time, but the sound of Jessica's .45 sounds and the tribal drops. They try to get up. Joshua tromps off to go and deal with them.

His handgun fires, but it leaves Daniel frowning. The other tribal is nowhere to be found. He does a full three-sixty, leans backwards to consider the Station again, but everything is quiet. Except, then there is the limp and Daniel relaxes.

Joshua snaps his hand up and aims at the Courier, but doesn't fire. She draws to a halt with the paramedic's bag gripped in one hand. Daniel extends his own for it.

"What is it with you New Canaanites and confronting people with firearms?" She asks, frowning at Joshua and then at Daniel. She doesn't move any closer and for good reason, but by this point his nose was seriously starting to ache something fierce so he grabs Joshua's hand and rips it downwards, indicating for the bag again. "Jumped into the river." She says then, watching intently as Daniel leans forwards to grab a stimpack. "Managed to wound him before he cleared off though." Joshua realises slightly before he does: His jacket is too thick - there's no way a flimsy canister needle is going to puncture it. Sure, he could stab himself in the leg, but by the time he's managed to consider his options, Joshua has swiped the stimpack from out of Daniel's hand and has grabbed him by the lapels, spinning the younger missionary sideways.

Daniel threw his hand up, glancing towards Joshua with a frown. "What are you...?" Then, without any sodding warning, the older New Canaanite jabs the stimpack into the side of his neck. All the way - and with a stimpack needle, that hurts.

"Ow-OW!"

"You have a nasal fracture and you're worried about the finest of needles." Joshua raises his eyebrows, but Daniel doesn't have to see the man's expression; his tone is flat, deadpanned. Jessica, meanwhile looks rather amused.

Feeling his need to defend himself, the younger missionary pulls himself away with a noise of displeasure and slams his hand against the abused slip of skin on his neck.

"22G." He scowls. If there's anything Daniel knows that can knock Joshua down a peg, its science. "That's Intramuscular - and that hurts, especially when said muscle happens to be the SCM. Necks aren't designed for intramuscular needles." Or, rather, intramuscular needles aren't designed for necks, but Daniel is too flustered to correct himself at this point.

"I wasn't too concerned when you went about stabbing me with needles." Jessica comments, idly.

"You were unconscious." Daniel notifies, simply, feeling the stimpack take effect as he brings his hand away. "You don't count."

»«○»V«○»«

The sun flickers weakly through the thin canopy of clouds far above, casting strange shadows across the rugged landscape around them as they firmly power on forwards. They cover the uneven juts of rock with a slight gait, each one of their large strides took them further along the canyon shelf, not quite running, but a motion thick with purpose. Little noise betrays them; the sound of their footsteps are dulled by damp sand and ashen dirt.

When the rocky ground beneath them suddenly drops, it may have warranted some surprise as the sudden descent into nothingness was well disguised by the growth of shabby, sun dried foliage, but rather than slowing their pace they instead plunged off the edge. Jump dropping into large expanse of empty space further down the canyon.

Yet, before they could fall too far down, a bone white fist abruptly snaps upwards and uncurls to grab the very edge of the ledge. It leaves them dangling. A pale, barely distinguishable form that flails around for the few tense seconds they are left unsupported. The strain results in a strangled grunt and in order to steady themselves, they slam the heels of their boots into the rock behind them, chips of red stone kicking up outwards and downwards. Satisfied, they turn their obscured face and examine the distance beyond.

At last. He had found them.

With an excited grin, Yamada, formerly Celer Venator of Caesar's Legion, releases his grip. Dust and chips of stone bounce upwards when he drops against the shelf below, the impact, striking a rich contrast against the pale blue of Zion's skyline.

»«○»V«○»«

"There – Look, the aneurysm."

Setting his mouth into a thin line from under his surgical mask, he points to the bulge with the tip of the scalpel. His bare forearms are bloody, the crimson stark against pale skin and beneath him, the unconscious form of the Dead Horse shifts upwards with every breath. So far, thankfully, steadily.

The other Dead Horse, some form of shaman, moves in to examine the hole cut into his counterpart's chest. He looks immensely put off, standing there and merely watching the New Canaanite as he pokes around.

Daniel, meanwhile continues to examine the area of interest; the aneurysm, and its rapid growth. "Makes the aorta look like it's got a balloon on top," he mutters to no one in particular, setting the instrument down on the tray beside him and leaning over the table to palpate the left hand side, frowning into the cut as he does so. Beyond the vague region of the cave he is working in, the clank of a handgun rattles. Daniel ignores it, nodding slightly as he examines the aneurysm.

"Ah, here… it won't even stay firm against a pulse; it's lost all its form." Glancing over towards the shaman, Daniel tips his head back; it's obvious that this one has no idea what the missionary is going on about, or what he's even saying, but then, Daniel doesn't actually need the man's help. He just needs someone to talk at, least he ends up getting caught up in his own thoughts and incidentally kills the bloke. Frowning, the missionary lets out a grunt of either frustration or panic; with the mask, it's hard to tell.

This is going to require some work. So much, that Daniel worries if it's even worth it.

But he has to try. God willing. Give this fella a shot at recovery.

Due to dietary trends, tribesmen - especially those in isolated regions such as Zion in particular, rarely develop the same diseases and afflictions that are commonly found within the NCR. Infections and injury complications, yes, but being faced with an aneurysm here, now, is something of a surprise. The last time Daniel had operated on an aneurysm was back in New Canaan. On Mordecai.

He ignores the way his hands clench.

Daniel had been told it was some form of illness, perhaps a poison, but he'd found something quite different. He wishes he hadn't, quite frankly, because the odds aren't in this man's favour in the slightest. He hasn't got the equipment to do that level of surgery - hasn't for a good decade, even. All he's got is a few scalpels, stitches, a metre of rubber tubing and a heck of a lot of bandages.

Leaning forwards again, Daniel brings his hand up to glance at his wristwatch. Much to his dissatisfaction, blood slicks across the face. He pushes it away with his thumb. Twelve fifteen.

It's because he's stood off towards the right that he hears the dirt scruff away and then that peculiar almost nothing, but he doesn't bother to check - he knows. It was, all things considered, a sound he remembered quite well. Noiseless feet walking towards him.

Oh. Already?

"You know, it's a miracle that it hasn't already ruptured and killed him." Daniel looks upwards from the body and jerks his head in faint greeting. Joshua Graham pauses imperceptibly as the younger missionary addresses him, gaze shifting from Daniel's face to that of the Dead Horse lay across the table. Having clocked Joshua's presence, the other Dead Horse ambles off with a curt bow at the waist and Daniel naturally thanks him for his time before considering his next plan of action, standing with his forearms thrown upwards, eyeing the instruments on the tray wearily and concern radiating so obviously that he's fairly certain that the former Legate can feel it. Joshua doesn't know the ins and outs of surgery - bullet wounds, perhaps, this Daniel knows from experience, but he knows that Joshua can follow directions. So he allows the former Legate to assist; nodding to a pair of gloves. "Ligation? Remove the weak spot and try to reconstruct?" He offers. Reluctantly. The Dead Horse has been under aesthetic for too long and Daniel knows it. "Though with an aneurysm that large, there won't be enough tissue left to repair the artery." He examines the incision anew. "Joshua?"

"Holding steady at one hundred ten beats per minute." The Legate nods, hands pressed against the Dead Horses' neck. "Have a little faith, Daniel. You'll do fine."

"It's not my welfare I'm particularly bothered about."

Daniel just about manages to sound humoured, a small strained smile twitching at his lips. He's not in a good enough condition to be operating - his nose is still hurting, though he's no longer bleeding and there is a reassuringly overall lack of sand, but the adrenaline from today's firefight has faded. That's a trek across Zion, a firefight and add that to the other two operations before this, so he's just too tired. Oh, he's alert, but the sickening feeling of fatigue and the burn behind his eyes is more than enough evidence that he's going to crash at some point, and soon. He should stop. He should, but that nagging question keeps on hammering in the back of his mind.

If he leaves it until tomorrow, will this tribal here be waiting for him?

The missionary takes the required instruments. Then, he spits it out before he can summon up the required reluctance. "Did you have a word?"

Joshua makes a noise of non-committal affirmative, leaning forwards to guide Daniel's hand a little further towards the left. "She's a good neighbour." He states and nods, but there's something else. Daniel knows; he's familiar with Joshua's brand of silences and this is a tense one. They work for a few minutes before the former Legate finally speaks again.

"Caesar is dead."

Daniel actually stops working to snap his head up, both of his hands are held at chest height and he frowns. It takes a few seconds for him to catch up, but when he does, all Daniel can really do is make a noise. Really, he doesn't know what to say. They've been through enough - too much, in Joshua's case, that simply talking about it seems to... undervalue the situation, in a way. Not just that, but Daniel has been very careful over the course of this half decade not to mention Caesar, or the Legion full stop. Not many people in New Canaan were willing to completely let it go, but he guesses, Adam never had that capacity to grudge and Daniel has never been too keen on jamming the stick where it hurts. He doesn't want to hurt anyone, not again - and certainly not now. Something about Caesar rankles Joshua in a way that is unexpected, unforeseen, in a way as opposed to the obvious.

So Daniel lets him speak his piece. In a way, the familiarity is soothing. He used to do similar things as a missionary.

"I have to admit, even after having a think, it's hard to believe." Daniel gives him a glance as Joshua frowns into the incision, while the younger missionary works on removing the aneurysm. It's getting harder - tenser, and not just the operation. "That even after all he did to me, all he tried to do to find and erase me from this world, he went first."

Daniel exhales. It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend. He frowns, who had said that? He can't remember.

"What do you think about that?" He asks, tossing a bloodied cloth into the bowl situated towards his right and grabs are spare towel, which goes over his shoulder.

"No doubt this will be good for the Mojave. I can only hope Arizona and the tribes don't suffer as the Legion falls apart around them."

Daniel examines the man before him, brow lowering. "You're not happy about it."

"Happy?" Joshua tilts his head, voice dropping into that pre-warning drawl.

"Poor choice of words, but you get what I mean."

A period of silence again.

"I don't know, yet." The former legate admits, eventually.

But Daniel understands, even if it is only in theory. "It's okay, you know." The Missionary gives him a significant glance. "Not too. The Lord reveals all in good time, hm?" Grabbing a fresh scalpel with the required blade, Daniel prepares himself for the hard part. "Once we clamp it'll be against the clock." He grimaces as he works, hands moving systemically in an order he finds predictable, if somewhat uncomfortable. Joshua meanwhile, watches intently, ready to jump in if it became necessary. Though if he was being completely honest with himself, the Malpais Legate knew he wouldn't expect to do so. The boy was capable. Young, yes – generally conflicted and nervous, but he had talent and a state of kind of focus that he's never really seen on someone his age. Perhaps if Mordecai hadn't coddled him so much, he'd be a little more up for it. Joshua doesn't know. He was gone for a very long time indeed. Frowning into the man's chest, Daniel leans forwards to see more closely, brow puckered in concentration.

This time, the noise he makes is defiantly one of frustration.

"Shredding like paper." He hisses.

"One forty per minute." Joshua glances up at him and Daniel curses under his breath.

"Right. Give me some of that rubber tubing – then... I, no, no – They'll be not point doing so from the outside, it won't hold. Support the inner side of the artery while I work around it." They do just that, but after a few seconds, a dab from the towel to soak up the excess blood and they both realise that it's going to be harder than first thought. The usually calm, soft spoken missionary breaks as he looks into the incision again. "Dammit-... there's nothing to work with here!"

The positions reverse so quickly that it's alarming.

"Keep it cool, Daniel and take it slow." Joshua gives him a glance.

"Slow and we'll be burying him before the hour is through." Daniel grunts. Though he pushes on with the faint reassurance. "Right now... remove the tubing. I'll close the hole behind it." He looks up, they lock gazes. "Ready?"

"Ready."

"One... two...-"

They suddenly scramble to stop the bleeding, slamming a towel over the artery as it spews blood out from the cut. There's a bead of sweat forming against his temple and it slides downwards over the side of his face to rest against his jaw, drawing to an inevitable halt when it meets the edge of his mask. The towel meanwhile, just keeps on soaking crimson.

»«○»V«○»«

When Anthony finds them, he knows immediately. There's just some things, as a New Canaanite, that he picks up faster than others and after everything, he knows White Legs when he sees it.

It wouldn't be much longer before they notice him however, this much Anthony knows. So he picks out a spot along the higher section of the mountainside. A safe, sturdy spot that looks over them and he slides along towards the edge of his stomach. Just like before, but this time, Anthony is going to take vengeance. He's going to. No more running. No more hiding. He grits his teeth in pent up anger, setting his rifle under him and pressing the backside up against his shoulder.

And this is anger. Anthony knows, because he likes to think he understands.

Daniel personally believes that there is a severe difference between being angry and being mad. It's a sentiment that he's been brought up with. Being mad is easy and this Anthony also knows, because he's lost count of the times his beloved big brother has come storming into his bedroom yelling about the fact that there's footprints all over the carpet, or that he's let Adam blow a hole the size of a basketball in the back door. It's the kind of mad where Anthony can give him a funny yet disappointed look and call him a hypocrite, because it was actually Daniel who had taught the trooper how to make pip-bombs in the first place and when he was Adam's age, he blew up the toilet in the back of the church by "accident". It's one of those things that will blow over.

Anger is a different thing altogether. Anger is the stuff grudges are made of, so full of white hot rage that if you touched it, you could die from burning - or something along stupid little metaphorical lines. Regardless. Real anger never goes away. It's the kind of emotion that just sticks. Remains in your veins and won't ever come out unless you really, really want it to. Unless you really try. Daniel gets it sometimes and honestly, it scares Anthony because in this instance, he doesn't know why; he just turns up and one in a while it'll be all over his face, boiling and bristling, ready to burn.

Most people don't realise, because Daniel doesn't exactly hit out at people like most others do when they're angry, but Anthony just gets these things.

So he knows that, right here, right now, he's angry.

There's five of them. Five White Legs, all surrounding a makeshift encampment. He can see the bodies from here. Keeping an eye on them, Anthony aims towards the White Leg situated well behind the others - a scout, perhaps, or just someone tasked with keeping a lookout from the rear. He adjusts his position for the wind speed, the inevitable drag and the approximate distance on instinct, his right eye squeezing shut as he looks down his rifle's sights. The four in the middle seem to be following the orders of the biggest in the group, likely some form of leader. Big man. The tribal markings give him away, as does the firearm on his back. Anthony isn't sure - looks like a semi-automatic from his perceptive. A far better weapon than the throwing spears and the half broken.45s the rest of them are using.

Anthony smiles. With his teeth. A twitchy pleased grin from under his scarf.

The leading tribesmen ambles along the pathway firmly, shoulders swaying. The second and third are left covering him, in some sense. The fourth is situated between the one lagging behind and the trio of White Legs at the front. All of them are dressed in their typical garbs, but only their leader seems to be actually protected. He can see the faint glimmer of the protective plates from here. Looks pre-war.

A headshot for him then. It would be simple. Easy. He can line up that shot pretty quickly and then move onto the others. He already knew that, but it's nice he supposes, to reconsider now and again. To evaluate his options.

Then, they stop. Or at least, the three up front do. One of them appears to be grabbing at their lower left calf. Voices become louder, seemingly frustrated. Anthony doesn't care; a distraction is excellent. The mantra runs its course as his shoulder shifted against the butt of his rifle, his finger curling around the trigger.

Anthony had come to rely on rifles. Whatever currency he happened to have earned since finishing his time as a missionary went on either two things; his armour, or his rifles. Food was easy to find – a good hunter can always be fed well in numerous places, if they knew where to look. As for medical supplies; most pre-war buildings had their fair share of secrets.

As a direct result, his rifle was, compared to the usual wastelander's standard, rather front running. Nothing fancy or rare; a standard marksman's rifle, though with the pricey addition of a silencer. He hadn't bought this weapon; he'd found it broken then proceeded to pay separate traders over the course of a few years to get it fixed. Now it was in reasonable condition: thoroughly oiled and looked after. The lock moved smoothly, giving off a dull click when pushed. The handle fitted comfortably into his hand and its shank was well polished. The weapon gave off a feeling of reliability and encouraged calmness and confidence. While it was compatible with a selection of 5.56mm rounds, Anthony tried not to stray from his personal choice of armour piercing variety when he could help it. For everything else, there were either surplus, which he bought in magazine bulks, or there were his far more reliable.45.

The canyon wall behind the group of White Legs is sprayed red as the first of the 5.56mms hits home. Shattering the Tribal's skull wide open in a gruesome show of semi-liquids. The man at the back only had a flimsy sports helmet. With a loud crack, it's practically wasted.

For a simple second, none of them notice and Anthony just manages to get the leader in his sights when there is a reaction. It's a noise of alarm, barely even a shout. Confusion.

Even better.

He catches the leader between the collar bone and the jaw, the bullet cutting through the man's throat and likely catching on the vertebra. The splatter covers the right forearm of the tribal standing next to him. Suffice to say, that is enough to grab the attention of all of them immediately, shouting and moving for their weapons. As it turns out, the one with the blood splatter has a sub-machine gun of vague make, but Anthony simply works around this development then rather opting to change his plan.

Another tribal comes running across the expanse of the camp, one Anthony hadn't seen before.

He drops them before the others can even register their presence.

Tossing his rifle aside, Anthony rolls out of the way as the bullets slam into the wall just above him in retaliation. Drawing his .45, he scrambles into another half crouch, but this time dashes across the expanse of the ledge and jump drops down to their level. He's too quick for the lesser trained tribal, but one of the men tracks him smoothly, firing out a single shot and catching him in the upper shoulder. Anthony would yell, gritting his teeth with a frustrated snarl, because hell – it does hurt. Not much, but enough. Yet because he practically lands on one of the tribals below him, he doesn't have the concentration span to focus on anything but finding cover. He's too preoccupied with grabbing the struggling tribal and slamming his forehead into them, stunning long enough to drag them before him as a crude form of human shield.

Bullets hammer into the ground before them and Anthony half jerks backwards, raising his handgun and firing a shot off, though not at the tribal armed with the machine gun – instead, at the White Leg running at him with some form of blade - it was burning, attached to some form of fuel canister.

The distance is too close for comfort. By the time Anthony has managed to squeeze a shot off, clean through the front of the skull, they collapse and land just within arm's reach.

A couple of bullets hammer into the front of the tribal – the man buckles and gurgles, but then, then comes the barely audible click of the tribal's magazine running dry and pushing the White Leg away from him, Anthony sends a bullet straight into his neck, before going after the one with the machine gun. The remaining tribal can't get their magazine in fast enough, so they discard it, running at Anthony.

They met with heavy impact. The tribal's hard, compact ribs slammed up against Anthony's face, but since his coat was drawn right against his chest, the tribal couldn't get a good hold of the fabric and his hands slipped. Anthony slid away, being the shorter one, he grabbed the tribal's hair and pulled, bringing their face down onto his knee. Blood flowed, but he did not allow them to stagger backwards. Instead, he kept his grip and drug them down, onto the ground and just hammered into them. Their eyes meet for a second. Only a second. Anthony brings his foot backwards and kicks the tribal as hard as he can in the ribs. Once, twice. Their arms go to protect them. Anthony walks around and goes for their back.

His mother and father would not approve of harming an opponent when they're down.

Anthony kicks them in the back of the head. Get up. He thinks. Go on, I dare you.

Daniel wouldn't approve.

But Anthony doesn't care. Daniel's not here. Not now.

Another kick to the back of the neck and they uncurl; he goes for the stomach. God, what the heck are you doing? Some sane part of him exclaims, somewhere, but he just keeps on going. Another kick. Then another, and another. This time he hits them in the face. Blood springs from their already busted nose and over their face. Another boot to the mouth then. Another kick in the chest.

The tribal isn't groaning anymore. There's nothing. Anthony just sort of stands there, watching as blood trickles down their face. Twitching. Fuming.

God, what the heck is he doing?

»«○»V«○»«

He's scrubbing himself down when Joshua comes back with a fresh over shirt. The bloody one has been taken away to be washed. It leaves Daniel stood before a canister of water, watching as ripples widen upwards and sideways towards the edges. It's at that perfect hot-but-not-quite-uncomfortable temperature, and he's glad. Excessively hot water is harder on the skin and is uncomfortable to wash with for the recommended amount of time.

Though he has yet to actually put his hands in the water. Daniel grimaces. Slightly.

Come on. Put your hands in the water.

It takes a long time to heat this much to this temperature. Get on with it.

The body has been taken away by this point. It's nowhere near him, but Daniel can't help it. He's still picturing it in his mind. For Daniel, blood was no more interesting than any other mess that needed cleaning. Every day, it tended to coat his sterile gloves and sometimes, if he's not careful, a spurt would catch against his shirt, or his forearms, but he neither noticed nor cared for its smell. It was so ubiquitous and to him, no more significant than the smell of abraxo that was ever-present.

But today, this time, it got to him. He doesn't know why.

"Daniel."

He jerks himself out of his reverie, grabbing the antimicrobial soap with a loud grunt. First he started cleaning the subungual areas with the nail file, more out of practice than necessity, then he started timing. Scrubbing each side of each finger, between them, the back and front of the hands for two minutes. Simple. Scrubbing the arms comes next, always – always keeping the hand higher than the arm at all times. Stops bacteria-laden soap and water from contaminating his now as-of-currently clean hands. Each side of the arm three inches above the elbow. That went on for three minutes.

Daniel was careful. Repeating the process on the other hand and arm, keeping hands above the elbows. Just like he was taught. Just like was required. He knows, because Matthews has hammered it into his head since day one; if the hand touches anything accept the brush at any time, the scrub must be lengthened by one minute for the area that has been contaminated.

The tribals usually find this amusing. Finding the intense need for cleanliness and strict obedience to be somewhat strange.

But when it came to scrubbing off, Daniel felt complied to do it properly. It distressed him otherwise, quite frankly, to go around touching things and people when he knows for a definite fact that he's not completely washed down.

He begins to finish up, washing off his hands and arms by passing them through the water in one direction only – again, rules. From the fingertips to the elbow. He knows better than to move his arm back and forth through the water; he tips the smaller bowl of cold water over his arms instead.

"Must be pretty rough."

Daniel jumps when he hears Jessica; she's stood off towards his far right, just out of his peripheral, so he hadn't seen her approach. He half turns to see her and she's holding something vaguely familiar in one hand. She follows his gaze and brings it upwards, smirking slightly, though the expression is somewhat subdued. "Graham mentioned that you liked to play." She offers, giving him a fairly unreadable, searching look. "Not many people in the Wasteland do."

The missionary gestures towards the table offset to one side of the cave. He eyes the shirt Joshua had chosen out and he half groans. He doesn't like wearing darker shirts, not really. "The only thing to do back in New Canaan." He grabs it anyway.

"Huh."

She sets out the chessboard for him; Daniel's too busy... thinking, but he isn't, so he can't really call it that. He wonders. Thinking without thinking. He's not sure what to call it. He's at white though and that makes him happier, almost.

There's a moment, tense, where they size one another up. Daniel wonders, if this comes back to what he's heard. About the calculative little courier Anthony warned him about. Wits verses experience, then, he hopes; Daniel's been playing before he could even read. He moves his first pawn to e4.

"How's your nose?" She asks then and he grunts under his breath.

"Sore - what about your leg?" He replies with a faint frown and she makes a noise.

"Better, thanks to you - though the limp is sending me insane, you know. It's... distracting."

Another pause, heavy silence fills the space they sit.

"Where'd you learn to play?" He asks, trying to be polite as she sucks in a slow, uneven breath, moving her last third up two squares. Daniel responds immediately by jumping a knight to f3. Already, he thinks he knows where this game is going.

She laughs.

"House." He doesn't know what to think about that. It's only when he bloods the board - pawn to pawn - that she notes. "It wasn't your fault, you know."

Daniel doesn't really know what to say now. The death of a patient is a harsh reality with what he does. Learning to deal with and knowing what to expect was - is - a necessary part of the job and as Matthews had stressed, critical to your own well-being. Daniel tries, of course, put's his trust in the Lord and consider the idea, but as a compassionate professional, he's used to expecting such an outcome, but rarely actually prepared to deal with their demise.

And when they're not patients...

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Daniel responds by taking the pawn with his knight.

Jessica hums under her breath. "It happens."

"I know."

"Joshua had me convinced you were going to have a breakdown." There is an edge to her tone, a reckless cynicism to it. It's Daniel's turn to set his mouth into a thin line, as she pushes another pawn to e6. "Should I be worried?"

"No." He assures, simply - because it's true. He advances his second knight. "I'll be fine." Black queen to c7. Daniel breaths in.

But it's her that drawls, "Got any advice for travelling around Zion?"

Not exactly, he wants to say, but he jumps his second last pawn up a square. "So you're... going?"

Jessica nods. "I've had a word with my friend. We both agree; we need to give a helping hand." Again, Daniel doesn't know if he should be glad or just plain suspicious, but he keeps it to himself. In any sense, this is good, for all of them.

Her second black knight moves up to f6.

Daniel advances a knight boldly up, almost to the black ranks of pieces, to threaten her Queen. "You have my thanks."

Jessica's eyebrows arch slightly and she moves her queen back a square. "It's okay." She mutters. "Really."

Daniel makes a mental note to talk to Joshua about it, even as he moves a bishop forward to f4. "Good luck then." A black knight jumps to e5, in retaliation, Daniel pushes his other bishop to e2 and his nod is slow, neat. "By the time you get back, I'll be in the narrows. Lots of preparation to do." She gives him a look, but nods all the same. They play the rest of the match in silence, quick and brutal and in the end Daniel ends up winning, with a Queen sacrifice; he sweeps all of her pawns from the board but all for her king and queen. Jessica smiles, then shakes her head.

"It's good to play someone who actually cares."