[blessed are ye, when men shall hate you, and when they shall separate you from their company, and shall reproach you, and cast out your name as evil, for the Son of man's sake.]

luke 6:22

HIS LAUGHTER MADE HER SMILE. It reminded her of Pacer, oddly enough. Deep and hearty, their laughter was. It'd be a lie to say it didn't give her an ego boost anytime she'd made Pacer and The King laugh at that tiny table in that large and empty room. They were both like these giants in Freeside, untouchable. And they were sharing shots with her and swapping war stories. Not literal ones but you get the point. She supposed she had become a sort of giant there as well. It was odd, every time one of those pomade-reeking kids came running up to her with some gift, it almost made her feel invincible. Like even if she died today, her name lived on. Courier Joan, the mean son of a bitch who changed Freeside for the better. But some deeper part of her knew that wasn't true, that she was probably upping her importance to herself to make herself feel better.

But it didn't feel made up when she watched Follows-Chalk cling to her every word, beg her for more stories. The way he looked at her like she'd reached up and hung the moon in front of his eyes. It was like nothing she'd seen before. Even her husband hadn't looked at her like that so to say that she wanted to keep Follows-Chalk by her side every minute would be an understatement. Part of her really hoped he came back to Vegas with her. She'd love to see his face when he saw the lights, the Strip for the first time. She'd probably have to promise Joshua that she wouldn't take him into any casinos, but she might slip him into The Tops. She definitely couldn't bring him into Gomorrah. Jesus, imagine that. The bandaged man would probably hunt her down and set her head on a spike if she did that. But it was funny to picture this young man seeing the strippers in the cages above the casino. He'd probably clutch his hat and avert his gaze.

"And they just... flew away in - what did you call them?"

"Rockets." She smiled, her hand mimicking a rocket launching into the sky. "Yeah, they just flew away. Never heard a crash and I haven't seen 'em since so who knows." Shrugging her shoulders, she climbed over a large rock leading up to a log cabin. She hoped that wherever the Bright disciples, or followers or whatever they called themselves, were that they were happy and doing better. Hell, maybe they really had gotten to the Far Beyond. Maybe they were right. "They called it the Far Beyond. Pretty name, ya ask me. Pretty idea, too."

"Hoy, you have seen some strange things, Joan." He shook his head, laughing to himself as they neared the cabin. It sounded odd, someone calling her name without any... disdain. Without sounding like they needed to spit out the bad taste it left. It put a smile on her face. Maybe it was a sign from Joshua's god that she wasn't a completely awful person. And that made her wonder what forgiveness felt like. If it was warm and washed over you like some backwoods baptism. Or if it was cold and icy, refreshing you into a new life. She wouldn't know - she really doubted her ex-husband would forgive her for leaving like she did. And she wouldn't blame him one bit. Because she didn't deserve forgiveness. Not from anyone. Not from the Fiends she'd ruthlessly put down. Not from Julie Farkas after her outburst. And certainly not from her ex-husband. But when she looked up at Follows-Chalk, his bright smile on her as he waved her to follow, she wondered if that was what forgiveness felt like.

The cabin they entered was small, only big enough for a handful of people at a time. A shelf sat in the middle of the building, broken planks and ruined items littered the weakened wooden floors. Dead mantises were scattered along the floor, by the counter and by the back office door. "Alright, we're looking for some small lunch boxes. Should have, like, a little blond mascot on it." She told Follows-Chalk as she neared the counter. The young man made his way deeper into the cabin in search of the lunch boxes.

Her entire body was beginning to grow sore and slow. It was almost embarrassing how much she felt her age now. Her back began to ache and her joints began to creak and pop with every swift movement. Everything in her was screaming to retire, take her caps and settle down in the presidential suite of the Lucky 38, maybe become an unseen hermit like Mr. House. But that wasn't in her nature, she didn't think it ever would be. Settling down somewhere didn't fit into her weary bones. The idea of staying in one place until the day she died almost made her skin crawl. Made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Rubbing her face, she crouched behind the counter and began digging underneath the broken shelf.

Footsteps from outside the front door caught her attention. Her body froze as she slowly peeked over the counter to see the door being slowly pushed open. It wasn't a Dead Horse, that's for sure. This place was taboo to them. Most would probably rather run into a White Leg camp with no weapons and no armor than come inside here. Her eyes widened as a White Leg scout stepped inside. Slowly pulling out Maria, she readied herself with a silent breath. Nearing the edge of the counter, she could see Follows-Chalk hiding behind the wall of the back office, his club at the ready. The nearly silent footsteps neared her, rounding the corner of the counter. Her movements were quick, nearly natural. The gun fired, the bullet cut through the scout's head, scattering viscera and gore along the ceiling and wall. The other scouts quickly jumped into battle, two ganging up on her, unaware of Follows-Chalk's presence. That was how she liked it. Let her take the beating, as long as he could back her up. She was older than the young man, could probably take a heavier beating than him too. But two on one was a difficult fight. Especially when she noticed one ignoring the fight to continue looking through the cabin for others. Smart one.

One of the scouts grabbed her right arm as she pulled the trigger, the bullet hitting the ceiling. She grunted as she struggled to pull her arm from his grasp. The other slammed his club into her side, knocking her over. Her gun fell to the floor with a clatter, just out of reach. Of fucking course, she thought to herself. She felt like she was in one of those Old World action movies. But these weren't actors, and this wasn't a movie. There was no one on the side waiting to yell 'cut' and end the faux fighting. This was her or them. And while she had one foot already in the grave, she was particularly fond of breathing. One of the scouts climbed on top of her, his hands clenched around her throat. The other watched with a wicked smile. He didn't even need to help his friend, the man on top of her had this in the bag. Her arms flailed, her hands slapping his arms and neck in vain attempts to get him off. Even her nails digging into his cheek did little to release his grip. Dark spots began filling her vision as she felt her body growing weaker. This was not how she planned on going out. Her mind drifted back to Arcade and Boone and poor Rex. That poor dog would probably sulk back to the King, whining as he waited for her to come back. All Cass did was complain about how much Rex would whine when Joan was gone. She could already picture him now, waiting patiently by the doors of the elevator for her to waltz on up and scratch his chin and call him the greatest boy to walk the earth. This was not where she was meant to die; I mean, survive a bullet to the head, trek all the way through the Mojave to find Benny, then not kill him out of some semblance of kindness, only to be strangled by some nobody White Leg? No, fuck that.

Her left hand began slapping his face harder, her nails digging into his skin. As he grunted in pain, her index finger slipped into his mouth. His teeth bit down... hard. A sickening crack was followed by a tear. His hands let go of her neck as he pulled back, ripping her finger off along the way. She screamed in pain, tears immediately flooding her eyes. Her thigh jerked up, knocking him to the side. Before his friend could react, she slid back, grabbing her gun and splattered his brains along the ceiling above them, right next to his other friend from before. The man that had bit off her finger grabbed his club and was nearing her now. But her gun was faster. His brains decorated the wall behind his body. With heavy breathing, her head rested against the wooden floor. Pain coursed through her body, adrenaline now wearing off. Her hand was white hot with anguish. Her face scrunched up as she grabbed a roll of bandages from the shelf to her right. Unraveling it, she began wrapping the fresh stump that was once her left index finger. This fucking sucked. But at least it was her left. Imagine learning how to shoot all over again. Would've been bad timing, to say the least.

As she finished wrapping up her hand, her mind snapped back to her companion. She hadn't heard any struggle in the back office. But, then again, she'd been a little preoccupied herself. "Follows-Chalk? You there?" She attempted to push herself up, but her vision instantly grew blurry. Her balance betrayed her, sending her back to the floor. Rest, her body screamed at her. We've just had our fucking finger bitten off, her mind shouted. But her heavy eyes stared at the door to the back office, praying to Joshua's god that the young man was okay. And she almost sung the being's praises when Follows-Chalk stumbled out of the room none the worse for wear. There was a cut above his eyebrow, but from where she was lying, she couldn't see anything deeper. He said something to her, approached her, but her vision was blurring more before it finally blackened completely.

"Joanie?" Diego called out, his eyebrows furrowing deeply. She'd always loved that concentrated look on his face, the way his eyebrows knit together, or his lips thinned out into a tight line, or the rare occasion he unconsciously stuck out his tongue. It always reminded her of how passionate he was. Because he'd looked that concentrated when she accidentally walked in on him making her engagement ring. He'd always been good with crafts, whether that be welding, woodwork, arts, anything. If it required a creative brain, he was a prodigy at it. It sometimes made her feel inferior to him. Because she wasn't good at any of that. She wasn't good with words or with crafts or even with guns. She was just good at walking. Sure, she could handle her own - the courier business was a risky one. But she'd never been exceptional with a gun. Not like Harkness at Rivet City, not like the caravan guards she'd crossed paths with near Megaton. She just wasn't like anyone else, because she wasn't really good at anything. Anyone could be a courier, anyone with two legs and a sense of direction. You didn't even really need to talk to people. Just hand them the letter or package or whatever and be on your merry way. They normally didn't ask too many questions. But Diego... he was the brains of the relationship. Maybe even the brawn. She was fine with being the legs. "Joanie... I'm sure we could talk to Church or maybe even see Preston at Rivet City. We don't have to go through with this."

Her eyes stared ahead as she frowned deeply. It was clear he had been searching for the right words to say. He'd always wanted a family. She, however... Her memories of family were faint but miserable. Her father who was never home, shot to hell by some group of raiders. Her mother who had to work at the local bar selling her body just to keep their stomachs from eating themselves. Her two older brothers who pinched and pulled at every inch of her exposed skin. It was terrible and she couldn't wait to get out of there. And now... to have her own child. To fill her mother's footsteps. That was a fate worse than death. She couldn't do it... right? It was almost laughable, the idea of her holding a baby. The idea of her caring for that child everyday for however long they needed it. She finally forced her eyes to look up at Diego. "I don't want to be my mother." She whispered. Tears filled her eyes as his arms enveloped her into a tight hug. He consoled her, promised her she would never turn out like that miserable old hag, but his words felt hesitant. Maybe it was just her, but even a part of him didn't believe his own words. Her own arms wrapped around him as she cried into his shoulder. "I want to keep it." She mumbled against his shoulder. Fuck her mother. Fuck her father. And fuck her brothers. She'd show them. This kid would be a big middle finger to them all. Show them all that she could do it, that she could create life and keep it happy and healthy. She'd show them all.

The crackling of a fire woke her up. Her entire body ached. Her neck stung and her hand pulsed with pain. This was probably the worst she'd ever felt in recent memory. If she kept up like this, she wasn't sure how much more she could handle. The cabin was filled with darkness, aside from the small fire that her and Follows-Chalk lied next to. He was fast asleep, his back facing her. Her eyes scanned the cabin, noticing a chair and a shelf propped up against the front door. She looked around, willing her eyes to adjust. The blood and viscera remained on the ceiling and walls, grounding clues to ensure that she hadn't dreamed any of it. But the bodies were gone. Follows-Chalk must have taken them out, she thought. Maybe he set them up outside of the cabin to scare off any other White Legs that might venture too close to the building while they were asleep. Or maybe he threw them out back. She wasn't sure she cared enough to even ask in the morning.

When her eyes finally adjusted to the darkness around them, she could see small cuts along Follows-Chalk's back, all surrounded one long gash. Dried blood covered the sides, attempting to scab over. Didn't need stitches, that's good, she thought to herself. Pushing herself up, she grabbed her backpack and began rooting around for her first aid kit. It was a beaten old thing but it was reliable. Doc Mitchell had given it to her after she returned the third time, told her she'd put it to better use than he. Pulling out the gauze and alcohol, she scooted across the floor to where Follows-Chalk slept. Her hand gently shook his shoulder, waking him. "What's going on? More White Legs?" He asked, his voice slurred with exhaustion.

"Should get that gash on your back cleaned." She whispered, motioning for him to turn around. The young man simply nodded, sitting up and facing away from her to let her get a good look at his back. She winced at how jagged it was, how brutal it looked. She wondered how they'd done it. Did they knock him over and slice his back? How had he gotten the upper hand after that? She let her curiosities remain in her mind, not wanting to dredge up anything from the day before. Perhaps it was best left in the past. But part of her wondered if he'd ever seen as much violence as he had traveling with her. She seemed to be a magnet for it all. A giant neon sign hung above her head, begging for others to try and get the jump on her. It hadn't worked for Benny, and it won't work for anyone else.

Soaking the cloth in alcohol, she gently pressed it to his wound. She could see the muscles of his back tense up under the sting. Mumbling an apology, she began pressing it to different spots of the wound, making sure to cover every inch of it. The last thing she needed was it getting infected and knocking them down for a week or so. She wasn't sure how good their medicine was, seeing as their leader was a prodigy in praying over the wound and leaving it in God's hands. Shaking her head, she almost sighed. This wasn't the time to be thinking about the bandaged man and everything that irritated her about him. There were times where she'd have dreams of strangling him, getting the jump on him while she slept in that cave. Her hands would slip around his neck and her grip would tighten. Sometimes the bandages would come loose and expose his scarred skin. He would never fight her, just stare at her with those cold eyes that she was sure had seen atrocities that she could never imagine, atrocities of his own creation. But as she would tighten her squeeze, the face would change in a blink of an eye. His face had changed into her own, her own eyes stared up at her, bloodshot and beginning to bulge. It was around then that she'd wake up.

With a soft sigh, she finished blotting Follows-Chalk's gash. "Let me grab a bandage." She mumbled as she fished out another roll of gauze out from the backpack. Wrapping it around his back, she muttered apologies the few times the young man winced under her touch. When she finished, she reclaimed her spot at the fire, throwing all of her things back in her backpack. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Follows-Chalk staring at her backpack. A small smile grew on her lips. "Everything alright?"

"Can I see what is in your bag?" He asked, motioning towards the backpack. His curiosity ate away at him, as it always did.

With a chuckle, she dumped out her backpack in between them. Grabbing the water-stained book, she held it up. "This is a book my friend back in the Mojave gave me for my birthday. It's about these cowboys trying to survive as the times begin to leave them behind. Society progressing past the need for them and all." He nodded, taking the book as she handed it to him. His eyes ran along the brown cover with a cow skull pressed onto it. His fingers brushed against the frayed corners. Next to him, she pulled out the platinum coin that he'd seen the other day. "This is a casino chip. I got shot over it." The way his eyes widened did not go missed by her. "I was carrying it in a package and got jumped by some guys. They took me to this small town cemetery, shot me in the head, and left me. Apparently, it's a pretty big deal. Lot of important people want it." Shrugging her shoulders, she held it out to Follows-Chalk. His fingers held it up to the light, smiling as it glinted in the firelight. It was difficult to imagine something so small being so important. Important enough to try to kill her over. He couldn't imagine wanting anything so badly that he'd hurt someone for it.

Her hand wrapped around the lighter, the engraving of a pin-up woman in a bikini stared back at her. Clenching her jaw, she wanted to throw the lighter across the room. Chuck it out a window and never see it again. But she just couldn't. The lighter almost felt important, like she needed it. Like it needed her. With a frown, she stuffed the lighter back into her backpack, unable to describe it to Follows-Chalk. So she left it in her bag, watched Follows-Chalk continue to look through the other things in her bag. She wasn't sure why he'd been so curious about her bag, nothing too important resided in there. And it wasn't like she acted like there was anything important inside.

Her eyes landed on her left hand, the blood-soaked bandage wrapped around the stump of her index finger. A frown grows on her lips as she just stares down at it. It was almost like she could still feel it. Like if she tried hard enough, it would appear and start moving. But that never happened. With a deep sigh, she let her eyes fall shut, heavy with exhaustion. Looking up at the boarded up window, she could see it was still night outside. They'd leave in the morning, she told herself as she lied down on the floor. In the morning, maybe she'd feel better.