"It's just a year, baby girl. Promise."

Claire stared her partner down from the porch, her hands balled up tightly at her sides and her legs refusing to step off onto the cracked sidewalk. Her home was safety in this trying time as Henrietta broke her the exact same promise as last time – she said her last tour was it. And now she wanted to go on another? They were supposed to find work in the brahmin ranches.

"You said that last time."

Her voice was curt and pouty, and she couldn't hide the hurt in her tone. Hurt that her wife was heading off to war again in spite of her pleas and promises, that she had to spend another year wondering if she was dead between letters. It was clear Henrietta had gotten the memo, that this wasn't some reluctant approval, but full-on frustration at the fact that she was doing this once more. The taller woman sighed, peering down at her pristine uniform. It'd taken years to get that Captain's badge. She couldn't let it go to waste.

"I know. I know. But the NCR needs me, and the mission's a bump in pay, it's only a week away to travel–"

" I need you."

Those words stop Henrietta in her tracks. She tried to garner her partner's attention, but her deep blues just couldn't lock onto the pouty woman's eyes whatsoever. A rough sigh left her, but one of affectionate worry.

"...my baby girl. C'mere."

Henrietta's arms extended, and that smooth tone never ceased to pull Claire's attention in turn. Her eyes shot up towards the Captain, the moisture clearly visible, and she took a moment to decide whether to give in. It was the same tone she'd fallen for all those years ago, when the pair were teenagers making the dumbest of decisions together. How dare she use it then, when Claire was mad at her? Glancing left and right, like someone was watching her in the act of giving in, Claire descends from the porch and towards Henrietta's open arms. She was only so strong without her wife.

As she approaches, one of those arms slink down and around the small of her back to tug the smaller Claire in, earning a soft squeak. Henrietta's grip was sure and affirming, and she had a certain strength that weakened Claire's will and made her feel oh-so-safe. The other hand slipped up and rested a finger under Claire's chin, perking her attention up to meet Henrietta's own just inches away. A musky scent Claire was familiar with invaded her mind, and soon she found herself easing into that demanding embrace, though her pout was still in effect.

"I can't not do this. You know I love you, and I will never change my mind on that." Henrietta explained in a firm, soft tone. "But they came to me on this, and I want to make this nation safer for you, and for every other family that lives here. Someone has to."

Claire remained silent for a moment. "...does it have to be you?"

"It does." Henrietta assured, with that easy smile that only Claire had ever seen. "And that's an honor to me, you know? And to you. Think about it; your wife, the war hero, taking your fine ass to every senator's soiree on this side of the Republic."

That phrase made Claire roll her eyes; doubly so as her wife's hand accentuates 'fine ass' by sliding down and firmly squeezing. But Claire certainly couldn't hide her exasperated smile at her wife's antics all the same, some color touching her dark cheeks as it remained in place.

"I'll be back. I always do come back, don't I?" Henrietta then assured.

"You promise?"

That thumb slides up over Claire's chin, and gently traces along her lower lip. Affection filled Henrietta's eyes, like she was preventing herself from kissing Claire by keeping that calloused digit against that shy pillow.

"I promise."

Though their kiss seemed inevitable, Henrietta's eyes widened a little in some surprise. She peeled a few inches back from Claire's face, and eyes the overcast sky above them– much to the shorter woman's dismay. Though eventually, even Claire's gaze is pulled upwards when something touches her forehead. Then another 'something', and another after that. Her eyes widened in wonder, her lips parting into an amazed smile as whitish particles danced down from the clouds above them. Something Claire had never seen before in anything other than old-world postcards.

"Huh." Henrietta grunted softly, amazed. "...it's snowing."

"A cloudy day out in the be-a-utiful Abbey folks, that was Dean Martin's 'Let It Snow, Let It Snow'- and, uh, I forget the rest of the chorus!"

Claire forcefully awoke from her deep sleep, shooting up like a gunshot had just echoed throughout the air. Her hands gripped the edges of whatever bed she so suddenly found herself transported to, sweat dripping down her brow and her teeth gritted tightly. She could feel her heart trying to leap out of her chest, but beat back that feeling as best she could as she attempted to get to grips with this reality she found herself in again.

"Da-da-da-da! News Time with Neddy coming up, folks, so don't switch that dial. You wouldn't do that to little ol' me, would ya'?"

Her gaze trailed around the room in a slow, surveying manner; it wasn't much to speak of. The walls of a dilapidated, if partially renovated, pre-war building boxed her in, though a single grey door led out a few feet in front of her. Aside the bed, the only other piece of furniture seemed to be that rectangular radio lightly playing on a side-table, relaying the dulcet tones of an elderly man on the other end. The dim glow of the middle dial was a good focal point for Claire to focus on as her blurry vision adjusted.

"Reports from the concerned citizens of Abbey say another child has gone missing from their home as of last evening. Kelly Evermet, barely eleven years old, told her distressed mom she was visiting the ol' monastery to take out a couple of books at the monk's permission. She reportedly made it to our town's beloved monastery, but never reported home! This follows a string of over a dozen different disappearances within the last ten months– I'm sure I don't need to fixate on such a horrendous rate these kidnappings are happening."

Blinking tightly, Claire huffs softly as she pulled her attention away from the speaker beside her and toward the roof above. The paint had all been chipped away, and yet the roof itself still held firm from collapsing after all this time. Claire didn't think they were renovating buildings this far north; she'd assumed most of the resources were poured into that monastery the town was founded around.

'The world in your palms, free of jurisdiction.' That's what the tourists who came through Redding would tell her, trying to coax her into visiting a glorified library. In truth, she'd held some interest the more her personal collection of textbooks and literature dwindled. Her boredom often faded away when she taught herself new things after all, as far back as a travelling tribal from Arroyo teaching her how to read as payment for a room to rent during her wife's first tour. But the chance had never really struck her, as unadventurous as she was.

"In response, Lieutenant O'Neil of the *remaining* NCR troopers, that haven't jumped town yet, had this to say."

A stern, young-sounding woman spoke after.

"Citizens of Abbey, we've placed every available resource on finding these children. Unfortunately, it isn't the only problem our officers see at the moment, and joins a cavalcade of other issues we're solving. Our recommendation is to keep your children close, and report any suspicious activity to Fort Morales. We'll get these bastards in due-time."

Well, the place was doing far worse than Redding, she could tell that much. And she thought the Van Graffs were bad neighbors.

"Enlightening, spoken like a true patriotic shill. Our team also asked about the recent short-staffing of the NCR troopers in Abbey, but was only told a situation developing in the newfound Mojave front had called for most of the workforce. Sad news when our alleged protectors can't even afford to keep their own people, folks, but hey, that's life. And speaking of; here's my pal' Frankie Si', singing a lil' tune to that very name."

A hand raised and smudged out the tiredness in her eyes, though it did little to tide the migrain still pounding away inside her head. The music filling the air certainly didn't help, and Claire gently reached over and flicked the radio off as she braved sitting herself up– and what a job she did. A quiet grunt escaped her lips as she sat up, her hand sliding to the side of her head as some support for the incessant throbbing. She had to see where she'd ended up– a doctor's office? A hotel? She certainly wasn't in that makeshift encampment, that was for sure.

After a moment of wallowing in her own pain, her legs slip to the side and hang off the side of the bed. It took a couple of scooches, but her feet rested flat against the ground, her boots removed at some point during her unconsciousness. Did the gang do this? Where the hell were they? A hand jolted for her waistband but her pistol no-longer remained, causing a harsh jolt of panic to run through her mind.

Had she lost it? More likely it'd been stolen by the gang she'd gone after after being shot out of her hand, though thankfully no lingering pain made itself known to her palm. As carefully as she can, she bops her fist a couple of times against the side of her head, chiding herself for being so foolish and headstrong. So much anger had blinded her to her own logic, and now she was paying for it in force.

She leveraged herself up from the bed gradually, finding herself able to easily walk in her state. A few steps are tested initially while she makes way for the door, so close to the bed.

With a twist of the handle, it unlatches from the frame and swings in towards Claire. The main room sat just outside her temporary bed, far more well-lit with how the curtains had been parted. Even on this terribly down-trodden day, with the sky an unsure shade of whitish-grey, the room seemed to invite her far more than the darkness of sleep. With a couple more blinks, she traced her gaze around the living room– though it may have been far more apt to call it a headquarters with how it'd been dressed. A red sofa sat plain as day in front of an honest-to-God working T.V set, something Claire had assumed businesses and the rich had a monopoly on alone. But no, surrounding the luxury were a smorgasbord of tables housing disassembled guns, cans of food, pieces of scrap, and other miscellaneous supplies that made Claire think she'd stumbled into an old-world bunker.

Or a lunatics house, considering the rather sizable cork board stood plain as day amongst it all. Photos and names, passages from newspapers and hand-written notes. She certainly recognised a couple of the faces from the gang, but the rest?

A casual rustling drew her attention suddenly, and she shot her gaze towards an open archway, to a compact kitchen behind the board. Her emergence had been heard, and an unkempt man of average stature stepped out of the cookery to greet her. He must've been a lot older than Claire, fifty or fifty-five, with a piercing stare that would've made her run were she not so disoriented still. His calloused hands dug a spoon into a small helping of pork and beans as he eyed the woman in the doorway. She felt like an invader, in spite of just waking up there.

In the end, he let go of the spoon and flicked a two-fingered salute toward Claire as he chewed. "Ma'am. Was wondering when you'd get up, thought I'd have to bury you."

His laugh matched his voice, tainted by years of smoking, but brought no amusement to Claire as she curtly asked, "Who are you? Why am I–" A step was taken back, a slight defensiveness set up. "-you're not kidnapping me, are you?"

"Ma'am, if I was holding you hostage, I doubt you'd be asking that question." A shrug. "Assuming you weren't stupid, anyways. You'd be surprised how often I get that when someone's bound to a radiator."

The man weaved between the clutter, and offered out that tanned hand towards Claire politely.

"John Reeves, pleasure to make your acquaintance."

It's hesitant, but eventually Claire's own hand slid over and shook his. Though, it was firm and friendly on his end, at the very least.

"...Claire Toussaint. I might hold my delight at being here until I figure out where…" As her hand pulled away, she transferred a gesture around the room. "... here is."

"Casa del Reeves, Claire," he succinctly replied, an ease to his tone that helped Claire adjust. A little bit, at the very least. "Otherwise known as homebase, death-city, or the seediest spot that doesn't film porn in the city." He set the can down on a table of scrap parts. "Yet, anyways, but there's still plenty of time to venture out."

"Uh…huh." Claire slowly nodded. "And why am I waking up in 'Casa del Reeves', exactly?"

"Probably because the alternative was a gutter, little lady," John snorted, using his thumb to wipe at his brow. "Saw Elle and Trevor dump you just outside Yellow-Home, and besides doing my duty in not letting an out-of-towner get robbed and raped by the kind folks here, I was fair interested in the why of it."

"Mmm." Claire sighed softly. "Well, I guess that tracks. Thanks. I'd gone up to kill them, but… well, you can see how well that went."

The man snorted again as he leaned against one of the tables, propping himself back on his hands. "You serious?"

"Unfortunately." Claire subtly smiled in spite of herself, though only for a second.

"Shit, man, you got some guts. Not a lot of luck, but guts. Especially dressed like you are. Let me guess; tried to sneak in as a run-away?"

"...that would've been smarter," she admitted, "No, I walked right up, and attempted to shoot one of them."

Now that made the man cackle, and a glance is cast over Claire for a moment. Just when she thought he'd stop, another burst of laughter leaves him at the prospect.

"It's not that funny," Claire insisted softly, resting her hands on her hips.

"Naw, it's real funny. No plan, no skill, you just waltzing up to the most notorious gunslinger this side of the NCR? That's stupid."

"Yeah." Claire conceded.

"Mhm. But, hell, you're alive Claire, and that's all you can ask for. What's your story with them, anyways?"

A shake of her head, and Claire took another step away and towards the cork-board standing so proudly amidst the mess. It was a complete clutter of its own, though the faces of two of the gang she'd met sat in the middle of it all. She recognised one as the man that'd shot her gun shaking hands with an unseen individual, and another as Trevor, an arm wrapped around a girl's waist. With them, a third photo taken from afar– a woman with a buzzed tuft of hair and a dour look on her face, repairing a rifle at a bench. All named.

Daniel. Trevor. Elle.

"They killed my wife," Claire eventually admitted, though her voice was quiet and solemn as she eyed a cacophony of figures on the board. It was tough to hide the anger hidden in her tone, or prevent herself from choking on each unbelievable word. "She was stationed here, killed a couple of weeks ago. Or… just over, I guess."

"Ah, that's how I knew the name!" John snapped his fingers. "Toussaint, like that Captain! Shit, she was your wife? Tough break."

The look Claire gave him was sharper than any knife the man could dream of, and he immediately swallowed his words with an apology.

"Sorry, sorry, I just meant she was a, eh, driven lady."

"You knew her?"

"I handed in a couple of bounties, sure." He shrugged. "Wouldn't say I knew her better than any other NCR goon–" Catching himself, he quickly corrected to, "-soldier. All business, which I can respect if she didn't deduct so much for dead bounties. But, you know, sure she had plenty to love."

Claire glanced towards the board again, "I suppose that explains all… this. You've been hunting them too?"

"Mhm. NCR's got a lot of cash riding on them. And I mean a lot . Daniel there was a former state-sanctioned bounty-hunter that slaughtered a town out east, some place by the name of Susan's Village. Pretty big scandal."

"Why'd they do that?"

The man shrugged, drawing his attention towards the board as well. "No idea. Town nearly got a seat on the senate too, when Daniel and his people rolled in and just wiped the lot of them off the map. I don't really care about the why, towns get raided all the time. Just the luck of the draw."

A rectangular piece of newspaper proudly proclaimed of such an event on the board, drawing Claire's eye in the process.

'Susan's Village burned! Fledgling town left in ruins!'

"The Shady Report lists Susan's Village as the newest casualty in the NCR's war against banditry! Sources nearby claim that a former bounty hunter by the name of Daniel Ildris and his gang rounded up the townsfolk into the square, where-upon an outside viewer recounts that he ordered his people to 'Light them up, and burn the bodies after.' What followed was a brutal massacre a twenty-six (26) year old unnamed woman remarked as the most horrible massacre she'd ever seen. The town, hosting a modest population of three hundred (300) people, was set to join the New California Republic Senate with the introduction of Senator Johanne Pollock to represent."

"I'm sorry about your wife, by the way," John interjected, though with a rather casual flair. "But Daniel's one of the fiercest people in Nevada, if not the fiercest. They wrote a novel on him a couple of years back after he killed his way through half an NCR bounty list on his lonesome."

"So what happened to him?" Claire's attention sprung back towards John.

"Wish I knew. The guy got me into bounty hunting just from those stories, but maybe it was a job gone wrong. Though I'd hate to ask what the job actually was." The man shook his head, pushing himself from the table. "He came up this way after the NCR transferred a bunch of troops from Abbey down towards the Mojave. Law hasn't been able to do anything about him because the town people love him."

"After what happened at Susan's Village?" She asked, confusion tainting her tone.

"Mrs. Toussaint, this isn't exactly a reputable place. Having a hardened criminal scaring away competition and overeager law helps. Gang's pretty much got freedom in the place– NCR flag only means anything to Fort Morales. Aren't too many bounty hunters going after them either because of their reputation."

Claire's eyes drew to the floor for some quiet contemplation, just for a few seconds. One arm crossed under her chest, while her other hand tapped her chin with a finger. Her resolution to hunt these gangers down hadn't faded with time, it only burned brighter the more she learned about them. How many other women had they left widowed, the five of them?

"...let me help you." Claire demanded softly, her gaze shooting back up as Daniel approached her side. "We're going after them, aren't we? I don't even need any of the cash, I just want to make them pay."

His grin said it all; John offered out a hand, "I was hoping you'd say that. You got fire in you, that's for sure. I reckon I could teach you a thing or two, and we go a-hunting. How's that sound?"

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," he affirmed.

Claire stared at his hand for a time, outstretched and waiting for a deal to be made. It almost felt like she was selling away her soul, though her mind constantly flashed back to that note her wife had left her. The demand for vengeance against these five, vengeance Claire couldn't get properly without some sort of support. So, in spite of herself, she pressed her palm to his and shook– just the same as they had minutes ago upon meeting.

"Then congrats' on being the Co' in Reeves and Co'," he snickered, slipping his hand away. "We'll make a hero of you yet."