Snow sauntered the ground in front of Claire as she sat on her home's porch, watching the cracked and worn road in front of her. It wasn't a day with anything particularly interesting; the newsboy from Redding had run by earlier spreading the daily political intrigue from within the NCR, but Claire had long-since lost interest in such things. It was always her wife that was far more interested in it, and the only person that she could truthfully listen to ramble on about it for hours on end. A stream of political names and titles, all paling in comparison to hearing that gruff tone in her partner's voice, and the passion she had for a nation that Claire could've lived with or without. But, when one marries an officer of the NCR, it's expected that work might be brought home with them, and Claire certainly loved her all the same for it.

She almost missed it the lonelier she got. It'd been a good ten months since she'd last heard from Henrietta, sent off on some secret assignment from the top brass of the NCR that her own wife wasn't privy to. Not that Claire was particularly spiteful, of course, she knew it was people doing their jobs and maintaining "national security", but it didn't stop the boredom of being left to do nothing but tend house all day to their small homestead just outside of Redding. The ranchers from around kept her company some days, and she often spent time watching them work the Jamison ranch, but the density of snow in the past three months had made it a hassle to do even that. Snow! If someone had told Claire it would, or even could, snow, she may have prepared better. But it seemed no-one had been ready for such weather; another unfortunate side-effect of the radioactive aftermath their generation had inherited. Apparently it was all radiated alike water; but infrequent doses of Rad-X and Radaway made for some pleasant times for the few children that lived up north.

At least it made the days peaceful, and the raiders were far too lazy to make their way to Claire's neck of the woods being so close to the ranches. Claire was anything but a rancher; fairly lithe and well-dressed in the warmth of her yellow knit dress and sweater. Her ebony hair was pixie-cut like a pre-war magazine model, complimenting her darker skin quite well, and often lended to a rather demeaning set of comments from some of the ranchers. Not that she paid them any mind given her relationship with an NCR captain she knew, damn well, could tear them a new one if she wanted. Certainly though, she seemed out of place for her appointed home, and had long-yearned for a fitting home in Reno or Vault City by the time she turned twenty-nine the next year.

Dreams made from bored thoughts on lonely days.

She'd cleaned her modest home twice that week already. Not that she was getting many visitors, but it still kept her mind from wandering and worrying over her wife so far away. Now she vested herself in the crumbling road ahead of her, remnants of an old-world neighborhood supporting the mining industry that no longer held any sway over their culture. It was fine enough, and perhaps was any rancher's dream, but for Claire? It felt less homely day in and day out.

Her thoughts wander again, over making a trek to her nearest neighbor or attempting to radio in with the NCR recruiting office in Redding proper for a whereabouts on her partner, but her prayers for boredom seem to be answered with the soft crunching of snow from that very direction. The short woman pops herself up from her wicker chair almost immediately, glad for visitors, and catches their visage as they mournfully approach her home; two NCR troopers, both men, finely put together in dress attire. The pair looked as if they were carrying the world on their backs, and judging by the glances they managed to cast in Claire's direction, she could've mistaken they very well were. But Claire wasn't that naive, and she knew damn well that look. The very same that her father had held in his eyes when her mother passed, years ago.

"Mrs Toussaint?" The left one asks, the taller man with a gravelly voice. His compatriot stands dead-silent, with pity in his amber eyes that said far more than Claire truthfully wanted to hear.

Her hands raise to her chest, and Claire nervously swallows. "...yes? Can I help you two?"

"My name is Corporal Jamison. I… served under your partner for the last ten months." The man managed a kind enough smile, incredibly strained as it was. "And a damn honor it was too. I'd never met anyone quite so patriotic to her nation as her."

The other man hesitated a moment, but lacked any such smile with his words. "She was quiet about her personal life, but whenever she did mention you, we could kind of tell she was proud. Not that she wasn't always so proud, but still."

"Mmm." Jamison side-eyed the other man for a moment, before darting his attention back to Claire. The small-talk hadn't settled her at all, and the man seemed to tell of her worries judging on her stance alone while she took a single step closer to the edge of the porch. "I'm sure we don't have to tell you how much your wife loved her country. And more-so, loved you, even in spite of the side-eyes she'd get from our… less progressive soldiers. You were a shining beacon in her life."

Her heart began to race. Were? Loved? Her worries grew more justified the more the two men attempted to soothe her with praise on her wife, and her face dropped further. Already her throat felt dry and her eyes watered, but the woman kept her face up easily enough. Maybe it wasn't bad news. It couldn't be.

"...that being said…" Jamison continues, and plucks something from under his arm; a uniform alongside an NCR flag, and a small box atop those. Gently, as if he were handling jewelry, he offers them up towards Claire. "...Captain Toussaint passed away a week ago, in the line of duty. She's believed to have been executed by raiders protecting a civilian homestead at the northern borders, just north of Abbey. She died with honor and dignity, though the NCR was unable to recover her body from their lands as of yet. She's believed to have been buried somewhere in the area, and we're doing all we can to find her body."

"We're sorry for your loss." The second man adds, almost as an afterthought.

But Claire had disassociated the moment her wife was proclaimed dead. Surely this was some kind of sick, cruel joke? She prayed it was, she begged silently that the pair would burst out laughing and pull away the uniform at the last moment, or realize they'd made a horrible mistake and moved away. Hell, she desperately wanted the pair as far away as possible at that very moment, to put a mountain or three between them. But there was no 'gotcha' moment, nothing to tell her this was a nightmare. Just the insultingly pitiful stares of two soldiers she'd never seen in her life, claiming they'd known her wife as a great woman. Telling her she died with honor, as if that took from the fact that her wife was dead. Her breathing grew shaky, and her vision blurred as the first vestiges of tears trailed down her cheeks without her even realizing. She tried so damn hard to keep her face neutral, and that was all falling apart– just as her life seemed to be with every passing moment.

She didn't even seem to realize how much time passed, only snapping back to attention as Jamison calls out to her. "...ma'am? The NCR has resources for widows and widowers. Psychologists, support groups, there's one up in Redding that might be able to assist you with what you're going through. None of us could imagine how this feels."

Claire just wanted to scream. She wanted to scream and cuss her lungs out at these two men and their pity, all of which meant little now that her wife was gone. A woman she'd been married to for ten years, and known for ten more before that, whisked from her life without warning, and these two had the absolute gall to pity her? It took every bit of her not to, but her composure broke, bit by bit. Her hands unlock from her chest, and tentatively reach out for her partner's belongings; so little to remember her by. There wasn't even a body. How insulting.

"If… you would like…" Jamison continues, his compatriot failing to find the words. "...we can stay a while, and you can vent to us? I'm sure you must have–"

"Please leave." Claire cut him off immediately, without even looking him in the eye. The man seemed stumped by the sudden interjection, a concealed hatred in her voice, but all the same composed himself as professionally as he possibly could. His hands slid behind his back, and he dipped his head respectfully to the trembling woman. Anger and grief, both compiled into one pitiful soul.

"Of course, Mrs Toussaint. If… well, if you should need help, we're a call away from Redding. We'd be glad to take some leave and keep you company, or… or anything we can do."

He raised his head briefly, like he was going to say something else– but nothing came to the man's mind that could possibly make the situation better. Instead, he quietly turned away with a nod to his compatriot, who lingered a gaze on Claire herself for a moment longer.

"...you've a very nice home, Mrs Toussaint." The second man mentions, soft-spoken as he was. "We'll contact you as soon as we recover his body."

And like that, the pair of them meander away the same way they'd come– towards Redding proper, following their own tracks east. Claire was truly, and frightfully, alone now. The snow continued to lightly trail down, flecks of it caught on the belongings in her arms, and soon mixed with the droplets of tears she left upon them from above. She was struggling not to collapse, not to give up, or just to run in one direction until she didn't have to think on this topic anymore. However, she did let herself do one thing; and that was sob. The moment the pair were out of sight, her cries finally echoed through her porch, down to the street, and her crying had earnestly begun as the sensation of being a widow had finally sunk in. Moments passed, minutes even, just letting that frustration out in terrible, anguished cries. She was alone, and no amount of her sorrow could well and truly fix that.

Eventually, she gathers some strength; enough to swallow back a sob at the very least. Enough to choke back her horror, and enough to realize that she'd been on this porch for far too long. Her gaze darted up for a moment, before she stumbled her way to the porch seat that'd been a point of bored comfort just minutes ago. Now every part of this home screamed at her about her deceased partner, reminding her of her loss. All the memories they'd made, all tainted in the blink of an eye, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

She glazed her attention over the belongings in her arms, gently setting them in her lap as if they might've disappeared the moment she let go. They didn't, of course, and her fingers pluck at each piece. The NCR flag did her no favors; her nation had gotten Henrietta killed, and she promptly tossed that piece of cloth to the side, into the snow below her porch. The uniform had been washed; was it even hers'? They never found the body, after all. It didn't have her smell, and they'd looked like they'd never been worn before. Worthless as well, but all the same she set the clothes back in her lap. The thing that caught her attention the most, through the lingering tears and sniveling, was a metal lockbox about the size of a shoebox. She didn't recognize it, but given the thing was unlocked, Claire hesitantly pulled the box open to see what contents had been left by her wife. The very last things that could remind her of her.

The first things she's greeted to are familiar; a small crossword booklet, a common hobby her wife partook in, and one of Claire's necklaces that she'd given Henrietta when she'd left ten months back. 'Come back to me,' she remembered telling the woman. What a load of hock that was. The woman plucked the belongings out and gently set them against the uniform, only to be greeted with a memory of all things; a photo of her and Henrietta from just before her wife had left, with herself wrapped around her partner's arm in front of a general store in Redding. Henrietta was an army girl from the start; tall and stocky, hair plucked into a tight pony-tail and with a proud look in her eyes. Oh, how stupid Claire thought she looked, so proud of her partner's promotion. She should have thought better.

She barely realized how long she'd spent peering into the photo, hypnotizing herself with thoughts of what she could've, should've, done. It's only when her peripheral caught the remainders of the box did she finally look away at its shocking containment. A custom-action revolver sat within, Henrietta's personal weapon, with all the personalization she'd had it customized with in Redding. Had she ever used this thing? Had she ever been allowed to? Her hands don't graze the gun itself, but instead, the piece of paper that sat just over it. A note, she came to realize , as she unfolds it to the familiar hand-writing of her partner. Was it a will? She didn't know if she had the guts to read a will right now. But, in spite of herself, she took a deep breath before proceeding to scour it.

Dearest Claire, my beloved,

If you are reading this, my mission was a failure, and I have fallen in my duties. You always said I was too passionate for my work, and I suppose you were right. I always hated how right you were. As I write this, I prepare myself for an operation against a prolific bounty hunter that the NCR has placed out a warrant for, located just two miles north-east of Abbey. I've no telling whether I'll succeed, but if you get this message, I haven't.

Bounty hunters, Claire thought, didn't the soldiers say it was raiders?

My wife, I love you with all my heart, and I want nothing more than your safety. But these are bad men and women, and there is a reason I include their coordinates in this note. This group deserves no mercy, and I ask one thing of you now that I'm dead, Claire.

Trevor. Jamie. Elle. Gregory. Daniel. It's up to you to get these five. I've taught you how to use a gun, and now I need you to do it for me. And for the greater good. That anger, that sadness, you're building up? Let it consume them, and not you.

Find these five.

Make them pay.

Claire stared at the note in disbelief. She even re-read it again and again, unsure if she was missing something. She felt her heart race, she felt her emotions swell. It was an anger she'd never felt before, not when her mother died, not when she'd been forcefully relocated, not to anyone in her life. Those last words seemed to swirl around her mind.

Make them pay.

Part of her was telling her to calm herself. To not give into this anger within her. When had she ever actually been in proper combat? If these people had killed her wife, what chance did she stand?

Make them pay.

Her hand began to tremble. Not with solemness, no, with anger and fire. She still cried terribly, but these tears were born of fury over sadness. Looking at the gun, her mind had been made up from the beginning, and Claire was nothing if not a stubborn woman. She had a location, she had names. And now, she had a single-minded desire, hot enough to melt all the snow that had fallen in the past couple of months.

Trevor. Jamie. Elle. Gregory. Daniel.

Make. Them. Pay.