The gash throbbed with each movement, her muscles strained under the weight of the journey, but there was no turning back now. She gritted her teeth, swallowing the scream that rose in her throat. She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep pushing. Every step felt like it was tearing the last thread of energy from her body.
"Hey!" she called the tribal who was getting more distant from her. She couldn't disguise her exhaustion and she frantically tried to find Med-x. "I need to stop."
He sprinted to her. "No! No stopping now. White Legs may lurk behind these rocks and trees. Big geckos and yao guai roam this area, too. It will take some time for the scouts to get into these areas, so we must move quickly."
She cursed under her breath and growled. "What the hell's a yao guai?"
As he tried to help her stand, his eyes flicked to her injuries, finally registering the severity. "Oh, I'm sorry I didn't realize you were really hurt. I'll help you, but we have to be fast." He carried all her load without taking her SMG, put her arm around his shoulders, and walked.
Both of them saw something as they advanced farther. "Freeze. Don't move a muscle," he warned. "Yao Guai," he whispered and crouched, prompting her to do the same, but she did it later and slower. The roar echoed and rumbled the ground. It sounded like a deathclaw up close. Her heart raced and she faintly felt the tribal's too. The beast threw a gecko carcass near them. The world seemed to stretch into endless silence. Then, his voice broke through. "Hoo! That was some kind of lucky. Yao guai are plenty mean as a rule."
She forced herself to walk. Whenever she moved forward, it felt like dragging her bones through fire. Stimpaks had numbed the edges of the pain, but deep inside, the wounds still screamed for attention. "Need to stop. Now." She panted through her teeth.
"No, we can't. It's too dangerous for us both."
"Can't walk." Her voice thick with frustration. At least let me stop and take my chems." She pulled herself away from the tribal's arm and fumbled to get a vial of Med-x. Before she could reach the tribal lifted her to his back. She winced, a sharp whimper escaping her lips as his body pressed against her injuries.
"I'll carry you until we reach the river."
"River? There's a river?" She heard him huff in response. "Hey, let me just take my chems and I'll walk on my own."
"Don't worry, I've carried half a large bighorner before. Why don't you tell me your stories in the civilized lands?" She told the tribal he shouldn't waste his energy talking, but he didn't listen. "Joshua keeps saying it isn't paradise out there, but how can it not be, compared to this?"
His remark dazed her. She would've loved to trade places with him, without having to take a side or the need to bring the best solution that advantage many people. New Vegas might be a crown jewel in the Mojave, or at least Mr. House wanted everybody to think that, but it didn't compare to this wonder. The tribal mentioned Joshua Graham and his similar view about the Mojave. She couldn't help but ask, "Why is Joshua Graham here?"
"He's been the chief of our tribe since he came back to the Valley. He went off to the civilized world years ago, to fight a war. That didn't go well." She hummed, knowing this story well from the stories she had heard from Hanlon, Jed, and Ulysses. She asked him if the war was the one in Hoover Dam. "I don't know, he doesn't talk about it much. Maybe." He went quiet for a moment. "How can two civilized tribes fight over something as small as a dam?"
If she could laugh, she would, but she ached everywhere. "You just haven't seen Hoover Dam. It's bigger than some of these mountains."
He snickered. "Really?" When she told him how big it was, comparing the dam with the closest ravine she could spot that time, he stopped briefly. "My gods." He swooned. "Must be some mighty civilized folks who built that."
"It's not that impressive if you keep looking at it. Much like how you're used to the view here. Besides, you should know that 'civilized' folks fight over the smallest things."
"Now you sound like Joshua. Always tells me the tribal life is better and I should forget about the civilized lands." Going back to Joshua again, she asked him what he had done for his tribe. "We would have died if it hadn't been for Joshua. Him and his Caesar."
Her eyes widened. Caesar? Hard C? Was this tribe involved with him? She asked him about it.
"When Joshua first came to us, he was servant to a man he called Caesar. He led his master's armies, and we were ready to follow him into war. Then he lost his master's army to a tribe called En-see-yar. When he returned, he was burned, broken, but changed. He led us away from Caesar, led us to our own destiny in Zion."
"So now he teaches you all how to defend yourself?"
He nodded. "He showed us how Caesar would have destroyed us."
"What was he like before he became the lega—before he became Caesar's servant?"
He shook his head. "I was very young, so I remember only a little. He was harder, crueler, and more driven. I was terrified of him. We all were. But when he came back, he was humbler. I almost didn't believe he was the same man."
The tribal's words echoed in her mind as she absorbed another story of Joshua Graham. She felt a flicker of understanding—some things, no matter how big or small, could change a person entirely. She had seen it in Hanlon, Dr. Mobius, Benny, and Ulysses. Some changes came as a result of circumstances; others, by choice. Somehow, she was glad to hear that Joshua Graham hadn't become the Dead Horses' leader with a concealed agenda. She would have fled to the East Coast before enduring another Legion-like ruler.
She bit down on her lip, her breath hitching as he adjusted her weight. The sudden pressure on her side sent a wave of fire through her body, and a yelp escaped her lips. He apologized, explaining that his grip had gotten weaker. He asked again about the Mojave. She told him about the NCR—not just a tribe but a fledgling republic—and went on to describe the tribes around the Strip and Freeside, even telling him about the White Glove Society. His surprise was clear when she mentioned their cannibalistic practices, though he still seemed intrigued by the wildness of it all.
"I think I could fit in with the Chairmen. Do you think I'd make a good member?"
"The Kings might suit you better," she replied with a small smile.
"The Kings? Wow... Are they really kings? And you told me you were his girlfriend? A consort? Does that mean you're also a queen?"
"No, no. That's just the name of the tribe. There's only one chief there. And no, I'm not a queen. We were only together for a while."
"Huh, so Caesar is not the only great ruler in the civilized lands? So what's his name?"
"...Well, The King."
The conversation halted when she saw heads on pikes; heads of White Legs. The gruesome display struck her like a fist to the gut—pikes bearing severed heads, the grim trophies of fallen White Legs. The air around them felt charged with the clinging stench of death. Just when she got an impression that Joshua Graham had become a good-natured man, what she saw at that moment felt very raider-like. She thought perhaps the Legion mindset in him hadn't faded away entirely, but she also considered that this was somehow better than seeing people suffering and dying by crucifixion—she even pitied the powder gangers that ended up in such fates in Nipton.
Noticing the quietness, the tribal said, "Shamans say our enemies' soul are trapped in the dead sentries, but Joshua says it shows we're serious about fighting White Legs."
"I take it your main purpose now is to fight them all?"
"Well yes, because they're our enemies. They take our land, they kill our scouts, they poach our hunting grounds, what else would we do? Also, they been raiding deeper into Zion ever since New Canaan was wiped out."
"Hang on a sec." Her voice wavered as she processed the tribal's words. "New Canaan was wiped out?" Her gut twisted. She hadn't realized Ulysses had gone that far. She'd thought he only asked the White Legs to cripple the New Canaanites' livelihood—not obliterate them.
"That's what Joshua said," he replied solemnly. "White Legs came down from Great Salt Lake in force—fell on New Canaan before they could mount a defence. He found some of the survivors led by a man named Daniel. He stayed on with the Sorrows tribe now."
She let the name linger. Daniel and the Sorrows, another tribe here. She thought that maybe Daniel could guide her back into the Mojave instead.
"He and Joshua have been arguing over whether to stand and fight the White Legs or take the Sorrows and the Dead Horses out of the valley."
"Not again," she muttered under her breath, her frustration boiling over.
The tribal slowed, glancing back. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing. Just... drop it."
They passed a small, dilapidated shack with a rusted sign that read 'Zion National Park.' Handprints marked the walls, recent and deliberate. The pathway ahead sloped steeply, and by the time they reached the river, her body screamed in protest. The tribal carefully let her down, stretching with a relieved sigh.
"We only need to go north. Hope you don't mind getting wet."
"I don't, but my body does."
The river's icy grip seared her wounds, and she twisted her face in pain, pulling Med-X from her pack. Before she could administer it, a sharp tug at her waist sent her yelping. The tribal flipped her onto her back, dragging her away from the edge.
"For crying—"
"It's still not safe here, we have no time to stay around," he snapped. "I'll drag you if I must."
The cold burned her wounds as the water lapped at her skin, each movement intensifying the sting. "No, no, no! Stop it!" Her voice cracked, but the tribal didn't relent.
"Stop. It hurts!" Her desperation grew, and she finally broke free, glaring at him.
"Varoom? I meant no offence!"
"Shut it!" She bit her lip, raised her shivering hand on his face and took deep breaths. "Please—just carry my stuff instead. And please don't let it get wet. I'll swim on my own."
Reluctantly, the tribal carried her belongings, and she snuck a Stimpak, jabbing it near the gash on her arm. The water burned against her wounds as she waded forward. When they reached the lake, the rain poured in sheets, chilling her further. A tribal camp came into view.
"Here we are! Joshua's just ahead there, in the Angel Cave," the tribal shouted over the storm. She nodded weakly, summoning the last of her strength to swim ashore.
She collapsed by the cave entrance, her vision swimming, the world spinning around her as she fought to stay awake. Her body felt heavy, and she could barely register the sound of the tribal shouting and running toward her before everything began to fade. She clawed at the clasp of her belt pouch, spilling its contents onto the ground as she fumbled for the Med-x, but her body betrayed her.
"Med-x... Stimpaks... need them..." Her voice barely a whisper.
Voices surrounded her. Hands touched her cheeks, shook her shoulders, but it was no use. She bit down on her lip, willing herself to stay conscious, but the darkness crept closer with every breath. She managed to lift her head briefly, catching a glimpse of a figure—a man wrapped in bandages by her side—before the void swallowed her whole.
Warmth blanketed her body as she started to regain consciousness, finding herself wearing only a tank and shorts. Rhythmic clanks and rattles of what sounded like weapons woke her up. When she sat up to wipe the sleep off her eyes and looked around, the sounds stopped. She heard footsteps coming from her back. She turned around, expecting the tribal, but found the bandaged man instead. She jerked back and he stopped moving too. "I'm sorry," she said, attempting to relax her shoulders and fully faced the man.
His eyes met hers—piercing sky blue. The rest of his face was hidden beneath layers of bandages, making him look more like a ghost than a man. Still, there was a quiet intensity in his gaze. His exposed skin looked almost that of a marked man's, just less fleshy and not as blood-red. Her skin prickled, the cold of the cave creeping into her bones, and she fought the urge to look away.
What would he do if he knew the truth? Her breath caught in her throat, and she clenched her fists, trying to hold herself together.
The man in front of her was both familiar and alien. He carried the weight of his past like a shadow that clung to his every movement. The stories she'd heard about him—the merciless Legate, the right hand of Caesar—were hard to reconcile with the figure before her. The harshness of those stories seemed so distant now, as if they belonged to another lifetime, another world. However, there was something in the way he moved, something that made her remember the terror that had followed his footsteps.
He stood still, a bowl in his hand. She thought he might be unsure of how to act, maybe worried he would scare her.
"Are you Joshua Graham?"
He didn't answer and started to walk again and then sat in front of her. "Is everything alright?" He asked. She nodded, forcing a response. "Thank the Lord." He reached for crates beside her and handed her a shirt and trousers. "Yes I am. We're waiting for your clothes and gears to fully dry out, so wear these in the meantime. The Dead Horses have salvaged these for you. I do hope they fit."
She couldn't tell if he was smiling, but she saw his eye relax and the gauze around his lips moved. "Thank you," she said, her voice just a little hesitant. "You can call me Six."
"We should have given you a better welcome on your first visit to Zion, but from what I hear, the White Legs beat us to it." He gave her the bowl. The smell of warm broth greeted her. She thanked him and immediately sipped it. "White Legs seem to be the only visitors we have these days, and I wouldn't have expected anyone from the Mojave to come looking for us. And you're a courier, no less. Not the one I was expecting, but I suppose he wouldn't have come with a caravan."
She nearly choked. Ulysses? Was he expecting him? What would he do to Ulysses? What would he do to me?
"I don't know if you were close to the other members of your group, but you have my sympathy. I pray for the safety of all good people who come to Zion, even Gentiles. But we can't expect God to do all the work," he went on.
She fell silent, unwilling to reveal anything more of herself. She kept her gaze fixed on the empty bowl, clutching it tight, determined not to let him see her trembling hands.
"We can help you find your way back. Daniel, one of the other New Canaanites, has made many maps of the region. But—" He stopped. She didn't realize she was gripping the bowl so tightly. He slid closer, his hand resting on her shoulder. She froze, forcing herself not to recoil. "I'm sorry to say that with everything that's going on right now, we can't help you," he said softly.
He was no doubt a hair-raising figure—one look at him, at the things he had done, would send most people running. Yet now, in this moment, she sensed only gentleness. She wondered how someone who had survived such torment could still radiate such a calm, reassuring presence.
Realizing she had been staring into his eyes for far too long, she quickly lowered her head. "That's okay. I... I'm not going to leave without offering to help."
"You have my thanks." He rose. "In darkness of times, we can turn to the Lord. But it's good to have friends." He gave what might have been a smile and walked toward a table scattered with pistols—similar to the one the tribal with the cap had used. He moved with practiced ease, tending to each weapon with a quiet reverence that drew her attention.
"What kind of pistols are those?" she asked, unable to tear her eyes away from his careful work.
"A type of .45 automatic pistol. Designed by one of my tribe almost four hundred years ago. It's more than just a weapon; it's a reminder of who we were... and what we've become"
"You seem to be really competent in handling them."
"Learning its use is a New Canaanite rite of passage, and I have years—decades of dealing with it."
She finished dressing and walked closer, her eyes scanning the pistols. "I've never seen anything like these before. They're impressive." She hesitated for a moment before asking, "May I hold one?" He nodded, handing her a weapon with an ease that matched his calm demeanour.
As she examined it, he explained the types of ammo she could craft, telling her about the super hand-load ammo that made the pistol a powerful companion in combat. She admitted she preferred stealth, and he offered to craft a silencer at a reasonable price.
Her mind wrestled with the image of Joshua Graham she had pieced together from stories—the burned man, the warrior, the ruthless leader. Now, it felt distant and incomplete in the face of the man before her.
She had always pictured him as a towering figure, his voice booming commands as enemies fell to his wrath. Yet here he was, calmly mending weapons with meticulous care, his every movement deliberate and controlled. She hadn't expected this—this calm, collected man who still carried the weight of a painful history. The warrior was still there, but he wasn't the same man who had carved his legend out of bloodshed and survival. Is this the same person who once reigned over the Mojave with Caesar? What changed him?
Her eyes caught on a smaller pistol with an engraving placed around the pile. She glanced at his belt and shoes, noticing the same pattern of snake skin. "What does this engraving mean?" she asked, her voice a little quieter now.
"And the light shineth in darkness and the darkness comprehended it not. It's in Greek," he responded, his voice steady. "It used to be merely a sentence my tribe taught me, but after Mojave... it became one of God's reminders to me."
She hadn't expected such calm conviction from him, but there was no sense of personal revelation in his words. He hadn't shared anything truly intimate—just an expression of faith. He paused, then looked at her. "You're welcome to have a look."
She smiled faintly, shaking her head. There was no need for him to know she had spared Ulysses. What mattered now was helping the remaining New Canaanites, getting what she needed, and getting out—back to the Mojave—without having to face the man sitting before her. "So... how can I help?" She asked, putting the pistol back.
"Daniel and I needed pre-war tools. Normally, we would've some of the tribes look for them. But many pre-war buildings in the valley are taboo. They won't go inside." She asked why. "They believe in a spirit that lives in the caves, say the spirit punished them once for trespassing. So they put special marks around the cave entrances to keep people out."
"Alright, you got it."
"God be with you. Go find Follows-Chalk, the one who helped you fight White Legs. He can help you find your way around the valley and knows enough of our language to ignore the taboos."