Fallout 1. Chapter One

4/6/12 - MAJOR re-edit. Enjoy! (:

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><p>She's glad to have a simple initiative for once. Recently, things have been too complicated; have required too much thought up until this point. She prefers this slow, steady past – she finds it much easier to work with. She's always been a hardworking, steadfast young woman, but the call of the Mojave, and the call of adventure there, finally got to her. Because of her steadfast, determined nature, passing up offers (or demands) was almost impossible.<p>

She was always up for a challenge, and maybe that's one of the reasons she became a courier. It's certainly one of the reasons she helped out Goodsprings, that's for sure. That and the caps.

The low-life dynamite junkies hadn't seen what hit them. The overwhelming retaliation from the town, led by the Courier herself, had been too much. At first, Goodsprings must have seemed like a run-down oasis in the desolate landscape that was the Mojave. For the Powder Gangers, it was probably a simple mission. The wells beneath the town were filled to the brim with almost un-irradiated water, and the saloon was packed with booze. It could have been an easy target. However, they quickly realized how wrong they were...just a little too late.

The Courier had managed to strike up a few pacts with the settlers of Goodsprings. Trudy, the gun-slinging owner of the saloon, the pretty redhead "sheriff", and the crazy old man who packed his pockets with explosives had proven to be invaluable allies. The general store's owner had given her a bit of trouble, sure, but had quickly come around when a 9mm pistol was pointed at his face - she'd only succeeded in that prospect because of her amazing luck. She had never been too good at bluffs, and the pistol hadn't even been loaded, she remembers with a smirk.

As she walks along the dusty road, the Courier pushes loose hair from her face and smirks. Chet's head had been as empty as the water tower above the cemetery…as empty as the shallow grave that had been dug below it.

With the caps from the spare leather armor sets she had received from Trudy in thanks for helping protect the town, she had bought a half-decent revolver. Using the bench out back, she made a few dozen rounds of ammo, and fixed the pistol up a little. Sunny had given her all the supplies the town could manage, but Ringo refused to hand over the stockpiles he had saved up in the gas station. He explained that he worked for the Crimson Caravan, a name that was brought up repeatedly, even as she was walking out of the town.

She grits her teeth a bit, aims her revolver at the tall foothills on either side of the road. A memory, blurry from her injury, tries to surface. There's a splitting pain as she tries to bring it forward, and block of sorts forces her to let go of her attempts. She growls, almost out loud, and kicks away an empty soda bottle from the road.

At least she knows where the caravan surface is located. Ringo had been kind enough to enter a few coordinates into her Pip-Boy's map, just in case she wanted to "stop in" while she was in Vegas. Her attempts to explain that New Vegas was miles away, that she wouldn't be there overnight, and that it definitely wasn't going to be her first stop had fallen on his deaf ears. He'd said he'd see her "in a few days".

The Courier snorts, laughs while meandering down the road towards her next destination. A few days, her ass. Ringo is cute, but he's not cute enough for her to trek a straight line to New Vegas.

The southern road is quiet and she can hear the occasional rustle that she knows belongs to the geckos around the area. The small, knee-high pests aren't a huge threat to her, but she does worry about bigger, more dangerous enemies. Sunny had warned her right away that the roads directly to the north were troublesome and trying to take that road was trying even _her_ luck. The Courier had ignored her warnings, of course, and had thrown caution to the wind. Coincidentally, Victor had come to her aid a second time.

Picking up a hunk of metal from the road, the Courier throws it towards the nearest road sign. The green paint on it seems like a beacon in the darkness of the night, almost fluorescent.

She thinks back to Victor's heroic rescue, how he popped out from behind a boulder, gears whirring and built-in guns slinging. While she wasn't able to remember if she was a judgmental person, there was something that rubbed her the wrong way about Victor. He was eerie, even intimidating – fucked up like an overbearing mother. There was something threatening behind the listless, cheery tone of voice he spoke to her with, and it was unsettling.

If she was going to be completely honest with herself, it was one of the main reasons she wanted to leave Goodsprings so quickly. Other than the brooding, deranged robotic deputy, Goodsprings was a lonely place. For the two weeks she had stayed in the town, the prospect of throwing herself from the cemetery's hill into the nearest den of Radscorpions had been an interesting topic of her daydreams.

She wasn't sure how everyone could just _live_ there, day in and out. Hunting geckos and drinking until you were completely sloshed was all fun and games, but she couldn't see herself doing it daily.

It was a boring lifestyle, to be sure, and she was glad she could at least spice it up with excitement. However, soon after the adrenaline-pumping confrontation with the Powder Gangers, life in the small settlement had slumped back into the same, expected boring routine. She was sure that being a courier involved adventure, drama, and exciting shootouts. She figured that she had never been one for that slice-of-life style of living, and out of boredom, high-tailed it away without a lasting goodbye.

She marches down the maimed road, cracks veining through the ages-old concrete, she can't help but to notice the uncaring, ebbing interest of the Powder Gangers. She isn't sure how quickly news spread in the Mojave – or at least, she can't remember – but all of the ex-cons she runs into seem to enjoy drinking a little too much. While she had obliterated one of their main leaders, the Gangers just didn't seem to care. Or maybe they just didn't know.

As she walks south towards her next destination, Primm, Powder Gangers along the road, sitting in old folding chairs, stop to whistle. She smiles a bit, glad for the attention. _Hell,_ she thinks,_ let 'em enjoy themselves._ She's a lone female out on the road, and who knows how long they'd been locked up, blue-balled, in whatever NCR all-male prison? They were entitled to some cheering, flirting, and ill-intentioned stares.

However, the second they get too close, the Courier proudly displays her happy trigger finger by shooting the ground at their feet. Even if her slate has been wiped clean, there's one thing she remembers. Being a prim, proper lady in the Wasteland will only get her locked up in a slave camp, or raped until she doesn't have the will to continue. Most of the convicts don't ignore her warnings, and as she thinks about the stomach-turning image of being taken advantage of, she hopes to God they won't refuse her hints to steer clear.

She's pretty sure that most of the men don't want a kneecap bashed in with her trusty baseball bat, or a bullet lodged in their most "vital" organ.

Further along the road, she notices their numbers become scare. She begins to settle into a safe, slow meandering speed along the road without having to fire off any rounds, wondering why they refuse to show themselves out this far. As she leaps across a pit of irradiated, junky water the answer to her silent musings comes in the form of a shadow at her feet, waving in the light winds of the night.

An obnoxiously large flag sits above the destroyed ruins of a small sector of what she can only gather is Primm, her destination. With the boisterous, flippant design on the flag proclaiming the group, and the size of the banner, the Courier figures they're compensating. From the history lesson that Trudy had briefed her on, she guesses these are the most block-headed of all of the Mojave's groups.

While she's been taught about the Legion's ranks of sadistic rapists, slavers, and closet homosexuals, she knows the NCR isn't the angels of the wastes that they try to come off as. They, as Trudy often implied, were a handful of overconfident, selfish military men who would stop at nothing to spread their power over the West.

Doc Mitchell had even loaned her a few handbooks, holotapes, and Pre-War militia brochures that he had lying around his house. She had spent the most boring days of recovery skimming through the propaganda and criticism of the former. While she had to reform opinions that were lost due to motherfucking _Benny_, she was sure the NCR were easily comparable to what used to be the United States army before the War.

Whether they were a good-intentioned group of buzz-cut idiots, or power hungry men carrying big guns to feel important remained to be seen. The Courier, considering herself a fairly intelligent woman, wants to take her time and think about her future alliances, preferring to sit back and watch rather than make a move immediately when it comes to forming pacts with powerful groups.

It was obvious the Mojave had taken pity upon her, throwing the NCR dogs at her rather than the Legion, and she was insanely greatful. With her good fortune, someone in the ranks of the soldiers might recognize her – might even provide her a glimpse of a memory from her distant, forgotten life...if she was lucky as she had been.

"Hey, miss! Where the hell do you think _you're_ going? Primm is off-limits."

The Courier turns, eyebrows raising as a grunt trooper runs up the road towards her, in all probability wary of her proximity to the perimeter of the ruins – obviously a base of the NCR. Despite wanting to attempt to punch a hole clear through the man's face for sneaking up on her, she gives him a grim smile and holsters her revolver.

"Can handle myself. Why, what's goin' on around here?"

He's confused by the heavy twang that accompanies her question, but recovers quickly.

"Some convicts…some convicts up the road have taken over the town," he relays. "Everyone inside is either dead or in hiding."

He looks her over suddenly, and taking in the simple revolver at her side accompanied by a dull butcher knife, questions her ability with both his smarmy grin _and_ words.

"Think you'd be safer heading towards Goodsprings,"

The Courier, arrogant and proud, finds herself wanting to just lay into this man – she wants to tell him exactly _where_ he could shove it. The Mojave was too unforgiving, too perfectly cruel to turn back now. It wasn't as if she couldn't handle what it threw at her - God knew that she could, her experience with Benny proved that. She can't turn back, no. It might get her head blown off a second time.

At least Primm was getting some action; there was no way she was going back to boring Goodsprings. She shakes her head, tape-wrapped fists clenching on her forearms as she continues speaking with the soldier.

"Look, no offense, but if you're _so_ worried about Primm, shouldn't you be protectin' it or something?"

The trooper seems to have had enough of her attitude, because he crosses his arms and scoffs at her. "It just doesn't fall under our jurisdiction, as much as we'd like it too. It's a good trading post, so we watch over it."

She grimaces, shaking her head at this display of political nonsense. The world has ended, has gone to hell, and these people still want to throw paper work and military matters around.

"Let me get this straight. You don't protect the people, but you control their trade?"

He nods, proudly looking up at the flag waving above them. "The NCR is in great need of supplies, and the people will be happy once we're able to provide stability for them."

"Once you're able? You can't do that now?"

He opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by the Courier's flaring temper.

"Fucking _stability, _for one thing. Didn't you just say it's overrun with convicts, and you're havin' trouble clearing it?" she snaps, stepping forward, getting into the man's face. "You think y'all can protect it from worse threats if you can't do somethin' as simple as control your prisoners?"

He might've flinched, but the red blazing in her eyes makes her miss it. He pushes roughly at her shoulders, enough to move her back, but discrete enough that he can get away with assaulting her.

"I'd like to see you try and protect Primm, little bitch," he spits, glaring down his pointy bird-beak of a nose, into the dirty face of the Courier. Underneath the red-brown Mojave dust settling into her pores, something flashes with determination.

She quickly unstraps the thigh holster from her khaki shorts, and shoves her attached .44 at him.

"Sure as hell, soldier," she says, hopping from foot to foot and trying to remove the extra casings she keeps in the bottom of her boot.

"And you can bet I'll do it with just my fists and this switchblade."


	2. Chapter Two

4/7/12 - Major edit to this chapter as well!

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><p>The Ganger goes down with a loud, cracking thud, and the Courier winces. There's another one of the bastards loitering just around the corner, and she doesn't have time to hide the body from his patrolling route. Three others have been stowed away in a supply closet she had manages to pick open, so she wasn't sure if he would be able to fit in the already cramped space.<p>

She presses her back up against the crumbling wall, willing herself to meld into the cracking plaster. Sliding down slowly, with a careful wariness, she separates her feet and angles them so she's ready to spring if the opportunity arises.

When the next gang member turns the corner, she does just that. His eyes widen in surprise as she shoots herself straight into him, sending them both flying around the corner. When she has a second to get her bearings, she realizes that the force of impact has thrown them straight into the room at the end of the hallway. Her weight, slight and petite, is nothing compared to the bulky man's, and she panics as he groans and starts to get up.

The Powder Ganger lifted his head up, blinking at the woman above him, and gave her a slow, evil grin. He chokes suddenly, looking down to his stomach. For just a moment, before his eyes glaze over and go blank, he holds her gaze.

The Courier shakes her hand of the sticky blood that seeps onto her fingers and curses colorfully when she accidentally wipes the side of her knife on her upper thigh, missing the hem of her shorts.

She descends into a crouch again, quickly pulling her old knapsack down from her shoulders. She lowers it to the ground, strips the Ganger while shoving a dozen caps, some bullets, and a pack of cigarettes into various pouches.

When she's almost finished looting her prey, something glints in the corner of her eyes. She up at the man's neck, and brushes away the collar of his prison jumpsuit. Metal dog tags logoed with NCR military numbers hang over his collarbone.

She snatches them off, breaking the chain and giving the name a once-over. He had been a low-ranking soldier, and she figures he'd been thrown out for rape, or smuggling booze, or something along those lines, considering his appearance.

As she stands, wiping her bloodstained hangs on her shirt, she accesses the straight, clean gash across the convict's neck. She vaguely wonders when she had become such a good killer, and toys with the idea that she could have been some sort of assassin in her past life. It made her feel accomplished, made her feel important, and despite the gory, stomach-turning scene in front of her, a smile passes over her Mojave-chapped lips. It would be badass if she turned out to be a trained killer, or even a mercenary.

The next Ganger that she brings down is a little tougher. He's bigger than the last, and the muscles in his Merc armor bulge as he rages towards her. They look strong enough to snap her slender neck in seconds flat, but he never gets the chance. She blacks out as they tumble to the ground, wrestling with flailing limbs and flashing knives. How she manages to get the upper hand is puzzling, but the bruises along her collarbone and the cut across her eyebrow tell her it wasn't easy.

As he crumbles to the ground, she wipes blood from under her eye and spits at his bloody corpse, whispering "Timber, you motherfucker."

On Mr. Giant, she finds a fully loaded assault rifle, with the name "Gun Runners" etched into the side with chicken scratch handwriting. Something flashes in the back of her mind, bringing about a bright memory that seems to be weighted down with padlocks; something ebbs and pushes against her conscious, rendering her unable to pull up the experience. She gasps at the details she's able to grasp at before the light fades. The specific components of it are blurry, but she's able to remember…a house? No, maybe a shack?

As footsteps fall into a heavy, angry pace in her direction, she finds herself tempted to slide the rifle's strap over her shoulder, slip around the corner, and blindly fire. She recollects the challenge issued by the soldier, and shucks the gun over her back.

Quickly, she kneels down to search through the rest of the man's possessions. Other than the shiny new rifle that will fetch a good price later on, the convict has about twenty caps and a few cigarettes in his pockets.

As she springs up and away from his body, something catches her eye. This time, it isn't a loose silver chain, but a small pill contained. She twists the plastic bottle around in her hand, squinting in the darkness of the hotel to see the label. She raises an eyebrow at the intended effects listed under the name and company, and slips the contained into her knapsack alongside the two packs of cigarettes she'd scavenged.

Suddenly, the footsteps draw closer. She winces as they stop altogether, directly behind her, and realizes she has no time to consider options for an attack.

"Hey, the fuck? What the hell are you doing in here, whore?" he sneers, glancing at her and then at the body she's crouching over. She watches, insanely amused, as a slow understanding of the situation passes over the ugly bastard's face.

Before he can lift the heavy Flamer off of his back, she flips her blade over her hand, clutching it with her fist, and drives it down, through the thin leather of his boots.

"Hol- HOLY SHIT!" he screeches, and reaches down to pull the blade from the tendons in his foot. "Shit!"

She takes her chance, clenching her fist and landing a mean uppercut into his beefy jaw. It sends a huge shock of pain into her knuckles and down her arm as she connects with the bone, but the blow staggers him _just_ enough.

She dances away, hopping from foot to foot and wrenching her blade out of his foot as painfully as possible. The convict towering above her yelps, and she smirks as he stares down at her with red, water eyes. He looks utterly confused, and she can't help but to laugh.

She soon realizes she has underestimated him, and screws her eyes shut as his fist barrels towards her face. Instincts suddenly claw at her muscles, desperate for another release of adrenaline, and she drops to her knees, swiveling on her heels. He stumbles forward with the force of his punch, and the velocity as he hits the air above her head, missing completely.

The Courier twists around, back to the man, and stretches her legs out, planting the balls of her feet on the worn tile. She slides back about a foot, enough to send her under the man's legs, and scrambles to turn around as fast as possible as she turns. As soon as she can see his back, vision wavering with the flurry of action, she lifts her legs up, bends her knees, and kicks out while tumbling over herself in a backwards somersault.

Her feet land on the underside of his thighs, and she digs her heels as painfully as she can into his balls, effectively pushing away.

The Courier leaps up, only to be thrown onto her back again by a shattering blow to her clavicle. She tries to ignore the sting of pain as it shoots down her shoulders and up into her neck. The brute had thrown his hand back while stumbling around, and now he was sprawled face down on the tile.

A small pool of blood was filtering between the tough fibers of his boot, and from the precision of her strike, she figures he won't be able to walk properly again. Before he's able to stumble to his feet, she launches herself onto his back, straddling him and tearing the Flamer away with a bit of difficulty.

Fidgety and apprehensive about the fight to come, she flees down the next corridor, past the body she had left in the open, and stops. Frantically, she yanks the can of fuel from the weapon and throws it into a pile of debris that blocks one of the hotel's old rooms.

A plan begins forming in her bullet-riddled, batty brain, and she feels compelled to snatch a bottle of Nuka Cola from her pack. She winces in pain as she stretches the muscles across her bruised collarbone.

As the injured man limps around the corner, he's splashed across the face and shoulders with a sweet-smelling, sticky liquid. Some gets in his eyes, and he promptly shuts them. When the bite of radioactive Nuka passes, he wrenches them open…only to find himself staring down the nozzle of a Flamer – his Flamer.

"Wh…What in the goddamn-"

"Hold it, fatass," she snaps, and he holds up his hands threateningly, looking as thoroughly pissed as an injured Cazadore.

"I hope you're makin' a special effort to seem stupid as _fuck_ today, or this is just sad," she says, fighting to keep her voice steady. It was a generic insult, it wasn't witty at all, but somehow it managed to get to him.

He twitches, and takes a step towards her. She replies silently, pressing the nozzle of the Flamer to his crotch. The Courier smirks as he audibly gulps, watching his Adam's apple bobbing wildly.

The huge bruise that she knows is going to blossom from his blow to her clavicle pounds painfully against her neck, and she feels a bit hopeless when she knows there are more Gangers down the stairs. All she wants to do is scream until the ache in her chest subsides.

"Nuka Cola is extremely flammable, thanks to certain ingredients," she murmurs, almost as if it's an exclusive secret between the two of them. The man's eyes widen and travel down to the Flamer that's pressed between his legs. With her right hand, she produces a near-empty bottle of Nuka, promptly making a show of splashing the remaining fluid down the flamer, and the front of his pants.

He whimpers.

After she's successful in ordering him to his knees, facing away from her, she swings her shoulders into a complete radial circle, knocking him unconscious as the heavy metal nozzle of the flamer connects with the back of his head.

Mercifully, she slits his throat, and makes her way down the steps, dispatching two more men before entering the gang's sleeping area. She searches through belongings and duffle bags, eventually making her way into the kitchen – the only source of light in the large central area. She has just begun stuffing her face with Dandy Boy apples and a few forkfuls of Cram when the muffled grunts finally reached her.

She laughs, hard, and with an unladylike snort, accidentally spews chunks of apple skin into the man's face.

After apologizing profusely, cutting him loose, and cleaning a few chunks of gore from her hair, the Courier leads Deputy Beagle to the front of the hotel, where she tells him to wait.

On her first trip through the hotel, she had bypassed a locked door, and wanted to investigate the room's contents. Several lock picks and many, many curses later, she gives up on picking the lock. Instead, she stands up, braces for impact, and rams her good shoulder into the door, successfully unhinging it from the wall.

The room looks to be a small gift shop within the hotel, and the Courier picks a few choice food items from the shelves before focusing her greedy attentions on the cash register, and the possibility of Pre-War money she can nab within. As she turns to leave the room, her foot catches on the edge of a floor safe, and she hurtles face-first towards the paper-strewn ground.

Unfortunately, her jaw catches on the edge of the cash register as she tumbles down, and her mouth suddenly fills with the metallic stench of blood as she bites down on tongue.

Fortunately, the .44 pistol she finds in the safe is fully loaded.


	3. Chapter Three

4/7/12 - Also revamped!

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><p>While she's happy to have a companion on the lonely, dusty roads heading away from Primm, the Courier has to admit that ED-E's constant whirring has become a slight annoyance. Once she was able to clear the old police station of raiders, she had sat down the chirping robot amidst the bloody corpses for a 'talk'. The conversation, as she forced herself to call it, really consisted of her reprogramming the volume of his beeping noises.<p>

When she was first able to put the cute little eyebot together, she had noticed that a good portion of his robotic interior was actually hollow. Giving him an apologetic glance, she slammed her heavy knapsack onto a nearby desk. Wondering vaguely if it had once belonged to a secretary, she removed twelve packages of Cram, and a huge opened box of Sugar Bombs – what she had been happy to call her diet for the past few days.

She shoves them across the table, plucks ED-E from the air, and sets him down on the desk next to her pack. He complies for just a moment, buzzing happily, before attempting a cheeky ascent back into the air. She laughs at the robot's synthetic playfulness, but pushes the silly robot back onto the desk.

"I know you don't like the food, bud, but it'll be a fuckin' help to me, and I'd appreciate the help," she says, almost as if the small, orbital robot can actually process the food she packs him with.

In response, ED-E lets the back hatch of his dented metallic sphere swing open with a loud clang. She winces as the hatch bounces off the desk and pats him gently.

"Thanks."

ED-E chirps at her brightly, and begins broadcasting Mr. New Vegas' morning program through his antenna. She pats him again, adjusts the appendage, and hums along to the cheerful music.

Playing music on the radio often takes the edge off of her many bruises and gashes, sometimes even better than the Med-X or a stimpak can. The huge purple knot above her collarbone from her fist-fight in Primm even stopped throbbing for a few minutes when the music was playing.

The Courier never wants to see that town again, and hopes that Primm Slim is able to do a decent job as sheriff so she won't have to return and patch things up. She didn't like that particular area – an odd feeling of depression had her in a chokehold for the time that she was there, and the weary town reminded her too much of Goodsprings.

The bright, boisterous lights of New Vegas over the horizon beckon her even as she marches on in broad daylight. They haunt even her waking _dreams_, and seem to perpetually call to her – the city itself seems to know that she has something to _accomplish_ there, like it's where she belongs, and it won't let her sleep. The call is just too strong.

Some days, she has half a mind to run haphazardly across the dirt, across the mountains, just to scramble into the city – dangers of the Wastes and human needs be damned. Her insomnia, brought on by the gunshot wounds in her head, hasn't allowed her to get even ten minutes of sleep recently. No matter how battle-tired or injured she is, her body just won't allow it.

The Courier stuffs a few spare bottles of water into the back of ED-E, and attempts to rub the dark circles from under her eyes, hoping they'll magically come off on the back of her hand.

Her robot companion buzzes into an excited, busy state again once the hatch is firmly shut, and she swipes at her forehead when he begins that incessant whirring again. It isn't just the noise from her non-flesh and bones friend and the eerie lights from New Vegas that keep her up at night.

The smarmy, well-dressed bastard keeps popping up, taunting and insulting her when she daydreams, when she's fighting…it buries the seed of vegenance so deep in her head, it's hard to focus on much else. Even as ED-E hovers impatiently in a circle, waiting to start a new day's adventure, the Courier begins looking over the notes in her Pip-Boy, dictated herself from information she had collected about the man.

When she had finished looting the room containing Lucky in the Bison Steve, she had turned around to find that the cowardly asshole of a deputy had fled without her. She had marched straight across the street to the Casino, which she had passed by on her initial entrance into the town. There, she had been surprised to learn that Johnson Nash knew her, or at least of her delivery.

A poker chip constructed out of platinum – something that matched her Courier order form to a T.

Johnson had told her that Beagle would know where the man in the checkered suit fled to, and - after a lot of empty threats - he in turn pointed her through Nipton, to Novac. To be honest, she had wanted to beat the living shit out of him for showing such cowardice, but could only accept his directions and begin walking.

Pulling lint and a few crumpled pieces of paper from the pocket of her shorts, the Courier lights up a cigarette and spreads the information out on the desk.

She knows only a few key things: the dick was heading through Novac, had most likely passed through Nipton, and had stolen her package while she was vulnerable, shot her twice in the head, and left her to die.

She also knows that once she finds him, she's going to tie a powder charge to his dick, and make him beg for his life.

The Courier angrily runs a hand through her short, unwashed hair, and peeks at ED-E. He suddenly brightens up at the attention, and lifts a few feet into the air. Grabbing the little mechanical ball of energy, she sits him on the desk yet again. He rests for a moment, and the whirring steadily becomes softer – almost like a lullaby.

She sits down in the chair, and slumps her head onto the desk, listening to the quiet ballad pour out from her robot's speakers, and shuts her eyes. She falls asleep for the first time in five days.

The next morning, the Courier and ED-E set off in the direction of Nipton, a town that Johnson Nash had kindly pointed out to her via her Pip-Boy's map. She's not sure where it is, exactly, but the shimmering edges of homes soon appear on the wavering horizon, across from the gas station that the duo had stopped to scavenge.

Along with the strong lines of buildings, smoke also starts to appear, high and dark, rising above the town. Despite the ominous cloud of haze around the area, the Courier continues with a steady, courageous pace towards her goal. She's been asleep for much too long, and the rat-fink probably has a few days head start on her.

As she passes overturned cars that form a barrier around the town, she stops in her tracks.

The Courier has never smelled burning flesh before.

Her boots begin to sink into the ground as she strays from the broken, distorted road that runs through the center of the settlement, and she looks down to see what she's stepped in. She realizes, from the red tinge around her ankles and the stains splattered against rocks and tired around her, that the ground is literally drowning in blood.

She turns down the main road, towards the largest building in the town, and looks up. The dead, pale faces of Powder Gangers suddenly turn her stomach, and she heaves bile into the scraggly bushes on the side of the path. She's bent over like that for some time, hands on her upper thighs and head pointed towards the ground.

When she finally feels well enough to lift her head, she takes in the destruction around her with a sickening immunity. Clumps of bones, half-destroyed corpses, and hunks of flesh are piled around her, roasting on stacks of tires.

Piles of bones and half-destroyed hunks of flesh were piled everywhere.

She fails to notice the man until he runs up to her, grabs her by the shoulders, and almost shakes her senseless. There's a crazed, blissful look in his eyes, and a gruesomely joyful grin cracks his face from ear to ear. She tries to squirm away for just a second, but regains her composure almost immediately.

When she does, she lifts her knee up, intending to land a blow to his groin.

Before she can hurt him, he takes hold of her wrists and twirls her. It's sickeningly morbid, being spun like a ballroom dancer, and she feels her breakfast rush up her throat for a second time.

"Yeahhhh!"

Choking back a repulsed dry heave, the Courier tries to shake herself free. His grasp only tightens on her wrist, and she forces herself to give him a pointedly poisonous glare. Unfortunately, the hot Mojave sun glints off of his glasses, breaking her focus, and she squints as he screams in triumph for a second time.

"Who won the lottery? I did!"

He leans in close, perhaps for a victory kiss, and she angles her body away as best she can, still attempting to shake free.

ED-E blips at the man threateningly. She wants nothing more than to break this crazy's hold and plant a bullet from Lucky in his skull.

The man sniffs, almost like he's trying to remember the scent of burning humans for the rest of his life. His grin splits wider.

"Smell that air. Couldn't you just…drink it like booze?"

"I could really use some whiskey, yeah," she sighs, going limp in his grasp.

He laughs then, one that will chill her to the bone for the next few nights. She can tell, suddenly, that something has happened – he's been through a horribly macabre event here, probably seen something that happened to Nipton that's...altered his mind.

"What…what kinda lottery did you win?" she asks, vaguely reprimanding herself for encouraging his erratic behavior. She manages to slip away from his grasp while he's taking in _scent_ of the town. He's got the goddamn nerve to stare at her like she's the crazy one.

"What lottery? _The_ lottery, that's what lottery, baby. Are you stupid?"

Her hand immediately flits to Lucky, but he doesn't seem to notice the .357 revolver's barrel pointed straight into his face.

"Only lottery that matters. Oh, fuck! Smell that air!" he screeches again, and she adjusts her grip on the trigger carefully. She glances him up and down for the first time, finally noticing his attire. She pushes the barrel into the plump flesh of his cheek, and flicks her eyes back to his face.

"You a Powder Ganger, winner?"

"Powder Ganger?" he seems to be momentarily confused. "Oh, yeah. I mean sure, used to be."

She's genuinely surprised at this straightforward answer, but she holds Lucky steady. She's got every intention of blasting his skull open, now that she knows he's a Ganger.

"But not no more, babydoll! The Powder Gang is small-time, and I'm a winner! _The_ motherfuckin winn-"

He seemed confused for a moment, but the look immediately returned to his eyes. "Powder Ganger? I mean, yeah, used to be. Sure."

His shout is cut off by the bullet that enters just above his left eyebrow, and the Courier carefully wipes his blood from her face as he slumps to the ground. Turning to ED-E, she does the same to the front of his ventilation system, splattered crimson. She motions for him to follow her.

When they reach the center source of smoke, she seems to freeze in place, ignoring the hot gusts of morning breeze blowing in from Ivanpah. ED-E bumps into her back.

People hang from tall crosses, situated high above the street. Blood drips from their hands, down their armpits, sides, and to their toes onto the pavement below. Some groan, and one girl who looks barely sixteen even turns her head towards the Courier.

She opens her mouth in a silent plea before coughing up a patch of coagulated blood, and going still. She realizes that the girl's lungs have simply given out as they labor to provide the teen air, and she feels a familiar cloud of depression begin to haze her judgment.

Silently, she goes from body to body until each has a merciful .357 round lodged in their skull.

Only after each person has been taken down and propped at the base of their cross does she turn her attention to the group of men standing outside the largest building in the town, what she guesses to be the town hall.

A man stands at the front of the group, his back to the Courier, speaking with his troops and giving orders. Each is dressed in dim red clothes, and a flag is carried by a man with a strange headpiece that reminds her of a lion's mane. A deep frown settles onto the woman's lips as she takes in the sight before her, and she immediately knows who these assholes are.

Despite the shaking of her knees and the overwhelming fear that engulfs her with every step, she struts forward. Reaching out, she taps the leader on the shoulder. She's being careless and she knows it, but she hopes that her arrogance won't make her receive another nasty wound.

"Y'all are the Legion, right? I reckon you fuckers did this?"

Slowly, the man turns, and her eyes settle on his ghoulish choice of headgear.

The wolfish grin that spreads over his lips is hidden behind the mask, but she shudders anyway.


	4. Chapter Four

4/7/12 - Edited this one as well. By the way, my Courier's tagged skills are Small Guns, Sneak, and Repair. Science and Melee Weapons are her next two highest.

* * *

><p>The Courier has spent days in the Mojave, even traveling through many of them without a sure supply of water. She relies too heavily on her luck, and now she's regretting the decision. It has given her a new level of arrogance, and she reflects on the godly feelings of power it has given her in the past week.<p>

Escaping death in Goodsprings…she was beginning to regret crawling from the grave. The first night she spends in Nipton makes her think that dying from those two bullets might not have been such a terrible thing.

She's on her knees, silently waiting for Vulpes and his troops to disappear over the horizon, anticipating the moment they're just tiny dots so she can move.

When she does, every single one of her muscles cries out in pain. Her skin is prickling, and it reminds her of the previous night's dust storm, when she had to squint her eyes to keep the flecks of debris from stinging them.

"Do you fear death, degenerate?" he asks her, the question hanging over her entire being, tugging at her skin like the ripper that began edging towards her. It whirred relentlessly, sounding like a thousand rattlesnakes all at once. The Courier glances down at her hands, remembering the last time she had been on her knees, bound and gagged. The man in the checkered suit had expressed pity, but not enough to let her go.

There is no such distress on Vulpes's face, and when he repeats the question, she clenches her fists. She can't do anything – her body is in shock, and she forces herself to remain still and stoic in the face of danger. Her mind, too, was still. She couldn't find the words to respond.

"Do you _fear_ death, degenerate?" he demands again, this time backhanding her across the face. Her head jolts to the side as his knuckles connect with her cheekbone, leaving a blistering red welt, but the only sound she makes is a soft hiss of pain.

Bitter, angry tears spring to her eyes, and her hands begin to shake. Why, goddammit, why? She was showing such _weakness_ in front of these…there was no word disgusting enough to describe them.

There was dark, threatening impatience when he spoke, a hanging evil to his tone - one that made her hand her head and close her eyes. It stretches the shadows beyond her eyelids, forcing itself into her conscious and making his words inescapable. Her nails, which she chews to the quick, are digging into her palms, drawing half-circles of blood as they break the skin of her palm.

He's menacing, and even if she could remember her past life, she doubts that there was a moment she was more terrified than she is now.

"I can see that you do not fear the end, degenerate whore," he decides, pacing around her slowly. The more he stares at her, the more she feels like he knows everything about her; her every secret, even her past.

She wants to scream, but she can't bring her words to the surface.

"Here's the truth: Legionnaires do not fear death."

She lifts her head, attempting to block out his words. She stares up at the distant, unreachable stars above the Mojave. Vulpes grabs her chin, wrenches it back down, forcing her to look at the ground again.

Her teeth snap together painfully, and for the second time in the past two days, her mouth fills up with blood.

"Most Legionnaires do not fear death, but they _are_ weak to it – they are susceptible to pain, and are probably the first to die in a battle," he continues, as if he hasn't even registered her shriek of pain.

"However, there are others…they laugh in the face of death, and run towards it stubbornly, almost as if they _want_ to pass into the afterlife. It is only by chance that these people survive; by luck."

The Courier immediately winces and tries to stand. She can't just sit here and take this, but her knees refuse and she wobbles.

No one catches her as she topples, and she can see Vulpes scowl at her.

"You walked into this situation doing the latter, but perhaps that was your miserable arrogance, hmm?" He kicks her in the side, and she wheezes for precious air as she falls yet again. He chuckles darkly, and the soldiers around him follow his example.

"This is your last second chance, degenerate." he seethes into her ear, and she shrinks back, repulsed and frightened. She moves her head to stare at the ground once again, and it begins to cloud over. Her mind weakens, and the last few connections she has with the world fray as he kicks her twice more, one blow landing across her forehead.

Vulpes moves away and she takes a deep, thankful breath.

As her lungs expand joyfully, one of the Legionnaires suddenly steps forward, and there is pain. Pain in her side, pain in her head, and she feels as if her entire being is leaking into the dirt.

And, in a sense, she is.

ED-E is in a heap beside her. Various wires have been pulled out from his mainframe, the same one she had painstakingly put back together; with a loving, mother's touch. The packages of food she had stored in his hull are spilled across the bloodied ground of Nipton's main road.

The Courier has a hard time distinguishing which streams of blood were from her, or the red that trickled from the only man of Vulpes's that she had been fortunate enough to kill.

With the hand that isn't clutched to her sticky, crimson side, she reaches out. Her fingernails dig into the pavement, and somehow, by the graces of the Mojave gods, she manages to push herself up. For a moment, the night breezes blow around her. Eventually, she scoops ED-E's destroyed and dented form in her arms. Looking towards the valley that Vulpes led his soldiers through, she winces, taking small baby steps. Each time her hips move, the pain in her side increases, twisting and pulling with pain. She feels like sobbing.

Lucky hangs from a loop in her shorts, precariously tilting over the hot pavement, and some of her life force drips down the barrel as she moves forward. Her side feels like it's been set on fire.

The ripper had dug a mean ridge from below her armpit; had circle around to just under her left breast. It was shallow, and she was fortunate the Legionnaire hadn't tugged just a little harder. Her ribs would be poking out from the open gash.

She has been stupid.

So, so stupid. Arrogant, too. Her luck has finally run dry.

Several Viper Gang members lie in the road, edges of their skin stained as they brush pools of their own blood. Throwing spears stick out from odd angles in the chests of some, yet others are simply bullet-ridden. She doesn't remember how long she had stayed, kneeling on the ground, or even when her binding had been cut. It must have been long enough for the fighting to go down.

One of the members has obviously wielded a missile launcher. The Courier has to side-step the kicked up asphalt and gaping potholes in the road. She stands over a corpse she almost trips over for a very long time, staring into the face's hauntingly pale, dead eyes, watching a fly flit across the person's mouth.

Suddenly, she's kneeling down in front of the dead Viper. From her heavy combat boots she produces her switchblade, stained with rusty, dried Powder Ganger blood.

With a strangled sob, the switchblade comes down into the Viper's chest; once, twice, and then a dozen times. When she's finished, her head tips forward, settling into her open, bloody palms. She tries to ignore the wet prints of blood she's leaving on her forehead.

She sits there, crumpled against the ground. ED-E rocks back and forth in the cool night wind.

After a few moments of staring at the sky and welling in self-pity, she feels a sting of guilt. She looks down to ED-E, who has only followed her for a day or two, but is the most loyal being she's ever come across. The guilt rises, forming a knot in her throat until she chokes out a strangle sob.

She curls her petite body around the eyebot, shielding him from particles of dust and sand that can blow into his main circuits and fry him beyond repair.

This is where the caravan finds her the next morning, bleeding into the road. 

* * *

><p>She wakes up in a bed. A real, honest to God bed – with sheets, a mattress, and a pillow. She buries her face into the dirty, torn plump of down, and finds herself struggling against a knot of hysterics that wells up in the back of her throat. Eventually, she turns her head to the side, and stares at the heap of scrap that was – is – ED-E. She scoots to the edge of the bed and runs her hand along the grates at ED-E's front, dusting off the dirt that has settled there.<p>

The knot in her throat tightens, and she pats his metal hull sadly before looking around the room. It is a Pre-War hotel room, and she admires at the old, tattered framed paintings that hang on the walls before she stands and searches the room.

When she has a hold on her knapsack, she zips it open and begins shoveling everything she can reach into it. Abraxo from the bathroom, a few empty bottles of Nuka, five or six caps on the nightstand, and another suspicious bottle of pills she finds stored in a footlocker under the bed.

In a toolbox behind the broken bathtub, there are seven pieces of scrap metal she can use for repairing her weapons, including a new fission battery sitting under a pile of cables. The Courier pushes these into her knapsack too, before throwing it on the old spring mattress and looking around the room for her clothes.

When she finally spots them, she realizes they are damp, and have been, by the Mojave's standards, "washed". A dark red spot on the left side of her shirt suddenly reminds her of the wound, and she lifts the rest of the camisole hanging on her shoulders to stare at it.

It is worse than she originally thought. The wound is deep, but at least now it has makeshift stitches that peek out from the tight off-white bandages wrapped around her torso. Blood is beginning to soak through the layers, and she gives her torso an experimental twist. It hurts, but the stitches hold tight.

She throws on the off-white stained tank top, her long-sleeved brown jacket, and the shorts.

Her socks have been strung out above the bed, hanging from the fan on the ceiling that stopped working long ago. She pulls them down, and then she puts her heavy boots on, testing the ankle one of the Legionnaires stomped on before retreating after his leader.

It hurts like hell, and she suddenly feels like punching something. Her anger is returning, so she lets loose a string of colorful curses. That relieves some of the emotional strain.

Throwing her knapsack over one shoulder, the Courier tucks her eyebot companion under her right arm, trying to ignore the pain of her side. She throws open the main room's only door, guessing it's the exit.

When her eyes adjust to the bright sunlight streaming onto her face from the sun, she reels her forearm back, ready to throw a punch at any hostile face. Just as she is about to blindly let go of her anger and apprehension, an old woman steps in front of her. She raises an eyebrow, judging the raised fist in front of her face.

With a curse and a surprised gasp, the Courier drops her hand, gazing back at the woman. Neither says anything for a few seconds, and she takes the opportunity to check her surroundings.

In front of her, the large scaled back of an olive-green dinosaur rises on the horizon. She looks down between her feet and notices she is on the second floor of a motel. Looking left, she realizes her room is the last at the top floor. Past the railings is an abandoned gas station, and a few Pre-War houses that stand proudly in the distance, relatively unharmed and whole. To her right, there is a half circle of small shacks.

She supposes these were once private rooms, before the bombs dropped. Now they must be entire houses to people. In the distance, New Vegas sparkles in the early-morning sunlight, and the peak of its highest casino is easily visible.

The urge to run out of the town and sprint into the city as fast as possible is still there, but…it's impossible for her right now.

Instead of pondering her dilemma longer, the Courier drops her bright green eyes to the short elderly woman in front of her, and tilts her head.

"Where in the fuck am I?"

The old woman grins, and mockingly tips an imaginary top hat on her head.

"Welcome to Novac, ma'am. We're _almost_ as popular as New Vegas." The sarcasm practically drips off her words.


	5. Chapter Five

5/29/12 - Finally got around to editing this chapter as well.

* * *

><p>The Courier sincerely hopes that Novac is not just full of old birds, because the town will be twice as boring that way.<p>

Despite the huge anomaly in front of the small town, not one traveler wanders off of the highway into the sour little settlement, and she can't blame them. The only people that enter and leave Novac belong to the trading caravan that found her along the road near Nipton. It seems that every day, more and more people are leaving.

Her room in the motel is small and dingy. Novac is even more depressing than Goodsprings, and her mood is doubly affected by the uncomfortable quietness of the area. Novac is _not _the sort of place she wants to be and she feels like fleeing more and more each day.

Thanks to Vulpes Inculta and the goddamn Legion, she can't.

Her side is still on the verge of ripping open and she finds that even a walk around town depletes her reserves of energy. The days stretch on, crawling slowly, and there is even a weak moment where she lifts Lucky and contemplates ending her foreboding misery. She is tired, she is beaten, and she wants to get up and _run_. She needs to leave.

There is absolutely nothing to do in the small town, and without entertainment or conversation, she soon falls into a dazed, out-of-body pattern. Every morning she starts her day with the same routine: wake up, change bandages, have a bottle of Nuka, down a box of Sugar Bombs, walk around the settlement's borders until she gets that pain in her side, head back to her room, change bandages, and listen to Mr. New Vegas until she falls asleep.

It has been two weeks since the trading caravan found her. In that time, she's accomplished absolutely nothing, and almost completely forgotten about her objective before being struck down. Novac is not only the place she will wither away in, it is the place that she will lose herself entirely.

A few days in to the third week of her stay in Novac, she finds a message on her Pip-Boy, recorded before she left Goodsprings. The Courier listens to herself talk. She marvels at how chipper and full of life she sounded just three weeks ago. She talks about following the checkered-suit douchebag across the Wasteland, how excited she is to make a name ofr herself, to extract revenge, to figure out _who_ she is…

And, even though her stomach drops at the naïve, happy-go-lucky woman she once was, it helps her. Although it might not heal her physical wounds, it heals her emotionally, and that's really all she can hope for.

All at once her confidence returns.

One morning she decides that she's done laying around, and she needs to get something _done. _Hopping up from her dirty, uncomfortable cot, the Courier slings on her Pre-War leather jacket, bought from Cliff, the store owner.

Getting out of her room is a chore. The pain in her side hasn't ebbed in the last few days, and she stumbles a bit going down the stairs.

Out in the open, in the thick, humid Mojave air, she feels refreshed. Her lungs fill with warm summer air, and for once she enjoys _something_. She's glad to get out of her musty hotel room, one that smells like death and dust.

The air is as pure as radiated atmosphere can be, and she figures even fifteen Jet doses couldn't put her on a higher cloud nine. Her mouth stretches wide, forming a pleased smile – a genuine grin for the first time in weeks. The Courier lifts her arms up to the stars, letting the dust gather on her sleeves as the wind whips around the desert. She stands there for a long while before realizing she looks ridiculous. No one seems to be around, but she pretends like she was stretching just in case anyone was happening to watch her.

She takes the stairs down the side of the hotel two at a time, jumping off the last landing and laughing at the way her boots lift the unsettled dust with a dull thud. Her stride pulses with rising confidence as she nears the dinosaur, and when she throws open the door to the general store, Cliff looks shocked.

"Well, if it isn't Novac's newest resident. How're you feeling, miss?" he asks, and her mood seems to rub off on him – the old man's smile broadens, and the circles under his eyes look less deep.

She smiles, and shrugs.

"If you mean 'does that goddamn hole in your side still hurt like a motherfucker', then no," she tilts her head lightly, kicking her shoe against the woodwork of the counter. Despite the teasing lilt to her words, Cliff frowns.

"I mean, I an't one to complain so I don't plan t'start now, but I've seen better days," she says,

"Let's just say I had some rough days these past few weeks," she continues mysteriously. Cliff shrugs.

"Anyway. This place is a shithole and I fully intend on leavin' as quick as I can."

The look that passes over the old man's face, one of worry and despair, makes her wince regretfully. "Naw, didn't mean it like that. Dinky's awesome."

A pause, because he doesn't look convinced. The Courier sighs, barely audible. "Fine, give me one or two of those cute little bastards."

She points at the small Dinky figurines propped up at the front of the counter, and Cliff's face immediately lights up. "Sure thing!" he says, hanging one to her. She hands him a hundred caps in return.

"What else are you needin' this late?"

"I'm lookin' for someone who might have information on…uh, something that happened to me."

"Sure, miss. If it happened around here, Manny's likely to have heard about it. He's got connections all over."

"Great. Where is he?"

Cliff frowns. "Oh, right. I keep forgetting you haven't been here too long. Manny's been out of town for, oh, a week now. He won't be back for another two, probably. He's traveling right now."

The Courier's heart drops into her stomach at his words, and she lowers her eyes slightly. She's missed her change at information, and clenches her fists angrily.

She wishes she could have magically snapped out of her depression-induced laziness earlier.

"Wait," Cliff says suddenly, when she moves towards the door. She turns, expecting the best.

"What?"

"Boone."

"Sorry, what?"

"Boone."

She lifts her thumb and finger to the bridge of her nose, a sign of impatience. She doesn't have time for this, and she doesn't want to lose he temper with such a nice old man.

"Sorry, Cliff. Dunno what a…Boone is," she begins, but the store owner cuts her off with a short laugh.

"Don't think any of us do, really. Surprised you haven't met him yet."

Her eyebrows rise inquisitively, and she steps back towards the counter.

"Manny's our daytime sniper, keeps us safe from Legionnaires and whatnot," Cliff explains, "he works up in the dino from eight 'til, oh, about nine? Boone takes the night shift."

The Courier lifts her thumb and finger to the bridge of her nose, and pinches. She doesn't have time for this, and she certainly doesn't want to lose her patience with such a nice old man.

"Sorry, Cliff. I dunno what a…Boone is," she starts to explain, but the store owner cuts her off with a short laugh.

"Don't think any of us do really. I'm just surprised you haven't met him yet."

Her eyebrows slowly rise, and she steps back towards the counter.

"Manny's our daytime sniper. He usually works up in the dino from eight until, oh, say nine? Boone takes the night shift."

The prospect excites her. "And he might know something? Or where Manny is?"

Cliff nods, and waves his hand at the stairs in the back left side of the store. "He should be up there now."

She thanks him and turns on her heel to climb the stairs. Cliff stops her with a hand on her shoulder.

"What?"

"Are you sure you don't want to wait for Manny, miss? Boone's a little…ah…Boone's pretty anti-social."

She smiles reassuringly at him, looking down absentmindedly to the corner of the desk, toying with a rocket souvenir. She's not particularly excited about the prospect of dealing with someone unwilling to negotiate, but she needs to find the man in the checkered suit.

The Courier breaks out of her trance, thanking Cliff with a warm smile. He lets go of her but hesitates for a second before moving back behind the counter and fiddling with a stack of Pre-War bills. The man has been nothing but nice, even fatherly, and she feels a bit guilty for being a leech of the town's resources for so long.

The woman has no idea what sort of person she should expect as she bounds up the steps, but gives herself a quick, reassuring pep-talk before twisting the knob of the thin wooden door. As she steps out into the hot Mojave night she squares her shoulders, ready to intimidate or flatter if needed.

She finds herself literally standing in the mouth of a dinosaur, and the great statue's teeth rise all the way up to her hip, blocking out some of the orange-red landscape around her. A few boxes of .308 rounds are on the wooden floor, carefully laid next to a spare scope for some sort of sniper rifle.

The space is tiny but well-hidden, and she supposes it's perfect for a sniper to set his station up. There's a man in front of her, scanning the scenery around Novac with careful diligence. The Courier allows herself only one appreciative stare at strong, sinewy muscle of his lean frame. Because she isn't sure how to initiate conversation with someone who is supposedly anti-social, she settles for a tap on the back.

"Hey there. I'm lookin' for Manny Vargas an-"

Her attempt at a greeting is promptly cut off by a pair of strong hands pushing at her shoulders, forcing her to stumble backwards. She is suddenly spun around; face pressing awkwardly against the splintery wooden door. She lets out a yelp and attempts to pull her wrists out of the man's vice-like grip.

He's not happy with her attempt to escape, and warns her with a threatening growl.

The Courier is suddenly reminded of Vulpes's chest pressed in a similar same way against her back, his creeping, warm breath against her neck, and she's reminded of the pain and the humiliation. She feels a white-hot flash of anger, and turns so suddenly her wrists fly out of his grip.

She slides her stance to the right, rolling her knee up, but misses her intended target and thumps against his stomach instead. Fortunately, the blow is enough to stagger him, and he stumbles back a few steps, towards the edge of the dinosaur's mouth. Quick as a deathclaw, the Courier cuts her weight to the left, rocking back on her heels and gaining distance between them.

In the small space, they're still less than two feet away, but it's enough time for her to pull her switchblade and press the tip against his neck.

But she's too slow, dammit, and his broad hand shoots out to her hip, grabbing something from the utility belt that hangs around her waist. Mistake number one.

She glances down. Lucky is betraying her, and the pistol's barrel is now shoved painfully against her stomach, digging through her tank top and into her skin.

She's breathless from the fight, and judging from the sudden sting in her side, her stitches are popping out again. She wants to shove him backward, out between the teeth of the dinosaur.

Right now, she would very much enjoy watching the fucking bastard fall to his death, but she's doubtful that she can make the move and escape before Lucky sends a bullet through her stomach. She shifts her feet a bit, wondering how she ever got out of his iron grip in the first place, and looks up at him expectantly. Maybe she's waiting for two more bullets to enter her skull.

He's wearing a red beret, and even in the darkness the Courier can make out the gold lettering under the NCR symbol. _First Recon_, it says, and her mouth twitches. Another dumb-as-fuck soldier following orders for the NCR. She doubts he's truly interested in protecting Novac, probably in it for the recognition – and booze.

"Goddammit!"

His fingers dig painfully into her arm. "Don't sneak up on me like that," he seethes, and she sticks her jaw out stubbornly.

"That was hardly sneakin', fuckwad," she quips back, and fueled by the blood trickling down her side. She steps closer to him, challenging his reserves, and forcing him backwards a bit more. "You'd be bleedin' out on the fucking floor if my intention was to get the drop on you," the Courier promises.

Boone scowls, but thankfully releases her.

Lucky is returned to his holster on her belt, and she lowers her switchblade at the same time. He turns back towards the mouth of the dinosaur, just like that, and begins searching between the rocks again.

The Courier watches him for a moment, debating whether or not this is a trick of some sort. Is he waiting for her to turn her back, to walk out as if nothing has happened?

Despite a voice in her head pleading her not to, she speaks up again. Her stubborn nature over rules any type of advice her conscience may have, and she wants her damn information. This asshole is the only one that can give it to her.

"Expecting visitors?"

A pause. "Yeah, I guess I am."

Boone turns around to look her over, and she wants to laugh in his face because he's wearing sunglasses at night.

"But not like you."

She feels…slightly insulted.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, ass?" she demands, hands on her hips.

He regards her for a second, but the Courier can't get a good read on his expression. The damned sunglasses block his eyes.

"Huh," he grunts, and she supposes that it's his attempt at sounding amused. She taps her foot in annoyance.

"Maybe it should've been you I was expecting all along."

She raises her eyebrow, and lifts herself onto her tiptoes in order to look over his shoulder.

"Who were you lookin' for?"

Silence.

"Come on."

Silence.

"You can tell me…" she tries again, but this time the corners of his mouth lurch down, and he outright glares at her.

"Drop it," Boone threatens, crossing his arms. "Now why the hell are you up here?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm just meeting new people…at three in the fucking morning," she deadpans, and he scowls wildly at her for a second, before turning his back on her once again. She flips him the bird.

"I think you better leave," he tosses over his shoulder, and she contemplates ripping the hunting rifle off of his back and shoving it up his pompous ass.

The Courier gives up, though, and she hesitantly opens the door to Cliff's store, defeated. She's not sure what she should do. Manny won't be back for a long while, and she might be too unmotivated by then.

"Just makin' friendly conversation," she chirps coldly, although she's aware she's getting dangerously close to being _too _much of a smartass.

"I don't have friends here," Boone says, and she rolls her eyes. She's desperate for information, but she isn't sure if she wants to deal with his self-pity. After a moment of decision, she places her hands on her hips, and whirls back around.

"Well, I'm not from here. Suck it up, buttercup."

There is another long stretch of silence, and she flinches when he turns around, wary of his size and the fucking huge rifle strapped to his back.

Boone looks her over once again - his scrutiny makes her uncomfortable.

Another pause.

"No. No you're not, are you?"

She blinks.

"Maybe you shouldn't go. Not just yet."

Despite her pride, the Courier's muscles spasm in fear at the undertones of a threat in his gravelly voice. She's quick to regain her composure, though, and releases her breath in a loud and immature puff of hot air.

"You're shit out of luck if you think I'm going to help you with anything."


End file.
