The lumbering caravan convoy pulled its way down the old Route 89, lurching and churning like a schizophrenic and tumorous snake. The stay-over at Ash Fork had been uneventful, and had done nothing to lighten the spirits of the travelers as they moved to reach their final destination at the ruins of Chino Valley. Some, along the route through the old tribal lands of the Twisted Hairs, had given up and settled down wherever they found an intact building - their hearts turned to stone at the thought of continuing any further. They were marching to the edge of civilization, but in truth, they already crossed into the wild frontier when the caravans moved over the Hoover Dam.

At the head of the road serpent, on a mangy horse, rode Kaspar Morgan. He had exchanged his Followers' white coat with a duster, already now caked with the kicked-up sand from the brahmin pack animals and the constant trek from their staging point at Boulder City. Under his brown Boss-of-the-Plains hat, sweat boiled out from his forehead. The heat was intolerable, worse than anything he had ever experienced in his life. It clouded his very mind, making it increasingly difficult to focus on the task at hand. It was hard enough to ride a horse, having never really taken lessons to heart when he tried to learn in the past, but to have the weight of the entire expedition on his shoulders was unbearable.

He reached into his duster and produced the Expedition orders. The paper was now a crumbled and folded mess, stained with dirt from having read it countless times on their journey. The edges were beginning to fray and the words on the page were smudged by the hasty folding and refolding. Once more, as he did every time he began to lose sight of the mission, he pulled it out and began to read.



He had let it slip in campfire discussions of their purpose, to secure the factories, and he was sure that by this point most people in the convoy were aware of the true intention of the Courier-King and the Followers. It was so cynical, he mused as he tucked the orders back into his pocket, that the primary goal ought to have been to secure the factory and the secondary goal being the town. Why else would they have come this far, passed by perfectly fertile lands that could build sustainable towns?

No, their true purpose all along was to get into that damned city and to break open all of its secrets for their own benefit. They didn't give a damn whether or not the town succeeded, only as long as they broke into the entombed ruins and restart the old factories so it could pump out more robots to defend Vegas against the NCR. It was a cunning move, to be sure, and he had to acknowledge that. But it was cynical, it was cheap, and he would've preferred if they had just sent him and a few wasteland mercenaries to do it.

But, perhaps, they did. And they met their fate like every other group that wandered into Prescott. They never returned. The city was a myth in the East, and at the very thought of it the tribals they encountered on the roads warned them to turn back to the Mojave, or to settle elsewhere. The city was a bad omen to them, in fact that entire expanse south of Flagstaff and north of Phoenix was a bad omen. It brought great anxiety to the warriors from the Hualapai Tribe as they escorted them through their land from Kingman to Ash Fork, warriors who fought off wasteland creatures and roving raiders with tenacity unmatched.

It was a sobering thought, and Kaspar had to shudder and banish it from his mind as the convoy neared Chino Valley, and neared their destiny.



A bunch of nonsense! Curse upon it all!

Horace, along with the martially-inclined men of the convoy, rode on their horses along the sides of the caravan, covering the advancing settlers from attacks in this unknown and lawless land. In his old ranger outfit, the helmet replaced with well-worn Stetson, he felt a little younger in the heart and the soul. But all the troubles of the travel soon crept into him, and returned him to his old-man ways. The Hualapai tribals refused to go any further than Ash Fork, and that wasn't just because their tribal authority did not extend past that town. No, Horace could tell, the worried looks on their faces as that damned Follower asked them to lead them all the way to Chino Valley told him more than their broken tribal creole could ever do. There was something in this land that struck fear in their hearts, that reduced them to nervous little children at the very thought of stepping foot in this land.

The folly of man, Horace thought. That's all it ever was, the folly of it all! The rumors of Prescott had driven men to their deaths. He wasn't even sure there was anything there worth picking apart. Horace had been there when that drunk Follower Kaspar let it slip that they were really there to start up the old robo-factories, and the man even had a slip of paper to prove it, but it just seemed to ridiculous. There were other explanations, ones that didn't involve killer robots, or a city infested with rabid ghouls, or - his personal favorite - an army of Super Mutants trying to revive the Master. Surely the city just took a direct hit or two or four in the Great War, and was a radioactive wasteland. Anyone who tries to go in gets cooked alive. Simple explanation, and explains why the tribals were petrified of it all.

But it didn't explain why the Courier knew that there were factories there, or why he would even bother to send an expedition to a city that was in ruins. The Securitrons had been here - the pipeline that cast its shadow on the convoy was proof of that - and surely they would've seen if Prescott had been reduced to ash. Clearly it hadn't. And the thought of that unsettled Horace, for it was an unknown quantity, a rogue variable.

His eyes fell down upon the convoy moving beside him. He had made it a point, since their "leader" was so woefully incompetent it wasn't even worth mention, to get to know at least some of the settlers he was to get to know intimately over the next few months - perhaps even years. There was the Follower, but he didn't deserve a goddamn mention. He was worthless. There was that Valdez doctor that gave him the willies, something about the last name sent shivers in his spine. A former NCR Ranger, that Horace felt nothing but contempt for but couldn't quite figure out why.

Then that fucking mercenary from Freeside, the one that ran the Blackjacks, that had tagged along for some godforsaken reason. Now Horace well and truly despised that man. Even the very thought of that wicked Californian brought anger in his heart, who exemplified the worst of the NCR and everything they had brought to the Mojave and elsewhere: greed, corruption, and imperialism. He spit impulsively at the Arizona sand just thinking of his face. But he would never say it to his face. That man, he was capable of great and terrible things indeed. There was also that slave couple, with the strange fucking names. They were suspicious, to say the least. There was something about that couple that was too familiar for Horace to just ignore. He would figure out what it was, or by the Lord, he would eat his goddamn hat.

And then there was Lily.

She was too familiar for him to ignore. Even though they had never said more than a few words in passing to her, he felt a distinct attachment to her - and it wasn't just because they were both coming from Westside. Maybe it was his old heart getting sentimental in his advanced age, or maybe it was senility creeping up on him as he mistook her for Eunice. Either way, whatever the justification he made up in his mind, he made sure to keep his eye on her from his perch on the horse.

And, as he turned back to the head of the convoy, he could see the Follower dithering and reading that fucking note for the tenth time this hour.

God, he hated that man.



"Listen, we're gonna be fine. Stop your fuckin' worrying!"

Razor hissed at Wire under his breath, as they walked in the tangled mess of man and beast in the convoy. They couldn't afford a pack brahmin, and even if they could, they didn't have enough belongings to justify it. Razor carried the heavy backpack containing their cooking pots, some spare clothes, ammunition, and their caps, while Wire had on her back their bed rolls. Each of them were armed with makeshift pipe rifles, some of the few in the convoy who were carrying rifles.

They had tried their best to keep to themselves on the journey, avoiding the prying eyes of the busy-bodies that would soon be their neighbors. Spending some time with them by the campfire was one thing, but they sought to avoid associating too much with them on the travel there. The other settlers eyed them with suspicion, but it wasn't anything the pair wasn't used to. But there were times, especially at the stopover at Ash Fork, where they regretted their march and wished they had stayed in Sloan. At that mining town, they had a stable job - Razor working the mines and Wire tending to their injuries. It was a hard life, with little pay and little comforts, but it was a peaceful one. This adventure was anything but that, except being hard work.

At Ash Fork, the whole charade almost came crashing down. Apparently there was another ex-Legion slave in the party, and when he pulled them aside to ask about their past, they found it difficult to explain anything to him. He had been with a farming plantation near Albakerkee, and escaped only by virtue of being purchased by a caravan trader who took off his slave collar and let him run into the night. He barely made it past Legion sentries along the road, and took the long route to the Mojave, going south through the Mexican lands and catching a caravan heading to Baja. He wondered, openly, how they were able to break the slave collars off, remarking that every time he seen it tried, the poor soul had his head blown off.

They couldn't give him another answer except that they had gotten lucky. And while, at the time, the ex-slave seemed satisfied, it didn't fail to arouse suspicion within the party as the rumors of the exchange spread like wildfire. But Razor felt fine about it. What did he know anyway? Their collars were different, simple as that. And they had gotten lucky, for if it wasn't for those troopers, they would've shot 'em dead. But Wire had grown more agitated, more concerned that the jig was up. She asked, at every turn, if they could just turn back and go back to Sloan. But what would they go back to? There was no guarantee their jobs were still there when they came back. And even if they were, the roads were perilous. Only through the intervention of tribals - secured only by the skill of the expedition leader - had they been able to pass through the Hualapai lands.

No, the die had been cast. They had to stay the course. And once they reached their destination, they could begin again. Like they always said they would. They could settle down, for once in their lives, and leave the past behind. But even as Razor implored Wire to leave it be, and to stop stressing, he himself felt the doubts creep into his mind. Would it really be possible, to run away from it all? To start over like this? Old habits don't die so easily, and he deeply feared that it would all catch up with them.

But, he dismissed it, and kept on the walking with the rest of the human herd, "baby, we're gonna be golden! Just think, we're gonna have our own place! Our own lil farm? Who woulda thought?" He let his bolt-action rifle hang in one hand, as he wrapped his free arm around Wire, "we'll have our future kiddies run around us, and we'll get to live to be old and grey."

"I didn't even think we'd get to be almost thirty!" She laughed, the anxiety fading only for a brief moment.

Shortly before arrival the march to Prescott

---

They looked like they belonged in a battlefield of two centuries ago fighting the Chinese for Anchorage rather than killing poor sods in the wasteland for pay. But here they were on the job.

Except not quite. Today they weren't shooting as part of a gig, but rather to protect future gigs. Fucking Casetti triplets, how could they ignore so many years of a good relationship for a few quick caps? Perhaps they were upset that they were now losing a valuable partner and wanted recompense, but they'd learn today that you have to let go and they would learn this a very, very hard way.

"Do the knock. Then answer."

The terrified lad did as told, the firearm keeping him in line just out of sight for the hatch in the door. Said hatch slid open, and a grumbling was heard from the other side. "You're late. Again. You got the shit?"

"Yes. Yes I do."

"Alright. Come in." A sound of chains and locks being operated came, and as the door started to open it was kicked in, the man on the other end sprawling to the ground. Three operators rushed in, the one at the rear putting a single bullet into forehead of the door man and another into the the poor kid that got them in. The room was clear, and a signal was given for several more operators to stream in.

They each had memorized the layout of the building and they were armed to match with pistols, shotguns, PDWs, carbines and two machine guns to lock down corridors with suppression. They fanned out across the different paths of the rat's nest with the simple mission of no survivors save the Casettis.

Drug cooking scum, Nathaniel was absolutely furious with them! To be so petty as to threaten to tell the whole Mojave of their joint exploits, even for them sinking so low was… despicable! The Major for the last ten years could not remember a time he had cried, raised his voice, or even given much more than a chuckle to a joke. Naturally it was hard to be this cold of a bastard, and truth was even a corrupt soul as he had to force much of this but he saw it as a necessity for survival in this vile land. But the Casettis had infuriated him such that he was willing to make an exception to his usual calm. They had threatened to tell all the Mojave of their joint ventures if Nathan didn’t pay a hefty sum, one that the Major could not afford if he wanted his long-term plans to succeed. But though he could not pay the bastards off, he could not let them babble about what exactly the Blackjacks had done for all to know; if that happened there wouldn’t be a community left that would welcome them, and even the people looking for a new beginning in the East would not tolerate them. Thus they had to die, and there could not be a man left to tell of what happened; the narrative would be controlled by the Blackjacks who had already paid a few hundred caps to the Garretts and other rumour mills to say the Casettis were targeting caravans to get chemicals for their drug cooking, who in turn had paid the mercenaries to clear up their den. None of this was true of course, but that didn’t really matter did it? Though many who knew better would scoff, the narrative would be that the Blackjacks were heroes.

Moments passed, and already the sounds of automatic gunfire rattled the structure. It was an impressive work of architecture, Nathan had to admit. A warehouse built by a cave, with many cargo containers brought over to connect the two and create new rooms. Many rammed into the sandy hills and into the ground with scaffolds here and there to help hold up soil. If this place was out East in the new land of opportunity he'd have taken it for himself as a hideout.

With the sounds of combat getting more distant Nathaniel slowly started to venture into the structure given his men cleared a path of safety for him. He didn't even bother unslinging his slick FAL, instead cracking open a sunset sarsparilla to refresh him. He walked by a room where one of his operators had just finished interrogating two jet cooks with their hands raised in surrender, and nodded to the Blackjack as signal to execute the surrendered bastards; he used a knife to save on bullets. Nathaniel ran a high end corps but you didn't stay running one if you wasted caps willy-nilly oh no!

The Major motioned for the man to move on, taking a look around the room himself, sitting down on one of the chairs in it. It was a rather large enclosure, something of a rec room for the drug cooks he supposed. The comfy leather chair certainly seemed to concur! Just as he was about to doze off, a closet opened revealing two of the druggie bastards. They locked eyes monetarily, before each party ran for cover. The locals had the advantage, firing their pipe pistols first. There were two of them and they had wood tables as cover as opposed to a leather couch for Nathaniel; not a good situation indeed.

Oh, but he’d show them. Standing up he flicked the select-fire of his FAL and let the weapon rip. He repeatedly switched which of the little shits he fired upon, until eventually there was a deafeningly quiet click from the FAL. Hearing the noise of reprieve, one of the Casetti goons stood up to shoot, but the Major kept count of his ammunition and just as he was running out he kept firing with one hand to draw his sidearm; the foe did not get to aim before the Major’s 12.7mm pistol made a mess of his skull. Having stolen the initiative Nathaniel ran over to the table and gave it a heavy kick before jumping over to shoot the second goon. Wiping sweat off of his forehead Nathan looked up to see one of his mercenaries having arrived in the doorway. “Is it done?”

“Yes, we have them. Tied up like you said, Sir.”

“Excellent.”

They were there, the ugly trio. Tied up and with naught left to do but await their deaths. Nathaniel squatted in front of them, cutting off the rope around their mouths. Looking to the eldest of them he smiled. “You know I didn’t want to do this. But you made me, Michael. We were always partners and you betrayed me. So now you’re going to be slaves. See, I’m not a cruel man! You’re going to stay together, isn’t that nice?” With that he stood up and walked off, only for one of the triplets to call out after looking at all their dead friends beside them: “God will fuck you up for this you sick bastard!”

The Major stopped, his eye twitching faintly at the words. Sliding on a knee to the fellow with his knife once more out he stared for just a second. “I am not the bad guy in this story. I only exist because you do, all of this, all of this death? Its on you. God? If anything I’m the dude’s hand, given I cleaned up this den of evil. Evil. You will speak no evil, your sister hear none, and your brother see none of it. Freddy, you’re creative, I take it you knew what I meant?”

“Yessir.”

“Good, take my blade, do it.” The Major laughed. This would be his little vacation from professional, collected operation. He had gotten away with it yet again, and though this was his closest time yet he knew he’d keep getting away with it.

---

Now the Blackjacks marched at the very end of the column of settlers, their firearms in full display. They were more “tagging along” than part of the expedition of settlers, acting like vultures waiting for some violence to happen surrounding the settlers that would call for them to be hired. For now they took it easy, knowing once they arrived they’d have to take a few little odd jobs around the settlement first to make ends meet. But they were cheery for a new life awaited them, and thus they went along with a marching song on their lips.

Lily-of-the-Valley's eyes, to anyone making a passing glance, must have looked horribly glazed over. Perhaps those unaware of her past she looked tired. In truth, the woman could at least make walks like this without much effort. A youth spent making many treks like this into the badlands of the Crazy Horn stomping grounds and beyond for plants and ingredients, both mutated and not, had at least steeled her body in part for this expedition. No, Lily's eyes were very specifically downcast. She wasn't paying close attention to what she could see-- instead the short-haired woman listened to the land.

Ghosts spoke to her, wailed at her, with each crunch of soil beneath the hundreds of feet, the land sent warnings. Death awaited. Another thing she'd been steeled toward! Of course, death always awaited out here-- it always waited. They were on the precipice of blood; occasionally she would look down and see it pooling in the sandy loam beneath her feet, occasionally she would look up, and see horribly mutated birds, three of them, fighting over what was once a beautiful sparrow or a dove, but had become a mass of bloody feathers-- feathers that would never reach the ground, and then there was the big horner-- she had been seeing that one for years, thought. A great beast of muscle and rage, 6 long horns stretched out like the sun and it would stand in the distance glaring at her with eyes of green, mutating flame-- no one would ever see it, but it would breath enough grey smoke through its nose to disappear entirely-- and then it would be gone. Despite the blood, it seemed pleased with where she was headed.

Lily had been doing this for some years, you know? The whole run around with cryptic visions. There was the fact that many here would write her off if she was to say all she saw-- all that the land told her. That was a reason she kept it to herself, but another, perhaps more pertinent reason, was that she was good enough at interpreting the messages imparted to her by the bones of dust that the land left of all it touched. Storms of blood approached-- but the threat wasn't immediate. Despite the heat of the sun and the harshness of the ground, Lily, perhaps optimistically, could never accept that the land wanted anyone to die. No-- people would kill others, perhaps-- but the land just wanted to thrive. If it had to use the blood of man to replenish itself, then it would. She knew that lesson all too well.

But right now, all that the land told her of was was the approach. A rattle in the distance warning of danger.

So she tread lightly-- wary of where she stepped, but otherwise focused on the journey, and the challenges ahead. The woman wasn't well armed-- the protection she offered was medical, spiritual, perhaps psychic. The land wouldn't have screamed at her to make this journey for no reason. The stupid big horner wouldn't be smiling on her with each step she took.

Lily was dressed half a scavenger and half a tribal. The poncho she wore was her mother's, the jeans she wore she'd picked up on this trek-- the boots she wore she'd got off a dead body in Reno (They were the nicest things she owned). On her back was a self-made bow and quiver loosely slung, filled with arrows she'd made herself for the trip-- she was a bit rusty with the tribal was-- but at least according to the few Hualapai she'd spoken to (or, tried to speak to-- the gap between languages wasn't too vast, but... there was a gap), she hadn't grown too soft in Vegas. Lily had needed to sell a fair bit of her more modern firepower to afford the pack brahmin for her and her girls. They brought with them clothes, hygiene and beauty products-- Lily had loaded the animal with as many native herbs as she could, knowing she'd have to learn an entire new region for whatever remedies she was useful for.

"God damnit," A shrill voice spoke behind Lily snapping her out of her thoughts, "Need another shoe."

A laugh, "Bitch, another one?" A second voice said between laughs.

"I can make you some sandals when we break..." Lily spoke with a distracted smile.

The first voice; "Oh, so you're a cobbler now?"

The second woman snorted as she stopped her laughing fit, "Bitch what?"

"I'm sorry?" Lily added.

The second woman shook her head, "Yeah, I don't."

Lily smiled, "It sounds kind of tasty."

"SHUT UP." The first woman yelled, loud enough to turn other heads amongst the huddled caravaneer masses.

"Charlotte, I'm sorry, but what is a cobbler?" Lily politely asked.

"Well, it's not mutfruit cobbler, for one." Charlotte rolled her eyes as she spoke, "And no, Moriah, it's not sexual either."

Moriah, notably shorter than Lily, leaned up against the taller, tanner woman laughing. "Please keep telling us all the things it isn't," She giggled, "It's not obvious you don't know what the hell you're talking about, Cee."

"Oh my god, shut up," Her gaze directed toward the sky as she limped along on her heel-less boot, "It's like a shoe maker-- that should have been obvious."

"Should it?" Lily tilted her head, "I would hardly call sandals shoes."

"Lily, I'm gunna fucking kill you."

"If you kill her she can't make you your shoes!" Moriah beamed.

"They're not shoes, though." Lily's earnest smile contrasted Moriah's.

Charlotte exhaled, "LILY. MORIAH. Just shut up, please, I don't need this right now." She gazed toward the sky as she pleaded. Clearly someone was not as used to long treks. "How do you even know how to make shoes?"

_"Sandals." Lily added under her breath, "It's just something I picked up."

"Huh."

Moriah wrapped her arm around Lily, taking another sip from her flask as she did, "Our girl has skills and visions!" The woman leaned against her as the pair continued to walk, "And as sweet as a cobbler!"

Lily blushed.

"Goodness, Valley girl! You're such a little girl, sometimes!" Moriah stumbled ahead, "Everyone knows we're whores! No ones going to do shit about it-- if they do Ol' Horace'll put two between their eyes! Relax."

Lily and Charlotte gave a dry chuckle. Lily spoke.

"We were whores." She fell behind, placing a hand on her Brahmin's side, "But this is our shot-- out here we can figure something out. Be more this time, you know? Just got to make sure we don't drown."

That last bit confused the other two-- drown? They were further away from water than ever before. But they knew not to pry. Lily's eyes glazed over again as she resumed her listening.