Yet Another Letter.

Three months prior to Boone's halting but sincere conversation with Dolly, everyone except a mother and her son were asleep in the vast expanse of the Lucky 38.  While the rest of the city slumbered, hundreds of miles to the East, a woman stared quietly at the blackness of her ceiling.  There was no lighting save for a dim oil lamp near her, and she listened to the restless murmurings of the man in bed with her.  She wasn't awake due to this--he had never been one to have easy sleep, and she had no problem lying with him despite this flaw.  She was awake because, though she gave herself small credit on being a 'witch', Estelle nonetheless sensed that something was happening.  

The next morning, which was a cold and grey and dreary morning in the Wasteland known as Salt Lake, a very old and weary Joshua Graham made his way to the water's edge, his head down, his tired shoulders slumped forward.  The Salt Witch stood in the doorway, her hair--at first black, then black with white streaks, and now finally white with black streaks, billowing around her as it usually did when these mountains allowed a bit of wind to filter through.  She knew Joshua was praying, knew he wanted peace.  Watching the different shades of slate playing across the water's surface and the unhappy sky, the Salt Witch contemplated in her own way the meaning of her uneasiness.  

Whether it was God, or intuition, or some innate mixture of the two, the Salt Witch was struck with a terrible revelation.  Death.  Though the lake was quiet and not a single gunshot from the nearby ruins of the city disturbed her or Joshua, she fell back against the doorframe, her palm pressed to her mouth, and before she could rapidly blink and gather her surroundings, Estelle realized that a tear streamed down the side of her own face.  The girl was gone.  She shook, and looked away, turning to the preferable darkness of her soot-covered home.  What the intuitive witch failed to sense was the Burned Man sinking to his knees in the ankle-high water.  


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Another day in Vegas.  The doors of the Lucky 38, the casino floor of which had been converted into a pre and post-War museum, stood open and inviting newcomers, the first flashy bit of business to attend before they chose where to waste their caps.  Gamblers were easy to spot, and new gamblers, even easier to spot.  Lounging in the sun near the Lucky 38 on ground level was neither a seasoned or a new gambler.  Instead, there sat a teenager, drinking in the sun in a tank top, shorts, and large sunglasses.  She had light brown hair that fell past her shoulders and dark skin.  Partially shielding her from the sun and partially hovering protectively, Victor the Securitron clacked his robotic digits and seemed to be discussing something.  

He paused, however, when another non-gambler stepped through the gates, looking around apprehensively.  The man had already presented a passport, but looked as though he'd been on the wrong side of a fight.  The girl pulled down her sunglasses to stare at the stranger with a half curious, half shrewd look.  Ignoring the throngs of Strip-walkers, the young man pushed his way toward the girl and her robot.

"Ex...excuse me," he said, and now that he was closer, she pushed the sunglasess back up and examined him.  A courier.  His shirt was branded Mojave express, he wore a long duster, he carried a large satchel.  The teen didn't move from her reclined position in the lawn chair, but the robot twitched nervously.  He'd seen something the courier hadn't.

"I'm, uh. I'm looking for a Crai--"

Suddenly, a large shadow fell over the nervous young man and he was wrenched away from the scene.  Boone, in full NCR gear--and home for lunch--sneered past his glasses and beret and continued to pull the courier away.  

"You've found him," snarled the soldier.

"Please!! Please don't----aaaaggghhh!" Now Boone carried the man by his shoulders and throat, dragging him through the false lawn and toward a dumpster that sat by Vegas's front gates.  

"I EXPRESSLY sent a letter to your company stating NO MORE LETTERS are to be---"

"It wasn't the company!" the man choked, and Boone finally halted, still holding the young man by the throat.  "It was....it was this man, in re----agghchh, in red!"

Now Boone released his grip on the kid's throat and instead pulled him closer by his jacket.  "Who."

"I...I don't know...he said he was with the Legion." The courier sounded as though he were on the verge of a panic attack.  "He...he said his men were watching me and he said that if I didn't give the letter to you that he'd...AHHHHh! that he'd KILL ME.  Please just take it!"  He managed to reach into his pocket and toss away a red-sealed envelope, which fell on the fake grass nearby.  

The teenager, curious, stood up and walked over to the letter, plucking it up and watching her father warily.  

Boone seemed at a loss for words, which was not uncommon.  He sighed, then picked the man up and tossed him in the dumpster, rounding on his daughter as the courier screamed, the heavy lid clanging down on top of him.  In only a few steps, Boone had crossed to where his daughter was unsealing the envelope, and he snatched it out of her hands.  

She made a distressed sound, and Boone crushed the letter in his massive hand.  

"What are you doing outside?" he near-shouted, causing several people nearby to pause and stare.

"I......"

"You nothing! You know when I'm at work, you're not supposed to leave---"

"I NEVER leave! I didn't have school today and I was inside ALL DAY!"

"And you think that matters, you think that when you have a WHOLE GODDAMN BALCONY FOR YOURSELF, I'm just going to let you--"

He stopped, his nostrils flaring dangerously, when his daughter stormed off toward the entrance.  In a show of her mother's temper, she shoved a tourist aside, stomping all the way across the museum floor and toward the elevator.

"...Teenagers, eh boss?" said Victor sheepishly, and Boone sighed.