i. LEAVIN' ON YOUR MIND
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A crack echoed across the walls of the gully. With a ruffle of its feathers, a singular crow took flight, up and over the gully, towards the blazing sun.

Down in the gully, a ghoul lifted its head. It shuffled around, staggering on rotten feet, but returned to staring blankly at the well in front of it.

Sylvia huffed and ducked her head. When she didn't hear footsteps coming her way, she lifted her head again, peering down into the gully. The pack of five ghouls had yet to move away from the well. Just her luck.

She didn't miss her next shot. The ghoul pitched forward, and the others around it craned their necks in the direction of the gunshot. Her finger tightened around the trigger.

One of the remaining ghouls began a disjointed sprint towards the sides of the gully. Sylvia cursed under her breath as she scrambled to her feet. Feral ghouls didn't have all their capabilities, but Christ, could they run.

As soon as one ghoul took off running, the others followed. Sylvia saw them coming up the side of the gully, and she pulled her revolver from its holster on her hip. She kicked her rifle stand over. Better to do it then, and not trip over it later.

Right as her rifle skittered down the slope of the gully, the first ghoul appeared on the horizon. Her first shot caught it in the shoulder. A second and third ghoul crested the hill. She fired again, and the first ghoul crumpled.

The second ghoul lunged at her and caught a round to the throat. Sylvia shot at the third― and missed. Its leathery hand clutched her arm. Blackened nails dug into the fabric of her sleeve. She fired at its elbow, and it let go of her long enough for her to put another bullet in its head.

The fourth ghoul must have been slower than the rest. Sylvia tried to fire at it, and realized only too late that she had to reload her revolver.

Heart hammering in her chest, she took a handful of steps back, digging in her pockets for even one round to put in the chamber. The ghoul only stumbled closer.

She fixed it with a look. "Oh, fuck you."

Winding her arm up, she cracked the ghoul across the face with the barrel of her gun. It staggered, and she pressed on, landing blow after blow. She only let up once its cranium resembled an overripe melon that a brahmin had stepped on.

A soft whirring noise over her shoulder made her jump. "Winston―!"

Sylvia leapt to her feet, whirled on the thing behind her. A Mr. Handy model stared straight back at her, one metal arm sporting a small, active buzzsaw.

"Apologies, ma'am," it said, and the buzzsaw stopped. "You told me to stay out of sight, and I was made to comply."

"No worries," she replied. "I'm... Glad you were following orders."

Her forearm stung. Wincing, she pushed up her sleeve to see a couple of pink semicircles scratched into her skin. From the ghoul that had grabbed her, no doubt.

"Ma'am!" Winston tutted, hovering over to her side. "I ought to give you orders: stay out of trouble."

"No can do, Winston." Sylvia grinned. "Trouble is my life's work."

She wiped the gray matter off of her revolver as best she could, then holstered it. On the way down the gully, she grabbed her rifle and slung it over her back. Winston followed, remarking on the state of the feral ghouls that littered the ground.

Sylvia paused in the middle of the gully. "I swear there was a fifth. Winston, did you see a fifth?"

After a slight pause, Winston said, "Frankly, ma'am, I wasn't looking."

"Well, you're a great help," she muttered.

She took a step closer to the well, peered into its depths, and grimaced. "Oh. That's perfect."

Slumped at an awkward angle, its black, unseeing eyes boring into her skull, was the fifth ghoul.

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The sun was low on the horizon by the time Sylvia knocked on the door of the Adler household. Winston hovered over her shoulder, humming a pleasant tune in her ear. She could've sworn she'd heard it before on Radio New Vegas.

A woman opened the door, her blonde hair frizzy and glasses askew. She brightened when she saw her visitor and said, "Oh! Come in, Sylvia. Just be sure to leave your weapons outside."

Sylvia smiled, then turned to Winston. "I'll be out in a minute, okay?"

"Of course, ma'am!" He chirped.

Like he always did when they took these jobs, Winston hovered his way over to a spot outside the front of the house. And, as always, he struck up another hummed tune. Tonight's seemed to be Johnny Guitar. Classic.

The woman― Mrs. Adler― made Sylvia sit at her kitchen table and pushed a bowl of stew in front of her. "We'd pay in caps, but... Well..."

"Mrs. Adler, I'd be more offended if you tried to give me caps," she replied, and smiled. "Besides, now I can say I've killed for a bowl of your brahmin stew."

Mrs. Adler shook her head. "Sylvia, I told you to call me Lizzie. You're making me feel old."

Laughing, Sylvia swirled her spoon around in the bowl. "Well, we aren't getting any younger."

They didn't speak about the caps again. Money was tight, no thanks to the taxes imposed by the NCR. But money had been especially tight for the Adler family ever since the twins came along. Sylvia hadn't been in town back then, but from what she had heard, Lizzie's pregnancy had come out of the blue. It had been years, and they still had to pay back the friends and family that helped them prepare for the twins.

A young girl and boy came sprinting through the kitchen, giggling and squealing. The girl tripped, and she would have gone careening into the countertop if Sylvia hadn't stuck out an arm and caught her.

"Easy," she said, and the girl straightened up, pushing her dark curls out of her face.

"Thank you, Auntie Sylvia," she mumbled.

"Olivia!" Lizzie sighed. "Oh, this is what I get for letting you have Sugar Bombs before bed―"

Sylvia grinned and ruffled the girl's hair. "Careful, Olivia. If you have too many Sugar Bombs, you'll explode."

Olivia gasped. "Really?"

"Yup. That's why they're called Sugar Bombs."

Laughter rang out from the hallway. Marcus Adler wandered into the kitchen, bent down, and threw Olivia over his shoulder. She shrieked with laughter as he started off down the hallway, pounding her little fists on his strong back.

He stopped and turned back, winking at her. "Hey, Sylvia. You get those ghouls cleared out?"

"Sure did," Sylvia called, grinning. "I'd be careful, though. One of the ghouls fell in― I cleaned the well out as best I could, but I'd wait until this time tomorrow to draw up any water."

"Well, thanks a million." He began to walk away. "C'mon, Jacob."

Jacob, the little boy, toddled off after his father. He peered out at Sylvia from behind the kitchen table a moment later. She caught his eye and made an ugly face, and he burst into giggles before making an ugly face of his own.

Lizzie watched with a faint smile. When Jacob had finally dashed out of the room, she murmured, "We're having another baby."

"What?" Sylvia shot up in her chair, turned to stare at her friend. "Does... Does Marcus know?"

"Not yet."

"How can you be sure?"

Lizzie rubbed a hand over her stomach. "I just know. That, and I can hardly look at this stew without wanting to be sick."

Sylvia stared into her bowl of brahmin stew. Her payment for clearing those ghouls from the only source of income the Adlers had. Christ, they couldn't even afford to pay her in caps, and they were having another baby...

In a flash, she reached for the utility belt that hung around her hips, shoving a hand into one of the pockets. She leaned across the table and pressed a fistful of caps into Lizzie's hand, fixing her with a look.

"Sylvia, I can't―" Lizzie began, but fell silent under the look Sylvia gave her.

"You can. And you will." She let go, leaving the caps in Lizzie's hand. "Consider it a present from Auntie Sylvia to the baby."

They sat in silence. On the countertop, the beat-up radio sputtered out an old Bing Crosby tune. She pretended not to notice the tears welling in Lizzie's eyes.

Marcus returned to the kitchen, slipping an arm around Lizzie's waist and pressing a kiss to her temple. Sylvia interested herself in drinking every last drop of broth from the bowl in front of her.

"You're from Novac, right, Sylvia?" He asked.

She glanced over at Marcus, her brow furrowing. "Sure am. Why? Any news from home?"

"Well..." Marcus faltered when Lizzie shot him a look. "No. Nothing you should worry about."

"...Right."

She didn't buy it for a second. The faint smile Marcus gave her couldn't convince her of a damn thing. And Lizzie's reaction only made it crystal-clear that something had happened in Novac. Something they wanted to keep from her― or protect her from.

Sylvia stood up so fast that the table jerked. She mustered up a thin smile, saying, "Well, thanks for the hospitality, but I should really be going."

"Oh, don't worry about the news from Novac," Lizzie said, and broke away from Marcus to walk Sylvia to the door. "It's probably nothing but a rumor, anyways. Stay awhile, Sylvia."

"Sorry, Lizzie," she said. "O'Shaughnessy's is calling."

Lizzie managed a smile. "You had better give that Seamus boy a chance, Sylvia."

"We'll see." She returned the smile and added, "Love you guys. Tell the kids I said goodnight."

The very second that she stepped into the cool evening air, Sylvia turned to Winston. He hadn't moved an inch from his position outside the Adler home. Gears whirring, he hovered over to her, but she held up a hand.

"I need you to head back home, Winston," she told him.

She heard the tangible frown in Winston's voice as he said, "Is everything alright, ma'am?"

"Sure is. I'm just heading to O'Shaughnessy's." She tried to smile, but she was sure it looked more like a grimace. "I need to clear my head."

"Pardon me, ma'am, but I doubt whiskey would do that―"

Sylvia grinned at him. "Who said my drink of choice tonight would be whiskey?"

Winston gave a small scoff. Before he could say anything about all the times she'd visited O'Shaughnessy's for a glass of whiskey, she put a hand on his domed body.

"See you later, buddy."

He might have protested if she hadn't fixed him with a look. With an audible sigh, Winston began to hover off in the direction of their shack, and Sylvia looked towards the faint glow of Modesto in the distance.

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Living in Modesto for three years meant that Sylvia had finally become a "regular" at O'Shaughnessy's. When she stepped into the old bar, a handful of patrons nodded hello or spared her a smile. One of them even pulled her aside to ask the rate she charged for repairing a Mr. Handy model.

She liked to think that people liked her. Not that she gave them a reason to dislike her― or, she hoped that was the case― but she knew the cold hard truth. These people had lived in Modesto all their lives, while she had blown into town one day and decided to stick around.

"Sylvia!"

All chatter in the bar died for a split second. In that time, just about everyone in the building craned their necks to catch a glimpse of her.

The bartender waved to her. "Good to see you!"

Sylvia forced herself to take a deep breath and smile. "Hi, Seamus."

Her face burning, she took a seat at the bar, drumming her fingers on the counter. Seamus, the bartender, gestured to the rack of liquor bottles behind him.

"So," he said, grinning. "What'll you have?"

"C'mon, Seamus!" She said, feigning offense. "I thought you knew me better than that."

Seamus laughed. "Whiskey. Got it."

Her thoughts wandered as she watched him work. Seamus O'Shaughnessy, the shyest bartender to ever live. Everything flustered him, from the middle-aged regulars who traded jokes with him to the mere sight of a pretty girl at the bar. It was always obvious, too― his ears turned bright red when something riled him up.

His ears looked to be a brilliant shade of scarlet that night as he slid her glass of whiskey across the bar. Sylvia smiled at him, and his entire face turned a deep red, bright against his dark hair.

"What brings you in tonight?" He asked.

"I wanted to clear my head." Sylvia traced a finger around the rim of her glass, saying, "How's your dad?"

"Oh, he's fine," Seamus replied, wringing out a dishrag. "That fall didn't hurt anything more than his pride."

She leaned closer, murmuring, "So... Word on the street is, you had a hot date last week."

"What!"

"Was she pretty?"

"It wasn't a date," he said, his ears a deep scarlet. "She was... Passing through town."

Seamus went to fill a glass, cursed, and flung his dishrag on the counter. He slipped out from behind the bar and headed for a side door, muttering something about a smoke break.

Sylvia frowned over the rim of her glass. Right as she slid off the edge of her barstool, Mr. New Vegas's voice rose over the chatter that filled O'Shaughnessy's.

"...In other news, a young woman has gone missing from the town of Novac. Now, nothing's been confirmed, but residents claim that Caesar's Legion had something to do with it..."

Her chest hurt. Cold, cold dread seeped through her veins, a coldness not even the burn of whiskey could melt. She sat on the barstool again, touching the cool side of her glass to her forehead.

Gritty sand under her hands. The sting of ropes digging into her wrists. Wide eyes peering at her in the dark. Laughter from a nearby campfire. A flash of their flag, the golden bull on a background of red, waving in the night breeze―

Her glass clattered against the wooden bar as she set it down. Sylvia didn't notice the looks the other patrons shot her. She kept her eyes fixed on the door, her chest tighter than ever.

She stepped outside and began to take in deep breaths of the crisp night air. That was it. That was the news Lizzie didn't want her to know. Another pretty girl from Novac had become a Legion slave.

"Sylvia?"

Seamus's faint Irish brogue reached her ears too late. Before she could sneak away, he came into view, wiping his palms on his blue jeans. His expression turned to a frown before she could even think to plaster a smile on her face.

"Everything alright?" He asked, and put a hand on her arm. "You don't look too good."

"I'm fine." Sylvia smiled. "I just got a bit lightheaded. I think I'm going to head home. Take it easy for the night."

"Well, I'm sorry to see you go."

She managed a laugh. "Oh, please. You're just happy I'm not asking about your dates anymore."

"Right." Seamus winced. "Could you not mention that?"

"Why?" She grinned and said, "Don't want your dad hearing about it?"

"Not quite," he said, and dropped his voice. "I don't want the girl I've really been after talkin' about all my old flames."

Sylvia didn't give herself time to panic. By the time she realized that Seamus had been talking about her, she had already begun to lean in.

The kiss tasted like any old bar or saloon in the Mojave. Whiskey and cigarettes, the faintest smell of gunpowder lingering on her hair and clothes. She broke away once she realized that she had reached out to touch his face.

"Sorry," she murmured, once they had pulled away, "but I―"

"It's alright." Seamus had gone completely red in the face. "I'm glad you didn't punch me for tellin' you I had a thing for you."

"Seamus, this―"

"You know, if you'd give me a chance..." He trailed off, smiling to himself. "Well, I'd do right by you. And I mean that."

Sylvia nodded. "Can we talk later? I'm sorry, I'm just... Lightheaded..."

"Whoa." Seamus caught her by the wrist, saying, "I don't want you walkin' home alone, Sylvia."

"It's fine." Wrenching her hand away, she offered him a weak smile. "I'm not running away from you, O'Shaughnessy."

Her smile dropped the moment she turned her back on him. Thoughts of the Legion crept back in during her walk home, of the soldiers and their slaving ways. Thoughts of Novac. Thoughts of home.

The night air chilled her to the bone as she made her way back to her little shack. Sand and dirt crunched under her boots with each step.

Sand. It was so small, so easily blown away by a simple gust of wind. Under the right conditions, one grain of sand could travel from Goodsprings to New Vegas in a single day. Sylvia wondered if the sand under her feet had been the same sand she'd slept on that night.

She knew that Seamus would never be able to do right by her. He was a good man, and she didn't doubt that he'd be a good partner, but she knew what had to happen.

In the morning, he would stop by, hoping to talk. And he would find a note on the door to her empty shack, putting it up for sale. There would be no sign of Sylvia, no sign of Winston. They had vanished, moving like grains of sand, carried away by the breeze.

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Not much happened during her first day on the road. Or the second.

Sylvia kept her rifle out as she walked, but nothing came by. She stuck by a motto: live and let live. If the bloatflies and geckos of the Mojave didn't bother her, then she wouldn't bother them in return.

In the rare instance that something did charge her, she didn't worry. Between her rifle and Winston's flamethrower, they earned themselves plenty of charred gecko steak.

During the early hours of her journey, she caught a glimpse of Modesto in the distance, and her heart ached.

She hadn't given a reason for leaving. Not that she was popular, but most people knew her name. Her disappearance would stir up some gossip for a week or two.

Lizzie and Marcus would know what made her leave. Maybe they'd tell everyone, and the rest of town would assume she had gone home to be with family. But the twins... What would they think? Could they wrap their heads around Auntie Sylvia leaving and possibly never coming back?

Seamus, too. Sylvia knew he would move on, but guilt began to eat at her the more she thought about him. He'd been so excited to have a chance with her...

Maybe, if she returned, she would try to rekindle what they had. If he even let her.

She spent her days walking and her nights resting, but Novac stayed on her mind no matter the time. The town had suffocated her and she had no love for half the people in it, but she considered it home all the same.

"You know, Winston, I've never actually taken you home," she said one night, picking at the gecko steak in front of her. "We've only ever lived in Modesto."

"You've never mentioned your home, ma'am," Winston replied.

"Yeah." Sylvia gave a bitter laugh. "Well, we're going back now."

"To Novac?"

She nodded. "I've got some business to take care of."

Winston ignited his flamethrower and rekindled their dying campfire, saying, "It will be an honor to travel with you, ma'am. As it always is."

"Well, aren't you sweet."

Sylvia stared into the fire, watched tendrils of flame creep higher into the night sky. Her stomach churned at the mere thought of Novac, and she wrapped her remaining gecko steak in cloth.

"Is everything alright, ma'am?" Wisnton asked.

"We'll see," she replied, stuffing the bundle into her pack.

"Forgive me for asking, ma'am, but... Would it truly be wise for you to return to Novac?"

She faltered, glanced his way. "Of course. It's my home."

Winston didn't press her for any more answers. Sylvia sighed and laid down, resting her head on her pack. The faint hum of Winston's mechanics and the flickering embers of their campfire lulled her into sleep, if only for a few hours.

She dreamed of home. Except home didn't look like Novac, or Modesto, or any other place that she recognized. It looked like a campfire on a cliffside, the lights of the Strip twinkling in the distance.

She woke up with an ache in her chest.

They reached the Fresno ruins on their third day of travel. Some stray bombs had hit the city hard during the war, and most of the area was nothing more than rubble. And even after the area returned to a somewhat healthy radiation level, nobody bothered to inhabit the place.

Sylvia didn't want to take her chances. She skirted around the edge of the city, popping Rad-X like candy. At the very least, she could appreciate Winston's company, if not his constant humming.

"Hold up."

A few yards ahead, a ghoul had stumbled into the road. Its legs buckled with each step as it staggered around, black eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. Feral, no doubt.

She crept closer. A faint humming behind her told her that Winston had fired up his buzzsaw.

When the ghoul turned in her direction, Sylvia lifted her rifle. Her finger hovered over the trigger, but the ghoul didn't try to chase her down.

It hadn't moved. Why wouldn't it move?

The ghoul's hand twitched. In a mere second, it had pulled a revolver from its belt and aimed it at her head.

"Don't make me shoot you, sweetheart."

birdie's comments!

this chapter is shorter than i wanted it to be but i've lost the motivation to edit it any further

the title of this chapter is a patsy cline song tee hee. i'm still a little torn about it, but the goal is to have each chapter title be reminiscent of a fallout quest title (like "one for my baby" or "G.I. blues" etc)

anyways here are some notes i left while outlining the prologue and first two chapters of this fic

it's a wonder i managed to outline this entire fic from start to finish LMAO