"You know, I always wanted it to be you," the Courier says, taking a deep swig of his scotch. Boone lowers the silenced pistol as he continues to speak. Whenever he spoke, one was compelled to listen. That was the thing Boone both loved and feared about his friend.

"Hell, I deserve it. After all I put New Vegas through. After all I put you through," his voice is barely a whisper. He lifts the now empty bottle to look at the flames of the campfire reflecting off of it. "Although, I never expected you to get this close. I've been waiting for that bullet to come from one of the nooks and crannies of the hills, a shot meant just for me." Boone swallows past the thick lump that is lodged in his throat.

"Why? Why Caesar? You could have helped anyone you wanted," his voice is quiet but demanding. The other man shakes his head with a laugh that crackles like dead leaves.

"There are some bonds you can't break. Some choices you were always destined to make. I tried to run, but I couldn't get away fast enough. You know, he never really loved my mother. Didn't have what you and Carla had. That concept doesn't mesh well with his idea of a perfect world," he says, and for the first time since the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, the Courier looks Boone in the eye. "I'm tired of running, Boone." Boone blinks away the tears he never expected to form.

"It's customary I ask you for last words," he says gruffly, not wanting to hear what the other man has to say, but feels obligated to do so none-the-less. The Courier smiles sadly.

"I should have fought harder. For Vegas. For you," the Courier breathes out in a voice that is barely a voice. He closes his eyes in a mock semblance of peace. "I should have fought for you."

The shot that rings out isn't heard around the world, but it shatters what is left of Boone's.