Cat Fyre

[Somewhere in the Southwestern United States...]

She walked heavily through the camp, her boots crunching the dried earth beneath her feet. The desert wind kicked her duster up around her legs and threatened to lift the hat from her head, had it not been for her leather cord tied under the chin. Soon the wind seemed to recognize her stoic presence, dying down to a gentle breeze. The soldiers had also noticed her sudden presence.

"Look, the wastes have delivered another dirty harlot to serve us." One yelled, rising to his feet. He was, of course, the man in charge. The soldier squinted, seizing up the female stranger. He could not see her eyes behind the brim of the hat. "Surely this one will put up more of a fight than the last two."

In response she stopped suddenly, her body standing rigid despite her movement having been so strangely fluid moments before.

"Look here profligate, if you remove your weapon... we won't come for you just yet. Consider it your lucky day. I'll even give you a gracious head start. We won't pursue you until one of my recruits here has counted to one-hundred." he snickered, provoking laughter from the other soldiers. Their leader pointed his machete at the woman. Hushed voices were exchanging words. This one would never make it back to the Fort. It had been an eventful day, and they were in need of something to relieve their stress. She would be fun.

"I saw what you did to those travelers." she spoke, her voice soft yet utterly lacking in emotion.

"Oh, you did? Well, how did you like the show?" he asked, tilting his head theatrically to one side. A piece of sharpened blade sung through the air, piercing the man's eye socket and resting in his brain. A mouse-like noise came from his throat. He slumped to the ground quietly, staring at the clear sky with one intact eye.

"'Give it ah thumbs down." she said as a maniacal smile crept across her face. The other soldiers rose to their feet quickly.

Faster than greased lightning, she had pulled her revolvers to meet the murderous Legionaries before they had raised their own weapons. One by one Caesar's men were gunned down. It happened so fast they fell on top of each other like dominoes from the Old World. Her aim was deadly accurate, sending the .44 magnum rounds screaming into the slavers' skulls. Gore exploded against the fabric of the tent. Within a few seconds the woman stood before a dead Legion raiding party, and only the smoke rising from her guns moved. Her gut loosened it's squeeze, and her muscles began to relax. Sweat ran from her smooth forehead to her nose, then dripped down to the dry soil. The earth drank it and the blood of the Legion. A heavy sigh escaped her lips.

"Ad perpetuam rei memoriam." she said softly, replacing the guns in their holsters. A surreal feeling washed over her body, along with a light-headed numbness. The woman walked to the corpses, retrieving her throwing knife. Then she turned and made her way back towards the setting sun.
















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The nuclear wasteland has a way of turning creatures into killers in the interest of survival. Katherine is no exception. Her mother was a legion slave, liberated by the Desert Ranger Vigo Fyre. When Vigo found her, she was already pregnant and in very poor health. Something about the girl made him sympathize with her, and he helped her out of the desert. The ranger took the pregnant Jesse to the Followers, asking for their help in care for her. He payed them and quickly vanished.

Vigo returned a few months later, news having reached him that Jesse was in labor. By the time he had arrived, however, Jesse had passed away during childbirth. Blood stained the bed, and a pile of rags sat near her body... soaked in the precious liquid. The orphaned baby was alive, however, crying loudly in the arms of a sober-faced Follower.

"I s'pose y'all are more suited ta' care fer the little 'un than myself." he said quietly. Vigo produced a sack of caps from inside his coat. "This should help feed her and what have ye. I'll be responsible for the child, I don't want her growing up like those punks 'round Freeside or those thugs 'round the ruins. Take care of her, I'll check back on her when I can..." he grunted, turned, and exited the tent. The baby would not see Vigo again for five years.



Catherine Fyre was the name of the girl given to her by the Followers. Catherine's first name had come from the Follower who spent the most time with the child in her infancy, only to be murdered one night outside of Vegas. Cat had been given the last name of the Ranger who had saved her life and funded her upbringing, Vigo Fyre. When Cat was five years old, Vigo returned.

"Papa?" the gangly blonde girl asked.

"No... I... " Vigo began, but caught a menacing stare from Angela, a Follower currently caring for Catherine. "That's right Cat, I'm your pa." he surrendered. The young girl regarded him timidly.

"Why do you wear that metal mask?" she asked meekly. Vigo chuckled, then removed his helmet.

"Well Cat, this is my helmet. It protects my head during... battles..." he struggled to make sense to the girl.

"Like a knight?" Cat questioned, eyes bright.

"Well, I s'pose. More like a lawman." he concluded. The girl ran to him and clutched his legs in a tight embrace. From that moment, Vigo made the biggest mistake of his career. He fell in love.



Vigo left again, but promised Cat he'd never be too far away. Every few months Ranger Fyre would make a journey to Freeside, bringing gifts for his adopted daughter and supplies for the Followers. His visits became more and more frequent, and he spent more and more time with Catherine.

When she had turned twelve, Vigo had given her a .32 revolver for her birthday. They would sit outside of Vegas and shoot empty Nuka Cola bottles on some evenings, drinking flat Sunset Sarsaparilla and munching on roasted brahmin. She would remember their evenings together for the rest of her life. The man had taught her about life, and how to protect it. The girl had seemed eager to learn the ways of her father. The locals respected him, and Catherine adored him.



After being gone for a few weeks Vigo returned to Freeside, finding young Catherine drunk and high. They fought, and in the middle of it two young men approached Vigo.

"Easy gramps, she's a big girl." One said coldly.

"Yeah, we'll take care of her." another said, moving behind Vigo. The Ranger exploded in motion, turning and smashing the thug behind him. The young man stumbled backwards, blood flowing from his nose and mouth. Vigo turned and blocked the swinging crow bar of the other dirty man, pulling his revolver and shoving it into the young drifter's gut.

"Get lost you little fuck, or I'll put six bullets in your crotch, and you won't be fuckin' anything, ya hear?" he snarled. He released the man, and the two thugs fled. Then Vigo made a decision that would change both of their lives. He took Catherine with him into the desert.



"Where the hell are we goin', pa?" young Catherine asked as they trekked through the Mojave Wasteland. Dust blew all around them, stinging her face.

"We're going to a friend of mine's house. I use it as a home ta' squat when I'm in the area. You'll be staying there, n' so will I when I can." Vigo responded, his voice hazy through the mask's filters.

"What's his name? Is he a Ranger too?" she asked, struggling to keep up with him.

"His name is Rico Fyre, and he is my brother." Vigo did not tell Catherine that Rico was not a Ranger anymore. In fact, her uncle was a deserter and an outlaw.

Vigo and Cat stayed at Rico's dilapidated ranch house for a few years. Vigo's income fed them all well, so Rico spent little time pulling jobs. Vigo would sometimes leave for weeks at a time, during which Rico had began teaching the young woman a different set of skills than the Rangers practiced. How to lye, cheat, fight dirty, surprise the enemy, and survive at all costs. Rico enjoyed his niece's company, and thought fondly of her becoming a woman with true strength and grit. A woman worthy of carrying the Fyre name she had been blessed with.

Cat enjoyed learning from Rico as well, because he thought much differently than her father. Her father thought of morals, dignity, and justice. Rico, on the other hand, taught her the valuable knowledge of self preservation, and survival of the fittest. Rico was a rough, gruff, charismatic man. He and Cat often laughed, joked, and had fun trying to outwit each other... something she and her father seldom did.



These times were not to last, however. By now Cat was deadly good with a six shooter and throwing knives, and often made trips to trading posts by herself, for the family. She returned from the market to her ranch home to find the brahmin butchered, the house on fire, and her father and uncle's bodies hung from the gate. A legion machete stuck from her uncle's chest, and a few dead legionaries were found near the porch. Vigo and Rico had not died without a fight. But they had, unfortunately, died in the end. And once again, Catherine found herself abandoned. For the first time in many years, she was scared and alone. Sobbing, she stripped the guns and the belt from her father and uncle, tossing her own .32 revolver into the dirt. She took the machete from her father's chest and cut Vigo's body free, setting it on the ground gently. She removed his duster, shaking with he force of her sobs. Then she said something she had not expected herself. Something that seemed to float to the surface of her mind like oil on water.

"Ad perpetuam rei memoriam."

And with that she buried the bodies, gathered a pack of salvaged supplies and left the smoldering farm. She carried a potent mixture of sadness and rage in her heart, a force that would drive her towards her waiting destiny like a Supercharged '76 Chryslus Highwayman. It would drive her through many travels, selling her gun-slinging skills to survive. She felt empty, only the need for vengeance in her young heart, and room for nothing else. She became cold and ruthless, disgusted by the "filth" of the world that came after.



After years without making progress on finding her father's murders, she began to take out her frustrations on people she bounty hunted. Once marked, no amount of pleas, reasoning, or bullets stopped Cat Fyre from putting them in the dirt and collecting the caps. So her life became that of a soulless, wandering gun. Hunting the people who had succumbed to the same primal frustrations as her, she was a walking hypocrite.

And as she searched for a purpose, the hunt took over her life. The hunt for meaning and purpose became the hunt for temporary satisfaction. Hunt the bad guy. Kill the bad guy. Collect the caps. Repeat. She began to drink during this unending cycle, making her even more unpredictable and unreasonable. She lost the ability to sympathize with others, and focused on becoming a perfect gunman. (Or woman.)

So she walks, forever looking for something she doesn't know exists. Leaving a bloody trail of misguided vengeance in her wake, dispensing justice as she sees fit for the crime.. Rumors of the Blonde Widow began to circulate. More executioner than woman, she did not shoot to wound, but to kill. Outlaws and raiders feared her in secret, avoiding areas she is rumored to be passing through. And still she walks, like a zombie, to wherever the money and her gut tell to go. Another human twisted by the Wasteland.