On the other side, the night sky was a hazy orange. Its hue was polluted by thick black smoke that rose from fires raging out of control. Oppressive heat hit them immediately. Sierra’s forehead pressed against the back of his neck as he stepped into the city he razed.

His jaw clenched as the acrid scent of burning wood and flesh accosted his nostrils. The adobe structures and refurbished remnants of the old world burned bright and hot, their flames licking at the starless void above. Screams echoed through the streets. Faint, disembodied, and ever-present, but no one was there. Shadows of stampeding soldiers flickered against the walls. He searched for the source of pounding boots, shouting orders, and the successive spit of bullets, yet the streets were empty, save for the dead.

“Where are we?” Sierra's voice quivered, muffled but audible over the roar of the flames.

Vincent’s throat tightened. He forced himself to answer. “Flagstaff.”

The maze continued on dirt and cracked asphalt streets. It led them by the nose on a path he had already taken. As they moved, Vincent caught glimpses of banners hanging amidst the chaos—crimson red, emblazoned with a golden bull. Tolling bells grew louder with each step and with every hollow ring that wracked his head he relived this night in seconds.

Slaughtered masses lay in heaps. The bodies of soldiers or slaves, it didn’t matter. Any who fought back against the invader was haphazardly tossed in piles, awaiting cremation. Securitrons stood watch at the chokepoints. Their chassis glinted in the firelight, remnants of battle scars scuffed their surfaces. The path widened as they reached the city center. The temple and palace dominated the plaza. Whatever else once occupied the plaza was destroyed and looted.

A bronze bull guarded the temple. It was a huge amalgamation like the complex, welded together with smelted weaponry and armor of Legion foes and meticulously polished to appease the tyrant’s effigy that stood directly across from it at the palace. Securitrons chipped away patiently at the base of Caesar’s statue. The great stone figure crumbled under their relentless blows, its shattered pieces littering the ground alongside the blood-soaked bodies of Legionnaires. It would fall before dawn, and all of Flagstaff would follow.

The sight brought a bitter taste to Vincent’s mouth. Grim satisfaction twisted with unease caused by the fact he was reliving this day, trapped by some strange entity or in one. The sudden whir of a securitron’s treads brought his attention back. A squad of them rolled toward him, maneuvering effortlessly around the debris and corpses. Their metal voices were hollow and emotionless, yet Vincent found himself speaking back as if following a script he couldn't control.

“Assigned objective complete,” the lead securitron reported. “Water reserves poisoned or purged.”

“Good. What are the offensive lines looking like?”

“Major losses due to ineffective weaponry and surprise,” the securitron droned. “Small groups and individuals likely attempting retreat or hiding within the area of engagement. Minimal securitron loss. Primary objective entering phase three.”

Vincent turned his gaze back to the temple. It loomed over the plaza. A monument to everything he despised. “Secure the temple. Eliminate guards and soldiers. Round up any civilians.”

Securitrons acknowledged in unison and rolled toward the complex. Most of the squadron peeled away to assault its massive doors while three remained behind, their cameras sweeping the area for anything that could threaten the two in their protection.

Sierra’s grip tightened on his vest. “Vincent.” Her voice was small and trembling. “What… what is this? What’s happening?”

His jaw tightened. The weight of this day pressed down on him. Past and present collided, and he was somewhere in between, unsure which was true. “This is war.”

Gatling lasers fired before encroaching soldiers could strike. Dim alleyways went quiet once more.

“These robots, they do everything you order them to do?”

“Yes.”

“Who are these people? Did they deserve this?”

“Yes.”

The temple doors buckled. The securitron squad rolled over splintered debris while Vincent’s guard moved at his pace behind.

The temple was a grotesque display of worthless opulence. Mosaics depicted scenes of conquest and deification of a warlord wasting in a prison cell somewhere in California. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the pungent smoke of burned flesh. The foyer was in chaos. Legion guards lay sprawled across the stone floor, their bodies charred by laser fire. Securitrons corralled a small group of frightened slaves and a handful of clergy. The women dressed in tattered red robes marked with the bull symbol were the priestesses. Slaves got nothing so lavish.

The priestesses glared at Vincent; their defiant expressions baring masked their fear. Vincent’s gaze swept the room, cold, calculating, and uncaring for his audience. He stepped forward, the clap of his boots echoing in the silence. He pointed to the eldest of the priestesses. “Where is he?” His voice was low but carried the weight of a command.

The priestess raised her chin defiantly. “We know nothing of who you seek.”

He casually approached her. His face as terribly vacant as the first time he did so.  “Do you think you’ll be saved from me?” Whereas he was consumed with wrath and determination then, he was simply hollowed out now. “Flagstaff is burning to the ground outside. Your ‘society’ is divided, broken. Ever since I personally handed Caesar over to the NCR. I’ve destroyed every one of your so-called ‘settlements’ scattered from here to New Vegas. I’ve slaughtered your assassins, spies, soldiers, raging zealots—every last one of your kind who dared to stand in my way died before ever seeing me.”

He leaned forward, hovering above her and savoring the fear that weakened her resolve as he said, “no one is coming to save you.”

Vincent's boots echoed through the temple halls. Securitrons flanked him, their multifaceted arms primed to destroy with fire. Each empty room they discovered was methodically destroyed—support beams shattered, walls collapsed, flames ignited to ensure nothing remained. The blaze painted the corridors in an eerie dance of shadows.

Sierra clung to him despite how foreign the man had become. Her fingers dug into his “Why are we here, Vincent? What are you looking for?”

“The latest power-hungry parasite trying to become the next Caesar.” His expressive eyes seemed to have dulled. Lulled into a trance as he watched this night unfold. “I want him gone.”

“Why does he matter so much?" she asked, her voice more timid than curious. “Why are you fighting with these people?”

Vincent stopped abruptly. His sharp gaze cut through the dimly lit hall for the faint light at the end. “Because they’re rebuilding what should have been destroyed. And if they succeed, everything I defend and work for will be undone.”

Sierra hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper. “What did he do to you?”

“It's not about me,” Vincent snapped. “It's about the future. These people—they enslave, they torture, they destroy everything in their path. They can't be allowed to exist.”

Movement caught his eye as they reached the end of the hallway. The arcade opened into a courtyard garden. Its carefully tended plants were the only thing in the temple left unsullied. Two figures sprinted between patches of rabbit foot grass for their escape. They hadn’t turned yet but he already knew their faces.

Securitrons rolled out the hallways at each corner. Vincent’s hand dropped to the automatic pistol at his hip. The cold steel against his sweaty palm confirmed he had no control here. The fires should have warmed him, but he felt his core shiver. The High Priestess of Mars and the unifier she protected turned to him on cue. Her face was pale against the red cloth wrapped around her head. Eyes betrayed the fear she attempted to mask with loyal determination, but he only recognized that in hindsight. She held a sword between them and Vincent. Its sharp blade caught a glint of firelight. He couldn’t remember if she had said anything at that moment. Even if she did, he wouldn’t have heard it over the shots he fired without hesitation. The priestess crumpled, her sword clattering against the stone path as her blood filled the gaps between.

He knew he froze after that because when she collapsed, the person she was protecting was finally revealed to him. His enemy. The unifier—the supposed threat to everything he'd built and had yet to achieve—was nothing more than a teenage boy. His face contorted with rage as he shouted at Vincent, but the words didn't register. Those seconds consumed Vincent whole, and strangely, he couldn’t recall exactly what his thinking was. He was fixed on the boy’s face. Youth, interrupted by lines of grief and fury carved in glistening skin.

But hesitation lasted only seconds. The boy lunged for the fallen priestess's sword. Vincent's finger squeezed the trigger before conscious thought could intervene. The gunshot echoed through the courtyard, and the boy fell beside his protector.

Silence washed over the garden save for the crackling of flames and the mechanical whirs of securitron servos. The pistol slowly lowered as his body came under his own control once again. Vincent stared at the bodies. His face unreadable to the girl on his back. “What is this?” Sierra’s voice cracked. She pushed against him. “Why did you do this?”

“So, the butcher of Flagstaff graces us with his presence.” A shadow fell across the garden. Through the encroaching smoke and flames emerged a figure whose very presence seemed to draw the heat from the fires. His armor was a grotesque mosaic of trophies taken from fallen enemies. Metal plates of varying origins had been welded together, each piece telling its own story of conquest. Desiccated heads strung on rope dangled with his tattered cape. The massive gas tank mounted to his back sloshed as he marched rigidly to the man who slayed him not so long ago. Thick tubes rusted and welded over and over again stretched from the reservoir to the sword mounted behind it. Its serrated edge promised not just death, but ripping mutilation for its foes' excruciatingly long and final minutes. Centurion Gallus's voice carried over the roar of flames. “Tell me, Vincentius, do you enjoy setting fires, or do you simply have no other way to make yourself feel powerful?”

“Powerful? No, that's not what I feel watching what's left of you all burn,” Vincent’s tone was unperturbed meeting the final ghost. Disdain for the Centurion was what would rejuvenate his eroding dissolve long enough to escape. “Unbridled glee is what I feel destroying my enemies in a war they brought on themselves.”

“This?” Gallus gestured to the destruction around them. “This isn't war. This is a tantrum. You didn't just kill soldiers—you butchered slaves, priests, families.”

Vincent laughed. “And you haven't?”

“At least I look in the eyes of who I slaughter instead of sending machines to do it.”

“You aren’t even worth that.”

Gallus's armor clanked as he took a step forward. “You think you've won because you've burned Flagstaff? Because you've torn down our banners? Slaughtered my soldiers? My people?” His voice rose with each question. “We are forged in the fires you light.”

The temple groaned around them as flames consumed its structure. One by one, the securitrons began to crumble. Their metal bodies dissolved into dust, but in the corner of his eye, Vincent caught sight of another impossibility—a crimson door stood pristine against an adobe wall yet to be devoured by flames.

“The time for retribution has come.” Vincent met the Centurion’s gaze with an unrepentant glare. “You will have no machines to help you,” Gallus's voice rose above the cacophony of crumbling buildings and piercing cries. “You will flee in fear of reprisal of your sins. And when I catch you…” He raised his sword. Flames erupted from the bar. Chainsaw teeth sprung forward. The mechanical growl was a chorus of screams that seemed to echo from the depths of hell itself. “I am going to butcher you ten-fold.”

Vincent's instincts flung him to the red door. Sierra's tight grip seized his shoulders. The handle froze his palms, searing cold despite the flames closing in. The heat of Flagstaff vanished instantly on the other side of the door, replaced by the stale air of the Lucky 38's corridors. But the screaming of Gallus's blade still echoed in his ears. This nightmare was far from over.

For a moment, Vincent leaned against the wall, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow. Sierra still clung to his back, her shallow breaths matching his own. The hallway stretched ahead of them, warped and surreal, though this floor was different. The muted red carpet seemed untouched by the grotesque transformation below, and the overhead lights flickered with less menace. Vincent straightened himself, wincing at sore muscles that now penetrated his bones and forced them to move.

 When he turned a corner at the end of a long hallway, they reached a familiar opening—the circular atrium. Vincent cautiously approached the balcony. The dark pit from before was gone. Pristine tables sat vacant below. Colorful slot machines flashed their ambient lights for players that would never come. Relief flickered briefly finding the grand staircase that spiraled elegantly downward. But there was no direct access to that escape.

The hallways twisted and stretched before them, their oppressive sameness growing more suffocating with every turn, especially knowing how close he was to escaping. Vincent’s heavy steps pounded the carpet. His breaths came as raggedly as the sound of Gallus’s chainsaw. Somehow distant yet near. Clamoring armor chimed to his left only to disappear in the corridors to his right. Vincent glanced over his shoulder feeling an invisible presence. A silhouette flickered against the walls long behind them.

The corridors seemed to conspire against him, narrowing and stretching unnaturally. Sweat stung his eyes. His vision blurred at the edges. His legs grew heavier with every step. Fearing he’d collapse altogether, Vincent pushed through the nearest door. Wheezing breaths gave him the last burst of energy he’d have to secure the room. Vincent dragged a dresser, then the nightstands in front of the door, barricading it as best he could. His movements were clumsy. Hands trembling as the sound of the beast nearing the door. Legs quivered leaning against his blockade. The two were dead silent, listening to lumber steps until they vanished in the distance.

The brief seconds of safety let him stumble to the bed to let Sierra off his back. His body sagged under its own weight. Joints throbbed. Muscles twitched. He didn’t know how much he had left in him. Even his own stubbornness and refusal to submit had its limits.

 The girl dragged herself away from him, however. She curled up against the headboard, clutching the cattle prod to her chest. “This is happening because of you.”

“What?” Vincent muttered, certain that fatigue was confusing his senses.

“Those things are after us because of you. Because you did something—because you killed all those people. And that boy—”

Vincent’s exhaustion gave way to a sharp edge of frustration. “Do you even know anything about them? About the Legion?”

Sierra didn’t respond. She sniffled, her eyes fixed on the floor.

“The boy was a pawn,” Vincent said, his tone hard and defensive. “A proxy for Gallus to seize power after I neutralized their leader. Do you think Caesar was a fucking god? A hero? He was a warlord. A butcher. Violence is all these people know. It’s the only thing they respond to—the only thing they respect.”

Sierra’s voice wavered. “Does that mean you have to be like them?”

Her question wasn’t one he never had for himself. He closed tired eyes. “Any who opposed Caesar would have been put to death. It didn’t matter if they actually threatened his power. That boy would have grown into another monster. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“But you killed him,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You didn’t even give him a chance.”

“That boy’s chance was blown by happenstance. They’re a cult. Indoctrination runs deep. Every boy is trained from birth to be a soldier. A tool willing to kill himself for someone who doesn’t even know his name. Nothing more. Every girl is a breeding sow. The ones who aren’t useful enough to be slaves are killed.”

Vincent softened his tone at the girl’s quiet whimper. She knew nothing about the Legion or the true horrors of the world apparently.

“It’s easy to be a saint in paradise,” he said. “We don’t live in a perfect world. And we won’t, not if people like Gallus or Caesar are tolerated. I won’t risk them regaining any power.”

Sierra’s tears came silently. “Do you even regret any of it?”

Before he could answer, Vincent’s ears caught the faint rumble of the chainsaw sword. Distant but growing louder. His body tensed. Sierra’s wide eyes mirrored his alarm as the revving grew closer, cutting through doors like a jagged blade through flesh.

Vincent muttered his usual curses and jumped up. The girl was already reaching out for him when he turned to her. His teeth ground each other to endure the invisible fingers pinching the nerves in his spine as he picked her up. “Hide under the bed,” he ordered sharply, letting her carefully down to the floor. Sierra squirmed into the crevice between the dusty carpet and bed frame, quieting her own pain too. The chainsaw’s growl grew nearer. Heavy thuds accompanied it now. Vincent tore away the flimsy bed sheets and yanked the mattress off the boxspring. He heaved it towards the door where he positioned it upright.

The sound of Gallus’s weapon revving was deafening. Vincent took a step back, heart pounding as he readied himself with his automatic rifle in one hand and the axe in the other. The door shuddered violently. The blade’s teeth ripped into wood. Sparks danced as the blade chewed through springs. Then it sputtered and jammed, eating the thick padding. Gallus roared and jerked the sword free.

Vincent took his chance. He raised his rifle and let loose a barrage of bullets through the opening in the mattress. Staccato bursts replaced the ripping chainsaw. Relentless fire pushed Gallus back. Vincent let the mattress fall and yanked open the door.

Gallus snarled, tossing the broken chainsaw sword aside as Vincent rushed him with a wide arc. The axe blade sliced through leather padding, embedding itself deeply in Gallus’s thigh. Blood sprayed out. Gallus bellowed in pain. He lashed out, dislodging Vincent and the axe with a powerful thrust. Vincent flew down the hallway like a helpless ragdoll.

The impact dazed Vincent. He struggled to scramble to his feet while Gallus lurched forward, his wounded leg dragging limply, nearly severed but refusing to give way. Vincent fought the shock that had his head swimming. He propped himself up on one knee, his rifle aiming low. Despite his uncertain aim, he unleashed another torrent on Gallus. Shaking arms struggled to direct the hail of bullets at the maimed limb. The Centurion’s staggered pace slowed even more. Bone splintered. With a wet snap, Gallus’s leg gave out. He collapsed against the wall, bracing himself with one hand while Vincent lunged at the opportunity. He swung the axe. The blade penetrated the tarnished helmet but not deep enough. He pulled it back without success.

Gallus grabbed Vincent’s arm. “You will not win this.” The Centurion’s grip was iron. His strength threatened to snap Vincent’s bones. Desperation surged through him. Vincent let the rifle hang by its strap and reached for the knife in his vest. He plunged it into Gallus’s face. The blade sank deep. Twisted the Centurion's skin into a violent grimace. Vincent tore the knife free, taking Gallus’s eye with it. Gallus howled. His remaining eyes blazed with fury. He refused to falter, but so did Vincent. The knife sawed into the arms grasping Vincent. Gallus flung Vincent again, roaring vicious threats.

Vincent hit the wall with a bone-rattling thud. His breath was knocked out of him. His vision spun. Just sitting on the floor, he couldn’t find his balance. A red and black blur slowly lumbered towards him

“I can’t die this time,” Gallus rasped, his voice twisted with manic glee.

Through the haze and pain, Vincent raised his rifle. His aim was shaky, but he fired again. Bullets tore into Gallus’s remaining leg. The Centurion staggered, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Still, he grinned. “I’ll just keep coming back!”

Vincent’s vision narrowed on Gallus. His uneven breaths drowned out his own thoughts. Trembling hands reloaded and unleashed another torrent of bullets.  Gallus’s remaining leg buckled. He toppled to the ground with a crash, his armor rattling against the floor.

The fleeting moment let Vincent catch his breath enough to come back to his knees. He pushed himself up with the help of the axe and leaned against the wall. Eyes remained fixed on the Centurion fallen on his back.

“How many more times do you think you’ll have this much effort left in you?” Gallus sneered through his own labored breaths.

Vincent approached cautiously; his rifle trained on Gallus. Gallus glared at him, equally defiant and determined to win. “I see your end, cowering, shaking in a corner like a beaten dog as death’s steps draw nearer.”

Vincent’s jaw clenched. He raised the axe. The weight of it was almost too much for his exhausted body. He swung. The blade bit deep into Gallus’s armored chest. The Centurion grunted and leather bindings crumpled.

“Even if you escape,” Gallus wheezed, his voice a shadow of its former strength. “My brothers…”

Vincent didn’t let him finish. He fought the burning pain in his muscles and joints, raising the axe again and letting gravity bring it down. He struck Gallus’s gut this time. The Centurion drew in a deep, wheezy gasp. “Will avenge…”

“I won’t stop,” Vincent exhaled. Deep breaths dried out the back of his throat. “Until—” He stumbled back into the wall, pushing against it so he wouldn’t fall. “Until there is nothing left tainted by you.”

Even as his life ebbed away, the Centurion still wore his disturbing smile. “Then you’ll have to kill yourself,” he rasped suddenly. His broken body convulsed as he raised his only working limb, a quivering hand that weakly pointed at Vincent. “Because our soul lives on in you.”

Vincent pushed off the wall. “Hypocrisy…” The little energy he had left wound back the axe “...and all.”

The blade split Gallus’s skull. His eyes twitched to the steel chunk between them, and a final breath escaped the Centurion. Vincent’s legs wobbled. He stumbled back to the room, making it just passed the doorway before collapsing. Sierra was already halfway across the room, dragging herself as weak kicks failed to find traction.

 Her red face glistened with tears as she cried repeatedly, “are you ok?”

“The bag,” Vincent managed to croak.

Sierra shrugged off the backpack, sliding it toward him. Vincent rummaged through it with trembling hands until he found a metal capsule. He pulled out a loaded syringe and bit off the cap. His unsteady hand hovered over his arm, before finally plunging into shoulder meat. A sigh of relief followed once the syringe was empty.

He rolled onto his back as bliss slowly washed over him. Tense muscles relaxed. The pain slipped away with Sierra’s voice. Small hands pressed into his arm, his shoulder. She hovered above him, staring worriedly into his catatonic glaze. The weight of it all vanished. Ghosts and horrors and the anguishes suffered no longer bothered him. Serenity lasted only a minute though.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

Sierra leaned closer, her eyes wide and unblinking. “What?”

 “I regret the world that I live in necessitates these things I’ve done.” Vincent rubbed his forehead. His thumb passed over the noticeable gap of his scarred brow. “If I wasn’t so lenient the first time…” His breathing steadied. Exhaustion dissipated, but the full effects of the chemical cocktail had yet to be felt. “They couldn’t have planted a bomb in an overcrowded city of people who survived their terror and escaped. People just trying to make a better life for themselves, their kids. Just exist…”

He used to think there was some deeper truth to uncover. Some grand insight into human nature that could explain it all. If he could just understand why people like Caesar enslaved and murdered, or why Mr. House manipulated and exploited, maybe he could stop it. Prevent it from happening again.

That naive version of himself felt like a ghost now. The years had burned away those questions, leaving only the hard truth: it didn’t matter.

The reason, the logic, the purpose—good or bad—didn’t matter. There was only one thing that separated him from Caesar, Benny, Gallus, or Vulpes, and all the others he hunted down to put a bullet in. He succeeded. He was still alive. Still breathing. Still free. He was never any different from them.

“I care more about the people who can’t fight back against evil than I do about what killing that evil makes me.”

“I’m sorry,” Sierra whispered.

“You might be right though. All of these things happening is because of me.” Feeling the full effects rushing him like a flashflood, Vincent propped himself up on one knee to test the waters. “But I’m not giving up on getting out of here. You coming?”

Sierra’s fingers tightened around the cattle prod as she gave him a firm nod.

Vincent zipped through the hallways because under the chem’s influence it would hurt to keep still. Carpet muffled heavy steps but the boards beneath creaked, daring to give away his position to the shadows manifesting in the peripherals of his vision. There was no navigating the twisting hallways and long corridors, only following his intuition. Praying to Lady Luck didn’t hurt either since they returned to the atrium, this time on the right side. The grand staircase lay before them, lounging across the tall threshold and sprawling out onto the floor like a satin curtain.

Flying down its gentle curve, Vincent homed in on his bike parked by the doors. Thankfully untouched where he left it, but the eerie quiet felt like bugs crawling under his skin. He saddled Sierra to the bike in record time then launched for the double doors. Shoving one open, he met the outside world’s chilly fog. The rusty mist rolled in heavy, swallowing the slab of pavement mere feet from the doors. He spun around for the bike but froze solid in his path. Standing in front of the elevator column in the center of the casino floor was the immaculate impostor Mr. House. Unyielding in his effort to impersonate the enigmatic man, his expression was one of calm amusement with hands clasped loosely behind his back.

“You can’t leave,” Mr. House announced, his voice carrying across the room with unnerving clarity. From the shadows of the casino floor, other figures began to emerge. Benny sauntered out from the far corner. The smoke of his cigarette thinly veiled the smirk on his face. Vulpes Inculta manifested next. He stealthily came forward from an aisle of slot machines.  Gallus, no longer missing a leg, stepped into the light of the warm chandeliers from the high rollers lounge. “You are always here.”

The ghosts made no advancement from their position on the floor. They didn’t need to. Their presence was horrifying enough. The engine roared to life. Sierra squeezed Vincent’s waist and in turn he squeezed the throttle. Wheels propelled them into the thick fog. The bike bounced down the shallow steps and quickly met the artery road cutting the strip in two. The wet cold nipped at his skin. Condensation gathered on the visor, but even when he wiped it away, blurs remained. They were shapes, humanoid and spectral. They came in hordes, materializing in every alley and street. Faces of the countless raiders, slavers, and outlaws Vincent had killed stared back at him with hollow eyes. Their forms were twisted, paused at their brutal moment of death. Wraiths reached out to him. Their mouths moved soundlessly, but he knew what they wanted. He pushed the bike harder. Tires skidded slightly on the slick asphalt as he weaved through the apparitions.

He wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t let it end here. Mist consumed the Lucky 38 in his rearview mirrors, replaced by the pursuing masses of vengeance. He twisted the throttle, and the speedometer climbed. Sierra’s grip tightened. The girl’s frightful cries were silenced by smacking winds and growling engine. The fog began to thin, and with it, the city. Sangria haze swallowed the gray skyline whole.

Crushing heat burned away the cold. A bright, cloudless sky stretched endlessly over an infinite desert.  For a brief moment, Vincent felt a flicker of relief. The purple-red blot in the mirrors was shrinking. But the reprieve was short-lived. Gas wasn’t an issue yet, but he slowed his bike. Sierra’s arms loosened around his waist. The highway stretched on, a black ribbon slicing through the barren expanse. They were back on the road… For how long this time?

In the emptiness and desolation, the Caballera’s warning crept to the forefront of his mind. He loathed that she was right. The haunts all came back. Beheadings, bullets, dismemberment—and Vincent was gravely mortal. The pollution cloud eroding the city and the tower was long gone behind him. Yet its presence remained, as though it was merely hiding whenever he looked for it. Did he really escape it? Was this all another illusion and they were still trapped inside impossible geometry?

He shook his head and snapped out of those thoughts. The road was a meditative place. Transitory, like the intrusive fears and feelings crashing into him. As long as he moved from one moment to the next, he couldn’t be dragged under. Mountains moved around him, shrinking in the mirrors. New formations took their place, lasting only minutes before they too would disappear with the what-ifs clouding his mind, until there was nothing. Nothing to his left, right, ahead, or behind. Endless wastes, and a lonely wall separating it in half.

The bike slowed as he came closer. The curve of the highway flattened and stretched above the gate’s central bell tower into the far peaks on the other side. Seamless and sun-faded adobe extended without end in both directions. Severed heads hung from rope atop the wall, their faces contorted in eternal agony. Vincent recognized the ones he could see, and not yet warped by rot. He had been the one to put them there after all.

The gentle chime of the mission bell yanked his attention to the weathered gate blocking the road, and the woman who now accompanied it. Vincent jerked back, startling Sierra as she peeked around him. Long and wispy silver strands fell to her shoulders. She exuded a motherly aura standing with her hands clasped under a plump belly and a moon-faced smile. But her eyes were sewn shut with thick black cord. The graying shroud she wore vanished before its tattered ends could touch the ground.

She tilted her head and asked the dumbstruck pair, “you seek to travel this road?” Her voice was light and melodic.

It took Vincent a long second to parse the words she sang. “Yes.”

“To resume your journey, you must pay a toll, traveler.”

“I don’t bend to highwaymen,” Vincent replied curtly, his impatience creeping into his tone.

“Oh, I am no highwayman,” she chuckled, letting a hand loose to wave off that notion. “I am Karen. But you...” She paused, her expression shifting as she turned her head slightly to listen to the breeze that had returned. The rotting heads moved of their own will. Lips mouthed soundless words that only she could hear.

Karen’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Oh, Faust, I see. Maybe... I think that fork in the road has yet to be reached.” Sewn-shut eyes seemed to look right at Vincent, sending cold shivers across sweaty skin. Then her head tilted, finding Sierra as she tightened her grip on Vincent’s waist. “Will she be paying your fare?”

“No,” Vincent said firmly. “She’s coming with me. Intact.”

Karen nodded slowly. “Ah, I see, I see. But you must forfeit something to pass this threshold.”

Vincent’s hand drifted toward his pistol, his posture tense. “Such as?”

Karen chuckled again, raising her hands in a calming gesture. “You needn’t be anxious with me, young man. Your bullets can’t hurt me, and I have no desire to hurt you. Contrary to what the Caballera and those other unruly characters thought, it is not only souls I trade. The only currency I accept is not tangible, and just as in the world beyond my gate, you are quite wealthy here.”

Vincent’s brow furrowed as he studied her. “Like memories?”

“I can accept those,” Karen said with a nod. “But that’s not the only thing I take. As I said, the intangible, spiritual, metaphysical...”

Vincent flipped up his visor. “How do you know about the Caballera?” He asked, his suspicion overt now.

“There is little that happens here I do not know about,” Karen replied. “I understand you were brought here under false pretenses. That is unfortunate but acknowledge not all make it this far.”

“Why was I brought here? Who brought me here?”

“You know who brought you here.” Karen’s light tone faded to something remorseful. “He seeks to collect on His debts. You’ve done an immaculate job evading Him. Very impressive.”

Vincent clenched his jaw. “Who?”

Karen’s head turned slightly, as if looking past him. Vincent followed her, catching a glimpse of a shadow in his bike’s rear-view mirror. His stomach dropped as he twisted to see Mr. House again. He stood in the same confident pose, immaculately still and unreadable like his portrait.

“Predictable as always,” Karen announced. “He wanted to trap you here because it is even ground. The twilight of life and death. After that, I can only speculate.”

“You may escape me now,” House’s voice echoed across the road, cold and detached, “but you will be back. I am always with you, and you are always here.”

Karen’s calming voice drew Vincent’s attention back. “Do not let Him intimidate you. This land bends to no one’s will.” She glided over shimmering asphalt to the other side of the road. There was no shadow under her form. No feet and nothing behind the transparent skirt. “I sense you’re struggling with this, and that’s natural for the living. So may I suggest what you can forfeit to pass my gate?”

Vincent hesitated. He glanced to a mirror. Mr. House waited patiently. “Alright. I’ll hear you out.”

Karen smiled again. “You’ve endured much in your time here. Perhaps you have even been reminded of things you thought you’d left behind, things that follow you as your own shadow does and may regret.” She let her words sink in, but Vincent’s pensive stare weakened to betray confusion. Karen’s hands clasped one another, wrinkling the ancient fabric too tangibly for something incorporeal and ghostly. “You should let go.”

Vincent’s grip on the handlebars tightened. Sweaty grit trapped between pilled. His heart was racing, and he didn’t know why. “Then just what am I letting go of?”

“You will decide that. It is not something to be taken lightly and you do not have to make a choice now, but I strongly encourage you to reflect on yourself. Know that you do not have to be here.” She waved her hand, welcoming him through the mission gate that creaked open where familiar land lay on the other side. Still, Vincent watched Karen with scrutiny. “Only you can make yourself cross the threshold.”

“Sierra’s coming with me.”

“Of course,” she nodded reassuringly.

“Nothing gonna hurt her?”

Karen placed a hand over her heart. “Intact. Untouched. Unharmed.”

Vincent looked over his shoulder. Sierra met his gaze. Her expression was as wary as his. “I feel like she’s being honest. And we’ll do it together,” Sierra whispered, squeezing his waist tightly.

Vincent’s hand briefly covered hers as a silent acknowledgment. He twisted the throttle and rolled the bike forward. Hinges groaned as they crossed the border. Once on the other side, he looked behind them. The mission wall hadn’t disappeared like he expected it might. Karen hovered between the open gates as though patiently waiting.

“Vincent…” Sierra’s hand weighed on his shoulder. He twisted to face her. “Something feels different.” His brows furrowed as she removed her helmet. She slid off the bike, her movements tentative but steady. For the first time, she stood upright. Narrow legs wobbled and quickly corrected their balance. Vincent was dumbstruck. Staring in shock, awe, excitement, and everything in between for the girl. She turned around from her precious minute of basking in her freedom to show her face lit with a radiant smile. Her slight form shimmered.

“Sierra?” his voice trembled as she lost solidity. The desert sand and mountains behind her phased through. Still, she smiled as she reached towards him. Vincent jumped off his bike, fumbling all the way because he refused to take his eyes off her. Their fingertips glided through one another. “Sierra!” His voice broke. Arms flailed uselessly, trying to hold onto a ghost as her form dissolved completely. Knees hit the hard ground. Shockwaves left him paralyzed as he stared at the void between his arms.

Sierra’s locket hovered for a brief second with no one to wear it. Shimmering gold blinded his eyes as it fell to the road. Metal clinked like frail wind-chimes upon hard asphalt. His chest tightened as he stared at it. Breaths came in shallow and rapid gasps. Ugly tears gushed freely down his face for the first time in years.

Karen’s voice broke the silence, “strange how we give to others what we can’t give ourselves.” Vincent looked at her, his throat constricting too tightly to respond. Behind her, the second horizon confined to the world beyond the gate darkened as a radiation storm churned in the distance. “Remember our deal,” she said. “Whatever you let go of is for you to decide.” The wooden gate groaned as it swung shut, sealing Karen, the endless highway, and another world behind it. The adobe walls began to crumble. The gate itself rotted away. Only dust remained, and that too was swept away with the wind.

Vincent remained there for a long moment. Alone on a desolate road no longer traveled, where a profound hollowness stricken him. There was no shortage of things to let go of. The pain that ate at him like acid whenever he thought of Lawrence. The memory of his mother’s face that faded with each passing year. The shifting weight of an entire city upon his shoulders he stumbled to balance. His past self.

Vincent squeezed the locket in his hand until rough nails dug into his palm. Sierra reminded him of someone he used to know. Someone he used to be. He wasn’t sure if he could ever let go of her, even if it was like holding a knife by the blade.

—

The graveyard at the Old Mormon Fort was quiet, save for the soft rustle of desert wind through sagebrush and wildflowers. The setting sun smeared amber and violet hues across the sky behind Vincent, casting a long shadow between two grave markers. Wayne’s sanded wood had become bleached in the years since Vincent made it. The purple sage flowers sprang up between the rough stones cementing the marker. Next year, the other one would have its own flowers too. Sierra’s would be desert marigold, though, reaching high to the sun, brilliant and free like she should have been.

Careful steps interrupted his thoughts. Julie stood with him, observing the newest addition to the graveyard with him in a long moment of silence. When the sun’s last minutes barely reached beyond the strip’s towers, both of their shadows covered the humble memorials.

“Of all the things we’ve talked about,” Julie’s voice broke the silence, “we’ve never discussed the yao guai in the room.”

Vincent didn’t look at her. “And what is that?”

“You died,” she said gently. “You were murdered.”

“I didn’t die.”

“What you experienced is not something you can just shrug off,” she noted. “That changes a person.”

Vincent sighed, not for irritation, but because she was right. “No, I’m not the same person. But not so different either.” He paused, his voice quieter now. “I think I lost all that fear weighing me down. Maybe a fear of death, too, given my track record.”

Julie tilted her head, watching him. “What do you remember about it?”

Vincent was quiet longer than expected, but Julie was patient. “I remember being afraid. I remember knowing I was going to die that instant. I slip back into that moment a lot. Feel my heart beating so hard it hurts. I’m shaking, looking up the barrel of a gun and seeing how dark it is. The flash. The bang deafens me. And then… I wake up sometime later in a kind doctor’s home in Goodsprings.”

“Nothing in between?”

Vincent finally turned his gaze to her, a tired smile tugged at his unshaven face. “Julie, are you asking if there’s an afterlife?”

She shrugged. “Some people who have near-death experiences claim to see something… or have some kind of experience. I’m only curious if you did.”

Vincent looked back at the graves. The wind snuck inside his heavy leather coat. It was going to be a cool night in New Vegas. “There was nothing after,” he said. “No afterlife.” Julie pursed her lips thoughtfully. Her gaze fell to his hand a gold chain spilled between his fingers. “All the more reason to make this one count."