Richard elbowed Vincent's shoulder then nodded to the sweltering concrete sea below their perch. "There's a cazador nest growin' on that whole buildin' over there."

Slowly turning the .308 Winchester rifle decked to the nines which had become his most favorite toy, Vincent set aim on the structure. It used to send his muscles ablaze, shake his arms, and make his back sore holding it for more than a minute. Now it was steady in his grip. The scope, however, was sensitive. Swaying crosshairs spied on giant woody mounds consuming the building. Growing wild like a tumor, each lump was punched with a gaping hole. The nasty things that made it came and went from their lair freely, buzzing ominously through desolate corridors, flickering black and orange against the wide blue sky. Wherever cazadors settled, at least two square miles was their territory and not even deathclaws would challenge that.

Vincent let out a cackle that drew Wayne's eye. The old man dropped the week's newspaper on his lap. "That's why we out here? Shootin' spitwads at bugs?"

"Spitwads? These aren't just any spitwads. These are exploding spitwads."

Wayne suddenly appeared next to Vincent. He flung the squeaky plastic chair back open and stole a front row patch of rubble. "Boy, lead with that next time."

A mischievous smile crossed Vincent's face. He looked at Wayne then Richard. While they hung on the edge of their seats, Vincent adjusted the stock pressing his shoulder. He loaded the magazine with a satisfying click. He flexed his hand around the pistol style grip while keeping his trigger finger rigid. Shimmying his shoulders again cozied him in a nest of concrete debris and dusty vapor. Can't forget to tune the knobs just right, peek down eighteen inches of black steel, then pop his head up to do it all over again while his impatient audience groaned.

"Oh!" Vincent paused again. Fingers perused his vest pockets for ear plugs. Ignoring the two impatient men next to him, Vincent fitted the neon orange foam drops in his ears then resumed his position. "You ready—"

"We been ready, knucklehead!"

"Alrighty!"

The muzzle flashed. Vincent skid back what felt like a foot. A second later, the nest ignited. The growing inferno roared, quaking solid ground and rumbled through solid flesh. Voluminous plumes of brilliant red and orange swelled to bulbous clouds of black smoke. Heat waves crashed into them like the summer shore of Lake Mead. Richard uncupped his ears, and like Vincent and Wayne, his boyish fulfillment came to an abrupt halt. Sinister thrums reverberated in his bones. Orange carapaces ripped through the smoke. Wings caught wispy vapors on glass edges. The swarm massed together, shimmering like a broken warning light. Then they dove into the concrete maze. A horrible scream came next. The swarm followed the echo, rising and diving after the man's futile chase. Stinging cries stopped where the swarm hovered a couple blocks away from the trio's perch. Angry buzzes quelled and the static mass closed ranks to take to the sky.

The three men stared at the shrinking blot on the horizon in silence. Once it disappeared in the endless blue, Wayne grunted disapprovingly in the lawn chair he never bothered to get up from. Richard tutted, shaking his head and eyeballing Vincent under one peaked brow.

"Oh, shut up!" Vincent whipped around, clenching his fists. Eyes shot their own explosive bullets at the two as he packed up the shiny new rifle in record speed. Slinging it over his shoulders and marching to the stairwell, Vincent pretended not to notice Wayne's husky chuckles. The mercenary captain followed Vincent on the rocky trail to the streets—even though the young man protested, and occasionally gave him dirty looks.

"That was a good shot, though," Richard said. Vincent halted at a four-way intersection and plucked the pistol from his thigh holster. Without looking back, he waved to Richard to hurry. "Now you want me…"

"Looks clear," Vincent said, but didn't skirt caution when he turned the corner muzzle first. He held the long stretch of pitted asphalt at gunpoint evaluating the layout. Planted on faded yellow lines and dancing in the heat mirage was a lump of roadkill. Whatever his skin color was before dying now settled on black and blue, cratered by weeping holes like the pair of dark red jeans with denim blue splotches he wore. Ballistic armor was obviously useless against angry, giant flying menaces—the laser rifle under him was too—but the disemboweled fibers springing out of the armor felt like overkill. Vincent whipped out his cattle-prod to full extension and poked the man's shoulder. The corpse flailed and Vincent jumped back a foot.

"Goddammit," he muttered. Taking his finger off the button switch this time, Vincent pushed the man on his back. An unimpressed grunt responded to the corpse. He shrugged, "Okay, well any pinch of guilt I had is gone now."

Richard finally moseyed over to take a gander. His face twisted to a grimace gawking at the dead man. "You wanna maybe give him a dumpster burial or something?"

Metal prongs glinted, tapping on the corpse's vest where the profile of a golden lion stood out against black. "Van Graff. One of their thugs."

"Why's one of them out here?"

"Good question." Vincent stepped over the corpse and retraced the man's last steps. At the next intersection he stopped, looked up to the taller buildings and turned until he found the apartment complex barely peeking over the single-story shops where Wayne was a tiny blot in the shade this far away.

"So, guess you do got beef with the Van Graffs…"

"Who doesn't," Vincent said, taking the path to his right. "Gloria and Jean-Baptiste Cutting—" Vincent marked his mocking tone with a scoff and shook his head.

"I ain't never dealt with them—energy weapons just don't have that…" Richard took off his hat and fanned the sweat beading his face. Damp hair took to curling on his forehead and neck. "Pizazz. Guns are bratty. They kick-back—like you." Vincent stuck out his tongue and blew raspberries at the man then resumed keeping eyes peeled but that was just an excuse to hide a flattered smile. Richard's chuckle hinted at knowing that.

"I've been trying to figure out how to take care of the problem since my first encounter with them," Vincent explained. "They instigated turf wars between Kings and NCR back-when. Got by-standers killed. Riled people up to get sales for weapons or 'protection,' but that psycho, Jean-Baptiste, just does it for fun."

Richard stopped. He stretched out the hand clutching his hat across Vincent's chest. "Well, I'll be the cazador's cock—Lookit that."

Both looked down the alley. A short flight of stairs at the end descended underground to a corroded metal door.

"Excuse me?" Vincent's face bunched up at Richard. "The what?"

Richard's shoulders swayed confidently as he turned to Vincent. "Just came up with it. Like it?

"I don't think cazadors have dicks."

"They got stingers, though. Those are pretty dick-like."

Vincent gave the captain a peculiar look, but Richard grinned. And that was irresistible. He smiled with his whole face. Chuckled like a little boy then glanced away for a split second just to come back and knock the wind out of Vincent with those pine-green eyes.

"Alright, it's something." Vincent let loose an amused laugh as he admired every line winking from the corners of Richard's eyes and curving down cheeks to frame his beaming grin. At least until a knife twisted in his chest. Vincent faced the alley with his pistol at a low ready. A habitual glance looked to his left wrist while the other hand turned black twine so the blue star on the silver side of the bottlecap faced him. Finally, he could move forward.

"You ain't goin' in there are you?"

"Well, yeah…"

"Ever heard of mole men?" Richard asked, laying his slow drawl on thick as he poised himself so-matter-of-factly one might think he was an expert on mole men.

"Mole men?"

Richard threw up his hands. "How long you been here you ain't never heard about the people living under the city?"

Vincent sighed and faced Richard. "Just because they live underground doesn't make them mole people, Richard. And yes, I know of the tunnel systems under the city."

"Then you know it ain't a good idea to go in there alone."

Vincent's scared brow peaked. He gestured to Richard to go first.

"I don't wanna go in there," Richard said. "Need more men, especially if we might be dealing with hired guns in a smuggle-tunnel—Hey! Why don't you send in one of them robots?"

"The securitrons?" Vincent pursed his lips. He twisted back to the vault door at the bottom of a short flight of stairs. "I guess… But where's the fun in that?"

Richard's taut lips tried to fight an oncoming smile. "More time to explore each other's smuggle-tunnels."

Vincent scoffed as he started back the way they came. "You're a terrible flirt."

"Yet you keep coming back for more."

Sometimes the captain got the better of him. Like now, because Vincent couldn't shake off the stupid all-too-pleased-with-himself-look Richard was wearing.

Three securitrons stood outside the row of open doors to the Golden Nugget. Like forcing the wrong ends of a magnet together, the machines had a way of repelling people. Crowds walked around them, only acknowledging the units from a safe distance and went back to ignoring the fixtures. Two more were at the bar. Not to drink away a hard day's work but to guard a lone soul who sat waiting for the trio of suits sauntering over, straight-faced and composed as though coming to negotiate with Vincent.

The head suit was Harrison Jones, the owner of the Nugget and a white walrus mustache that hid his lips like the sagging brows which gave him a natural poker face. The other two were nobody goons—casino goons, so at least they were dressed nicely but they were far from professional. So much could be said in a split-second reaction without saying anything at all. Even the most curated facades could be ripped off like paper masks by the tells one's body betrays. For one goon, it was the twitch of a lip. A suppressed smirk that followed an evaluating glance of Vincent. For the other, it was looking at his partner to telepathically share the same opinion that the young man they incorrectly assumed wouldn't notice.

"I don't feel like handing over my hard-earned caps to the new-age highwayman this month."

"Your hard-earned caps?" Vincent peeled his boorish stare off the offending goon and sharpened it on Harrison Jones. Leather sleeves croaked as he leaned back, nonchalantly reclining against the bar top with an arm hanging off the edge. "You ain't earned shit. Hand over the caps. I got better things to do with my time."

"Hah!" Harrison's stone facade cracked. "I heard the Van Graffs aren't paying taxes." He shrugged and his lower lip stuck out from the hairy mass growing under his rosy pitted nose. "Why should I?"

In the high stakes games whether it was poker or the politics of New Vegas, there was always trickery. Fake tells. Bluffs. Which was exactly what Harrison was doing. Bluffing, because he wasn't coming from a place of power. Bluffs were based on assumptions, and Harrison's assumption was that this kid didn't know how to play poker. Nothing ruffled Vincent's feathers more than these kinds of assumptions about him. They were an advantage as much as a disadvantage, but still… It was just plain disrespectful.

"You think you can stop me from taking it?"

The securitrons on standby at the door turned to face inside, and Harrison noticed.

"You and your two goons? Maybe you have some more in the crowd lurking nearby, but by the time their arms even jerk to pulled out their guns, in the second it takes to cock it, let alone even look this way, these tin-cans will have already incinerated them. And you want to know what will happen after you're ashes on the floor? You'll get swept up. Replaced with someone more cooperative. And forgotten."

After nine years setting out on his own, scraping gutters for caps as a filth laden urchin, starving and sleepless, running from monsters disguised as charitable folk, Vincent was a man now. He earned his manhood, unlike this old cock-duster-stache pushing Vincent's shiny red button labeled detonate. After all he had accomplished, he knew he deserved respect.

"So, you have one option, granted you actually like living. But if you want to be my first example for everyone to see how I deal with dissent," Vincent cocked his head and bore a cheeky smile, "be my guest."

Harrison glared at the encroaching securitrons. His mustache curled up at a foul stink and revealed yellowing teeth. Elbowing one of his goons coughed up the sack they had the whole time. See, Harrison wasn't as dumb as he fronted. He was a professional player and professionals knew even they could lose. Planning for it was just smart. That was the reason they were pros to begin with.

A securitron grabbed the sack of caps jingling like music as Vincent slid off the stool. "Don't waste my time next month."

When Vincent first met Mr. House and each subsequent time after, he easily picked up on the man's no-nonsense attitude. Coupled with the comfortable detachment made the fossil seem aloof. Distant from the human race which he claimed to be a part of and wanted to progress. But as time went on, not only did Vincent realize this wall wasn't the fortified vault bulkhead it appeared to be. In fact, Vincent could ask any question and receive a straightforward answer—a privilege earned through loyalty and dependability. Reclusiveness and eccentricity was simply how Mr. House was. There was no green felt table up in the penthouse nor a deck of cards between them. It was that fact Vincent came to appreciate, even if he didn't like Mr. House himself.

"The Freeside reclamation project has progressed as expected," Mr. House said. "The casinos and large businesses in the economic center have remained compliant since annexation. However, the Silver Rush refuses to pay taxes and follow regulations."

Van Graffs.

They were at the top of Vincent's to-do list for years. An abhorrent brother-sister duo that claimed a small gambling hall off the main street in Freeside peddling all varieties of energy weapons and mercantile "protection". Responsible for igniting turf wars between the Kings and the NCR soldiers, but that card wasn't playable anymore with a somewhat stable alliance between those two populations. Now, they annoyed Vincent with their mere presence. They were like a zit. A heinous red pustule on the ass cheek of New Vegas he was dying to pop.

"The longer they are allowed to refuse assimilation, the more we risk our hold on Freeside. We have come so far." Ambient beeps hastened. Whirring fans hummed louder, and Mr. House's portrait flickered as if to regain composure. "We cannot afford to let this inconvenience fester into a bigger problem. Evict them."

They weren't the only proverbial blemishes on the metaphorical butt of the city. Every month on the first, and as stated in Mr. House's mandates, taxes were to be collected. Like clockwork, securitrons dispersed on the New Vegas strip, collected their loot, and returned to the Lucky 38 without issue. Freeside was different. They hadn't been under House's rule for even three full months. Luckily, the first month went off without a hitch because life in the ruthless Mojave Desert had only one rule to survival; might makes right, and the army of securitrons was overkill. However, there was that one entity that refused cooperation. A painful, deep-seated cyst festering to a head…

Of course, it was Vincent who would have to address the problem. Do the dirty work of a dirty job cleaned up by the title of COO. The chief operations officer was the other big guy right below the CEO. Chief New Vegas Pimple Popper felt more accurate of a title, though. Vincent wondered if Mr. House was laughing when he left the penthouse after getting his big promotion. On the bright side, Vincent's dirty deeds weren't done dirt cheap.

The Silver Rush sat a block down from Freeside's strip and on the corner at a T-intersection. The building was a small, two-story gambling hall turned energy weapons emporium and guarded by two thugs at the front door with more lurking inside like roaches. Kings posed themselves across the street from the shop, sharing laughs and smiles with friends as if they knew this show would end with a glorious bang that would destroy their long-time enemy, or at least humble them. The Kings he knew by name and even the ones he didn't acknowledged Vincent with a type of nod he come to learn was shared between men who recognized other men. And at a distance behind him, sticking close to the Freeside strip should they need to flee bullets or lasers, was a growing crowd of civilians, adventurers, wastelanders, guns-for-hire all watching Vincent in the middle of the intersection. Center stage for a role he wasn't particularly fond of.

"Let's get this over with," he sighed. Vincent reached to the securitron at his left and plucked off a receiver attached by a coiled cord. He pressed a button, and his amplified voice bellowed out from the unit, "grace period is over. Time to pay up."

The front door opened. Three hired guns exited first, flashing long laser rifles against matching black uniforms of kevlar vests and padded clothes. Then came Gloria and Jean-Baptiste. The brother-sister duo that ran the Silver Rush and that was the only notable thing about them. Their gaggle of mercenaries lined up like a firing squad. Securitrons already reacted the moment the door opened; they outnumbered their human opponents, so Vincent wasn't particularly worried about a gunfight. This was all posturing—bluffing—the fitting and favorite pastime of New Vegas's denizens, he learned

Gloria crossed her arms and cocked her hips, wearing an amused expression that cracked the grease smeared across her eyes. Bone charms rattled as an impatient boot tapped the sidewalk. Her shaved scalp beamed back the noon sun when she looked at her brother raising an empty burlap sack. He reached inside, rummaged around for a second then yanked out his hand, showing what was inside it all along: his middle finger.

Laughs barreled down the corridor, echoing back to Vincent and slowly pressing down on that big, shiny red button of his.

"That the one you finger your sister with?"

Laughter abruptly stopped. Jean-Baptiste started for Vincent but before he could get one foot on asphalt, Gloria pulled him back. "We don't have to do anything—"

"You have three days to submit mandatory taxes or face eviction."

Gloria was the level-headed one but even she took offense to being interrupted. Dark eyes shot at Vincent from across the street and she shouted, "his threats are toothless."

Vincent lowered the receiver and rapped the securitron's steely body. "Can you take over Radio New Vegas for a message?"

"Accessing emergency broadcast override." The machine hummed and beeped, then buzzed again, "broadcast intercepted."

Music ceased from Freeside's strip behind him, and the whole of New Vegas followed. Eerily quiet like the days that must have followed a radioactive holocaust. Wind whistled through the streets. Distant gunfire reached across miles from the westside. Kings pushed off the wall they leaned on and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk. The crowd far behind Vincent stirred when he glanced over his shoulder to count how many gathered. Even the Van Graffs were curious what card he was going to put down.

Vincent cleared his throat. He raised the receiver again, holding for a pregnant pause, then made his play. "Good afternoon fabulous New Vegas. Please excuse the interruption for an important message, specifically for the occupants of the Silver Rush—you have three days to pay mandatory taxes for this month, last month, and the month before that, payable to the nearest securitron unit. Non-compliance will result in eviction from the property, the city, your earthly bodies, or all the above. The clock starts now. Thank you for your time. And stay classy, Vegas."

Vincent hung up the receiver. He turned around, parted his securitron entourage, and marched back to his personal oasis at the top of the world. After nine years, but mostly within the last three years, Vincent learned something about respect. It wasn't given. It wasn't going to be handed to him like Harrison handed over the caps and it wasn't even earned despite what people said. Like everything else in life, it was something you had to take. And Vincent was collecting interest on the principal he was denied for too long.

—

"Y'know, I'm super nervous right now." Anderson tugged his blazer then adjusted his tie. His face was twisted up in a grimace as we watched the councilman approach the podium. "Like first date, kind of nervous."

That councilman was Gale Barrett. Boneyard born and raised with all the corruption of the upper classes to boot. But today, Barrett would not be so selfish for once. Maybe he had a change of heart or was guilt tripped after the blistering exposé in the papers, but either way, the 'ribbon-cutting' to the newest manufactory opening in the industrial district wasn't going to be an opportunity to waste. And it was nice to get out of the house, even if I had to be escorted by Anderson and company.

"I may not like the guy, but I don't approve of making change this way," I said, wondering if Barrett's suit was paid for by the Stockman's Association too. We stood at the back of the crowds, thankfully. Don't think I could tolerate the formless mass of people gathering in the closed off intersection. I was still nervous though. Not because the life of a councilman—as sleazy as he was—would be the juicy steak to lure out a deathclaw. It wasn't even the crowds that bugged me this time. It was the prospect of actually catching the culprits behind the chaos.

Would it even be Clint? He'd be smart to send someone else. And whoever that might be would also be unwaveringly loyal, just from my own experience and the fact they would be willing to murder a councilman of their own country. Part of me still wanted to be wrong.

"He's going on stage any minute now," Anderson muttered, pacing in front of me again.

For now, the councilman was safe on the ground with the cover of his security while aids prepped for his best appearance on stage. I counted down the minutes marked by Anderson's pacing. He clutched his hand-held radio like an old lady clutched her purse. Soon boisterous words thick with false enthusiasm would hush the groaning towers around us. Looking up at the tall buildings gave me vertigo, but I had to power through. I scanned each window as if I could spot the smoking gun before it fired.

"Checkpoints status," Anderson spoke to his radio. Muffled garble responded over the bulky headset but I couldn't decipher it. "Still clear. For now."

"They won't strike from the ground," I told him again. Told him that when we first arrived too but whether the government suits would listen to him was up for debate. There could be supporters among the bureau of internal affairs, and I suspected there might be with how little resources were being applied to this entire investigation. Someone other than me could have easily connected the dots; I wasn't anything special in the intellectual department.

"Oh, I'm getting nervous again," Anderson whined and grabbed his stomach.

Ignoring Anderson, I looked back to the skyscrapers. Studying them more thoroughly this time, I asked himself where I'd make my nest. Frankly, in this area of downtown, I had plenty of places to choose from. Most buildings here were still under reconstruction or hadn't even been zoned yet. With no occupants and a maze of floors to lose pursuers in, this would make for an easy operation for potential assassins. But there was a unique obstacle here. With how the towers were arranged and the amount of boarded up windows, any assassin had a narrow set of vantage points to utilize. There was a second obstacle too, if I was right about the people behind all this. After the last hit on Ledecky, they would know there would be heightened security making a confirmation on the kill difficult. No fuckups this time, and for a ranger, an unconfirmed kill was a big fuck-up. I could think of ways to get around that though. Having allies hiding in the crowds. Someone could finish the job in the wild chaos that would break out the split second a sniper rifle boomed.

I turned my back to the stage, looking dead ahead at the end of T-shaped street opposite the stage. It was a condemned hotel, probably a luxury in its hey-day but now it housed rats, vagrants, and a potential killer. It was my first observation when we scoped out the setting a week ago.

"Anderson," I elbowed the flush-faced monkey suit. "You have anyone patrolling that building?"

"On the ground—Should I even ask what you're thinking? Do I wanna know?" Anderson hushed his voice to a whisper and leaned to me, "can I live with not knowing?"

"If I were going to kill Barrett, that would be the best place to make my hit from."

Anderson sighed, mumbling about regretting this under his breath. He clipped the radio to his belt and exchanged hushed whispers with the security detail standing with us.

And then it was over to a decaying hotel suspended on iron stilts. Leaned on by an unwanted confidant of concrete and rebar that bulged in the middle floors. Stains of time seeped in black streaks down the smooth facade of sharp angles and bold geometric reliefs. Rotted plywood boarded empty art-deco sockets. Glass shards were shattered on the sidewalk, mixing in with wind-blown garbage and the weeds springing up in cracks split by centuries of earthquakes. Taking the rotating doors chained closed and marked with a city-ordinance wasn't a clever idea for a would-be assassin, so I led Anderson around the building. Through the crumbling garage thick with cement dust and corroded vehicles crushed beneath the rubble, we found the old Boneyard's vagrants in a private city of tents and tarps. We walked mostly unnoticed among chem-fried brains preaching the end of times to those lost in throws of ghoulification. At the end of the neo-apocalypse was the tertiary entrance to the hotel I had come to expect studying New Vegas's layout.

The boards keeping everything, but its intended target out lay broken and splintered, disintegrating pieces upon a moth-eaten runner in a long, dark hallway.

Anderson audibly gagged. "What is that smell?"

"Rat piss," I shrugged. "Rat shit too. Dead rats—Lots of rats… Could also be human—"

"I get it."

I stepped inside first. Anderson followed behind me but not without grumbling complaints and fighting off dust-laden webs.

"You got a light?"

Anderson finally shut up for the few seconds it took for him to find the flashlight stowed in a suit pocket. I took it from him knowing he would be useless with it. Beaming the light down the corridor then on the runner, I followed the boot-tread left in the bed of dust. One set of tracks. There could be more though. It wasn't unusual for rangers to infiltrate at different points, typically to cover more ground for possible obstacles or to clear an escape path.

"We need to guard any way out," I told him.

Anderson peeped over my shoulder. Complaints revved up again as he yanked the radio off his belt.

"Let me go ahead," I turned to Anderson before he could press the radio button.

"What?" The monkey-suit looked at me as if I just insulted his mother. "No, we get backup—"

"Anderson, I know how a ranger thinks. Operates. I know all the tricks. I can catch up to them before they try to kill Barrett. You need to guard this exit until we can get backup to cover other points."

Anderson sighed. He pursed his lips and conceded, "fine. Take my spare gun." Before I could take the pistol, Anderson grabbed me by his wrist. "Don't make me regret this. Like, seriously. I really don't like my boss. If hear another one of his stupid, outdated, geezer-bullshit spiels I am going to shoot myself—"

"Anderson, buddy. I need to stop an assassin."

"Right," he let me go. I inspected the pistol. Standard issue 9mm—my disappointed glare flickered on Anderson when I spotted the safety off. "Maybe the spiels are warranted sometimes…"

The silence is what got to me first in places like these. My own breaths echoed around me. My ears homed in on my own heartbeat just to assure they still worked. The lightest steps tapped on endless cold tiles. Following boots prints up a wide set of creaking stairs lead to a maze of rooms spanning several floors. On every floor the track led to the room with a street view, and then back to the stairs. Each one was identical to the last, save for those hosting desiccated corpses watching over their worldly possessions for all eternity. Ancient wallpaper curled in strips on walls concealing broken pipes. Tarnished fixtures hung from clouded brass reliefs by threads pulled on warped ceilings. Moth eaten curtains tricked my eyes in the dark. Still, I felt their eyes on me. The ghosts of those that died in this hotel haunted me the same as the ghost I was pursuing.

Ringing ears hushed when my heart thumped faster. Sweaty palms lapped up layers of dust turning the banister when I began the hike up one more floor. Termite eaten planks whined under my weight. Every grating wail was a question in the back of my mind I couldn't answer. Who would I find? I paused three steps from the top and peered over. Boot prints led to the room across the hall and through an open door. At that moment I knew this wasn't Clint. The door should have been closed for exactly the reason I was here. Maybe this wasn't a ranger after all, or at least not a clever one.

I readied the pistol, calmed my nerves and breaths before carefully crossing the hall as so not to make a sound. Flushed against the wall, I peeked inside the doorway to a master suite. Misty windows cast dim light on faded red velvet. Frayed curtains hung terribly stagnant in the stillness. The ornate living room set in the center of the foyer faded to powdery gray. I pressed on, muzzle first. I was used to the stale, musty air by now which was why I noticed a smell that stood out. It was a pleasant smell unusual for such a place—perfume? That didn't matter. What it confirmed was someone was here.

I made a sharp turn to a chevron-sunburst arch leading in the bedroom. Sun bleached drapes bloomed at the open window staring down the asphalt strait. Gold tassels lingered like the hair of a ghost as the breeze died. Thin curtains lingered for a moment, a veil of mist obscuring the shadow wielding a long-barreled rifle pointed out the window.

The figure turned its head to face me. He was concealed in black, leaving only a strip of his face exposed. We were both staring at each other. This man was familiar—intimately familiar. In that moment I wasn't consciously thinking it, perhaps 'cause I felt myself leave my body. I was stuck between two moments in time. Here, in the present staring down a potential assassin while I was gripped with déjà vu. And, somewhere far in my past; a mission with Marcus. My feet refused to move even at my legs' demand.

Was this even real?

The pistol was a shaking black blot in my eyes. I refused to look away. The man kneeling at the window didn't break his stare either. He was expertly still, so much so I thought he had to be a hallucination. Sable eyes never blinked. His exposed skin was the same sun-kissed color as Marcus. Or maybe it wasn't. It had been seven years now. My memories were bound to fail. My brain was already failing me—I was finally cracking. Feeling the weight of my shattered world rain down on me, and this was the thing that broke me; entertaining the thought that Marcus was still alive since everything I thought I knew to be truth was a lie.

I was still frozen, thinking about this. It's a strange sensation to be stuck in your own body. No longer in control, but still feeling the sweat stream down my temples, my forehead, and stinging my eyes. I wanted to speak but I couldn't.

A stampede thumped up the stairs. That seemed to break my trance because I looked over my shoulder. Something I should have known better not to do, but it was instinctual. Anderson's men would be at the top of the stairs any second. But I had to know who this man was. I looked back.

Gone.

I took to a sprint after him. Deep breaths choked on dust and vapors. Eyes batted away thick particles. Jumping over debris and sagging floors, I struggled to keep up through the maze. Looking for boot prints in the dust no longer helped. Debris obscured my path. The chase brought me back to the main hallway. Doors that weren't open before led a zig-zagging trail through scattered daylight. Another stairwell lay at the far end. But the trail went cold long before that. Silenced by the chorus of agents Anderson led to the top of the stairs.

"He's here," I choked out. Anderson rushed to me, urging more out, but all the words I could manage were pleas to take him alive. My head was slipping away again.

—

Distilled to their most basic needs, humans like to feel safe. The strip was the safest place to be in New Vegas—the most fun too. Of course, there were problems; pickpockets were common, every day occurrences remedied by a healthy sense of one's surroundings and company. At the most extreme end, suits were the likeliest of candidates for murder. That happened infrequently though. Despite Mr. House's appreciation for Vegas and its long seedy history, he'd prefer his employees to negotiate their problems with words rather than bullets—good help being hard to find on the frontier and whatnot.

Freeside's own little strip was on par with the one-and-only. Stray about two to three blocks away and you were on your own. Literally. Securitrons guarded economic interests and there wasn't much beyond that invisible boundary. Not yet at least. Curiously though, what made those areas dangerous was also what made dense centers relatively safe.

People were the greatest allies and the worst enemies—the most dangerous of predators. Being who he was, Vincent had a knack for collecting enemies like one desires to collect chips at the tables. Lucky for him, however, wastelanders were largely incompetent. Too poor to hoard ammo for training their aim or buying weaponry to rival his personal arsenal, and subsequently didn't have the scruples to claim anything that might give them the upper hand. The more daring types like raider gangs were so mentally fried from copious amounts of chemicals injected, inhaled, or inserted into orifices in hopes of a quicker high that they simply could not be any more of a threat than a persistent scorpion. Dangerous, yes, but not as much as organized people. Like the Van Graff thugs who had followed Vincent to the Mormon Fort.

Dirtied canvas flaps fought their bindings. Julie talked about the Followers latest operations, plans to move into a new office space, and finished with a congratulations for all the chins hairs Vincent grew just to stroke while lost deep in thought staring beyond the Mormon Fort's courtyard.

"Hm?" His index finger and thumb paused as he looked at her.

Julie laughed. "What's it like?"

"What? Having facial hair now?"

"Does it get itchy or bother you?" Julie asked, scratching her own imaginary beard.

"Not at all," Vincent chuckled. "Shaving every other day is annoying."

Bright eyes squinted on Vincent. "Y'know, it kind of looks like how…" Her playful expression faded to a gentle smile; the ranger lingered in the most innocuous ways. "It suits you, Vincent."

Vincent smiled, assuring that what was unspoken did no harm. "I'll see you later."

He donned his sunglasses stepping into the sun. It only took a second in the heat to want to retreat to the shade. Heavy wood gates forever open framed the blocks across the street like a painting. Except things moved in this painting; men in black with boxy laser rifles in their clutches. Stocks flashed like silver as they maneuvered in the far distance to their next cover. The two securitrons guarding adobe walls noticed them before Vincent but two wouldn't be enough. Fingers tapped his pip-boy and turned dials from muscle memory while he watched the Van Graff's mercenaries. They were trained for this. Not to be underestimated, and they were here for him.

He knocked on the metal dome concealed in his hat and picked up his pace towards the motorcycle he left at the central flagpole. Five minutes til' the show, he figured. Enough time to free a submachine gun from the backseat holster.

"We got trouble," Vincent announced marching towards the Mormon Fort's guards' station. "Dead ahead."

Their game of caravan scattered. The two guards took position at their sand-bag cover. The ghoull-ette lead called for her backup wandering the courtyard. Vincent crossed the sandy threshold to the pavement where the two securitrons stood watch. They would offer cover as the mercenary group advanced for their next position. Vincent counted six men closing in on the Fort. He took position behind a sandbag pile stacked on the street-facing adobe wall. A guard joined him, shoving his rifle barrel through an intentional gap in the sandbag wall. The four securitrons he summoned minutes ago had finally arrived.

In the calm before the storm, a faint squeal carried along the concrete jungle. High pitched, but not loud. It was distinct. Climbing higher and higher until reached beyond audible frequency; the electronic buzz only energy weapons made.

"Advance," Vincent ordered the machines, "stun if you have the opportunity."

Tire tread spat up dust as six securitron units sped forward. Their three-pronged claws transformed in unison, becoming mini-gatling barrels to return laser fire while bulky shoulders opened up to deliver missiles. Vincent waited patiently behind his cover. By the sound of it, the securitrons had fire first—missiles to be exact. The ground shook and he peeked through a gap in the sandbags. Neon beams flashed. EMPs burst in brilliant white. Hostiles scattered in smoky haze, but the securitrons could track them where human eyes couldn't.

When they reappeared through the smoke, Vincent hopped up, unleashing lead rain on the fleeing mercenaries. Bullet riddled legs disintegrated. Blood spurt from torn flesh. Two men lay dead on sweltering asphalt, and Vincent's eyes only stung a bit fighting the glare of red strobes. Hot on the remaining four's trail, a lone securitron unit ignited flesh and bone in blue fire. Ash lingered in the air for a second before gracelessly falling in the street's cracks. By the time the smoke had thinned, all six securitrons survived and with three Van Graff thugs in custody.

The showdown ended as quickly as it started. He would have considered it a victory had lasers not set tents ablaze or singed bystanders. Before their rifles stopped smoking, the guards jumped to action to assist the doctors amidst the shrieks. Vincent barked orders at the securitrons. They'd be able to put out those fires faster than human hands, but nothing could calm the rage that burned cold in the young man for as long as he could remember.

Throttling his bike to full speed, Vincent raced to downtown Freeside. The engine growled for pedestrians to jump out of the way. Once he hit the thick of the crowd under a neon canopy, the thunderstorm of a young man was on foot, conscripting his robot army on the march to the Silver Rush. Every step rewound a conversation with Mr. House in his head as his boots slapped the sidewalk

However you do so, know it will be used as an example for any future non-compliance.

Before he knew it, flesh and blood joined Vincent's mechanical entourage; Kings were strutting over like they already won.

"What's going on, man?" Rocky caught up to Vincent's side.

"Game's over," Vincent stated. "I'm dealing with the Van Graffs now."

Same as the first time he visited the Silver Rush, two guards stood outside the door. When Vincent halted the march, securitrons spread out like a wall on either side of him. Behind them, Kings gathered for a view, surely lining up for their pound of flesh as well.

Vincent knocked on the unit next to him, "we're going on air again."

The unit beeped and as soon as it confirmed access to radio New Vegas, Vincent yanked off the receiver. The first rule of warfare is to never underestimate the enemy. The other first rule of warfare is to win.

He cleared his throat.

"Good afternoon fabulous New Vegas. Guess who?"

Vincent's voice echoed through the Freeside strip behind him. A second of silence pushed his audience to the edge of their seats, or so he liked to imagine.

"Coming to you live from the Silver Rush, on the corner of fuck around street and find out avenue. While we may be the incomparable, incredible, and exceptional Sin-City, there are some things you just do not do here." His voice was salacious and thick with a kind of cockiness reaped by experience he never he thought he'd have, and that was enough to lure out just who he wanted to see. "Attacking civilians, already injured and ailed, seeking help from the selfless Followers of the Apocalypse, and then to turn your lasers on those charitable doctors is very high on my list of offenses."

Vincent turned heel and resumed his anxious pace towards the three captive mercenaries brought to the front of the line and forced to their knees.

"Not only did you attack the defenseless, start actual fires, and kill civilians, you sent a bunch of thugs to do your dirty work. What's the matter Jean-Baptiste? Mr. Zero-to-Murder can't be bothered to show up? Gloria, I thought even you'd want to make sure the job is done right. I don't even have a mark on me."

Vincent turned his glare to the Van Graffs and their hired guns gathering on the stoop. This must have been all of them. He didn't bother to count though. They were unmatched against an army that did not bleed.

"See, Gloria, Jean-Baptiste, your first mistake wasn't calling my bluff. It was assuming I am bluffing to begin with. You upped the ante and made this personal. My offer is rescinded."

Vincent lowered the receiver and silenced the radio feed for a moment. "Rocky," he waved the King's man forward. Without wasting a second Rocky slipped through the securitron wall. "See these three here? Consider them a gift to the Kings. Do whatever you want with them, preferably where their masters can watch." With a cock of his head, the three scowling thugs vanished where help wouldn't get to them.

Vincent resumed his announcement when the beatings began. "Cut the power," began his list of demands.

Designated units dispersed from the line of impenetrable steel. The mercenaries raised their arms, but it was all posturing as evident by the lack of orders from Gloria.

"Shut off the water."

The securitrons closed in on the property, slipping behind the building, and swarming the adjacent vacant properties to gather on rooftops.

"Anyone who tries to leave is to be killed on sight. Anyone who tries to enter is to be killed on sight. Anyone who attempts to assist the Van Graffs will be strung up on a telephone pole and I'll watch the crows eat you alive while I sip a strawberry margarita. You should've quit while you were ahead." Vincent paused his paces. Jean-Baptiste whispered to his sister, surely asking what to do now. She only raised her hand in response. She had an ace up her sleeve after all. However, Vincent's final remark was a warning about that ace. "The house always wins."

He wouldn't give the situation anymore attention than it deserved after hanging up the radio receiver. The securitron's were in place. The Van Graff's didn't have enough firepower to deal with them, and Vincent pondered they wouldn't bother wasting inventory when they believed their escape was inevitable. His message was delivered loud and clear. Still, his nerves were on fire. He turned his back to the Silver Rush and went to his next stop to discuss the matter with The King, partly to commiserate but mostly to communicate with Freeside's de-facto leader.

Leaving the King's place, though, Vincent had no choice but to stare down the Baron's Bull. Through the wandering crowds and chatter, he couldn't see Wayne, but a bit of him felt the old man watching him. He crossed the wide path for the casino but lost steam on the way and stopped in the doors. Wayne set his half-emptied glass on the bar top. White froth clung to its sides, slowly creeping down like the sweat on Vincent's back. Wayne must've felt Vincent watching because he looked to the doors. Peppered brows rose in unison with his beer. Vincent clanked over to the bar, his head bowed as he climbed up on his stool. Hands clasped each other on the waxy countertop. His gazed was fixed on the blue star held around his wrist because he couldn't look at Wayne. He wondered if he looked to his left at the empty stool if Lawrence would magically appear. How was it that someone who had been gone for three years had a habit of popping up in his life. Yet, as intimately as he knew the ranger, Vincent couldn't string together what the man might say or think. Wayne, however, he could imagine; Wayne always wanted him to be better.

"So, when you gonna tell me about what's goin' on?"

"I know…" Vincent sighed. "I know you won't like how I'm handling the situation, but honestly, Wayne, do I have a choice? When they attacked the Followers just to get to me—I realized people like the Van Graffs, their thugs, all the outlaws we've rustled, they only respond to force."

"Seems like you made up your mind 'bout what I think without actually gettin' the facts, son." Wayne looked at him. Thick brows wrinkled his forehead drawn together not in anger but in concern. "Truth is, yeah, I wish there were better ways. But I don't have any alternatives to give you." He reached over to Vincent. His thick hand rested on the young man's shoulder and affectionately squeezed. Vincent finally looked at the old cowboy and Wayne's expression flattened. His voice lowered as their eyes met. "When you have real enemies, you deal with them swiftly and ruthlessly. This ain't about taxes anymore."

"I'm…" Vincent blinked. He stumbled over his words, unsure if he heard that correctly. "I'm surprised you'd think that."

"I learned a long time ago. Some kinds of people are beyond the grace of clemency. You were just shown what that looks like today."

—

"Okay!" Anderson let out an exasperated sigh. Seems he found the courage to say whatever was on his mind wandering aimlessly around Linda's living room and muttering to himself for the last couple of minutes. We were waiting patiently on the sofa. She had been pruning her nails and I was rolling a loos shirt around in my fingers. Anderson Straightened his already straight tie then clutching his belt, he bellowed out, "so, now I think is a good time to disclose some information I was withholding—for good reason."

Linda and I exchanged glances.

"At the start of this investigation, I sent out an agent to be my eyes on the ground. Y'know, look into things as one might, beingbe a person drawn to Clint's cause like a moth to flame," he explained. The young man nervously fidgeting with his hands through exaggerated expression. "Progress was slow, but a couple weeks ago he told me he may have infiltrated one of their cells in the Boneyard. He overheard one of the guys mention they were headed back to the giants." Dark brows rose as he sheepishly looked at Lawrence and Linda. "Ring a bell?"

I looked at Linda, finding she had an equally profound expression. She exhaled, crossed her legs and leaned forward to her hot mug on a doily.

"We had a sort of hazing ritual we did," Linda started. "In a place like the Mojave, the rangers become your family. And to formally join the family, the senior rangers like Clint and I would organize a 'party.' We would take our group and the new prospect out for fun whenever we were back home, and then pretend to kidnap them, although the prospect wouldn't' know it was us. Anyway, we brought them back to a safe house where we'd inform them not only are they officially a ranger now, but they're family and explain what the safehouse is. This would all happen in the Valley of Giants."

"You guys would really do that?" Anderson looked at us like we were crazy. "That sounds awful. And mean."

"It's not that bad," I muttered.

"Imagine trying to wrangle this guy?" Linda laughed. "I still remember that punch to the gut."

"Okay, well that explains that—" Anderson paused sensing a new lead. "But why is that place relevant?"

"If these people are who Lawrence and I think they are, then that's where they're operating from," Linda explained. "Only a select few people know about that place. And two are with you right now."

Anderson quickly sat on the loveseat. Had any of Linda's cookie been in reach, the lanky young man would be shoveling them in his mouth. "Yeah, I figured that but was hoping I was wrong."

"I can tell you one I know for sure," I interjected. My muscles tensed. Linda and I already had this discussion, and to a degree, I already mentioned the possibility to Anderson. Still, I wasn't completely sure about Clint's involvement. Last I saw him waws when he turned me loose into he Mojave wilds and left me to figure out survival for myself. "Clint Decker."

"Oh,"' Anderson leaned back, rather unimpressed with the answer. "It can't be him. I looked into his little rebellion at the dam and him and all his people except you are K.I.A. Their tags and charred bodies were found not to far from Fortification Hill. Deep in the in Legion camp. Mounds of legions soldiers around them," Anderson said far too enthusiastically. "Pretty baller way to go out, right?"

"Oh, Anderson," Linda chuckled. "Sweetie."

"What?"

"It's bullshit," I corrected. "Him and everyone of those rangers survived the initial battle, went to the Legion camp, survived that too, and then we all started south to hunt down survivors. I was with them, remember?"

"How could we be wrong?" Anderson's face flushed. "Maybe they went back? How long were you with them?"

"I was with them for months."

"So, we definitely solved the who-dunnit part of the mystery," Linda cut in before Anderson could talk himself into a circle. "Now, you just need to go find them."

"I wouldn't count on anything soon," Anderson said. Still sullen, he deflated in the loveseat. "I got to get the bureaucracy involved before we can even step foot in the valley."

"Don't we have treaties with the tribes there?" I said. "It was never a problem visiting back in the day."

"We do," Anderson shrugged, "but, it's a gray area for the NCR. Say the word government and it's like putting a curse on them or something. Indio, Palm Springs, Hot Springs, and all them might tussle with each other from now and then, but the moment NCR suits like me show up, as handsome as I am, they'll put their differences aside."

"Vegas has nothing on how seedy the Valley is," I reminded him, but maybe that hand changed since I've been gone. "Place is more like a black hole, than a black market. We just have to blend in. The safe house isn't even in any of their settlements."

"I get it but…" Anderson's lips thinned. "We have to go by the book. The bureau would rather not start more investigations into the republic's growing list of messes, especially if it's something we started." He laughed, "the irony in that report would be gut-busting, though."

Linda stood up and went to the kitchen. While she puttered around for goodies and leftovers to offload on Anderson, I clarified the timeline of events. There was no doubt Clint and the others were alive. I remember them gathering dead Legionnaires to torch. Watched everyone forfeit their tags, collect all but mine because I became their prisoner minutes prior. Clint still had his doubts about me then, however. He told me if I was innocent, they'd make sure my tags weren't found, that we'd all go under the radar and never be found out.

Of course, that never happened.

Anderson and Linda chatted in the kitchen and share laughs about something I wasn't listening to. I was a couple hundred miles east. Realizing, they probably assumed I'd die out there, never make it to Mojave outpost like I did. Never be here, ready to convict them. A numbness had taken over my heart lately. When I thought about Clint and the other rangers, I felt nothing. But that nothing was turning into black bile the longer I stared into my empty coffee mug.

Linda closed the front door.

"Do you think they'd hole up at the safe house?" I asked Linda. She joined me on the sofa, smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt then clasped her hands together atop her knees.

"Given the information we have, it looks like it, but I don't really know him anymore, do I?"

"I've been wondering how much help he's had."

Linda tilted her head. "Sounds like it's the same rangers you were with at the dam."

"No, I mean higher up than that." I looked at her. "When I was at Forlorn Hope, Clint sent me out to deliver new codes to the ranger stations and also look into some unusual reports. Long story short, Chief Hanlon was falsifying these reports when they reached him."

Linda's brows rose. Her eyes blinked rapidly. "Very long story short. You know for sure it was Hanlon?"

"I confronted him about it. He confessed and told me why he did it." I looked back into the empty mug hanging on my fingers by its handle. "He felt holding on to the Mojave would be death by a thousand cuts for the republic. Believed the war was a waste, and frankly, I shared his beliefs. I just don't know if he's involved with what Clint's doing here."

"I find it hard to believe Chief Hanlon would support cold-blooded murder."

I met Linda's eyes again. "I do too, but like you said, we don't really know them anymore, do we?"

—

Sweltering concrete danced like a heat stroked mad man on the shores of a mirage. Squinting from the cool side of the glass window, Vincent still felt the sun. Overhead power lines had long since given into the heat and sway lifelessly, caught by the slightest breeze trying to revive them. Transformers glared back at the sun, and any daring to look at them too. Buildings in all states of decay scattered the outskirts of Vegas, sweating their brick facades and stucco reliefs, and one of those gray blots was the Silver Rush. Miles away from his vantage point in the Oasis, he followed Las Vegas Boulevard until eyes met the glaring metal canopy over Freeside's strip, then took a sharp left turn off a narrow side street and stopped at the next block.

The heat got to everyone, and everything out here. One can go months without food. Days though, when you ate good to begin with, well, that's when the mental hunger sets in. Like cutting off a junkie cold turkey, it's physically painful. Drives a man to insanity watching the body waste away, but Vincent anticipated the Van Graffs would have food and water stores. It would only delay the inevitable. They'd die of dehydration first. That was a special kind of hell out here.

Naked warmth pressed Vincent's back. Hands squeezed Vincent's shoulders, pulling the young man into a sweat-damp embrace. Keeping his eyes closed and letting his head fall back into the man's chest, he imagined it was Lawrence. Vincent lightly combed the back of his nails along the dense hairs on his lover's forearm, putting them all back into place, but when Richard kissed him, when he inhaled the mercenary's scent was when the illusion would fall apart.

Just once was all he needed. To see the ranger again. Talk to him. Hear his voice. Hear Lawrence's heartbeat with an ear against his pillowy chest, hugged in an embrace only that one man could give.

It wasn't that he needed to pretend Richard was Lawrence. The mercenary captain had grown on him in the past few years, but it wasn't to be anything more than that. That was their mutual agreement. A treaty signed on even ground and founded in something they both had in common. However, they shared looks that lingered on one another every so often. Smiles hinted at a suggestion to consider something more. What began as lust-driven rendezvous didn't quite lose its spark, but there certainly was more to the testosterone-fueled release feeling sweat-slicked and bare skin of another man pressed to one another, lips caressing glistening necks with pleased breath, and hands locked above their heads.

"What's on your mind?"

Vincent coiled a lock of Richard's loose brunet waves around his finger. Green eyes seemed to turn blue under the noon light pouring through the pair of corner windows.

"Before…" Vincent mumbled. His gaze weakened on the man, falling to study the pattern of hair that bloomed outward from the center of Richard's chest and only covered him half-way. In his peripherals, Vincent saw his own. Rather the gauze concisely wound about his shrunken chest to hide it. "A couple years ago, I could never imagine, or conceive of the things I'm doing. For better or worse—Do you think I went too far?"

"Too far?" Richard departed for the bed where his clothes lay on mangled sheets. "Dropping a nuke on 'em might be too far—No! Deathclaw army." Richard nodded, pointing at Vincent. "Gotta remember that one."

"I wasn't just thinking about preventing a catastrophe," Vincent said. "I wanted to humiliate them. I wanted them to suffer for what they've done."

The captain chuckled. "Your radio show certainly did that."

"What if..." Vincent's voice softened. Richard raised a brow at the unusually weak tone, but as soon as he looked at the younger man, any confidence in Vincent to confess a sin shriveled up.

"Look, Vincent," Richard sat down after pulling his underwear back on. "Ain't nobody gonna miss them. Nothin' to miss yet anyway. I'm no good with the philosophical stuff, if you're asking me if the ends justify the means."

"Do you consider that stuff as a mercenary?"

"It might surprise you that I do," Richard said, pulling pant legs on. He jumped up baring a proud smile. "I'm not any ol' slut. I got rules, alright?" Vincent managed a weak laugh. "About the ends and the means, though. I got rules of engagement like any good merc. But it's just that." Richard shrugged. "I'm a mercenary. I'm not trying to build a city or manage one."

"I always wondered what makes someone like Caesar. Or even Mr. House." Vincent shrugged. He gathered his own clothes haphazardly strewn across the suite floor. "He's just another kind of tyrant…"

"Y'know that sayin'..." Richard wagged his finger slowly strutting over to Vincent. His shirt was slung over a shoulder because he liked to neglect putting it on as long as possible. "You think it's a go-big-or-go-home type of a deal. I think it's a question you oughta ask yourself which can also be worded as; can you live with your means?"

Vincent hummed. His eyes wandered to the dresser they stood by, briefly glancing at the mirror of the same width hanging above it, but it was the sarsaparilla bottle cap wound on black twine he was looking at. Years ago, Vincent asked Lawrence a similar question and got Lawrence's answer just as he got one from Richard. But words were words; speculation was only speculation. They meant nothing without action. Much like the threats in a letter given to Vincent signed by Frieda Van Graff sent all the way from Redding, Shasta, New California Republic.

Wayne handed the long-traveled paper back to Vincent while the young man eagerly watched the bartender empty a frozen slurry of pink soda into a generously sized glass. The letter was originally sent to the Silver Rush but was redirected to the Lucky 38 where it would have ended up anyway and dropped off by a bewildered courier hoping he wasn't caught up in something that would get him shot in the head.

"Hubris runs in the family," Vincent observed but the sparkle in his eyes was fixed in the strawberry margarita in the work. "She really thinks she has any leverage here."

"Pride is one of those traits that lasts till death," Wayne said.

"I'm going to frame this and mount it to the Silver Rush's front door."

"What did I just say about pride? This ain't the end of that."

Vincent hummed. Taking the first sip graced his taste buds with ice cold sweet and fizzy slurry. "Oh, that's good." He let out a long-satisfied sigh. "I'll keep the securitrons on alert and tell the King to expect something. I have a feeling she sent this because she hasn't gotten anything from the Silver Rush since I sealed it off."

"Speakin' of," Wayne peaked a graying brow and stroked his beard, "think they might be willing to talk now?"

Vincent chuckled. "You're more optimistic than I am."

On the outside, the Silver Rush looked the same. Except for those guards—they were gone. Trapped inside along with at least fifteen others, and as for that ace up Gloria Van Graff's sleeve… Well, that ace won't be much help when the game was rigged by a securitron that welded their last resort shut.

The line held firm around the building. Watching. Observing. Reporting. Spectators visited expecting a show like the one they got a couple days ago when one of Van Graff's cronies attempted to escape. He now hung from the roof; a crispy strip of bacon flapping in the breeze for the crows to snack on. Now those impatient tourists left without any climax. Kings stayed longer hurling taunts, insults, or pulling up chairs just to drink water and cold Nuka-Cola.

Vincent stood in the front line. He perused a vest pocket, plucking out a thin silver case and a lighter at once. "Any life signs?"

"Scanning," the securitron buzzed. "Visual spectrum: negative. Infrared spectrum: insufficient."

"Elaborate." Vincent opened the case, plucking out a single cigarillo, and pinching it between his lips.

"Infrared optics unable to penetrate walls."

He took in the cigarillo's first breath and held the smoke in his mouth. A mild sweetness lingered on his tongue and clung to his lips like a departing kiss. "Guess we better check it out then."

Scant yellow peaked through gaps in the windows tarnish. Dust glittered passing in honed columns of light cast on a showroom floor and the expansive collection of energy weapons hung on wall racks; laser rifles, energy pistols… On a U-shaped table where the transactions took place, bins held EMPs, plasma grenades, and the ammunition one would need for fancy futuristic weapons. And across from that, armor which would at least mitigate their effects. Ironically, these weapons could rival machinery like securitrons and other robots yet they all hung blanketed in fine dust. Not a piece out of place.

Two securitrons stopped at a stairwell on the far end of the showroom floor. Their bulky bodies shrunk, absorbing the length of their single axle until only half a tire remained. Three angled claws at the end of their arms closed together to make a flat surface out of their knuckles. Then the two parted ways, climbing up or down the respective stairwell at a frighteningly fast pace for such heavy things.

The third stood at an ajar office door not too far from the stairs. The doorknob clanked on the tile floor, rolling around in loops by the machine that plucked it from its socket like an eye. Vincent pushed open the door with the toe of his boot. Hinges croaked. Half-expecting its owners to be inside, Vincent carefully peeked around the doorframe. Heavy steps thudded scraped wood floors. An unimpressed expression evaluated a desk lined up to the one-way mirror watching the showroom floor. Papers remained where they were left a week ago. Turning around, he met a second desk that hosted a terminal watching Vincent tilt his head as he took to a squat. He reached to the blot far too dark to be a natural shadow. Cold metal met his palm.

"Hey, Rust-Bucket," Vincent bellowed out from under the desk. "Come here."

The securitron wheeled to the door frame, paused for a second then turned to its side, rotated its wheel independently, and crab-rolled inside. Meanwhile, Vincent already pulled the desk from the wall, smiling pridefully because he didn't need to move one thing off the heavy slab of metal to do so.

"Object of interest detected on basement level," the securitron announced.

Taken by a more interesting prospect, Vincent started for the basement as he bellowed for the robot to get the safe open. The two scouting securitrons joined him in the basement. Guided by their bright white lights, Vincent crept down the narrow flight of stairs. Cold dust lingered in the air. Vague shadows came into focus. Crates stacked from floor to ceiling took up most of the basement. Bold black paint listed their contents, but that wasn't what Vincent was interested in. It was a vault door beaming the securitrons lights back at them.

Vincent retrieved his own light as his other hand signaled to the door. "Take the wheel," he kept his voice low. "Do not open until I say so."

The securitrons each extended one arm to the door's wheel. Metal claws tightened around the curve. His soles scraped the concrete floor. Standing at the door, silence returned to the chilly basement. He pressed an ear to the door. Fuzzy ringing relented to his heart gaining speed. Nothing stirred on the other side, so he knocked.

"Marcel?" A muffled voice penetrated dense steel.

"Nope!" Vincent shouted back. "He's dead. Guess again?"

Steel locks groaned. The securitrons' grip refused to let it make a full revolution. Half a foot thick metal hushed arguing voice. Muffled words ceased and Gloria's voice returned. "Look, we can negotiate." While her tone of desperation wasn't crystal clear, a smile still crossed Vincent's face. "You want a cut—"

"You had your chance to negotiate." Vincent's smile turned to a grin feeling the vibrations of a deeper voice reach new, commanding lows. "It's time to reap what you sow."

Richard was right about one thing. Vincent needed to ask a question, but it wasn't the one the mercenary captain thought it was. He cocked his head staring at the silver door. Futile fists struck from the other side. Pounding relentlessly, over, and over, while a chorus of voices begged to be let out. They weren't asking the right question either.

At that moment, Vincent asked himself whether he should let them out. But Wayne was right; they didn't deserve mercy. Caesar didn't deserve mercy. Benny didn't deserve mercy. There were many people out in the wilds of the wastelands, in the city of New Vegas, and far beyond the Colorado that didn't deserve mercy either. Hammering fists reminded him of the ruthless part Wayne mentioned. That was the question hiding in a fine smokey mist, or behind the thick metal hushing screams begging to be let out; was he beginning to like that part of the job?

True, there was an exhilarating rush enacting revenge on those who wronged him. A kind of satisfaction only derived from destroying an enemy and watching it play out before him. He learned that years ago from a certain dictator fallen from grace, so perhaps he always enjoyed that before it really was a part of his work. Then the real question was: Was it okay for him to revel in it?

That he didn't know. Vincent turned his back to the vault door. He would think about it though. Leaving the basement and starting up the stairs, he did know he could live with letting them die in there. He could live with returning a week later to free the corpses trapped in the tunnel. Cut off a finger from Gloria and Jean-Baptiste as he winced at cracking bone. Then hang all of them up alongside the first who tried to escape and let the crows pick them clean. Write a concise and short warning to their mother that went something like this: Dear Frieda, send any more of your spawn and I'll kill them. Step foot in Vegas, and the Van Graffs end with you. P.S. I sent you a little something. Would you like me to send the rest?

He could live with that.

—

I took my position at the corner post of the front yard's fence and homed in on the pair eyes peeping through spread blinds next door so Linda could march down the sidewalk to her destination. I had an informal introduction to the owner of those eyes watching her with a suspicious squint. Every Wednesday this stout goblin emerged from his cave to water his weeds. The sole purpose of this ritual was for nothing more than to sneer at Linda's visitors and spew a variety of insults at the women. Miss Tiffany, much like me, did not take kindly to this. Whereas Tiffany gladly slung back her own colorful rebuttals, I was more of a hands-on type of guy. So now every Wednesday, I had my own ritual to stand in a corner of Linda's yard, scoping out the enemy fortress should there be unwanted advances.

While today wasn't Wednesday and Linda had no visitors, she did have a mission; a plate of cookies that needed to be delivered to the recently settled neighbors on the other side of the goblin's swampy cave. When his squint made its way over to me, he promptly withdrew from the window.

"Hello, Ms. McBeal!" The pony-tailed brunette hopped up from her playground in a patch of dirt on a spotty lawn. "Did you bring cookies?"

"Hi Ruthie!" Linda's back was to me, but I could see her smile beaming back at the gleeful little girl. "I did. I made your favorite."

"He's not very friendly." I spun around to someone I wasn't expecting—Ruthie's father coming from the opposite direction. Being confined to imaginary property lines I couldn't give a formal introduction when they arrived, but honestly, I haven't been interested in socializing much lately. "Gave me and Rachel the side-eye first day we got here."

"Seems to be the local nuisance," I replied.

He stopped on the other side of the fence. "You're Linda's friend?"

"I am," I said rather bluntly, but I didn't mean it. He had an attentive stare, but his gaze felt miles away. Sunken cheeks wrinkled with a friendly smile that reminded me to be polite. "I'm Lawrence," I said, hoping to save myself from a poor introduction.

"William, but I go by Billy," he said. "My wife and daughter just moved in over there."

Billy.

I felt a zap in my head and squeezed my eyes shut. I didn't like that name. Never really cared much for what other people's names were. They were just sounds. But I didn't like that name. Billy. I shook my head slightly and came back to the present moment. Hopefully I hadn't made him uncomfortable. I quickly thrust my hand to him. Maybe he'd think I'm just a little awkward. "Nice to meet you."

Billy reached for my hand, and I just gawked at the stump covered by a folded and pinned sleeve. "I'm sorry—" I looked at him, somewhat relieved our awkwardness was mutual. His arm, amputated just a bit below the elbow, quickly retreated to the cover of the jacket hanging on his shoulders. "I'm still getting used to it. I heard you and Linda used to be rangers."

"Y-yes." I blinked at him. I didn't like his name. But it's just a name. It doesn't mean anything. My mouth was dry. My throat ached for water, but we had to practice some restraint out here in the desert. "Yes. We, we…" We shook hands and a surge of light blinded me. The iridescent impression of a rooftop view was seared into eyes even as I squeezed them shut. "We we're rangers."

"Are you ok?" Billy asked me. His voice was muffled by the break in radio static. Orders. How could I forget our orders? The heat made me drowsy. Didn't help that last night was restless too. I turned up the dial.

"Take him out," the radio ordered.

Crosshairs steadied on the figure wandering through the NCR's camp. The target looked to his right, then his left. Surrounded on all sides by soldiers slowly closing in on him. He turned again and showed me his face, twisted in fear. Real fear—dread from knowing he was going to die.

"That's a civilian," I said.

Marcus raised binoculars. My body felt like water watching the boy's hands shoot up. Foot soldiers surrounded him now. "It's Billy."

"Kill him, Garrett," the radio ordered again.

"What the fuck is he doing?" Marcus whispered. He snatched the radio between us. "That is a child. Answers to Billy—"

"Kill him."

"Shit," Marcus hissed. A closer inspection of the target explained the order—he was wrapped in a vest of bombs. "Lawrence, pull the trigger."

How did we get here? We were playing cards last night with Billy. Taught him Caravan. Kept him company. My hands were shaking, trigger finger refusing to cooperate.

"You have to kill him," Marcus urged me. The radio yelled orders on repeat. Refugees were being led by the Followers' people deeper into the camp and away from the standoff. They wouldn't get far enough on foot.

My whole body was vibrating. The rifle in my hands was weightless and rattling. My throat was so sore. I managed to spit out something, but I couldn't hear myself over the radio—the radio, Marcus, both screamed in my ears to pull the trigger. But Billy was a civilian. Fourteen years old. He had a brother hostage on the Legion's side of the area. His mother died yesterday in the medical tents. We taught him to play caravan just to keep him company. Pull the trigger. I repeated the orders in my head. I had to.

Laughlin was in the middle of an evacuation. Legion forces broke through the southern barricades—how did they get a hold of Billy? It all happened so quickly—the Followers' people wouldn't get far enough on foot. My ears were ringing. I was deaf to the radio, to Marcus. To the blast.

What felt after… I was inside my own body, trapped in my own head. I couldn't move. Or speak. Or do anything aside from observe the consequences of my inaction. I think my last willful movement was flinching, not to the blast or the waves, but to the red mist. They were torn to shreds. Billy, the soldiers surrounding him. The red mist settled like dust and their bodies… Mangled in ways no human should ever be, let alone survive even if only for seconds of agony. Lives forever altered in a matter of seconds.

It was all my fault. I had a chance to stop it all before it began and I didn't. I was frozen. A jammed gun. A terminal stuck in a loop. Marcus was always more decisive than me and I tried to be like him. I remember he switched on my rifle's safety then yanked it out of my hands. My arms, my hands, they were still bent and shaped as though I was still holding it. Time was moving forward down below, blurred by the sting in my eyes. Suddenly Marcus's voice broke through the ringing in my ears.

"Fuck!"

The incessant hum returned. I catch something small and metallic fly over the building we were perched on. It's only a glint in the sweltering noon sun to me. I later learned it was the firing pin of my rifle. He told me later, after I was dismissed from the medical tent—cleared of my diagnosis of "shock"—he took it out and reassembled the rifle. He said he'd figure the rest out. And he did. He came up with a cover story. A lie with just enough believable details and a central character—conveniently dead—that it passed.

After he told me that, I cried. I burst out in frantic tears. I begged him to forgive me. For being so weak that I didn't pull the trigger and that I was now crying about it. He said to me, , in a disappointed tone that matched his useless words:

"What's done is done."

I blinked at the ceiling. The only white space in Linda's home. A lone tear rolled down the side of my head and into my ear. I batted away the sting in my eyes and for a moment was confused by the yellow haze filling the living room. The day had meandered by as told by the watercolors painting the living room ceiling. Drifted away from me as reality did when my own memories assaulted me. I'm an obsolete terminal. A worn-out machine working overtime just to process the most basic of functions that froze and got stuck far too often to be of any value.

Briefly, I wondered if I had lived my entire life this way. Letting it pass me by like today did.

I sat up, but the notion still followed me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited for the vertigo to go away. When my eyes opened again, the warmth that often accompanied late afternoon seemed so cold and lonely. Was I in my final hours? It seemed quite dramatic to think about, but most people were settled down and had kids by my age. Rangers started to retire to civilian life or went into administrative roles as they closed in on forty. I had none of that. Not for any lack of trying. Marcus and I wanted a life after being rangers, but that was viciously ripped away. Maybe we wouldn't even be together by now if he was alive.

Wandering through the house like I was haunting it eventually brought me to the back patio. Linda was kneeling by the latest addition to the garden; a miniature white picket fence that took the place of the stakes and rope we laid last week. Finches' songs lured me to the edge of the shaded concrete slab. I wanted to feel the sun before it left, yet I hesitated. Was I waiting for permission?

Cold dirt dusted the bottoms of my feet first. I moved onto the smooth stones embedded in the soil and followed them as though they were my only path. Sunlight warmed the back of my neck as I stepped out of the shade. I stopped, though. The sensation, the heat—memories of Vincent surfaced. His breath warmed the back of my neck when he'd cuddle me. I came back to the moment, staring at the grass that had sprouted sporadically around the stone path. We'd sometimes go outside during the height of noon on the hottest days in Vegas. Stand barefoot on the grass lawn of the Lucky 38 just because we could. There wouldn't be many people outside and we could just exist for a bit. I stepped off my path. Let the grass moisten my feet, feel its blades between my toes as the white cover tickled my ankles.

Soft petal faces danced with a gentle breeze. Hummingbird sage scraped the sun-bleached fence at the far end of the yard. Coyote bushes grew in between, swaying excitedly for the gold and orange poppies swaddled in burlap diapers around their roots like babies about to be put to bed. Linda smiled at me as her gloved hands unwrapped a bundle. Looking back to her task, she loosened the dirt wad and freed the roots before planting it in the next hole. "How are you feeling?"

I knelt with her, my knees popping on the decent. How was I feeling? I wasn't too sure either, and I tried in earnest to answer but I couldn't. Instead, I watched her process once more before trying it myself. Golden and orange poppies were the color of spring in California. Wherever nuclear taint hadn't lingered, they were bound to pop up. In cracks, on the side of roads. There were entire fields on the other side of the mountains reclaiming scorched soil. Somehow, they had survived whatever events destroyed the old world, and a bit of me felt hopeful realizing that.

I pressed both hands down on the mound of loose dirt. One more poppy was planted. "Can I confess something I didn't tell you earlier about Vincent?" Shallow dimples marked Linda's cheeks. The sunspots dappling her face melted caramel eyes. "I felt like a creep sometimes when I was with him."

"A creep?" Linda's dimples persisted even with a frown. "You've never given that impression. Now, I have met some creeps in my time."

"When I stumbled on him, I thought he was cute." I couldn't fight the oncoming smile. Never would have thought saving some dumb kid from a deathclaw would become my most cherished memory. "Couldn't make heads or tails of him but when he said his name was Vincent, I just figured he was a late bloomer and didn't think anything of it—he could make me laugh. Make me smile."

"Why did that make you feel like a creep?"

"He looked younger than he was," I explained. "In between man and women most days, but I never told him how we often got looks when we were out on the town."

"Yeah…" Linda sighs told me she had her experiences with "looks". She gave me another poppy. "I got looks in my early days. Like they can't tell what you are. Did the looks bother you? Or contribute to… leaving?"

"No. That wasn't even really what bothered me." I looked at the flowers, appreciated the populated rows of gold and orange petals. If my life were this planter it would be a mess of dead weeds and poppies clinging to life. "My duty was to the republic first. Truth is, I was already doubting if I wanted to go on being a ranger, and Vincent was a reminder that there was something else out there for me. I began doubting my loyalty. I had criticisms about the NCR before meeting him, but it wasn't something you just openly talked about, y'know? And Laughlin—I froze up at Laughlin. I didn't want to make the same mistake again, so I made a new one. Over, and over."

"You aren't alone with that," Linda's voice slipped for a second. She swallowed her own regrets, plucked off a glove, and brushed her hand in wide circles on me back. "If there's any comfort in that, I promise you aren't alone."

That was one thing about trekking the Mojave I took for granted; things were slow to change in a landscape carved by millennia. When there was change, it was swift and brutal. Brought about by the hands of men in uniforms following orders. Reality hit harder than any punch, stabbed deeper than any knife, and did about as much damage as a properly placed bullet. I helped make this new world I no longer fit in and no longer wanted to be a part of. I had a choice all those times before, in Laughlin, Bitter Springs, Vegas… The guise of orders and command washed the blood off my skin but couldn't get rid of the stains.

"Linda, you said it's never too late." I took Linda's hand. She pressed her fingers between mine and gave me an assuring squeeze. She was already nodding before I admitted aloud, "I want to go home."