Dorothea paused. Her eyes shut tightly, exaggerating every fine line of an angular face. The last three hours had been intermittent stops to make this face as she dredged up unpleasant memories from the day she was abducted until now.

"Do you remember seeing anything?" Wayne asked as he shifted in the stiff wooden chair. "Any landmarks? Highways? A sign?"

"No, they covered my—" Her head shot up. Puffy eyes blinked. "Once I caught a glimpse outside. I saw the skyline above rooftops. It was hazy and distant." Hands waved in place of failing words. "There's a hillside to my right…" Dorothea winced. She pressed two fingers to the pain in her forehead.

Clyde stretched his arm around her. "Maybe we should take a break."

Wayne stood up. Old bones cracked while stiff legs brought him to meet the cross young man leaning against an overly polished wood frame.

"I say they had her in a mine," Wayne decided, keeping his voice low.

Vincent's stare was vacant. Quietly absorbing Dorothea's story along with the warm hues of the extravagant parlor, save for black blots creeping in his peripherals. Idle hands turned the twine around his wrist, hoping it would conjure the skill and expertise of the ranger who made it. "There's a lot of mines in the mountains around Vegas. They would want something close enough for easy transport, but not too close prospectors might come wandering in."

"I'd also bet it's near a highway for easy pickins."

"It's getting stuffy in here." Vincent relieved his weight off an aching sole. He glanced at one of those blots around the room, in the hall, loitering outside on the porch; Clyde's guards—about as useful as insurance at the blackjack tables it seemed. "I'm going outside for a bit."

Wayne pinched the brim of his hat and the two departed.

Meeting the cold of night, Vincent took a deep breath. Mesquite roamed with the breeze chilling his nose. White light bloomed on the horizon. Setting eyes on the city, everything else disappeared. The Lucky 38 triumphed above all casinos. A lot of people would kill for such a place to go home to. He might have a few years ago starving, desperate in a gutter, and arguing with himself if selling his body was worth food or not. Now, he had almost all he could want but didn't want to go home.

Dusty planks creaked under his boots all the way to the banister. Shy crickets hushed as the wind settled. While the world stood still, Vincent reached into his jacket, pulled a lighter and pack of cigarettes from an inner pocket. Taking one stick out, he put the pack back and flicked the lighter.

A ghost's face flashed next to him.

"Sorry!"

Vincent groaned. He adjusted his jacket as if it would shirk off his embarrassment like dust. "It's alright."

Jeaney dropped to the floor then came back up with the cigarette pinched between fingers nearly as white. "I didn't mean to interrupt your smoke."

Vincent's scowl loosened. "Oh, I don't smoke these."

"No?"

"They're really awful," Vincent said, his lip curling to match his disgust. "Feels like it sets you on fire from inside out. Stains your teeth, nails. Only way to get the stink out of your clothes is by drowning them in perfume and even with that, it's temporary. Absolutely awful."

Jeaney stifled a chuckle. "Then why do you have them?"

"I light them and let it burn. Reminds me of somebody."

Jeaney nodded and her pale cheeks dimpled with a polite smile. Under her awkward stare, Vincent turned back to the porch's railing. Still, her snowy face lingered in his peripherals. Waiting for him to say something or just gawking at him—Oh, people loved to gawk. It was only a matter of time before she asked the question. The question they had to ask only because they couldn't see in his pants. Well, not without risking a bullet as the price tag.

"I would smell my mom's perfume." She stepped next to him and leaned on the rails. Head tilted as she counted the stars poking through New Vegas's halo. "When she was gone, it was…"

The unseen orchestra of crickets resumed their piece in Jeaney's silence.

"Like she's there."

"For a moment," Jeaney's voice faltered to a whisper. A sparklet hung in her eye. "I relived every memory of her. When she'd read to me as a little girl. When we'd play. When she'd hold me…" She looked at Vincent, her lips parted but words hesitated. "Who does cigarette smoke remind you of?"

"No one I'll ever get back..."

"Thank you," she said. "For bringing my mom back."

Vincent looked at her for a second, suspicion still lingering in his eyes. He rolled the cigarette between fingertips. "Just what I do. Good money n' all."

Hinges squeaked behind them. Jeaney and Vincent turned to the warm light pouring out behind a hefty figure in the door. "Dorothea's callin' it quits for now," Wayne announced.

"I better check on her," Jeaney said. Clutching her long frilly skirt, she flashed Vincent a smile, exchanged polite pleasantries with the old cowboy, and slipped inside.

Vincent turned back to the city's glow, pondering what to do with the rest of his night. Except he already knew. Drink. Eat. Gamble. Go back to his suite before he drank too much and then drink some more without having to worry about being vulnerable in his stupor. Letting his eyes defocus to a blur, he could almost see the crowd under Freeside's neon canopy. The machines spitting fire stage side. Performers dancing on pedestals and praised with caps. At least that would never disappear.

"Did I interrupt something?"

"Hm? What's there to interrupt?"

"Chattin' with the little lady." Wayne nudged Vincent. A whimsical smile puffed his cheeks and wrinkled his eyes. Vincent, of course, scowled.

"Girls don't see me that way."

"I get plenty of ladies tellin' me how cute my son is."

"So, I'm a chick magnet, but for you?"

Wayne laughed. Contagious chortles almost drew a chuckle out of Vincent. Of course, his brand of luck would dictate that. Hell, luck let him have Lawrence for a time. Maybe it would help him stumble upon a legion safehouse or hideaway too. "What do you think so far?"

Laughter next to him calmed, but Wayne's eyes still smiled. He set his hat on the banister then the pocket comb came out. "Welp..." Wooden teeth parsed charcoal hair. Wavy ends straightened then bounced back to licking curls about his neck. "I think trackin' down these people-bootleggers is above your bend, son."

Vincent shot him a challenging look. "It's no contest—they need to be brought to justice."

"I agree with you." Wayne sighed as regretful eyes met Vincent's. "But we just ain't got much to go on. Dorothea told us all she knows. You got to let her put it in the past now."

—

Propelled by a purpose and still high from a sleepless night, Vincent marched down the Freeside strip, weaving through the afternoon crowds gathering at market stalls and the food vendors barking over each other. Enticing scents rumbled his stomach. Until he caught wind of the barbecued radroach skewers. Greasy, shiny, gargantuan things fed by radiation; he doubted anything other than his .45 would put one out of his misery. Live ones squirmed in a cage behind the cook, but he swore some may be immersed in the crowds wearing human suits hawking shiny trinkets of suspicious origin or picking out the next sucker in line.

Yet nothing could distract him from his destination. The thick map clamped under his arm was a persistent reminder for the little boots quickening to make an opening into the Baron's Bull.

"Wayne—" Vincent whipped open the map. Thunder bolted and glossy pages flared like lightning. Oblivious to the old man's lunch, Vincent fumbled, unfurling all of it. "I think I've narrowed down where to look. This area of McCullough hills—" He stretched out the map, grinning eagerly and proudly behind it. A pen poked through a frayed hole in a center crease and pointed vaguely towards innumerable Xs littered around the mentioned hills. "Is just what we're looking for. Near a highway—Bam!" He tapped the map again and Wayne lost count of the marks. "Mountains with mines. Maybe even caves—Bam! Has a city-facing side—Bam!"

Silence.

The map wilted. A frown met Wayne's curious look. Mouth full and chewing, the old man didn't say anything. He looked back to his plate and carved out another spoonful. Then he'd look to Vincent, resuming the Mexican stand-off of stares. Neither humored by the other.

Wayne went for a sip of beer to wash down his food. "Oh, was that your grand presentation?"

Vincent groaned. Shoulder slumped and the map bungled in his lap.

"You really hell-bent on gettin' these guys."

"Obviously!" Vincent retorted. He straightened out his hunch. "You should be too. I thought you were a lawman..."

"I'm also a realist." Wayne grabbed a napkin and patted his beard before he continued. "These types pack up camp once you get close and you got too close. You caught Custos and two of his cronies. They ain't stickin' where they are for long, 'cause Custos told 'em he was exchanging Dorothea for you. After all, them heads you been puntin' down in their camp and stirring up a mean helping of trouble, they got the right mind to skedaddle."

Vincent huffed and crossed his arms. His scowl returned. Leaning back in the stool, he absorbed the old man's words. Wayne was right though. If they had any sense, they would move. "But they wouldn't just abandon their whole operation, right?"

"Most likely not."

"Then they would stick to the same scheme—Highways. Easy targets. Travelers. Caravans."

"You plannin' on searching all the caboose?"

Vincent threw up his arms. "Guess I have to!"

"I think you best be wanderin' back up that tower of yours and hit the hay. You look like you could use it."

Vincent folded his arms on the bar top and reverted to a slouch. "It's hard sleeping with so much to do."

"You did right by Dorothea. That's one more notch in the belt, so take it easy."

Sleep sounded nice. Coddled up in the safety of his blankets, sinking on a cloud in a cool suite, and drifting off into dreams of Lawrence—Vincent shook his head and slipped off the stool. "I got things to do."

And things he did. First, it was a visit to the Gun Runners. If you wanted big guns, say a sniper rifle, because the only man who ever loved you was a highly skilled sniper and suddenly abandoned you and now you're full of conflicting emotions, one being an overwhelming and misplaced desire to be a better marksman than him, the Gun Runners was the place to go. Wholesale arms and ammunition of just about everything a trigger-happy heart could desire. All contained in a factory behind a chain-link fence, a lot of guards, and one protectron model robot who found a new career in sales.

After that was a minor pit-stop to the strip. The Shooting Gallery specifically. All those fancy accouterments Lawrence salivated over and rambled on about, Vincent learned a thing or two from. Then he was off, puttering into the ruins of a crumbling city.

On the outskirts facing McCollough hills and on the crossroads of Vegas and Henderson, Vincent set up his nest in the gaping hole of what was once a home in a winding cul-de-sac. A quiet place. Not too attractive to the outlaw types being so far from their next pay-day. Rotting houses in a maze of identical streets wasn't alluring to the homesteader types either. Not to mention the hordes of ghouls keeping prospectors out. The nearest highway lay six miles away, but that would be through a sea of concrete, rebar, and all sorts of nasty things poking up from the depths of abandonment. The stillness, however, was a nice change of pace.

At least, until unnatural colors crossed his lens.

Vincent paused. He pulled away from the scope and searched for the source. Barely discernible with his eyes alone. He looked through the scope again. Two figures traversing another arm of the suburb. One in red and black. The other, every-day clothes a woman on the road would wear—except for restraints keeping her hands together.

His stomach sank. Mouth dried. His body felt lighter than air when the realization smacked him over the head with a two-by-four.

He set his sights on the Legion pursuer. Yards away from the woman. But she ran deeper into the trap. Disoriented by fear. The heat. Everything looked the same on the ground.

"Don't miss…" He whispered. His finger rested on the trigger. Crosshairs outpaced the soldier. Lawrence's instructions spoke to him from a distant memory. The crosshairs wandered under weak arms, swaying back and forth as he vied to keep his sights on the pursuer. "Don't miss." Vincent held his breath. Then pulled the trigger.

The butt kicked back into his shoulder. Vibrations rattled him. The boom pierced his ear-covers.

"Son of bitch!" Vincent lowered the rifle and got his bearings straight. The woman, shocked and startled, gathered herself up off the road and darted into the nearest house. The soldier toppled without a leg. Mangled arteries spewed from torn beige and yellow flesh. Blood pooled under him, but he wasn't dead. He sat up slowly, blank-faced and staring at the mangled stump then stunned eyes followed the trail of blood spray and bone debris to find his limb scattered across sweltering asphalt.

Being so considerate and still for Vincent, he pulled the trigger again.

Then the young man packed up in a flurry, flew down rickety stars, dodged splintering debris, and hopped over glass shards. He pushed his bike out the door, jumped on, and fired her up. Zipping through the streets, Vincent wished the motorcycle wasn't so loud, but he'd grit his teeth through it and hope for the best. He just had to make it there first. Before any unwanted visitors came knocking on that door. Two streets from his destination, he cut the engine and walked the rest of the way.

Suspicious eyes studied blown out or boarded windows staring down on him. The nooks and crannies between sun-bleached fences could hide all kinds of mean critters. Rusted cars, whole and untouched by scavengers sheltered unseen foes. But only ghouls hissed and moaned around him. He turned down the cul-de-sac, dodging the meandering group further down the road.

At the end of the street, he caught a glimpse of a blonde crown behind broken glass just as she backed behind a wall. Vincent stopped at the soldier's body. Grimacing and unable to look away from the terrible sight, he couldn't help but wonder how many of them could be hiding in the ancient suburb. How many victims were within reach of help?

At the end of the block there was one he might be able to help. Vincent eyed the window as he wheeled the bike on the driveway. He popped open the storage box and retrieved a spare canteen of water and a back-up hunting knife. He looked up to the window, took a few steps back, looked up again and tossed both items into the window. Empty walls echoed their clatter, then her shuffles. Silence resumed.

One minute.

Two minutes.

She poked around the wall for a gander then quickly retreated.

"Are you alright?"

Silence.

"I'm Vincent." He pulled off his helmet. A breeze rustled sweat-slicked hair and he stole a glance behind him—still clear. "You might be wondering why I'm here and you probably won't believe me, but I'm hunting for legion soldiers. Specifically, a group that's been abducting people. Looks like you might have had a run-in with them."

Silence.

"It's alright if you don't want to talk, but I could really use all the help I can get. I only know about this group because I found someone and brought her home. Her name is Dorothea…" Vincent sighed, feeling ridiculous and hopeless without an answer. "Maybe you met her? Or other people, maybe? At all…"

She peeked around the wall again. One stern eye fixed on Vincent.

"Did you kill him?"

"Yes. I saw him chasing you."

She ducked behind the wall again, and silence… Just when he decided to call it quits, the girl appeared in the doorway. A wild-eyed young woman; dirt smudged, hair frazzled, and clothes tattered. In one hand, Vincent's knife. In the other, the water canteen damp with droplets and the cap hanging freely.

"What did she look like? Dorothea."

—

"We were ambushed 'bout a week ago." Heather winced. The cotton ball burned no matter how lightly Julie dabbed the girl's cheek, but only the sting of alcohol could break her stone-cold stare of contempt. "Nabbed some of them, but they got most of us. Whoever didn't die was blindfolded and dragged back to the place they were keeping us—somewhere in that maze you found me."

Vincent pulled up a vacant stool bedside. Julie shuffled around the room, quietly listening as she gathered more supplies. "You escaped?"

"No. Had a buyer for me and a few others, but something went wrong." The doctor returned and covered the cuts with gauze. "Heard shouts, then somebody shoots. All hell breaks loose, and I took my opportunity to get out. I don't know what happened to others…"

Vincent wheeled back against the wall to let Julie by. He crossed his arms as his mind wandered to visualize an aerial map of the suburb. Attacking from the highway between Henderson and New Vegas—his hunch was right. But they were hidden in a ghoul-infested suburb. Maze was an understatement…

"When they threw us in those pens, Dorothea was already there. She asked me my name. Then told me hers," Heather continued. Slouching, her eyes stared vacantly at the bruised hands in her lap. "She told me never forget it because they'll try to beat it out of you. If that doesn't work…" She chuckled dryly. "Good thing I was on the rag when I showed up."

"Well, Miss Heather, you are resilient," Julie declared. Her kind smile warmed the room. "You're in good health despite your ordeal."

"Do you mind if I stick around for a bit, doc? I'm not jumping to get back in a caravanner's saddle."

"Take all the time you need," Julie chirped. "The Followers' doors are always open."

"And you," Heather looked to Vincent. "6752. I think that's the house number. You're going after them, right? You got that look."

"That's my plan."

"You got a pretty good aim, but there's a whole gang of them in there. More than one person could handle, no matter how lucky."

Vincent stood up. "I always got an ace up my sleeve." He met her bedside, his hand extended. "Thank you."

Heather glanced at Vincent's hand. Her features softened. They shook on it, and she said, "I'm supposed to be thanking you."

"It's just what I do." Vincent shrugged as he backed towards the door. Shuffling outside, eyes burned the back of his head.

"Are you feeling alright, Vincent? You didn't come by for your shot yesterday."

"Sorry, I've been so busy lately and…" Vincent spun around, cursing under his breath at himself for forgetting something so important. He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. "My to-do list just keeps getting longer. I'm constantly smoothing out wrinkles between the Kings and NCR immigrants. The King himself is dangerously irate with the Van Graffs because he's suspicious about something—Looked at him wrong, I guess. Supply lines are thin because deathclaws are still squattin' their fat, scaley asses on the 15 and I've been hearing about it non-stop from strip-bougies wanting fancy baubles while everyone else is starving to death. And if it ain't the deathclaws eating people, it's powder-gangers robbing them and now, I have Legion slavers to deal with. They're a lot like radroaches, by the way; squash one and you find five more, bigger than the last. Those are only the headliners for this dumpster fire of a city!"

Vincent stopped dead in his roundabout pacing and finally took a breath. His back slouched under an invisible weight.

"And I'm just one person…"

"You know you don't have to do anything."

Vincent looked at her as if she grew two heads. "No. I don't. But I have the means, the motivation, the money—I have to."

Julie set her hands on the young man's shoulders and smiled. "That's what I admire about you." Vincent looked away. His arms locked across his chest as if to prevent those kind words from being taken to heart. "A real man isn't afraid to step up to the plate in a time of need. And I think it takes an even better person to do it without being asked."

"I guess…" He muttered, not ungrateful of such a complement, rather bashful to have it to begin with. "But everyone needs a hobby, y'know?"

"Oh, so all this altruism is just a hobby?"

"Outlaw hunting definitely is. Makes for good target practice 'n all."

Julie's smile faded, however that sparkle of admiration remained. "Come on. Let's take care of that injection."

—

"You got a screw loose!" Clyde jumped off the sofa, finger wagging and face reddening. "I will not have my property unprotected just so you can go chasing after—"

"Clyde."

Clyde put his rant on hold. He twirled about to Dorothea lounging on the sofa. Lavishly dressed and cleaned up since Vincent last saw her, but a full face of makeup hid her ordeal.

"Inside voice, dear."

The flustered man retreated to his seat and took to wringing his hat instead. Vincent mused he may not have been good with his timing, but these matters were urgent. More important than a dinner he interrupted twice over. First was Wayne, with a thunderous knock on his door, and then again when Vincent showed up at McCormick's ranch.

At least Wayne didn't need convincing.

"Frankly, Clyde, I think you owe me." Vincent stood unimpressed in the center of the living room. The only one to not have taken to a plush cushion. "I didn't ask for anything to bring your wife back. I've tolerated your mistakes. The least you could do is return that helping hand."

"I agree with the young man," Dorothea announced. Clyde whipped his slack jawed face to her. "Those—" Her lips thinned ans she squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. "People should be dealt with."

"And I agree with mother!" Jeaney rushed down the stairs where she had been eavesdropping. Her confident stride clicked across the foyer and joined Vincent's side.

Clyde raised that wagging finger again. "Jeaney—"

"You always taught me to make right on your deals!" Standing taller than her short stature, she raised her narrow chin and struck a bold pose. "And what if they come looking for mother? Or me? Villains stop at nothing."

"Well, sir," Wayne finally piped up. All eyes in the room looked on to the graying cowboy stowed in the corner pocket and combing out the kinks in his beard. "I think you're outnumbered."

Clyde deflated with a sigh. He looked at his wife then his daughter, and finally, to the source of much stress as of late. "I'll be back…" Mumbling protests followed him out the front door.

"Oh, this is so exciting," Jeaney enthused. "It's just like in my stories."

A warm halo glowed around her form. Long white hair was unfurled today. Shimmering waves draped bare shoulders, flowing like the gown she wore. His mother would have loved to have a porcelain doll of a daughter like Jeaney. The type of girl who liked to dress up, put on makeup, let her mother brush and tame her hair. Uniquely beautiful and charming with big and innocent eyes that twinkled at the boy gawking at her.

Vincent cleared his throat. Eyes darted away to study the tiny details of the parlor's ceiling. A hushed chuckle pulled his eyes lower to Wayne. The old man twined the curling end of his mustache. His cheeky smile stifled underneath.

"Jeaney, dear." Dorothea patted the space next to her. "Remember what I told you about eavesdropping?"

"I'm sorry, mom." Jeaney crossed the parlor and sat with her mother. A pleased smile wrinkled Dorothea's face, that for a split second, reminded Vincent of someone else.

Guilt punched him in the gut.

Jingling boots wandered around the reception outside Clyde's office. Another grandiose room like the rest of the ranch house—Overdone. Littered with all sorts of peculiarities gathered over the years since finding a new home. Quite a few years according to the girl shadowing Vincent's tour of the museum. Somewhere east of New Vegas where land was greener, flatter, not as hot. Serene like the landscapes frozen in time and captured in varying sizes of frames. Not one inch of the wood paneling wall was visible beyond the collection of paintings.

"Oh, this one is my favorite," Jeaney said. She stood on her tiptoes and pointed to a large painting; a stone tower jutting up in an otherwise flat grassland. "Mr. Richard says it's a real place, way up north."

"Who's Richard?"

"That'd be me." Vincent spun around to the man in the doorway. Dark clad in ballistic gear and a fading leather hat, Richard was what one might expect a mercenary captain to look like—had he been the love interest in a pulpy romance paperback... "We've met before. Briefly."

"I don't think we ever got each other's names then," Vincent crossed the room, stopping at the table in the center. He held out his hand and was promptly taken by a strong grip. "I'm Vincent. This is Wayne."

Wayne wandered over, bow legged and clutching his belt. "Howdy."

"I'm sure this won't be too long." Clyde announced with a squint on Vincent.

Vincent returned the look before getting to the matter at hand. "Ever had any run-ins with legion soldiers?"

"Their reputation precedes them."

Paper crinkled and warped as hands fumbled to unfold it across the table. Vincent did his best to ignore Richard's strong gaze that seemed to shrink Vincent down to the size of an atom. He loudly cleared his throat. "They're still flesh and blood." He laid the map over the ranch's layout on the weathered oak top. "In this suburb is a holdout of Legion slavers and their hostages. A source says they're in house number 6752, which is on this street. I want to use your men to infiltrate, eliminate the legion holdovers, and liberate the hostages."

Richard hummed. Thoughtful eyes scanned the layout. "How many hostiles?"

"Don't know for sure. I counted 5, but those were only the ones I saw—scouts or lookouts. If anything, they're like rats; more hiding in the crevices."

Another discerning hum vibrated a voice to envy. "What are their arms? Armor?"

"Basic stuff. The legion shuns just about all technology, but the higher ranks aren't opposed to using automatics, shotguns, and the like; they also get better protection. The grunts get the bare bones weapons and armor." Vincent plopped his backpack on the table and pulled out his notebook. He flipped through the well-used pages then handed it to Richard. "I noted their patterns. How far out the lookouts will explore. What routes they take. Timing. All that stuff."

The table creaked when Clyde's belly bumped into the edge. He took a closer look at the map then blustered, "That's a good eight hour walk away from here!"

"Sounds like an opportunity to try out your motorized prototype," Richard noted Clyde turned his brow-beating glare on him.

"So, you're interested in the job?"

Richard glanced up from the notes. The corner of his lips curled to a smirk as emerald eyes looked the boy up and down. Did he know how ridiculous he looked? With his mouth so slightly agape and his thick lips turned up in a smirk. Or those emerald eyes gleaming as they looked Vincent up and down like a cool oasis in the midst of endless wastes. Richard was practically sparkling… And Vincent was scowling.

"Beats sittin' on our asses here. I think my guys could use the excitement."

"Oh, so heroic," Jeaney squealed. "I wish I could go!"

"No!" Four voices echoed. A vein in Clyde's forehead threatened to burst while the girl shriveled up like a raisin. Bearing a sour look for the first time, she huffed and crossed her arms.

"Time to get to the nitty gritty details of it then," Richard said.

Clyde shuffled around the table before the man continued. "Jeaney, dear." He draped an arm around the dainty girl and corralled her to the door. "Let's go visit mother."

Richard flattened his palms to the tabletop as he locked eyes with the younger man. Strange shivers sent Vincent's hairs on end. "I intend to captain my men. No one else."

Vincent mirrored the man's posture. "I expect the captain would."

Richard tongued his cheek. A light chuckle tugged his prominent Adam's apple. "Your notes will be helpful, but for safety's sake, I'll assume we're going in blind."

"Don't underestimate them. I want them killed on sight."

Richard nodded approvingly. Eyes glossed over Vincent again and this time a smile accompanied a verdant twinkle. "Straight for the throat, huh?"

"Once we round up the hostages, we'll take them to the Mormon Fort and then your job is done."

"Y'know, this isn't my usual gig…"

"Each of your participating men will get five-hundred caps upon completion on top of your regular pay from Clyde. Keep whatever you loot during the raid too."

Richard thrust an open palm across the table. "Deal."

Retreating outside, Vincent took in a deep breath of the desert sunset. Red smeared across the sky from the west. Stains of time reached beyond mountain peaks and into the unknown dark of night. The hand on his back yanked him out of a memory. Vincent looked up to Wayne.

"What?"

"Don't you 'what' me, boy. What'd I tell ya about wanderin' off on your own?"

Vincent groaned. Defensive arms locked across his chest. "You didn't want to go."

"You didn't ask me to go!"

"Not like anything bad happened."

"No, not this time."

"Whatever—Let's get food," Vincent shrugged. Not one step off the porch yet and Wayne plucked him back.

"Vincent." Wayne's playful tone turned serious. Peppered brows tightened together. "Your heart's in the right place. You found a solid lead. You did good by saving that girl from a nasty fate." He squeezed Vincent's shoulders to drive a point home. "It's dangerous out there. If something happened to you, I'd never know. No one would ever know."

Vincent's glower weakened. A knot tied in his throat. Had he any tears left one might show up. "Sorry."

"Alright, ya knucklehead, let's get some grub."

—

Stiletto heels propped up long legs as if they were her altar. With one foot in front of the other, her hips tilted. She was barely modest under a feathery red boa like her blonde waves framing a teasing smile that knew something you didn't—That there was absolutely nothing underneath that boa. Just bare skin he could almost feel. Feminine curves imagined where the boa hid her form—

"Let's roll."

Vincent spun around, ready to sputter back a defensive rebuttal, but instead he did a double take at the old man standing in the doorway. A sun-faded duster shielded the bulk of his ballistic vest. The ratty leather tail licked around scraped knee pads hugging his legs. Sturdy and deep treaded soles stood firmly on wood panels. Steel toes peeked through peeling leather, glinting like the .44 revolver added to his holster. The middle child between the semi-automatic slanted over his shoulder and the little .22 Wayne typically wielded.

"Were you a ranger?" Vincent chirped. He probed the duster. A light build of tanned leather like Lawrence's. Holes and all told the story of the old man's former life.

"This is my old huntin' gear," Wayne said with a prideful smile as he led the way down the hall. "Got ballistic plates between the seams. Vest is the same. Even have a dome in my hat."

Vincent picked up the slack in Wayne's sleeves; heavier than it looked. Plates broke at the elbow joints and the shoulders. Even the back was as solid as steel. "Won't the weight slow you down?" The two stopped at the elevator. Vincent pressed the button before Wayne could. "More than you already are?"

Wayne chuckled and patted his belly. "You think this is all fluff?"

"I should get me something like that."

The elevator dinged with Vincent's enthusiasm.

"Put some meat on your bones and you might be able to lug it around."

"I've been getting stronger," Vincent announced, puffing his chest and flexing his arms as swaggered inside the box.

"Her name's Ruby, by the way."

"Who?"

"The gal in the poster." Vincent scowled but it did little to hide reddening cheeks. The elevator dinged again and the doors opened to a vacant gambling hall. "Met her at the bar one night before a show. Want me to introduce ya?"

"Hurry up." Vincent rushed out first. "We got somewhere to be."

Somewhere far flung in a maze of ruins and street grids as battered and damaged as those who made the place home. There were three kinds of people you'd find out there. The vagabonds camped in buildings that still had a roof, defending their square-footage of paradise from their own kind and the second type: the outlaws. Now, even among outlaws they had their own categories, usually designated by whatever gang they belonged to. Most were chem-addled, brain rotted raiders ambushing any unsuspecting soul within reach. Then there were the smart ones. The ones that had the highest payout in bold black letters on their bounty posters. Regardless, it was best to avoid them.

Unless you were the third kind that willingly visited these parts. Like the mercenaries crowding under the bones of a former gas station. Here for the money, or the satisfaction that came with slaughtering bad guys.

"This ain't our usual rodeo." Richard strutted like a peacock up and down the mercenaries piled in the wagons. "This is the wingin' it kind of play. Shep, Romero, Chris—guard the drivers and be on standby. Then two will stay at the midway point. Keep quiet and keep the way out clear. Respond if we need back up—"

Heads turned to the growls echoing through corridors of crumbling buildings. Glossy black skin caught the first light of day coming around the corner. Exhaust choked the air as she spat out one last roar then came to a stop. The driver dismounted first. A lean and short thing, ambiguous under helmet and armor. Meanwhile the hefty passenger took his time cracking bones and muttering curses just to get off the saddle.

"I don't want no dilly-dallying once we are inside. The place is crawling with ghouls. Kill any legion colors on sight. Questions?"

One raised a hand. "Who's kid is this?"

Chuckles rounded the wagons. Richard looked at the young man next to him. Black-faced, Vincent stood stiffly holding his helmet. "The kid's paying you, Javi. We leave in five."

Kid.

Vincent shook his head and rolled his eyes as he wheeled the motorcycle behind the wagons. He hated that word. Kid. The way it sounded. The way it felt accurate when slapped on him. Just a kid compared to those mercenaries. A boy pretending to be a man. Too small, thin, youthful, and sounding nothing like the man looming above him as he snapped the boot on the wheel.

Richard whistled. "That is a fine piece of machinery."

"There's a place off the strip that makes and restores them," Vincent stated as he came to his feet. "Have a couple grand in caps and you can even buy one."

Richard tipped up the brim of his hat. "I'd love to take him for a spin."

"Him?"

"Sexy beast like that?" He smiled coolly then whispered, "that's a man." Then Richard winked, turned on his heels and left Vincent alone with a peculiar look that could only watched the captain strutting down the wagons, slapping the side panels to the beat of his words, "time to go!"

Down the street from the pitted lot of the gas station, nineteen marched into the rubble of an ancient suburb. There was a stillness in places like these. The kind that sent hairs on end. Made you feel like you were being watched, but it was only the house's empty eye sockets staring back. There ought to have been people here, but it was only ghosts. Whispers of a bygone era. All that remained of them were the shadows burned into cratered sidewalks and crumbling walls.

Like seeing the dead rise, the further into the wasted blocks, the better the houses stood preserved. Wildlife took over by this point. Bramble brush grew in the cracks while tumbleweed nestled between homes and against walls and porches and frames. Blooming prickly pear cacti gathered in dense patches. Mischievous choya blanketed dirt throws in shadows of tall, winding trees. Their branches explored gaping wounds in old homes. Twisted and stretched up and into the roofs like gutting claws.

The stillness never lasts, however.

"Stop."

The team halted at Richard's command, then split into four groups. Each ventured barrel first into a house on either side of the street. Richard then turned to the remaining two and gestured to follow. Piss vapors and concrete dust met them at the front door like a brick wall. The life since forgotten still found beneath sand-scraped glass frames. Ransacked remains strewn across the floor. Littered with animal droppings, shredded cushions and fabrics disturbed by human traffic for the first time in decades.

Groaning wood circled above, then suddenly ceased as a mercenary called it clear. Similar confirmation took over Richard's radio as he plucked the bulky receiver from his belt.

"I don't like the layout here," he announced. "Sam, Henderson, Goose, Levar—Stay here. Keep an eye out. Radio anything suspicious. Henderson calls the shots." He tucked away the radio after a round of agreement. He looked across the living room at the team gathered on the stairs. "Henderson, kill any red on sight, but stay smart about it. We don't know their numbers here. Or maneuverability."

"Understood. I think we ought to poke around the other houses on the block."

Richard nodded. "Agreed. Same groups. Go exploring—three of you stay put."

Jogging out the door like a bunch of boys on the way to the candy shop, the mercenaries knew exactly what to do. Radio chatter followed them out while the other groups met them on the way.

"While they're perusin' out there, I'm gonna peruse me a bathroom around here."

"Don't get lost," Vincent said to the old cowboy meandering down the hallway. Alone, Vincent looked back to Richard, finding the captain had his eyes on Vincent first. "What's your impression so far?"

"This is more of a mess than I thought it would be."

"I'm unsure of their numbers too, but I learned legion remnants aren't as cohesive as you might think," Vincent explained, joining Richard at the living room window. "Their whole territory is in a power struggle without Caesar. They seem to gather in pockets following the believed successor."

The captain grunted as if he agreed. "You're awfully young to be in this kind of work. If it's work at all…"

"Humor me—how old do you think I am?"

Richard chuckled and returned Vincent's bold gaze. "Too young to be knockin' heads with Caesar's Legion."

"This doesn't come close to the amount of hell I've brought them. I looked Caesar himself in the eyes, bluffed, and a month later, handed him off to the republic."

"Didn't kill him when you could?" Richard cocked his head and squinted. "I would've."

Vincent shook his head, a smile cracking his facade. "You're thinking in the short-term. You see, the NCR wouldn't pass up the pageantry of capturing their most heinous enemy and parading him through the agonizing bureaucracy of their judicial system." Shoulders hung in a shrug as he glanced at a decaying suburb framed by splintering wood trim. "I'm on the fence whether they'll execute him or lock him up and let him wither away." Taken by a confident wind, Vincent turned to him, "are you a gambling man? We could bet on it."

A grin tempted to part Richard's lips. "I'll sleep on it," he said with a wink.

With no sign of Legion activity yet, and coyotes and geckos scurrying off in their dens, idle chatter rumbled among the mercenaries back on the road. The maze of streets and dead ends blurred together by miles. Keen eyes watched both sides of the street. Bland, samey architecture and nothing interesting. Well, nothing beyond the odd captain who had winked at Vincent twice.

A few paces ahead, among the cluster of padding, rifles, and bullet belts, Vincent studied the back of Richard's head as though he could see inside. And as if he felt those eyes drilling into his head, Richard looked over his shoulder at the odd pair behind him. His pace slowed until he walked by Vincent's side.

"So, how'd you even get a hold of Caesar?"

"By being at the dam."

Wayne hushed a laugh.

"Don't leave me hanging."

"It wasn't anything spectacular or whatever epic showdown bullshit you'll hear from NCR vets."

This time, Richard laughed. "What? So just another spin at the roulette wheel for you?"

Vincent pushed out a sigh. "It was a dick-swinging contest between Oliver and Caesar. Just two idiots with delusion of grandeur, both sincerely thinking their genius strategy of throwing as many soldiers as possible at the other was really going to work."

"You can't be serious. The war was more than just a competition."

"The NCR and Caesar's territory have a lot in common; both need water, power, seek to expand their borders while spreading their ideology—the correct ideology—and both send their peons to die in a war. Don't get me wrong though, the republic is better by a long shot than Caesar's ideals, but the Mojave is just a casualty to them."

"Careful," Richard warned. "Your last mistake is underestimating an enemy."

"You'd have better luck tellin' that to a wall," Wayne interjected. "Boy's as bullheaded as they come."

"I don't underestimate their depravity." Vincent shot Wayne a glare. "After seeing that disaster at the dam, they no longer scare me. They're brainwashed. Beaten into submission by a deluded egomaniac. Barely above your average raider. Not being diseased chem addicts coupled with cohesive organization helped them get this far. What they believe and practice makes them dangerous."

"Alright lemme guess; you used their own stupid against them, huh?" Richard scoffed and shook his head. A smile still lingered though. "You gotta learn how to tell your stories better. Add some spice. Boast a bit. Ain't nobody gonna know."

"I'm not interested in telling stories to impress people. I'm Mr. House's 'field agent'. I had an army of securitrons with me. Plowed through Caesar's camp. Snatched him. Turned around and slapped Oliver with a new treaty then gave him whiplash offering up Caesar."

"C'mon, how'd you really do it?" Richard elbowed him. He leaned to Vincent and lowered his voice. "You ain't what I pictured when Clyde gave me the lo-down. How'd you get involved in all this?

"I was at the wrong place at the right time."

The captain chuckled again. Realizing his defeat, he changed the subject. "I think I'll take you up on that bet, but what if I ain't lookin' for the material compensation?"

"Well, now I'm intrigued." Vincent looked at Wayne. The old man stroked his beard thoughtfully as he scanned the horizon. "Looking for favors?"

"Something like that…"

"Depends what it is. Choose wisely."

"Neighborhood watch ahead," the frontline called.

Richard snapped to focus and the group came to a halt. Around the bend, a horde of ghouls wandered together like bighorners. Radiation burned skin sagged on brittle bones. They hissed and growled merely taking breaths. The herd turned their cloudy eyes on the invaders.

"Rather go around. Better not draw attention to ourselves."

"No way around. Side streets are dead ends, boss."

"We could go through the houses," Vincent piped up. "Tear through the fences separating the lots. It'll attract less attention."

Richard's temples flashed staring down the street at the irradiated obstacle course, snarling and lurching towards the strangers by faint scent alone. Waving his hand to follow, the men quickly shuffled after Richard into one house. Boots rumbled through the roomy cadaver, tunneling upstairs and circling overhead until a voice called and gave the clear.

"Maps—How far away are we from our destination?"

One man came pushing through the sweaty crowd. Flicking open a map, he laid it over a dusty tabletop long since decapitated from its legs and squatted. Curious hums and grunts resounded. A thin black mustache pursed a bit more with every nod.

Richard leaned over the man. "Maps."

"We can take off some miles cutting through like this. We're here. 6725 is on this block."

"Keep track of the way." Richard patted the man's back and stood up. "Let's move."

A wrecking ball swept through exactly twelve fences and Vincent knew it was that many because he counted. Planks ripped from their crossbeams left hole after hole in splintering wood. Each trampling step brought them one block closer to their destination. Switches swiped at Vincent's arms and cheeks. Brush crunched under marching boots. Their snaps and cracks reminded him to tread lightly. Not get carried away with the premature thrill.

Another plank croaked with a crowbar's heave. Finally, it relented to the hands tearing them away like battered threads. The designated scout peeked from one side to the next. He dodged woody spikes and stepped through. Then another followed, leaving the rest of the team behind.

A finger tapped Vincent's shoulder. He looked to Wayne behind him as the old man gestured to follow. The two backstepped until they were in the corner on the opposite side of the yard.

"When they make their play, you stay put."

"What?"

"They're here to risk their necks. Let them."

Vincent peered down the line pressed against the fence line. Had he been on the other side, he'd think a brahmin was penned in the backyard from the smell alone. But the mercenaries were rigidly still and quiet. Attention split to any potential danger; the gaping hole in the fence leading to an intersection or the house or the path they forged. All hoping for the best for the scouts and for what was to come.

"I have to be there."

—

Corner molding crumbled under the bullet's flick. A dusty crater revealed the outer wall's layers. One of several added to the abode in the last few minutes.

"First and second house," the spotter confirmed to the radio. Binoculars followed two figures rushing out of the house. "Two out front—" One emerged from his cover. The rifle blasted again. "One."

Across the street retaliation emerged from their holes. Curtains parted where the muzzle of rifles rested on the sil. Fire returned vague shots into the brush. Each missed the marks hidden inside.

Meanwhile one group of seven took their position three doors down at a lot on the corner. Hidden by fence, or brush, or withering drywall, every iron sight aimed on the slavers shooting grass.

"Keep their attention," Richard ordered. "Javi, you have clear sights?"

"Confirmed—engaging."

Sparse pot shots turned to ripping hellfire. Glass shattered. Gunsmoke wandered beyond the frontline. Ambiguous voices called from the front lawn. Curiosity tempted Vincent to sneak a peek over the fence line. His heart quicked to the beat.

"Advancing."

"Go!" Richard commanded and boots hit the dirt. Six men ran up ramp of junk clutter and hopped the fence. Crossing the backyard, they invaded the second of three houses.

Muzzle flash hypnotized the eyes. Viscous red repainted the living room. Glass crunched underfoot. The group split again. Wayne led men down a short hall to another room while Vincent followed Richard up the stairs.

"Take left."

Vincent swung left. His pistol guided him down a hallway. Three doors—One opened. A figure shifted in the cracks. Vincent fired. Wood splintered, leaving a gouging a hole in white. Red splattered on the other side. Deadweight hit the floor.

A thump beat the walls behind him.

"This side's clear," Richard's declaration echoed in the master bedroom. The captain rushed out, gesturing for Vincent to follow as he advanced to the other side of the hallway.

He took his position at the second door. Vincent pressed his back against the wall. One swift kick, and the door flung off its hinges. Richard pushed inside.

From the side, metal clicked. Hinges creaked. Vincent followed his peripherals to the third door. He jumped. Muzzle fire flashed. A stranger's face emblazoned in his eyes. And in a blink, two rounds put the man on the floor.

"Downstairs clear!" Richard's radio announced. Vincent looked at the man suddenly in the doorway. His spotlight shone on the dead man and the stain seeping thread by thread in the carpet. Richard slipped by the boy. "Next house!"

Vincent followed the excitement downstairs. Through the front door and window frames, mercenaries rushed by. Ears muted the patter of automatic rifles. Shouts and wails blended into the ruckus. Across the street, two men in the fields waded through brush to join the action. By the time Vincent reached the third house, the show was over.

Nameless faces sprawled on the floor. Riddled with holes and showered in all sorts of pulpy bodily matter. He knew a few years ago the sight would have evoked something in him, even if they were legion. To see what could be made of a man's body by another man's bullet left him terribly ill, but this… Nothing stirred Vincent.

Except the cigarette smoke invading his nose. Vincent followed the smoke to a hallway.

"We found the captives," Richard stated. He leaned against the wall and jerked his head to the open door between them. Vincent peered down the dim stairway just as Wayne began the slow journey up carrying a small bundle. "My boys are bringin' them up."

"Good."

However, Vincent knew when one roach was crushed, more were hiding nearby. Legion grunts were taught to kill themselves rather than surrender to an enemy, but the legion was no more. On the frontier, all bets were on the table, and he betted no man would kill himself in the name of a dead one.

Skulking down the perimeter, Vincent eventually found what he was looking for. An odd noise in the silence. A figure in his peripherals. And an open gate to the backyard of the first house on a dead-end block.

A lone survivor.

Light steps followed the side path. Careful treads dared not to skid against cement. He held his breath and pressed his body against the wall. Clammy fingers adjusted their grip on his pistol.

Vincent jumped around the corner.

The roach crouched at a hatch. A slanted side-entrance of two short doors—unsecured. Vincent advanced. His free hand ripped the cattle prod off his belt and jammed it into the stranger. The man seized, falling on his side, trembling and frothing. Muscles twitched under his skin. Tattered legion colors smoked. Eyes bulged wider than sockets allowed. When the voltage let up, a relieved sigh escaped iron clenched jaws. Paralyzed where he lay, he strained to look up to the last face he ever would see. Wide eyes fixed on Vincent, blinking away stinging droplets in his eyes.

Vincent dropped to squat. Ditching the cattle prod for his knife instead. He plunged it into the slaver's temple and twisted. Before yanking it out, his attention was already on those doors. He wiped the knife on the dead man's clothes then shirked off his backpack. Slapping the pip-boy on his wrist, he flicked on the light then opened the door as carefully as one could open two hundred-something year old hinges.

He paused and listened to the silence.

Peeking inside the dark, he was met with the tarnished shimmer of steel rungs. For a second, he could almost hear Lawrence warning him. Something about being too curious but of course, he didn't listen.

Cement floors met his soles. Cold, stale air stuck to the back of his throat. Behind him a strip of yellow beamed across the dark cell. Creaking metal perked his ears. Grunts came in tune with each twang, but the muffled yelps drew him closer. Switching off the pip-boy's light, Vincent crept towards the door. Her yelps turned to cries.

Nearly ready to rush in, the shadows crossing Vincent's eyes stopped him at a cold steel door. His mouth dried. The electric shock rushing his body replaced any sense of accomplishment he earned with boiling rage. He plucked out his pistol. Cocked it and shoved the door open.

Grating steel sparked. Three shots ricocheted on hard cement. Finally a thud silenced it all. Vincent rounded the bed where a man as naked as the day he was born, pressing his hand to the gushing hole in his hip. He growled and squirmed on the floor. Wild eyes shot through his burly mane as gnashing teeth shouted obscenities.

Vincent was deaf to it, hearing and seeing something of his own memory instead. This time, making it right by the knife in his hand. The white's of his eyes flickered on the blade Vincent pulled from his vest. The naked man raised a hand as though to convince the young man taking steady steps toward him to put it down. Vincent swiped the man's palm. The stranger recoiled, his mouth hung open with a silent scream. He kicked back, fumbling to get to his feet. Vincent lunged at him, meeting soft resistance and then nothing. He pulled the knife out and thrust it forward, again and again to a body that had already gone limp.

He let the body fall. Satisfied with its thud and the dying eyes look up at him, but most of all the rage that no longer clouded his mind. Phantom sensations replayed in the nerves of his hands and arms as his breaths evened and his heart rested. In his clarity, however, he was unsure what to make of himself. Unsure if he could call killing a fear revenge. The ringing in his ears soon faded too, letting the whimpers and rattling chains behind him spin him around.

He looked at her; trembling, legs curled up and hiding her vulnerable core. Arms raised over her head against her will, tied by a pair of handcuffs to the bed's frame while petrified eyes watched his every move. Vincent's own eyes moistened, catching a glimpse of his reflection on the woman's face he hoped to never see again.

Rubber soles paused behind him. Vincent jumped, plucking out his pistol on the intruder. His tense postured relaxed meeting a familiar face.

"Don't suppose you know how to pick handcuffs?" Vincent shoved the gun back in its holster. "

"Just so happen to know a trick or two." Wayne snuck a peek at the body oozing out on the floor.

"We'll get you out of this hellhole," Vincent declared. "I got a team of mercenaries and a ride to the Mormon Fort in Vegas. Do you know who the Followers of the Apocalypse are?" She blinked. Eyes wandered up to the loosening cuffs. Lips parted, but she said nothing. Wayne tossed the cuffs aside. He took another long stare at the dead man, counting all the holes in him and noting none of them were the kind that a bullet leaves. Then the artist himself, oblivious to the stains splattering his clothes and face and hands. "Could you find her something to wear?"

—

The sky looked like a cocktail he could order at the bar. All the colors of sunset smeared and swirled together in a cloudless sky. Sweet reds, savory oranges, tart yellows, and the ice-cold, bitter blue that came to remind you why you were drinking in the first place.

Vincent turned his back to the west. From the porch of the defunct museum, he observed the fruits of his labor. A cleaned-up lot to his left. Working solar panels and the tent city beneath the arrays were gone. Even a garden was in the works to pretty up the dirt patches curving around the Followers' center. The latest mention of his work was temporarily here, however. Two wagons full of liberated folk being guided into the safety of the Followers by hired guns.

Richard parted from his team. He turned up his hat brim, glancing to Vincent across the way as he approached the young man. A little smile cracked his collected demeanor when he stopped at the railing.

"My guys had fun gettin' back to their roots."

"Don't spoil them too much," Vincent said. "They'll never want to work on that boring ranch again."

Richard started around the porch corner and made his way up the steps. Casually leaning on the rails as if the two were old pals, he said, "I've been thinking, 'bout that wager of yours."

"What's your bet?"

Richard crossed his arms, bumping shoulders with Vincent. "I was thinkin' somethin' more seductive than just caps."

Vincent side-eyed him. His scarred brow arched in curiosity, and perhaps annoyance. "You'll need to elaborate."

Richard pushed up his hat with a knuckle and a snicker. He leaned to Vincent. "I'll elaborate you across the bed. Unwind that tight—"

Vincent whipped a scowl wound up tighter than a charging bull at the man. Richard didn't flinch. "The only way I'd ever have sex with you is if you were blindfolded and all four of your limbs tied to the bed posts."

"That can be arranged."

"You're a bold one," Vincent remarked. "We barely know each other."

"I'd like to know you a bit more."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know…" Richard feigned a sigh and shrugged. "Maybe I just got an affinity for the cute, smooth boy types."

Vincent faced Richard, arms locked against his chest and straight-faced. "I'm hairier than I look."

"Then lock those hairy legs around my waist—"

"I'm on top."

"I hope I'm still tied up."

Vincent tore his glare off the man for a second to catch the mercenaries climbing back in the wagons. White coats gathered around a sizable crowd. Wayne corralled the commotion, giving out food and water while off to the side Julie retreated to her office tent.

"I'll think about it." Vincent peeled away from the rails and started off to the fort.

"You know where to find me."

Vincent wandered in the office tent. Snagging a chair, he promptly made a contemplative face while waiting for the doctor to finally sit at her desk. After a couple minutes of being in and out, she hit the chair with a sigh.

"I'm glad you did this." Her chair croaked when she leaned back. One leg crossed the other, ready to talk but silence met her. "What's on your mind?"

His brows furrowed. Dull eyes glanced at her. "I saw a woman being raped. I shot the man off her—killed him. When I looked at her, I felt so angry. Sad. Powerless…" His voice trailed away along with his gaze. "I realized nothing I've done has changed anything."

"What were you expecting to change?" Julie asked softly.

"For things to get better, I guess," Vincent shrugged. "With Caesar gone, the legion gone, I could focus on matters closer to home. Raiders; the Fiends, Vipers. Start planning on the rebuilding projects for the strip and Freeside." He rubbed the tension in his neck and sighed. "I… I didn't really think things through when House gave me his offer. I don't think any of this will ever change for the better."

"I feel how you do at least once a day, just about every day," Julie confessed. Vincent looked to the doctor across from him. "Angry, because I can't comprehend how one person could hurt another like that. Sad because it keeps happening, regardless. And powerless because I can't always heal someone despite all my knowledge, education, my compassion. That's an unfortunate part of life."

"Don't you get tired of it? Burned out?"

"No," she said, her smile softening her eyes. "Because it does change things. Even if only a little."

A part of him knew she was right. The more hopeful and naïve part of him that saw only stars meeting House for the first time. However, a little voice nagging in his ear told him a better idea. One he already started before hearing Julie's kind words and even before he set out that day. There was something stronger than hope and wishful thinking.

Action and messages.

A message that would play out in Freeside's heart for every legion sympathizer, spy, for any raiders or their cohorts in the crowd below the zip-line deck: Your days are numbered. But for those on the right side of justice, it was a promise.

Vincent parted the curtain hanging off the stage. Behind dusty velvet were a couple of familiar faces. Bound and forced to their knees. Armed with glares. Any protest that might have made it through their gags was squashed under the King's voice booming. Blasting over scratching speakers, he turned an execution into a party.

But these five men were not excited.

Custos, two of his henchmen Vincent never bothered to remember the names of, Tandy, black-eyed and split lipped, and a nameless fiend who wandered too far from his gang's territory. Vincent stopped in front of Custos, unwashed and smelling closer to a sunbaked pig. The sight of grime smeared on his face by sweat was a pleasing one. Not the standards a frumentarii was used to, no doubt.

Vincent pulled down the gag. Custos licked chapped lips, then clenched his aching jaw. "Enjoy your victories while you have them," his hoarse voice spoke first.

"Found your holdouts in the suburbs. Y'know, at the dead-end street watching the highways. Raided and looted everything you had, including all those nice little clues you left behind to point in the right direction to squash more of you. And then I slaughtered every man there."

A shit-eating grin stretched his face. "You have accomplished nothing. They are not the last. New Vegas will burn, the NCR will—"

"I am not the NCR," Vincent announced, easily hushing the man's weak voice as he plucked the knife from its vest-sheath. "I do not have a merciful bone in my body." The sharp point pressed to Custos's forehead. "I do not subscribe to ethics dealing with my enemies. I do not answer to anyone but myself." As slow and deliberate as he spoke, Vincent dragged the knife along Custos's forehead. Every beat, syllable, and vowel cut a line across the man's head. A souvenir should he survive the real show. "I will annihilate you as a people, as an idea, and as a legacy. I will not stop until there is nothing left, and I will enjoy every second of it."

Vincent jerked the knife, completing his line. Custos suppressed his groan. Nostrils flared as sweaty temples tensed. "I see." Custos forced a mocking smile. "We are being replaced."

Vincent swiped the knife across the man's face.

Custos growled as he doubled over, staying down for a second then swung himself back up to face Vincent. Dark eyes bulged, battling the sting of torn flesh. Spongy yellow pockets oozed from a cheek, absorbing the red streaming down twitching flesh. He growled his words behind grinding teeth, "per aspera ad astra."

"So be it."

Curious folks gathered under the neon canopy but the locals knew to come by word of mouth. The King's men kept an orderly line up to the curtain. Others peddled rocks for sale in case you forgot to bring your own. Watching from above was the King himself, basking in the limelight and snapping out a charismatic introduction for the event. Vincent was shy of the stage but joined the King in time for the curtain to drop, even if it was just standing on the first step to the top. Music resumed dancing down the neon corridor, dings and thuds joined the beat as the crowd pelted rocks at five men on their knees.

"Hey, this might be a good idea. Lettin' people get payback," the King said. "Looks like it's bringing everyone in Freeside together too. I like that."

"As long as it stays peaceful," Vincent noted, watching the line below as their voices raised with excitement. Eager folk poked out from the line to the front. Scanning those faces, he found a familiar one front and center of the line clutching a stone made heavier with revenge, but on the sidelines, Wayne walked away. Vincent's smile faded as the old man disappeared in the crowd. "I gotta slip away."

Jogging down the stairs, Vincent followed the old man along rows of shiny casino lights. There at their usual haunt, mid-section of the bar, was one bartender, two drunks sleeping off their tonics, and Wayne.

"Why'd you leave?" Vincent hopped on the stool.

"I can't watch that," Wayne said, a foul taste curling his lip. He raised his glass, but before froth could coat his mustache he added, "that ain't right."

"What? Executing undeniably evil people?"

"I ain't talkin' about that," he declared. "It's making a show of it like that.

"It's consequences!" Vincent exclaimed, as if it should be obvious. "I have to show there are consequences for people like that or everything goes to hell again."

"Go out be the long arm of the law. Bring justice and peace and I'm with you all the way. But that…" Wayne shook his head. "Killing them like it's another show in a theater. That degrades life. Devalues it. Parading up there and basking in the limelight. High-falutin' and looking like you enjoy it. That makes me disappointed."

"They're lives are worthless." Vincent scowled at the man while Wayne stared down into his amber glass. "You were there. You saw those people being held captive. Sold off like cattle. I like getting rid of the trash who prey on innocent people. Who preyed on me!"

"There it is." Wayne finally looked at him, frigid cold like that boy was just another vicious stranger lurking the street and out for his caps. Only a bullet or blade between them. Taken back by the look, Vincent's scowl unraveled. "That's the real reason. You did it because you're angry. Because you're still thirsty for a cold glass of revenge. A mad little boy—"

"I am angry!" A foreign voice scathed Vincent's throat. Clawed out hollow by something he'd stuffed too deep inside and lost the reigns of. "I'm angry at my mother. I'm angry at my father. I'm angry at Lawrence! I'm angry at House! I'm angry at myself!"

Silence met Vincent's tantrum. Embarrassment turned him forward to a slouch while his own voice echoed in ringing ears. Echoing not only words, but the reasons he swore he'd never tell anybody.

"That anger ain't going to help you, son."

Vincent choked on the knot in his throat and turned away from Wayne, not unwilling, but unable to look the old man in the eye. Not after that outburst. And to be spoken to with anything other than contempt… Wayne's composure and patience gave Vincent another reason to be guilty.

"Everyone's angry about something, Vince. You aren't alone. But it's not making you a better man, so what use is it? Anger is poison. It rots you from the inside-out." Wayne set a kind hand on the young man's shoulder. A squeeze wrung out a tear from the young man. "It poisons everything and everyone around you too. You've done good. You've done work I'm proud of and proud to help you with."

Vincent stole a glance over his shoulder to take count of the unwanted audience. The show outside was more engaging to his relief. "I don't like being angry all the time, but I can't help feel that way." He swallowed the growing knot in his throat. "But I also don't know what to do."

"Ain't nothin' ever gonna be in apple pie order," Wayne said. "You have to let it go."

—

Three pairs of boots marched down the short hallway to Mojave Outpost's infirmary. The doors abruptly opened as Ranger Jackson announced himself. "Alright, pack him up. He's going back to the republic."

Nurse Anna sprang from her charge's bedside—the only patient in the barebones infirmary. "What?" Her gaze darted between Jackson and two junior rangers coming towards her, and the handcuffs in their possession. "He's not in any condition to go anywhere."

"He's a wanted man," Jackson clarified, meeting her halfway between empty beds. "I just got orders from the top. They want him shipped home now."

Anna stared at Jackson. Outmatched in height and weight, the nurse still refused to stand down. Metal gears clicking behind her forced her around. "He's unconscious! What do you think he's going to do?" Anna spun to Jackson, wagging a finger at him. "You still need Dr. Price to sign off. He's sleeping right now, so you better not bother him until his shift starts."

The rangers paused their arrest, exchanging glances with Jackson. "Fine. C'mon."

Anna held her ground in the middle of her infirmary, defiantly staring down the ranger posse until the doors closed behind them. She let out a sigh, wringing her trembling hands as she returned to her patient's bedside. Anna gazed at the man who had been in her ward for nearly three days. Sleeping. Sunburned. Sometimes moving. A steady supply of fluids in his veins and the regime of an energetic voice reading aloud to him helped the man's recovery, or so she hoped. She returned to her bedside chair, picking up the well-read paperback book off the seat and sitting down. She scanned the page to pick back up where she was rudely interrupted, her lips murmuring the words til she'd find the first one unrecognized.

Fingers pressed her arm. She gasped, dropping the paperback as she jumped out of her chair. Weary blue eyes looked up at her. His lips parted. His parched voice camera some seconds later. "Please. Let me go."