Garbled explosions jerked him awake. Groaning at the sudden intrusion, Vincent reached across the cold side of the bed. Fingertips brushed the base of a mint condition Repconn Blast-Off! alarm. Without even needing to look, he could feel the little red rocket's zeal springing back and forth on a coil. Three jolly stars bounced around it, and a trail of puffballs glowing orange underneath.

"Shut up…" Morning voice drew out his protests as he mashed the buttons at its base. He couldn't recall why he kept the thing. It was far too enthusiastic for this hour. Yet there it was, waking him up every morning on the dot.

"Good morning New Vegas!" Mr. New Vegas's whiskey smooth voice gave him a second shake awake. "Y'know my favorite cure for a hangover is another shot. Go ahead. It's always five o'clock in paradise."

—

"So exciting!" Eve was a whirlwind puttering around the tiny kitchen. Squares and scraps of fabric folded or tossed on the table, the counters, the chairs, mingling with the clothes carefully laid on the bed. Eve spun around. Sparkling eyes stared at all the patterns and colors. She took a deep breath and exhaled, "so stressful… I have a late shipment too."

"Seems like you need more space?" Vincent pondered. He stood up against a wall, hesitant to move for fear of dirtying such pristine and new colors everywhere.

Eve sighed, but a gleeful smile came after. "Desperately."

"Y'know, there's plenty of vacant buildings on the strip. There's one just fixed up and ready to move into. Even has an apartment above the shop for you and Jackie."

"I couldn't ask you to do that." Eve's dimples miraculously never tired. Nor did the sparkle in her eye abandon her no matter how dark the night. "Jackie is a little… upset you covered our rent for a couple months—I'm not," she added. "I really appreciate your help. I don't know when I can repay—"

"Generosity asks for nothing in return."

"At least let me help with your wardrobe."

Vincent laughed. "I'll welcome that. How is Jackie anyway?"

"She's not doing too good," Eve admitted. "She doesn't want to talk about what's bothering her and pretends it doesn't show. She's anxious, not sleeping, and I…" Eve shook her head. She held up one well used pattern to the light. Holes and odd shapes carved out pieces of nearly every inch of what was once a perfect square. "I don't know how to help her."

Vincent's eyes wandered down to the bucket of clothes by his feet. Dirty, torn, and mangled. The kind of clothes wastelanders wore for their whole lives—with a smell to match. Heap of an eyesore that he never saw visiting the Boneyard or worn on the upper echelons of the strip. Not even housekeeping would wear these. "There's doctors at the Mormon Fort who specialize in things that aren't physical wounds. Jackie could benefit from talking to someone."

The Mormon Fort. As humble as it looked, it was crucial to the city. House nor any of his "employees" would admit that though—The strip was important. The casinos were important. Vincent rolled his eyes hearing Mr. House's voice wiggle in his head. If one wanted to see what New Vegas was really like, they'd have to go to Freeside. See how people really lived. Drunks and junkies wandered around higher than the clouds. Passed out in alleys just for the shade. Like birds, they'd migrate into the sewers and tunnels beneath the city to escape the heat. Some would die before making that escape. Lying in the streets or in the ruins, dehydrated and forgotten until the smell of rot outweighed the stench of human filth. They'd dive through the casinos' trash hoping to find food, even if it was rotten, stale, already half-eaten. Securitrons would roll by and bark threats. Why House commanded his steel slaves to guard trash was a mystery to Vincent. Frankly, he was beginning to doubt the big man upstairs actually knew what he was doing.

"Interior renovations on the first floor are just about done. We've installed 65 rooms. Repaired and replaced existing infrastructure like wiring and pipes—" Julie looked back to Vincent with a proud smile as the heat wave left them at the door. "Accident free for two weeks now!"

The latest addition sat front and center; a welcoming reception area decorated with forgotten old-world relics. Beyond a reception desk, doctors and nurses hustled around the main floor, rambling off medical jargon about this or that patient.

"Today I'll draft a letter to headquarters to outline our improvements! I hope it's enough to convince the Followers' headquarters we desperately need more supplies and personnel," Julie continued as she led him further into the labyrinth. With room after room, the numbers painted on their doors increased. In the rare silence, hammers pounded away behind walls. Eventually, they wound up where they started in the budding hospital. Vincent took a seat in the reception area, noting none of the chairs were the same.

"What do you think?"

"That whole cattle-disease thing has me suspicious of beef now," Vincent said with a shrug. "I can't look at a steak without thinking about the enormously slim possibility I could contract a thing that will turn my brain to mush in about a decade." Slouching back in the chair, Vincent brought up a foot and rested it on the opposite knee. The only thing missing was a cold drink in one hand, a cigarillo in the other, and he would have been right at home. "I stopped eating pork when I was about 9. My pig was slaughtered for food during a bad season. I just couldn't help but think of him ever since."

Julie turned to him. Her chin rested in her palm and she gave him a perplexed look. "You had a pet pig?"

"He wasn't mine, but I found him," Vincent explained. "Left behind by a caravan train. He was a mottled color and had two tails, and these big milky eyes—Cutest thing in the world. I couldn't keep him, so I gave it to my friend since her family had a farm and pigs." Eyes wandered to the unfolding day beyond floor-to-ceiling windows at the entrance. The street shimmered like that stretch in Yucca Valley he recalled in a memory. "Anyway, about two years later a bug infestation swept through and got into people's stores. I noticed me and my mom had mostly eaten pork that week. She tells me my friend's family slaughtered some of their pigs before they'd starve to death."

"Oh, that's awful…"

"What else aside from gecko could I try? Y'know I'm not a fan of roaches, but they're so gross I could never eat them anyway. Not even meat. More of pulpy slurry…"

Julie shuddered. "That mental image is making me nauseous."

"And don't get me started on the smell."

"Oh, by all means don't." Before Vincent could get out another word, Julie said in a voice slightly louder than her typical speaking volume, "Mr. McCormick has been cooperating and letting Bridgette check his cattle, so I don't think we have anything to worry about. But I do have some maybe bad news."

"I hope it's not related to the bad news you gave me a few weeks ago…"

"No, but I did receive a letter from Dr. Engel vaguely recalling an unruly wastelander dropping by his office and giving a compelling argument to continue your case study."

"Oh, how thoughtful," Vincent chimed, barely masking his grin. "Just when I thought kindness was dead, a good Samaritan comes along and encourages better behavior."

"Right… My real concern is I was expecting a caravan two days ago. They haven't arrived and they're never late."

One problem always seemed to lead to another, but these problems were a symptom of a bigger issue. Like the convicts cozying up sixty miles west in Primm. See, the bureaucratic masterminds in the NCR "tasked" their degenerates while imprisoned. Instead of sticking to safe things that wouldn't turn an economically strategic border-town into an outlaw's paradise, the warden decided to give them dynamite and plow a clearing all the way back home in the name of the New Frontiers Rail-Road Company. Naturally, the outliers of society didn't want to participate and promptly made their escape. A long trail of their exploits could be traced to Sloan where they confiscated supplies without much protest from unarmed miners employed at the quarry.

But what did that have to do with the dead brahmin sizzling on the Pahrump highway? Everything—the NCR's incompetence being attributed to most problems in the Mojave—The escaped convicts in Primm. The deathclaws moving into the quarry on the 15. The caravans, traders, and travelers forced to reroute to avoid a mess the republic had yet to clean up. And now, one brahmin, four dead guards, and a looted caravan was added to the ever-increasing Venn diagram of Vincent's to-do list and the New California Republic's casualties.

"Something seems off about this," Vincent finally said after a few hums and crab-walking around the crime scene. "Why kill the brahmin? Amateurs?"

"Might not have a need for 'nother mouth to feed," Wayne fanned himself with his hat. His cheeks wrinkled as he squinted down the highway. "Or it got caught in the crossfire."

"But even dead, it's still meat."

Wayne slapped his hat back on his head. "I got a hankerin' for brahmin jerky all-a-sudden! I'd give that another couple of hours though."

Vincent stood up from his squat in time for a timid breeze. He followed a trail of dark and crusty splats on the cracked road until it ended at the gravel shoulder. Scant wind scattered loose topsoil. Brush blanketed the hills in a gradient of dark greens and dry browns. Mojave wilderness stretched as far as the eyes could see fading to a hazy blue on the horizon. And somewhere out there was a very important shipment to the Followers.

"I think we ought to poke around Blue Diamond," Wayne said. "There's nothing left here."

Despite all these problems, the people of the Mojave were industrious. Anything could be exploited. And one such example was the sudden boom of a trading nexus staking out a fork in the road called Blue Diamond. The saloon was the oldest building. Everything else was built up around that sacred site. Like the bars in the casinos, it may not be the main attraction, yet everyone eventually wound up there. But no matter where you went in the town you wouldn't escape the smell of a brahmin's ass.

"What's with them robots?"

Vincent followed Wayne's gaze to a securitron position at the edge of town. Another one stationed itself at the opposite end. And then there was another loitering next to the trading post.

"House protecting assets," Vincent pondered. "He doesn't care about people though."

Navigating a slippery floor of spilt beer, Vincent forged a path to the bar with Wayne tailing close behind. It was barely past noon and the palace was already full of sweaty men. "Excuse me—" He tried to speak over the crowd's ruckus. The bartender rushed by, alone in his efforts to quench everyone's thirst.

"Excuse me." A voice boomed, rising up above laughs and chatter but not interrupting it. Had he not felt it vibrating in his chest and tugging his sprouting Adam's apple down farther than he ever purposefully tried, Vincent wouldn't have believed it was his own voice.

The bartender paused his rounds and looked at the young man as if he had suddenly appeared there at the bar. "What'll ya have?"

"I need information. There was a caravan attacked about twelve miles north of here. Blue Diamond been having problems with raiders?"

"Oh, that ain't nothin' new," the man said. He snatched an empty glass off the counter. "There's a gang out there, but don't know where. Must've took up residence, oh, about two months ago. Or was it three?" The bartender shrugged. "They attack any small-time caravan, but don't know where from—And just a for-your-info-tidbit, don't go poking those machines around town. They don't fancy being scrapped."

"They haven't done anything about the raiders?"

"Oh, they keep the raiders back by a mile or two, but beyond that…" The bartender laughed as he slung a rag over his shoulder then went back to work.

Vincent looked at Wayne squeezing in next to him, "Last thing I want to do is go wanderin' in the wilderness in the middle of summer."

"I'll drink to that," Vincent grumbled.

"Didn't ask the guards?" A husky voice inquired from the crowd. An old-timer, grungy and a wiry unkempt nest of a beard poked around a pair sharing a drink.

"What guards?

"No, no, the caravan guards."

The pair of men between left the bar and Vincent quickly moved down two stools. "They were dead."

The old man hummed and scratched his beard. His musty smell met Vincent before the whiskey on yellow-brown stained breath. "I was leading my caravan up that way to some folk I always deliver to. The raiders got me. They don't kill folk unless they fight back. Waste of bullets for a real fight, y'know? They just want the loot."

"These ones did," Wayne said.

"There's people settled out there?" Vincent inquired as he crossed his arms to keep himself on the bar top. "On the 160 highway?"

"Oh, yes," the old man nodded. "Made deliveries monthly for years. Water mostly. Some other odds n' ends…"

"Mountain Springs?" The bartender gave the old man a curious look passing by.

"No, no," the caravanner shook his head. "Mountain Springs ain't no spring anymore. Bad water. Nobody lived there for decades now."

"Where are these people?" Vincent butted in at the opportunity.

"Oh, I don't know…" He shrugged. "We met at a trail head. Traded and parted ways."

"Ok… What trail head?"

"Don't know that either. Can't read, but there's only two out there and it ain't the one at the fork. Maybe 10 miles north of here."

Going back where they came from, and circling around a few times, Vincent and Wayne found the old trail head. Marked by a lone pole and a weathered sign hanging askew, Vincent barely made out the name of Mountain Springs. He looked at his pip-boy for a virtual map and marked the spot perhaps named after the town not far from it. A ghost town that sent his Geiger counter singing if he crossed an invisible threshold.

Boots skidded next to him. Wayne clutched his belt. He squinted under the shade of his hat and a husky hum escaped closed lips. "Guess we gonna do that thing you didn't wanna."

"Maybe not…" Vincent mumbled as he trudged forward through the brush. "Look at these rocks."

Wayne followed the young man, slowly. Vincent stopped at a large stone, took note, and then moved on, finding another a couple feet away. Each bore the same symbol. A circle of fading pigment nearly lost to the rocks natural sandy color.

Wayne joined Vincent's side and they looked at eachother. "Trail markers?"

Sweat rolled down his back. Seeped along his forehead. Dragged auburn waves to sharp points and stung his eyes when droplets shook loose. Fine desert dust clung to the back of his throat, but all of that he could deal with. Just sip some water. Take a moment to rest the shin splints and tight calves then move on. It was the sun burning a fiery crown in his head that he hated. The old man behind him couldn't be doing any better. Vincent stopped and listened for the clanking armored duster. He peered over his aching shoulders. At the base of the dune, Wayne kept his head low. Only the top of his hat faced the noon sun. Damp spots on his shirt turned to long streaks. Sweat couldn't penetrate the heavy duster though. A leg trembled beneath him making the first step uphill.

"Wayne!"

Vincent bolted down shifting sand and dirt. Before the old man collapsed Vincent was already at his side, a water canteen shoved to Wayne's grasp. Needy gulps let no drop escape. Wayne let himself down on the slope and huffed; his thirst quenched but now lungs demanded air.

"I don't think I can go on…"

"I'm not letting you sit down here," Vincent said. "We just need to get up the hill and I'll put you in the shade."

"No, no," he sighed as a lazy hand waved off the notion. "You can't go it alone—"

Vincent returned the water canteen to his backpack. "Come on. I'm not leaving you here. We're close." While the old man was still, Vincent took his hands and tugged him up.

"What? Boy. Let me go—" Wayne protested but Vincent ignored him. Watching the bottom of the hill slowly shrink, Wayne clutched Vincent's forearms. "Quit draggin' me—You're gettin' sand in my boots!"

"Better than turning to jerky out here."

"Boy!" One last protest shook stone mesas and empty skies. Then, Wayne went limp. "Y'know what, I think this is helpin' my back. Keep going."

With one last grunt, legs grounded Vincent. Every muscle in his back, arms, and core pulled the old man on top of the hill. Now it was Vincent out of breath and collapsing next to Wayne.

Lounging there with all the kinks in his back straightened out, Wayne looked at the young man. "So, you ain't just skin and bones?"

"Watch it. I'm your ride back." Vincent stood up and shirked the dirt off his jeans. "I think I spotted a cave entrance along the rock wall."

After catching their breath and a few more sips of water, pistols swung out from their hostlers. Vincent and Wayne followed in the shade to a dark little blot in streaked rock. Muzzle first, Vincent switched on his pip-boy's light and Wayne followed into the dark.

Musty earth blew off the desert heat. Stone pillars gated them to a determined path. The slightest disturbance echoed around them. When daylight vanished, consuming darkness choked the senses. Twists and turns around stalagmites sent wiley shadows askew. Shimmering rock glared back at the intruders' lights.

"Wayne," Vincent whispered as he cut his pip-boy's light. He waved his hand and Wayne clicked off his flashlight. Ahead, a glow bloomed behind black silhouettes. Flickering and warm. A buzz soon followed and spiny shadows crossed damp cave walls.

Closing in on the hum, the shadow's form confirmed that of a man. His back turned to the chamber. One hand pressed against the cave wall. Raspy hums echoed drips. He turned around and let out a shocked scream.

The man froze. Hands went up. Milky eyes glanced between two strangers. "Who are you?"

"Will you put that away!" Vincent scolded. "Last thing I ever need to see is ghoul dick."

"You sneak up on me while I'm pissing and it's my fault?" The zipper screeched with aggressive tugs as the ghoul grumbled, "Ok. Makes sense."

A chorus of boots stumbled from deeper in the cave. "Greg!"

"Order them to stay back," Wayne shouted.

The ghoul grimaced. He looked over his shoulder. Lanterns bobbed yards away. A hoard of them stood there in the corridor. "Stay back. We got visitors. They're armed."

"We don't want trouble!" A scratchy voice called.

"I'm investigating a caravan that was attacked down on the highway," Vincent announced.

Whispers revved up in the crowd. "Please don't hurt anyone." Vague words were shy of Vincent's ears. Greg's pleas split his attention. "We only have a couple of rifles between us."

"—tell them."

Vincent looked back at the crowd that suddenly went quiet.

"I'm coming over," the raspy voice announced. "My name is Chris. I'm unarmed." The lead ghoul slowly made his way to the standoff with raised hands. A thin, veiny skin layer clung to his skull. Worn out and well used like the flannel shirt and work boots. Bloodshot eyes stared down at Vincent. "We… I, and three others are responsible for that caravan. We didn't intend on killing anybody—"

"Well, they're dead now and more people can die without that shipment you stole."

"Yes," the ghoul's stare faltered. "I now know why they fought back. One survived though. He's wounded and we've been treating him well with the supplies we took."

"We really just wanted water," Greg clarified. "Hobbs stopped coming out here being robbed by raiders—"

Vincent's brows furrowed. He looked at the two men. "You aren't the raiders?"

"No, this was the first time. We usually pick their scraps," Chris explained. "We were desperate. Despite seeming damp, there isn't any potable water in this cave system."

"You know anything about the raiders?"

"They took over the town on the highway. Used to be called Mountain Springs in my day. Nice little place."

Vincent peered around the tall ghoul. A line of men blocked the corridor. All states of decayed eyes keenly observed the men with the guns. Ratty clothes looked like something Eve might have patched up for the working folk out of sympathy. Behind them, little ghouls peeped between their legs. Others stood on their toes to take a peek at their visitors. The first in centuries they've seen. "How long have you been living in this cave?"

"Too long. The world out there…" Chris sighed and shook his head. "It's nothing like the one we came from. I was a tour guide. Gave families a nice hike through the mountains. Taught them about the land. And one day the sirens went off. I don't even know if we're the lucky ones anymore, but these families looked to me for help and survival. I'm not making excuses about killing those men. I know what I did."

"It can be the last." Vincent decocked his pistol and shoved it back in its holster. "How about we trade? You give me that shipment, I'll get rid of the raiders, and take that guard of your hands. He belongs to the Followers; they're a humanitarian group that help people—doctors and such—It's why he was transporting medical supplies."

"That would be… ideal." He hesitated. "But there's more of them than you. I'm afraid you'd just die."

"I've dealt with worse."

"Chris, if their offering just take it, man," Greg chimed in.

"I didn't think any kindness still existed in the world."

"Then think of it as karma," Wayne said. "You didn't have to save a man that was gonna kill ya, even if you started that fight. But you did and that matters."

"That town's a lion's den. Let me help you."

"Oh, no," Wayne shook his head. "Like you said, these people need you. You oughta stay put."

"But you can watch from a distance," Vincent added. "Might be the best entertainment you see in a while, huh?"

Binoculars traced ancient roads winding through the tiny town. Overgrowth sprung up from the old bones. Dwindling green would soon fade to beige and go dormant until cool spring returned to the desert. Yet there was one thing that always remained no matter the season. People. People lingered in ruined towns like Mountain Springs. Despite the dilapidated and stripped state of the place. Usually, it was the humans that could be easily confused with roaches.

Raiders…

"So…" Vincent muttered. His eyes stayed glued to two little circles magnifying Mountain Springs. "You and Richard blew up a brahmin?"

Wayne hummed his affirmation. He scratched his beard before laying down another card on his side. "Three actually." Vincent peeled the binoculars off and gave the old man the side-eye. "You go."

Vincent looked at their game of caravan held in place by pebbles. He set the binoculars down then picked up his hand. Scanning his cards for one that would annoy Wayne the most, Vincent asked, "how'd you do it?"

Wayne's forehead wrinkled. Peppered brows rose as a giddy smile joined the glint in his eye.

—

"These babies…" Richard's drawl always suckered Vincent in. Slow and smooth. Then the smile kicked in and Vincent had a hard time resisting the captain. "These are like vintage whiskey. You break 'em out for a special occasion."

"Like blowing up unsuspecting brahmin?"

Richard straightened the launcher's slingshot track with a satisfying click. "Not every day you stumble on a Fat-Man, alright?"

Vincent propped himself on his elbows and watched the mercenary at work. They laid on their stomachs at a dirt overlook. Downhill, the only occupied hut in the ghost town was the saloon. Or used to be centuries ago. Green puppy-dog eyes wandered over to Vincent. "Now, this is my last mini nuke…"

"I'll get you another one," Vincent said, and those eyes quickly turned to glitter.

Insect noise joined the perfect sunset. Dying light graced half of them in warmth while a cold desert night crept in from the east. Behind them, Wayne paced around with a gleeful smile and binoculars in hand ready for a grand finale.

"Hold it like so," Richard instructed. Vincent steadied the Fat-Man while Richard plucked out a mini nuke from a padded box. He slid it down the track and pulled it back toward them. A click locked it in place. "There ya go. You got a good grip." Vincent caught Richard's wink. A cocky smile tugged the captain's lips. "Alright! Showtime."

Wayne jigged over. Eager hands rubbed together, and he finally stood still at the viewing ledge. Richard adjusted his position. Wiggled about. Flexed his trigger finger. Gauged his sights. He held his breath. And fired.

In the blink of an eye, the mini nuke launched. A faint trail of dust followed its wakes. Light exploded first. The ferocious roar erupted alongside a mushroom cloud springing up in slow motion. Fire licked noses and cheeks. Eyes squinted at the blinding light. The shockwave dissipated to trembles by the time it reached them on the hill.

"Yeehaw!" Wayne roared. He ripped off his hat and danced around the hilltop, basking in the marvelous explosion, kicking and punching air. "Hell yeah!"

Richard leaned on Vincent. Their shoulders pressed together. Vincent did a double take at the man still watching the fireworks. Emerald crescents glowed in the decaying fire then looked at Vincent. That cocky smile came back as he whispered, "I'm kinda horny right now."

—

The securitron stopped a centimeter from the Queen's doors. Vincent took the crate from its metal claws and continued into the casino. He dodged staff and guests alike until the crowds thinned the closer he came to the elevators. Then he stopped altogether seeing a familiar face. A scowling face, but familiar none-the-less.

"Jackie!"

She ignored him. A glance tightened her brows and quickened her march. Vincent turned around. He leaned from side to side to peer around the crate while following her through the maze of slots.

"Jackie, wait!"

Ignoring the pinch in his spine, Vincent picked up the pace. He found his second wind and managed to outpace her entirely then shoved off his burden to a nearby slot chair.

"Jackie, what is going on?"

"What's going on?" She laughed but wasn't humored by the question. "Do you know how many friends I've lost? How many I watched die next to me? Just to lose the dam like it was all for nothing! Like their sacrifice is nothing!" She gritted teeth and clenched fists. Tunnel vision set on Vincent like a deathclaw on her prey. "What's going on is I was discharged. I can't get a job here. Eve doesn't qualify for widower's compensation because we can't get a straight answer about Lawrence. And worst of all you come along like throwing caps around like we're destitute."

"What—"

She took a step closer and they were toe-to-toe. "Is it because you feel guilty? Because you know this is your fault?"

"Y'know, you're entitled to your feelings, but don't pretend I'm the reason this war happened in the first place."

"Jacqueline." Furious taps marched over to the two. "Vincent is not the source of all your problems."

Jackie's scowl untangled and she spun around. "Eve—"

"Is this really how you feel?" Eve's baby blues teared up. Her nose and cheeks reddened. "Have I put too much pressure on you?"

"No," Jackie sighed. She rubbed her neck and gazed off elsewhere to find excuses. "It's not you… It's—I am supposed to provide for you. I'm supposed to be the one surprising you with the opportunity to open your own shop like you've always dreamed about!" Jackie threw up her hands in defeat. Tears she fought back passed the point of no return as she struggled through her words and hiccups. "I'm supposed to make you happy. I can't even get a job because I'm so broken—"

Eve pulled her into a tight hug. "I'm so sorry." Jackie clung to her for dear life. Muffled cries soaked Eve's dress. "Jackie, you aren't broken. You aren't doing anything wrong. I promise." Eve plucked a handkerchief from a mismatched pocket. A bit of light broke through her own hurt as she humored herself, "and here I was, worried I was doing something wrong for you."

"Jackie, you aren't useless, and you aren't broken," Vincent declared. To his surprise, she didn't look at him with contempt this time. "You want a job? I want someone I can trust."

"I don't want a pity job—"

"It's not a pity job and it's not easy either.," Vincent corrected. "Now that the NCR is pulling their military out of New Vegas, all those visiting or immigrating citizens are going to be vulnerable. I want someone to make sure the King keeps up his end of the bargain. I need someone who has the know-how to protect those people. Who has connections in the republic. Who wants to."

Her brows furrowed. She wiped away running eyeliner. "Why do you want me, though?"

"Remember the night we met? At the play in the Millennium? Well, the whole day I got non-stop stories about Jackie. About how she's tough. Brave. Knows right from wrong. The Jackie I heard about, wouldn't back down so easily from a fight."

She looked away. Shame burdened her shoulders as the rage left her in pitiful sigh. Eve caressed her back. Dainty fingers combed through her hair and tucked licking curls behind her ear. The tears returned behind the eyes she hid under a hand, but perhaps for a different reason this time.

"Eve, I got your shipment," Vincent nodded to the crate. Eve extended a hand to him. A mutual squeeze acknowledged the other and the half-smile promised to visit again at a better time, and they parted ways.