Eighteen years ago, was the first and maybe the last time I ever did something for myself. Standing up to Jacob was also for my mother, but I’d be a liar to say I didn’t do it for myself. Years of his unpredictable abuse festered in my like a disease, and that day was when the fever finally broke. I don’t find pride in the fact I beat my father senseless. It was the pride of standing up to a bully, defending my mother who had for so long defended me, shielded me from him as much as she possibly could.

I didn’t really have a purpose in joining the rangers and had I never met Clint, I might’ve been a foot soldier, maybe dead. Clint’s optimism and encouragement made me pursue becoming a ranger because I never believed anything about myself that someone else didn’t say. Then there was Evelyn, orphaned at seventeen by an electrical fire. As dysfunctional as my family was, I couldn’t imagine coming home to finding them both dead and the only home I’d ever known blackened to charcoal. Still, I would have traded my own parents for Eve’s family being spared. If I didn’t have Eve and her family, I don’t know if I’d be the same person. She’s my best friend, my sister. Her father became a surrogate for me and I didn’t feel completely aimless on the path to becoming a man.

I was with her that night because I always walked her home first after our outings. We talked about a girl she had a crush on and then we wondered about the glow on the horizon.

I cried too but I had to hold myself together for Eve’s sake. My family wasn’t the one who died. She lost everything, and that moment gave me more reasons to become a ranger. Getting married was her idea; it meant security, for both of us. We were all we could depend on for years. We got a house, and she made it a home. She made a great “wife”—we both found it funny how other couples looked up us as an example of an ideal marriage. As kids and teens, we would have been annoyed by this reaction and never thought we would get married, even if it was a lavender marriage. At least we were convincing.

When Marcus came along… I was head over heels for him. He was first real relationship with another man. Maybe that’s why I looked past all the times I gave up some need of my own for him. It hurt being “a friend” when he’d introduce me to someone, but when I got to meet his family… I realized that was never going to change. He was ashamed of himself in a way I wasn’t. I mean, I always had the option to find a woman, fall in love, settle down with, and be romantically fulfilled. Marcus would only have that with a man. In private, when it was just us, I had no doubt he loved me.

Maybe he would have changed if he were still here. That thought occupied my mind for years after his death. Everything that could have been… But eventually that thought wasn’t confined to what Marcus and I could have had. I thought about how my childhood should have been, how my parents should have been. How the events of Laughlin, Bitter Springs, defending the dam should have gone. Vincent.

My heart stung thinking about him.

Every little regret was empowered by what-ifs and it consumed me. And I could feel its jaws opening around me again as my knee bobbed anxiously. My eyes were unfocused but stared at the green shag carpet. I must have been growing roots into the sofa by now. The loose papers scrawled with lengthy notes on the NCR’s current state of affairs surrounding me seemed so insignificant. I don’t know what broke inside me, but I no longer cared that it was Clint behind the assassinations. I no longer cared about the assassinations themselves nor what the republic would do about it. I wasted twenty years of my life caring about the wrong thing. About a nameless, faceless entity that didn’t care if I had died to protect it.

People were more important. I felt that my whole life acted on it as a ranger whenever I could, but never realized it in concrete words. I don’t want to waste twenty more years doing the wrong thing. Vincent thought I was the brave one, but I never told him how much I admired his bravery, even if he could be a bit reckless at times. Still, there’s courage in leaving behind everything you’ve known to live life as you see fit despite the danger, the uncertainty, the isolation—all of his own choice. That’s a kind of courage I never had.

To carry out tonight the plan Linda and I created, Vincent was my inspiration. The idea of just seeing him again was motivation, even if also terrifying.

“Okay…” Linda sigh brought me back into the moment. I spent all day hyping myself up for this and I’m sure she had to do the same for her mission too. She inspected her reflection in the oval mirror hanging in the hallway. Teased her hair. Checked her lipstick. Muttered something about it being too bold before retreating to the bathroom for the third time. 

This wasn’t the first time—it was the third time in the last ten minutes she did this very same routine. Frankly, it was starting to annoy me, but I can understand why. I jumped up and bellowed out, “Linda, you like amazing. Stop it!” 

She looked at me and her recently pruned brows wrinkled together. “Do you think so? I don’t want to look like I’m compensating or trying to impress or—or…”

“You haven’t even got shoes on,” I pointed out, marching over to her. I quickly evaluated her outfit; it was a pastel yell and red sundress with frills draping her chest. Then I advanced into her room and made the shoe-decision for her. “These shoes.” I declared, holding up the pair of sandals she added her own flair to. Going back into her room I swiped one of several bracelets she laid out on her vanity. “This bracelet.” Before she could get in any words of doubt, I said, “the rest is just to be you.”

She slipped on the silver strand bracelet, evaluating that choice then the shoes I picked out. “Have you always had an eye for fashion?” Linda meekly asked.

 “I learned a thing or two living with Eve all those years.”

“Well…” Linda’s furrowed brows hadn’t smoothed out even with those roadblocks overcome because now we were at a fork in the road. “We’re both keeping up our end of the deal. Seems like neither of us is ready for it.”

I think we were both feeling the same thing. There was no word for this bittersweet cocktail. Nothing could truly capture saying goodbye to an incredible friend, this time forever. I wasn’t going to find my courage in the carpet so I looked up to Linda and reminded her, “y’know, it was you who told me you can only avoid matters of the heart so long.”

“What if this is the last time I see her?”

“When you moved out of your home together, didn’t it feel the same? The last time you thought you’d see her? But you still ran into each other over the years. And, don’t forget what you’ve built here.” I smiled just to fight of the growing know it my throat. “You got friends. You got sanctuary here. Some people live their whole lives with regrets. You and Vincent have something in common, and I think it’s that you both refused to walk that road.”

“I’m going to ruin my makeup,” Linda’s voice squeaked. She patted the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief from her purse.

“I don’t know if I can repay you for all you’ve done for me.”

Linda shook her head and said, “you can repay me by getting out of here and just being happy.”

I nodded. That was something I wanted to do and I dared to think I could. A faint smile dimpled Linda’s cheeks as she opened her arms for a last hug. “I hope for the best tonight with you and Mary.”

Linda batted away the last tears she’d allow herself for the night. “Don’t forget I love you.”

The last time I said goodbye to Linda was long before she was Linda. Hopes and morale were high with Hoover Dam under the republic’s control. The eastern front was quiet. A small party in Camp Golf’s barracks saw off the personnel in need of a change of scenery, and then she disappeared for several years. When the door shut behind her, I knew it was for good this time. There would be no coming back to the republic after this.




—




In a gutted room on a half-renovated floor of the Golden Nugget, a single lightbulb swung on a frayed cord. It hummed gently as it turned, casting a sickly glow over the wide eyes tracking its motion—Connor’s only body part left free.

“W-what are you doing?” he rasped. His voice cracked as he strained toward the figure in the shadows. Footsteps knocked hollow on exposed drywall. Vincent emerged, slow and deliberate, each step echoing in time with the prisoner’s shallow breaths. He paused just outside the light’s reach, the shears in his hand catching a whisper of neon from the boarded windows.

“Found two girls at the hideout,” Vincent said, twirling the blades. “And a boy.”

Snip. Snip.

“Y-you gonna let him do this?” The prisoner looked at the woman who had been deathly quiet in a corner beyond the light’s reach. A lit cigarette rose to her lips. “Thought this was against the law in the NCR!”

Cigarette embers flared. “We’re not in the NCR,” she exhaled gray smoke. “And lucky for you, I’m not a commissioned officer. Anymore."

“C’mon, man,” Conner whined. He swallowed the knot tangling in his throat. “I didn’t do anything to them, I swear.”

“See, that’s the problem, Connor,” Vincent said, stepping into the light that cast long, sinister shadows across his face. The blade’s maw opened. Menacing points hooked a glimmer on their sharp ends. Connor’s stomach twisted. He turned his head away from the man molesting his personal space and sunk further in the chair like a turtle trying to hide in a shell it didn’t have. “You didn’t do anything.” 

Cold shears gnawed at his smallest finger. “Wait. Wait. Wait!” is whole body arced in the chair and away from the chilly edges threatening soft flesh. “I know who did—”

Vincent leaned in, nose to nose. His breath was calm while Connor’s came in short gasps. “Well?”

“L-Lamont,” Connor stammered.

“Ol’ Sammy Lamont?” Vincent’s whisper tickled Connor’s sweat slicked skin.

“Yes!”

Snip.

Connor’s eyes bulged, threatening to pop right out of their sockets. “Mother. Fucker!” Incoherent screams frothed on his lips. His curses trampled over each other. He thrashed in his seat, blood spurting out the end of his pinkie finger like the fountains on the strip.

"Who do you think gave you up?” Vincent asked. He held the shears over a lighter, letting the flame dance on the bloodied tips. “Already sent him sailing to the bottom of Lake Mead in a barrel.”

Vincent cocked his head at the pair of eyes gawking at him. Cold indifference beat the last of Connor's will out of him. He slumped forward, his back bobbed up and down sucking in the night’s cool air. Scalding metal hissed like a snake pressed on the raw nub. Connor growled behind clenched teeth. He bucked in his seat as tarnished blades pressed harder in tender flesh. Vincent let it simmer. Waited until the steam evaporated before he tore the blades off.

“I got all day,” Vincent started another reveling stroll about the man. “All night...” 

Barely a croak came out of Conor this time. The middle management broke so easily. They were fake, like the steel necklace Connor really thought passed as silver tangled up in damp chest hair. Loud like the purple zoot-suit drenched in sweat no amount of washing would get the stench of dread out of. He was a glorified fence. His items were humans and his buyers were barely human.

Connor was just one cog in a greater machine though. Frankly, torture wasn’t a great way to get information out of people, but that wasn’t the point. It was to placate Connor. To make him more afraid of Vincent than who Connor was working for and with then turn him loose to appreciate being alive a little more. See, once Vincent was the bigger threat, information tended to flow more freely by just his mere presence alone. Sometimes these kinds of assets needed to be reminded of their place, but Connor wasn’t that bold.

“Finger by finger. Joint by joint. And plenty of psycho to keep you awake.” The prisoner fought to raise his head. His mouth hung open puffing out hot and shallow breaths. Red eyes squinted at Vincent. “Plenty of hot metal to keep you from bleeding out.” 

“How do you want your evening to be?” Jackie asked the prisoner as if soliciting a date. “We can make it very memorable.”

“Black-Smoke,” Connor gasped. Jackie stepped into the light at those magic words. “He killed the one,” he continued through labored breaths. “Sometimes he likes to take a ‘cut’ of the ‘profits’, y’know? I told him to be gentle, so the buyers don’t—so the boss don’t know!”

“I just got an idea,” Vincent announced. Jackie exhaled the last puff she’d get out of the cigarette burned down to a roach. “Yeah, a great idea….”

Jackie dropped the butt and squashed it under her boot. “What might that be?”

Vincent resumed another round circling Connor’s chair like a vulture. “Maybe if I catch Black-Smoke, cut off his dick, cut off his balls, keep him alive, and send him back to your ‘boss’, do you think the guy would stop?”

Jackie chuckled. “I think that would get the point across.”

Connor looked between them, horrified at the plan, “what the fuck, man?”

“I could start with you,” Vincent pondered as he stopped behind Conner. He clutched the chair’s back and peered down at his captive. “Get a little… practice in.”

“I’ll stop. I’ll stop!” Connor cried, blubbering and tossing his head back and forth. “I’ll leave all this shit behind. I’ll tell you everything, just please don’t do that.”

If there was a devil, he was a handsome man. Not as tall or as intimidating as one might think, and if you thought that at first glance then you were already in the crosshair of the first gun he’d pull on you; his charm. He was, perhaps, in his mid-twenties and wore a malicious grin when he said, “good choice!”

There was something strangely relaxing about walking the hallways of the casino hotels. Every floor identical to the last. Seldom any life seen or heard. Walking them as often as Vincent did, his mind began to become like the long, silent corridors. Behind every door was a piece of himself. A piece to be taken out when needed or stowed away to get the job done. Easily managed and compartmentalized because in reality, it was all a gossamer facade. Hidden behind the walls decorated with soulless art, painted in warm muted colors, and the doors whose only identity were the steel numbers hammered into them was pure chaos. 

Vincent shut the door behind him. Leaning all his weight on it as if trying to keep something locked behind him in the dark, he finally exhaled. Across from him was Jackie pushing her rifle to her back as she lit a cigarette. It was never a gamble what was on the other side of any door he cracked open enough to look in the face of a saint or a monster. But it wasn’t easy closing those doors. 

Vincent shook his limbs loose from an adrenaline rush, jogged in place for a quick second, and concluded his part of the ritual. Clasping his hands behind his back, he leaned slightly towards Jackie and exhaled. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Thunder clapped through the halls of the Golden Nugget. Vincent’s eyes rolled in their sockets. His head spun worse than any hangover his mistress tequila could give him when she caught him in bed with whiskey.

Jackie planted a hand on her hip. The cigarette in her other hand emphasized her words. “I should introduce you to my friend Carrie.” A flirty smile joined her amused expression, “she’d like you.”

Vincent came back up, chuckling because he already knew why. “I think you enjoy this part the most.”

“Your stubble is like a bunch of little knives,” Jackie whined. Feigning the pain of a thousand invisible little cuts, she shook her slapping hand limp-wristed. “Ow…” 

Where Jackie’s work ended for the day, Vincent’s was only getting started. It was a full-time job, and the gig was to just be him. Leaving the Golden Nugget and stepping into the neon jungle reminded him why he danced with the devils kept in the hotel rooms of his mind. There was nowhere else he’d rather be than New Vegas. 

The lights, all flicker and color, made a world like no other reflected in beads swinging from dancing hips, glittering off glass, smoke, and sweat. New crowds every night. New names, new games. Even the same old hustle never got tired: throwing two hundred chips on a split pair of tens just to watch the by-the-book gamblers flinch. Tall drinks and taller tales. The drama, the tension. No stage show ever touched the intrigue of New Vegas.

The city was his one true love—always whispering promises with her winking neon eyes, pouting lush red lips sequined in temptation. She begged him to stay, just a little longer. And Vincent always said yes. Her glamour was a drug, and he never kicked it.

On the corners near Freeside’s strip, pushing up against boundaries only loosely enforced by securitrons, the ladies of the night lingered. Flashy, feathered, dripping glitter, they swayed like stage dancers come to life—eyeing every passerby like a wolf picking out prey. Painted lips smiled. Whistles floated. A flick of the tongue between two fingers. Hips cocked. Hands moved like advertisements. What their clothes didn’t show, their posture promised.

Vincent slowed, scanning the lineup. He wasn’t looking to buy, and when he pulled his hat off—letting the warm neon glow catch the scar he no longer cared to hide—they knew it too. Flirtations and solicitous gestures ceased. The girls backed off, lips tightening as their bodies shifted from seduction to sales. Sighs slipped between teeth as fingers produced cards from all sorts of improbable places. Another kind of business—one of many Vincent inserted himself into for a number of motives.

“I’m not here about your licenses but thank you for getting them,” he said, wearing a polite smile. The “licenses” let Freeside’s hookers sell themselves on Freeside’s strip while the Kings kept things civil for them. In exchange, they had to visit the Followers to prove they were clean—of diseases and chems. Not only was it a consolidation of power with the intention of eradicating pimps, easing human trafficking, and generally vile behavior, but it kept diseases that traveled fast and buried faster from being spread so wantonly. Naturally this new law drew heat from those who’d lose a profit; they were quickly made examples of, and Vincent didn’t even have to do the dirty work himself. The strip was next.

From the scantily clad lineup, a woman stepped forward. She stumbled in her tall heels like a newborn fawn—uncertain, a little too green. Not because she wasn’t beautiful; that much was obvious to anyone. Too young, too radiant, with soft curves and a face that hadn't hardened yet.

She didn’t look like a prostitute. She didn’t feel like one either and reminded herself that she wasn’t. It was a role she’d play, right up until she got what she needed and vanished. The girl tucked brunette waves behind one ear, adjusting the leather straps of her bra as she approached Vincent with a hesitant, demure smile. “Hi.”

Vincent offered the crook of his elbow. “Missy.”

She took it—carefully, gently. He slowed his pace to match her pigeon-toed steps, his eyes catching on the glossy black thigh-highs that tripped her up more than they helped.

“I’ve got a room at the Golden Nugget. You eaten yet?”

Missy’s eyes wandered, caught in the shimmer of neon lights and flashing casino signs. “No, not yet.”

Missy and Vincent had something in common—luck. Happenstance. They were both an ace up their respective sleeves neither expected to find. They met at the grand opening of the Route 66 casino on the strip. She wasn’t working the room like the other girls. Just circling, anxious and out of her depth, scanning faces, and wondering how she could ever do this or compete with the charm and confidence of the Strip’s escorts. Her legs brought her to the bar. A shot would calm her nerves and maybe the men in the VIP lounge would be her best bet. She knew of the mysterious man only known as Vincent, that he had a scar and worked for the even more mysterious Mr. House but never expected to meet him in person through sheer coincidence.

When he spoke to her first she froze, staring at his mismatched pupils and the scar. She expected someone older. More hardened. Not more disarming through his idle bar chatter than the shot of tequila she requested. Vincent didn’t ask for her story, but she spilled it anyway. It tumbled out as raw and ugly as he’d come to expect—in the way real grief always is. And something in him shifted as it often did when he met people like Missy. Despite that, there was something just as unbelievable about becoming a spy, an informant for the second most powerful man in New Vegas as there was trying to prostitute herself to survive.

Yet these meetings were becoming more common between them. It started when they met by pure chance at an opening party on the strip. She’d have information he wanted, he would direct her to her next step, all over a meal in the kind of restaurant she never thought she’d step foot in. Information wasn’t the only thing they’d discuss, and strangely, it was the thing she would look forward to—having someone who would talk to her like she was human and worth knowing.

Tonight was somewhat different. She wouldn’t be taking up a bed in the Followers’ domain nor paying for her own room in a casino. After-dinner conversation wrapped up and Vincent showed her to a room in the Golden Nugget. With the door closed behind Missy, she slipped into the bathroom as Vincent plopped down on the foot of the single bed.

“Your leads have been extremely helpful,” he said, flipping through notes on his Pip-Boy. “Last one’s getting me closer—”

Footsteps on the carpet drew his eyes up. Missy emerged from the bathroom, completely bare, her arms loose at her sides. She smiled—playful, practiced, but nervous.

“Uh…” Was all Vincent could mutter, gawking at the girl in a way he prided himself immune to.

Her smile weakened, feeling the seconds tick by and nothing happening. A bent knee turned inward. Arms crossed her exposed chest. “I-I thought you wanted…” 

“Oh—God—no.” Vincent fumbled with the bedsheets, rising like a man caught in a trap. “Did I give you that impression?”

“You got the room. Bought me dinner. The poker chips…”

“That’s for the work, Missy,” Vincent said, backing up like the conversation itself might catch fire. “You’ve been helping me out. That’s it.”

“You came back here with me.”

“To talk. Privately. That’s all.” He waved his hands in protest, making sure to either avert his gaze or only meet her eyes. “Look, I should’ve been clearer, but this was never—this isn’t a thing I expect. Ever.”

There was a pause. Then she laughed, covering her mouth with one hand. Vincent’s cheeks burned red with temptation to steal a peak. He turned his back to Missy instead. “I’ll put my clothes back on.”

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Vincent finally exhaled once she left the room. Muttering to his embarrassed ego, he regained his composure and continued on with business as best as he could with such a distracting figure on his mind. “Do you remember the man that was with me at the party in the Sevens?”

“The guy with the harem?”

“Yes,” he said as Missy came from the bathroom—fully clothed, minus the boots he couldn’t blame her for abandoning. “Chatch Russo.” She sat on the bed corner with hands between her knees and her mousy face eagerly listening. “He’s got his eye on you. Thinks you’re cute. Which means opportunity. Maybe not the most ideal, but a lor safer than Freeside.”

“You want me to spy on him?”

“Not spy exactly. Just... watch him. Make sure he’s playing nice. Tell me if anything feels off.” Vincent clasped his hands together as he took a step forward. “There’s a catch though. His girls get private suites in the casino. Party with him all over the strip. Look prettier than the caps he’s making at all times. I have no doubt he’s having sex with them and he will expect you to, or he loses interest and gives you the boot. I’d give it a week or so before he tries to get in your pants.”

Missy cocked her head. Restless fingers picked at the fringe of her short skirt. “Do I have to sleep with him?”

“That’s still up to you. Always will be,” Vincent asserted. “You want out, let me know and I’ll make it happen. There’s plenty of other opportunities to gather info, some more permanent and less risky that anything you’ve previously done.”

Missy sat cross-legged on the bed, brows furrowed. “Really?”

“You’ve earned it,” Vincent said. “The stuff you dug up on Lamont, the leads to Connor—that’s real work. You’ve got good instincts. I don’t forget that.”

Missy looked down at her hands. “I never thought I’d be good at anything.”

“You are,” Vincent said, somewhat sheepishly. He was never good at compliments. Giving them or receiving them. Yet, compliments had power, especially when true. “And I don’t let my people drown. You look out for me, I look out for you. You don’t have to decide right now. Either way, I’d like those instincts on the Strip.”

For a second, she didn’t say anything. Then her lips curled into a soft, unsure smile. “Thank you.”




—




Every light in the house was off. The front door was locked. All the windows were secured. It was only me in the house yet my heart was thumping in my ears. The safe’s dial clicked with each correct number. The safe in Linda’s closet contained everything I would need to get New Vegas. Red lenses reflected my silhouette. Tally marks decorated the dented helmet. Silver scrapes chipped away green paint and the desert patina she never washed away because then all the signatures in white chalk would be gone forever.

I wondered why she kept it all, the helmet, the armor, the duster. She would have had to convince somebody to keep it out of circulation, but whatever her reason was, though, I think she let go of it.

Wearing the black armor again… The tolerance I had for the weight of it all diminished since I had last worn this uniform. I didn’t feel the pride it instilled in me for the twelve years I was a ranger. The number on the throat guard wasn’t mine. The bear and star on the duster’s shoulder no longer had the same meaning to me. The numbness I felt looking at my reflection I had experienced years before. It’s true name was grief. We met after Marcus’s death and became intimately acquainted in the years after, so much so that I hadn’t realized it was poisoning me.

I knew my purpose as a ranger, but I wasn’t a ranger anymore. Even then, that purpose was something given to me by someone else. Now, my hands trembled holding the helmet. Excitement and fear mixed together like water and oil. If I had figured it when I was younger, that I could give myself purpose, I wondered what could have been—

No. The what-ifs and could-haves were the head of the snake, biting in my flesh with long fangs and infecting me with its venom, with grief and regret. My purpose now was to leave the New California Republic. It started with heading out the backdoor, covered by darkness of moonless night. Then I’d have to climb over fences and sneak through yards all to avoid Anderson’s watch—the helmet would give me an advantage while doing this. I could see them in the dark, but they couldn’t see me. That planned route would lead me towards the main avenue where I would then immerse myself with foot-traffic, ignoring curious stares gawking at a ranger in full uniform, and heading straight for the box-truck idling by a strip club. Never seeing the specific truck before, I would know the correct one by the big, blocky red letters spelling out “Fishy Frank’s” alongside a two-headed fish mascot. I climbed into the passenger seat, startling a familiar face crammed in a magazine.

“Hello, handsome,” Tiffany crooned as she undid the first button of her jumpsuit uniform. 

I pulled off my helmet, a smile already loaded and aimed at my driver. “Ma’am,” I said, dealing the killing blow with a wink. “Hope you don’t mind company tonight.”

“Honey, you can take me for a ride anytime,” Tiffany purred like the engine she shifted into gear. “I have a couple more drop-offs and then I can take you to Baker.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Aren’t you a doll,” Tiffany giggled. She batted her eyelashes and blew a kiss as red as her hair. 

Rolling around the city in Tiffany’s truck was preferable to cart or on foot, but not as good as riding the motorcycle—Vincent’s arms wrapped around my waist, battling the wind, and absorbing the engine's roars. We’d watch the world go by from under glass—I wondered if New Vegas changed as much as the republic. Wondered how different Vincent would be… There was excitement in facing the unknown but fear was its foundation. I’d see him soon. Glancing at the radio’s clock, I might even see him today. If there was any higher power that pulled the sunrise out of the dark every morning, I hoped it would take pity on me.

The small hours were quiet. People disappeared off the streets around three, and had we never stopped to drop off crates at the back doors of business, I might have thought Tiffany and I the only people in the world. After a couple hours of being in the cramped van I needed to get out, and when she pulled up to a small restaurant facing the coast I considered it. I looked in the mirrors, out the hand-cranked window, and being content with there was no real danger, I got out.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Tiffany rasped as she waved her clipboard. Bills of lading swung wildly under the clip as she crab walked down cracked cement steps. “Get back in the truck!”

I jumped to attention. “I just wanted to the see the beach.”

Tiffany eased up. She gave me a sympathetic look then checked side-to-side of the empty street for potential eyes. “Alright,” she caved. “Come on.”

I followed her around the truck, passing through a warm spot exhaled from the grill-face. We stopped at the steep edge of the sidewalk. Ice plants and weeds had sprung up where the paved ground slipped away and into the sea. The first rays of sun peeked over tall factory roofs and warmed the back of my head. Crystals danced on the spokes of gentle tides.

“How long has it been?” she asked, “since you seen the ocean?”

Night retreated, lifting like a shadowy veil from the deep blue expanse. Red and orange rays glowed on the crumbling shoreline curved around a crater deep beneath crashing waves. Sometimes the tide retreated enough to see what used to be. Decades had swallowed up streets and concrete, homes and businesses. Powerlines dangled helplessly from the tops of sunken poles. Strong currents threatened to take the last of sea-battered structures desperately clinging to land. 

I sighed into the salty breeze chilling his nose and cheeks, “too long.”  

The more road the old truck traveled, the quieter the inside of the cab became. Both of us knew for different reasons the ride would be a somber occasion. My last adventure around the city, last time I’d see the beaches, the last sunrise reviving the ocean from the dark of night, and the last time I’d see the long 15 shrinking in a rear-view mirror. 

The sun had almost settled into noon by the time they reached the ghost town of Baker. A scant strip of asphalt laid vacant between hollow buildings sun bleached white by the Mojave’s eye. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Sandstone and jagged mountains were as clear as the day I first laid eyes on them. I looked behind me as the driver’s side door slammed shut. We said our goodbyes, I wished Tiffany well and thanked her for help. Waving goodbye, I wished I could give her a spicy quip for the lonely ride back. She blew me a kiss then started the engine.

Piston fire and engine chatter faded to a hum. The heat mirage on the asphalt warped the truck disappearing on the horizon. I turned eastward. The winter sun was still a sun after all and it began to brand a halo on my scalp. Taking a mental inventory was the last ritual I did before finally setting out on any mission, and so I listed off everything Linda had given me for this journey; water, food, caps, ammo, and all the guidance she’d given me across the years.

A gust rushed me as if to push me forward, and I thought of Marcus. That was his ritual; a playful shove of my shoulder and we’d head out. The highway sign on the shoulder rattled its loose rivets. 

Eighty-nine miles to go.




—




dusting forgotten corners, sweeping crumbs from unseen places. And just like those stubborn crumbs, stale remnants of humanity drifted in from where civilization gave up. Scavvers. Chem-heads. Blood-wet raiders. They came like cockroaches: twitchy, hungry, crawling in when no one was looking—only these ones carried rifles and made corpses out of anyone slow enough to blink. One of these nasty li’l bugs with their creepy antennae and chittering mandibles went by the moniker of Black-Smoke.

That name alone made Vincent scoff. What was it with outlaws and trying so hard to be remembered?

“Whatchu huffin’ about?”

“Hm?” Vincent blinked. Wayne trudged beside him, boots grinding sand and rubble into the bones of an old road. “Just thinking about everything…”

“Toad-stranglers’ll do that to ya.”

Vincent squinted sidelong at him. That look—the one he reserved for every strange phrase the old man tossed into conversation like candy to a crowd. “What the hell is a toad-strangler?”

“Storm’s comin’ in,” Wayne nodded to the overcast sky above. Vincent followed his gaze. Cloudbanks stretched over the Mojave like a quilt of stone and smoke, veining with green electricity. A bad omen. He wondered if those clouds reached as far as Yucca Valley. “They make me think about things too. Things as gray as them clouds.”

They passed hollow concrete structures caved like punched teeth. Asphalt hid beneath centuries of windblown desert, split into jagged seams where weeds thrived. Somewhere far behind them, Vegas still shone with light and life. Out here, though, these parts only smelled of death and dust.

“I was thinking about my mother,” Vincent muttered, “Maybe send her something. Just to let her know I’m still alive.”

The cowboy’s hat nodded in Vincent’s peripherals. “That’s something every mother would appreciate.”

“Some of me doubts she would.” Vincent’s voice dropped. “Been nine years. She’s probably pissed. Rightfully so. Don’t think she’d be proud of who I became.”

The heavy hand patting Vincent’s shoulder startled him. He turned to Wayne, already finding the old man looking at him. “If she ain’t proud of you, I am.”

Vincent turned away. Pretended to scan the ruins. Pretended the knot in his throat wasn’t there.

“You oughta be proud of you too,” Wayne said. 

“I guess—”

“Ya guess?” Wayne guffawed. The two turned back to the road and continued on. “When you’re my age you’ll wish you were here again.” 

His mother often told him that in her own words, and he believed it. That was one of those reasons he ran away at sixteen. He knew he’d regret staying.

“This is the area Connor said Black-Smoke’s gang hides out.”

Vincent and Wayne stopped somewhere in the endless ruins of south Vegas. A long strip of road stretched to broken mountains fading to steely gray. Vacant buildings huddled together like desert-weathered corpses that died where they last hunkered down. Weeds sprawled the sidewalks. Faded facades peeled off rebar bones and concrete muscles.

“Tread lightly,” Wayne said. He shrugged the strap around his shoulder and aimed a  semi-automatic at the ready. “Stick to one side. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for traps. You cover me.”

Vincent followed suit, loading his rifle with an extra-long curved clip. “Got it.”

The hideout wasn’t hard to find. A short retail building, ugly with survivalist charm, squatted alone for miles. Boarded windows, sheet metal patchwork, graffiti in crude splashes that said stay out louder than any posted guard. Signs painted over with live, laugh, raid swayed in the wind. The whole scene reeked of scavenger desperation: barrels, broken mannequins, wheel-less shopping carts that squealed when the wind picked up. Clutter must’ve wandered from all over—that seemed to be a common behavior among the raider types. Hoarding shit.

They settled across the street, beneath the sagging eave of a collapsed roof. From their nest of rubble and rot, Vincent scoped the building. Recon wasn’t his favorite—too slow, too quiet. That had always been Lawrence’s strength. Now, it was just another part of the job.

“What are you thinkin’?” Wayne took to a corner where a convenient chunk of wall found a new use as his seat.

“Direct assault with a few securitrons House won’t miss. Rig charges on escape routes. If they run, another unit can clean up.”

Wayne hummed. “You don’t sound too convinced about that plan.”

“I want to take Black-Smoke alive. See what I can get out of him about whoever their boss is,” Vincent said. “Goes by Fontaine…”

“Then maybe you ought to pay Richard a visit. See if he wants to help.”

“Hah! You just wanna blow shit up.”

“Now I ain’t said nothin’ about that,” Wayne’s hands lifted as though he was innocent. “Just giving suggestions.”

Vincent chuckled, then quieted. A chill slipped through a shattered window, dragging rain with it. The first droplets struck his face cold. He looked back out into the gray. “Shit…”

Vegas was a work in progress, all right—only because House refused to send his machines past the Strip and Freeside’s commerce centers. Vincent took up the slack: tracking raider scum, feeding them lead, and letting the desert chew their bones. The only thing they left behind was another notch on his .45. Two-hundred-something years must’ve shriveled up the hermit’s conscience.

The rain thickened. Mud swallowed boot prints. Cold air puffed from their mouths like smoke. In all the years he’d lived in New Vegas, Vincent counted exactly three times it had rained. It was always in February. Sometimes for days on end. The desert was more hostile wet. Flash floods swept up shanty towns on the outskirts, taking entire homes and people with. Green lightning struck the mountains, the wastes, the tops of casino towers, startling not just the whole city but Geiger counters too. Thunder rolled in seconds later, hammering out the kinks in the desert forged by wildfires. 

“Y’know, you ain’t gotta address it from yourself.”

Vincent glanced at Wayne through the water streaming off the brim of his hat. “Address what?” 

“Sending your mom something,” Wayne clarified. “If you ain’t ready to open that door, send a hint instead. A subtle way to say hello that’ll make her think it’s you.”

“Something only me and her would know about.”

“You got it,” Wayne nodded. Beard and mustache twitched at the harsh wind. 

Vincent frowned, watching rain gather in the road’s broken veins. “What if she’s not around anymore?”

Wayne didn’t answer right away. His lips parted—

A bullet hissed between them. Wayne spun around. Muzzle fire blasted back at the source as the both of them ran for cover. Spark skidded on rusting chassis. Vincent peeked through the brittle armatures of a steering wheel. Down the street, heads popped up over their cover and fire returned on the two—more triggers than they expected. 

 “There’s got to be at least six—” Vincent ducked. Another shot came from the second floor of a wrecked shop. Vincent returned fire. The shriek that followed meant one down.

“We need better cover!” Wayne barked. Vincent peeked out—the boutique ahead looked promising. Shots echoed down the corridor. Where two raiders fell, more advanced to take their place. Amidst the flurry, one stood out. Confidently strutting in the middle of the road as his lackeys buzzed around him like flies on shit. Grease smeared his eyes, steel feathers poked out a dreadlocked mane, trophy bones clattered on string tied around shoulders and hips clothed in rags, and Vincent immediately knew who he was. Crooked teeth set in black gums smiled as he raised an automatic rifle.

“This isn’t a chance meeting,” Vincent said. “To our right.” 

Wayne looked past him. Mere feet from the curbside, a brick boutique offered safety.

“You get in there,” Wayne ordered, plucking a full magazine from his belt. “I’ll cover you.”

On the ready, both men jumped from the cover of a weathered car. Vincent dashed for the building. Once inside, Vincent took his position at the farthest of three display windows. Iron sights peered out from the frame for an opportune shot at a raider hunkered in an alley across the street. One more down. 

“Wayne get in here!”

The cowboy burst through the doorway, sliding across linoleum still slick from rain. “Up the stairs,” Wayne hollered, coming back to his feet.

Shouts chased after the two. Vincent grabbed a fresh mag, vaulted the stairs. Wayne backed up the steps. The first raider appeared. Muzzle fire flashed in the raider’s hands, from Wayne’s. The raider crumpled mid-stride. Wayne faltered one step away from the top. A hand pressed the wall as he slowed down, hunched over, and crashing in slow-motion to the corner.

“Wayne!” Vincent rushed to him. He caught the full weight of the old cowboy. His knees wobbled helping Wayne to the far wall and away from the stairs. He let Wayne down carefully. A cough rattled his chest, his hand pressed a gut wound that leaked red between fingers. “Securitron squad on the way,” Vincent’s voice trembled. Shouts and gunfire echoed from the streets.

Vincent pulled away and resumed shoving the desk across the stair’s doorway. Then a filing cabinet on top of that, and whatever else remained in the office was tossed on the pile. 

Wet coughs yanked Vincent back to Wayne. Weary eyes fought just to look at Vincent. The old man’s face was twisted in a grimace Vincent never seen before. “How bad is it?”

“You gotta…” Wayne wheezed. His armor was pierced. One round made it through.

Just one. But one was enough.

“...gotta get out.”

“I can fix this!” Vincent dropped his backpack and fumbled at the zippers. His hands shook. “I have—Julie gave me—”

The zipper was stuck. His fingers were too slick, too numb. He tore through the pocket searching for the injectors. Shallow breaths dried his throat. His stomach knotted. Limbs felt lighter than air. Black static choked his vision staring into the bag that had no stimpaks.

Voices clamored in the stairwell. The blockade groaned. Metal feet scraped across linoleum. It was only a matter of time before they broke through. Wayne’s silvery eyes drifted to the only window in the room. Vincent shook his head. “No…”

The old man raised a trembling hand and squeezed Vincent’s arm—just once, firm. Enough to draw his gaze. “You still have a lot of road left to walk,” Wayne said. “Mine ends here.”

“No,” Vincent wiped away the tears rolling down his cheeks. The filing cabinet rattled. “I’m not leaving you—”

“Go!” Wayne growled. His hand slipped from Vincent’s shoulder. His body sagged against the wall. Another blow slammed the barricade. Bullets pinged off metal.

Wayne’s breathing slowed.

Silvery eyes lost their light. 

“Wayne!”