“Do you sincerely believe a bunch of look-a-likes singing Elvis a cappella on a corner of Freeside are really gonna oust you?” Vincent stared at the eyes painted on the monitor. Eternal and ageless. Scrutinous beneath one peaked brow. A faint smile, sometimes arrogant, sometimes prideful. “We both know what a battle with them will be like—one sided. Just you mowing them down in front of the whole of Freeside—the whole of Vegas watching. You really think that’s a good P.R. stunt?”
House sighed. Those eyes would roll if they were real. “This is not a debate. They have proven uncooperative—”
“Do you remember our little conversation when I first came up here, oh benevolent dictator?” Vincent paced back and forth in front of the array of screens. Each flickered with a new feed. Images of the strip. Glimpses of elsewhere never seen before on those monitors. Vincent stopped and stared at the center screen. “This is me giving you a reality check in the most polite way. You are making a huge mistake.”
“If you have a suggestion, say it.”
Must have struck a nerve, but at least Mr. House was willing to listen.
“A happy society is a calm society,” Vincent explained. Mindful of his tone and mannerisms, he recalled a concise speech rehearsed in the shower. “You want to absorb Freeside, go ahead, but you need to do so without making yourself look like a monster. You have lofty goals, and if you want to see them through, you need to be concerned with what you do and how it looks. Slaughtering the Kings in front of the people who look up to them, who kept them safe when you haven’t, is a disaster. You start looking like Caesar and people are gonna peace out to Reno or wherever else along with their money, their business, and everything else your plans are dependent on.”
Silence.
Rare and telling silence—Mr. House was thinking. Fans whirring, disks spinning, and consoles beeping kind of thinking. Those moments where Vincent felt the fire under his ass getting hotter the longer the ancient man didn’t say a thing.
“In the long-term, you are correct,” he reluctantly admitted. “The strip could lose customers. Frighten future prospects. I allowed you to negotiate with the Kings before and you successfully calmed tensions between the Kings and the NCR. I trust you can do it again and in my favor.”
“Murder is bad for business,” Vincent said. “People only want that as a last resort out here. Everyone’s tired of the violence, the death. I have no doubt we’ll come to a solution.”
“I await your progress.”
The portrait flashed off the screen. Pixels dissolved to black. Ellipses bounced in the void. Must be nice to never have to face the consequences of his actions. Just hide in his tower never to be faced with reality on the streets below. To never need or want for anything because he already had it all. Every square inch of the city, from the strip to the oldest borders, would inevitably be swallowed whole by Mr. House and his machine army. Freeside would be first. Whether they liked it or not.
—
Julie closed the file. Its edges were frayed to fuzz. Center creases weakened from its bloated contents, expanding and collapsing over the years just like the young man pacing by her desk. “The King will respect you more if you’re honest with him. You’ll have better luck convincing him that way.”
“Do you really think they’d even agree?”
She leaned back in her chair. One leg crossed over the other as hands clasped together atop her knee. “I don’t know.” A glance flickered to Vincent and he paused. “They value personal freedom. Doing what they like, not being told what to do, but they follow the King and they have some notion of morality and ethic in their conduct. You’ll have resistance, however if you can get the King to agree with what you’re proposing, then the rest will fall in line. You already have a few things in your favor; being one of our biggest donors, actively helping to stabilize Freeside, prior assistance with the Kings…”
Vincent sighed. Every last ounce of his confidence evaporated with his breath. He stole the empty chair at the desk across from Julie. Outside the tent, the usual chaos at the old fort seemed quiet the last few days. Now it was just a dry winter breeze rustling the canvas office. He wanted it to stay that way. Yet one omen loomed above his head. House’s securitrons would roll into Freeside, further securing the gateway into the strip and the city itself. An unwelcome presence in Freeside that would expand from there like a disease spreading through the body. Slowly consuming and devouring the city whole. Ignorant or unwilling to see the destruction left behind, he wasn’t certain yet.
“Julie,” Vincent grimaced. Fingers massaged the surge in his scar. “I’m way in over my head.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Brows knitted together above sympathetic eyes. The chair creaked as she leaned forward. “But think about what you have done. Things no one else here has even bothered to just try.” Vincent glanced up to her, flinching at her smile. A headache knocked on the back of his eyes. “I think you can do this too. Even if you fail, as terrible as that would be, it’s better than doing nothing.”
Déjà vu struck him. Lawrence sat across from him at the window-side table in a tiny room rented in the Queens. Wispy white curtains filtered neo lights to hazy pastels. Not enough to light the room, but Vincent saw him. The ranger; tired and frustrated after the long walk from Henderson. Still, he listened to Vincent beat those same words over his head. Something was always better than nothing. Now Vincent wore Lawrence’s defeated look. The feeling of a long, battered road under his feet. The unseen burden, the unseen consequences weighing down his shoulders and compromising with promises he made to himself in the face of reality.
“Sometimes, I want a way out.”
—
“I don’t like it!” The King declared, crossing arms as he leaned back in the same chair he sat in every day. Right by the stage. Rex lounging underneath, ears perked and twitched with every change of tone. Beyond the stage-side table, several other tables were occupied by his men. A few faces he knew and others he didn’t shared idle chatter over cold bottles of Nuka Cola.
“I’m gonna be real with you, King,” Vincent said. He spun an open chair around and sat at the table. “Real and honest, because I like what you guys do for Freeside. The best-case scenario is you’re run out of Freeside. Worst case scenario… Well, you already know what a war with House would look like.”
The King simmered. A strong frown tensed his jaw. Eyes drew low and darkened under square lenses. Vincent couldn’t blame him. Not with bad-blood between the people of Freeside and the man in the white tower. Each tribe in the basin was given an offer. The same offer that turned three of those tribes into the three families—the largest and wealthiest casinos on the strip. And those who didn’t either wound up in Freeside, Westside, all the other sides nobody wanted to actually live in—forcibly removed.
“I want to prevent that and this is what I proposed to Mr. House.” Vincent cleared his throat feeling a crack coming on in his voice. He glanced at the doorway where a row of vacant chairs were always lined up against the wall. He half expected Lawrence to be sitting there. Observing, listening, and quietly supporting the young man. Always ready to jump to Vincent’s side… Now it just plucked at his heart strings. “I foresee a future where the Kings are still keeping Freeside safe. Let’s be realistic, House don’t care about the little people—You and I do. The Kings are still free to keep on going as you are. And y’know, Julie is my liaison with the Followers. She lets me know what they need. I’m gonna need someone to be my go-to-guy for Freeside.”
The King’s frown loosened. He pulled off the bulky shades, finally looking to the pages he inconsiderately tossed aside when Vincent first gave them to him. “If I agree to this, you’ll really do all this stuff?”
“There’s a wealth of projects to be completed in Freeside. Places to live, really live. Clean water. Steady food supply. Electricity. Working plumbing! You’ve seen how the Mormon Fort has progressed?”
The King grumbled, plucking those pages off the edge of the table. A lip curled as he scratched overgrown sideburns. “I don’t like House’s tin cans wanderin’ around.”
“They won’t be everywhere in Freeside, I can promise that. So, you and your boys can fill the gaps there and still make caps, but it comes with responsibilities,” Vincent noted. “You understand this makes you guys the law here? House won’t touch anything that isn’t a direct threat to his businesses. But—” Vincent leaned forward, eyes gleaming with all the possibilities. “That also gives us a lot of leeway to really make Freeside a place for people to live, not just survive.”
The King set all his weight on the armrest groaning for mercy. He propper his head propped in his palm and eyes glossed over a long to-do list. “Alright. I’ll think it over.”
—
Vincent knocked back the shot. His face twisted and tongue burned. Scorching his throat, stripping away the honey-dipped cigarillo aftertaste lingering on his tongue. He tapped the glass on the bar. “Need another.”
Wayne stole a glance at the young man then the sweat beads trickling down his first beer of the day. The late afternoon routine seemed to start a few minutes earlier each day for Vincent. “Well?” He finally spoke.
“I hate every part of this,” Vincent shook his head when he looked at Wayne. Froth dampened the tips of his peppered mustache. Graying hair was meticulously smoothed out once more by the wood comb he kept in a breast pocket. Icy eyes, hooded and creased, considered Vincent’s troubled tone. “I can’t blame these people for being spooked by the securitrons. For being suspicious of House—I’m suspicious of House.” Fresh leather croaked as Vincent leaned back. Sighing, he rummaged through an inner pocket. A flame paused under the new cigarillo laying on pursed lips the whipped closed with a clink. A clink that always reminded him he really ought to stop. “I wish I could say this was the first time…” He shook his head. The heels of his palms pressed tired eyes. One hand dragged down cheeks and eyelids, passing over the wispy fuzz he neglected to shave that morning. Rough hands steepled over Wayne’s beer. A curious brow peaked, wrinkling his forehead and curving around an investigative eye lying on Vincent. “First time I got a blatant warning about House from himself was…”
Dread chilled Vincent from the inside out. Eyes fixed on the mirror behind bar shelves and between bottles. Blank and vacant, staring past himself and down a narrow stairwell descending the ruined depths of a bunker lost to time. Reaching through the mirage, Wayne patted the young man’s back. “I destroyed them all,” Vincent whispered. “The entire bunker and I didn’t really think much beyond how to do it. I have no idea how many people lived in there, but I know there were children.”
“What?”
“The Brotherhood of Steel occupied a bunker in Hidden Valley. House ordered me to destroy them, and I did.” Wayne hummed. Turning back to the bar, he combed through his beard. Quiet. The disappointed kind of quiet that came with a somber expression which refused to look at the source of disappointment. “I’m afraid I’ll be ordered to do it again and this time it’s going to be the Kings.”
When Wayne finally looked at him, a fire burned in those old eyes. His stoic face cracked. Lips twitch. Head shook. A wagging finger accented his words, “Orders ain’t any excuse.”
City ambiance interrupted at the doors. Chatter turned to taunts. The chorus of tapping heels on pavement turned to full blown rabble. Vincent whipped his head over his shoulder. Beyond the Baron’s Bull, a mob gathered in the middle of Freeside. In the center of it all, Kings. Split down the middle by heated words. Securitrons wheeled over to bark orders and threats while Vincent jumped off the stool and rushed out.
“Stand down,” Vincent commanded the machines. Pressing through gathering bystanders, he plucked the revolver from his side.
“Do you have any idea how stupid this is, Pacer?”
“The King ain’t in his right mind if he’s cool with House takin’ over Freeside!”
Pacer. The King’s right-hand man. Now, he led a coup against his closest friend. Loyalists stood behind Rocky, armed with switchblades and pistols. In Pacer’s following were those too and also grenades—No, not just any kind of grenade. Vincent winced at the shock in his scar. Surging through skin, bone, and finally piercing his brain. Arguments pounded in his head, smacking his brain to the beat of clashing music and stomps. Behind him, the convincing and wise voice of an old cowboy urged curious bystanders away. Clammy palms clutched the revolver’s polished grip. His heart jumped up his throat. Thrashing, wracking his head as if the noise, the yelling, the violence, the stress wasn’t enough. He raised the pistol. The blast barreled through the corridor. Sparks plummeted from the new dead spot in the overhead screen. Chaos paused. Finally looking up, the Kings realized they were surrounded.
“I couldn’t help but notice you have an EMP in your hand, Pacer,” Vincent announced himself.
“I ain’t dealin’ with you—”
“No, you’ve been dealing with the Van Graffs,” Vincent corrected.
“You said you got them from them from the soldiers moving out!” A King shouted from Pacer’s side of the crowd.
“Pacer…” On the other side, Rocky shook his head.
Silence came over the mob. Pacer’s face flushed. Nostrils flared as breaths quickened. He spun around to face his supporters. “I did! That kid’s lying—”
“That is the most transparent and terrible lie I have ever heard,” Vincent spat. “The NCR wouldn’t even sell munitions, let alone give them away. Van Graffs are the only place to get those and all of you know that. A gaggle of you and a few EMPs grenades versus a thousand strong army of machines? Did you even think this through?” Vincent shoved the revolver back in its holster. He marched between opposing sides, his voice rising to match an erratic heart. “But what’s even worse, is you know people will die in the crossfire. Or is that price you’re willing to pay? Betray the people you’ve been protecting?”
Lines blurred. Harsh words and cold glares passed Pacer as several men changed sides. “Pacer, you gotta chill,” Rocky said, extending a careful hand to the man. “We can’t be fighting ourselves.” Pacer met his pleading gaze. “Come back to the base, man. You’re still one of us.”
Expressionless and silent, he handed the grenade over to Rocky. A quiet nod agreed. Rocky turned around, heading back to the Kings’ base down the street. However, Pacer remained. A warning flashed in his eyes. The subtle twitch of his lip, an unspoken dare for Vincent to draw. His fists clenched. A threat one of those fists would come swinging at Vincent? No, a bluff. Vincent loosely wrung the handle of the revolver in its holster and Pacer noticed. Their was nothing on that King’s own person compared to the firepower loading down the boy. Or the robots following him.
“I will make something very clear,” Vincent said. His voice lowered, reaching a new depth he seemed to discover each week after another injection. “You ever try something like that again, I will kill you. I don’t suffer traitors.”
“Pacer!” Rocky bellowed some ways away. Pacer took a step back. No hint of consideration pierced the stoic mask. No sense of remorse or guilt. He wouldn’t show it even if he had it in him though. That was the problem with the Kings. Their pride bordered on arrogance. A lot like House. Arrogance that would get a lot of innocent people murdered.
Wayne set a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Some men get caught up in their passion,” he said. Reluctant eyes wandered up to Wayne’s face. Wrinkles creased around a wise squint. Lines crept down shallow cheeks, hiding in his beard like the hints in his words. “They get blind to the consequences. Make compromises. Maybe become the thing they’re fighting against.”
“Something tells me you aren’t talking about Pacer.”
Wayne pinched the brim of his hat. A dip and nod marked his departure. Securitrons wheeled back to their corners and alleys. Out of sight once more, but not wholly out of mind. Vincent couldn’t help but noticed the way people looked at them. Fear. Uncertainty. Overwhelming firepower wrapped up in a compact and sturdy metal casing. As the adrenaline faded, the sinkhole looming in his chest opened up just a bit more. Wider and wider with every new complication. New tasks given to him by House. Problems in Freeside threatening to boil over— It would never end. He should have known that by now. Lawrence told him that a long time ago, after all.
—
“I didn’t tell you to do that! And we don’t make deals with Van Graffs!” The King flailed about on his throne. His slurred drawl bounced off every wall in the auditorium, returning to beat Pacer over the head for a second time. “You been seeing that Gloria chick again!”
“Only to get what we need!” Pacer belted back, deafening both to the theater doors flinging open. “We have a war—”
“You are starting a war!”
Both men jumped at the intruder. “This fuckin’ kid again,” Pacer grumbled. He took a step back to lean on the stage.
The King waved a dismissive hand without a gander to his latest visitor. “I haven’t made up my mind yet!”
“You need to decide quickly.”
The King twisted around in his throne. “Now, who the hell—”
A sharp glare followed Vincent across the room. Mustering up the last lingering vapor of confidence y that propelled him inside the building, Vincent stopped at the table; back straight, shoulders broad, and remember to breathe. “I gave you an offer. Then one of your own gathers up a mob, ready to fight a machine army on the busiest street in Freeside. Where people work. Live. Exist. You parade around preaching about personal freedom and crap, but what about theirs? Every one of those people he was willing to let die in your dick-swinging contest with House!”
Lips curled to a snarl. He slammed a hand on the tabletop then lunged forward. “Hold on! I didn’t tell no one—”
“Then you have no control over your own gang!” Vincent met him half-way over the table. “If you really believed in being a king, believe every person is born with the right to follow their own path, then you’d be protecting it for those who can’t. House is going to take Freeside whether you like it or not. Whether you are here or not. If you don’t see my offer as an opportunity, you are blind.”
Vincent pushed off the table, stealing a glance at Pacer who had been shockingly silent the whole time. No wise-ass remarks. Snotty looks. Not even an eyeroll. No, he was just content to not be in the King's spotlight. Vincent returned critical eyes to the King who was flattening out the creases of a flamboyant blue suit. The passionate man collected himself with a swipe of glossy hair. A quick pat assured those overgrown sideburns still in place.
“House is not your friend,” Vincent stated. “There will be a day when you will have to fight for your actual freedom.”
The King’s scowl wavered. Wrinkles and stern brows were smoothed out by a quiet revelation. Settling back in his chair, creaks whispered in the empty theater. Strange eyes glued to Vincent, facing the equally stoic poker face that evaluated him. The King flicked a hand, lazily pointing to the door as he sunk further down in his throne, “Pacer, get out.”
“What?” Pacer sprung up. “You gonna let him—”
“Out!”
Just about sunset, when the sun began its retreat, the real fun in Freeside came out. Sparkling lights danced on elegant canvases of architecture. But winter thinned the crowds. Blasting winds funneled between towers. Frigid and icy. An alien departure from the desert oasis he fell in love with months ago. On the edge of the wind, black clouds gathered eastbound, flashing and thundering in a hazy fog. With every burst, the pip-boy’s Geiger counter chirped. A lazy needle flung up, barely breaking a readable unit. Beautiful and chaotic like the nightlife of Freeside below.
Music drowned out the distant clashes. At the far end of the street, was a stage. The Atomic Wrangler’s latest attention grabber: glitter pasties and underwear that barely qualified as cloth scraps prancing on tall heels spinning fire in hand. Pickpockets waded through the mesmerized audience. Junkies and drunks lingered on the sidelines. Narrated caravan games unfolded in the alleys. Gunshots echoed in the dark beyond. The frontier where fortunes were won and lost in a single hand. A yank of a lever or pull of a trigger. The win. The loss. A moment he wished he could have shared with the ranger. Instead, it was a bottle of tequila. Surrounded by life, yet still alone on an rickety platform at the end of a rusted zipline.
Metal taps plucked him out of a memory. Vincent looked over his shoulder.
“So, this the VIP lounge?” A dry grunt conquered the last step. With a groan, Wayne leaned on the guard rails and peered down the long stretch of Freeside. “Where the winners go, huh?”
Vincent huffed. “I don’t feel like a winner lately.”
“Alright, then you managed to beat the house.” Wayne shrugged. “Laid down some rules at a crooked table. Came out on top to boot.”
“You have a bad habit of beating around the bush.”
“You can only play the hand you're dealt, son,” Wayne said, moseying to the opposite side. “And you did a better job than some former rounds, don’t you think?”
Vincent grumbled as he adjusted the armored jacket. Shoulders ached from the metal burden sewn between the leather. The strain in his neck crawled up and down his back, joining in with the budding headache at the base of his skull. “Y’know, I didn’t have to join the table.”
“But you did.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Vincent confessed. Part of him hoping and the other knowing Wayne saw through the fog of metaphor. “I just…”
“You were thinking about winning. Saw all them shiny caps and colorful chips,” Wayne clarified. Heavy steps thudded on hollow wood. Creaking, and crying to be replaced after several centuries passed. Clinks chimed against the metal rail when the old man found a better perch. “Like a lot of people when they sit down in a casino.”
“I didn’t think beyond the first round, I guess.” Vincent sighed. Shoulders slumped as he pushed up his sunglasses and stole a glance at the bottle in hand. A few sips deep into something he hated outside of a cocktail to mask the burn. “Sometimes, I just want to get up and leave.”
Fold. Stay. Call it quits while he was still ahead. With all the caps he could disappear. Never be bothered again. Go look for Lawrence. Maybe go home… Yet a tiny voice in the back of his head whispered to him. A synthetic voice that sounded eerily like Mr. House that had a warning for Vincent; this was not a position one merely quits.
“Get up and leave?” Wayne laughed. Vincent looked up to him, meeting a softer face than he imagined the old man had reserved for him. “I don’t think you’re seeing the big picture, boy. You ain’t just any player—You’re the dealer now. The house depends on you to win.”