Flung far down south, on a winding river and at the maw of Lake Mohave, sat the last Legion bastion in Nevada. Cottonwood Cove. On any given day, once or twice a month, a peculiar figure loomed on the edges of their camp. A gift in hand, staring down from his mountain perch onto the sprawl of red tents, campfires, and training regimes splattered across dirt and cracked asphalt. The first to notice their visitor were those soldiers taking a rest from duty and when they did, that new gift began its silent descent down. Down and rolling through sand and brush. Pebbles flung out every which way on the toll. Then it eventually came to a halt. The same gift every time. 

A severed head.

One they knew or one they didn’t. Perhaps a soldier of some other centurion. Friend or foe, however, it didn’t really matter. The bane of Legion remnants? That depended on who was asked. Oh, they’d speak of this stranger around their fires. Conjure up foggy ghost stories to assign the specter some purpose or meaning. But, not just the soldiers. The slaves too. Except, theirs weren’t ghost stories. Rather, ones of hope because sometimes when this mysterious stranger appeared, some of them disappeared along with him. Until those stories were quickly smacked out of the mouth should a soldier or decanus be listening. 

The real truth was, he was a young man. A young man that cackled maniacally—as one does when they are their own biggest fan—while  evading useless attempts to chase after him. Hurling up a hail of soil and rock, he sped off on a shiny black beast. Roars echoing behind him. Spitting black smoke and growling with every twist of the throttle. A thrill done for fun, purpose, and therapy, but mostly fun. So, the bane of these Legion remnants? Most likely. 



One hand claimed the back of his stool at the bar of the Baron’s Bull. The same one snagged every day at just about the same time. The stool right next to Wayne’s. The ritual meeting. One for breakfast. Sometimes for lunch after a good round of fiend-hunting in the north ruins. Or after a successful play at the blackjack tables not too far away from the bar. But always in the afternoon when the real desert life emerged in New Vegas.

“The hell is that?”

“What?”

“That on your face.”

Vincent patted his cheeks. A bit prickly, but mostly wispy. Nothing he’d whip out a razor for just yet, but then again, he also just liked to see and feel the hair finally come in. Wayne licked his thumb and reached for the boy. “You tryin’ to grow a mustache or just forget to wash?” 

“Wayne!” Vincent swatted him away, frowning and groaning as wiley young men do when their habits are called into question. The old man shook his head. Fighting back a smile, he ultimately gave up wiping the smudge from Vincent’s upper lip.

“Comin’ in here like you just rolled outta bed…”

“Well, I did .”

Wayne cocked his head. The look . The versatile look he always gave Vincent before a verbal confrontation. He slid off his stool. “Get up.”

“What?”

“Come on,” he waved for Vincent to follow. Huffing again got his engine running from a cold start. “Gonna teach you to shave.”

Above the Baron’s Bull sat five floors. The second was dedicated to a classier lounge hosting idle instruments and a classy cocktail lounge dormant during the day. The rooms were the floors above that. Identical hallways and doors. Intermittent pictures hung between them. Idealized scenes of an old world on a wild frontier against an off-white and cherry wood paneled backdrop. Those bucking stallions and sprawling flatlands followed into the old-man’s room. The first time Vincent had been inside. 

Warm vanilla greeted him at the door. Sweet tobacco with the hint of lingering cigar smoke. Drawn curtains washed the room and four walls in midday light. Beyond the glass a long view of Freeside and pale eastern mountains looked more like a painting than a real landscape. Neat, prim, and proper. Nothing like Vincent’s suite… Everything had a place—Vincent had a place for everything too, and that place was wherever it landed.

Little things pulled Vincent around the room. The life of a once-sherif, bounty-hunter, father, husband. Each one of the odd knick-knacks—a twisted horseshoe, the quilt collage splayed across the bed, and the decorative memento boxes—all told a story. His journey paused at a tall dresser. Scratched antique that stood up to his chin. Its top was garnished with the best preserved photograph in the collection. A silver bracelet hung off one corner, perhaps belonging to the beaming smile of a woman captured in black and white. On her knee, a chubby-cheeked boy, eyes crinkling around a smile that looked awfully a lot like Wayne’s. 

“That’s Ada and Billy.” 

Vincent jumped. Wayne appeared next to him. A mug in his hand as the other lathered up a foam. Softened eyes fixed on the photo they looked at every day and every night. “He was about three there.”

Vincent looked back to the picture, memorizing all its details. The characters in the old man’s tales were finally given a face. Now those stories didn’t feel much like stories anymore. Real people, only to be described in the past tense. Nothing new ever be told about them. Just their memories. Looping over and over in an aging mind that seemed to pause just a bit longer when recalling those cherished moments. Like a holotape rewound over and over again. The tension on the black tape wore it down over a lifetime until it was only the hollow absence. A void in the heart and mind. Inescapable. The ones you loved here. And then gone. 

Vincent clenched his jaw, biting back what little tears he had to shed anymore. Grief was known by many names. Lingering in the back of the mind. A faint echo everytime those feelings surfaced from the murk. For Vincent, it would always be Lawrence. 

“Alrighty!” Wayne announced. Vincent followed the husky voice to the bathroom. One buzzing yellow light over the humble sink and mirror. “You gonna slather that on,” he instructed, handing Vincent the mug. Wayne took the soft-bristled brush and with a steady, careful hand painted a white, lathery beard on Vincent’s cheeks. “Like so…” Covering all the wisps where they were and ought to be. Nose twitched at a tickle. Looking back in the mirror, Vincent chuckled at the sight. An approving nod joined his reflection. “Got ya a fresh razor—You gon’ keep that. It’s sharp. Don’t press too hard. Just lightly; you ain’t got much goin’ on yet.”

A prideful half-smile observed the young man. Wide strips cleared away the white. Then a curious hand patted smoothed skin. A new feeling. Smooth, but not peach fuzz smooth. Not yet prickly like he remembered Lawrence after a shave, but eventually it would be. Elation bubbled inside the young man. Bringing out his own smile for a moment the both thought themselves deprived of.



“What are you…” Wayne twisted around on his stool, peering at a typical evening in the Baron’s Bull. Roulette tables were popular with a spin on the house. Roaring claps marked a win. But that wasn’t what Vincent stared at. “Why you keep looking over your shoulder?”

“Don’t look!” Vincent hissed and Wayne turned back to the bar. “In the lounge area between the slots and the tables, there’s a guy. I’ve seen him around Freeside, in here, wandering out there.”

“Lotsa people wandering outside,” Wayne chuckled. He stole a second skewer of barbecued iguana from the shared plate. 

“I had a friend who was a ranger and real good at picking out Legion-types in a crowd.” Vincent’s brows narrowed. Shifty eyes honed on the reflection behind stocked bar shelves. The same man. Always wearing a variety of simple clothes, never standing out. Never playing the games. Never drinking. Only once did Vincent see the man talking to someone. 

Wayne hummed. He folded his arms on the bar, looking at Vincent with one peaked brow. “Think you got an admirer?”

“A couple weeks ago I had a run in with one. Ambushed me at McCormick’s warehouse,” Vincent explained. “I got lucky though. Had a securitron in there with me to move some heavy things I was snooping through. Anyway, he’s dead now and punted his head over the hills at Cottonwood Cove.” Wayne choked on his beer. Red-faced and struggling between laughing and coughing, he snatched up a napkin. “What?”

“I can see why they might send someone your way!”

“Well, they started it!” Vincent folded his arms and leaned into the backpad. “And long before I returned him to sender.”

“You gonna check him out?”

A cocky smile yanked the boy’s lips, and with that, Wayne already knew the answer.



Old hinges moaned when he opened the door. Floorboards creaked under foot and he stopped at the table. His only key jangled in an ashtray, glinting as it fell in the ceramic dish. Then he paused. Head turned to the only window in the studio apartment. His silhouette lit in gray. The whites of his eyes flickered, studying the distant lights of the city. Far, far from home. He sighed and for a moment, he was almost human. 

Lightning flashed. The zap surged. He grunted, seizing in the grip of the shock. Prongs retracted and the man fell. The switch flicked on. The overhead light buzzed and eyes blinked, desperately trying to focus on the blot in front of him. Black. Circular. The barrel of a gun. Pupils narrowed on the intruder as he raised his hands.

“I had a friend who was very good at picking legion spies out of a crowd.” Click . “Taught me a few things too.”

Their stare evened. 

“I’m going to give you an offer,” Vincent continued. “Give me information about Legion movements, remnants, plans. Everything .”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Are you missing the fact I have a gun pointed to your head?” A chuckle tugged his lips. Hawkish eyes honed on his hostage. Unblinking and borrowing into the devil’s soul. Cold steel butted a sweaty forehead.  “You really want to call my bluff? You need this more than I do. I enjoy killing your kind. And don’t think me letting you live is a mistake. You are being watched. Day and night. Every hour. Every minute. By the same steel legion that killed your own. How do you think I got here?”

His throat bobbed. Eyes flickered over the young man. Underestimated. Caesar thought him a child. Easily manipulated. Ripe for grooming. A secret weapon to be discarded once dulled. But Caesar was deathly wrong.  And now, it seems another man made the same mistake underestimating Vicentius . 

“Very well then.” Crows don’t pluck the eyes of other crows. That was an unspoken agreement among frumentarii. However, times were rapidly changing. “As a show of good faith, I’ll enlighten you with some pertinent information—You are being followed.”



Two. Two outlaws barely worth a damn they didn’t even have their own posters slapped on the walls of Freeside’s strip. Squatting in ruined suburbs of a decimated north Vegas as their kind often does. Living like roaches, scrambling for scraps from the even bigger asshole they worked for. He could take two roaches. And just in case they proved to be more menacing than they looked, well, Vincent always kept a securitron or two on stand-by. House wouldn’t mind one idle patrol wandering off-course. But two goons breaking out in a slap-fight over the last flask of whiskey? He’s had worse.

Vincent slid down the concrete wall. Dingy linoleum quieted his landing. Dodging rebar and splintering subfloors, he crept along the perimeter. Glass and rubble crunched under foot. Dust powered boots and pants. Kicked up by every step and leaving an earthy taste in the back of his throat. Flat to the walls. Lower than the gaping holes in drywall. He stopped when the strip of daylight warmed his cheeks.

A grungy time-capsule. Particles rained down on ripped carpet and exposed floorboards. Looted and gutted a hundred times over, the bedroom no longer echoed its centuries-dead, rightful-owner. With his pistol in hand, Vincent crossed the room to a lonely window. He poked his head over the dusty sill and there before him, a generous view of the house next door. And his targets. Lounging under a moth-eaten blanket propped up by poles, pipes, and a lot of duct tape.

One goon got the last slap in. A haughty laugh marked his victory. And then the spoils; a sip of warm whiskey. The other, defeated, huffed to his lawn-chair—Just the right angle. Hands steadied. Sights set. Two problems, one bullet.

The force shoved them off their chairs. Thuds muffled by a dry lawn. Vincent jumped up from his squat. Pride tugged his lips as he made a bet with himself Lawrence couldn’t top that. But victory was never so easy. His proud smile faded. The curtain in the lawn-facing window caught his eye. Hole-ridden and frayed. Gently, it swayed to a stand still.

“ Shit .”

He retreated from the room. Backtracking through the hallway he stood in the shade of the front door. Holding his breath, Vincent peeked around the empty frame before dashing to his left. He turned the corner. Following the side-path would lead him to a gate then a tall plank fence. Through that, a back—Rough planks smashed his nose. Face buzzed like radio static. Vincent pressed a hand to tingling lips while his tongue checked all his teeth were still there.

“Got you now you li’l shit!”

Long arms coiled around Vincent’s waist. Lifted off the ground like nothing! Arm restrained. His legs kicked. Growls quieted under his pistol’s discharge. Still he refused to let Vincent free. “Quit it!” Captor hissed. Another blast wracked their ears. Curses faded to whoops and hoots. Ratty boots danced around bullets and cratered concrete. Blasting again. Again . Each one revving Vincent’s hope to land a shot in a foot or leg— Click .

Empty.

“Haha!” Malicious jeers mocked his turn of luck. Flailing and growling all the way, Vincent refused to go easy. Afternoon sun washed over him. Back in the front of the house, inching closer and closer to the hideout next door. Every thrash rattled his heart. Beating faster as screeches clawed up his throat. The grunts and curses in his ears turned to labored breaths. Fingers pressed deeper in his arms. Nails dug exposed flesh. Slipping under a sweaty grip, Vincent seized his opportunity. He swung his head back. A lucky hit landed square against the man’s face. A nose for a nose.

Groan bellowed behind him. Vincent twisted out his grasp. Planted on his butt, breath knocked out of his lungs. The empty pistol bounced on a hard dirt carpet. Twisting around and fighting his daze, Vincent clawed up a fist of soil and flung it to the man.

“Ack!”

“Ha. Ha ,” Vincent wheezed.

“You’re gonna get it now!” The man growled. Eyes teared under rapid blinks. Face twisted with a devilish smile.

Finding the last of his energy, Vincent swung a leg. Red eyes flashed up. Too slow. The stranger grabbed him by the boot. A hard yank. Back on his ass—That was going to hurt tomorrow. A weak kick aimed for the man’s head. Dodged . He twisted Vincent around then lunged on him. The boy writhed and squirmed. Heavy weight pressed on his back. Lungs compressed. The stranger’s warnings and threats silenced under the boy's screams. It wasn’t going to end here.

“Shut up!” A sweaty hand splayed over Vincent’s face. Fingers pressed his cheeks, struggling to cover his mouth. Legs kicked under the burden. Sand and rocks flung every which way. Dirt and salt invaded his mouth. “ Shut —” He howled. A howl a coyote would wince at. Blood-curdling, eyelash curling, balls ascending up the gut faster than the speed of light.

Cartilage crunched. Croaking. Crushing. Clamping down, his teeth pushed back in their sockets. But he couldn’t let up. Wouldn’t let go. Warmth gushed out. Iron liquid flooded his mouth. With a jerk, that weight sprung off his back. Vincent twisted around. His attacker fell to his knees. Clutching his hand as red spurted out between the creases of his fingers. Revitalized by a fresh rush of adrenaline. Vincent jumped to his feet.

“Fucking psycho!” The man screamed. Then his own thumb spat back at him. Wild eyes locked on the boy. Feet untangled. Dirt kicked up a flurry backing away from the monster bearing bloody teeth and a smile threatening he was going to do it again. Vincent plucked out the revolver. Sights followed the stranger as he stumbled towards the hideout. Beyond him, two men. Two more of his cronies in the distance... Rushing towards their colleague from the west road.

 God-damnit.

Vincent scrambled, searching for his missing pistol. He glanced over his shoulder—Still time. His lesser senses refused to give up so easily. Diving for cover, he snatched up the dusty glock from its dirt bath. Once in the shade and nestled between the hideout and the house,  he called in the securitrons. Turning to the pip-boy on his arm. A quick turn of a dial honed in on their signal. Not even a block over. They’d arrive in seconds. And he would win.

He peeked around the corner. Revolver barrel followed. The securitrons rolled along a shimmering mirage. Hot on their tail. Barreling down the east-west street. Right behind the unwitting gang.

“Go!”

“In the house!”

They shoved Thumbless along. One turned, unleashing rounds on the machines. Laser gatlings returned fire. Vincent jumped out of hiding. Eager to steal victory from the robots. The trio rushed for the picket fence. One jumped over. Thumbless and the other whizzed through the gate as the mailbox rattled. Then a brilliant spark blinded him.

Eyes burst in black and blue. Vincent ducked, blinking away the inky fuzz but adamant to see the show. Like a metal spider jumping to the kill. Long wiry legs flung out, slashing through three men. Whips sprung. Cracking bone and lashing flesh. Blood hurled in its wake. Chunks launched in every direction. The cloud of red vapor lingered where they stood. A pitiful finale gently doused the mangled mess of human.

 He stared at the scene. Frozen. Shocked. Uncertain if he had been licked by the devil’s razors as well. Slowly, he looked down on himself. Slathered in every color of a red rainbow—consistency varied. Not hurt. Just stunned. He shrieked. Half-disgusted and half-pissed knowing it would be a pain in the ass to clean this mess out of his clothes. Out of his hair, his skin. Everywhere. Vincent zipped past the securitrons. Trail of grumbling curses followed him into the house. A quick sweep of the place confirmed its new vacancy.

Returning to the machines outside, he barked orders for them to stay put before swiftly finding the bathroom. Testing the knobs, pipes rattled behind tiled walls. Water sputtered out of a crusty showerhead. At least that worked. He turned around to a mirror hanging over a sink countertop. Reflection warped where a long crack snaked by. Half of him debated just getting in clothes and all. Yet the strange feeling following him lately around the city urged him not to.  On errands or just merely sitting at the bar with Wayne, someone burned two holes in the back of his head. Reason urged him to shirk it off. Of course he would get looks in public. Of course some knew him. Others stared at the scar. But it was when the feeling followed him down desolate streets, turning corners as shadows skewed, that the sprouting hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He would turn around and nothing was ever there. And what Custos said…

Vincent wiggled out of the backpack and rummaged its contents—a lesson learned the hard way was to always carry an extra pair of clothes. He peeled off layers one by one, ignoring the swelling vulnerability. If the Legion spy was correct, well he had two heavily armed guards out front anyway. He glanced at the only light in the bathroom; a window captured blue skies and fluffy clouds. He refused to stay long anyway. A hand tested the water’s  temperature. Cold. Great… 

He wouldn’t have minded a cold shower a year ago. Even if it was a grimey one. Black mold crept along the plastic lining. Rust and calcium stains striped the metal fixtures. Not even a light in the room—

Vincent froze. Not by the chill of the water, but rather the goosebumps rushing across his arms. Eyes stared at the shadow. Faint. Diffused. Not there a moment ago. He whipped around, staring at the bright square suspended in aged white. Just out of sight in the frames peripherals. Certain something had moved—No, something absolutely passed that window. He held his breath. Bare feet glided over damp mosaics. Eyes stung and skin warmed. He slowly reached for the pistol, waiting for it to emerge again. 

One minute. Two. Three. Four…



At the doors of every casino, there was an invisible wall. A border where the heat of the desert fought the artificial climate controlled galmbing floors. He basked in relief crossing that threshold everytime. The second wave would come when he took a first sip of a tall blended cocktail. Wayne was already miles ahead of him, however. Half a glass of a stout glittered in droplets and a basket of barbecued iguana. Casual banter with the bartender paused once the old man heard a familiar grumble. 

“You look like hell!” Wayne slapped his knee.  “Boy, what you been into?”

 Vincent threw up his arms as he marched over. “You would not believe this bullshit!” He took his seat, deflated and loosening the frown on his face. “I went after a bounty—”

“Now what did I tell you about goin’ out there by yourself!”

Rolling eyes and groaning, Vincent hung his head back. “Long story short, I miss and shot a mailbox. Mailbox explodes!” He sprung forward. “Some kind of wire-shard thing busts out and just—Ugh! Anyway, I got plastered in blood and guts. I’ve spent the last two hours just cleaning up.”

“Guess you learned your lesson ‘bout goin’ alone, huh?” Wayne laughed. A giddy I-told-you-so-laugh Vincent always returned with a playful jeer. He patted the boys back as that second wave of relief slid across the bartop to Vincent. Slick and wet. Red and yellow swirled in the tall glass. Garnishing it, a cherry that hadn’t quite split down the middle and instead looked like a rosy butt that had been out in the sun too long. 

“I got some other business tonight,” Vincent said. His fist unfurled, discreetly revealing a folded note to the old man. Wayne turned proper to the bar, leaning a little towards Vincent and taking the note as covertly as it was shown. “At the warehouse on Owens going east. Something’s going on—I think we have unwanted guests.”

Wayne scanned the brief note and nodded. 



Unfurling a clammy palm, Vincent looked at the blue pill. Studied the number etched on its surface. Its round shape. Its humble size. Its purpose: his advantage once the lights went down. Bitter powder assaulted his tongue. He washed it down with a sip of water. And then, the hardest part. Waiting. The light flickered overhead. Two long orange bars in a rusty housing washed the warehouse in a dreamy glow. Odd shapes alluded to monsters found only under children’s beds in the shadows. Machinery. Scrap metal. Armatures of bikes and the bodies of wagons uncompleted. To his right, a maze of crates and junk put together hours before.

He always hated the waiting part.

Clothes clung to his skin. Beads dripped down the side of his head. Gritty. Grimy. Hands trembled. Legs quivered. In the dead of night his own heartbeat filled the silence between deep breaths. A droplet stung his eyes. He blinked until his sight refocused on the entrance. Next to the door, a stack of sheet metal under the main switch. And beneath that, an ax. One of many weapons stashed around the warehouse. couldn’t be too careful—a securitron stood by too, blank screened in a dark corner. And the door itself, purposefully left ajar. The black of night framed by tarnished steel. The buzz of a spotlight. And a shadow skewed across a concrete slab.

Showtime.

The overhead light died. Darkness swallowed the dreamy haze. Entering through a conveniently opened door, a lone figure walked into a nightmare. 

Vincent turned into the maze. Ears tuned to the stranger’s steps. Light. Calculated. Not any of McCormick’s guards—he told them to leave hours ago. Several feet remained between them as Vincent led the hunter through the loop. Eyes adjusted to the dark. Black turned to faded blue. Details clarified under the drug’s influence—the planks of the crates. His hidden weapons. The face of his pursuer. 

Conservative steps followed the boy’s shuffle. Head craned, turning to any noise. Lagging behind, Vincent paused for him. 

 “I know you’re in here,” Vincent said. 

Glowing pupils flickered, almost meeting Vincent’s eyes. A vicious grin pulled the hunter’s lips. “I see you,” he whispered, taking a brave step forward. “I know your secret. Pretender .”

Burning needles poked Vincent’s skin. His secret. Could he know? It didn’t matter. He was stuck in here with Vincent—Not the other way around. Vincent slid back. The hunter stepped forward. “You are a woman . Fake. Hiding.”

Vincent halted. A memory in true color flashed across his eyes. The moldy bathroom. Cold water. The sun on his skin as he held his breath. Waiting for the shadow beyond the borders of a window to emerge again. Violated! Seen at his most vulnerable. A vulnerability he wouldn’t even let Lawrence gaze upon and he trusted that man with his life .

Anger kindled an eager fire within. “Your first mistake was coming after me.” Now he could see that shadow and the man who cast it. A Legion spy. A hunter pursuing him like prey. Flesh and blood. 

“I will take you alive.” 

Vincent stepped back. Almost there. 

“Legate Augustus will make use of you. Nightly .”

Fire licked his fingertips. Breaths deepened and a little voice in the back of his head whispered to him from the shadows.

“What grand justice!”

 It always surfaced in moments like these. Alluring. Charming. Justifying the needs borne in the primitive and fearful depths of man’s mind.

“Turned into breeding stock.”

The urgent voice silenced, knowing it needed to say nothing more to seduce its host. 

“How does a weak creature such as you kill Vulpes Inculta?”

Vincent jumped over the wires and bolted to the door. He yanked out the ax as sheet metal toppled behind his flurry. Hands wrung its rough handle. Released then squeezed over and over again as he marched back to his victim. 

“I lured him here. Like I lured you.”

A torrent of sparks ignited. The hunter, surrounded in a hail of snap bangs. He blindly swatted at them as a free hand patted dusty concrete. Vincent’s own eyes stung staring at the frenzy. Unable to blink in his trance. Vision narrowed and time slowed. All his senses peaked as reason slipped away. He snapped to the glint. A pistol. Shiny and black clutched in a gloved hand, slowly raising to him. He swung the ax. His grunt silenced under shattering concrete. 

Vincent stepped over the hunter after the last spark popped. His scarred eye and pinpoint pupil fixated to the man beneath him. Completely powerless as he sought to make Vincent. Stripped of humanity, volition, autonomy. “But you made another mistake,” he heard his own voice. Unknown strength swung the ax over his shoulder with ease. A shocked face twisted, gawking up at glistening red webbed on steel. Afraid . As he should be—as all his kind should be. “Pissing me off.”

Ax dropped again. 

Agony silenced and Vincent’s trance, the seductive voice justifying every throw of the ax, ceased . He inhaled. Grainy black dissolved from his eyes. Although, he wished it hadn’t. Hand slapped over his mouth. All of him trembled with a lingering rush. Ax head bounced on concrete. Metal rang his ears like a death knell. Backing away, Vincent stared at the body. Shivering and twitching, red gushed from mangled stumps. Seeping into every crack in the floor as his head arched back. Hollow eyes followed Vincent—still alive. Barely alive. 

The young man’s steps paused.  Hands returned to his side. No longer trembling. His shocked expression softened by an epiphany. 

He turned away from the dying man. Out the door and disappearing like smoke in the neon lights. Burning every shade of red inside him. Each one darker than the next from the moment he left home up until now. One less Legionnaire. Assassin. Murderer. Rapist. Harasser. Problem . It wasn’t the first time anyway. What he did to Benny… An eye for an eye, after all. They deserved it. For what they did to him. For what they do to others. Of course they deserved it. Evil deserved evil . 

Watching the night pass by as if through another’s eyes, he landed in front of the Baron’s Bull. Cleaned up and presentable. Bike stowed at the Lucky 38 in favor of a sober ride home. Not a single speck of blood splatter on better clothes. Not a twisted grin he imagined he wore an hour ago. Staring through the crowds under the glow of a neon array. Hollow inside, Vincent pressed through the crowds and searched for an amicable look to emulate so Wayne wouldn’t think one thing amiss about him. If Lawrence could see the wreck he was these days, the ranger would find new reasons to leave. One hundred times over.