The first time Clyde McCormick felt the wrath of a particular young man gaining notoriety around New Vegas, he was sitting in the high rollers lounge of the Baron's Bull. It was about noon, daylight and heat staved off at the doors. He held a cold drink in one hand, a cigar in the other, but not a care in the world beyond the stakes of the poker game in front of him.

Until Clyde heard twin holsters and metal accouterments foretelling his funeral bell. Heavy boots thudded on carpeted floors. Floorboards whined under his march. Vincent didn't dodge anyone stomping through the gambling floor, no they'd just move out of his way with eyes like those. One could say they were sharp, but that'd be an understatement. They were bullets. Two chilly, stinging bullets homing in on Clyde McCormick.

"Not only did you hire just two mercs to guard the warehouse dependent on our operation, you hired two chem-fueled idiots who can't tell the barrel from the butt of a gun!"

The dealer stopped slinging cards. Five hats of varying hides and colors turned up at the approaching bull. Every eye at the table glossed over his horns; one .45 revolver and one 9mm pistol. Then they turned properly back to the felt. No need to make a fuss when none of them were bullet proof. Hell, even the casino security stood at the lounge's doors, pretending not to notice anything beyond that phantom pain in their neck. Clyde ducked, but the tantrum didn't stop until Vincent was right behind him.

"Are you stupid or incompetent?" The boy flicked Clyde's hat off his head. The stiff white hide spun floating down to green felt. "Did you think I wouldn't have a thought about it?" Temptation curled Vicnent's grip around the curves of his guns. He held back—shooting CLyde then and there, but what he didn't hold back on was taking a deep breath then pushing it out in a roar to spook a deathclaw. "You fucked up."

Vincent let that marinate in the old man. An odd sense of macho-euphoria sparked inside him at Clyde's flinch.

"Unclench your asshole. Fork out the caps for some real guards. I know you have it, because I gave it to you." Vincent leaned into the man, taking a mile where Clyde an unknowingly gave him an inch. "If you squandered it playing poker, you're gonna have an even bigger problem."

Now, Clyde didn't expect such a confrontation, especially not one so public. Vincent was a small thing. Narrow like a rail and too soft-spoken for a man. Tiny for those big barking irons on his hips. He'd never expected the kid to have a nasty temper. Wrongly mistaken for being the passive and naïve type caps were easily liberated from once Clyde sprinkled in a little flattery. Nope! Vincent wasn't the kind to push back from a judging first glance.

Until he did.

Clyde jumped up. Snatching his hat off the table and waddling after Vincent, he pleaded for his benefactor to 'wait just a moment' and 'talk about it'.

The second time he pissed of this particular young man, went something like this:

On the edge of paradise, lay several ranches. Sweeping flats of land snatched up for a price tag cheaper than dirt. Granted one had the means to hold on to it. Sat in their backyards, patches of green confined to neat squares made long rows of prickly pears, agave, maize, and beanstalks. Bold strokes of ochre and rust-colored rough peaks beyond those fields. Brash dips and arcs of the Calico Basin. Endless skies. Bright and blue for miles in every direction. Clear, except for one black cloud rolling in on sputtering thunder, roaring and growling, churning up dirt with a twist of the throttle.

The guard spat out a wad of tobacco. "Oh, great…" On the porch behind him, the maids paused their chores. The girls exchanged looks before moving on to tasks not within the vicinity of their incoming guest. "What do you think it is this time?" The guard looked to his counterpart. The other man shook his head, sighing and pushing off the porch banister.

A hazy cloud followed behind him. Not a raider. Not some vagabond or drifter looking for a handout. No, this was worse company. The motorbike stopped in the middle of the wide dirt road. Stinging glare curved to a seductive arch. Sputters choked. The metal posse behind him came to an abrupt halt. Two cameras between them, little black eyes that stared vacantly at antsy mercenaries. Screens refreshed the black and white cartoon face. The rider plucked off his helmet. Sunglasses slapped on. Not a word exchanged with the guards. Not even a glance beneath dark lenses. Only a chorus of metal rings and buckles stomped onward to the front door. Wood planks squealed for mercy under heavy boots. The door ripped open. A frightened gasp escaped an unsuspecting maid.

The head butler jumped in the foyer's arch. Clutching his chest as a tornado zoomed past him. "Sir, please! Mr. McCormick is working right now." Rushed taps followed the young man. One hand raised in vain as if it would really get the intruder's attention. "Mr. Vincent—"

Too late.

The glass knob nearly twisted off. The third door Vincent flung open with disregard that day. "Did you think I wouldn't find out?" Nostrils flared as his scowl wound tighter than ever before marching inside the antique room. "Or were you just ridin' on me getting killed?"

Idle conversation hushed. Clyde stared at him dumbfounded. Words lost in his gaping mouth; the shock Vincent still lived and sitting at the bulky cherry wood desk where he coordinated his betrayal. Across from him, his daughter. She spun around. Platinum hair and skirt flared, wearing the same look as her father albeit for a more honest reason.

"Hold on now—"

"I will seize everything you own!" A new voice scratched his throat and widened his lungs. Deeper than ever before. A powerful thing he didn't mind wielding since the ups and downs ceased. "Your money. Your ranch. The warehouse. Any enterprise, assets. Everything you have established in New Vegas!" Vincent stopped in front of the desk. Palms slapped on scattered paperwork. Slowly, he leaned to Clyde. Ominous black lenses closed in on the older man. Abyssal. Nothing beyond Clyde's own reflection and guilt staring back at him. "And there is nothing you can do about it."

"Daddy, what's going on?"

Clyde glanced at the girl. His weathered lips thinned and eyes flicked back to Vincent. Taking to a slow pace, Vincent rested hands on the thickest part of his holster belt. "I've had three Legion frumentarii ambush me within the past six months alone. The first one, I lucked out. Slaughtered him like cattle. Cut off his head and kicked it off the overlook of Cottonwood Cove." Vincent cocked his head. "Apparently, they didn't get the message. Second one I lure back to the warehouse and did the same. Now the third one, I wasn't expecting. Because I was expecting you to show up."

A heavy hand washed over Clyde's face. Sigh barely escaped between his fingers. Ashamed—only because he was caught. "What was I supposed to do?" He asked, leaning back in his chair. "We lost everything. Our land. Our home. My wife; her mother."

Beneath the cover of his sunglasses, he glanced at the young woman. Leather sleeves croaked when he crossed his arms. Stance solid and stiff as his judgment. Jeaney. Close in age. Her skin and hair, mixing like milk and honey as if she'd never seen the sun before. A pristine doll dressed in the latest strip fashion. Educated and charming—When she did speak. Confined to the house like a prized treasure sitting forever on a shelf. Now, he knew why.

"I had a chance to get my wife back. Put our family back together. They have Dorothea."

Jeaney gasped under a dainty hand. Heavy-lidded eyes bulged. Rheumy and glassy as she gawked at her father. "She's alive?"

"And you didn't think to tell me?" Vincent craned his neck and took a step forward. "Y'know the guy who actively hunts Legion soldiers, outlaws, wanted heads, humbled Caesar himself among other uninteresting things."

"They would kill her!" Clyde stammered. He shook his head, puffy hands gesturing wildly for Vincent to see reason. "I can't lose her all over again."

"How do you even know it's her?" Vincent rolled his eyes. "Legion ain't above lying and scheming to get what they want. Then leave you high dry. Hell, they'd take your daughter if you succeeded. Then guess what? More leverage over you!" He finally ripped off his sunglasses; the mildest of his nuclear options. Clyde flinched at the lightning strike on the other end of an accusatory finger. "You fucked up. Again."

"Wait—I can fix this!" Clyde jumped up from his throne, adjusting the stuffy suit and bowler tie. Silence stared back at him on the other side of the desk. Impatiently waiting. He swallowed, gathering the thoughts that scrambled under the young man's scrutiny. "He'll be back. I can make him come back."

"Go on."

"We'll arrange another ambush, but you'll have the know-how this time."

Vincent's glare loosened with a downward nod. His piercing stare lingered on the man. Sweat dotted Clyde's forehead. His own gaze flickering across Vincent, silently pleading without having to get down on hands and knees. Vincent wondered if the old man would.

"What about mom?" Jeaney interrupted. Uncharacteristically bold of the girl. Hollow eyes teared again, striking some heartstrings limpidly holding on inside of Vincent. Her voice faltered to a whisper. "She's still alive."

"Arrange a meeting with the contact," Vincent ordered. "If they really have your wife, I can get her back."

—

"Howdy." Wayne folded the newspaper and set it aside as Vincent took the stool next to him. A full and sweaty amber glass sat in front of him. "Heard from a leaky mouth 'bout someone raisin' sand over at McCormick's ranch the other day."

"Y'know, this guy…" Vincent sighed. "Pisses me off more often than not. Instead of telling me about a pertinent issue I would have helped him with, he chooses the stupid option."

"Well, son," Wayne turned to him. His voice took on that fatherly tone that needed to enlighten Vincent about something. "You haven't exactly been a bundle of sunshine lately."

Vincent grumbled in unison with his stomach. Sometimes the old cowboy was right. Sometimes. The usual bartender greeted the newest addition to the afternoon crowd at the sound of chiming caps. "I need a tequila sunrise—tall, heavy on the tequila. Ten of the barbecue iguana skewers and make the bell peppers and jalapenos crispy. A four-ounce sirloin, medium rare. Side of cornbread and slice of mutfruit pie. Now, is the mac' n' cheese from this century or that old-as-dirt boxed crap?"

"All made fresh in the kitchen from the noodles to aged brahmin cheese," the bartender enthused, already starting on the drink as one does when generously tipped beforehand.

"I'll get a bowl of that too. Wayne, you want anything?"

"Oh, that all for you?" Wayne stifled his chuckle as he looked at the bartender. "I'll have my usual plate, boss."

"On it." The bartender disappeared with the full list, leaving behind a tall glass of sunrise in his stead.

"I am ravenously hungry lately," Vincent noted before taking a first sip. A hum marked his approval. "Anyway, I'm going back to the ranch in a few days to snoop on a potential Legion group-or-whatever Clyde's in contact with."

"Son." Wayne turned to him. "There's a whole story in there you just left out."

"Apparently, Clyde is being blackmailed by this contact. They want me—no surprise, I'm a hot commodity lately. So, in McCormick's genius plan, he told me to meet him at the warehouse. He doesn't show. Instead, it's another assassin—because they didn't learn the first three times—all because Clyde's convinced they're holding his wife captive, which could be true, but I haven't got anything to back that up, thus the meeting."

Wayne stroked his beard. One brow arched as he nodded. "Sounds like you got a hair in the butter…"

"Yeah, a pubic hair," Vincent scoffed. "Mind coming if anything goes down?"

"You gon' share some of that pie?"

"Deal."

—

Two days later, strangers arrived at the McCormick ranch. Three men incognito arrived by way of Clyde's own taxi service. Two were armed and armored, following a sleek black suit. Plain faced. The kind that could blend in easily among the colorful crowds of New Vegas, but Wayne never forgot a face. The head butler ushered the group inside. A nervous glint in his eye avoided meeting the guests' gaze. Wayne slid inside after them.

The plain face broke away from his guards, led into a room across the entrance hallway and foyer by the butler. His guards remained in the foyer. Standing stiffly out of view of the windows. Rather than peruse McCormick's collections of paintings, treasures, or the elegant fixtures of the house, the two evaluated their opposition. Three of Clyde's mercenaries wandered the foyer. Two peeked down the hallway for the pretty young maids. The third, however, was not one of Clyde's own. An old man in a young man's profession who stood at the opposite end of the room, equally observant.

"I almost had him. Then the machines showed up. I need another opening."

"Custos." Clyde silenced a sigh before it escaped. "That's going to be difficult—"

"Need I remind you I have your wife in captivity?" Custos cocked his head. Straightening the black tie, he leaned back in his chair. His nasally voice grated Clyde's ears. "She's past her breeding prime. Barely makes a decent servant being so old. Losing value. Understand?"

Clyde frowned. "Vincent is already suspicious after that gaff. Came here threatening me, my daughter, everything. Spooked me more than anything you've done!" His face bloomed red. A demanding finger pressed the hardtop desk between them. "I want real proof she's alive."

"This relationship has been very inconvenient for me—"

"You need me!" Clyde slapped the sturdy desk. He let out a hearty laugh. "You can't get close to Vincent otherwise. He's already killed two of you and then some! Told me that when he stormin' in here."

Custos's lips thinned. Stoic like the high rollers at the poker tables. Clyde stared back, wearing his own poker face. Knowing with certainty he had the winning hand for this round. And the frumentarii: oblivious to the fact the dealer was in the room and the game was rigged.

Custos reached inside his blazer. Clyde swallowed. His hand retracted, then Custos leaned forward. Palm flattened on the desk. Slowly pulling away, he unveiled a ring. Clyde's jaw dropped. He snatched the ring off the desk. Dry lips murmured the inner etching. Thick fingers turned the gold ring, staring at it as if he held humanity's salvation.

"I can arrange a brief visit," Custos relented. Cheeks dimpled by a split-second frown.

Clyde jumped forward. Scowl wicked away at the creak of the chair. "When? Where—"

"I will decide the location." They were always quick to save face. Make it look like they were still in control. Everything in their grasp turned to sand, however. "You will be hearing from me tomorrow." Custos stood up. "Our meeting is over."

He showed himself out of the office, letting the door shut itself behind him. Clyde stood and shuffled over. Quietly opening the door, he peeked through a narrow crack. A minute later he looked to the hutch cabinet watching the room. "He left."

Hinges creaked open. One heavy boot planted itself on the floor first, then the rest of him came unfolding out. "Change of plans." Vincent stretched, catching muscles before they'd twist themselves in a knot. "We're going to make him bring her to us."

—

Three days later, four strangers arrived at the McCormick ranch.

The basement door squealed when Wayne opened it. He led Clyde, Custos and his guards, plus one captive down the wood slats. On the dusty cement floor and guarded by two of Clyde's mercenaries, one young man sat on his knees. Hands behind his back. Gagged while his nasty glare gawked at the descending entourage.

"How did you capture him?" Custos inquired, lacking sincerity in his tone.

"Told him we needed to talk business. Slipped that concoction in his coffee you suggested." Clyde avoided Vincent's stare. Custos, however, relished in it.

"How humbling." Custos's smile was unnatural, as if fish hooks pulled his lips. A Legionnaire's eyes never smiled. They were unblinking. Black. Hollow. Custos's goons stood stiff awaiting orders. Hawkishly watching their boss and oblivious to two more mercenaries hiding from the cover of casks and crates littering the basement. "We'll trade. Give him the woman."

Wayne secured Dorothea, leading her to the other end of the basement. Clyde quietly backed away from the center. Eyes darted to Custos, then to his guards as they advanced for Vincent. "Go on and take him."

Two clicks slapped Custos's smug grin off his face. He froze. His goons whipped out their own arms, spinning around to the source only to realize they were outnumbered. Clyde's mercenaries emerged from the cover of whiskey casks and storage crates, and among them, Wayne.

Vincent jumped up. Raising the revolver hidden behind his back to a guard's head, he plucked out the gag and threw it at Custos all while exaggerating a wink in Wayne's direction.

Muzzle fire flashed and shots echoed.

Custos's guards dropped dead. A shrill scream pierced every living ear in the basement. Clyde coddled the woman as she dropped to her feet in terror, or, maybe relief that her ordeal was over.

Vincent strolled through blood and brain matter. He stopped before Custos, locking eyes with the declawed legion spy and said, "This relationship has been very inconvenient for me."

Custos's eye twitched. His nostrils flared. He was seeing red by the time Vincent grinned. The look on his face was cemented in the young man's memory like winning the mega jackpot on the first spin. Stiff with disbelief, he didn't fuss when tied and dragged upstairs. Clyde followed soon after him, holding his blazer over Dorothea as they passed the unsightly mess on the floor. Mercenaries dispersed to their patrols, declaring the waddies would get to clean up the mess.

And finally, it was over for Dorothea.

Upstairs and washed in the warmth of the foyer, Dorothea sat terribly silent, alone for a moment while Clyde rushed to the second floor to fetch their daughter. Vincent twirled the twine on his wrist, looking at the black string beginning to fray and the shimmering blue star in the center of the cap. He glanced up at Dorothea before finding his feet made a decision for him.

"It's terrible what happened to you," he said.

Her head jerked up to him showing a face that barely looked anything like Clyde's pictures anymore. She relaxed, then inhaled. "It feels like a dream. Like it's not actually over yet…"

"I want to make sure it is," Vincent said. "I don't like that this is happening." Gaunt eyes flickered on him as he slowly descended on the cushion next to her. "When you're ready to, and if you want to, please tell me anything you remember about where they were keeping you and if they had anyone else."

"Yes." Dorothea adjusted Clyde's blazer at a chill. She nodded. Eyes blinked away a vision and she swallowed. "Yes, I will. And then I need to forget everything."

—

Vincent knocked on the door. One of many identical ones in the Queen's hallway on the second floor. Cherry wood, swirling with knots and long lines. Polished to perfection, but each design was different from the last. He shifted on aching soles. A nervous tingle rushed up his legs when heard steps on the other side.

The door opened and a breeze rustled Eve's waves. "Hi!"

"I have a surprise for you," Vincent exclaimed, but couldn't match her enthusiasm. He hefted up the crate hiding out of sight on the floor, still grinning widely because a few months ago, he couldn't accomplish such a task.

Pink lips pursed to a perfect "O". "Come on in! Jackie, Vincent is here."

Vincent followed her inside and set the crate on the kitchenette's table. He'd only been in their cramped suite once before for a nice homemade dinner he missed lately. That was before the last battle, though. Heels tapped around him and Vincent could already hear her smiling again. Eager little claps joined her squeal when Vincent lifted the lid.

Eve gasped. Dainty hands reached into the plush fabrics. Feeling their colors and threads with fingers and eyes.

"They're beautiful!" She pulled out a roll of a pastel floral print. Eyes sparkled, staring at the endless garden of pink roses and their gentle green vines. Her grin radiated warmth, but behind her Jackie seemed unfazed.

She leaned against the wall, dull and listless with dark circles dragged her eyes down. Jackie turned away with a disinterested hum. "I'm going outside for a smoke."

Eve maintained her smile, but Vincent caught the teary glint in her eyes. She set the roll on the table and perused the others. "I love them all, Vincent."

"I'm glad." Vincent flashed a weak smile as he glanced at Jackie's back. Once the front door clicked shut, he took a seat at the table. "She doesn't like me anymore."

Eve paused admiring the rolls and took a seat with him. "No, it's not that," Eve shook her head, reaching across the table to him. "She's struggling. Jackie lost a lot of friends in the war and then…" Her gaze unfocused as a light touch glided over the fabric roll. "It's suddenly over. They're gone. Just names waiting to be added to a memorial in planning. I imagine it's tough to reconcile with."

"Are you leaving?" Vincent asked, although he knew he wouldn't like the most likely answer. "Going back to California? The deadline is coming up…"

"I honestly don't know," she sighed. "I want to stay." Her smile emerged again. She looked at him, dreamy eyed and hopeful. "Start over, I suppose. I don't know if New Vegas is that place, but… Sometimes—" She caught a hiccup. Her eyes watered and lips quivered under a hand. "Sometimes I feel like Lawrence will knock on that door any day now."

A knife turned in Vincent's gut, tearing open old wounds that evidently never healed no matter how many times he thought he stitched them up. "I know how you feel…" He inched forward, hesitantly continuing, "in the last letter he sent me, he promised he would return, but it's been months."

Eve glanced at Vincent. Brows twitched, turning a sympathetic look on him. A warm hand met his and gently squeezed the way the ranger did. "Lawrence always kept—always keeps his word."