Vincent hadn’t been the luckiest man in the Mojave. Shot in the head only a week ago and miraculously survived, now his pistol jammed as a deathclaw lurched ever closer. The same suit, but a different color. He fell back on parched soil wide-eyed. staring into the abysmal gaze of the monstrous beast descending on him. Time itself slowed to an agonizing halt. It relished playing with its prey; the slow steps cornering him, rumbling growls as those knives reached for him. It knew he could do nothing. Yet his legs still kicked back, whirling up a cloud of dust and soil as cries for help caught in his throat.

It lunged at him.

His ears rang. His body was paralyzed. Then a gentle breeze rustled his clothes. Timid eyes opened and ringing faded to a fuzzy tickle.

Murder lingered in hollow obsidian eyes. Fear loosened its grip on Vincent seeing the hole in the beast’s head. Round and glistening red. Scaly flesh torn away in a bullet’s wake. He looked at his pistol as brows twisted in confusion. He hadn’t fired… And that humble pistol couldn’t have left such a cavernous pit. No. It had to be a different gun. A big gun, somewhere, aimed at him. Shade washed over Vincent, and quickly awe replaced fear as he looked up at the ranger.

The stranger yanked off his sunglasses. His frigid gawk narrowed on Vincent, piercing like the deathclaw’s own stare. “Didn’t your ma ever tell you not to play with deathclaws?”

“She also told me not to talk to strangers,” Vincent muttered. Eyes locked with the ranger as Vincent scurried to his feet. Never had he seen one up closer before, only in fuzzy pictures in newspapers or the posters plastered around army facilities and recruiting centers—Those didn’t do this one justice.

He clutched a hefty sniper rifle. Shielded by a leather duster that lightened under the sun’s long stare. Edges frayed by wear and maybe a rough scuffle or two. Beneath that and dotted with bullet holes, the black old-world armor. Solid and bullet-proof. Matte sheen was nicked and scraped here and there. Dust laden and sun-bleached jeans tucked into his combat boots with two-lifetimes’ worth of the desert beneath their soles. A single sequoia strapped his leg. Another holster above that; standard issue pistol, but it was that face the young man lingered on.

“You might want to start headin’ back the way you came.”

“But I need to get to Primm…” Vincent voice faltered under the stranger’s scrutiny. Shoulder slumped, shrinking as he realized the height of the man.

“You want to get ripped apart by deathclaws?”

“Well, no, obviously—” 

“Why you headin’ to Primm anyway? Powder-gangers are in that area and from the looks of it, you hadn’t even grazed this deathclaw. How in the hell do you expect to ‘fend yourself from convicts, let alone a scorpion?”

Were all rangers so rude? Did he think he could get away with that just because he had a pleasant face and wore an experienced uniform? Well… Vincent peeped to the deathclaw beside them. Pooling maroon led a stain down sandy scales, steaming on sweltering asphalt. Frighteningly still as if it was waiting for the opportunity to pounce on him at any moment. He looked back to the ranger—Annoyingly correct.

“You don’t have to be mean about it.” Vincent crossed his arms and sighed. Eyes fixed on the road. Not somewhere he’d find his sense or courage as usual. Once again, he got himself into something bad. “I just wanted revenge on the guy who tried to kill me and—”

“Well, be thankful he didn’t kill you.”

“He was aiming to!” Nostrils flared and eyes widened at the memory—staring down a gun as his heart crawled up his throat. He shook his head and loosened his arms. Fists clenched when he returned his own heavy scowl on the stranger. “He shot me in the head and left me to die.”

“You must have some bad luck then.” He chuckled as if Vincent’s predicament was funny. The boy had been reluctant to tell anyone about it. So far, the only sympathetic soul he found was the doctor who put him back together.

“I’ll fend for myself,” Vincent declared. The smug sneer and a wave of a hand quietly told off the stranger. “I’ll figure it out.” He turned away and continued down the road. Cracked asphalt mirrored his dwindling hope as second guesses crept in. “I always do!” Vincent shouted, but neither believed those words. Once again, he got himself into trouble and barely made it out. Once again, unable to stand up for himself.

Maybe if he was a real man…

The ranger watched the boy; five-foot-nothing and a few cards short of a full deck, huffing and puffing all the way down the road—The wrong way. Oblivious to the heinous desert on either side of the asphalt. Hills crawling with deathclaws down the I-15. Highwaymen and bandits hidden in the old ruins and not to mention hostile tribals—Oh! Can’t forget the fact his destination was swarming with escaped convicts armed to the teeth with explosives. This kid wouldn’t last a second.

“I’ll take you to Primm.”

Vincent paused. The ranger’s holler lingering in his ears; a bit reluctant, a bit annoyed. He hesitated to turn around after such a dramatic display. Instead, the ranger’s heavy boots clapped against the road, closing the short distance between the two. “Just don’t get yourself killed on the way.”

 “I imagine you’re needed elsewhere…” Vincent had yet to shake his aggravated tone. Not something the ranger was solely responsible for bringing out of him, but his patience had been quite thin these past few days. “Being a ranger n’ all.”

“I’m not needed anywhere, yet.” He shrugged, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and joining a lumpy duffel bag. “Vacation of sorts.”

“Okay…” A half-nod acknowledged him. “Then what are you doing out here?”

“Like I said. ‘Cation of sorts. So, I’m explorin’.”

“Looks like we have something in common,” Vincent chirped. “I like exploring.”

“Let’s head to Primm. We’re wastin’ daylight.”

Vincent followed him closely, stealing the occasional glance at the man. He was the mysterious sort. The quiet type. Observant with a pair of pretty blues hidden beneath reflective aviators. Vincent only noticed them when they darted about, evaluating the lay of the land. His hair was as stark as midnight, a little shaggy. A black shadow coated a strong jawline, unshaven to match the choppy hair, but the thick tuft on his chin and sideburns was clearly an intentional choice. With a face like the ranger’s, he couldn’t help but imagine what was underneath that armor. Then the pangs of envy set in. It happened once in a while. Getting jealous of those who had what he wanted. What he was supposed to have.

“I’m Vincent, by the way.”

“Lawrence,” the ranger muttered through the cigarette hanging between his lips.

“I never met or seen a ranger before.”

Lawrence cocked his head and plucked out the cigarette. A cloud of smoke followed his words. “Now you can scratch that off your to-do list.”

The ranger must have had a soft side, like a cactus Vincent presumed. Most everyone did. At least from what he observed where he grew up and traveled beyond. Somebody always had something they hid. The women in the brothel he lived over were experts at extracting those things—along with money. He doubted he’d ever get to see it in this one though. The ranger would disappear in his own time, he was certain of that. Vincent found plenty of passing friends on the road. Kind souls willing to share a campfire. Scavengers who still had a heart and warned him of danger. Once he met a girl his age—that was a rocky start—jumpy and suspicious. But he couldn’t blame anyone for that, given they met out in the wilderness. Happened upon some old-world ruin and only shade for miles. Eventually they parted in the Boneyard where she reunited with her father. Much like what he left behind at home, he figured the vagrants of characters in his life were only there when needed most.

And now, he had a ranger.

“What do you mean the deputy is with the powder-gangers?”

Vincent flinched. “Well…” He muttered, dragging himself up on the last vacant stool at the bar. A cloudy mix of smoke and alcohol dried his throat. Eyes batted away vapors as he searched for the best way to break the news to Lawrence. “The sheriff was killed, and the deputy was abducted.”

Lawrence silenced his mutterings downing the rest of the shot. Glass clanked the weathered countertop. His weary expression told the bartender all he needed to know to refill the shot glass.

“I don’t suppose you have an idea?” Vincent’s sheepish smile and shrug attempted to coax something out of Lawrence. “What with all your ranger training and experience?”

Lawrence arched a brow at the big blue eyes staring back at him like a starving puppy begging for scraps. He sighed. “We’ll sneak over at night to get a jump on them. You can shoot, right?”

“Compared to you or just in general?”

Lawrence snatched the glass off the bar. Cheap whiskey burned on the spiral down. “Guess we’ll find out, huh?”

“Well, I’ve shot my fair share of some big geckos and scorpions.”

The ranger suppressed a chuckle. A humored smile crinkled his eyes and Vincent would think quite pleasant had he not felt the laugh more of a slight. He scowled, turning properly towards the bar but the smile lingering in his peripherals begged him for attention. “What?”

“Nothing.” Lawrence shook his head. “You’re just a funny kid—nothing bad.”

After 200 years and then some, the two casinos, Buffalo Bill’s and Whiskey Pete’s, still dominated the valley. Vincent passed through once before, being a trading nexus between Nevada and California. The gateway to New Vegas was just a faint echo of that paradise city. The flag of the California republic hung vapid and listless. No wind to give it purpose. Below that flag, its strength. Soldiers stood guard at their camp set up in the parking lot of Whiskey Pete’s. The ranger and soldiers exchanged salutes as they passed. Usually, Vincent would get some warning or lecture every time he neared a military outpost. Don’t go here, don’t go there, this area is off limits… Now he waltzed on through in the company of the ranger and stared across this empty stretch of the I-15 turned demilitarized zone. Powder-gangers surely stared back at them from their own fortified base of Buffalo Bill’s.

“Looks like the NCR has the better side of town,” Vincent pondered as he looked on from the overpass.

“Good eye,” Lawrence stated. “The powder-gangers will eventually give up, get desperate. Only got so much food and water there.” He added a shrug, “Maybe less if they get in the booze.”

“Oh, I was thinking that because old-world casinos and resorts—this one looks the prettiest here and still mostly put together. Probably more comfortable…” Vincent hushed himself before he could add something even more stupid to that. The silent ranger seemed to be more invested in finding the past of least resistance to their destination, however. “Um, is the NCR doing anything about the convicts?”

So many soldiers occupied the opposite half of the I-15, yet nothing aside from kicking cans, playing cards in their tents, patrolling the shade of the overpass was happening. Citizens disappeared sporadically. Some clung to hope their home wasn’t completely doomed. Those ones lingered on the porch and in a temporary shanty town set up in the safe haven of a concrete field.

“Doubt it. Got bigger problems elsewhere.”

“What happened anyway? I didn’t hear much beyond some convicts came through and decided to stay.”

“They were at the prison off the main highway and tasked with rebuilding the rail-lines from California to Nevada.” Lawrence shrugged off the rifle, then went for the pack underneath. “They were given dynamite to clear wreckage and, well…” He produced a pair of binoculars from the bag and set his gaze set on at the casino. “Here we are.”

An old rollercoaster looped around the casino. The rickety old thing creaked and groaned with the wind, giving Vincent chills thinking about riding the thing as it fell apart. The surrounding lot of Buffalo Bill’s lay dead quiet. Remnants of trading get-togethers strewn about the lot. Even the unfortunate souls lost when the convicts took over still lay where they died. Unrecognizable corpses gored by hungry crows and coyotes. No powder-gangers loitered outside, but that only frightened him to think about how many they didn’t see inside.

He followed dusty boot prints across the tile. Eyes adjusted to the dark but remained fixed on the ranger in front of him. Faint echoes of voices carried across the casino hall to the lobby. Lawrence paused at the cover of a front desk. He peered around, then continued to the hallway leading to the gambling floor. Lawrence stole a daring glimpse before quickly retracting to the cover of the wall. Gun stowed back in its holster. He reached inside his coat. A long, serrated hunting knife followed his grip as he waited and listened. Then Vincent heard it too. Steps. Alone and unsuspecting.

The ranger sprang up with quickness faster than lightning. Lawrence held the convict at knifepoint with a hand over his mouth. He pulled him into their ambush. “Take his gun,” Lawrence ordered. Vincent plucked a revolver from the hostler and a knife strap around his thigh with minor resistance. “You scream and I’ll slit your throat. There’s plenty of you here to gouge information out of.”

He huffed under Lawrence’s hand. Fear glistened in dark eyes straining to find his attacker’s face but found Vincent instead—One was clearly more intimidating than the other. “You want to make it out of here intact? Tell me where the deputy’s at.”

The captive nodded urgently, raising his hands in front of him as a promise not to fight. Lawrence loosened his grip for a second to switch to a chokehold. “They have him in the kitchen,” the convict sputtered. Lawrence returned his hand to cover the convict’s mouth. He pulled him away from the hallway and to the other side of the reception desk.

“Wait!”

Vincent grimaced at the gurgle behind the desk.

Lawrence emerged, exchanging the knife for his pistol. “Alright, to the kitchen.”

They pressed onward through the quiet hallways, finding the gambling floor empty. Not even the machines glowed with their inviting colors. Storefront facades lined the walls, empty of inventory and ransacked by squatters. A catwalk of wood, like the rollercoaster outside, twisted through the casino hall. A fake centerpiece of a tree adorned a circle of dead slots.

Tile turned to carpet, quieting their steps as they followed dusty signs to the dining hall. Lawrence peered around a corner into another short hallway. Possibly to their destination. He receded, back to scanning the room. Then he paused. A door. A service door adorned with a “staff-only” sign that surely didn’t apply to the current era. He raised his aim while his other hand opened the door. Mischievous hinges squeaked. Rusty screws moaned to be handled gently. Burned out lights hung from their sockets overhead. Glass shards glittered under flickering bulbs.

A few corners later, they found the kitchen. A spacious room of dark and vague shapes. At the far end stood a pair of double doors. Light crept past narrow slits, warning of the hordes of dangerous, unscrupulous folks ready to go for the kill. 

“Deputy?” Lawrence whispered, pausing at the suspected silhouette of a man.

“I ain’t done anything!” He hissed, bound hands flailed in defiance.

“Keep your voice down,” Lawrence ordered. “You got a light on you?” Eager to be useful, Vincent plucked out a pip-boy from his sack. The light assaulted every eye in the room with a blaring screen. “Ranger Lawrence Garrett, Second battalion, Cazador Company. We’re getting you out of here.”

“Well, I am mighty grateful,” the deputy winced, shielding his eyes from the light.

“Follow me.” Lawrence sliced through the bindings.

The ranger’s stealth was something to be feared with that hidden knife in his coat. Unfazed by everything that could have gone worse. Barely even a challenge for the ranger from the looks of it. Vincent wondered if he could ever get to that degree of confidence and bravery. A real man; strong, unwavering in the face of death.

In the safety of Whiskey Pete’s, admiring eyes followed that ranger. Warm lights flattered his dark mane. A blunt stare sized up the deputy, then flickered to the boy gawking at him. A curious brow peaked then he nodded to the deputy, reminding Vincent the reason they rescued the man. Vincent turned to the sheepish deputy. “I wanted to ask if you knew anything about some people who passed through here. Not powder-gangers.”

“I might…”

“Some Khans and a man in a black and white checkered suit. Did they come through here?”

“Yes, they did.” He wrung a bruised wrist. “I was, uh, gathering recon on some of the powder-gangers when those Khans arrived with the suit. Mentioned something about a delivery and then they’d be heading to Novac.”

“Novac?” Lawrence interjected. “That’s a day and a half from here, but we got another problem.” He turned to Vincent. Hands hung loosely on his belt. Chest broadened and distracting thoughts weaseled back in the boy’s head.

“What problems?”

“Any way to Novac from here has…” Those strong eyes faltered for a second. “Obstacles. I was just through Nipton a few days ago and the Legion attacked the town. No survivors, at least none I found. And straight down the I-15 has a li’l deathclaw problem at the moment, I think you remember that.”

“Welp!” The deputy planted one foot behind him to make his escape. “Thank you for your timely rescue, but I’ll be going now and let you discuss your logistics…” He slinked away to the gambling hall. The ranger’s scrutiny followed until he disappeared into the crowds.

“Deputy’s a coward,” Lawrence remarked. “Primm’s gonna have to deal with those powder-gangers for a while.”

“You didn’t have much of an issue getting us in and out.”

“Well, if I’m ever lookin’ for trouble I know where to find it,” Lawrence noted. “But what do you plan on doing? We can still get to Novac. It’s not going to be the easy way, and it’s gonna take us into the hills. It’s doable, just rough terrain.”

“You want to go with me?”

“I can ditch you here if you’d like,” Lawrence chuckled. “Just thought I’d let you know some pertinent information.”

“No, no. I’m not complaining, just a little surprised,” Vincent said. A smile softened his face. “I still want to track this guy down.”

“Alright,” Lawrence nodded towards the gambling hall entryway. “Come on.”

He splayed the map over the table, then set his beer on one corner of the tattered paper. Plenty of old marks already dotted the map. A few quick scribbles marked Legion territory, curiosities, and NCR facilities around the Mojave. Lawrence pointed to their present location. “We have a few ways to get to Novac from Primm.” He took a runty pencil and drew a straying line down an old service road, then drifted off into desert. A sharp line cut through the mountains, bypassing Nipton altogether. Finally, it ended off the highway in the town of Novac. “This way is the easiest, safest way. I’ve taken it before.”

Vincent looked over the map, eyeing all those marks traveling in northern Nevada. Then west back home in California. Down south, a few dotted bits of Arizona. “Novac is a day away?”

He shrugged. “Nipton is a four-hour hike, so without issues, yes we can reach it in a day.”

“Then we should go that way,” Vincent decided. He leaned back in his chair, a curious look hinting on his face. “But I’ve heard about some weird stuff in the hills and wilderness”

A curious brow arched. “Strange? Like strange, mutated things?” He retrieved his beer. The damp corner remained obediently stuck to the table. “I’m more concerned about Legion and highwaymen.”

“Well, I appreciate your help, Lawrence,” Vincent smiled. The ranger returned his attention to the map. A little shy from praise, perhaps? Surely someone of his talents got plenty. “I want to learn to make it on my own like you do.”

“You’ll learn a thing or two with me, but that also begs the question: What the hell you doing out here?” He laughed at a punchline unheard by the boy. “You were a courier?”

“I don’t think I’ll return to that,” Vincent confessed. “I had to leave home… I wanted to travel and see more of the world so I thought it’d be the best thing to do that and also make some caps.”

“Where you from?” The ranger reclined in the chair. A confident splay with that little smile still tugging on his lips. Thick lips, framed by dark stubble, and surely talented with a kiss as they liked to advertise.

“California. A tiny place in Yucca Valley.”

“Seen it on maps, but never been.”

“You’re not missing much.”

“Born and raised in the Boneyard. Been a while since I’ve been home.”

“I don’t know if I want to go back,” Vincent shrugged. He held back other words. The truth was, he wanted to go home, but he knew he wouldn’t be welcomed. Maybe when he was older. Maybe when he became a real man. Yet as much as he hoped and wished, he didn’t think that would happen. “I don’t have anyone or anything there.”

Vincent averted his gaze from the ranger. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so forthcoming with a man he barely knew. “I can understand that,” Lawrence said. “I don’t either. Not anymore.”

“Suppose that’s why you’re still here. On vacation?”

His own words used against him… The ranger found a rare smile budding. “You got me. Home’s where you make it.”