They dotted the wasteland, and in the city, too. Those functional ones were under tight guard by House's securitrons, but one of note in particular lay to the east, nestled between mountain ranges, where the towers relayed power from Hoover Dam to other distant stations and charged the entire valley with life-giving electricity. Except, when it didn't. Strang blackout swept through Freeside, Westside, and other sides too wherever they got power, but that wasn't what Mr. House was concerned about. It would only be a matter of time before the strip was affected and just like those dimming bulbs in the shantytowns, all House's precious caps would lose their luster.

Lawrence twiddled the cigarette between his lips. His idle tongue moved it up and down in irregular circles while he stared down on the relay station. Next to him, an impatient boy leaned on his shoulder. "What do you see?" He whispered to Lawrence for the umpteenth time.

"Nothin' new."

Vincent rolled on his back and knocked out another sigh. They'd been nested on the rock for far too long. Watching. Waiting. Baking in the sun… Reconnaissance was his least favorite part of being in the field. A passing tumbleweed held his attention better than the nothing below out in the middle of nowhere. So far, all they gathered was what both already knew; people did indeed occupy their area of interest. Chicken wire held up rusty decorative fixtures to the chain-link fence squaring off the relay station. Whoever they were, they were nomadic, living out of patched tarps and tents gathered around a central firepit shaded by a canopy with a big hole in the center for the smoke to escape.

"Probably tribals."

"Y'know, I hear a lot about supposed tribals, but I haven't seen them."

"They're out there," Lawrence added, voice trailing off along with his thoughts.

Vincent rolled back to Lawrence and propped himself up on an elbow. "House is suspicious the Brotherhood of Steel might be behind the outages."

"They ain't Brotherhood," Lawrence muttered. "Scavengers maybe… Look at all that junk."

Lawrence lent Vincent the binoculars. About twelve of them wandered around their camp. More were tucked away under the shade of the canopy, and all were scarcely clothed. Bare skin was painted with colorful pigments and what little clothes they did wear complemented those vibrant colors. The junk Lawrence was so fixated on since they arrived scattered the confines of the relay station. It was piled high in wagons and in corners and anywhere else it might have landed.

"I don't see any real weapons," Lawrence noted. He set the binoculars down to write in his notebook what he muttered to himself, "bows, clubs, probably got small knives, but no guns..."

Vincent picked up the binoculars for a gander at them. "Maybe this can wait a bit?" Lawrence's brow arched as his pencil paused. "Why don't we go check out Helios One? I think finding the guy is more important."

"I suppose…"

Lawrence's tone caught Vincent off guard. Rather exceptional coming from the man who pitched a dramatic fit after unmasking what remained of a Decanus in Nelson. "You don't seem too interested."

"I—" Lawrence sighed. His gaze remained on an incomplete thought in his notebook. "I haven't been thinkin' much on it since we were at Nelson. We've been busy."

Vincent propped his chin up with his hand, carefully scrutinizing the man's expression. Terribly solemn, as though forced because the alternative was whatever made Lawrence abruptly get up from breakfast in Henderson and retreat outside for a smoke to shoo off the real thing nagging him. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing. I mean it." Lawrence's elbows ached shaking off the hard ground from his joints. He turned on his back, shaking off the coating off dust from his black armor's belly. "I've been thinking about it for years now, but it's like chasing clouds."

Vincent reached for the ranger's hand and wound fingers through Lawrence's. "I know that feeling."

Lawrence's avoidant gaze trailed over to meet a smile that stabbed him with guilt. "I'll thinkin' on it though."

"I'm with you either way."

Drumbeats echoed off steep mountains. Even and precise intervals pounded in their chests the closer Lawrence and Vincent came to the gates. Hidden below the cadence, a hum was shared between steel bodies dancing on the peaks. Spindly arms of black chord descended in the substation and disappeared behind rough, sun-bleached canvas. Static charge made small hairs stand on end, and should one get too close to the fence perimeter they were creeping along, a warning shock pushed him back.

"What do you think they're doing?" Vincent murmured peeking through the tattered green canvas clinging to the corroded fence.

"I'm more curious about what they're on," a sneer tainted Lawrence's words watching the people on the other side dance around the firepit. Skirting burns and stumbling off into the sitting audience as gentle laughter followed the gaff. Colorful twirls dizzied the peeping strangers as the beat quickened and the circle lost more dancers to tangled feet. When the drums ceased, only one remained. "Just 'cause they don't look armed doesn't mean they ain't dangerous."

Lawrence went first to the gates, gently pushing it open with one hand as the other stayed on the ready for his 9nm.

"Visitors!"

The champion dancer spun around, taking the eyes of her audience with her to the gate. "But are they friend or foe?"

"We're friendly as long as you are," Lawrence announced.

She took a confident step forward, bringing two men with her, "and you do not come on behalf of the men to the east?"

"Men to the east?" Lawrence asked. "The legion?"

"No! We're here for—" Vincent interjected then clammed up when his spontaneity failed him. Anxious hands twiddled with so many eyes, and naked bodies before him. Exposed skin bore unique markings textured like a dry riverbed. Elegant spirals and thick swipes of chalky white were like soldier's patches on their arms. Junk clamored with their steps, held by wire and strings were amulets of sparkplugs and gears. Pitted metal bands wrapped around leather padding on joints and in wild manes held atop heads. "Curiosity!" Vincent finally bellowed out. "We were curious… about this place. And your people!"

Fascinated mutterings resonated among them. Vincent stepped back, shouldering the ranger to his side as he stared at the horde—or rather tried to avoid staring at those exposed bits. Intrigued hands reached for the visitors' clothes. Grabbing, prodding, and inspecting, feeling up Lawrence's duster then the hard armor beneath. Hands groped Vincent's shoulders before moving to jab the sturdy, new Kevlar vest and his anxiety boiled over. Blood rushed through limbs sending Vincent flailing about and demanding them to stop.

"Stop!" She bellowed and all hands let up. "Apologies, travelers! My family is eager to meet new friends."

Lawrence readjusted his belt and tugged the duster back into place. "Gimme a warning next time and I'll just strip down."

"As I was saying…" Vincent eyed a lingering hand. Quickly, it retreated under scrutiny. "What are you doing here?"

"We are the children of the Sky!" She raised her hands above her head and did a little jazz-hand shimmer, taking her weathered top up along the way. "We follow the open skies wherever called."

"Oh, jeez…" Vincent averted bashful eyes and looked to the ranger instead. Surely the two were the last bastion of modesty among these folks, but where Vincent strictly kept eye contact with the woman, Lawrence gazed into a completely set of eyes. "No—I mean, why are you here in the substation? Do you live here?"

A colorful halo of ribbons bounced on thick locks as she brushed them over her shoulder. Hollow animal bones sang like bass chimes when she clutched her long skirt patterned by oil-stains and a desert patina. The woman glided on air, parting her inquisitive congregation on the way. Whispers sparked among her people, daring to ignite the sudden tension in the air. Lawrence's hand fluidly moved to rest on his pistol. She stopped in front of her visitors and said, "We are trapped."

"You're trapped?" Vincent squinted back at the gate they came through; nothing that could possibly contain a hoard of even the most inept of humans. He rubbed away the oncoming tension in neck. "That gate's wide open…"

Bronze irises focused on Vincent. "We have tried many times," she assured. "The people of Arvee Park see us coming down the road and join us at the crossroads, blocking our way as they beseech their gods to take us into their tribe, and, possibly, hold one of my family against his will."

"Arvee Park?" Lawrence echoed. "The people living by the lake?"

"Yes."

"We could talk to them," Vincent offered. "Maybe we can diffuse the situation and convince them to leave you alone?"

"Hail! Sky has sent us help! What are their names, great sky?"

"I'm Vincent. That's Lawrence—"

"Hail!" She roared again, exciting her flock of nomads once again. "The great helpers: I'm-Vincent and That's-Lawrence!"

Lawrence muttered to Vincent, "it's gonna be one of those days."

"Come new friends!"

Sky-Watcher was her name, but also the name of those that came before her as well and any after that would fall into her position. A spiritual leader and guide for her people across a dangerous wasteland—or at least that's what Vincent pieced together gathered under a breezy canopy. Circling the shallow fire pit, dressed in loose robes, she parsed brittle clumps of dried green fibers. A quick toss into the fire released its pungent aroma, overcoming the savory mesquite in dense white cotton balls that dried eyes at the first glance.

"Cactus-Cooler…" Sky-Watcher hummed. Her eyes drawn low to the firepit as though staring into memories found in the shape of licking flames. "He is curious about the people of Arvee Park," she said as two girls joined her side with bowls of brilliant pigments cradled in their arms. Adept swipes added new swirls to her olive skin where the former shapes had faded. "I would not deny him, but now I wish I had at least warned him to not let them change his true calling."

"So…" Vincent glanced at the woman as a hand fumbled through his satchel. Fingertips met the chipped frame he was searching for, and he peeked at his pip-boy's Geiger counter laying flat. "He went to Arvee Park to talk to them?"

"He did." Her crown came next. Feathers assorted by color and length pointed to a neat apex—the most fabulous among her people, she could spark envy even in the show-girls of New Vegas. "He didn't come back. That troubled me so, I sent Quiet-Feet to see what was happening, and she brought me back terrible news." Her attendants stood up, shaking the dirt from their knees once her crown was complete. They weren't real feathers. No, these were neon fuzzy things, dotted by glistening plastic stones thanks to a salvaged glue gun. "She claims to have witnessed Cactus-Cooler fall at their hands."

When the girls returned, they carried three bowls between them, each with bent straws and mini paper umbrellas: two for their guests and one for Sky-Watcher.

"Uh, thanks." Lawrence glanced at the liquid then at Vincent next to him. The boy was captivated by the orange reflection staring back at him. Lawrence continued in his stead, "was this the first time you've met the people in Arvee Park?"

"Yes," Sky-Watcher sighed. "This land has changed since we last visited."

"I never dealt with them either," Lawrence said before testing a sip of the concoction. Citrus fizz burst on his tongue and tastebuds promptly begged for more. "So, Quiet-Feet—She witnessed somethin' between Cactus-Cooler and…?"

"I do not mistrust Quiet-Feet, but for everything she sees, there is more she does not. I took her, Wise-Guy, Husking-Bee, and Gary—"

"Gary?"

"Yes," Sky-Watcher nodded. A peculiar squint darted between her guests; one slack-jawed boy staring in his bowl as if it whispered the secrets of the universe to him and a ranger that steadily swayed side to side to a silent tune. "Gary."

"Hi." A rather generic voice and amicable wave of a hand drew Lawrence's reddened eyes to the man sitting next to Sky-Watcher. "I'm Gary." The lean and starkly pale-skinned man adjusted his patchwork poncho and wide-brimmed hate dangling with peculiar trinkets.

"He is my wise man and I trust his judgments of others—"

"Wait, wait, wait." Lawrence raised his hand. Reddened eyes blinked rapidly. "Gary's your wise man, but not Wise-Guy?"

"No…" Sky-Watcher said, taking a brief moment to pick up where she left off at. "It was his idea to ask Arvee Park where Cactus-Cooler went. They denied he ever visited them. We spoke to George. He offered my people a place at their camp and said perhaps, one named The-Lord, would have insight to Cactus-Cooler's dis—"

"This is soda," Vincent announced. Glassy eyes squinted at Lawrence, Sky-Watcher, and back to the bowl that captivated him in a profound revelation in every burst and crack of the bubble.

"Yes, it is," Sky-Watcher confirmed with the patience of a saint. "Anyway, I asked where I could find this, one, The-Lord. George then told us The-Lord is all around us and we simply must…" Sky-Watcher pressed her index finger to her lip and leaned to Gary, whispering to him, "what was that word they used?"

"Pray."

"Yes, he said we must pray!" She shook her head. "But it did not work. Unlike the great sky, The-Lord works in mysterious ways. I do not understand why, but neither did George—I find they are odd people."

"Mind if I talk to Quiet-Feet?" Lawrence asked, still blinking away imaginary sand in his eyes.

Lawrence tugged Vincent along while the boy did his best just to remember how to walk. The ranger struggled too with a sudden haze in his head slowing time around him while his senses climbed as high as the canyon surrounding him. Cheers and laughs of children grated his ears before he saw them around the bend of junk piles. They played there, building huts of tires, and pretending to be like the hunters on the other side of camp armed with bows of pipes, hunting rusty tin cans with sticks and strings. When they saw the two strangers, play ceased to gape at the odd visitors. The older ones lingered between the little kids and the adults. In limbo like their odd age, older girls took on the beginnings of adult tasks like weaving wire baskets but weren't quite successful yet and seldom finished whatever they started in lieu of exploring creative rather than functional objects.

And the boys…

Lawrence stopped a couple feet beyond the group, leery eyed at three gathered around the substation's transformer switch. One clutched the handle, attempting to force it up as friends either scolded his weakness or cheered him on. When it snapped to position, sparks flew and sent stray hairs on end.

"What are you doing?"

They jumped at the ranger's demand, spinning around, wide-eyed and huddled together. Lawrence, towering over them, reached through the group, pushing the lever back into the on position with ease that shocked them more than the static in the air.

"Just pushing up the lever…"

"Look at what it does to our hair," one added and silly laughs and faces returned.

"Do you even know what that switch does?" Lawrence crossed his arms as they timidly shook their heads. "That thing could be gearing up to explode on you, or worse." He leaned to them, lowered to their level as hands slapped down on his knees, glare tightening, and voice deepening to a raspy growl, "interrupt my time off, forcing me to deal with some tribals on the verge of causing an economic and humanitarian disaster, because they want to play with the big switch!" The boys slinked away, pushed off by the ranger's red-eyed glare, and thankfully disappeared altogether. "Let's hope that solves that."

Lawrence marched back to Vincent, still where he left the boy, oblivious to the world around him. His vacant eyes stared at nothing while his mindless hands brushed his Kevlar vest, seemingly enamored by the feeling of the minuscule bumps of every seam, every deviation in texture of thick straps and firm bulletproof padding to the utility pockets stuffed with loaded clips, a hunting knife, and other goodies. The swishing viscerally disturbed Lawrence's ears though, grinding back and forth, every other stroke dared to yank up the man's stomach contents until Lawrence reached for Vincent's hands, begging through a whisper, "please. Stop."

Vincent hummed as hands came to a stop to instead grasp Lawrence's fingers for a different distraction. "What were we doing?"

Lawrence nodded to the group of girls gathered in a circle centered around crafting supplies. Their smiles and laughs budded observing the guests. Dreamy gazes lingered on Lawrence while skilled hands continued to weave wire through hole punched metal. Gossip hushed as Lawrence and Vincent neared, only to be shared directly from lip to ear. Vincent nudged Lawrence forward when they came to a stop.

"What?" Lawrence looked over his shoulder to the boy hiding behind him.

"Well, go on."

Lawrence turned his back on their audience. "Why me?"

"I don't want to talk to teenage girls," Vincent murmured, a hint of repulsion in his voice as giggles bubbled up from the circle.

"I don't either," Lawrence whined. "I already dealt with thos boys—"

"You do it better!" Vincent declared. He peered around his brawny wall and retreated again once seen. "They scare me."

Lawrence sighed, giving Vincent one of those looks that warned the boy his tab was growing. He marched over with an air of confidence projected. He couldn't allow the slightest drop of blood for them to smell. Any notion of making it out unscathed was reconciled as one does dealing with teenaged humans.

"Make room," he grumbled, hands sweeping them aside without touching. "Which one of you is Quiet-Feet."

A mousy girl wrapped in colorful patches adorned with light gears for fringe chirped, "that's me!"

"I heard 'bout what happened to Cactus-Cooler," Lawrence said. "I'm lookin' into what happened to him, hopefully bringin' him back home."

Once intrigued eyes withdrew from the ranger and returned to their collective work. "I saw him down there with those people but didn't see much."

"What happened to him? See any fight or harsh words between him and them Arvee people?"

A hesitant hum followed his question. The other girls glanced at Quiet-Feet as work slowed. Her emerald eyes flickered up to Lawrence for a second. "I saw them carrying him to one of the buildings. It was a small one, not like the houses, but in between them."

"They were carrying him? Was he awake?"

Quiet-Feet shrugged. "I don't know. He seemed limp."

To the east of the relay station and set on an overlook at the shore of Boulder Beach, was once a campground along Lake Mead. What remained of a visitor's center became the hub of a small community of farmers content with their humble fields of petite cacti, mesquite trees, maize, and agave. Snaking through the revitalized skeletons of old-world bungalows were the homes of those farmers. It was a rather charming and picturesque scene with their identical facades and the scent of warm, homecooked meals carrying on the shoreside breeze.

"Huh," Lawrence grunted. His head tilted as he read the sign planted in the sagebrush. "Arvee Park…"

"Arvee…" Vincent echoed. The shape of the words lingered on his tongue and echoed like radio static in his mind. "Are. Vee. Arvy."

Suspicious squints followed the peculiar pair rolling into the settlement like tumbleweeds. The working men went about their business, tending their gardens while glancing over shoulders between whispers. Passing the porch of one house, hushed conversations and creaking floorboards drew the women's stares.

The community was quaint. Quiet. Maybe even ideal for some folks just like those paintings the Yucca Valley madame adorned the hotel with. Vincent stared into those framed scenes often in the late hours when restless and unable to sleep. The way the people always had their backs to the observer, standing in swaying wheat fields, and gazing on at the horizon left him with a hollow feeling. Sometimes he had waking nightmares about those paintings, discovering the insidious things the chipping varnish hid.

"Afternoon, strangers!" Among the group of chatting women, a slender man in a breezy white shirt and tall hat emerged from the house. He stepped down onto the dirt road, catching a fresh powdering of dust on worn out boots. "My name is George." Beneath that tall hat was a common face of an older man. The creases of his forehead glistened with sweat. His friendly grin plumped sullen cheeks and Vincent thought it the face he saw in one painting, smiling as all others around twisted in agony and tears.

George extended a hand to Lawrence and they shook. "I'm Lawrence." A subtle twitch of George's brow lowered his glance at the handshake that went for a few seconds too long. The ranger turned to Vincent, still keeping the handshake up to the farmer's dismay. "This is Vincent. Don't suppose you might be the one in charge around here?"

"My people look to me for guidance," he said, finally seizing the opportunity to reclaim his hand. "We live together and support each other."

George peeked at Vincent who had hand ready for pleasantries—at least until the boy spoke. "Never heard of Arvee Park or seen it on any maps."

The man's friendly demeanor disappeared, and his hand quickly found an excuse to pull the hat off his head. Vincent stole a double-take at the thing and swore it had grown an inch taller. "We settled here less than a year ago," the man stated. Another peek at the hat confirmed Vincent's suspicions. Was it in his head or did the man's shifty glean prefer to set on Lawrence, even if it was Vincent who spoke? Or was it the face in that hat's wrinkles whispering things to the farmer? Telling things about Vincent to George he didn't want anyone to know—

"Y'all don't look like you're from the NCR," Lawrence noted as his curious beard scratching resumed. Every kink and curl of those hairs brushed his knuckles before his hand flipped to grope them in bundles between fingertips.

"Oh, no we come from up north," George continued. Not one glance made it to Vincent, but he couldn't be sure because George shrank while the stove-pipe hat grew. "Our great home is Utah land, but we decided to migrate down south and spread the good word."

"The good word?" Vincent butted in. Arms folded tightly across his vest. His mildly offended glower found its way back to the unassuming farmer. "I don't hear anything."

"The word of the Lord showed us to a land in need of guidance!"

"Do you think the people in the power station need guidance or something?"

"They…" George's quick glance shot to dry soil, then to Lawrence. "They live as they see fit, but I recommend avoiding them for your own sake."

Lawrence tugged the short strands of chin hair as if he was hiding his true thoughts in there. Suddenly brows furrowed and fingers ceased their strokes. A cross look bunched his face as though a voice only he heard gave him a good scolding. "Why's that?"

"They are wild!" George urged. Crows' feet deepened around bland eyes, clinging to the sharp angle of bones beneath thin skin. "They concoct false stories of false gods, hold intoxicating communions, and partake in rather uncouth behavior. They will doom us all if they continue."

Lawrence's bloodshot eyes squinted at the man. "Go on…"

"Sinners and blasphemers such as those people are the reason the Lord has sent the demon-men from the south to these lands. To set us right."

Now Lawrence's brow arched. His hand slowly rose to his chin, needing to peruse his beard once more, but the ranger quickly snapped himself back into shape. He cleared his throat and planted idle hands on his belt. "Demon-men?"

"Yes, the men of Caesar."

"Ah," he muttered dryly. "Welp!" Lawrence clapped his hands, spooking his companion out of a battle of glares with a certain hat. "Sounds reasonable." He clutched Vincent's shoulders and turned him around. "We ought to get back out on the road."

"Come back again soon," George smiled. "All are welcome here if they listen to the good word."

"Will do!"

Lawrence stared down from the highway overlooking the community. Business as usual returned; gossiping women dispersed while George turned his back on the stranger and observed his kingdom. "Something weird is going on. Maybe not skinwalkers or desert lights weird, but not good either."

"Was it just me, or did he not even acknowledge me?"

"I noticed," Lawrence said. "That was odd, but after hearing all the religion bullshit and comin' down south from Utah..." He shook his head and shoulder hung in a shrug. "I don't know. Something seems off. Let's get back up on the hill so I can get a look at their layout."

The hike up the hillside gave them not only a better vantage point but generous shin-splints. Once at the apex, a breeze shooed away oncoming sweat under an afternoon sun. Lawrence studied the town's layout, but for what purpose Vincent couldn't conjure. He doubted plans of an assault or some kind of shakedown without a better reason than they're just weird. Unless Lawrence did it just-because; sneaking in drawing practice after Vincent encouraged him to keep at it, but maybe it was also a way to think. Avoid the current problem and occupy oneself with another thing sometimes brought about those solutions needed for the original issue—walking did Vincent better. The sounds of nature, the long stretch of road that led somewhere better or dirt slapping his soles like the percussion of old-world bands on the radio. It all lulled away those problems and cleared up his mind.

The ranger grumbled as he took to squat, pencil scribbling against his notebook along with bitter mumbles. Notes as it appeared to the eyes peeking over the man's shoulder. Rather harsh and quick, enough to leave an indent on the next blank page but nothing Vincent could read. Lawrence's scribbles paused.

"Ok! Sky people move into the power station; Arvee Park doesn't like them, tries to convert them/ Doesn't go well. One of the Sky people goes to Arvee Park and is maybe dead. They try to investigate. Arvee Park corrals them back into the station, won't allow them to leave, and of course they're fuckin' pacificists."

"Maybe there's another way out?" Vincent muttered. He dove into his satchel and plucked out two water canteens.

"Aside from climbing." He slapped the notebook shut. Vincent plucked Lawrence's empty canteen from the ranger's hand as he observed the man's studious expression. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, pausing at each ridge made by his crow's feet then curling down the convex of his cheek. Deep in thought, the ranger's face always stayed firmly stoic. His eyes glanced about—the only indication those gears in his head still turned. "They're armed, but would they really attack? There's not many of them on either side," Lawrence noted. "Fifty being generous..."

"Maybe they're bluffing?"

Lawrence snapped his fingers and pointed at Vincent. "That's the other thing botherin' me. What would really bring 'em down here? I've seen Utah. This is a hellhole compared to there."

"You've been to Utah?"

Joints cracked as Lawrence came to his feet. "Part of it, but what I'm getting at is there's more to the story than what he's telling us."

"Like why they left Utah for this 'hellhole'?"

"Yes."

"I like it here."

"Well, nobody's perfect," Lawrence muttered, setting out on the path down the mountain.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Vincent stomped after the ranger, his glare searing two holes in the back of Lawrence's head.

"Think I might have an idea who these people are."

"That's not what I asked."

"Bunch of religious nuts live in Utah, the same as these folks. Boring. Dull. Too fuckin' nice…" He slid down the rock face to a stone balcony, catching whirlwind of dirt and pebbles in his wake. For the hundredth time since he met the ranger, Vincent planted fists on his hip and calculated whether he should toss a pebble at the cocky man or just follow him.

In the later afternoon, the quiet community of Arvee Park looked more like a ghost town. Had eyes not peeked out from behind curtains their homes, Vincent would have been none the wiser. They were identical houses, decorated the same, painted the same and the people who inhabited those houses: the same looks and clothes.

Creaking planks halted. An old woman looked up from her knitting with suspicious eyes that tracked the two passing her porch. Nestled between her house and the next, sat a large shed. Painted sun bleached gray and shaped like the rest of the homes, nothing about it would stand out if that door wasn't hung ajar.

"Hey!" George hollered over the slamming door. Lawrence and Vincent glanced at the previously ajar door now closed. A foul stench drifted in the wake. "Welcome back!"

A forced smile crossed the ranger's face as he sauntered casually to the farmer. "Well, Vince here is curious about this 'good word' you mentioned."

"Yes!" Vincent declared, despite the uncertainty twanging his voice. "Tell us."

"Oh, well," a thoughtful look creased the older man's face. "We believe in a simple life, nothing fancy like what you might find in that sin city. Hard work is happy work."

"Ah…" Vincent forced his distasteful grimace into an insincere smile. "What do you grow?"

"Basic crops," George said, rather enthusiastically for something so mundane. "Corn, agave, and sometimes potatoes come out nice enough." He waved the two along to continue down the dirt road with him. "The men work to the fields and the women stay indoors rearing the children and tending the home." Thumbs pulled up the straps of his suspenders as he gazed on to the quiet fields that lacked their plows. "Tell me, what is it you two do? Are you married or family?"

"Uh…" Vincent looked to Lawrence for his queue, but the ranger laughed it off.

"Vince is an odd name for a girl—"

"I am not—"

George about-faced, meeting Vincent's sour glare. "Oh, apologies," he chuckled. "I meant no offense."

"No hard feelings!" Lawrence interjected, shoving a disarming hand between them, which Vincent was tempted to bite. "What brought you down south again? Nevada ain't the best place for makin' a life right now."

"No, it isn't," George agreed. "We left our old land in Utah after it became apparent only so many could stay. The land just couldn't support all of us. But this place needs us."

"I seen Utah. It's beautiful up north. Nothing like here."

"Oh, that it is," George nodded as a nostalgic smile deepened his laugh lines. "But we'll make the best of it here while finding others willing to join the light."

"Unlike those people at the station? They don't want to."

The tour paused at the end of their village and the beginning of a field of corn that wrapped around their homes along the main highway. George inhaled deeply, proudly observing their hard work. "I'm sure they'll see the light."

Déjà vu whipped Vincent, and he was back in the narrow hallway of the inn. Staring at the same picture for what felt like hours.

"What you see is what you get here," George declared. He then turned back to Vincent and Lawrence, auspicious smile, and all. "We're still a small community. We have a hall where we have weekly events. We also educate the children over there. Of course, a barn—we've just begun breeding cattle and beasts of burden."

"What's that shed?" Vincent asked as they passed it again.

"Cold storage. Tools and things here and there… Would you like a place to rest for the night?"

"No, no, we'll be heading back to sin city soon," Lawrence informed.

The farmer clapped hands together. "You're free to stay as long as you'd like."

Vincent poked Lawrence where his armor didn't protect him. A glance acknowledged the boy. "Thanks," Lawrence said. "Maybe we'll stay for a bit."

"I ought to return to my work, but let me know if you need anything," George noted with a tip of his hat before finally leaving them altogether.

"What?"

"He said they keep their farming equipment in there," Vincent nodded to the shed. "Then why do they hang them up on the side of the houses? Maybe they got more but…" Lawrence looked over his shoulder to the homes. Sure, enough the men retrieved their hoes, pitchforks, and shovels off hooks on the side of their homes. "When we passed by it earlier, the door slammed shut—did you catch a whiff of that smell?"

Lawrence's brow arched over the rim of his lenses. "Did you see inside?"

"No, it was too dark."

"That could be the building Quick-Feet mentioned," Lawrence muttered, stroking wiry chin hairs.

"I'm pretty sure her name was Quiet-Feet."

"Never mind they're names!" Lawrence groaned. "They're names are dumb. Weird. Ok? Too much hippy-dippy-hyphen crap."

"Coming from David-Ashley Wyatt-Garrett?"

Lawrence's lips thinned to a frown as he rolled his eyes. He held his tongue, recalling a phrase about picking one's battles… He set a hand on Vincent's shoulder, "We need to go about this carefully, so we don't raise suspicion."

"Do you really think these are the same people you found in Utah?"

"Obnoxiously nice? A tad self-righteous?" An on-the-fence hum followed a shrug. "Not the exact group I met, but extremely close."

"Maybe we can get the others to help us investigate?"

"Too risky. Plus, I strongly doubt any of them are sober," Lawrence said. "We'll come back after dark with a plan."

Tucked away on the service road, hidden among the brush and a twisted weathered tree, was their motorcycle. Clearly a great joy to the ranger by how much he tended to every little spot on the sleek body. He even stowed away special rags just for cleaning it. Fuzzy little things he'd get testy about if Vincent used them for anything but the bike. Vincent watched him wipe away another smudge—an insignificant speck of dirt only Lawrence would have noticed. Seemed more like a fool's errand to the boy given they lived in a desert.

Lawrence glanced at the boy, finding a stale look still souring Vincent's expression. "Are you mad at me?" he asked in an unusually timid voice that barely sounded like the ranger he knew.

"Why would I be mad at you?"

"I did dismiss the obvious offense—"

"It's whatever… But, ever notice how everyone talks to you and not me? I have to insert myself into the conversation to be hear or seen." He folded arms across his chest. Hands hid themselves in his pits for warmth, but it was the drawn brows that brought Lawrence to his feet. A light touch rested on the boy's knee.

Lawrence scratched the scruff of his chin. Now that Vincent mentioned it, he was right. George's discomfort only obvious in hindsight, but then there were the things he couldn't recall. "I'm sorry, I didn't…"

"I got other stuff on my mind—I'm not mad at you."

"Loosen your load."

Vincent gazed up to the sky. Dwindling light cast shadows across a clouded canvas he compared to cocktails served in the casinos. The scent of fragrant sagebrush conjured up a recent memory shared with the ranger over one too many mojitos, swirling around in crystal but biting and soothing as minty specks snuck in a sip. Cool and refreshing like the shade overtaking the warmth of the fading day. A pleasant change from a scathing sun, but his skin seemed to get used to it the more they were out. Burns healed into bronze tans confined to the borders of a sleeveless undershirt and its collar.

"The more I go along with House, the more I feel this burning question in the back of my mind."

Lawrence swung one leg over the bike and took a seat to face Vincent. "What is it?"

"Well..." Uncertain shoulders rose and hands fell out from their hiding spot. "What separates Caesar from House or either of them from the republic? What makes Caesar wrong and the NCR right?"

"You've mentioned that before." The ranger hung his head. He studied the small hands he scooped up into his own. Lawrence gave them a squeeze to warm him up chilly fingers. He always asked the hardest questions, the kinds that Lawrence just didn't have any straight answer to. "I figured Caesar always gone about things the wrong way. It's the same goal we have, same as the NCR too when you boil it down to its bare bones; make peace from a whole lot of chaos here and survive."

"Did I tell you he believes he's doing a good deed?" Vincent aske, recalling his tour of the camp and length discussion with the warlord himself. "He did bring peace to his land—according to the words of the traders I spoke to before I left. He solved the problem of raiders, outlaws, and infighting among his people so they didn't have to worry about being killed travelling."

"Yeah, he did. I won't deny that," Lawrence agreed. "I know how he did it too—destroyed everything those people had. Their names, their language, the way of living they thrived on. Then he beat submission into 'em. Truth is, Caesar only funneled that energy into a different conflict." Thumbs followed a repetitive trail across the back of Vincent's hands, savoring his smoother and younger texture against roughened fingertips. "In some ways, the NCR ain't any better with expanding borders, snatching up land even if people already been livin' there."

Lawrence tilted his head to find the boy's eyes that focused elsewhere. "I'm undecided on where I stand on House, but that's a whole other debate givin' me a headache just thinkin' about." He leaned to Vincent. Stroking thumbs paused. A careful breeze picked up the man's cologne and Vincent noted the fading stink of cigarettes that usually accompanied it. "Are you worried you're on the wrong side?"

"I'm worried about what it is that turns someone into a monster and how to avoid that."

"I couldn't tell you that either, but at least you can look at Caesar and know what not to do." A little smile attempted to ease the boy's anxiety when Vincent finally looked at him.

"Did you follow orders and later come to regret it?"

Lawrence's smile thinned. He severed his gaze from Vincent. "Bitter Springs." He hadn't spoken that name in so long it felt foreign. Taboo, even, with how it sent his hairs on end recalling the fear, the regret, and a realization he should have had a long time ago.

"I don't know anything about that—Isn't that a refugee camp?"

"It was four years ago. It was murder. We murdered people—I murdered people."

"What do you mean?"

"I was told like every other ranger, like first recon, and other soldiers it was a raider camp. Khans." He took a deep breath as eyes lowered to replay the scene in his head like he had done so for the past four years. "It wasn't. It was a Khan settlement and we—" Shame choked his words. Brows tightened as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Lawrence's heart quickened, spiraling out of control as his own brain assaulted him with the smell of the gun oil and blood, faces twisted in agony, the wailing screams hushed to whispers below the patters of 60 rounds a minute ripping roles in bodies and vaporizing flesh.

Lawrence cracked his knuckles, reveling in stretching his joints just a little too hard as if to turn that inner turmoil into something substantial. The physical pain he learned to deal with. Physical enemies he could conquer. It was the things he couldn't see, or touch he feared the most. "W-we were told to fire until we're out of ammo—It was regular people. Families, kids—"

Vincent cupped Lawrence's twisted face. "Don't torture yourself thinking about it."

"No. I should," he said. "Maybe that's what makes people like Caesar. They forget. They don't remember and don't hold on to those regrets to keep their humanity. Maybe it's because they don't feel any at all."

Vincent scooted closer to the ranger, closing his arms around broad shoulders and resting his head against Lawrence's chest. Even stronger arms closed what little space remained between them. Needy hands grasped the boy, clinging on for dear life as if the ranger was about to fall into the rushing Colorado. Forcibly hushed sobs fluttered in Vincent's embrace. The gentle hand drifting across Lawrence's back slowly smoothed out the wrinkles of his shirt, erasing one terrible image in his head for every crease. Soft breath caressed Lawrence's ear with assuring words. Despite the atrocity he confessed to the boy, Vincent's embrace remained strong, but would he stay if he knew all the others?

When spent eyes opened, the colorful mess of sunset had vanished completely, taken over by a murky sky that could have been a mirror to the ranger's head. Breaks in the clouds revealed the stars beyond, hanging alongside a timid moon. Shame still remained, just for different reasons now. Vincent's warm palm stayed on the angle of Lawrence's jaw while the compassionate eyes he avoided beamed so patiently on him.

"I can't say I know what you feel or the things you've done that you aren't proud of. I can say it doesn't change how I feel or think about you. I think you're a good man."

Those words almost threw Lawrence into another fit. He bit his tongue and squeezed his eyes shut before he lost control entirely.

"Maybe we should put this off for tonight?"

"N-no," Lawrence shook his head. "Let's figure this crap out and…" his voice trailed away as he got off the bike and gathered his duster and armor. Trembling hands refused to cooperate to bring the black armor's buckles together. Vincent's steadier hands took over and secured the black armor to its ranger, while Lawrence quickly pulled on his helmet. "Why don't you stay here."

"What? Why?"

Red lenses glowed under intermittent moonlight. The sharp silvery gleam highlighted the scuffs and dents of the helmet. "I need you to keep watch." He pulled the hidden radio receiver from under his duster. "I have another radio inside my helmet, so use this one and the binoculars to feed me info from high up."

Vincent reluctantly took the radio, knowing he'd just slow the ranger down anyway. At least perched in the hills he had a good look at the houses glowing by lantern lights and the dirt paths winding in between that lay empty, quiet, and free of prying eyes. Except for a solitary ranger blending in with the dark.

"Approaching the shed."

Vincent's lenses stopped on the structure as a shadow peaked out behind the corner of a house. He pressed a button on the radio, "I see you. You're clear."

Lawrence turned the corner. Deliberate steps crept alongside weathered walls until he swung around to the doors, finding a lock just as he expected. Looking quickly from side to side, he pulled a pouch from his pocket and pulled the string keeping it together. Long, narrow pockets held the delicate tools he seldom had to use; one small, flathead screwdriver, a couple bobby-pins, and dainty lockpicks he was afraid to break just looking at them wrong. It wasn't his most honed skill—brute force being what cam easier to a man of his size and stature, but after a couple minutes muttering under his breath and finagling a bobby pin in the corroded lock's tumblers, it clicked open.

The door squealed on rusted hinges. Lawrence slid inside, peeping back through his narrow entrance as he slowly shut the shed's doors behind him. Once engulfed in the darkness, he pressed a button on the side his helmet and the headlamp's beam lit up dust particles floating across his lenses. Hanging tools glinted through tarnish and wear. Haphazardly painted wood panel walls reflected the light in concentrated halos marking the woods pocks and flaws.

"Looks nor—" Lawrence's beam stopped on a hatch nestled in the far corner. "There's a hatch in here. Another lock too…"

Suspense held Vincent's breath hostage on the other end of the radio. He glanced from house to house, window to window, door to door as he waited what felt like too long for the ranger's static coated voice to say, "I'm going down the hatch."

Whispering creaks followed Lawrence down rickety stairs. Once feet found solid ground, he scanned the basement. Cold breath snuck in his duster's sleeves and down his collar to kiss the bare-skin gap where his helmet and armor didn't protect him. His shivering breath echoed back to him. Exposed fingers and joints hardened. The headlamp glossed over the nearest wall where a long table pushed up against concrete bore a mean glare back at him. Steps resounded off cold hard surfaces, and that was when the ranger noted the dreadful silence. No sound would escape these walls, and should he stand still, he heard his blood thrumming in his veins and his pumping heart slowly picking up pace as it does is unnatural silence—

"Oh fuck!"

His pulse scurried up his throat. Adrenaline rushed his limbs at the morbid sight. Hurried feet nearly tripped over themself without eyes looking where to go. Metal clapping metal sent a screaming cacophony through the room and to the radio as he stumbled over empty buckets.

The radio scratched his name. "Lawrence!"

Heavy breaths vied escape his mask as he stared at the serene face. A lonely corpse hung on a meat hook swayed gently in front of him. A young man, stripped of his clothes and dignity, yet clean and in pristine condition—except for the thin purple lines around his neck.

"Lawrence, you've been quiet." Another heart attack nearly seized the ranger.

"I've—" Lawrence pushed off the workbench and regained his senses, keeping his eyes locked on the corpse as if the pleasant face with high cheeks and a single blue ribbon binding long brunette cords behind his back was pretending to be asleep. "I found something—I need a moment."

"Are you ok?"

"Just spooked the hell out of myself, but yes."

Lawrence took a long breath to quell his nerves then reached for the unfortunate man. "Sorry," he whispered as a grimace crinkled his nose. Stiff lids resisted his thumb. Bronze irises looked back at Lawrence. He let the young man's eyelids down again and turned his headlamp to the wall behind the corpse. A shiver throttled his body.

—

Lawrence pulled the straps then plucked off the helmet. The ranger had been silent over the radio on his return trip with only the instructions for Vincent to meet him at the bike as his last words.

"What did you find?" Vincent asked, deciding that a few minutes of silence had been enough. Lawrence's thumb and index finger stretched across his face, pulling down weary eyelids. He sat on the bike with a drawn out huff. "Nothing?" Vincent murmured as shoulders fell along with his hopes.

"They have one corpse on a meat hook, a freezer of butchered meat and a barrel of bones which I can only imagine is what gave them all that meat—and while I am no doctor, I know a human skull when I see one and I saw more than I would have liked—zero being what I would have liked."

"Oh, jeez…" Vincent started an antsy pace around the bike. "They're cannibals?"

"That's what it's lookin' like—I don't know if I should call this in to Camp Golf or not…"

"Why shouldn't you?"

"They're gonna ask me what I'm doing here, why I'm trespassing, regardless of what I found." He shook his head as arms folded across chest. "Even then, NCR may or may not get involved—Not really our territory here."

"You said you were supposed to be the law—"

"Yeah, when it concerns things in our territory and with our people—" Lawrence buried his face in his palms, recalling what they had discussed before they parted ways to investigate the shed. "However we approach this, we need to be careful."

A short ride around the 564-highway loop landed them in Henderson when the night was still young enough for the town to harbor a rowdy crowd in the saloons, but nearly too late they almost didn't catch an open room. The door shut quietly behind Vincent, as not to disturb the freshly washed man knocked out on the bed, bare as the day he was born under the loose towel around his waist. He left Lawrence only moments ago to satisfy a craving for sarsaparilla but now a new craving took its place.

After a quick change into sleeping clothes, Vincent crawled into bed with Lawrence. A warm smile pressed his lips admiring the ranger's form. He traced a single finger across his collar bones, feeling the curves and dips of strong muscles. Lawrence's eyes fluttered. "I fell asleep," he said, checking the little modesty offered by his towel was still intact.

Vincent leaned forward, planting a kiss on his lips. One kiss always turned into two but tonight was one of those nights when Lawrence needed a third. He sunk lower into the bed, melting in Vincent's arms as insect noise outside seeped into the room. The boy's light touch parsing his hair coaxed tired eyes to close.

"Are you alright?"

Heavy lids fought to open as Lawrence muttered, "I'm alright."

"After we talked earlier," Vincent continued, parsing his thoughts as he did Lawrence's dark mane, "and other times before that… You seem ashamed to talk about that kind of stuff."

Lawrence's eyes turned to the ceiling. Termite eaten craters dotted the wood panels and supporting vaults. Far too many to count much like the things he was ashamed of. "I'm not used it," he realized. "Saying those things aloud."

"Did you talk to Marcus about it?" Vincent asked. "I imagined he'd understand it all, being a ranger…"

"No." Lawrence's quiet sigh exhaled on Vincent's hand. The boy's fingers slipped between Lawrence's, closing around his larger hand much the way they were spooning. "He didn't know how deal with that kind of stuff. I think he struggled with it too, but…"

"You can always talk to me about it," Vincent whispered, tightening his embrace around Lawrence. "No matter how difficult it is to say it, I'm here if you fall down."

Lawrence blinked away the strange feeling watering his eyes. Batting eyelashes once more did little to hold back a tear Lawrence couldn't explain. Nothing was supposed to make a ranger cry. Especially not words, whether critical or comforting. He was supposed to be a pillar of strength, self-assured by his competency, and impenetrable. Yet as the years went by, he counted new cracks in his titanium exterior that felt more like tin. And for some odd reason, Vincent still lay with him, caressing a man curled up like baby in his arms and feeling like one too.

"I love you."

For a second, Vincent thought the ranger was mumbling in his sleep then a finger freed itself to stroke the crook of Vincent's elbow. He smiled, and maybe even blushing, Vincent said, "I love you too."

—

The motorcycle's roars echoed through the mountains, announcing Lawrence and Vincent's arrival before scouts could see them. The novelty of the two outsiders had worn off, but the nomads still received them warmly. Sky-Watcher and the other leaders of her people gathered around the fire pit upon a nest of blankets, pillows, and pelts under cool shade. Long metal wires plucked from the surrounding fence skewered their foraging successes over the fire while others passed around familiar bowls, little umbrellas included. Lively conversations paused for quick pleasantries as the Vincent and Lawrence met the woman at the center of the tribe's life.

"I'm Vincent and That's-Lawrence return," she exclaimed with open arms.

Vincent knelt next to her, mindful of her long skirt fanned out like a blooming flower. "I think we should talk. Privately."

"Continue without me," she urged her people. They did that allowing her to discreetly lead Vincent and Lawrence to one of many limbs of pylons systematically lining the old station. Faint buzzing tickled ears far below the long cables surging overhead with their unseen load. They stretched across the station until the spindles met the towering metal giants that carried precious energy all the way to Vegas.

"Secrets are like weeds, but your faces speak more than words."

"I may have found one of your people," Lawrence said. He opened his notebook, blurring black and white blots on the pages he flipped through until he found the right one. "Is this Cactus-Cooler?"

Her lips parted. Bronze eyes flickered over the sketch Lawrence had made with diligent care over breakfast. Vincent had watched quietly while the ranger debated himself in mumbles, even neglecting a full plate of food in efforts to capture the face he saw. "Yes."

"I'm sorry."

Her voice broke to a whisper, "where is he?"

Lawrence glanced to Vincent, his frown deepening as Vincent let Lawrence continue. "The people in Arvee Park—"

"May I?" Sky-Watcher's hand sat on his wrist, glancing at the portrait again. "May I keep that?" Lawrence pulled the page out carefully and delicately as he learned from one too many rips in the pages before it.

"Who was he to you and your people?" Vincent inquired. "If you don't mind me asking."

"He is my son."

Vincent's confident gaze waned and wandered to Lawrence for guidance, but he found the ranger's eyes were already on him. Sky-Watcher, however, hadn't noticed. She was enamored with the paper death-mask. Tears rolled down her cheeks, darkening rich skin in narrow lines before dripping off her chin. "I have felt it. I hoped it wasn't true, but I felt him leave this world." She hung her head, taking deep breaths from the page until her tears dried. "Now I must let others feel it."

"We should talk to George," Vincent decided as he watched her return to the group gathered around the fire.

"After hearing that, I got a lot more than talkin' to do."

On the way out, Vincent stole a last glance at the group surrounding the firepit. Children, elders, and all those in between made up this family of people, except for one missing. A young man, a son, a brother, a friend, maybe a lover. In the lows of a valley far, far in the west, amidst a sea of Joshua trees, a different mother lost her child. While the great tragedy had been several years behind her, there was no doubt the missing child in question knew it had to have hurt. It wasn't a tragedy of death, but with several years gone, she may have thought that was the case now.

The sleeves wrapped around George's arms soaked up his sweat. Gray spots on a white shirt clung to him as he tilled the soil of an empty field scattered with three other men.

"Good morning to you," he managed to shout between heavy breaths.

Lawrence stopped at the fence. One boot rose to the lowest plank while elbows rested on the upper bar. "Mornin' George," he nodded, discretely surveying their numbers and arms. "Mind if we talk?"

George joined them at the fence, "I could use a drink of water." A few aches and pains slowed his gait on the way over as he fought to straighten the hunch in his back. "What can I do for you?"

"It's about the tribals in the station and what you have in your shed."

His friendly smile twisted to that of almost believable confusion. "The shed?"

"I've seen what's down there."

George laughed, "alright." He continued on his path to the well, leaving Lawrence and Vincent to exchange concerned glances. Lawrence's hand hovered next to his holstered 9mm.

"We ought to talk about it, don't you think?"

George pulled the well's rope, lowering it into the pit. He followed Lawrence walking around to the other side of the wood walls. "I'm unsure what there is to talk about, but I'm listen—What's all that?"

George looked beyond the ranger, but Lawrence didn't fall for it. Until, shouts and hollers funneled down the road. Vincent joined his side and both watched the colorful and lightly clothed folk came in full numbers down the hill. George ditched the well, hobbling as fast as he could back to the field and calling his men by name.

"This is not our way!" Sky-Watcher bellowed. She led a line with her people at the highways crossroads, seemingly holding back the rest who started the march.

"Ah shit," Lawrence hissed before breaking into a sprint towards the highway. This was a prelude to a scene he'd witnessed plenty of times in desperate lands and one that rarely ended without a few new holes in somebody.

"The sinners came out of the mountains!" Vincent turned to the voices behind him, finding the farmers had gathered their own mob. He quickly followed after Lawrence.

"They killed him!"

"You don't know that," Sky-Watchers shouted.

Voices trampled over each other. The once unarmed group of nomadic tribals now wielded cobbled together junk as their weapons. Hunting bows and arrows were drawn. Meanwhile the men of Arvee Park formed a line on the shoulder with rifles in hand.

"Nobody here is going to attack anyone!" Vincent yelled, but as usual, no one listened to a voice easily drowned below the commotion.

A strong hand seized Vincent's shoulder. Lawrence pulled him away from the mob then the ranger's hot breath exhaled in Vincent's ear

Vincent glanced at the 9mm coming out of its pocket. He did as the ranger ordered, getting behind him as Lawrence faced the farmers. The blast came seconds later. In the stunned silence that followed, Lawrence bellowed, "stop!"

He lowered his pistol, and thankfully the quiet remained. Arvee Park watched from their line, George signaling to lower their rifles as well. Sky-Watcher and her people closed ranks behind her. Spears and maces of bat and barbed wire were suddenly out of sight.

"Nobody is going to be killing anybody," Lawrence declared.

"We can't let them get away with murdering our brother."

"Murder?" Geroge raised his voice to be heard. "They think we murdered their kin?"

"We don't know if they murdered Cactus Cooler," Lawrence said. "Any of you move and scare the farmers with the guns, you will die before you can take a swing at them. Stay here."

"We will all stay," Sky-Watcher announced, looking to the faces next to her and behind her for agreement.

"I'll talk to them," Vincent said before Lawrence would turn around. Lawrence shot him a look. It stung Vincent, seeing what the ranger was thinking even if only a split second. He nodded, forgoing the words they seem to telepathically exchange. Vincent started for Arvee Park, keeping the same confident demeanor he figured might've convinced Lawrence he wouldn't be let down.

Vincent stopped a couple feet from the line of farmers watching him heightened curiosity. "We went into the shed. We saw the body in there."

"Well, of course theres… bodies," George replied. "We hunt what wildlife we can find."

"It was a human body."

"Are you accusing us of… of cannibalism?" George stammered. The men shouldering him, puffed their chest, yelling amongst themselves about the absurdity. "Of murdering their folk? To eat them?"

"How dare you!"

"Blasphemers! Heathens! The lot of you!"

Disgust deepened every wrinkle on the old man's face flushing red. Rifles began to raise their sights.

"Why is it there a body in your cold storage then?"

"There is no body!

"Lawrence was in there, he saw it—"

"If you don't believe me, go look!" George plucked off his hat and wiped the sweat off his brow. "We don't butcher people. I'll even let them all look if that's what it takes!"

"That's reasonable, as long as you keep your rifles pointed at the ground."

"And they keep their hands to themselves."

Vincent turned to Lawrence and the crowd behind him. He reiterated George's only demand, and the crowd started to move forward. The farmers broke their line, standing down for a momentary and delicate truce. One man, however, remained where he stood, clutching his rifle and drained of color.

"G-George."

"Brother Tomas? What is it?"

"I have a confession."

"My hunters and I…" Tomas's fingers twitched around the wood handguard. "We haven't found anything untouched by radiation. No more sheep, cattle, not even birds in this land! Our crops are weak. W-we can't trade—" His eyes lowered to the ground as glistening streams flowed down his brows and sunken cheeks. "You see why I had to—It was those who had passed first! But then there was no more… Then we had a visitor, and, and it was an accident—You understand why I had to?"

Goerge's face flushed bone white. His knees trembled.

"We would have starved to death!" Thomas looked to his peers, and the growing number of wives and children watching from the village. His face twisted like the hat in his hands finding only disgust. "I wanted to spare you all the truth."

"Are you insane?" George's voice thinned to a hoarse whisper. "Wh-wh-why would you do that?" He shuffled to the nearest man, "go to the shed."

"Goerge?" Thomas took a step forward. "I'm sorry. We need meat. We can't live off these crops alone!"

"How long?"

Thomas hesitated, "winter will be coming. We-we didn't even have any stores—"

"How long, Thomas," George yelled. He clutched a pain in his chest and hobbled forward.

"S-since late July…"

Gasps and murmurs reignited from the crowds. A woman came forward from farmer's side to George as he fell to his knees, burying his face in the privacy of his hands as cried. Lawrence coaxed Thomas's rifle from his petrified grip. Two men emerged from the shed seconds later, carrying the corpse. As quickly as they appeared, the farmers' wives came from their homes ready to give up linens to wrap the man in. The bit after that was an annoying ruckus of begging and wailing for forgiveness from the people of Arvee Park on their knees.

Vincent wondered if the strange sight itself was somehow disarming to Sky-Watcher's people or if she managed to talk down the ones hounding for revenge. Both seemed equally impossible for Vincent. The wailing and begging and praying was irritating enough and he suspected it artificial, but what he couldn't wrap his around was not seeking revenge. Then Sky-Watcher and George began to talk to each other.

Lawrence joined Vincent in the porch shade where he watched the peculiar scene unfold. He leaned on the beam, exhaling a heavy sigh before he quieted his lips with a cigarette.

"This was a weird day," Vincent said.

"Yep." The lighter clicked. Lawrence inhaled and his nerves finally steadied.

"Great helpers…" Sky-Watcher departed George, heading for the two on the porch. "I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for us."

"Didn't do much," Vincent muttered.

She shook her head. "You have given me my son back. Please, join us tonight. The least I can do is share our fire and food."

In the camp nestled in an ancient relay station, the rest of the day had been given to recalling memories of the departed. Stories, serious and silly, brought a gathering around the firepit until it was time.

Vincent stood away from the scene with Sky-Watcher. He observed as four tenderly unfolded the linens concealing the body. "How do you reconcile this?"

"My son's passing?"

"Yeah, and how it happened…"

"I will let the people of Arvee Park do with their man as they see fit. He is their problem to deal with."

"What if they just let him off the hook?"

"I rather spend my energy remembering my son."

Vincent didn't press the issue, even if he didn't understand it. He watched the four men hoist up the late Cactus-Cooler, carrying him to the tallest peak that made the valley they camped in, and leave his body there. He pondered that act itself along with Sky-Watcher's words, right up until a girl suddenly appeared in front him where he was seated by the fire.

"Food," she proclaimed, shoving bowl to him and Lawrence before scurrying off again.

Vincent looked at his plate, humming somewhat disappointedly. "I don't really like mushrooms."

"What?" Lawrence glanced at Vincent as he combed out a mushroom with his fork. Then another and one more.

"Food's food," Lawrence said through a full mouth. He raised his bowl to Vincent's and scraped off the fungus for himself. "W

Around the campfire, Sky-Watcher led a line of dancers twirling to the beat of drums and reclaimed guitars and other instruments that played songs recalled from the radio. The higher the moon rose, the fewer remained at the funeral party. Sky-Watcher and the closest of her people were the last to stay at the dwindling, playing card games and sharing moonshine.

"Don't suppose you want to head to Henderson?" Vincent asked, his eyelids growing heavy on the flames. Silence drew his attention to his side, where Lawrence ought to have been.

He shot up, spinning around as he searched the relay station and called for Lawrence

—

"Hey!" His smile gleamed on par with the fire that engulfed him. Amber eyes still twinkled despite the horrors they'd seen and after being gone so long, he was still beautifully tanned all but where his sunglasses shielded his eyes. "How you doing?"

Another bright day on the 15 gathered around them. Not a cloud in the sky. Not a peep of danger in the hills or the highway. Just the hot air that dried the back of his throat and warmed his lungs with every breath while the brilliant sun beat down, juicing the two like sponges. Marcus slung the rifle behind his back. He stretched out his arms, inviting Lawrence in like he always did when they reunited from a long divide. Where Lawrence hesitated to reach the man engulfed in flames, Marcus closed that gap between them. Once he felt those arms around him, the snug bear hugs he was known for by any who were blessed to experience them, Lawrence's heart settled. Nothing could end that moment, no matter how hot they already were, no matter how much he hated the way wet clothes clung to his skin or the sun burned his scalp.

Lawrence breathed in his cologne. The overpowering woody and spicy scent he hated at first had grown on him over the years. Smelling on it himself wasn't the same though.

"Still looking good," he chuckled, his voice echoing and his gestures stuttered like a busted terminal screen wearing a smile stuck in a photograph.

"You're gone."

"I was," Marcus said, yet Lawrence still felt his hair between his fingers. Enviously thick and wavy brown caught the gold light of the sun at its tips. Lawrence slid his hand down to feel a five o'clock shadow prickly against his palm. And the rhythm of the dead man's heart beating along with his own. A knot tied up his throat and his grip around Marcus tightened.

"You'll have to let me go eventually—We got work out there, ranger."

"No." Lawrence shook his head. Eyes shut against the relentless fire. Searing and blinding light that should have burned just as hot but it wasn't sweat that streamed down his face.

"I'll be back before you know it." Marcus's echo faded, lingering in Lawrence's ears like a gunshot that left him flinching. The embrace weakened, firelight had faded, and delirious eyes opened to catch the last glimpse of a ghost.

Frantic hands reached for the apparition. One last static image was burned in his eyes, replaced the other that haunted him for so long. He fell to his knees as a clear day on a desert highway disappeared along with a somber epiphany.

"Lawrence!" Enormous pupils stared at Vincent, seeing him, but not knowing him. "Are you alright?" Vincent raised a hand to the man's cheek. His expression was frozen, his stare despondent and empty as if there was nothing behind his eyes. Yet, he still breathed. Blood still colored his skin and his heart still beat. "Guess we're stay—"

Rabble clamored behind him. Louder than it was minutes ago—Too loud. Too anxious. Between the gaps in the gathering numbers, Vincent spotted red. A dreadful shade of red he had enough of when he visited the Fort. Fear struck him first, then the cold metal holstered at his side. He looked at Lawrence, completely gone and lost in his own world staring at a sky as empty as him.

Fear turned to dread at the first shot.

He yanked out his pistol, cocking it and rushing into the action. Frightened wails dispersed. Three Legion soldiers stood at the gate, and at their feet, their victims. Heading the trio was their commander wielding a shotgun. The other two soldiers were armed by spears and machete. Vincent halted some distance back. He raised his aim and focused down his sights

His clammy trigger finger twitched. He flinched at the blast and then the legionnaire dropped his shotgun, pressing his palm into the blood spurting out his neck. Amidst the scramble, arrows and spears exchanged. The machete hacked at tribals like swatting flies. Mothers rushed for their children while men corralled them away from the invaders. Vincent hissed a curse, unable to find a clear shot through the chaos, he rushed forward.

A lone man braved one attacker. His fists flew, coordinated by instinct alone. The legionnaire blocked, bringing the spear shaft across his chest the swiping it across the man's face. He stumbled, tripping over a fallen ally and landing on his back. The legionnaire pounced, plunging his stinger into the man's chest.

Vincent unleashed three rounds on the soldier once in range. The invader staggered back, a hand pressing the holes leaking out his gut. Still, the legionnaire continued his mission. Withdrawing the haft, he staggered back but found his balance. Vincent fired on him again. Another round to the gut halted everything but the legionnaire's labored breath. He struggled to stay on his feet. Trembling arms reached for his remaining spears tied to his back. Once close enough, Vincent sprinted forward and shoved the soldier into the fire pit.

The cock of the shotgun drew Vincent to the remaining attacker—on the unexpected end of the barrel.

Leave!" she roared. Tears and sweat carved crooked rivers in Sky-Watcher's mourning paint. The legionnaire's expression were hidden behind darkened goggles. The subtle twitch in his head evaluated the woman, gauging whether those wild eyes were bluffing, and just how fast could she react. He stepped slowly to the right. She mirrored him, moving slowly to the left, bellowing again, "leave!"

But Vincent knew better. He pulled the trigger, and as gracelessly as that nameless man was brought into this world, he left it.

"Sky-Watcher..." Vincent holstered his pistol as he approached her, studying her face on the way for fear of reprisal.

Her brows furrowed. Glassy eyes looked at Vincent. "What have we done?"

"There's probably more out there," he said. "Plea—"

"Have we done something to deserve this?"

"No!" Vincent declared. "They are Legion. They're just… Evil. Enemies to any who aren't one of them."

She blinked at him as though those words were meaningless. Turning around, she faced the devastation that had befallen her people once more. Three—no four. Then five. More numbered the longer she looked.

"You need to stay here. Gather everyone around, stay together while I take care of the rest."

"There could be an army out there!" A man called from the crowd.

"There is no army out there," Vincent corrected. His stern tone reminded him of something Lawrence would say, and Vincent looked over his shoulder for the ranger, lounging blissfully unaware of the world around him, but thankfully safe where Vincent had left him. "Legion are opportunists. I don't doubt this is just a roaming party of them," Vincent continued. "Stay here and keep that shotgun ready—I promise I'll do my best to make sure you won't have to use it."

Sky-Watcher nodded. She turned to her people, guiding them back to the firelight and organizing her archers to surround what remained of her tribe. "Stay by the fire light. No more will die tonight!"

"Bring Lawrence over," Vincent added, and two men splintered off for the dazed ranger while Vincent went for the motorcycle stowed by a mound of salvage. He pulled Lawrence's helmet from the compartment mounted to the back. His own glare stared back at him, turned red by its lenses. He pulled it on, secured the straps, and hoped he would somehow grow into the ranger's helmet before a Legion soldier found him first.

Vincent then checked his clip—No, a full one would be the tactical choice. Lawrence taught him better than that: don't underestimate how many enemies you have out there. He stole a spare from his vest and reminded himself of three more full ones in the pockets. Now came the hard part. Surviving. He had been good at that, but Vincent wouldn't have said so aloud for fear it would turn his luck. Luck he would desperately need without Lawrence's help. Tearing back the loose fence wire, Vincent stole a quick glance from side to side and squeezed out.

The night bloomed in a sleet gray palette. Black mountains turned charcoal. The sky glowed silver overhead. Every detail lost to the naked eye clarified once seen behind the helmet's special lenses. Treading lightly around the fence, he parsed through everything the ranger told him about the Legion. Every seemingly minute detail Lawrence stored in a notebook and his brain: tactics, weaponry, and of course the suicidal tendency Vincent witnessed first-hand.

The preference for "traditional" arms would be his advantage—perhaps a matter of pride or an insult on Caesar's part, or just plain idiocy as Lawrence pondered. Yet, Caesar's less than ideally armed men often got the upper-hand on the NCR's automatic weapons. Alert eyes scanned bleached surroundings, searching for any trace or trail of more soldiers as he took the long way around the compound. Lawrence said their basic troop structure was always five. Led by one commanding officer easily told apart. Depending on their mission, those others could be recruits, foot-soldiers without any experience outside a training ring or they could be an experienced hit-squad.

Vincent held his breath. Harsh whispers brushed his ears. He paused, concentrating on bickering voices even if he didn't know the words. Coming to the end of the fence, he peeked around the corner, retreating the moment he saw all he needed; two soldiers. No gun holsters. Only machetes in their grips and knives at their waists. Vincent took a deep breath, exhaled, and jumped around again. Shot after shot rang out. Explosions from the barrel blinded the low-light lenses momentarily.

He pulled back to his cover. His pistol aimed for whatever could turn the corner at any moment, but nothing came in the couple seconds he waited.

He jumped out, pistol ahead, and the sight of two collapsed bodies, one atop the other, relaxed his shoulders. However, it wasn't over yet. Secure your surroundings, Lawrence's voice reminded him.

Vincent scanned the road. The mountains. Then again and again. He climbed up the hillside, perching on a ridge for a better view but found only the secrecy of night, wind howling through the canyon, and frightened lizards kicking up dirt before Vincent stepped on them. His muscles burned. His back ached. Sweat dampened his clothes, but was determined to not let it bother him. Not when his life or Lawrence's could be at stake. Thinking of another comfortable night in their suite, the two of them alone, cuddled on the sofa listening to the radio after a pleasant dinner, or maybe in bed, was what kept him clinging hillside like a mountain goat.

When shaking arms refused to cooperate and the generous coating of dirt and grime on his fingers wouldn't grip the rough stone, he knew it was time to return. Sky-Watcher stood at the front line, staring down the gate with the shotgun and archers on her flame. The crackling fire was all that spoke in the tense silence that mourned the bodies laid by the fire. Vincent's shaking legs gave out under him, keeping their promise not to collapse until he returned to Lawrence's side.

Vincent draped Lawrence with his duster. He combed through the ranger's mane dampened by cold sweat making him shiver.

"The mushrooms in our dinner have that effect when you eat too much," Sky-Watcher explained, joining Vincent's side once the rest of the camp was calmed. "He will be alright in the morning with wild things to tell you." She adjusted a knitted shawl around her shoulders. "It is a part of the mourning dinner. They can show us those we lost."

Lawrence shivered in Vincent's arms, glancing between him and Sky-Watcher. His gaze faltered at the boy's gentle touch on his face. "I'm so sorry this happened," Vincent said, "I can't imagine how much this has hurt you, your people…"

"You did not kill my son, or my people," Sky-Watcher corrected. "We are grateful you are here. More would be dead. Maybe all of us."

—

Never had he felt such strangeness, staring up into a sky he saw a million times over and knew would never changed. He stared until blue seeped in, dyeing away the orange and red and finally engulfing the dark completely until and it was in that brief scene of twilight he took notice to the shuffling around him. Two men hefted up a stiff body cradled by dusty linens. Lawrence sat up before he would be taken next.

The tribe, smaller than he remembered, gathered around a morning fire, sharing breakfast and dark circles under their eyes. Donning his duster, Lawrence searched the traffic for Vincent. The younger man followed the bearers outside the gate but where their trail continued up the hills, Vincent's turned at the fence. Lawrence followed his path around the steely poles, pausing at the sight he struggled to register. Alone, Vincent dragged a Legionnaire to their own pile where he searched them, tossing aside ammunition or the odd valuable here and there.

Vincent glanced up to Lawrence, then came to his feet. "You feeling ok?"

"What?" Lawrence rustled his hair. His attention was still narrowed on five dead soldiers. One charred to a crisp, twisted and shrunk to his bones. The others clearly dispatched by bullets. "What happened? I don't—"

"Legion ambush last night. I took care of it though."

"You took care of it?" Lawrence echoed Vincent's nonchalant tone. He squeezed the boy's shoulder, bringing him closer into a tight embrace. "I didn't do anything…" Lawrence muttered. "I thought I was dreaming. I couldn't move. I couldn't say any—"

Vincent laughed. "You were wasted."

"What?"

Vincent's smile disarmed the ranger. "Mushrooms. Speaking of—Sky-Watcher told me they can make you see things that aren't there, like people who've passed away..." Vincent took Lawrence's hands into his own. "If you want to talk about it… I can imagine it must have been terrifying not knowing that could happen."

Lawrence squeezed the boy's hands. "I just want to get out of here."

"Me too. Y'know, I didn't get to sleep in a bed last night…"

Departure wasn't any easier than the previous day's trials. Despite feeling as though he should stay and bear the weight with the peculiar nomads, Vincent did all he could do. He managed to get the upper hand on a Legion troop by himself, but he was lucky. Sky-Watcher assured them they would depart after leaving their kin in their final resting places. To the great basking, she said, whatever that meant.

Turning the bend of the highway brought some. They would be home in less than an hour and he could confirm to Mr. House the power relay station would no longer be an issue. The old man would probably send out two securitrons to keep a grip on the place.

But relief was short-lived. Black smoke polluted the sky, pluming up in fluffed columns and pooling over Arvee Park. Tires squealed as the motorcycle came to a jolting stop, but nothing could shake them harder than what they saw.

All that remained were the smoldering armatures of their homes. Humble fields turned to black plots being tainted by the Legion's touch. Ash powdered the shores where Lake Mead lapped rocky sands. There was no one to comb through the soiled fields, rebuild their homes, or even attest to what happened. Singed, and blackened bodies still hung on three shriveled crosses. The rest of the town was most likely dead. Slaughtered. Massacred according to the Legion's traditions—his only hope was they died quicker than the crucified.

Lawrence reached behind him and patted Vincent's leg. "Guess that old coot figured you ain't on his side finally."

"He can keep sending them and I'll keep killing them."