No matter where one went, remnants of the old-world lingered like ghosts. Some of those phantoms were the towers of the strip. Polished to perfection ‘til they rivaled the brilliance of sun. Every bit of their inner-workings renovated to near mint-condition all for the sole purpose that their visitors forget they lived in the shadow of another world. Other apparitions were the decrepit blocks of concrete sprinkled around the desert. Old structures, repurposed a hundred times over, claimed by wildlife only to be evicted by a bigger, badder creature.

Then there was Hoover Dam.

A grand monument. A leviathan testament of concrete and engineering belonging to a distant era. Steel pylons crooned in the wind, peering over the cliff side like an eager audience for the inevitable war. Each silvery giant was connected to one another by a web of black cords. Beneath them, stretching the divide of scorched sepia stone and pushing against rough valley walls like a prospector staking his claim and refusing to budge was the dam itself. Sun-bleached stains leaked down precise seams of a thousand and one perfect blocks. The convex side held back the sparkling blue waters of Lake Mead, bent but not bending. Along its spine where the lone wall bore the burden of a road, one could witness the long steep drop with nothing to catch you nor soften the fall. It was the last vein sending blood in and out of the Nevada-Arizona battleground. The last stand between the warring east and west. The sole reason the house of cards that was New Vegas hadn’t collapsed yet.

Staring beyond the overlook did Vincent realize no paintings, no grainy black and white pictures, or those rare colored photos preserved in House’s library, and certainly no words could do the colossus justice. Never had he felt so small in his life. Insignificant. Minuscule. Mortal. As if carved into each brick, faces of those lost in the first battle and those to follow in the days to come stared back at him; thousands of soldiers of the republic, Caesar’s Legion, and those who fought for neither side for a cause as old as time. Each was a judge for him. Taunting or cheering, betting on his win or loss. The most crushing one of them all, a ranger.

Shivers rattled his spine and goosebumps pricked his skin, sending hairs on end all over his body. He pulled away from his vantage point and retreated to the safety of the visitors’ center behind him. Bronze scale tiles tinted despite the patina of age. Tinted windows reflected the young man’s stern face as he marched to the doors. A soothing chill met him first once inside. His lazy pupil refused to adjust, content to annoy Vincent with an unruly and bulbous glare. Gathered at a reception desk, a posse of rangers discussed their plans. Their tattered dusters, the standard issued boots, and black armor, each with their own pattern of wear as unique as its owner. He glanced from one to another as hope swelled in his chest—Could his ranger be among them? The chatty group hushed once they noticed their guest, and glossing over their faces, only strangers stared back. Why would Lawrence have been there, anyway? He would have likely scurried away the moment he spotted Vincent. Don his helmet, slip out the back door. That kind of thing he was apparently good at.

No, the young man wasn’t there in search of that specific ranger. Instead, a different one—an older veteran of umber-toned skin, glossy under any light and pitted in texture. He had one good eye too, like Vincent—his bad one, though, was covered by an eye-patch.

“Ranger Grant?”

“That’s me,” he announced, a commanding voice pulled all eyes on him. Short curls of seasoned gray-black hair were neatly groomed like the mustache coating his upper lip, split down the middle and forming a face that never strayed from sour. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Vincent.”

With a tense glance at his peers and a hushed sigh, Grant departed from the group. Vincent followed at the ranger’s wave. Still in plain sight and at a quiet corner of the floor-to-ceiling windows, interested eyes and ears listened for the two. Suspicious rangers, soldiers on guard, and the repurposed exhibit hall now turned to a command center for the dam’s operations.

“Mr. House has helped me in the past, so when that securitron came here to inform me of what’s going on…” Grant started, husky voice kept to a low grumble. “I couldn’t ignore it.” One hand gripped his other’s wrist. Leather-backed, soft white underbelly-palms wore nails as curt as the man’s words. “I will be keeping an eye on you, though.”

“You would be incompetent if you didn’t. So, let’s get started.”



—



Danger waited around every corner. In the mountains, the intake towers on the reservoirs, hell, even the crowds—civilian and soldier alike. The Legion knew the value of subterfuge, Vincent noted as he stared at the jumpsuit. A bland gray thing each of the maintenance workers wore. An ID tag clipped to a breast pocket the plastic slot stuffed with someone else’s card. He zipped up the jumpsuit over an emptied vest. Only his concealed pistol and wits would protect him. Anyone of those people out there, the maintenance workers, the guards, spectators, could be a spy—Frumentarii, as Caesar called them. However, what separated the Legion from the NCR was the willingness to do whatever it took to get the job done—no pesky morals or ethics to get in the way. Especially not when you dehumanized your enemy and turned them into the one lacking morality and ethics. Both sides were good at that, to tell the truth.

But what was on the menu for the President’s speech?

Something blatant and bloody, Vincent imagined as he secured a matching gray cap on his head. Sneak in, wait for the right moment, then get down to business. It would rock the NCR to the core. Demoralize the military forces. Sow seeds of fear just as the Legion wanted. Salt the wounds of an already anxious population uncertain of their own futures, let alone that of the republic. Vincent emerged from the singular bathroom. Quick glances absorbed the visitor center’s scene that was the same as he left it; rangers, soldiers on guard, or idly staring at the old exhibits for the umpteenth time that day. Everyone waited for the inevitable. Outside the windows, the concrete barriers moved forward. Civilians followed behind with cheery and eager faces drawn towards the stage splayed across the road. They might have been ineffective, but the political leaders of New California had a way of bolstering their people. Maybe an assassination would do the same.

“I want to know who the hell invited these people!” Ranger Grant fumed. Subordinates at his side flinched. The smarter ones slinked away, off to some pretend work elsewhere. He shook his head, watching the hoard go by waving little flags as they marched along. Radio chatter broke up the man’s profanity-laced grumbles.

“Bear Force One has arrived.”

Before Grant barked his orders, Vincent pushed through the doors and out into the light of day. Whirling blades peaked over the roof, sending gusts below, weakening their spin as time itself came to a slow stop. In only a few minutes, President Kimball would descend the roof for the stage, stand upon a target in front of his citizens and military to deliver a speech. Waves rushed through Vincent, leaving him hollow inside, draining him of hours of preparation and memorization. There would only be one outcome to his speech, and Vincent would be the only one responsible for it.

“Ain’t those flyin’ machines a sight!”

Vincent spun around, groaning at the familiar voice. Wayne squinted at the rooftop, craning his neck as if trying to spot the rest of the vertibird.

“I told you to stay in Freeside.” The old man laughed, fanning away the boy’s demands before returning his hat to its throne. “How did you even get here?”

“Oh, with the rest of ‘em,” Wayne jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Corralled behind the barriers and under watch by an entourage of soldiers, civilians waited for the main event. A convoy of caravans and wagons curved around and up the road behind them. Each bore a sure promise painted on wood, scrap metal, or tarps: Get to Hoover Dam and back safe and sound! For a fee, of course.

Vincent planted his head in his palm, muttering harsh whispers to himself. Eyes squinted shut as he moved to massage his temples. The noise. The crowds. The pressure! He took a deep breath. His head shot back up. Attention snapped to the old man. “How did you get past the barrier? Who else—”

“You’re just full o’ questions today!”

Vincent sighed, staring at Wayne as one does when they’ve met an immovable object. “Kimball is going to be on stage in a minute.”

“I’ll be on the sidelines…” Wayne said, rather reluctantly as he pinched the brim of his hat. “I know you got your duties to see to.”

Arms crossed against Vincent’s chest. His posture was rigid while he watched the old cowboy turn around. “Wayne.”

Wayne paused, only half-turned, as if he knew Vincent would stop him. “I have to prevent a surefire assassination plot against the republic’s president, and I have no idea what I am doing.” Silvery eyes fell to the ground as pursed lips drew the bushy mustache along. Wayne nodded, taking those few steps back to Vincent and let the young man continue. “I mean, I got the obvious; snipers and lookouts posted around, the guards, the rangers on duty, a detailed schedule down to goddamn bathroom breaks.”

Vincent’s shoulders deflated with another loaded sigh. Shame turned his face away from the old man, settling on a pretend evaluation of the stage looming on a literal and proverbial road of fate. Whatever strength Vincent had that brought him to the dam diminished somewhere on the ride over. Frankly, he doubted he had any to begin with. Of all the people in the NCR, the Mojave, and the forces stationed at the dam, the least qualified to prevent the death of the republic's leader was some kid dragged out of a grave and a few cards short of a full deck.

Wayne clapped his hands together, startling Vincent out of his ruminating malaise. “Let’s get to it then!”



—



Held off at a distance from the stage, but not so far on couldn’t get a clear view of the President, the uninvited crowd of civilians shouted and cheered—the better points of view were reserved for NCR’s service personnel. Miniature flags bobbed up and down. In the far back, painted signs jutted up from Kimball’s supporters and critics. Weaving through that crowd, one irate young man evaluated each one of those people as he passed. Grumbling and pushing back should one oblivious body bump into him. What was he supposed to look for anyway? The Legion had the know-how to blend in. Well, assuming it was only the Legion out to get Kimball. The president accrued enough opposition and political enemies back home. Support had dwindled, withered away just like all the young men and women he sent to die out here.

“Thank you!” His voice boomed over the speakers. A slight scratch echoed in the ancient tech. “Thank you!” He smiled, waving to the servicemen collected around the stage then to the audience beyond. “To all my fellow Californians who have come so far to answer the call to service.”

Vincent rolled his eyes. A testy sigh brushed his lips. Frankly, the man wasn’t much to look at. An average, forgettable face, dressed in a black suit with the flag of the republic shrunk down to a pin stuck on his lapel. The entourage of rangers hinted at his importance.

An itching thought surfaced from the darkest parts of Vincent’s mind—Kimball getting his brains blown wouldn’t be so bad for the Republic. It could be a real wake up call for these people surrounding Vincent. Pressure ballooned in his head, starting at the base of his skull, jabbing his eyes with every pump of an anxious heart. Wincing through the pain, he scanned the boisterous strangers and reminded himself to focus on the mission. Fist clenched, digging nails in his palms then releasing to start over. Wayne wandered among them as well, inching a bit closer to the front. Then to the sides. Falling to the back again, wading in a sea of potential danger. Suffocating in the heat of tightly packed bodies. Inhaling stale air. Musty, moist like the dirt sucked into his lungs. A dry throat. Ears ringing, deafened by his screams as black froth circled in his eyes.

Vincent pressed his palms into his sockets. The ringing faded. Cheers quelled, quieting to whirring fans of machines. The scratchy voice in the speakers smoothed. Dispassionate and ageless, recounting the reason he was here. “Will you ensure that President Kimball survives his visit to Hoover Dam?” Mr. House asked. Vincent ripped his hands from his face. He stared at the giant monitor looming above him, bright and burning the black and green portrait in his eyes. “Or do you need Lawrence to do everything for you?”

The screen shattered.

He flinched, preparing for glass shards to rain down on him. Instead, the screams shook him. There was no glass, no shards. Only the endless blue sky stretching for miles and the terrorized masses rushing below, searching for cover, and crashing into one another. The rangers closed ranks on the president, huddling around him, their own pistols drawn as they searched for the source. A second bullet ripped through the crowds. Louder. Closer. Vincent spun around. Peeking through the scattering numbers, stumbling over one another in a desperate attempt to flee. Standing still in the flurry was a lone gunman. A whisper of smoke exhaled from his pistol held in one leather-clad hand. Vincent fumbled with his zipper. Eyes fixed where the man stood, memorizing the pock scars splashed across his face, brown eyes, and curt blonde hair.

By the time his hand wrapped that icy grip, the stranger vanished. Growls clawed up Vincent’s throat. Curses screamed internally but found their way out his mouth. How could he just let him disappear? Stand there frozen like a fucking idiot?

“Nobody leaves!” Grant roared over the radio.

The rangers started their slow crawl to the visitor center. Hidden among them, Kimball—alive or dead? One ranger fell to his knees, hands clutching the red seeping out his hip. Various ranks scattered on the scene. Soldiers marched down the road, joining the line standing between the civilian spectators and the only road out. They pushed and shoved like waves against the line of soldiers, screaming, spitting threats against the military blockade, and trampling over those little flags they once waved.

“Scene secured,” one declared as the huddle entered the center. The rangers dispersed. Fatigued medics rushed to the president. Vincent observed from the sidelines, barely stealing a view when the doctors went to work. He was fuming, burning up in a bubbling stew of fury and dread. Vincent tore away from the scene. Wrath blinded his eyes, narrowing his vision to pinpoints. He flung open the doors and marched outside. He paced outside, nostrils flaring like a bull seeing red. The only thing missing was his victim.

“What’s the news?” Wayne approached. Hands gripped his belt—his ready stance. A quick swipe to his hips would withdraw the revolve while the squint in his eyes were keen to gather the scene.

Vincent halted his charge. Jaw clenched as he stared at the ground, hoping to find some sense down there. Instead, just blood. Little splatters on gray, each a reminder of his failure. The trail led back to the spot where it all took place and one bigger splotch. A lot of blood—But a ranger was hit, not just Kimball…

“I saw a ranger collapse,” Vincent announced as he scanned the personnel loitering the stage and road. Obviously, none were that wounded man, yet he was nowhere to be seen. Not inside the visitor center. No, those medics B-lined for Kimball and only Kimball right away.

Wayne hummed, parting the ivory hairs of his mustache back in place. “Saw him get escorted off. Didn’t see much else though.”

“By who?”

“Soldier. Why?”

“Where? What did he look like?”

“I vaguely recall light hair,” Wayne pondered, his brows narrowed as arms folded across his chest. “What’s on your mind, son?”

“I saw one shooter.” Vincent zipped past him, head spinning around on a swivel in search of one platinum blonde soldier. “You’re certain he was a soldier? I didn’t get a look at his clothes.”

“Saw them fatigues,” Wayne confirmed.

Vincent followed the red blots. Little drips strayed from the main trail, minuscule and easily mistaken for flaws in the concrete. He followed to the side of the visitor center, then around the bend to an overlook as the drops shrunk, then nothing…

Nobody would be in this secluded spot during this chaos. All attention would be on the president, corralling the civilians, swarming the stage. No snipers or guards were stationed back here because there was only one way in and out, and that was already secured. Why come back here? The natural rock walls provided some cover from peeping eyes. The man-made walls lining the path? Just get to a low crouch and nobody would notice. But to so boldly drag a wounded man back here? For what purpose? And a ranger at that…

A disguise—a better disguise.

Vincent rushed to the stone railing and peered over the walls. A long drop led not to the water below, but to the roofs of the twin-facilities built into the weathered mountain on either side of the dam. And there among the shadows of steel cages and cable arms, a blot splayed out on sweltering gray. A man.

His nails dug into the concrete, pressing back into fingers and daring to break off entirely should he use his full strength. Teeth ground one another, muffling the ripping screech clawing out his throat. Dead. A good man dead because he wasn’t paying attention again. The count so far: one ranger. President Kimball, maybe. Should there be a third, well it was going to be by Vincent’s hands, that he was sure of.

A whirlwind zoomed past Wayne, ordering him to follow with a wave of his hand. Vincent swung open the visitor center doors again. Metal clanked in their frames and announced his arrival. One more time, and those doors might break off.

“Grant!”



—



A warped reflection stared back at him. A twisted smear of his colors tinted in gold, tarnished to brass by the years. His scowl twisted colder and colder as the elevator descended the height of the dam. Vision defocused, leaving his mind to wander; was there more? Something he missed? Over and over, they had assessed the civilians, the soldiers, the rangers, locked down the visitor center. After venturing every possible route to weed out the disguised frumentarii, only one place remained. The one place an urgent inner voice kept telling him to go...

There was one phrase the Legion muttered often. One of many phrases Caesar sprinkled in their little chat—carpe diem. Seize the day. And if he were a Legion soldier, eager to prove oneself and move up the ranks, one with the opportunity to sabotage, gather intel, or otherwise, then seize the day, he would.

Hallways ran the length of the dam, stretching into Arizona and Nevada, leading on for what looked to be miles and lit by fluorescent lights splashing an eerie tint on colorless corridors. Walls hummed, vibrating the collage of chipped white tiles. Ambient thrums hushed his steps. Deeper into the belly of the leviathan, not a soul was in sight. Any jitters or second guesses shook off him like rust under the power of strumming machines.

The heart of the beast lay at the end of the hallway. Blackened steel armatures webbed behind the lights dotting the distant ceiling. One long row of gargantuan generators lined the floor below. Tiny blots roamed, moving from one to another, climbing up a flight of stairs to reach their tops, and above those people was a verdigris catwalk where the flag of the republic hung the rails. On the maintenance floor, Vincent blended in with the jumpsuits and red hardhats. Eyes darted beneath the shade of the visor, scanning each face he passed. They were nondescript faces. Just workers from California keeping the lights on and water running. No news from a mere hour earlier reached them down here—That was Vincent’s and his prey’s advantage.

However, getting on the man’s trail was another task entirely. When he found idle hands, Vincent inquired about a ranger passing through. Most of the answers were a firm “no” or rebutting with why he wasn’t at work. Returning to the maze of tunnels, one ended in a corner of four doors. He paused, glancing from door to door, only one was labeled—the bathrooms. Pushing through the middle door opened to a control room. Stuffy, far too warm with so many beeping and fanning consoles. Light dust coated black screens. A wall of gauge needles pointed in the green or various numbers and temperatures. Doorways led to more rooms. Offices, a small break room, more bathrooms…

But shouldn’t there have been at least someone here? The last room was a small office with a neat corner desk topped by a terminal, its screen on. The only sign of life was a cup of cold coffee and a radio. Quiet steps shuffled inside. Eyes examined paperwork on the desk before hands. Nothing interesting to him, just metrics on the dam’s power production and something about a menacing breed of mollusks living in the cooling pipes. Vincent sighed and turned around, meeting the wall of filing cabinets, topped with various accouterments one decorates boring spaces with. An array of fake flowers. Pictures in mismatched frames. Stacks of papers waiting to be organized.

A ranger’s helmet.

Static washed over him. He stared at the lenses. Arms unfolded from his chest. His heart thumped against his ribs. A million questions flashed across his mind as he examined the little scratches, dents, paint. A maroon shadow flashed in the helmet’s lenses, and knocked the breath out of him. The ceiling spun. He blinked to focus on the attacker looming over him. Blonde hair illuminated a halo around a vicious smile as a hand slipped inside the duster. Vincent balled his fists, springing up and landing his strike between the man’s legs.

The stranger recoiled. Knees buckled under the weight of a breathy grunt. Eyes bulged, swelling with murderous fury. He lunged for Vincent, reaching through the boy’s flailing hands. The frumentarii laughed, a throaty chuckle skirting a malicious growl as fingers closed around Vincent’s throat. Pressure pushed against his eyes. His heart crawled up his closing airway. Adrenaline shakes seized him, igniting waves of fire across his body. Vincent swung again.

With a quick swipe, pink gashes flushed red. Four long, deep marks across his cheek. Chuckles turned to growls and his grip loosened. He threatened something in Latin and murderous eyes narrowed on Vincent. Vincent sprang forehead-first into the agent’s face. His nose smashed against the bull-headed boy with a nasty crack that left both grimacing. A heavy thud met the wall. The man’s head bounced. Eyes fluttered as a sneer twisted the stranger’s face. Laying stunned and dazed, Vincent struck him again. Thunder jolted his knuckles, sending shock waves through his wrist. Again and again, he refused to relent, screeching and roaring to dull the pain of his battered fists.

Vincent’s eyes stung from a lack of blinking. They were wide and settled on the man’s face but not looking at the bloody mess. He saw only the torrent of memories. Every wrong and slight he never made right, burning white hot in a fire nothing could put out. One fist unfurled, sore, slow, and stiff. It stung joining his other hand curled around the stranger’s neck. Wicked temptations seized him. Two voices shout in his ears—one scolding him, reminding him of the man he did not want to be. The other was sultry, salacious. The same hypnotic voice that encouraged him to enact violent revenge.

Weak hands pushed against Vincent. The spy’s mouth was agape, gasping for air as his tired body slipped down the wall. The flared collar of the duster was pinned behind him. Black armor diffused to gray under the light, highlighting the knicks and scratches in white, each one telling the story of the ranger it belonged to. Some of them Vincent almost remembered. Desperate eyes stared at him. Fluttering, consciousness drifting away, catching a glint of light—Blue. As blue as sorrow.

Vincent ripped away from the man. Pins and needles jabbed his heart. The man fell forward. Splayed out on the floor and desperately sucking in air. His chest ballooned as he choked on his own blood. The mirage of Lawrence faded away, yet he couldn’t shake the horrifying image of the ranger’s pleading eyes begging the boy he loved to not kill him.

No. No. No! He would never! That’s not what he wanted. No matter how angry he was at Lawrence—Tears beaded in Vincent’s eyes. Guilt strangled the knot in his throat. One jittery hand reached for the radio clipped to his belt and the other for his gun. He swallowed the knot, shutting his eyes tight only for a second to gather those strayed pieces of himself before pressing the button.

“I found him.”



—



After the excitement of near death, a shootout, a brush with a sharp, cold blade, or all the above wore off, it left him tired. A weariness that dulled his brain and stifled his emotions. Not even the cold stone block he leaned against could shake him awake nor the brilliant ball of orange fire vacant eyes stared at. The Colorado river sparkled below, following the setting sun as though afraid of the encroaching night. Shadows dimmed the bland gray, leaving only the natural colors of red stone that caught the last light of day in pitted and jagged canyon walls. Did Lawrence still watch the sunset anymore? Or was it just as painful for him as it was for Vincent?

Soles skidded next to him and an older, rougher pair of hands rest on the cool concrete. A breeze whistled through the canyon, carrying the old man’s faint scent of cigar smoke and whiskey. “Welp!” Wayne announced. “Grant n’ them got everything covered here. Kimball’s alive. A killer in custody.”

There was a moment of silence that lasted too long between them. Long enough that Vincent debated saying anything at all, but he did, his voice muffled by the hand holding up his chin. “Wayne.” The old man looked to him, all his lines, wrinkles, and gray hairs contrasted in light and dark. “Why is it the most unqualified, stupid, horrible, or all of the above are always in positions of power?”

Wayne scoffed. “Hell if I know, son.”

“Caesar is just heinous. Kimball is uncaring towards the lives he’s throwing in this conflict. House is detached—” Vincent paused. And him? What was his glaring flaw? The reason he shouldn’t be where he is. Well, he practically stumbled his way across the Mojave and to House’s doorstep. Unqualified would be his first guess, but lately… “What’s wrong with me?”

“What?” Wayne turned to him, bushy brows drawing together.

“I—” Vincent choked, catching his voice before it’d break. “I nearly beat that man to death with my bare hands.”

“You were in a fight for your life. I’m surprised both of ya are still alive! But I’m glad you are.”

“No!” Vincent shook his head, raising a hand to massage his temples. “I enjoyed it. I wanted to kill him, and violently.”

“Look, son.” Wayne set a hand on Vincent’s shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze when their eyes met. “Every man dances with the devil at some point in his life.”

“Have you?”

Wayne nodded. His lips thinned and eyes blinked, softened by a humble reminder. “I was an angry, angry man after I lost my wife and boy. Lost myself for a while, but I ain’t ashamed to admit it. Wouldn’t be who I am today. A better man.”

Vincent turned back to the sunset, rubbing away the gathering tears from his eyes. His jaw clenched witnessing again the terrible scene added to the collection of memories he rather not have. It wasn’t the first time malice whispered in his ears like a seductive lover. Except lately, that voice was getting louder. Far too many what-ifs clouded his mind. What if his mother accepted him? What if Lawrence were here? What if there was an alternative solution to slaughtering the Brotherhood of Steel? What if—And now, a new one joined. Louder than the rest, asking what if he was becoming the vile thing he never wanted to be?