It was empty. One long black stretch of road leading on for miles. Neon lights beamed on both sides. Crowded together. Vying for attention. Floating on a murky bed of ink. Colors morphed into familiar shapes with barely a hint of their meaning. Vague and uncertain, like a word caught on the tip of his tongue, but that wasn't important. No, it was something else he couldn't recall…

He looked down to the cards. The winning hand, or was it? Squinting for their significance, red diamonds and black spades lost their form under scrutiny. Cards spread out on the green felt, arcing against the curve of a flared cocktail glass he swore wasn't there before. A sunrise was captured in an hourglass. One stake of ripe fruit hanging across shiny lips. The glimmer caught his eye. Swimming through the concoction, a fish-tailed young man. Iridescent scales of blue and green stole his gaze and never let go. Glittery trails followed to the surface and he finally emerged, reaching out for his sole audience with open arms and a lustful smile. Eyes begged for his admirer to come closer. As blue as chilling water on a sweltering day. One marked by a scar. Neon beams melted away behind him and darkness closed in. The boy grabbed his arms.

Fingers pressed into tender flesh. Fire burned through his veins, rushing to his heart and head. Squeezing harder as that pleasant face twisted to a grimace. Eyes of judgement as red as wrath stared back at him. Lips mouthed silent words—

"Rise and shine!"

Singing pots stabbed Lawrence's ears. Lights burned overhead, searing brands on fragile pupils. Each ranger jumped out of their bunks. With eyes still closed, occasionally stealing a daring glance to gauge if finally adjusted to the light, he danced in place. Tugging on pants he should have left on the night before. Relying on the rote memorization of doing it a thousand times over, half of him snatched those precious seconds of sleep. Jostling stiff clothes loosened musky odors. The sweat of a week trekking the Mojave. The dirt of taking cover in the caves, staying awake for days. Picking off red and black uniforms one by one simmering on a backdrop of a highway. Flavored by the rot of old blood from some kid fresh out of boot camp to join the crowd at the medical tents. All of it polluting the cramped barracks, but it was just one of those things you got used to.

"Today's the day!" Clint strutted down the barracks. His grating voice pounded like drums in everyone's ears, even the offender. "Time to slap on some glitter. Pull on that pantyhose. Cause it is showtime!" He turned around, starting his march back to the door and like that, every ranger armed and armored. "First line comin' 'round the mountain."

Wide awake and ready for round two on a cement ring, they poured out the shack. A chorus of hard thumps marched to the beat of their chant, "Better dead than red!"

Just when he thought he'd been to hell and back, Lawrence realized he never left.

—

By the time dawn broke, Vincent stood atop a ridge overlooking the dam. The entourage of securitrons dispatched with him scattered on the flat. Below him, soldiers dispersed. Each took their position on the fortified crossing. In the mountains, sharpshooters hid. Crosshairs aimed on the choke point below. On the ground, barricades blocked the road at even intervals. High walls of salvaged metal with a narrow cut out on one side, fortified by sandbags and cinder blocks. Infantry sandwiched in between. A front of heavy soldiers stood first. All part of General Oliver's grand "plan" to hold the dam: sheer brute force, as if this were some kind of pissing contest. Meanwhile Legion troops amassed on the other side of the bend. Out of sight, bit listen closely between the warning howls of wind, and you might hear their drums. Marching to the beat. An endless sea of red and black, praising a gold bull.

However, neither side held the winning hand. His paces paused at the first explosion. A thick cloud of black funneled through the eastern chokepoint, then they swarmed. Cazadors, except their stingers were buckshot. Pouring through the narrow road without disregard. He didn't know whether to be disgusted or scoff at the Legion's tactics. Each one willing to die without a second thought. Wave after wave of brainwashed slaves; free will beaten out of them. One advantage over the NCR thus far—they had no fear.

Marksmen picked them off on the other side. Frontline grunts plowed through the masses, guaranteed to at least hit someone on the enemy side. Grenades swung through the disappearing smoke. Each exploded on impact, breaking through the first defenses of the republic.

"The securitron army under the Fort is already emerging." The nearest machine took on House's visage and voice. Excitement almost broke through his monotone tone. "Get to the control room and install the chip. Victory is inevitable from there, for us that is."

"Got it." The screen flickered, returning to the normal portrait of a cartoonish grunt. "Securitrons, relay this order to every machine you can reach: Capture Caesar. He needs to be alive. Understand that?"

"Orders understood by unit. Broadcasting to—"

"I have another one," Vincent declared, parading back to the robot as he reached inside a vest pocket. He plucked out the polaroid then held it up to the black eye. "Look at this picture."

"Object scanned. One database match found—Object class C. Object permitted to enter Lucky 38."

"Anyone of you find him out there, keep him alive too. Bring him to me—Unscathed. I find one mark on that man, I'm dismantling you!"

—

"Hostiles confirmed removed," the radio announced.

"Good work. Keep an eye out. All directions," Clint ordered. Even had he not, every soldier and ranger aimed their crosshairs on the road.

"Think it was a distraction?"

"Nah," he muttered, squinting beneath the dark lenses. He raised binoculars again. A quick scan checked on each team in the distance even if he couldn't see them. "Khans are just the warm-up!"

The main bulk of the security checkpoint stood on the overpass. Ten rangers and too many soldiers to count on the highway. More were held up below, behind walls of sandbags and sheet metal but everyone there stared down an old highway that once crossed the Colorado in another life, but now, it ended in a dead drop over the river. In the hills surrounding the defunct checkpoint into Hoover Dam, were sharpshooter teams. Foot soldiers scattered the grounds, ready to dispatch at first sight of unwanted visitors.

Radio static hummed. Curious glances shot to the comm station—their sole lifeline to the dam. Antsy soldiers shifted on aching feet. Faces never hinted at fear or discomfort. The senior ranger stopped at the table as the comm officer turned up the volume for all to hear over the headset.

"—fourth barricade broken."

Clint took over the radio. "Security Checkpoint clear. Cazador Company ready to move on orders."

"Stay put."

Clint's jaw tensed. He ripped away from the radio setup, fists stuck in a loop clenching, then relaxing. "Fucking Oliver," Clint growled. A gust rushed by Lawrence. Looking over his shoulder, he followed the man's march down the highway wall. At the end, another senior ranger; name already forgotten. Dark-skinned and gray-haired, he leaned against the highway wall and off the leg that put him out of commission. Their hushed conversation was lost to the wind, but the subtle nod wasn't.

"Radio Swanson," Clint barked, pace quickened on the return to the comms officer. "What's the status on the dam?"

The young attendant jumped to action. Jittery as he flipped through pages of a notebook. Index finger stopped on a line. He mumbled the numbers to himself then again as he adjusted the technical array. Behind him, a sergeant paused his casual march through the troops.

"Sir!" The timid comm officer choked up. He swallowed his awkwardness and dared a quick look at Clint. "Ranger Swanson confirmed Legion forces broke through the sixth barricade."

"They're fucking half-way through!" One ranger piped up.

Eyes peeled off the road. Whispers surfaced for speculations on the battle. The casualties, losses. Wondering if their friends were still alive. How long until they had the dam? Another clench of Clint's jaw tightened stern brows. It was the look of a man contemplating the most difficult choice in his life. The first time Lawrence seen Clint wear that look. The man was as seasoned as his leathery skin. Always knowing what to do and when to do it. He made those lifesaving, snap-judgment decisions so quickly, bravely, nothing like Lawrence who always wondered if he made the right choice. Lately, far too many of those questions loitered in the back of his mind. But now, Lawrence wondered if that may have been a gift the senior ranger didn't have.

Clint snatched the mobile radio from the desk. Thumb mashed a side button, and he bellowed out to every ranger in its reach. "Cazador company pack up. We're moving to the dam."

"You were ordered to stay here!" The sergeant belted back. His voice carried through the hills as he marched towards Clint. Whispers silenced. Anxious feet shifted, but still soldiers kept lined to the overpass. Their rifles aimed down the highway and eyes were fixed on the road, but ears listened to a closer front. The sergeant peeked over Clint's shoulder. Darting from one ranger to the next as those rangers looked among each other, knowing exactly what was going to happen. "I suggest you stay here. As ordered."

Six.

Six of ten rangers moved from their post on the overpass, gathering arms, and ammunition cases without further hesitation. The other four and a senior ranger watching from afar. Lawrence expected the show wasn't over yet while Mordecai next to him stared in disbelief. Then there was the ranger that started the scene, brow-beating a helpless sergeant.

"What are you doing?" Mordecai hissed, counting each one as they passed by. Dumbfounded by an unthinkable sight from rangers he'd served with for years.

"We should go," Lawrence whispered.

"Why?"

"I had a feeling this was—"

"Are you defying orders, ranger?" The sergeant stood boot to boot with Clint. Younger, leaner, and either far too confident his troops were going to back him up or that he alone could command the ranger to stand down.

"Damn right I'm defying orders from an incompetent jackass!" The sergeant froze, confidence wicked away by the sweat of his brow. Each of Clint's words an exploding grenade he could only flinch at. The screech, the look, the authority of a ranger commanding officer was nothing compared to a drill sergeant the regular soldiers faced. "Frankly, you don't need twenty rangers staring at a fucking road. If the Legion wanted to come up this way, they would have been here the moment the other ass-cheek plopped on the dam. So far, we've overkilled the Khan's finest! As ill fit as you are for this position, sergeant, you and your men can do just fine against a few wastelanders huffin' jet."

With a hard knock on the scraped and dented dome, Clint secured his helmet on his head. He raised the radio again. Slowly, mocking the sergeant, daring the younger rank to do something. Say something. Make a move. "Anybody here who actually wants to make a difference in this shitshow follow me."

—

He clung to the back of the robot by a sloppy weld-job. Feet planted firmly on the frame of its wheel housing as the entourage rolled down a winding road, his face pressed to cold metal. Pungent oil assaulted his nose. Hands tightly gripped the metal handle as he muttered to himself, hoping the thing wouldn't fail him. Gun fire sputtered. It was a constant grating in his ears. Echoing the valley, never certain where it came from. Every blast of a grenade, homebrewed explosives, and whistling missile pounded with the beat of his heart. Somewhere in all the chaos was a ranger. One he couldn't stop thinking about despite how much he begged and scolded himself not to. Images bombarded him like the hellfire sweeping his face after grenades explode. Dead or alive? Where was he? Did he need help?

His forehead bounced off the machine's back as it came to a halt. Lingering fears slapped out of him. It was time to get to work. Still on the western half of the dam and covered by a tight formation, Vincent slipped off the securitron. "You come with me," he knocked on its back and the machine spun around. "Rest of you, make a clear path to the elevator tower on the eastern side. Kill Legion on sight."

Vincent rushed to the elevator tower behind them, one securitron in tow. He had to get in and out as fast as possible. End the chaos and maybe, hopefully, find Lawrence. He smashed the button. Stealing glances back as he waited. Between the long arms and bulky mechanical bodies, black smoke flooded the road. Beige uniforms rushed by. Strained voices barked orders over the clamor. None would notice him. At the ding of the door, Vincent backed inside. Chaos slipped away behind steel curtains. Even in the quiet, echoes whirled around his head. A chill seeped in. Temperature falling as fast as the elevator plummeted down.

The elevator opened to the long hallway. At least this time he knew where he was going. Despite the chaos on the surface, workers toiled away, guarded by soldiers on the generator floor. Heavy troopers patrolled the overlook. The walkways. The corridors… He'd have no stealth-boys this time. Instead, a refined gas bomb. Not the strong kind he liked to toss on unsuspecting gaggles of raiders that would kill them in minutes. He'd need only to toss it down the hallway. Clinking all the way, drawing the ire of two heavy troopers guarding the control center. Spewing white smoke and hissing, then it exploded. Confused, daze—well, they would be when they woke up.

Vincent snuck by, gas mask secured tightly to his head. The securitron stood in the doorway; his personal watchtower as he installed House's override. Terminals beeped and buzzed. Cooling fans kicked into gear. A terrible, digital chorus screeched. Out from one terminal, an endless stream of paper printed, gathering in a neat and self-organized file on the floor. In a few minutes the print concluded. The last page rolled out, but the first to be read; New California Republic-Free Economic Zone of New Vegas Revised Treaty.

—

"I have a bad feeling about this," Mordecai grumbled, still wearing the dubious glower he found on the trek to the dam.

"Look, I have to stick with him, see if this…" Words parted by a sigh. Lawrence hushed his voice. "See if this mistake is salvageable."

"What the hell is going on?" Mordecai took the hint. Keeping to whispers and glances at the rangers ahead of them. "Why would we not be moved towards the dam? There could be a reason. More Khans—"

"Weird things being going on," Lawrence asserted.

Mordecai was one of those who had to make sense of everything. The savagery of raider gangs on the fringes of society. The brutality of the Legion. Why the rangers were barely being utilized at such a critical time. Why their numbers still lingered in Baja weeks away when the defining battle was today… No, he would think of every possible scenario except one—Sometimes people did things just because they could.

"First time I seen Clint in months, he seemed a bit paranoid. Mentioned something about our ranks being weakened; hard time getting info on his men, positions not being filled, people not being moved here for this."

"Seems annoyed like a lot of us." Mordecai's scowl loosened; overtaken by that long-stare, thinking-look he occasionally wore. "We're barely playing a role in the second most important battle in this war. And people been on edge. I'm surprised you're here after that scene last week…"

Lawrence rolled his eyes, not at his friend, but rather himself. Another embarrassing flaunt of things he ought to keep to himself, forever on re-wind in his head and wondering who else knew. "He's been a li'l out of character," Lawrence continued. "I don't know—beatin' around the bush about things? Not being straightforward, but he's hintin' at sabotage."

Mordecai stole a double-take at Lawrence. "Sabotage? Against or us, within? Who?"

"Keep this between you and me," Lawrence met Mordecai's confused stare. "But I've been trying to piece some things together, cause that ain't all. This is going to sound ridiculous, but I think there's rangers that want to break away from the NCR's command." Both looked ahead for a moment. Their squad of rangers still marched on for the dam. "When I spoke to Hanlon, it wasn't just for the stories or about reports being faulty."

"Hanlon in on it?" Mordecai whispered like they were exchanging juvenile schoolyard gossip.

"I don't think so," Lawrence shook his head, uncertainty wrinkled his eyes. "But he had a lot of criticism for how we're being used. Just pawns to expand the NCR, wasting lives, time, money because the senate and congress are too deep in brahmin baron pockets."

Mordecai turned ahead. Suspicion, confusion, all of it washed away from his face. Instead, something else remained in the man's eyes. "I don't know what to say."

"This—" Lawrence gestured to their contemporaries ahead of them. Far enough none would catch their conversation, and far enough to study the commanding officer. "This happened." He halted, stopping Mordecai with him. "I want to know what's really going on too. But, you have a family back home to think about. I ain't gonna hold it against you if you turn around here and call it quits."

He clenched a jaw. Nostrils flared by a heavy sigh. If Lawrence had been in his shoes… Well, he was and already made his mistake. Mordecai looked east. The bending road ended only feet away. Black smoke clouded overhead. A wave of destruction pushed west. Fire crackled. Shot after shot echoed. Nothing the rangers weren't used to. So many of them had already been here before. Like the worst strike of déjà vu, a vision none could escape, a mirage on the horizon that never went away.

Jumping into the fray just became something he didn't second guess anymore. They pushed through barricades until the fight met them. Headed by the heavy troopers, and something else. Securitrons, far ahead of the demolished barricades, clouded by the smoke of their turrets, ripping into red-banner trespassers. He knew this. He knew Vincent would be here, somewhere. His heart quickened to the beat of miniguns. Every fear and worry about that boy like the bullets, buckshot, and spears sprayed on them. What if they stumbled upon him? What if the Legion got to him?

Standing frozen behind their cover, they listened. Wind howled, clawing through canyon walls. Steel towers moaned at the chill. Cables silently swayed. Clint took a quick peek around the sheet metal. Piled one on top of another, red banners soaked and splayed over body-shaped pedestals and turned to sleek satin dyed in blood. Heavy troopers were intact. This was barely a scuffle for their sturdy power-armor. Infantry, though… Not so lucky.

It had been quiet, but the adrenaline rush hadn't subsided.

"That can't be it," Clint grumbled. Barrels swung over the fallen roadblock. Heavy troopers filled the gaps between their sights. "Swanson, what do you see?"

"Coast clear for two miles," the radio buzzed. "Around the bend, can't see."

Lawrence exhaled. They stood up from their cover. A quick check reloaded their arms, evaluated their ammo supply, and casualties.

"Anyone see those robots?"

"Sure did," Clint confirmed. He stood in the middle of the road, rifle cradled in his arms and staring down the eastbound road. A chill washed over Lawrence at those words. Something in his tone sent warning sirens screaming in his head, but his clip. His pistol was next when boots scuffled around him.

"Those were House's machines." Lawrence paused. He looked up at Clint standing over him. The senior ranger stopped at the viewing point's walls, back turned to the south-flowing Colorado. "Why are they here?"

"House has a vested interest keepin' the dam out of Caesar's hands too."

Clint nodded. Nothing more said by pursed lips, just a quiet acknowledgement… The kind his father would give him before some grand explosion. Clint walked off, announcing to the rest of them, "Swanson and his team are going to join us on the road up to the legate camp. We'll move on from there."

—

Desolate. Not even a man's last scream into the void as he died a meaningless death. Bodies scattered around like trash. Burned beyond all recognition, patchy burns like those left by lasers. The rangers stayed tight as they investigated the camp. Clint still had a suspicious look in his eyes. It was a punch to the gut every time Lawrence stole a glance at him. The man wasn't stupid. He would find out. Lawrence should have known that by now. Should have known it was all futile once Vincent told him the future. Where would he be, had he not left the Lucky 38? Would he be able to live with himself? Drowning in shame of what Clint or Mordecai or other rangers would think of him? Of what Eve or Jackie, or even his parents once the news reached them?

Laser gatlings zipped over the ridge. Legionnaires fled the robotic onslaught, sliding down the slope like mole rats over a cliff. One grunt turned around and before he could fire, the turret set him ablaze. The rest fell down, one after another—it was a squad of only four now, all following a legate. The rangers rushed to formation. Laser fire halted once the securitrons reached the apex of the mound.

Sandwiched in between the choice of bullets or fire, the Legionnaires closed ranks. Rarely did one lay eyes on a legate and live to tell about it. The most brutal and vicious of Caesar's ranks, adorned in armor to reflect their conquests. This one's helmet was forged with a face twisted in rage—the only emotion these types knew. Red cloth draped silvery armor useless against bullets. The giant wielded a long sword; ugly as if unfinished, but that was only because it was a bumper put to a grinder. His voice echoed beneath the heavy mask indiscernible orders in Latin.

"I want the legate alive," Clint ordered discreetly over radio.

The rangers dispersed. Spread out, sights set on the squad. Even as the legate faced certain death, he hurled his insults and taunts with no reservation for his soldiers slaughtered around him. He swung his sword, bellowing out as he dared them to fight him one by one. "It takes twenty rangers to take down a legate!"

They circled him. Radio chatter hushed behind their helmets as they quietly coordinated taking down the bull.

"Pathetic!"

Ropes swung. The first one, a noose around his neck from behind, yanked, and the giant fell. Coil after coil wrapped around him, restraining the beast. His sword was soon relinquished by a bullet to the hand and promptly confiscated.. His crown was then torn off, replaced by a gag only to get peace from the incessant spew and growl. For the rangers, not one casualty thus far. Not even a scrape off the rock or grit in the eye.

"Now that we shut him up," Clint started. "Those securitrons stopped firing on them…"

"We were in their line of sight," Lawrence realized. Both looked to the hill the machines disappeared some time ago from. "They're not supposed to attack us."

"Got the party started without me?" A familiar voice announced—Swanson. He didn't have a face that matched the voice on the radio. Rounding the same age as Lawrence, although the weathered face made one think otherwise and on the shorter side, but the man made up for it in width.

A dozen more rangers followed behind him; varying in rank, newer uniforms and veterans alike. Just how many were in on this? Lawrence couldn't help but try to visualize their true numbers. Did so many feel the same? Maybe Marcus did as well—but if he were here now… His mind fogged imagining what the man would do or say. Instead, it was only Vincent's words. Words he whispered in an assuring and soft voice to Lawrence when the man was most vulnerable.

"I saw a whole swarm of them up—"

Bellowing roars silence them. Overwhelmingly loud. Reverberating and echoing overhead. Steely skin reflected the full force of the sun, blinding onlookers below with metal wings stretched out at its sides. Nose propeller spun wildly, diminished to a grey smudge across the blue sky as it soared freely for the first time in uncounted ages.

"What in Sam Hill is that!" Swanson shouted, barely matching the booming plane's reach.

"Let's get to higher ground and find out!"

—

Burned rubber and singed flesh tarnished the air. Those not killed in the slaughter either fled or cowered in Caesar's tent, reinforcing the praetorian guard, but that was the plan. He knew the Legion would sooner die en masse to protect Caesar before he'd ever lift a finger. The securitron hive splintered, securing posts inside the Fort and on the ramparts while a considerable entourage escorted a lone man through the destruction.

He stood at the front line of his securitron army, faced with what remained of Caesar's fractured command—reduced to the praetorian cult. Even faced with death, Caesar reclined on his throne. Quiet as hands steepled together. One palm engulfing a fist. Pretending he was still in control. A confident smirk wrinkled the old man's face and that's when it donned on Vincent; nothing would falter the man's arrogance. Not even the embodiment of his failure when it stood before him. That he knew because it's what Vincent would have done himself, although were captured far too easily.

Vincent plucked the radio from his hip once they reached the bluff and staring across the water for the airfield beyond the lake for what hovered among the jagged ranges, hanging with sparse clouds in blue pastures. A metal dot glimmered. "Lady in the Lake, how's the weather?"

"Bright and beautiful!" The radio chirped. "I'll be directly over our delivery in seven minutes."

"I'll be watching."

The glimmer spun, closer and closer as his own excitement rose. This was the grand finale. A quick deliverance and it would be over with—Done. The Legion crippled. The New California Republic forced into a new treaty. Vincent, finally finishing what he set out to do. Although, he imagined it more fulfilling but then again, it wasn't completely done. Or, maybe it was in Lawrence's vacuum…

"Vicentius," Caesar hissed. An odd smile stretched across his face. One that refused to see its loss. "We meet again."

Vincent turned to the machine posse. Wrangled in their clamps, bound, unarmed, and, maybe, soon to be stripped of life, was Caesar and what remained of his loyal guard—five praetorians. The securitron squad surrounded them. Gatling laser arms raised around in tight half-circle should any get a bright idea. Vincent stared at Caesar. Disinterested, despite a sight to behold with the most wanted man in the Mojave. All his power weathered away. Shoved to his knees and pacified.

"Not even going to chat?"

"You're not interesting company. I know that from experience."

"Remember when I told you what your name means?" Time-stained teeth grinned. Eyes wrinkled as that cocky, husky laugh filled his pause. "To conquer. Veni, vidi, vici. And that you have done."

Vincent plucked the revolver from his holster. The barrel nudged against Caesar's head. He pulled back the hammer. Vincent's daunting glare was unveiled by black lenses, wild and angry as the fires consumed the ruined stronghold. One struck by lightning. "Glad you noticed."

"We could have accomplished a lot"

"I would have accomplished a lot. You would have sat on your ass."

Caesar's lips thinned. His cracked facade twitched. If there was something Caesar loathed, it was insubordination. Someone better than him, and even worse, someone who could prove it.

"That look you're giving me." Vincent's smile budded. He lowered the revolver. "You hate that some vagabond fuck who stumbled into the Mojave less than a year ago did more than you've done in a lifetime. I can think of so many ways to punish you—"

"Punish me?" Caesar spat. "I regret nothing. I did nothing wrong. You will have destroyed the peace I brought to my people. The civilization I brought to 88 tribes." He laughed. Contrived and hoarse, as thought testing the boy's limits even with a gun to his head. "And you call me a monster! Vastator!"

"Should I kill you here or turn you over to the NCR?" Short paces savored the moment but did little to ease Vincent, a frothy boiling pot. He dared to overflow any minute while trying to block out the voice whispering in his ear. Give in—

"No," Vincent shook his head. "They wouldn't put you to use. Maybe I should keep you prisoner in my own casino. Put you in a box like an animal. Charge tourists to gawk at you. The once great Caesar now turned into a pitiful show on the strip he wanted to raze!"

"I know I would do the same to you."

"In my opinion, every option is too merciful for you." Vincent stopped in front of the man again. The revolver returned to a balding head. Cold metal pressed a sweaty brow. Temptation dared him to pull the trigger. His only regret he didn't have a bigger audience.

"You would have made an excellent agent."

"You must like the sound of your own voice."

"Had me convinced you could be a legate!" Caesar raved. "I saw the ferocity. The rage in you festering as you sat across from me. You only needed a guiding hand to focus all that raw energy."

Vincent laughed at the absurdity. "No, you're just too arrogant. Lacking awareness—"

"You think you're nothing like my frumentarii!" Caesar belted back, spraying saliva. "You think I haven't been watching you? You'd be surprised what you have in common with my best frumentarii, Vicentius."

Vincent ripped away. He turned towards the cliff, gazing for that silvery blip, but instead his eyes wandered to a conversation in Caesar's tent. Conqueror. Was it in his name? The one he chose? The boy had no idea of its origin. It was just what fit. He liked it and few could say that about their names. Still, he was nothing like them. Nothing like the Legion or Caesar. He was determined to be his own man. The crook was just rambling on like he was prone to. Trying to strike a chord in Vincent. Invite him to dance with the devil…

Maybe it fit him better than he imagined.

"What could House possibly give you to warrant such loyalty? Such determination and ambition? Unless…" Caesar feigned an enlightened gasp, smiling again. A cocky kind of smile as if he had all the answers. As if he saw the entire board from above rather than realizing he was a piece on the sideline. "You're planning to take over New Vegas for yourself."

"I'm not stupid," Vincent noted. He glared over his shoulder. "You really think the guy who's kept himself alive for two-hundred-something years hasn't been planning for every scenario? As for my ambition, my goals; I'm more than content with my creature comforts and proper compensation—y'know that's what you and the NCR lacked. You really think I want to be an indentured servant to you as a legate or a spy? You think I give a flying fuck about how many concubines, commendations, or shoulder pats you can throw me? Maybe that works for tribals who don't know any better, but not for me. There is nothing you can give me beyond the pleasure of watching you wither away a slave yourself."

"Eastern dam perimeter secured," a securitron declared. "No hostiles detected."

"What a waste," Caesar sighed.

"Oh, boo-hoo," Vincent jeered. He looked to the sky for the crackling engines rumbling towards the bluff. The inevitable finally arrived. Soaring overheard, valiant and sure in its mission. A burning white halo burst behind the mechanical beast as she flew over for but a second. All eyes fixed on the roaring winged giant. Ethereal trails crossed the sky. In minutes, the belly hatch opened. Bombs fell, one after the other. All silenced in their freefall by her victorious growls. Success was noted by earthshaking explosions on the eastern flats and the heat waves that followed in the wake.

"One more win," Vincent announced. "Now, to make the NCR surrender."

—

The legate's camp lay desolate. Bodies of his Legion scorched by laser, still smoking by the time Vincent returned. Securitrons huddled together at the sight of guests. Green and desert beige uniforms around one heavily medaled and sour-faced general. Not that he knew what was about to happen, no, he just looked like that. Glowering at Vincent under hooded eyes, uncertainty hid behind his stoic façade.

"Who are you?" The general inquired, projecting the bare minimum of neutrality.

"My name is Vincent," he announced in the most prideful of tone to date.

A securitron buzzed. The face screen flickered and then Mr. House's enigmatic portrait took over. "General Oliver," he started, voice hinting the faintest of giddiness the ancient man could produce. The machine wheeled over to the two. "I expected you to survive. And you have met my star employee. I'd pay very close attention to what Vincent has to say, as well as any official papers he hands over for your perusal."

Oliver's face twisted. Still unsure what to make of the scene, but bitter no less. He looked at Vincent, lip curled with a foul aftertaste. "These are the terms of your surrender."

"Surrender?" The man spat. He tore the contract from Vincent's grasp. He fumed, flipping through, growing redder and redder with each passing page. "The hell is this! I'm not signing this shit. Just wait until the reinforcements from McCarran—"

Taking a deep breath, his stomach tensed, Vincent projected the will practiced a thousand times over in the mirror. "Let's be realistic, general. It is in the republic's best interest for you to sign this. You'll still get your water, electricity, a vibrant vacation spot. Not to mention the dam is already under our control. I have complete access to all its functions, including energy output and distribution. Do you really think you can stand against an army of machines? How many more thousands of lives do you really want to send to a slaughter out here to take a claim you can't even hold? But you know what? I'll sweeten the deal. You see up on that ridge? I have Caesar, otherwise known as Edward Sallow, in custody. Since I'm feeling so generous right now, you can have him. No strings attached."

—

Desolate, blood-soaked soil retained a rusty scent. Foul, overwhelming, but after so many scenes like it, the stench no longer bothered them. Silent in stagnate air. Eerie silence only a battlefield knew. Up on the hill, the tent lay empty. Rangers scoured the ground, searching for the greatest enemy of their time yet, confused. No soldiers. No guards. No Caesar.

"Legion don't retreat," one pointed to the obvious.

"Think they saw us come up?"

"No," Clint said. "Something ain't right. We would have been ambushed by now."

Tent flaps rustled. Swanson and two others returned from their sweep of the camp. "Still haven't found any live ones," he informed. "We did find a building towards the cliff. There was an open hatch in there. Looked like some kind of warehouse."

"Storage?" Clint pondered, stealing Caesar's empty throne. Banners had since been removed and tossed to a fire. The rangers paused their fruitless search, regrouping with their superiors at the center of the camp where the tyrant's personal section of the tent was ripped apart. Plans, personal effects, everything in the camp seized and scattered to be searched in the command center. "Find any usable materiel?"

"No, doesn't look like the Legion used it," Swanson glossed over his peers' efforts tearing through the pile. "There were a few old robots in there but not securitrons. Saw a picture on one of the inner doors too. Said Lucky 38."

In a second, his entire face relaxed. Demeanor darkened. Mahogany eyes turned black as they flashed to Lawrence. Sifting through the pile, pretending he hadn't heard it. Even Mordecai glanced at him. Clint pushed up from the throne. He marched to Lawrence, boots halted nigh on his hands. "The Lucky 38. Ring a bell?"

"Maybe it's where House was storing the securitrons we seen around here." Lawrence paused, looking up to Clint. He came to his feet. "We know he never had this many on the strip."

Clint cocked his head, taking a step forward. Nostrils flared with every breath. "Bunch of machines pop out. Slaughter the Legion. Then they roll on down to the dam. And do what?" Ranger turned this man Lawrence once wished he had for a father growing up into a stranger. It hurt. Worse than anything his real one ever did. Fear prickled him for the first time in years, color drained from his face, sucked away by a racing heart, as though thrown into a bed of cacti and every nick bled him dry. "Almost like it was planned…"

—

A heavy hand patted his back to the beat of fireworks outside. Grand explosions contained on a long screen running the length of Freeside's strip. Black squares noted where the lights failed. Far too many of them, yet people still watched, mesmerized by the fanciful colors while real ones burst from the rooftops on the strip.

"Well, ya did it, son," Wayne said. "Givin' the likes of Caesar the boot ain't somethin' every man gets to do." He raised his glass. As bitter and snappy as it was small. Vincent picked up his own; a not-so-bad sip the old man convinced him to at least try. A clink brought them together. Then they knocked it back.

"Y'know this ain't too bad," Vincent said, bringing the cigarillo to his lips. Another celebratory thing the old man convinced him to try. Even if just once. A unique taste mixed in with the whiskey at every draw. Easy and smooth. Nothing like the acid vapor Lawrence smoked. Not as foul smelling either. Still, sometimes the faint scent of wandering smoke pulled his gaze.

"What do you got planned now?"

Vincent sighed and gray streams exhaled from his nostrils. "Don't really know what I was expecting," Vincent shrugged. "Don't really feel anything about all of this."

Wayne folded his arms on the bar, leaning forward just a bit as he tipped up his hat for a better look at Vincent. "Why not?"

Eyes fixed on the ring at the end of the cigarillo consuming tan leaves, leaving only ash behind, creeping towards a black band on his finger.

"Don't smoke those!"

"What?" Vincent whipped around. Wide-eyed, he stared at the man who snuck up on him. Dreadfully stealthy when barefoot on the carpet. Frankly, it felt a lot like cheating when he used such ranger tactics against the untrained boy. "I just wanted to try."

The ranger glowered at him. His tight brows were drawn together over disappointed eyes. "It's disgusting. Don't do it," Lawrence ordered, snatching the pack out of Vincent's hands.

"But you still smoke," Vincent pointed out, crossing his arms, and returning the scowl.

"Yeah, because it controls me," Lawrence confessed. "It's a nasty habit I picked up from someone else. I hate it."

A roaring cheer at the roulette tables smacked Vincent back into the present. No Lawrence. Just strangers. Strangers who could never compare to a man he could never replace. A larger crowd than usual poured into the Baron's Bull. The Freeside strip ignited with tourists, the local life, and odd and lively characters. There was something new every time he looked and more to come in the years. People, enterprise, wealth. Yet, it still all felt so lonely.

"I'm gonna call it an early night," Vincent said as he slid off the stool.

"Leavin' already?"

"It's been a long day. I'm tired."

Wayne pinched the brim of his hat and gave a modest nod. "I'll see ya tomorrow."

Explosions bloomed in a black sky. Reds then blues. Purples and pinks together. A brilliant display coloring the night brighter than neon lights. Music blared out the open doors of each casino. Drunken dances spun in the spotlight of streetlamps. Laughs and cheers circled around him like every other night. And then there was the Lucky 38. The one part of the block that didn't see much life beyond the lone soul that occasionally emerged. Once upon a time, not alone. Much like the tallest tower in the city, he stood by himself on the steps. Each one flashed as a guide pulling him into the only place he belonged. Victor waited at the doors as expected. A cheery facade captured in gray watched the commotion beyond, then turned to Vincent as he drew closer.

"Victor, did you also receive the orders I gave the securitrons at the dam? To find Lawrence?"

"Sure did, partner."

"Did any find him?"

A brief pause spun his fans. The screen flickered. "All the shoot been keepin' eyes peeled, but nobody seen 'em."

A dreadful silence followed Vincent up the elevators and into the suite. His imagination was set on fire by every possible scenario, but it was the bad ones stuck on replay. What if Lawrence died there? His heart sank. Tears swelled at the images in his head. Alone and cold, all because Vincent did try enough. Cursing himself for not storming into Forlorn Hope, Vincent stomped down the stairs. He could have snuck in at night! He could have done this or that. So many things… He slumped over the side of the sofa, looking to the blooming sky celebrating what he conquered. He had it all. Everything he ever wanted. A home. A purpose. Wealth beyond measure. A cure in the form of a weekly injection. Things he only dreamed about less than a year ago.

Everything, except one…