Light beamed in his eye, burning a black and purple iridescent ring like a brand on a brahmin. Julie's gaze shifted from one pupil to the other, noting the natural expansion of the left pupil and then Vincent's right—staunchly refusing to expand in the light's absence. The doctor's examination then moved for a quick inspection of his mouth, then ears, and finally she came back around face-to-face.

"How have you been doing?"

"Fine."

"Oh! Your voice has gotten deeper already," Julie noted. A congratulatory smile attempted to coax something out the flatlined patient on her table. Vincent wouldn't say it was deeper, rather tighter; like an oncoming cold gripping his throat for past few weeks. Julie dabbed his arm, beginning the precise routine started with a cotton ball soaked in a solution that left a small patch of orange skin on his shoulder. Then the needle—he wondered when that would be taken away, too. "But you know what I'm talking about." When faced with the most angry and volatile people, Julie had a gift. A soothing voice that matched her soft features and kind words.

Vincent winced at the searing pain burrowing through his shoulder muscles. "I'll survive."

"Survive?" She pressed a fresh cotton ball to the injection site and pressed circles to massage away the sting. "I'd be devastated." Vincent bit his tongue. He already was devastated and would be. It was his permanent state of being from then on. Nobody could compare to Lawrence, and nobody would want him. Hell, the only man who did up and vanished. Only a letter and a few odd items remained in his absence. The letter, his confession. The crystal square, a little chipped on the corners with a scratched label and fragrant liquid inside was the promise to return he wrote in a shaky hand. "It's only been a few weeks. You don't have to face it alone, Vincent."

"Thank you," he whispered, biting back tears that abandoned him as well. A few weeks? No, it had been the longest day of his life. The sun refused to rise or set. Winter held the desert hostage under a cold sun. A creeping chill drained the suite of any warmth, returned it to its impersonable default state, a dispassionate mimicry of life like the countless rooms and floors of casino hotels. But this room had something those others didn't. Ghosts of better days pinned to the walls, taken by a stolen camera that captured fleeting moments in which the brutality of life did not exist. And right next to those polaroids was the ranger's letter pinned by a pocketknife next to the door so Vincent could be reminded of it every day.

But it had only been a few weeks.

Synthesizers hummed, mimicking a notion of displeasure in the artificial voice constructed for the collection of pixels that made up an artificial man. "You look ill."

"I'm not sick," Vincent corrected.

"Very well then. Your current assignment is to eliminate the Mojave chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel."

Vincent's eyes flicked up at the image. The monitor refreshed the portrait of Mr. House and any minuscule amount of concern he may have had disappeared in his voice. Vincent crossed his arms. Indulging in the old man's pause, he waited. Did House get enjoyment from giving orders or keeping people on the edge of a seat that felt more like a steep cliff?

"I have considered putting this task aside until after we have reclaimed Hoover Dam, but the Brotherhood of Steel has resurfaced." House's portrait disappeared. A detailed map of the region overtook the screen. Outdated, Vincent noted, by the way the city sprawl claimed more of the I-15 and the perfect grid of streets, highways, and structures that froze time before a nuclear hibernation.

Precise coordinates appeared alongside a perfect circle encompassing a barren dip made by slopes of mountains somewhere southwest of New Vegas no longer accessible lest one not mind being a deathclaw's snack. The map expanded, homing in on a predetermined path to Vincent's destination.

"Several securitron scouts have gone missing near these coordinates in Hidden Valley—I suggest looking there. As for surviving, I expect you to. In four of six incidents during NCR assaults on Brotherhood strongholds, the bunkers self-destructed. A self-destruct system would align with their uncompromising nature, so I deduce such a system exists in this bunker."

At least Vincent wasn't being led straight into the jaws of death—though House's suspicion wasn't exactly baseless. The NCR's arrival in the Mojave had forced the Brotherhood out of Helios One, dealing them a hefty blow and depriving the Brotherhood of a deadly weapon the NCR still hadn't an inkling of its existence. But this rivalry stretched way back, long before the NCR set its sights on the east, and long before Vincent came into the world kicking and screaming. Whatever papers blew into the tiny town in Yucca Valley with the wind, he always had to read them. It was one of those rare times he got to spend with his mother without tension. Just as she read to him the old books from her own childhood, frayed or loose pages, spines dwindling to thread, and the smell of the glue that held together a world of black and white, they read newspapers. Discussed matters of the world beyond the forest of Joshua trees and across time.

His mother didn't have many kind words for the Brotherhood of Steel. Their motives were an enigma. Whatever perceived sleight the NCR had unknowingly committed against the power-armored hermits was still debated, but the agreed consensus was that the conflict it spurred was long and bloody. For Vincent, they seemed like a myth. Words on a page about former enemies of California that went into hiding some time ago. A mysterious collective that emerged only when some unfortunate soul found something they shouldn't have—technology. Weapons to be specific, as Mr. House corroborated. In hindsight, their presence began to make sense.

The Brotherhood of Steel wanted to be at the top of the food chain. Ahead of any other powers, present and emerging. Vincent figured they thought themselves guardians, protecting wasteland savages from their own ignorance all while keeping "dangerous" technology to themselves. Without a doubt they'd want to retake Helios One for that reason alone, seize an opportunity made while NCR forces were busy defending the dam and other posts. Should they succeed, it would only be a matter of time before they marched on Hoover Dam, then New Vegas and westward for retribution. Their way of life was merely another way to survive and now Vincent would discover who's sense of preservation was stronger.

The staccato rhythm of bullets clattered in their wooden confines as she extracted them one by one. Hushed mumbles accompanied the counting and struck her lone observer with déjà vu. Vincent had been here before. Numerous times with a certain ranger passionate about his weaponry. Like a kid in a candy store, Lawrence perused pistols, rifles, all flavors of ammunition and the accompanying accoutrements with glee.

Vincent swallowed the knot in his throat and withdrew from the counter. "What do you have that can kill a deathclaw?"

The woman paused, her gaze faltering at Vincent's scowl. "Well, have a preference for a pistol or rifle?"

"Either."

"Any survivalist would tell you a standard issue anti-materiel rifle with a long-range scope is your best bet," she explained, resuming her counting and closing one box of rounds before moving on to the next. "A hunter would tell you a revolver shooting 50-70 gov's is more fun."

"Have one I can shoot?"

"Kickback is a bitch on the wrist if you don't know what you're doing. There's smaller—"

"I know what I'm doing," Vincent sneered, interrupting her. The woman stopped, setting the finished case on the pile as fine lines creased her forehead. "Or I can just buy one," Vincent noted at her hesitation, crossing his arms with a displeased sigh. A cocky shrug accented his demeanor. "Toss it if I don't like it. Money's no object to me…"

"Personally," she remarked, moving to the next display case in the counter. Rows of firearms sat on pedestals under a gleaming light—silver, steel, cobalt. All equally attractive. She reached under the glass, pointing to one in the middle row. "This is one of my favorites. If you like revolvers, that is."

A glare beamed along its length, striking in envy in the sun of a cloudless day. Blinding spears warped to the cylinder as he stared down the iron sights. It was an obsidian masterpiece, its glossy black finish reflecting the sun like a sable jewel. The barrel, long and assertive, projected forward with a sense of accusation and determination that seemed to resonate in the quiet air. The grip was a study in elegance, a sculpted curve of chilled black ridges that seemed to meld seamlessly with Vincent's palm, as if the revolver had been crafted specifically for his hand. Each groove felt purposeful, creating a tactile connection that hinted at the weight of power it held within.

Not long ago, he held one like it for a moment. A custom-made marvel, a token of distinction for its previous owner called a Sequoia. Rare and beautiful, but Vincent's was bigger. Not that size mattered—it was how you use it. However, if there was a competition, the .45 had an equal amount of power. It's imposing length and girth was just a boon that would secure its victory.

November winds howled through jagged corridors of a lonely valley. Swirling dust devils twisted down the hillside. Their spectral dances kicked up rocks and debris as they rushed for the scarred and desolate expanse below. Odd mounds punctuated the valley floor, casting long shadows that seemed to reach out for companionship in the vast emptiness.

Vincent's motorcycle stood as a lone specter, its metallic frame muted in the shade against a suddenly silent backdrop. The valley seemed to hold its breath as he began his descent from the stone overlook. With each step digging in uneven and sandy ground, Vincent heard Lawrence's voice whispering warnings in the weak breeze. He tried to ignore the cold voice brushing his ears by mentally reviewing his inventory, ending on the revolver, snug in its holster, providing the most comfort for his lonely mission.

The noon sun cast its glow upon heavy, vault-like doors anchored to every mound. Scratches and gouges etched tales of battles long past, while faded graffiti clung to the metal, frozen in time at the moment paint was put to steel. Nonsensical shapes and illegible forms Vincent imagined were left by the radiation-insane survivors of nuclear holocaust. Ghoulish artists who recalled fragmented memories of better days. He found himself doodling nonsense lately too, knowing too well the mind has a terrible way of wandering despite being weighed down by heavy burdens.

Amidst the cacophony of screaming metal and screeching echoes, intermittent sparks caught his eye. If he had to open one more door, he'd be deaf! Dust scurried. Dust danced in protest, stirring stale air that only aggravated the morning headache clinging to him like an unwelcome companion. Vincent paused, squinting as a faint glow pierced the darkness. Confirming with a lift of his sunglasses, he recognized a real light emanating from the depths of the ancient bunker. Measured steps advanced through the narrow hallway, his eyes fixed on his destination. The narrow hall unfolded into a cavernous chamber. Floodlights stared him down from every corner. The clinking of metal echoed, each sound pounding against his skull as if the encroaching headache wasn't torment enough.

And then, the vault opened.

"Stand down!" The command roared. Vincent squinted against the harsh lights for the looming figures closing in on him. Three emerged from the shadows, not the hulking supermutants he half-expected by their silhouettes along, but power armor-clad enigmas of impervious steel bodies, armed with energy weapons ominously glowing green. Long, vent barrels and robust frames pointed at the intruder. "You are in a restricted area."

"Who are you people?"

"You don't need to know that. Remove all your belongings for inspection." The narrow lenses of the armored figures bore down on Vincent. Behind the patina of tarnished armor, however, was a man— fallible flesh and bone. Killable.

Only when the young man was stripped down to underclothes did the doors behind them open. They escorted him through a narrow hallway, every clank of armor echoing against the cold cement, each heavy footstep on grated catwalks matching the nervous beat of Vincent's heart.

On the surface, the young man's scowl soured. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Soaked his back. Every lingering trail down the curve of his spine or slope of a cheek, the reminder to think quick and fast. Was this really worth the pay? The lofty suite? The weekly concoction that was supposed to fix his body? One wrong move, wrong word, wrong look, and the consequence could be real this time. Not just another brush with death.

The tolling of steel bells ceased at the foot of the stairs. Round seals glowed in neon white, illuminating a vault door. It slid open with a touch to a wall panel, revealing the fortress beyond—an underground labyrinth of winding halls, chambers, and thrumming turrets awaiting orders, all controlled by the enigmatic Brotherhood of Steel. His escorts stopped at the end of the maze. To his right was a door and to the left, people passed in the hallway crossroads. A quick glance slowed their steps as they gawked at the stranger. Not all were shielded by power-armor, Vincent noted.

The lead turned to Vincent. "You are about to meet the elder. Your presence here, this meeting, is highly irregular, so be on your best behavior." With his final warning, he pushed open the door.

Awaiting in the dim chamber were guards clinging to the walls, and in the center sat one man. The door sealed behind him, guided by the leading Paladin, Vincent stopped before the elder. Suspicious glances measured his every move.

"You took an extreme risk trespassing into our facility," the elder's hollow words echoed through the rotunda. Fluorescent lights above him highlighted every wrinkle, flaw, and pock in scrutinizing detail. Not nearly as elderly as his title suggested. "Why did you come here?"

Vincent's scowl softened, and he took a careful step forward. "I'm just an explorer, admiring the natural beauty—I know that sounds dumb." He shrugged, a sheepish smile adding sincerity to his words. "This area used to be a park before the war. I'm not a soldier like the rest of you. I was hoping to avoid any danger."

The elder hummed, nodding in agreement. "Come forward." Vincent obliged, a few more steps taking him to the elder's desk. "What is your name?"

"Vincent."

"Vincent, you are awfully young to be out exploring on your own."

"Well, it used to be me and my father, but he passed a few months ago and I've…" Vincent's shoulders slumped, his gaze averting to the cold floor. "I've just been wandering since. It's what we did for as long I could remember."

"I am elder McNamara."

"Nice to meet you. Quite the place you have here…"

"I am suspicious of strangers as any good elder ought to be," Vincent looked at the man McNamara interrupted, locking eyes with Vincent. "However, I want to make you an offer. An outsider unfamiliar with our association could be useful. I cannot force you to help us and if you decline, I will let you go so long as you swear to never return here or reveal this bunker's location."

"You want my help?" Vincent cocked his head, feigning the demeanor of the meek explorer that would get him out of here alive. "I don't mind helping people, but I'm not sure what I could do for you."

"An NCR ranger has set up a post in one of the other bunkers in the valley. I'd prefer he leave without knowing we were here."

"Oh, well, I can try to…" Vincent shrugged. "Point him to better prospects and keep your secret safe."

"Excellent." McNamara signaled the guard behind Vincent. "Paladin Ramos will escort you back to the bunker's exit." Vincent turned to meet the towering soldier face-to-armor, and in that moment, cold metal coiled around his neck. A hand raised to the new collar, heavy and thick. Vincent wasn't a fan of anything around his neck, especially not explosive collars. "Now, rest assured we won't use this unless you leave the boundaries of Hidden Valley."

Fuck.

A hushed chorus of groans, grumbles, and generally annoyed sputters followed a particularly unlucky, lucky young man across a blinding swath of dirt. Criticisms of a nameless ranger—the one who made camp in a specific bunker or the one who had abandoned him was up for debate. Kicking up dirt and sand as he pushed through, dust devils whirled around him, spitting debris and goading the boy to fight the air. Hands flailed like a windmill. If it wasn't this or that pissing him off, then it was the collar hidden by a scarf, but rest assured, it was always something.

Vincent pried the door open of the one bunker he hadn't gotten to. Cool shadows welcomed him as he stepped inside, with a dramatic swirl of dust following him in the door's wake, kicking him into a sneezing fit that echoed down a long hallway. He pressed on, halting now and then for a sneeze or two. Throbbing pressure pushed against his nose, festering behind his eyes and threatening to unload all its fury for a sneeze to rival a nuke. "Fucking hell!"

"Hello?" A voice returned. Vincent leaned against the wall. Fighting through the terribly snotty onslaught, he searched for the stranger. A kaleidoscope of lights swirled in teary eyes, flickering as something passed in front of them. "Alright now!" Hearty chuckles bellowed beside him as a hand thrust of clump of rags to him.

"Ugh!" Vincent groaned, voiced muffled through gifted rags. "Sorry…"

"Take ya time," the pleasant voice suggested. The rubber soles of standard inssu combat boots skidded against concrete. They were beige to match the landscape, just as scuffed and scraped as the rough skin of Hidden Valley. Vincent looked up to his savior—a ranger indeed. Rich skinned and on the younger side with a rifle slung over his shoulder. "Yeah, you can keep those."

"Oh, a ranger! Thank you."

"What you doing here, kid?"

"Just needed somewhere to hide for a bit."

"Why? You run into trouble?"

"Oh, just sandstorms. For now."

"Yeah, those storms been causing me trouble too."

"Nice to see a friendly face out here, though," Vincent chimed, finally regaining his composure. "I'd shake your hand, but—" He shrugged, a light chuckle followed. "I'm Vincent."

"Ranger Dobson." The stranger tipped his wide brimmed hat. The gold emblem of a standing bear and star shimmered in the center of the body. "You sound like you're from California."

"I am," Vincent nodded. "Born and raised in Yucca Valley. How about you?"

"From Redding myself."

"Oh, up North! I've been there before. I miss the greenery and clean air, oh and this one little place that made the best mutfruit pies."

"I do too," Dobson agreed. "Mojave hasn't been my favorite assignment. And you talkin' about Ol' Georgia's pies!"

"Yes, that's the place, right off the I-5 and 44 exchange."

Dobson patted his belly, "Those were my favorite. Ate a whole pies for myself in the summer—Hey, as long as you're friendly, you can hang out here with me."

"I'd appreciate that." Vincent followed Dobson down the hallway. At the end of the chamber, crumbling concrete, jagged rebar, and jutting pipes caved in the north wall, effectively destroying the only means to getting into the deeper levels. The ranger's supplies and equipment were comfortably strewn about his camp. Disassembled bits of the ranger's radio were organized on the flat top of a chunk of concrete where Dobson returned to his interrupted work.

"Surprised to see you in here honestly," Vincent remarked. "Usually, the powder gangers hole up in these bunkers."

"How you know that?"

"I watch them while scouting for supplies n' things," Vincent shrugged. He joined Dobson by the lamplight. "They usually leave me alone for some minor compensation."

A discontent sigh paused his work. "For real?"

"Yeah, the old prison is just down the road. Not to mention deathclaws from the quarry that'll spook anybody passing by."

Dobson hummed. Thick brows narrowed and his expression tightened. "Well shit, maybe I bit off more than I can chew this time…"

"What do you mean?"

"I've been wanting to set up a safe house here, but I've had the worst luck." Dobson shook his head. He set the radio aside with a defeated sign. "Radio don't work. Sandstorms keep me from getting out and scouting. And, well, those powder-gangers been on my mind too."

"Maybe it's a sign that there's better areas out there," Vincent suggested. "I have a friend who's a ranger, in Cazador company—" Dobson looked up at the boy, full attention captured by just those words. "If he felt something was off, he'd go looking for a better place to set up camp."

"Best know when to fold 'em, right?" Dobson stood up, another discontent sigh exhaled when he examined his humble camp. "Say, what's your friend's name? Cazador company is a bit legendary among us."

"Lawrence," Vincent mumbled. "Lawrence Garret. He taught me a lot about surviving out here." Vincent inched closer to the ranger, abruptly asking him. "Do you know him?"

"Can't say I've met him, but anybody in Cazador company is a veteran ranger. I'm still new on the scene."

"If you do ever meet him—" Vincent paused, his gaze locked onto the deep brown eyes of the stranger before him. They were rich, reminiscent of the bronze mountains that would have glowed under the sun. Parched and dry compared to the cooling oasis Vincent found admiring Lawrence's eyes that could make his heart skip a beat when the man smiles or winked at him.

Fleeting hope teased Vincent. For a moment he believed if he closed his eyes, wished hard enough, he would wake up to the morning he deserved. Lawrence in bed beside him, the two of them preparing for the day, sharing a meal, facing the world together.

"You alright?"

Vincent blinked away oncoming tears. "Tell him to write more often."

"Will do," Dobson nodded. "I'm gonna be packing up soon and heading back to base, I guess. It was worth a shot out here."

"Good luck and get home safe, ranger Dobson."

"You not gonna stay?"

"Thanks for the offer and the rags," Vincent faked a smile, nodding politely and still clutching said rags in hand. "I best be moving. I'm not the sitting type."

Dobson's nod and tip of his hat saw Vincent off. When he returned to the previous bunker the same paladin who had guided him earlier awaited his arrival. Their demeanor, mannerisms, and even the precise marching steps echoed structure from a bygone era—structure that the NCR also drew guidance from. It begged the question: What mysterious force had given rise to such a unique group in the wastelands, far removed from any semblance of civilization?

But a thief always assumes thieves around him. The Brotherhood of Steel definitely thought themselves guardians worthy of their loot. Did they realize what they looked to the 'topside' world? They were terrorists, nearly toppling the republic's economy in a different war. Robbers who stole precious technology that could help grow crops, heal sick and injured, protect from encroaching, bigger monsters like Caesar. Anarchists who needlessly antagonized the budding democratic-republic of California, unprovoked.

The question wasn't whether they knew; it was whether they cared. And Vincent already knew the answer. They were no different from Caesar, their methods and ethics merely less repugnant. Despite the subtler approach, the threat they posed remained the same.

The elder leaned forward on his desk as Vincent approached. A solemn, expressionless face of a strong leader—or so he wanted to project. "After listening to how you dealt with that ranger, you know who we are by now don't you?"

Vincent's face flushed. "You could hear me?"

"The collar has a microphone. You can learn so much by observation alone, from enemies and friends alike."

"Something Steel… I can't remember. It's really all before my time."

"The Brotherhood of Steel—And you are an NCR citizen."

"Well, technically yes, since I was born there."

"Technically, you've helped an enemy of the republic. What do you think of that?"

Vincent shrugged, "I'm not particularly inclined to any association. I prefer to keep to myself and out of other people's fights. You knew that the moment you asked me to help though, didn't you?"

"You're right," the elder nodded. "And the way in which you completed your task was quite compelling. You could have killed the ranger. You could have discreetly told him about us. Instead, you managed to make him leave of his own accord."

"That's what you wanted right?"

"Forgive me," McNamara cracked his facade with a composed smile. "I'm not criticizing, rather praising your work. Perhaps you'd be interested in another task? One compensated by more substantial rewards."

"Excuse me, elder," paladin Ramos spoke up. With a swift motion, he removed his helmet, unveiling a naturally tanned and strikingly handsome face with dark eyes that matched the intensity of his approach toward Elder McNamara. His well-groomed black hair and beard framed a strong, squared face—eerily reminiscent of a certain face Vincent sorely missed. Leaning over the desk, Ramos lowered his voice to a discreet whisper. Vincent lowered his eyes, peeking around the room as if he wasn't eavesdropping. "Is it wise to involve an outsider in our business?"

The elder raised a hand, dismissing the paladin's concern. Ramos retreated back to his post several paces behind Vincent. Only a subtle hint of defeat lingered in his eyes, but the courage to challenge an authority figure spoke volumes. Was there something more going on in this isolated bunker?

"We've lost contact with three exploratory patrols. They were sent topside to search for supplies. If I give you their last known coordinates, will you search there for them?"

"I'd like to help but suppose that depends where you want me to go. Some places out here are very dangerous."

"Ramos, brief Vincent on those patrols. I'm sure there is something our creative friend can think of."

Vincent turned to the paladin. The paladin hesitated, glancing at the outsider then the elder. "Yes, sir." He turned around and hit to the control panel made way for him to march through while Vincent started after him. "Follow me and stay close. Don't go wandering."

That sounded like something Lawrence told him a long time ago under an August sun on a highway to Primm. The pain struck every nerve in him. Creeping down his limbs, jolting him as if he shoved a fork in a socket. Guided by Ramos, Vincent navigated the labyrinthine corridors and chambers of the bunker. In one room dedicated to terminals, the robed collective muttered about viruses and old technology as they labored over tables and keyboards alike. Quick fingers typed in the background. Soothing memories of his time in the junkyard with Johannessy, tearing apart salvage while the old man patiently explained what each piece did to make it work.

Off the hallway, dorms and storage closets filled the spaces between the next larger chamber. Vincent's steps slowed as he got a better look inside. Attentive children sat in conjoined desks, watching the woman at the front of the room announce their lesson for the hour.

A sudden chill seized Vincent. His mouth dried.

"Hey." A heavy hand tapped Vincent's shoulder and he snapped back in the moment. Wide eyes stared up at Ramos. "This isn't our destination."

The last room at the end of the long hallways was their destination. A collection of tables, crates, and filing cabinets surrounded the centerpiece, a digital recreation of the Mojave. Virtual markers pointed to several locations, some of which were obvious to him; New Vegas, Mojave Outpost less than a mile off the border, Primm, NCR installations… "These green markers are the missing patrols and their last known coordinates."

"I recognize this place," Vincent announced as he pointed to the marker in question. "It's Boomer territory though."

"Boomer territory?"

"Some vault dwellers that took up residence in the Nellis Airforce base—they don't like strangers and will fire their artillery on sight. People usually avoid them, but…"

Ramos's thick brows rose, wrinkling a tall forehead. "But?"

"I got close once," Vincent boasted, leaning on the screen's frame. He glanced up at Ramos and continued. "With this thing called a stealth-boy. It makes you invisible."

"What did you learn of these people?"

"I wasn't interested in them, just the salvage in the area. Other than that, they're well-armed."

Ramos hummed. His eyes flickered over the virtual as they. Vincent knew that look. Lawrence wore it often. "Can you infiltrate their territory again?"

"If I could get a hold of stealth-boy again…"

"What about the other two areas? Familiar with them at all?"

"I'm curious about something." Vincent pushed off the tabletop-screen. He cocked his head and crossed his arms as he stared at the paladin. "Why haven't any of you gone looking for your missing people?"

A displeased glance landed on the young man. "We can't."

"You all look more than capable."

"It isn't a matter of capability." Ramos straightened his back, setting the bulky helmet on the table in the process. "We're in a lockdown. Nobody can leave unless they're essential personnel."

"You're all stuck down here on orders?"

"Precisely."

"Why is that? If you don't mind me asking?"

Before any words made it out of the paladin's mouth, harsh screeches funneled down the hallway. A faint smell of smoke followed behind. Ramos dashed for the door, clanking armor and all the while a curious mouse followed behind. Grey smoke thickened with the terrible stench he knew from experience to be electrical in origin. Vincent paused at the outskirts of the terminal room's commotion.

"Damn thing electrocuted me!" The wounded scribe exclaimed, still coddling singed fingertips.

"There was a small fire, but it's out now," another added. She crossed the room to meet her colleague. "We haven't had much luck isolating the virus,

"The terminal did that?" Ramos inquired, looking past the two for their cluttered workspace. Light smoke wafted away beneath a dissolving layer of foam.

The singed man grumbled. "At this rate it's a matter of time before it spreads to other systems…"

"Computer troubles?" Vincent emerged from the hallway. "I'm pretty good with them—hardware and software. Maybe I could help?"

The scribes looked to Paladin Ramos, but his attention was fixed on Vincent. "After you retrieve our missing patrols."

Tread sank its teeth in loose earth, yanking it up like a rug and spit it out a curtain of dirt behind him. Vibrations rumbled through Vincent as he thundered down the highway. His attention fixated on the primal roars of the engine, his grip tightening on the throttle. A flick of his wrist sent the speedometer into a frenzied dance, the growling engine the only anchor to a semblance of a plan—anything to divert his mind from the relentless ache gnawing at him.

The watercolor sunset haunted him in the rearview mirrors. Those moments with Lawrence were now gone, replaced by a solitary tear tracing the curve of his cheek, its journey halted only by the padding of his helmet. Determined, he revved the engine again and again until finally, he brought the roaring machine to a halt outside the imposing facade of the Lucky 38.

Vincent rushed out the elevator, sack and helmet left at the doors. Stomping boots roused House's image on the screen. "What do you know about computer viruses?"

"Does this have something to do with eliminating the Brotherhood of Steel?"

"Yes."

"They are nothing more than programs with a task—How does this further your assignment?"

"Good news is, I can get inside the bunker and have been dealing with them. They're having numerous issues. One of which is a virus in their terminals that they are worried will access other systems." Vincent paced back and forth in front of the monitors. Eyes stared at an invisible plan before him, hands pantomiming to seize victory in the moment. "Let's give them another virus. One that can trigger their bunker's kill switch."

"Plausible," House noted.

"Otherwise, my only foreseeable option is to gain their trust—which I have a route for—then I might gain access to their systems and find the big red button. That's playing the long game though."

"And if your plan to infect their network with another virus fails?"

Vincent's paces dwindled. He stared at the monitor. The unageing and uncompromising portrait glowered at him. "Then I come up with a new one," Vincent declared. "This is the most fast and easy way, for everyone involved."

The elevator dinged, rousing him from a daydream that occupied his descent. He crossed the circular balcony, hoping that the daydream would come true and all he had to do was open the suite's door. Glossy red paint shined under ambient lights. He held his breath. His ears listened for anything alive on the other side, any hint his companion decided to return. If Lawrence was there, Vincent promised to ask no questions. Rush to the man and embrace him so all would be whole again—

Excitedly, Vincent pushed open the doors.

Neon lights seeped through drawn curtains. Colors danced across the tall ceiling, gleaming in the dark like the love he used to feel. Colors fading along with any hope of Lawrence's return. Vincent waded through the thick darkness to the balcony railing, his heart slowing as invisible hands choked his throat. Tears welled in his eyes, a snarl contorting his face. In frustration, he hurled his helmet. Its resounding thud was a fraction of the murky cocktail of emotions driving him mad. The helmet rolled away before any further abuse could be unloaded on it. Instead, it was the stairs that took on the burden of Vincent's malcontent stomps.

This wasn't how things were supposed to be.

Halting at the dresser beneath the staircase, Vincent's fingertips traced the familiar grooves and dips, reconstructing the memory of its appearance in his mind. Palms pressed against the cold surface, and as he gently nudged what he longed for. Glass scraped against wood.

Vincent cradled the bottle, retreating toward the dancing lights that beckoned like playful children behind drawn curtains. Each color begged him to come down and play, forget all about the world beyond the strip and forget all about Lawrence in the bottom of a cocktail glass. He pulled the knob off the crystal square. Timid spurts doused Lawrence's pillow. Surrendering to the sheets, curled up under the layers and protected by one too many pillows, he pulled the special one to him. At least now, he could sleep, coddled by imaginary comforts in hopes of seeing the ranger again in his dreams.

—

"I retrieved one so far."

"That is…" McNamara studied the holotape. It was the last log of a lost patrol. A severed lifeline to the outside world. "Disheartening news. Hope remains the other two are found alive."

"I'm going to look at the map again."

"Thank you," the elder acknowledged. "The day is gone, and desert nights are dangerous topside. You are welcome to stay among us if you wish."

"Thank you, elder," Vincent returned the polite nod and smiled. "I appreciate your hospitality."

Roaming their halls and observing them as people, Vincent's mind kept stuttering over the obvious. Finding the classroom, although vacant now, introduced a new question to him. One that weighed significantly more and asked what Lawrence would think of him. Would it be just another reason for the ranger to abandon him? The Brotherhood of Steel was an enemy of the NCR of course, but to cooly plot their mass murder. That was something Caesar and his zealots did.

"What are you doing?"

Vincent spun around, face to face with Ramos once more. Was the man stalking him around the bunker? "Just walking…"

Ramos's thick brows narrowed. His eyes stared down at the boy, flickering as they studied the outsider. "Some places are off limits."

"Uh, alright? I wouldn't know those places…"

"Elder McNamara ordered me to show you where you can stay for the night." Ramos signaled Vincent to follow.

Following the power-armored paladin, curious eyes studied the magnificent suit of technology. Silent servos whispered in the background, drowned out by the thunderous footfalls of colossal steel boots. A robust frame emerged sporadically from the minute gaps in the mechanized exoskeleton. Thick cords seamlessly intertwined beneath sturdy steel plating, linking every limb and joint to a central nexus on the back. Concealed beneath the protective back plating lay a power core. Miniaturized fusion batteries pulsed within, breathing life into the suit, an exceptionally rare unparalleled energy source distinct from any ordinary battery.

Worth enough to set one up for several lives, stumbling upon one was a prospector's dream. Vincent wondered their full potential when put in the right hands. Someone like Julie could help the thousands of charity cases coming to her daily, use it to power dormant, old-world medical equipment useless otherwise. Surely whatever humanitarian cause the good doctor would use it for was better than the what tech-fanatics hoarding the power cores used them for.

"You seem to have made an impression on our elder." Ramos stopped at a door. One of many identical dorm rooms in a deeper portion of the bunker. By now, Vincent committed his mental map of the bunker to memory, planning for a great escape that had become second nature after running away from home.

"He seems grateful to have help," Vincent said.

"This is your room, for now." Ramos opened the door and Vincent peeked inside at a bland, sterile room. Somehow, Vincent was surprised at the humble décor. "I believe our elder is doing what's right for us. Even if that means enlisting the aid of an outsider. I'm still watching you though."

"Oh?" Vincent retracted from the doorway. "Well, we could always spend some time together. Get to know me. Watch me. You like efficiency, right?"

The paladin's quizzical brows furrowed. Uncertain eyes stared at Vincent and for a moment, lips parted for words he decided to keep to himself instead. Ramos turned away and at three steps down the hall, he looked back to Vincent and pointed. "Just stay out of trouble."

Vincent stifled his laughs as he closed the door behind him. They were a strange bunch of people lacking in fun. Far too serious to find any joy in life. That made them not too different from House by those metrics. He sat on a stiff, made bed. His ears buzzed in the silence. It's sheets were too thin and the pillow too empty for his liking. Colors too bland. Dreary and lacking like he supposed their lives were.

But he wouldn't need to stay.

Humored thoughts evaporated, leaving behind the terrible truth as to why Vincent was here. To kill them. Remove them from House's equation as potential threats and rivals. Deceptively infiltrating their bunker and earning the trust of their elder, Vincent found himself too adept at weaving a web of lies. Too comfortable wearing a façade and pretending to be something he wasn't. Maybe that's why Lawrence left. It was easier to leave altogether, never discuss his fears of who his young lover was becoming.

Vincent hung his head. Trembling fingers pulled the twine around his wrist, bringing forth the underside of the bottle cap. He stared at the blue star obscuring behind the tears gathering in his eyes.

Or maybe he left because of what Vincent would never be.

No amount of wealth or power would ever change him. His glaring flaw forever worn upon his bones like salvaged clothes much too big for him. Tripping over the long legs of pants. Stumbling in boots several sizes too big, soles flying off even when he made a proper step. Clumsy hands unable to hold anything with sleeves in the way, dropping even the most important of items or people. Torn and frayed from being worn by someone never meant to fill them.

His congested snivel was like a bullhorn in his own ears. He wiped away the moisture collecting in his eyes and quietly asserted to himself Lawrence promised to return. Why else would he leave a letter and his cologne among other belongings? Why would he profess his love just to abandon Vincent? Vincent's nails dug in his palm. His joints ached from being clamped so hard as he remembered what Lawrence was. A loyal ranger of the New California Republic for nearly a decade and Vincent… They were shotgun lovers of two months. Of course, his loyalty lay with the republic.

Closed fists slapped his thighs as though it would scare off those thoughts. But the truth was, the ranger had no obligation to him. Nor did Vincent have any for Lawrence. He knew House's plans, straight from Vincent's mouth. Doing nothing would allow Caesar to trample over more people, just as the republic would do so, albeit disguised as freedom and democracy.

Despite House's detachment and unconventional methods, Vincent needed something too. He shrugged off his backpack then reached inside, pulling out a wadded pillowcase he unfolded it in his lap. He stared at the holotape. It was a flat square of lightweight five-by-five metal. Inside, two delicate rolls of black film held instructions that would annihilate a bunker hidden below the surface of the Mojave Desert.

Fingers dug into his knees. The steely case's shaped burned in stinging eyes. Lawrence said everything has a price. Running away from home all those years ago, cutting off years of hair as if it would trim those unpleasant memories as well, taking the name he admired so much and kept to himself like a dirty secret, becoming the boy, and working on becoming the man he always knew himself to be—All of it had a price.

In the eerie stillness of night, when the muffled taps of shoes and clanking power armor ceased beyond his door, the restless young man emerged. He peered around corners and moved through the maze with extreme caution. The sparse night-watch of paladins patrolled the halls, their armored forms casting distended shadows. Hums whirring machinery behind the walls hushed the infiltrator creeping through the corridors. Vincent stopped at his destination. The terminal room housing numerous computers and their delicate parts scattered upon desks and in inventory bins. With a sense of purpose, he approached a lone terminal, its nondescript slot inviting the insertion of a holotape. A single keystroke began the extermination of the Mojave chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel.

He backed away from the machine feeling lighter than air. Ambient hums quickened, and circuitry came to life behind the blank screen. Inside the terminal, a web of activity unfolded, passing from node to node, terminal to terminal.

At that point, Vincent had exactly ten minutes to evacuate the bunker. He planned his escape down to the last detail, even an excuse should somebody stop him.

The chill of the night enveloped him as he leaned his trembling body against the frigid vault door. Overhead, clouds obscured the stars. Sparse moonlight peeked through the granite veil. Wind howled through mountains to the east where he hid his bike, ready to make his grand escape as if it were all a fantastical casino heist. Since activating the virus, the device strapped to his arm warmed his skin, slowly increasing under the weight of seconds. Vincent looked at his pip-boy. Overworked as a tether to the Lucky 38, the surplus of escape time was all for House to siphon information from the infected network.

As Vincent looked to the clock, he held his breath and awaited the grand finale. The fruit of his labor. An applaud to his performance before he'd receive a brief encore from the man who directed the play. The small numbers in the corner blinked, seemingly inconspicuous but laden with the weight of impending doom. Yet, the subsequent shaking was impossible to dismiss—an abrupt and terrible rumble that fizzled out as swiftly as it came. Columns of black smoke emerged discreetly, rising from the emission vents concealed in the desolate valley, marking the aftermath of the abhorrent act he had set in motion.

It was over.

His eyes blinked away the sting. Knees cracked and ached, finally stretching after being frozen bent for too long. Vincent followed a vague trail into the brush. He stopped at his bike, unlocked the boot, inspected for any signs of tampering as Lawrence showed him, and loaded his backpack in the rear case. Then, he sat in quiet isolation. Willfully ignorant of the possibility of danger around him. Was he supposed to just go back home? Celebrate? Mourn? The world still turned. Unseen birds chirped in the distance, joining nature's ensemble with the crickets. The clouds rolled lazily along with the wind as their shepherds. The breeze rustled the sagebrush and juniper clusters, carrying their sharp scent to him as though to shake him out of his daze.

As if nothing had happened at all…

A screeching howl shattered his trance. In a heartbeat, he vaulted off his seat, drawing his pistol from his hip mid-leap. Vague outlines of dense foliage danced in the darkness, and the once-chirping birds fell into an uneasy hush. Crouching low, Vincent's senses heightened, anticipating another blood-curdling scream.

"No!" She screamed again, half interrupted this time.

"Keep making fuckin' noise and I'll cut out your tongue."

Ignoring reason, Vincent darted along the trail, his ears keenly tracking the unsettling please muffled by threatening male voices.

By the flickering glow of a campfire, white eyes gleamed. The captive woman sat amidst mangled blankets, her legs drawn to her chest, arms tightly restrained by a man behind her. A dirty face glistened with a mixture of fear and grime, her hand clamped over her mouth. "I called dibs on her first," the man declared. "Remember?"

The second man sneered; a knife poised menacingly. "I don't want no sloppy seconds.

A surge of fire coursed through Vincent's limbs. His stomach plummeted, and sweaty palms adjusted their grip on the revolver. With unyielding determination, Vincent set his sights on the easier target intermittently pacing the camp. The gunshot thundered, igniting the barrel's end in a brilliant fire as its kickback tested his wrist's strength. A grotesque spray of pulpy blood painted the rough cliffside wall as the man crumpled.

The captive woman screamed into her captor's hands, squirming free as the man's grip faltered. With the roar still wracking his ears, Vincent swung his aim on the second man. Rocks skidded underfoot and the brush rustled. Their eyes me for a brief moment, fear flickering in the stranger's gaze, and without hesitation, Vincent pulled the trigger.

Wailing screams pierced the night. She froze in terror at the figure merging from the brush. Her chest heaved with frantic breath.

"I'm not here to hurt you," Vincent exclaimed. He stowed his revolver quite dramatically and showed empty hands. The girl couldn't have been more than fourteen. Her wide eyes followed his slow movement towards her. "Are you hurt?"

"Who are you?"

Vincent squatted by the crackling fire, his gaze avoiding the apparent overkill —giant holes in both men, one in the gut and the other in the chest. Red flesh mangled, pouring life onto the earth as vacant eyes stared into the void. Both wore the same frayed black denim vest adorned with patches, each featuring a main one of a vicious green snake—Vipers? His attention shifted back to the young woman.

"I'm Vincent. Are there more of them?"

"Not for a few miles," she replied, stumbling through her words. Glassy eyes swelled, reddening around earthy irises. "I thought I got rid of them."

"I'm heading to New Vegas, I can take you there if you'd like—I have a bike so it'd only be thirty minutes or so—If you'd like…" Nervous hands fumbled with each other, and worried brows twitched as he rubbed his neck. "Or I'll just leave you be."

She followed behind him, several places back, boring a hole through Vincent's head with her stare and ready to run if anything spooked her.

"I have food and water," he said, holding out a full bottle. She stood at the bush line, a ratty blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Tight black curls held onto her recent past in small knots here and there and a stowaway twig caught in a loop. Dirtied jeans draped on thin legs below the blanket, worn-out boots clapping against the ground as she approached. "Are you a bounty hunter?" she asked as she took the water canteen.

"No."

"Oh," she mumbled, twisting off the cap then took a sip. "You killed them so easily…"

"They didn't seem like friends of yours."

Stuffy nostrils vied for air. "I thought they were."

"I'm sorry that happened to you."

"How old are you?"

"I just turned twenty-two."

Timid eyes blinked twice, then she said, "You look a lot younger."

"I get that a lot," Vincent confessed. "Sorry, I didn't ask your name."

"I'm Abigail. I'm sixteen."

"You look like you've been out here a while," Vincent noted, offering a tin can. A label taped on its side claimed it contained a variety of nuts.

Abigail took the can, her eyes teary. "I have."

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm—" She stumbled over her words, biting her tongue to fight the tears. Abigail hung her head, a solemn moment until she was ready to look up again. "I live in Henderson. On a farm with my mama and pop." Lips quivered, pleading eyes begged for help. "Can you take me to them?"

"Of course," he eagerly nodded. "Whenever you're ready, take your time."

Braving the chill, the wind, and a fretful first ride on a roaring, sputtering two-wheeled machine, the two rode non-stop to Henderson. She pointed the way down the dirt road leading outside Henderson proper. Distant lights illuminated the humble farmsteads on the outskirts. With each house they passed, her grip on his shoulder tightened. Snivels and tears resurfaced, muffled by an engulfing breeze. She pointed to their final destination, a quiet and small farm, modest fields for crops, and a makeshift shed housing piles of junk. Vincent stopped the bike, and she followed suit, hesitant and uncertain like a newborn calf.

They stood at the property line marked by wire fencing and warning signs for nosey prospectors. Abigail stared at the house outlined by moonlight. Dusty white trim seemed to glow by the breaks in the clouds. Warm firelight lighted square halos around the dark curtains in the windows. "I'm scared," she whispered.

"Why are you scared to go home?" Vincent looked at her as she dabbed her cheeks with the corners of her blanket.

"I was stupid. My daddy told me Gavin was bad. Warned me and I—" Her lips thinned, and she shut her eyes, squeezing out dwindling tears.

"If your family loves you, they can accept you for your faults. Forgive you and move on."

Abigail nodded. She opened her raw and sensitive eyes. "Would you be kind enough to come with me?"

Vincent hesitated, cautious of potential traps or ploys. But maybe it just reminded him too much of what he ran away from. "Alright."

Abigail knocked on the door, and they waited in silence. Muffled creaks sounded on the other side. Soft glow of candlelight caught his eye in the living room window. Quickly, the curtain fell back into place. Locks clicked, and the door rushed open, pulling a draft along with it. An old woman and old man stared at the girl as though she were a ghost. "Abbi!"

Behind the old man, his wife burst into tears. She rushed through the doors; arms open ready to scoop up her daughter like she was a baby again. Through blubbering tears, at least happy ones this time, Abigail explained how she came home. Relieved parents thanked the young man, even offering their own hospitality. For a moment, he considered it.

Instead, Vincent sputtered excuses to get back on the road—his own family waited. He backed away from the door, wishing those strangers the best from then on. If he had taken their offer, maybe he would have a distraction for a moment. Something else to ponder instead of wondering if his mother would have had the same reaction.

Stormy clouds followed him back to New Vegas, lingering overhead as he navigated through Freeside, then to the desolate strip, and eventually up the white tower. Home was an elusive place lately. He couldn't go back to Yucca Valley. The cost of his current accommodation would clearly be a steep trade-off. Maybe if Lawrence was still with him he could bear that weight, but the ranger would never love him if he saw Vincent at that moment, staring at shapes warped in the mirror. He'd see what Vincent really was—the sad and weak little girl he thought he left behind on the side of a desert highway, lost somewhere in California. The very thing he never wanted to be. Vincent squeezed his eyes shut and lost count of the minutes he stood there in the bathroom blind and deaf to anything around him, until he finally opened reddened eyes.

It was time to stop.

He conquered worse. The most brutal slap in the face was only given by reality and he was rightfully given that running away from home at sixteen thinking himself so grown up and ready to face the world. He picked himself up, fought off the daze for five years, living alone and in certain danger. Wandered from town to town and made the most of his struggles until being shot in the head, buried alive, and survived everything that brought him to this very moment. A broken heart was nothing.

Vincent pulled away from the mirror. Teary eyes refused to cry. His frown stiffened. He had conquered so much worse. It was in his name after all.