Scouts intercepted Vincent before reaching his true destination. Fortification Hill was a stalwart natural feature of the desert, jutting up, towering over Lake Mead, and challenging the mountains on the other shore. The military complex sprawled the entire plateau in an organized grid of tents. It wasn't unlike the NCR facilities he had seen so far. The Legion waited, trained, and watched the land across the Colorado. While few engaged him with anything beyond a passing look at the medallion that explained his presence, at least laughs and idle conversation lightened the tension in the NCR facilities. There was only suffocation here.

Surely Lawrence was up by now, probably cursing in harsh whispers when he realized Vincent left without him. Furiously shaking his head and reiterating what a stupid move the boy made all while Vincent hoped the ranger wouldn't follow him. It would be a death wish even without a wounded leg. And, Vincent was beginning to think same of his presence here. The soldiers at the gate held his guns and anything they deemed "contraband" hostage. That was when the grave realization set in. He could die here, and no one would help him. They'd cheer on the violence that was the only language they truly understood. Or maybe something worse would happen if they somehow found out his little secret.

Burning rubber choked the senses. Searing meat mingled in the foul smell. Dust flailed along a lazy breeze as he trekked up a winding dirt path to the flat of the plateau in the company of two grunts. Some part of him hoped the talk in the newspapers and on the radio was just that—all talk. Rumors and superstition about the enemy. But thrown into the epicenter of it all, Vincent was beginning to think it was worse than most people knew.

Slaves were the lowliest of things here. That was a well-known enterprise of the Legion, but there was something intangible about just reading about it. Seeing it, however… They were everywhere, standing out with bodies that bore the unmistakable signs of Legion "discipline"—whip marks, burns, malnourishment… Men labored tirelessly under the watchful eyes of their captors, clearing land on the outskirts of the camp, hauling supplies, and erecting new accommodations for the growing number of soldiers. Their movements were mechanical, as though they accepted their fate and their souls had long since left them.

Deeper inside the beast was where he saw the women slaves. Two rows of tubs overflowing with sudsy water occupied a group of women of varying age. They'd thrash and rub cloth against rough boards, heads hung in silence to not arouse the soldiers' ire. Waiting off to the side of his escorts' path was a young woman, holding a basket of dirty clothes for the other women across the way. She briefly looked up, meeting Vincent's critical gaze. He looked over his shoulder, following her shuffle over to the washing girls where she emptied her load into a tub and Vincent's gaze lowered to her rounded belly. His stomach churned.

Two guards stood outside Caesar's tent. Praetorian, as he overheard. The elite guard of the mighty Caesar dressed to match the title in elaborate armor of reclaimed metal, polished to a shine and laid out over leather. Their helms were silvery, adorned with lush red plumes fanning from the crown. They were armed with not just pensive stares on the stranger, but long shafted spears and automatic rifles.

The two guards flung open the tent flaps to the largest of facilities in the camp. A short foyer led to a small courtyard setting open to the vast sky above. Praetorian guards stood in every corner. Other ranks were occupied elsewhere in the command center gathered around the throne Caesar himself was perched upon.

It was certainly too late to turn back now. Tunnel vision blacked out everyone else in the tent except for Caesar as though that would diminish the dangerous situation he had put himself in.

"So, I finally get to meet the kid I've heard so much about." The man leaned back in his chair adorned with three Legion banners. He himself, was a rather unnoticeable man, albeit for his reputation as a warlord and enemy of the republic. Balding, middle-aged, not much taller than Vincent—He had expected someone more intimidating. "You know why I wanted to meet you?"

"I haven't been told yet."

"This whiny shitbag shoots you—" Caesar gestured to his side—Benny. Gagged. Bound. Wearing the sullen face of ultimate defeat. Completely helpless, just like Vincent was when he was ambushed. "Nearly kills you and you follow him back to Vegas? Then my frumentarii told me you waltzed into the Lucky 38 like someone left you a key under the doormat. Now the head of the chairmen flees the strip like pathetic whelp he is." Caesar leaned forward; aged eyes narrowed on the boy as a twisted yet humored smile tugged lips. "When you set your mind to something, you get results. I like that."

Him? Vincent? Blundering around the desert, narrowly escaping death, then trekking on some ill-conceived revenge mission—He wouldn't exactly ascribe anything that happened in the past month of his life to being cunning. However, the old man unwittingly just revealed his hand.

"So that's what this is about?" Vincent asked. His mask delicately stoic, hiding those vigorous beats thumping his ribs. A guarded smile added to his projection. "You want me to do something for you?"

"Correct," Caesar nodded as a precise wave summoned a guard. Hands exchanged something too small to see. "You may have seen that old building at the west edge of my camp. Inside is a floor hatch, and inside that hatch are two steel doors that bear the sigil of the Lucky 38 casino—Now, I was under the impression Benny had this, but you've proven to be a step ahead again."

"I see where you're going with this," Vincent said, staring at the chip pinched between weathered and callused fingers.

"There are rewards for doing as I command," Caesar added. Eyes gauged the boy's interest with a cock of his head. "Today, your reward is vengeance. You get to decide how Benny dies, but first—House sent you here with this for a reason, am I right?"

The question caught Vincent off guard. "He didn't specify what exactly—wanted to save that until I actually got here," Vincent explained, hoping he hadn't hesitated too long. "Something to do with old-world technology…"

A husky chuckle battled the tense atmosphere of the tent. "All the more reason to destroy it."

"I understand you have… quarrels with Mr. House."

"House is a coward who hides behind his robots. An inconvenience hidden away in his tower, but you have been inside." Caesar shifted in his seat. A wagging finger accented an already forceful tone. "You can get close to him."

"I know how to remove House," Vincent said, mimicking a thoughtful tone. "But, if I don't follow through with why he sent me here, I can't get back into the Lucky 38. Let me see what it is first—"

"If you do as I say, you'll be rewarded ten-fold. Whatever he's offering." Thin-lipped smile bore rather unflattering teeth. "Money, wealth, women, a cushy position in the Legion…" Caesar's gaze turned to his side, raising his weathered hand to direct him to the man Vincent had been looking for. "Tell me what's down there and he's yours."

It was an old weather monitoring station—according to the sign outside. Small, not as important as it seemed to be until one ventured in further. Guards stood at the door. More loomed inside, watching him as he moved from console to console. The sounds of their beeps and whirring fans filled the silence. A barrage of screens and buttons lit up the room in hazy white. He finally paused at one console. It had a small slot, just the size for a poker chip. A sense of déjà vu clouded his mind as he set it in the slot.

Metals screeched beneath his boots. The hatch in the center of the room slid backwards, concealing itself in the cement floor. Vincent peered down the stairwell where another set of doors inside.

"For this mission, Caesar ordered your supplies returned." One guard brought forth a crate of his belongings. Pistol, ammunition, and everything else he relinquished. "To reiterate his commands, destroy whatever is down there."

The air was stale after being locked behind those doors for two centuries. The thick smell of dust dried his throat. Bright fluorescents lights buzzed overheard. Like the Lucky 38, it was another tomb that encased artifacts of a long dead world. His echoing steps brought him the fortified doors at the bottom of the stairwell. Not as heavy and impenetrable as the hatch but it would keep scavengers looking for a quick cap, and maybe Legion soldiers too. The door demanded great effort to open it, but when he did, the hatch behind him sealed shut.

Well, at least he wouldn't have to worry about nosy Legion following him inside. The door opened to a small room. Consoles and their displayed cluttered this one too. They were all dark until he stepped inside and black slowly transitioned to a nauseous green dimmed a bit under centuries of dust.

"I see you've reached your destination safely." Mr. House's ageless and monotone voice spoke first. "Let's get to work shall we?"

"What did you need me to do here?"

"You must manually upload the data from the chip to the facility's primary computer. There's a terminal at the other end of this facility. Just follow the hallway," House explained. "However, I cannot disable the security as I can only transmit to this location, not exert control."

"What kind of security?" Vincent crossed his arms. Briefly, he wished the ranger was with him.

"Five protectrons and four laser turrets exactly," House stated. "The control consoles are still active. You may be able to disable them, provided you are skilled with terminal functions."

Vincent hummed displeasingly, but here was here. There was no leaving without moving forward. "I'll figure something out..."

I'll figure something out… He always did, but this time was different than scraping caps together for a meal or bed to sleep in. Too many what-ifs bubbled to the surface. What if Caesar wasn't convinced? He had to conjure up something to satisfy the warlord, anything to persuade him that ended in Vincent leaving unscathed.

The further he descended into the basement, the more the chill seeped into him. Sweat-dampened clothes clung to him like a second skin and the hostile Mojave sun didn't seem too bad. One machine roamed the hall off to the console room; a protectron model. Not particularly intimidating like securitrons. They were slow, clunky and loud, and if you tipped them over—which they were prone to— they took quite some time to stand back up. However, they were equipped with lasers. Simple lasers, but still burned worse than any fortune lost at the tables when they hit. Once it turned away to complete another revolution of its centuries-old patrol, Vincent crept past the unit and into the adjacent room.

Lockers lined one wall, either empty or filled with useless parts and tangled wires in their door-less cubby holes. At another wall, a terminal sat on a desk glowing beneath a light coating of dust. Vincent recalled a few tricks from his time working in the scrapyard back home. Terminals could be tricky or easy, depending on what they were used for when they were useful. Vincent searched his satchel for the notebook. It was an inconspicuous thing he was glad to have for these instances. He flipped through pages of notes of disjointed topics, places he had been and the things he had seen, as well as passing thoughts on the way. He could never memorize the programming lines unlike the scrapyard owner and that was when he started the notebook.

Lines rushed past him on the screen. Some of it he could make sense of, but the odd tag or variable here-and-there was nonsense to him. A disapproving beep chimed. He wasn't particularly gifted with old-world programming, but he'd be here a while anyway. Dust clung to clammy fingertips. The protectron's heavy steps passed in even intervals. Each time Vincent counted. That was the only means to keep track of time without looking away from the screen.

Then it beeped approvingly.

Idle protectrons wandered the empty hallways, oblivious to Vincent as he rushed past them. Powered-down turrets hummed in ceiling corners. Their motion sensors blinked, disarmed to blind red eyes now. For a fleeting moment, he thought maybe he wasn't just blundering after all. Turning off the last corridor into the final room, he paused. Windows stared into blackness on all sides. Dust and grime caked on fogged glass. Even with working consoles buzzing and whirring, chilled mist lit the icebox in an eerie glow.

He shuddered, pressing onward. An eager voice in the back of his head urged him to get out. Stepping to the command center and supreme view out on the ghostly bunker, the last terminal he would need stood under a window. He didn't think twice before shoving the chip in its slot. The monitor flashed from abysmal black to blaring white. A plethora of tabs hovered at the top containing every function, section, from the lights to the power system. He cycled through them, looking for something to make use of when he ended on the power system. It was a redundant system, containing a spare engine should the primary one be affected. He fudged a few operating parameters in the hopes it could overload the engine and destroy it. However, he hesitated to push the key.

A new glow stole his attention. It came from the other side of the smudged windows. Thousands of them. Endless rows of securitrons stretched the length of the warehouse's expanse. All awaiting to fulfill their purpose. House declared they would stay here until needed, then they'd emerge like a swarm of cazadors on Caesar's camp once given the order. A preemptive strike before the bulk of the Legion's forces could descend on the dam.

The sight of them didn't comfort Vincent. He smashed the key and darted out the room. The platinum chip sucked the warmth from his palm. He was half-way through the hallway when a resounding boom shook the concrete walls. Legs picked up speed he didn't know they had. His chest heaved, sucking in greedy breaths. The dry freeze numbed the back of his throat. He had the sense to stop and catch his breath once he made it back to the first room. The marching protection in the hallway stomped an idea into his head.

Easier than disarming them, he re-engaged the security measures. If for any reason the Legion ever gained access to the bunker, they would have opposition. Just in case, Vincent figured. Would Caesar think to look? The thought terrified him. Double down and call Vincent's bluff. The machines would vaporize any intruder, even a fly.

Once outside, summer heat washed over his skin. He felt every pore open up, ready to squeeze out heavy droplets, each one for a different scenario. A different conclusion of his fate in playing out in his mind. He was so close to getting gout, and there was only one way. Legion guards, unfortunately, confiscated his belongings again. He didn't see why it mattered. He was woefully outnumbered and outgunned. All seemed normal on the short walk back to Caesar's tent. Soldiers were still training, beating submission into the younger troops and slaves alike.

"I felt a tremor." Caesar's strong gaze watched Vincent approach him for a second time, as though evaluating and picking apart every little thing about Vincent. "What did you find out?"

"House was in search of an important program stored here before the war," Vincent stated. "It would bring the reactors online underneath the Lucky 38 so they wouldn't have to rely on power from the dam."

Caesar grunted. "That's it?" Scrutinous eyes glared but didn't remain on the boy long.

"He's planning for the inevitable battle. You know how his kind can be. Want's everything to be business as usual."

"Figures," Caesar balked. "It will be useless once I march on the strip."

"While I am still in his good graces, I can use this chip to get access to him. He thinks I have a copy of his program on it," Vincent said. An air of confidence filled his lungs, even as he found himself flooded with adrenaline. "He'll let me back in and from there, I can take care of him. It needs to be done as quietly as possible, otherwise he'll see right through me."

Caesar sighed. A reluctant nod followed. "House doesn't deserve quiet, but I see the tactical advantage. What of his securitrons on the strip? Can they be controlled?"

"Yes," Vincent said. "Once House is out the way, I can take control of those securitrons—"

"Sic them on the NCR first," he chortled. "Before I let you go—" Some relief washed over Vincent at those words. At least Caesar was planning that much, but clearly it had stipulations. "I promised you Benny."

Vincent looked at the man gagged and bound by his wrist. The once chairman had it all, things Vincent could only imagine; wealth, friends, maybe family, being born a real man. "He almost killed you, so you get to decide what to do with him. Crucifixion, fight him in the arena if you want an audience—Anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

"I want something hard and blunt."

"Praetorian," Caesar barked. A guard approached, lead bat wrapped by barbed wire in hand.

Benny shook his head. Pleas were muted by a gag. Vincent's clammy palms soaked the rubber grip, gathering its gritty pills between fingers. He finally had the chance to kill the man who had nearly taken his life, handed to him by a different enemy. There was something so satisfying seeing Benny as defenseless as Vincent was all those weeks ago. He had thought about this moment as soon as he woke up and now it was in front of them. Vincent found himself taking steps towards Benny. Yet, too many voices clashed in his head, wondering if he could, if he would, and some pondered if he wanted to.

That night haunted him. Flashed across his mind's eye when he only wanted sleep and peace. Jolted him awake in nightmares. The taste of dry, dusty soil still lingered in the back of his throat. The shape of his grave burned into an eye like the unchanging shape of the pin-point pupil and scar he was forced to wear. A reminder that stared back at him every day.

He studied the man's horrified look, the pitiful way his brows cinched together, how he shook his head as squeaks barely escaped his throat. Vincent's scar ached. His rising pulse made it throb. Static polluted his vision and rang in his ears. He didn't remember making the decision to swing, just that he did. And kept swinging. Eventually he took control of his own body again. His audience was patient. Silent. Surely reveling in the act. Maybe even admiring such ruthlessness.

"Few pleasures compare to the destruction of an enemy," Caesar reflected. His tone softened to something more akin to nostalgia.

Vincent threw the dented bat aside. His lungs vied for air. Sweat streamed down his forehead, mixing with the blood splatter painting his skin and staining his clothes. Every nerve in his limbs fired, shocked by a great surge. Eyes refused to peel away from the mess he surprised himself with. It happened so fast…

Vincent straightened the ache in his spine. He pulled back shoulders and looked at Caesar, wondering if he was supposed to feel something about this. He imagined he find relief. That his almost-murder wouldn't bother him anymore. There was nothing, though. Just fading adrenaline that would leave his limbs shaky.

"I was very interested in what you might do." A stained grin curled Caesar's lips. Wrinkles creased an aging face. It was a test. He wouldn't let Vincent leave without any indicator for the young man's seriousness of serving his Legion. An idea of how well he could fit in with the army of ruthlessness, and Vincent had passed. "Vincent…" Caesar muttered. "Vicentius. Do you know where that name comes from?"

"It sounds like some of yours."

"It's the name of a conqueror. It's your name, and you live up to it." Caesar pointed to what remained of Benny. "That is what I would do." He stood up from his throne, "Come with me. We have some things to discuss, Vicentius."

Vincent squinted against the ascending sun as he emerged from the tent, his gaze drawn to the imposing figure leading the way. Walking in the wake of the tyrant, he found himself granted a panoramic view of Fortification Hill and its sprawling sea of foreboding red numbers.

Caesar looked on with pride at the training circles clamoring below. Instructors barked commands at the orderly rows of young boys. The boys moved with disciplined precision, not a step out of line, until one out of a dozens faltered. The commanding figure bellowed a single order, his determined stride cutting through the ranks of boy soldiers. Tertiary training formations paused their practices to watch. With swift efficiency, the protesting child was yanked by his arm to the front in full view of his peers and made a brutal lesson out of.

Vincent's brows narrowed witnessing the scene. The boy's wails and the red-cloaked instructor twisted his gut and sent his blood ablaze. "Where do you get your numbers from?"

"Conquered tribes make up the bulk of my legion's soldiers," Caesar explained. "Breeding quotas add to that." Vincent's glare homed on Caesar. He clenched his jaw so his mouth wouldn't give away his disgust. "These children will be made into men in time to conquer Hoover Dam."

"You take the children from the tribes you conquer and make soldiers out of them? That easily?"

"I hone their savage nature. Beat them into submission like attack dogs."

Caesar's expression was neutral on the scene concluding below. The boy was dragged off, weary, bloody, and barely standing while training resumed with a renewed fervor in the terrified boys below. Vincent's mouth dried as he forced himself to ask, "you make soldiers out of the boys. What of the girls?"

"Slaves. They cook, clean, and entertain the soldiers however they want. Prove yourself useful to me and you can have your own harem—those teenage hormones would appreciate it," Caesar said, a disgustingly casual and humored tone in his voice. However, it was in those kinds of remarks Vincent learned how Caesar saw him—male, albeit a child apparently. "Come. I'll show you what my soldiers are truly capable of."

Following Caesar through the labyrinthine camp, Vincent struggled to shake off the unsettling image of the boy's torment. Red banners stained with the blood of all they conquered reached for the sky, billowing in the breeze and forcing the eye to notice the gold bull emblem. The sprawling camp wasn't any different than Vincent saw of the NCR's installations, aside from the tension electrifying the air. Legionnaires were terrifyingly focused. They didn't lounge about in the shade, playing card games or idly chatting to pass the time.

Slaves toiled silently under the watchful eyes of Legion guards, their labor a silent testament to the harsh realities of life under Caesar. They propped up his army, carried their literal burdens on blistered feet and bruised backs wearing rags, scars, and faces resigned to their fate. The crack of a whip startled Vincent's heart. The wail that followed rang him like a bell.

"Why does your army need slaves when the NCR doesn't?" Vincent asked, his voice tinged with obvious displeasure at the sight of a beaten man tied to a post whose mangled back was exposed to the sun. His peers flinched at the next whip. They were lined up as though made to watch, or maybe they were next. The female slaves were where Vincent expected to see them; submissively watching at the sidelines with haunted eyes as they went about their tasks cooking, bringing food and drinks to soldiers gathered in the commons or taken by the wrist to some lowly foot soldier's tent despite their pleas.

"The NCR has its own slaves. They call themselves the working class, soldiers, farmers, but their purpose is the same," Caesar explained. "It's a fact of life you're either a slave or a master."

"Don't you ever fear a revolt? Uprising?"

Caesar laughed. Deep lines creased the prickly graying shadow on his cheeks. "Until now, every tribe I've conquered has been so backwards and stunted, enslavement has been a gift bestowed upon them. It's given them a purpose, direction they lacked, safety they never would have had otherwise, safety the NCR can't give their own citizens. They wouldn't dare defy their god."

Vincent was lucky Caesar didn't notice the boy's glare fixed on him in place of a knife at his throat. He bit his tongue for his own survival. The old man yammered on, flapping wrinkly jowls, and hawing his criticisms of the NCR. Vincent drowned out his hypocritical and ego-centric opinions, remembering to make some noise or words to indicate his interest every now and then, but he saw all he needed to see to understand that the stories in the newspaper, the talk on the radio, and even what Lawrence told him was horrifically understated.

In the center of the training grounds, an armored audience roared around a large, recessed pit. The soldiers parted for Caesar, letting him and his esteemed guest to the vantage point on aa higher viewing platform. Two legionnaires clashed in a fierce duel in the arena below. The clang of weapons and their labored grunts filled the air. Vincent winced at the steely bang, but quickly became accustomed to the music. Their blades swung in a deadly dance. Their ruthless skill was without inhibition even for their own kind. The fight reached its climax when one of the combatants fell to the dusty ground, disemboweled as his brothers in arms cheered for his slaughter while Vincent discreetly stole a glance at Caesar. The warlord's eyes followed the entire spectacle with an expression of satisfaction.

"Only the strong survive," Caesar declared, raising his voice above the audience's glee.

"In the NCR, people don't have to prove themselves worthy of living," Vincent said.

Caesar's chuckle sent a child down Vincent's spine. "The NCR is a loose conglomerate of individuals looking out for themselves. It's lost virtue. Strength is virtue."

Vincent met the man's hooded brown eyes, rearranging his words so not to offend the man for his own sake. "Is it true you're from the republic?"

"I don't keep it a secret, which is why I know it's the most powerful enemy my Legion has faced. Also, the first to which I am ideologically opposed to. Greed runs rampant. The government is corrupt, accepting bribes from brahmin barons and landowners, to the detriment of citizens. The list goes on…" Caesar explained to the young man finally expressing genuine interest. The arena's audience dispersed once the excitement and body in the pit disappeared. One man remained below to which Caesar took notice of and signaled him to approach. "The NCR has grown weak—democracy has made it weak. It's not built to last. I'm just hastening the inevitable."

And quickly Vincent's kindling interest was fed to fuel the burning hate for this abhorrent individual he had the misfortune of being in the presence of. Beneath Caesar's aging veneer, Vincent failed to see the reason behind his onslaught. He doubted there was a reason beyond a hunger for power and distaste for any who lived or thought differently than him.

"I believe you have already met Vulpes Inculta," Caesar said, snatching Vincent out of fantasies disposing of him in the most ironic and satisfying ways. "The best of my frumentarii."

Vincent looked to familiar man climbing the steps of the platform he had hoped to never see again. "I remember him. What are the frumentarii?"

"They serve unique purposes," Caesar said. Vulpes approached him respectfully, bowing first before a stern glance met Vincent. Instead of the unflattering tweed suit, Vulpes wore the Legion's colors and replaced the fedora with a fox's mantle. He couldn't wear human skin naturally, however.

"This tour has been… enlightening," Vincent said. "The republic's propaganda doesn't do the Legion justice."

"There are many rewards for doing as I command," Caesar announced as a heavy, rough hand gripped Vincent's shoulder. He mused the grip sought to convey dominance, a reminder of the puppet strings that now connected him to the Legion's leader. "I can see it in your eyes and in the way you disposed of Benny that have ambition in you. You need to only hone it."

Vincent glanced at the vile hand on his shoulder and imagined liberating it from Caesar's arm with a machete. "I certainly have seen the perks here. All the more reason I should return to New Vegas."

"Excellent," Caesar nodded. "I must return to the war room. Vale."

Vulpes bowed at Caesar's departure, only rising once the tyrant reached the last step of the short flight. Vincent's sharp gaze fixed on the sight next to him. "You are frumentarii? What is it you do for Caesar."

"Frumentarii are capable in battle and skilled as infiltrators and agents. We do whatever Caesar commands his other followers cannot." Vulpes turned his hollow expression to Vincent, catching the boy's mismatched pupils set in chilly irises. "Caesar believes you can be a valuable asset to the Legion. I have suspicions a profligate can be useful, let alone a woman."

"Your perception is lacking, alleged spy—I'm just a young man," Vincent retorted with the same mocking tone.

"I fail to see how a child is any better." Vulpes's neutral expression cracked for a second, furrowing his brows at the slight. "Naïve. Inexperienced. You may as well be the same."

"Your insecurities beam like neon lights through your thinly veiled threat. I'm here because Caesar needs me," Vincent remarked. His heart raced, sensing an impending confrontation. "Assumptions are just one of my weapons I don't have to forfeit at anyone's gate."

"You'd do well to learn respect."

"You don't impress or intimidate me," Vincent scoffed, even though that was far from the truth. "Now, I'm leaving to fulfill that purpose you can't."

Vincent started down the steps, listening should Vulpes lunge after him. In reality, that wouldn't be a good idea, given Vincent was right that Caesar needed him. Vincent clenched his fist marching towards the gates just to minimize the adrenaline rattling his nerves and maintain the façade that would be his armor when in the midst of Legion thralls. The attitude was a convincing one it seemed, molded after the sights and behavior gleaned from Caesar's slaves. Merely another dance of politics and power Vincent would have to perfect for any future encounters with the repulsive cult of glorified raiders.

While seeing the Legion for himself answered Vincent's many questions about them, it didn't tell him how a man like Caesar came to be. Life wasn't easy in the republic. It wasn't easy anywhere, but it was better than what the warlord inflicted upon eighty-six tribes and countless others he drove to extinction under a misguided vision to liberate humanity. Caesar wasn't entirely wrong about the New California Republic. The nation had its shortcomings, but the republic survived for ninety-five years. Thrived compared to the rest of wasteland eroded by the likes of Caesar.

Regardless of arbitrary superiority and purposes —be it Mr. House's reflections of a bygone world, the republic's manifest destiny to liberate the uncivilized wasteland with democracy, or Caesar's vision that was the same, albeit with fire—none told of a turning point of character. However, Vincent realized his question was founded upon the assumption that all were born with an altruistic moral compass to begin with. Perhaps, he thought, it had been the wrong question gnawing at his mind throughout the entire trek to the Fort—Was the cause itself inherently just?

Vincent forgot how he feared he would never leave Fortification Hill until he was already on top of a mound overlooking the tents of Camp Golf. Tired legs barely remained straight on the descent. They had expected more climbing, more struggle, and then to be faced with the ease of the hillside. It took all the more effort to keep moving after no resistance. Too many eyes watched him come through. Soldiers in the tower observed the oddity. Alone, dirtied, blood splattered, and a wild look in his eyes. Barely armed and exhausted by the sun. None of them even so much as moved from their post to raise a rifle at the young man. Loitering soldiers and rangers filled the common ground. Hesitant to speak to the strange sight. Vincent would have ignored them anyway.

Rich smoke and cooking food rattled his stomach. His mouth was dry. Uncomfortable and sweat-drenched clothes clung to his skin. He promised he wouldn't rest for anything until he had returned to Lawrence. A familiar face stood among them—rather sat among them on a bench, until he did stand up. Scowling and favoring one leg over the other. Vincent knew he would have to deal with Lawrence one way or another. He figured coming back alive would soften the blow.

"What happened?" Was the first question when Vincent stopped. Unknown faces watched in curiosity but maintained their conversations and card games. Vincent stared at Lawrence because for a moment, he forgot how to speak. What words to say or how to say them. What was the most important thing to tell the ranger?

"Were you hurt? Whose blood is that?" Lawrence stepped forward. A bare hand rested on Vincent's shoulder. Too warm for already sun-burned skin.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Lawrence disagreed. "Look sun-sick. Get some water and sit."

Lawrence closed the gap between them, pulling the boy into a hug. Arms were slow to wrap around Lawrence, but once Vincent felt the reality of the ranger. Felt his solid bones, strong muscles, and tender flesh unguarded by armor. He breathed in the cologne covering up the smell of cigarettes and listened to a gentle, caring voice hushing whatever shadows may have followed the boy. Only then did Vincent come back into reality. His grip tightened, pressing himself against the man's chest.

"You're alright," Lawrence whispered.

If he climbed high enough into the mountains that made Yucca Valley, sometimes he thought he caught a glimpse of the ocean. That illusion shattered when he saw it for real. Sparkles on an endless horizon. A watery blur of blues, red, oranges, all unfurling in the clouds and branding the scene in his eyes. He was unable to look away, and no longer afraid of the height of his vantage high above the Boneyard in a tower, creaking with the ocean breeze. He never wanted to look away nor leave that perch. No sunset would ever be good enough again.

Or so he thought.

Dying light cooled on his back. Ahead, the water of Lake Las Vegas flowed into the sky. Inky blue lapped up orange carnation petals in silence. Lawrence went through maybe four cigarettes and one beer planted into the sand while he studied the quiet boy. Vincent still wore the same look in his eyes when he came down the hill. Hollow, stabbing with every glance. He didn't mean it though, Lawrence knew that. He was given that look after a dance with fate. Not once, not twice, and maybe not even thrice.

Lawrence reached to Vincent, setting a hand on his back. A touch of comfort when all involved knew words wouldn't do was all he could offer. Vincent would speak in his own time, but Lawrence couldn't help and wonder what happened across the river. He took another draw of tobacco and leaned back as smoke was spirited away with the breeze. Another glance pondered if he ought to at least say something. He licked hesitant lips, bracing for whatever may happen as his gaze returned to the lake. "I wanted to tell you something."

"What's that?"

"I didn't tell you before the other day, when we were discussing all that—" He swirled his hand about in place of words. A string of smoke followed the trail from the lit stick. "—stuff about House, the NCR…" Their eyes met and the ranger hesitated. "I didn't tell you why I'm on leave."

"I thought everyone got some time off here and there."

"True," Lawrence nodded. He returned the cigarette to desperate lips. Another deep inhale burned his mouth, numbed his tongue, and funneling down his throat to be absorbed into the rest of him. "It was because I did something stupid. Found someone who said he had info on Legion movements, told me about one that matched the guy I'm looking for." Little puffs collected irregularly before he finally let his breath go. "He wasn't as forthcoming as I liked so I had to coax it out of him a bit."

"And that got you in trouble?"

Lawrence scratched the scruff of his chin. "Well, that and other things." He leaned forward and winced, moving the leg that shouldn't have. "First, I was AWOL. Second, I was not on orders to get information from third parties. And third, I did assault a non-combatant."

"Ah." Vincent looked back to the lake no longer shimmering. It was reduced to a dark blot as day retreated hundreds of miles behind them. "I'd probably do the same thing."

"I could have been discharged." The cigarette blushed with another draw. Faint oranges highlighted the wear of Lawrence's face. Developing crows' feet creased at the corners of his eyes. Laugh lines that were only seen by the reddish glare made him look older than he was. "I'm on leave, but only because my superior vouched for me. Probably even lied to save my ass."

"Maybe he just understood the circumstances," Vincent pondered. "Looking for whoever murdered Marcus…"

Lawrence looked back at the boy, surprised to see Vincent's own eyes lingering on him. "I might have a lead on him."