Vincent set the contract on the console and a single mechanical hand emerged from an inconspicuous compartment. It looked to be a simple clamp, not much larger than his own hands and equipped with fine motor skills clear by how fluidly it moved. A textured finger easily turned one page then another. Mr. House’s portrait remained still on the screen, yet somehow, also reading the print on the pages. Plenty of cameras lined his monitor. Vincent knew the one fixed on him was centered at the bottom panel of the main screen. Others were likely hidden around the assortment of monitors. Sometimes Vincent wondered if there were cameras in his own suite. While House had a penchant for needing control over specifics, Vincent didn’t think he was that nosey, or rather hoped he wasn’t. Mr. House had cameras everywhere on the strip. He admitted in passing once that his contracts with the casinos prevented him from peeking inside; securitrons or surveillance. So, maybe he offered Vincent and Lawrence the same decency.

“You’ve improvised.” 

“Yes.” Vincent snapped out of his passing thoughts. Nervous hands wrung each other as he awaited a berating lecture. “I didn’t think your proposed agreement would fully convince them to come to our aid or refrain from using future territory around Nellis as target practice—a little give was needed for the take.”

The mechanical claw retracted into its hidden compartment. Mr. House’s screen refreshed itself. Vincent hadn’t seen House angry, yet.

“Well done,” he finally spoke. “You’ve exceeded my expectations. I was certain you’d favor a diplomatic route, but I was not convinced whether you’d take initiative to adapt to the situation when demanded.”

Vincent exhaled. The self-described “benevolent dictator” with lofty goals to propel humanity into the future whether they wanted it or not needed someone consistently reliable—a resurrected courier with a vendetta who crossed his path by happenstance alone was not ideal. After the meeting Caesar, Vincent wondered how much of his dealings with Mr. House would be tests as well. It wouldn’t be the last time House would analyze him, and given how his last protégé crossed him, Vincent wondered if it would ever end, and where it would take him.

“What’s on your mind?”

Fizzy pink bubbled inside the glass bottle Lawrence sat on the corner of the cluttered desk. Sweet strawberry according to the label, but neither even had a regular strawberry, whatever they were. Lawrence leaned on the back of Vincent’s chair and Vincent remained unphased by the weight pushing him forward. He stared out the window since he returned from the penthouse, not even informing the ranger of what he and House talked about for the last hour like he usually did, even if just to make conversation. 

Vincent shrugged. “Just thinking about things.”

“Surprised you can,” Lawrence chuckled. “Figured you’d be worse off than me after last night. Y’know, Eve and Jackie like you—Eve thinks you’re adorable.”

“Adorable.” Suspicion angled Vincent’s brow as he eyed the man hovering over him.

“I have more to say about you,” Lawrence’s voice rumbled in Vincent’s ear. The apex of his nose brushed the boy’s neck. Soft lips started their trail, leaving a kiss on his neck, the angle of his jaw, his ear—

Vincent recoiled with ugly laughter, swatting away the invasive ranger. “You know I hate that!”

Lawrence snatched the soda bottle off the desk and stole the empty corner not cluttered by Vincent’s things. “I have an idea.”

“What kind of idea?” Vincent muttered, squinting at the ranger wearing a playful smile.

Around the corner, just a block from the bustling boulevard the strip grew around, a magnificent Ferris wheel stood tall. Its spindles gleamed under the sun and burst into a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors at night—a spectacle best witnessed from the Lucky 38's revolving cocktail lounge. People came to marvel at the Ferris wheel, intrigued by its structure and purpose, but the real draw was the rolling hills and dips of a former golf course, now transformed into a racetrack for motor-carts and sleek motorbikes, which was where Lawrence’s idea took them.

The arrival of a horde of riders, their engines roaring and pistons firing, signaled the commencement of a thrilling spectacle. They zoomed out onto the dirt field from the garage bay leaving a trail of dust behind them to climb mounds and fly over valleys. It was certainly thrilling to watch from the sidelines, and should anyone desire to own those mechanical wonders—and have the caps to spare—they only needed to go inside the store adjacent to the garage bay.

The pristine showroom floor displayed a variety of beauties—motorcycles and buggies of different sizes, shapes, and colors, created and restored, awaiting their riders. Amidst them all, Vincent was drawn to one in the center. It was as though it was plucked right out of an old-world photo. Chrome gleamed. Gauges and buttons and dials intrigued his fingertips. Elegant curves reclined under two seats of rumbling black leather, matching the glistening black paint job—fully customizable for the right price, of course.

As Vincent settled into the seat, the engine beneath him growled. Exhaust funneled out long chrome cylinders in black puffs and spits reminiscent like a hacking smoker. Tire tread tore up dirt and asphalt as they zoomed down the boulevard at lightning speed. Clinging to Lawrence for dear life during sways and turns to avoid potholes and pedestrians, Vincent's anxiety was overshadowed by the ranger's giddy laugh, barely audible over the wind slapping against them.

The fun came to a halt outside the Mormon Fort some ways away from the strip.

“I take it you’ve ridden these before?”

“Oh, yeah,” Lawrence still wore a grin, yanking off the helmet to admire the bike like a nude lover. “Border patrol, recon here and there, but this baby… She’s perfect, nothing like that junk the army has.”

“What about those other things?” Vincent asked, slowly dismounting the bike. Vibrations still echoed through his limbs. “The bigger, trailer-looking things we saw at McCarran?”

 “Those work. Sometimes…” Lawrence said, moving to the back of the bike where he opened a storage box and pulled out the boot. “They’re used to transport people and supplies from back home. Run off power cores and are a pain in the ass to maintain since they’re so old. But this beauty will be easier.” The salesman called it a boot, but Lawrence called it security. It was an odd-shaped thing, bright yellow and hard to miss. It went through the spokes of the wheels, either front or back didn’t matter cause the bike wouldn’t go anywhere once it was on. “So, what did you have planned here?”

“Getting our supplies and maybe asking a few questions,” Vincent said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Lawrence nodded, donning sunglasses despite being seated on the bike in the shade. “I’ll just be here looking pretty.”

Adobe bricks weathered to a pale sandy hue over the centuries built the sturdy walls that rose above a foundation of dusty red gravel. Perhaps in its distant past, the Mormon Fort had been a true fortress, but today, its army comprised the benevolent Followers of the Apocalypse. The militant purpose it once served turned into one of care and healing that the Followers tirelessly pursued.

Sun-faded wooden gates, worn and splintering, remained perpetually open, creaking upon elderly hinges with the slightest touch. Hired guards vigilantly stood watch behind a sandbag wall at the gates and amidst rows of tents that filled the fort’s courtyard. Bloodied aprons and dingy white coats hurried from tent to tent, tending to the wounded caught in the crossfires of Freeside's struggles. Medical personnel exchanged urgent information in a flurry of jargon that might as well have been a foreign language to the uninitiated.

Vincent dodged those doctors and nurses, following his memory to the right tent where the same old man sitting at a table attended a short line of locals buying supplies. However, an assistant joined him this time, bustling back and forth between filing cabinets, crates, and boxes to fetch items at lightning speed.

Vincent counted his caps, then slid them across the table, before stuffing his haul into his satchel. “Do you know who runs the operation here?”

The old man adjusted his glasses as he looked up from his clipboard. “That’d be Julie. Julie Farkas.”

“Don’t suppose I could talk to her about something?”

“She is rather busy…” He looked back to his board and scribbled off another line. “She’s usually around here, observing or helping—”

“I can show you to her,” the cheery assistant squeaked in unison with a filing cabinet drawer. Shy glances swung between Vincent and the old man. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Williams.”

“Well…” his hoarse voice begged to be watered. Mr. Williams adjusted slippery glasses again before they fell completely off his nose. “I suppose it’s not too busy right now.”

“I saw her just over here a minute ago,” she waved Vincent along. Lacking the armband stitched with their symbol, she wasn’t one of the Followers rather by the lilt of her voice told she was a local. She guided him across the red sanded courtyard, seemingly psychic with the way she’d abruptly stop for a stampede of doctors and nurses and mischievous tent flaps daring the slap green visitors across the face.

“I seen ‘em!” A frantic voice called from an old man with more wrinkles and crevices than the mountains that made the valley. Darkened and worn by years laboring under the sun, his skin was as leathery as brahmin hide. “Little people! Bright lights, and then she was gone!”

“Mr. Rush, it’s alright now,” a soothing voice calmed the flustered man. Vincent and the girl peered inside a tent at the commotion. She plucked him back in time to dodge the gaggle darting out with a gurney in tow. “Acute radiation exposure,” the doctor declared once her patient wheeled out of earshot. “He also has burns on his forearms and mild dehydration. Start him on fluids first.”

The second doctor nodded and rushed out of the tent after the delirious old man. “My poor Mittsy!” The old man cries faded into the commotion. “You seen ‘er? She’s got two horns on one side. Some patches of fur, too.”

“Dr. Farkas!”

“Oh, hello.” The doctor’s features were as soft as her voice—except for the spiky mohawk standing proudly atop a shaven head. “What can I help you with?”

The junior assistant flashed Vincent a smile then zoomed back to her duties. “Uh…” Vincent spun around, gathering himself together along with all those concerns he quietly rehearsed on the ride over. Warm and soft eyes set on him and suddenly he didn’t feel so anxious anymore. “I’m Vincent. Maybe we can help each other?”

Julie’s smile wasn’t like most of those found in New Vegas. It remained no matter the exhausting hardship that came with being a doctor with the Follower’s, and the fact they did all this with no expectation of compensation. Vincent shadowed her as she shuffled from tent to tent, pausing her explanation of the Follower’s mission in New Vegas to tend to her patients and guide her personnel, but the truth was is that Vincent already knew more about the Followers than he let on. He had his mother to thank for that. She seldom a complement for organized groups, but somehow, the Followers of the Apocalypse had earned the shrewd woman’s approval.

“We moved into the fort first, but demand has forced us to expand. This has become our intake area and where we determine who needs more intense care and who doesn’t—It’s not easy,” Julie explained, never losing her breath marching between aisles of tents. “New Vegas is a warzone. If it’s not the NCR and legion fighting it’s the locals, immigrants, refugees, raiders…”

“I can’t imagine you put them all here,” Vincent noted, turning aside to make way for oncoming traffic.

“Unfortunately, we have to.” Julie came out first from the crowd of tents, finally slowing her pace once out in the fort’s courtyard. She paused at the flagpole, looking back for curious guest. “I would like to renovate that building to make a real hospital,” Julie said, pointing to structure across the field of asphalt and weeds long since abandoned by even the prospectors who picked it clean. “I have to make the choice of what gets funded and how much money is allotted. Our patients come first, of course, but they also need better care than we currently offer.”

“Doesn’t your organization’s headquarters fund you?”

“Yes, but we’re stretched thin everywhere,” she confessed through a sigh.

Vincent hummed, clasping his back as he glanced to his boot rolling sand under the tread. “What if you had the funds? Where would you start?”

“Well…” Julie crossed her arms and thoughtfully looked over the chaos confined within the fort’s walls. “Fixing the solar panels in the parking lot would supply us with power for the old museum. Then we can work on converting it to a hospital for these people. It might still have useable infrastructure, but we won’t know until I can get the right people to look at it. That’s the biggest hurdle to get over. If we can do that then it proves to the Followers’ coalition New Vegas isn’t the lost cause they think it is. We’d get better funding, more supplies, personnel…”

Vincent unwound his hands behind back and wrung the straps of his satchel instead. Caps clinked inside—More caps than he ever had in his entire life, and perhaps that’s why he was hesitant to meet Julie’s eyes. “I want to see those things done.” Vincent reached into his sack and pulled out the tin. “I like what the Followers do, but I need something in return…”

Julie’s mouth was agape looking at the tin container. Her open palms hung mid-air like it was mirage that would disappear the moment she touched it. Kind eyes looked at Vincent, never losing their sincerity even with five thousand caps at stake. “What is you need?”




—




“Didn’t think in my wildest dreams I’d see her in my lifetime.” Pearl’s somber voice carried through the cavernous hanger even as a whisper. She gazed on in awe at the extracted pieces of a dissected bomber raised from Lake Mead laying on tarps covering the dusty hangar floor. “We assumed we could be self-sufficient here and for a time we were,” Pearl said, turning to Vincent next to her. “I feared the lack of food and dwindling water would drive us out of yet another home eventually.”

Vincent choked the straps of his satchel while shy eyes averted from Pearl’s twinkling gaze. “It’s been exciting for my youngers to have strangers about on the base,” she added. “I know they’ve been talking up a storm with you and your friend.”

 “I think one’s taken a liking to Lawrence,” Vincent humored.

Pearl’s laugh lines deepened for a moment. She looked back at the bomber’s parts organized like a schematic. Mr. Handys followed imaginary paths in sharp angles over the tarps. Mechanical clamps carried heavy components to their designated spots where the human workers would clean off centuries of muck and debris, record its location in the greater schematic, and eventually revisit when it was time to assemble a working plane.

“Some have been wondering what it means for us now, but I think it’s a sign to be a part of the world now.”

“It’s always good to start small,” Vincent said. “And, I have a small opportunity if you wouldn’t mine lending one of Loyal’s people to repair some solar panels.”




—




Lawrence shifted on hot soles. Eyes squinted under black lenses at jagged mountains cooking on the horizon beyond the gates of Nellis. “I’d rather have you there.”

“It’ll be fine,” Vincent assured. Lawrence grumbled but he’d relent eventually. “Just going to look at them, see what needs to be fixed, then you guys come back here—Oh!” Vincent stepped back, staring wide eyed at shining gold scales and two large pincers scuttling across the sand.

“Oh, you again,” Lawrence’s squint soured to a scowl at the encroaching stinger arched towards the two. The most irritated of the Boomers evidently, but the scorpion was no match for the ranger’s boot that punted it across the road’s shoulder and into the fence. A violent surge scattered blinding white light across the chain-link fence. Idle guards jumped at the zap. Raquel’s barking commands ceased for a moment. “Fence works!” Lawrence shouted, giving her a thumbs up only to be met with an eyeroll.

“I should talk to Pearl some more anyway.” Vincent stated, closing the distance between him and the ranger with a hug.

 “Oh, no. No. No.” Lawrence shook his head as soon as he saw her. He grabbed Vincent’s arms before the boy could pull away and the short little thing wrapped up in a modified vault-jumpsuit a little too big for her frail frame would try to take his place.

“I’m ready!” Susan’s holler was squeak in the wind. Arms flailed for Lawrence’s attention. She panted with every step as the heavy bag on her back bounced and clamored to her cadence.

“You’ll be fine,” Vincent exclaimed. “Back in no time!”

At least Vincent was right about that. A faster means of traveling other than walking a snail’s pace would bring the both of them back home before dark, but the downside was Susan… She was odd company, without a doubt. A little too eager to hop on the bike with him and coiled her arms around his abdomen where hands took advantage of every little bump and jolt to accidentally feel him up or cling to him like he was her savior.

Once in Freeside, her bug-eyed-browns stared at every passerby as she hugged her backpack to her chest. “You’ll protect me from any savages right?” She beamed up to him, head tilted against his arm while eyes batted for his attention.

“Yeah, sure,” Lawrence sighed. “Just don’t go picking any fights.” Lawrence started towards their destination but a dead-weight slowed him, reminded of the literal and metaphorical burden hanging on his arm.

“What is this place?”

“Come on,” he huffed, dragging the young girl along to the array of metal canopies shielding cratered asphalt from the sun and keeping to the shade was one woman he wanted to see. “Julie?” 

“Yes?” She glanced up from wrapping gauze around a scraped arm belonging to one of several in a row of three little boys, each wearing burlap clothes and meek faces that told of a stern lecture received before Lawrence’s arrived. 

“We’re here to take a gander at those solar panels.”

“Be careful next time, boys,” Julie ordered as she stood up and then the scrappy trio jumped back into the concrete jungle. “I’m so glad you agreed to help us! The solar panels are on top of these overhangs. What can I do to help you get started?”

“I need a ladder,” Susan muttered with pursed lips as she stared up at the canopies, then her eyes trailed over to Lawrence. “Unless…” Eyes twinkled between batting lashes. “You could ho—”

“No.”




—




Vincent’s lips pursed looking over his plans. Aside from the radio and Lawrence’s discontent sighing, it was another quiet evening at the top of the world in the Lucky 38, mulling over a long list, notes, books lying face down, and others gathering dust in a pile for later reading that cluttered his desk. Nothing there was without purpose and despite Lawrence’s criticisms, it was organized—Vincent’s way. Lawrence sighed again, longer and louder than the last time, and Vincent knew that because he wasn’t ignoring Lawrence. He was merely wondering when Lawrence would ditch the underwear he had stripped down to over the course of the last thirty minutes all to get Vincent’s undivided attention.

“What?” Vincent laughed, finally looking over to the ranger but he met the man’s bare back.

“Nothing…”

“You’re sulky.”

“I don’t sulk.” Lawrence laid back at the sound of Vincent’s voice nearing closer. His smile turned to a smirk as he welcomed the boy into his arms. “I always get what I want.”

“Cocky too.”

“Wanna find out how cocky I am?” Lawrence’s teasing voice was somewhere between a whisper and a growl that sent goosebumps scurrying across Vincent’s skin every time it rumbled in his ears.

“I wanted to ask you something.”

Lawrence paused kisses on the boy’s neck. “What’s that?” 

Vincent flopped on his back. Clasped hands rested on his stomach while he stared at the ceiling. “Something’s been bothering me and maybe it’s in my head…” A moment of silence lasted longer than he’d like trying to gather the right words in the right order. “Do you really see me as a man?”

Lawrence turned on his side at that tone. Drawn brows wrinkled a rare expression on the man’s face as his light touch found Vincent’s shoulder. “I do,” he whispered. “Did I do something to make you feel otherwise?”  

“No, you haven’t.” Vincent returned his long stare to the ceiling. Gold bars reached across the width of the room, intersecting to make complex diamonds within each other much the same he did with the thoughts in his head. “I guess—" He paused, shoulders hung like the words as thick as molasses in his mouth. “I feel weird. About being intimate.”

“That’s a start. Is it something I’m doing?”

“No, that’s the problem—It’s me.”

“You?”

Vincent sighed again. “Well, I don’t have, y’know, the right stuff.”

“Ah…” Lawrence's gaze dropped, as if searching for the right words. Gentle fingers probed Vincent’s hands. “There isn’t one thing about you I’d change.”

“What if I do change?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was talking to Julie I asked if she could fix me,” Vincent informed. “She agreed to look into some treatments and maybe they’d help.”

“Help? Fix? What is it you think is broken with you, Vince?” 

“We talked about it for a while and…” Vincent turned on his side to face Lawrence. “She had an idea and wanted to get in contact with a doctor at their headquarters who is more knowledgeable about things, and… What if—what if I can be a real man?”

Lawrence tucked a thick wave of Vincent’s hair behind his hair. “I want you to be happy.”

Beeps interrupted the moment. Vincent glanced over at the terminal before giving Lawrence a kiss to soften the blow, but one always led to another. “Let’s continue this when I get back. The kisses I mean.”

It was odd for House to call on him at such hours. Usually, it was a decent hour in the morning when the hermit wanted to get down to business but once Vincent emerged from the elevator, Mr. House wasted no time. 

“There have been some developments.” Vincent tilted his head as he studied the intimidating profile looming above him he often wondered if was what House actually looked like or was an idealized version of himself. “Within the last four hours, rolling blackouts have swept through areas beyond the strip. NCR radio chatter indicates the issue does not originate from Hoover Dam. Thus I’ve sent securitron scouts to asses local relay stations. Your task will be to reach the distant relay stations and assess their condition.”

“The strip hasn’t been affected at all?”

“The New Vegas treaty gives the strip and McCarran priority access to power for during instances such as this,” Mr. House explained. “The outages have affected NCR military and civilian installations as well. Due to their incompetence, I do not trust they will adequately address the issue.”

“Is the strip in danger of losing power that quickly?”

“Not immediately, but if left untreated, infections spread—This one possibly intersecting with future endeavors.”

“I’ll check it out—”

“Do not do so lightly,” House warned. An unusual tone captured the boy’s attention. “I have reasons to believe the Brotherhood of Steel may be responsible.”

“The Brotherhood of Steel?”

“Are you familiar with them? Terrorist organization with quais-religious ideals that compel them to hoard pre-war technology? Weapons specifically.”

Vincent shrugged, “I read about them in the papers, but can’t say I know much.”

“Familiarize yourself with them; your ranger companion should know more—He has had first-hand experience.”

 “You know—How would you know that?”

“Did you think I would not investigate a stranger staying under my roof? I accessed the NCR’s records on him. Congruent with what you have described in your reports and despite his service to the New California Republic, I believe he can prove valuable—the only reason I have allowed him to stay.”

His stomach twisted at those words. “I’ll-I’ll ask him…”

“Nonetheless, I urge extreme caution if we are indeed dealing with the Brotherhood of Steel.”

Vincent shifted his gaze from the screens, yet his own legs seemed to have a mind of their own and refused to move. As he looked down at the pristine marbled tiles beneath his dusty boots, he couldn't help but notice the distinct patterns each tile held. There was something exceptional about the way the black swirled in pearly clouds, akin to the intricate history of a particular ranger. Glancing back over his shoulder at the screen displaying a timeless visage, House’s revelation echoed in Vincent’s head.

“Is there something you need?”

Vincent blinked. His mouth was agape as conflicting words fought internally for dominance to be spoken. “No,” he finally said, stumbling backwards and catching the railing before he embarrassed himself any further.




—




The air was thick with the unmistakable aroma of cattle like whiskey was on the breath of a regular Freeside alcoholic. Where the New California Republic’s army established roots, so did the Crimson Caravan Company, and almost as equally armed. A tall fence of sun-washed wood marked their territory fortified by guard towers of adobe bricks at every corner and well-equipped guards manning mobile turrets. Inside their domain that claimed an entire block were shacks to accommodate their roaming traders, stationary employees, and hired guns. Compact stables and large corrals hosted a variety of beasts of burden segregated by species. Buyers and brokers evaluated hefty brahmin, tested mules’ strength, and appraised ghoul-patched horses. On the other side of those corrals and stables was a more lively stock of creatures. Plump, domesticated geckos that if clothed could be mistaken for ugly toddlers ran about their enclosure in chaotic trails that often led them to knock heads with each other.

“They’re kind of cute,” Vincent said as a gray-blue gecko stopped at the wire fence and stared at the two, slack-jawed and bug-eyed, perhaps dazed from its last head-butt. They didn’t need to be intelligent though, only delicious.

“Y’know, I heard some of them wild ones—” Lawrence leaned to Vincent, one boot raising to sit on a horizontal beam while arms folded on the top beam before he said so-matter-of-factly, “—can spit fire.”

Vincent scoffed. “Doubt it. More of those ‘skinwalker’ stories of yours and vault 99.”

Lawrence shrugged as his lips pursed indifferently. “Don’t believe me fine, but I’d keep clear of the ones with gold scales.” Vincent scanned the corral for supposed gold-colored geckos, but found none among a scattering sea of blues, grays, and mottled black and green. 

“Mr. Garrett?” 

Vincent and Lawrence turned to meet an older woman sooner expected to be found on the strip managing casino numbers rather than the dirt field she strode along in heels and slacks. “I’m Alice McLafferty.” She extended her hand and shook with the ranger. “I understand you two are here on behalf of the Boomers?”

“Yes,” Vincent announced, drawing her dark eyes to the shorter boy. “I believe you met one of them yesterday?”

“I did.” Wrinkles creased around a formal and well-practiced smile. “It was an interesting experience and one I believe will benefit both of us. He gave me a basic outline of what they’d like from us.”

“And I have a complete contract if those dividends suit you.” Vincent produced a thin stack from where he kept it safe under his arm; just three papers outlining the deal he wrote—with some help from Mr. House, of course. The reclusive man was pleasantly surprised, intrigued even that the boy had taken initiative to begin such business ventures. No doubt his mild enthusiasm was more excited for how it would benefit his overall plans for New Vegas.

She took the papers. Her keen gander scanned the neat typesetting as white brows rose over scrutinous eyes. “I noticed they are explicit that no other traders are allowed to solicit them…”

“The Boomers value their solitude, as well as keeping unwanted prospectors out of their territory, which is reasonable.”

“Hm.” Alice hummed a distasteful hum like the one the brothel madame had before denying, refusing, and sometimes berating the unfortunate soul in her path who dared offend her easily offendable disposition. “Yet that means a good majority of my traders aren’t allowed to sell to them beyond whoever supplies them.”

“I’m sure you’re familiar with the Boomers’ isolationist nature. They’re testing the waters of this world they haven’t participated in economically. Now they’re opening up, and we’ll need patience otherwise they’ll be overwhelmed and closed off to future opportunities entirely,” Vincent explained. A unique confidence and choice of words sounded more like House than Vincent. “While much of the supplies they need are basics, also note the rarer, expensive things on their request.”

Shrewd eyes returned to the pages. She turned to the last page; a long grocery list of everything they sought her gaze strolled down, then stopped at the words he wanted her to linger on. A midway pause glanced at Vincent then returned to the list. Behind the polite business façade Vincent modeled after House’s portrait, the boy was exceptionally eager. “Very well. Shall we discuss payment in my office? Just brewed a fresh pot of coffee.”

Lawrence perked up. “Coffee?” 




—




The cacophony of hammers at the former museum warded away any wandering junkies or hangovers looking for a fix. Like industrious ants returning to their nest with precious spoils, workers scurried about, ferrying essential building supplies to fortify their sanctuary. Julie took a moment amidst her own journey from the fort walls to the parking lot tents, casting an observant and hopeful eye over the week's progress.

“Everything has been going to plan,” Julie said as Vincent and Lawrence joined her. “Would you like a tour inside? I can show you what we’ve done so far and have planned next.”

“Maybe in a day or two? Lawrence and I have a few things to take care of.”

“Absolutely, anytime—Oh! Before I forget I wanted to talk to you,” she added, glancing at Lawrence then back to Vincent. “About what we spoke of…”

“It’s alright, I told him.”

“I think we should talk in private.”

“Go on,” Lawrence patted the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll be here.”

In their absence, Lawrence sought refuge in the only remaining shade beneath the noon sun. Amidst the frantic atmosphere of the Followers' compound's more intensive care section, this respite from the relentless sun was a welcome relief. His hair, damp with sweat, transformed into little spiked spouts, dripping intermittently down the channels of his face and gathering with the growing moisture of his back and chest. Today, there was no breeze, at least not until they mounted the bike and sped off at full throttle. Lawrence took off his sunglasses to wipe stinging eyes. Once back on, he jumped at the sight that suddenly appeared before him.

 A permanently sun-reddened face and neck with a heavy, flat brow-ridge that overlooked sharp hazel eyes he knew too well. “Clint?”

A wide grin cracks the older man’s sun-reddened face. Heavy brows remained flat as his sharp hazel eyes bore through Lawrence. “Who else?” 

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

“I ain’t gettin’ into trouble,” Lawrence waved off any predicted accusation. 

“Doubt that,” Clint scoffed. He clamped a weathered hand on Lawrence’s shoulder. “I needed to talk to you, preferably here, right now.”

With that tone, anticipation tickled the ranger. What was it this time? A mission into enemy territory, gathering intel on a new Legion installation, taking out a high priority target...  “What did we need to talk about?”

“I’ve heard you been doing everything but being on vacation!” Clint brought his hands together in a loud clap. “I got a whisper trail tellin’ me you’re the one that liberated Nelson, been inside the Lucky 38, skulking around Nellis with them Boomers, and even a bit of bounty huntin’?”

Lawrence chuckled, “guess I’m not the relaxing type.”

Clint shook his head, but his grin remained. “You’re always up to something, but I ain’t here to scold you.” Fine lines deepened since last Lawrence saw his commanding officer. “Something odd is going on. I had a hard time finding you, until I happened to bump into Mordecai at Golf. Just wanted to know what was going on with my people.”

Lawrence’s brows furrowed at Clint. While the man had a face set in stone, he learned to glean the little giveaways that betrayed Clint’s thoughts over the years.

“It all started when I received a request from General Hammond to utilize my you for some intel ops.” Clint’s hands rubbed together before he clasped them behind his back. A few new knicks and scrapes decorated leathery forearms alongside old scars to match those of his duster and black armor. “As generous as I am, and, well, let’s be frank, I can’t say no—I agreed. I requested to be kept in the loop, but that’s where my investigation ends, and your explanation begins.”

“Mordecai didn’t tell you anything?”

“That boy don’t know anything.”

“It’s an informal intelligence operation, nothing’s on the books,” Lawrence explained. “I know someone close to House and intel wants what I know.”

Hooded eyes flashed to Lawrence. “What do you have on House?”

Lawrence shrugged, “really nothing more than what they already know. I’ve never spoken to him. I’m already on thin ice just being there.”

“House, NCR, and the Legion ain’t the only players aiming to win the game.” Clint’s stare left Lawrence for the tall grass swaying gently in a weak breeze. “Any structure of command among the rangers seems to be disappearing overnight. Not that we need it, but it ain’t coming from within.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Word on the grapevine is congress back home can shake things up if they want,” Clint said. Hands fidgeted behind his straightening back. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if someone in the army side has been whisperin’ in their little ears. We don’t need structure unlike them greenie-boys, but it’s worried some of us out here.”

“What does the chief say about this?”

“He’s confident in our abilities,” Clint confirmed. “But when I saw him, even he looked a little irked about the whole thing.”

“More political fuckery...”

“All before the biggest showdown since 2077.”

 Insect noise grew in the silence. Lawrence tapped a knuckle against his lip as his mind wandered off. There was a lot to say about war and politics. War never changes and neither does politics. The old world might be a big mystery, but everyone knows something bad happened to reset the doomsday clock. Reminders littered the streets of Freeside, the whole of Vegas and beyond. Tainted the land, the water, the people—People… Maybe it was people who just don’t change.

“I’ve still been looking into your enemy alpha.” Clint broke the silence with the heaviest of blows. Lawrence’s mouth dried. His palms turned cold despite the heat breathing on him. “Supposedly one of our boys spotted him among the hideouts down south, near Helios—Now, don’t go gettin’ into trouble alright? And you didn’t hear it from me.” Clint turned to Lawrence and the men shook hands as they always did before parting, but when Lawrence expected Clint to let go, he didn’t. “Be careful who you trust, Lawrence. Even if they’re NCR.”

Lawrence stole glances at the boy usually solemn tucked away in the corner of the elevator and watching the shrinking gambling hall below. Once the doors opened, Vincent zipped to their suite. Lawrence followed a minute behind, yet once he stepped through the door, Vincent was nowhere to be found. Not on the bed, the sofa, not at the desk, and not in the living room on the opposite side of the balcony he often frequented just for the view out the window. However, the closed bathroom door gave the range a hint.

A gentle knock rapped the door, and he called again. “Vincent?”

“What?” A congested voice retorted back.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“I ain’t buying it.” Lawrence declared.

“I’m fine.” 

“If you think I won’t break this door down, then you’re gonna have another thing to be upset about.” The door flung open, drag swiping Lawrence’s hair as a scowl pricklier than any cactus glared back at him. “Talk to me. Something happen out there?”

“No,” he muttered.

Lawrence took the boy's hands, guiding him out of the bathroom and leading him up the stairs to the kitchen where he settled Vincent at the table. Lawrence shuffled around the kitchen for a minute, coming back to the table as he set a plate of jalapeno and brahmin cheese cornbread complemented by two bottles of Nuka Cola.

“What’s on your mind?” 

“Julie—” Lawrence caught a glimpse of Vincent’s anguish before he hid under his hands again. “She didn’t have anything for me.”

“For what?” Lawrence dragged his chair closer to Vincent. “What you told me about last night?”

“Yes.” Vincent wiped away tears shed countless times for a pain he had no words to describe. “I want help! I want to fix me! And now that’s out—”

Lawrence squeezed Vincent’s forearm. “There ain’t nothing broken about you, Vincent.”

“I can’t take being this way! I’m trapped!” Vincent yanked his hand back and jumped up from his chair. He turned his back to Lawrence pacing back and forth at the tilted windows peering a couple hundred feet to the strip below. “I’m small. I’m weak. I’m not a man!”

“Vincent, nobody is born a man. You gotta become that.” Vincent’s pace slowed, eventually stopping altogether, but he still kept his back to Lawrence. “I used to be a scrawny fuck. Hell, you’d lose me if I turned sideways but only if a breeze didn’t pick me up and blow me away first.”

“I won’t get to change.”

Lawrence met Vincent at the window. “What makes you so certain?” 

“I want to be a real man, like you,” Vincent voice broke to a whisper. Shivers rounded his shoulders under Lawrence’s touch, and no longer could he deny the ranger’s comforting embrace. His eyes stung when he blinked. Damp spots darkened Lawrence’s shirt like the stains of his own memories that often assaulted Vincent when he least expected it. He tightened his arms around Lawrence as his muffled voice fought to escape. “What if I am crazy?”

“You’re not crazy,” Lawrence declared. “I get where you’re comin’ from. I wanted to grow up quick. I wanted to be a man when I was a hell of a lot younger than you are now.” 

“You got to, though.”

Lawrence rested his chin on Vincent’s head. Fluffy hair defied the weight of Lawrence’s chin and instead curled around his beard. “You wanna know what made me get here?” A congested snivel was all Vincent’s response. “I was fueled by anger. Hate. A lot of hurt.”

Lawrence’s arms weakened around Vincent as he withdrew. Settling in his chair, a stern look crossed his face, his lips parted, poised to utter words that seemed perpetually trapped within. Vincent returned to his own chair as the silence grew, occasionally glancing at Lawrence drifting away in his own thoughts.  

“My father had a bad habit of beatin’ the shit out of me and my mom,” Lawrence finally spoke. The weight of his tone, the words themselves, sent shockwaves through Vincent’s limbs. “I couldn’t stand up to him. I was weak, I was small. I kept that to myself for years. Told myself I’d always return when I was older. When I was bigger, stronger, better—I wanted to kill him.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s in the past.” Lawrence swallowed the knot in his throat, but bitter notes lingered in his voice. “I can’t make things happen for you. I don’t know if that can happen, but don’t get stuck thinking there’s only one way to be a man.”

Vincent wiped away the last of his lingering tears and muttered, “I’m sorry for being so dramatic.”

Lawrence smiled warmly for Vincent, even as the boy hesitated to look up. He relented eventually, letting the clouds part and finding a smile, albeit a weak one, for Lawrence. Nuka Cola and a slice of cornbread got the subject to change, but Lawrence hadn’t moved on entirely. He was plotting. Plotting for when the time came to prepare for their next adventure into the wasteland and he’d fulfil his solo task of stocking up on ammunition, accidently veer off course somewhere on the way, and head to the Mormon Fort. Once there, he tirelessly sought out a particular doctor, navigating the bustling courtyard and tents until he resorted to questioning the roaming white coats. Nestled away in her office, the good-mannered and kind-natured woman sat at a desk among a hoard of files and papers and thick books of ancient medical knowledge.

“Oh, hello, Lawrence.”

“Hi, Julie.” Lawrence promptly found himself a seat on an almost empty corner of her desk. “I came to talk to you about Vincent.”

“Vincent?” Hesitancy marked her soft voice. “I can only divulge so much—”

“He’s told me you’re helping him. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he clarified, baring open palms. “I’m just concerned about him and want to help him with…” Lawrence glanced away to a sandy, dirt floor looking for something better than how the boy described it himself—better than “fix”. It sounded like an insult whenever Vincent said those words. “With whatever it is he wants that will— Whatever will make him how he’s supposed to be.”

Julie leaned back in her chair, the corroded metal supports creaking as she said, “I told him this morning…” Julie’s expression adopted a rare somber look as she adjusted her graying lab-coat. “Unfortunately, my associate wouldn’t know how to help, despite consulting her literature and previous cases. However, I have others I am in contact with that may be of some assistance.”

“I mean, what can be done for him?”

“I honestly don’t know,” she confessed. Her brows knitted together worriedly as if the notion pained her as well. “I want to help Vincent. He’s been so generous, and I can see it hurts him. It’s the least I can do. I don’t know how much he’s shared with you.”

Lawrence rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re intimate together...”

“He wants to look like a man, function like a man, be wholly male essentially. There’s only so much medicine can heal, physically and psychologically. While I have read of such conditions in pre-war textbooks, I’m ashamed to say I haven’t encountered any clinically.”

“There’s gotta be somethin’ that can help Vincent.” His hands thrust to some invisible cure just out of sight. It frustrated him, not as much as Vincent, but it was frustrating nonetheless he couldn’t help someone so dear to him. “What is it that makes me so different from you? Him? Other people?”

“Oh, well…” Her eyes widened and her eyebrows lifted, reflecting the decades of experience and education that she was mentally sifting through. She rested her chin on her palm, lost in thought. “Chromosomes, genes, hormones all play into the phenotypes we attribute to sex and gender. Quite a bit is set in stone—” She abruptly stopped. Inspired eyes beamed at Lawrence and Julie jumped forward, a newfound excitement put a wide smile across her cheeks. “You, sir, gave me a great idea! I’ll get in contact with Dr. Engel for Vincent.”