"It's been quiet too long."

Lawrence glanced up to Mordecai from the cards laid between them—the third game of caravan they weren't paying attention to, laying them down without care to keep score. The bet: a box of snack cakes manufactured a few centuries prior, only partly crushed.

Lawrence tossed another card on the pile while Mordecai twisted around, gawking behind them. It was the same scene wherever they looked though. Waiting. Packed together in a musty trench. Rifles clutched to their chest. In the dead of night, staring at nothing on the horizon or closing eyes where they stood to catch up on robbed sleep. Ears didn't sleep though. Listening to the clerk's radio on a makeshift comm desk of crates was unavoidable. The clerk's prayers were whispered under the breeze. He was a young man—barely a man. Holding his breath as trembling hands clutched the microphone and pressed the earpiece to his head.

"What do you think they're planning?" Mordecai murmured as if the Legion horde across the dry flats could hear him. Only an hour earlier, two platoons dispatched at the sight of a raiding party. Alarms wailed minutes later. Orders ripped through each tent and every whole body in Forlorn Hope jumped to action.

Lawrence opened his mouth, but it wasn't his own voice that came out. Crackles sparked. Roars thrummed. Firelight washed the jagged mountain peaks towering above their moats. It burned brighter and brighter until the burning ball slammed the stone face, shaking loose rock and debris. A chorus of rifles cocked before jumping on the fire step. Silence returned. Peering into the dark beyond the parapets, fretful stares turned to squints at the vague glow.

"What the fuck is that?"

One by one, the lights ignited. Brilliant and furious blots evenly spaced on the horizon launched in near perfect unison, tearing through a dark night, leading a gray trail behind them. Then they grew larger. And flying.

Falling.

The earth shook. The mountain groaned, shirking off dusty skin. Fire rained down with scorched stone. Wood braces buckled across dirt walls. Splinters exploded as passages toppled. Every man in its wake was devoured under cold dirt. Thunder struck again. Bewildered, deafened, and brought to knees, ringing echoed in Lawrence's ears. Desperately clutching his rifle in one hand, the other clung to the earth wall still standing next to him. The world spun, taunting, and refusing to let him gather his senses. Eyelashes batted away the debris. The rifle suspended on his arm swayed as a blind hand reached for where he remembered Mordecai stood. His palm sank into soft gray powder.

Mordecai shook loose ash and dust. Little almond blots squinted back at Lawrence. He choked on his words. Thick air sapped all moisture from skin, mouth, and throat, clinging like tar on his tongue and in his lungs. Lawrence waved further down the demolished trench painted in black and gray and splattered by hundreds of little fires.

Medics rushed into the chaos, ushering in stretchers and a fresh round of soldiers. They filled cots as reinforcements jumped in where the bodies fell. Rifles spit out in triplets. Muzzle fires sparked, their flashes stuttered in the fog, capturing stills of feverish faces staring down the unknown. Hacking and coughing, Lawrence and Mordecai dug with cupped hands. Frantic calls whirled around them. Orders barked for soldiers to advance, for medics to rush the live ones back, and the dead be covered.

When throbbing palms washed in warmth of the day, he realized he wasn't sure this moment would come. Sore and reddened pads were hidden under a dense layer of soil. Dirt gathered at the seams of broken skin. Black crescents tipped aching nails. Weary eyes followed the dusty gloves that thinned mid-way up his forearms. Red cuts stung in open air and tender spots had turned to bruises. Lawrence was one of the fortunate ones at the beginning of a long line sitting outside the collection of medical tents in camp Forlorn Hope where each body in the line was an arm hooked up to a bag siphoning their blood.

"Fuckin' trebuchets" Mordecai huffed, slamming against the back of his chair. "Do we have trebuchets?"

Lawrence chuckled. Shaking his head, eyes wandered to the valley where the sun barely peaked noon on the horizon. Blackened holes scattered the plains in the flats leading to the canyon. Rows of trenches were like the dashes and dots of an encoded message. Remaining armatures of trebuchets lingered on the plains, blown to pieces just like their builders, but Forlorn Hope's death count was still on the rise—the Legion always got the last laugh.

That boy's luck must have rubbed off on him.

––

Hot, dry air stung clawed down his throat as he choked on greedy breaths. Thin tread slapped dense, rocky soil, sore feet stinging with every hit. He twisted around just in time to stare down a little black hole. A lick of fire spat out. One tiny dot ripped through the smoke and hollow skies echoed a delayed blast. Flesh jolted in its wake. He skidded on his knees. Finally meeting hot soil with a heavy thud, the last breath was knocked out before he could take it.

"What's with the pose?"

"What?" Vincent whipped around, sneering at the accusation slung from the old man keeping a slow pace behind him during the pursuit. No longer rushed for anybody or anything—lest it be his favorite seat at the bar. "I'm just aiming."

Wayne stopped at the boy's side. Eyes squinted under bushy brows. The slow nod that knew everything followed. "You did a pose, son."

"Aiming." Vincent jutted forth the revolver. Sights aimed on his target as he had done countless times before. "See?"

"You practice that in the mirror?"

"You're just pissy I can use my knees," Vincent hissed, shoving the pistol in his holster.

"Hah!" Wayne scoffed, shaking his head and watching the boy depart for the bounty. "I can still use my knees."

Vincent knelt at his kill. Fouled even before death, he was nothing special, just one of many wanted heads one was bound to stumble upon out in the wilds. Not the best payout for small-time thugs though.

"Come back over here an' I'll show ya." Still catching the old man's grumbles, Vincent glanced over his shoulder. "Pop you right in the balls n' we'll see who can't run…"

Vincent rolled his eyes and yanked out the long-bladed hunting knife. This was his least favorite part of the job. He cut back and forth, threw his shoulder into it just to hurry up the fetid task all while he scanned the horizon. Distant winds howled through the valley. Sand flung up like wispy strands of hair, catching the dry brush littering a bleached canvas. His real destination was set on the border of cloudless blue and sandy flats.

"Need any help with that head?" The distant voice called.

Vincent whipped the sack inside-out as he gave Wayne a particular look he gave the old cowboy often. One that knew damn well the old man wasn't going to lift a finger.

"On the bright side," Vincent started once he came into earshot. He nodded to the sack. "It ain't too hot anymore…"

"Why don't we uh, leave that with the bike?"

"What? It's gonna stink up the box!"

Wayne sighed, irritatedly saying, "Just tuck n' roll it under. Ain't nobody gonna peruse a bloody sack."

Vincent hummed and looked down at the dripping canvas sack winding a blood-iron trail on dry dirt. "Alright," he grumbled, heading to the bike.

"So, what's at this El Dorado station?"

"I'm just doing recon on the place for later. Figuring out what the NCR is doing there." He squinted at the road further south. Black water shimmered on the horizon, searing a gray-washed installation jutting up on a flat swath of desert in his eyes. "I wouldn't mind help, unless it's nap time for you."

"Well," Wayne muttered. He scratched hist striped, prim beard, shaking loose important considerations revolving around a stool and a shot of whiskey. "I suppose a drink alone ain't much to do."

—

The most calm seen in any camp was the day when the mail arrived. Letters from home, little creature comforts sent on the way, something to look forward to that lit up a defeated soldier's face like neon lights. Every other week, Mordecai marched in the tent. A smile stretched from ear to ear, reading aloud something new about a daughter and wife in the Boneyard. Then he'd leave, go wandering around the grounds before his shift, searching the letter for some new detail before starting his own, and for those moments, nothing else mattered.

For Lawrence, there was rarely a letter. Either from moving around too often or being in the far flung wilderness where the mail didn't reach. Instead, he received a more complex thing. Hand delivered to himself, by himself. Not jealousy, envy, resentment… No, it was just guilt. A hollowness left by the vacuum when Mordecai left the tent, taking any sense of good in the world with him.

"Y'know—"

Lawrence jumped in his cot. Wide-eyed, he stared at a leather-faced ranger standing in the entrance.

"I think it might do you good to get out in the field."

"Forlorn Hope is a little short-staffed right now," Lawrence reminded as he lowered the pen and notebook. The letter in the making was only doodles in the margins and the name of its recipient thus far: Vincent. "Things ain't gettin' any easier here."

With hands clasped behind his back, Clint shouldered his way through the flaps. "Some people been raising questions about you."

"About what?"

The senior ranger tapped on the latest NCRA Report, rustling up the print's musky scent—still opened to the second page. Lawrence had stopped there. Unable to tear his eyes off a picture. A black and white still of a trio in Bitter Springs. One lieutenant, an old man, and Vincent…

"Alright," Lawrence sighed. "What did you have in mind?"

"Com officer here has been raising a stink about radio security," Clint explained, handing Lawrence a plain envelope. "I want you to deliver the new codes to a few installations and also look into something."

Lawrence opened the envelope and peeked at the thin collection of papers he didn't think was actually in there feeling it. "That'll sound good for the gossip, don't you think?"

"Don't get fussy, princess."

"Alright—"

"That's not it though," Clint continued. A low, ominous tone Lawrence seldom heard pulled his eyes back to the senior ranger. "Ask the ranger stations about those reports in there. You'll know why when you read them."

"I'll get ready tonight and leave tomorrow."

"I knew I could count on you."

Left alone once again, Lawrence looked at his notebook but soon his eyes were wandering over to that newspaper again. Across time and space, that boy's eyes bore into him. An irate scowl. Judging. Angry. Gouging out the ranger's insides with but a glance. Not a touch, not a knife, and not a bullet needed. Just a look of a changed young man in a gray photo.

—

Flung off the 93 highway lay a dormant field of solar panels. Scattered like weeds around craters, their black faces were coated in dust and no longer staring at the sun. Like a despondent gathering of wilting flowers on a barren plain, panels fell like petals blown across the land by vicious winds. Watching the defunct array was a lone concrete building. A squat complex, untouched by bombs but not the brutality of time. Behind it, towering power armatures and poles stood their ground while the newest prospectors patrolled their claim.

Watching from his vantage point, Vincent counted the squad of five soldiers meandering lazily around the substation and out of the sun. Further out guards roamed the flats among steel skeletons. However, it was the ones he couldn't see that bothered Vincent. Inside the building? Rangers in the mountains? The NCR held onto the substation desperately because it was a routing station for power from the dam connected to a greater grid that reached into the republic.

He shook his head, grumbling as Mr. House's words revisited him: It is unfortunate your ranger companion is no longer here.

His thinly veiled tone hinted at some shortcoming while the synthetic voice trailed off, leaving a vacuum for Vincent to fill in all those distasteful details. He conquered more in the ranger's absence. Raider gangs, outlaws, banditos in the north Vegas ruins. Saved the NCR's president at Hoover Dam! Muttering and making a mocking face House would never see, Vincent squeezed the stealth boy. At least he learned something other than the pain of a shredded heart from his ranger friend.

Jamming the knife in the frame, Vincent pried the window open. He stole occasional glances over his shoulder. The mountain-facing wall of the building was a fortunate oversight for precious few minutes. One eye adjusted to the dark room where beds lined the walls and footlockers lay at their ends. He hoisted himself inside, creeping inward, clutching the stealth boy close should he need it. Beyond the room's door, a hallway led to two more. The bathroom and one to the main operation; An open office of cluttered desks, terminals, a powered board displaying the distribution of energy across the region and beyond.

Among that was his target. One console bearing a slit measured for the platinum chip in his pocket that waited for him among the array of ports, buttons, and flashing lights. He scanned the beeping and whirring array, pacing along the assortment while ears attuned elsewhere. Then he paused, finding the slot—

"I'm just gonna rest awhile inside."

Spinning around, Vincent held his breath. He stared at the door. Muffled voices talked beyond the main entrances. The knob twisted. He dove for a desk, shoving himself tightly underneath in time for those voices to come inside.

"There's plenty of water in the fridge if you need."

"I'll leave the intel on the comm desk before I go."

His brows furrowed at that voice. Vincent peered through the seams in the metal desk, blinking past a draft and searching for those men. That voice… An unmistakable baritone. Something to envy and admire all at once. The door shut, taking the light of day and a sergeant with it. A chair groaned under the ranger's weight. Then a sigh exhaled as limbs ached finally at rest.

Lawrence.

Vincent's heart fluttered. His stomach twisted. His hands trembled as static flooded their tips. The ranger shrugged off the duffel bag and searched its contents then pulled out an envelope. Vincent's eyes stung staring so long at him. He had to take in all the monotony of the man. Commit everything about him to in this moment to memory for fear of never seeing the ranger again Lawrence was the same since he last saw the man, albeit for the neglected stubble and a sun-reddened nose. Lawrence found his canteen next. Lips muttered to himself before standing up and setting the bag aside. He disappeared around the hallway. The bathroom door clicked behind him.

Vincent exhaled. His excitement waned. He couldn't stay under the desk forever. Twirling the chip in his fingers, he debated letting the ranger see him. Would he rush to Vincent? Embrace him? Apologize? Come back home with him? He clenched his jaw until it hurt. Vincent turned away from those fantasies. Lawrence made his choice, and Vincent made a promise to respect that choice—No matter how it hurt.

One finger pushed the chip in the slot—this was more important. Terminal screens blanked. Interfaces rebooted and in minutes Mr. House would have access to the station. The dormant reactors under the Lucky 38 would fire up and the substation would become House's own relay point, furthering his reliable field of control over the securitron army in time to seize the dam.

But Lawrence…

Vincent faced the hallway, a million thoughts and consequences bombarding him in seconds. He froze, stuck between fear and excitement, need and want. Hinges creaked. The ranger rounded the corner, head hung as hands dried on a rag. Lawrence glanced up. Their eyes met for the briefest moment. A gasp escaped the boy's lips, and a split-second decision activated the stealth-boy in his grasp, disappearing before Lawrence's eyes.

"Vince?" Lawrence whispered; his hoarse voice hushed with disbelief.

Lawrence's stare fixed upon one spot in that room. His vision narrowed to black tunnels. The apparition of the young man seared into the one spot and in his mind wondering if he finally lost it. Was it just his weariness, oncoming heat stroke, dehydration? He collapsed in the chair, snatching the water canteen off his sack on the way down. Chugging water, he stopped only at threat of choking. His legs trembled. His heart fluttered. His lips muttered beneath the hand washing over his face, ending at a pinch on the bridge of his nose. Lawrence sat silent. Still. Lifeless, save for shallow breaths. His back twitched, and hushed cries broke the silence.

Vincent blinked away contagious tears. He stood as petrified as Lawrence. Unable to move forward to the ranger facing a moment he promised he would no matter what. The strangled sobs gouged him. Every bit of his sense, his instincts, any lingering droplets of emotion told him to stay for Lawrence.

But he swallowed the knot in his throat and backed away. Pulled like a puppet on strings, dragged back to the window he came through, tripping on his own feet. His boots stumbled, refusing to go any further as if knowing better than his own brain. Tangled in uncertainty, Vincent toppled to the dusty soil, forced to look back to the open window. Tears smeared the dark square on white walls. Tarnished metal frames shimmered to a blur of colors, and he blinked, wiping away the tears as a voice reminded him to leave. A monotone, professional voice coolly giving him orders and gifts of silver in the hand that feeds. The reason he was here; to have everything he could ever want. Except the one thing he could never buy.

Needles pricked every centimeter of his skin, stabbing all the nerves in his body as his heart joined the protest. Sinking in his chest, daring to beat no more lest he crawl back through that window and reach out to the ranger. Feel him again; the touch of his skin, his hair, his warmth still lingered on Vincent's fingertips and the laugh Vincent swore he heard at times when dreadfully alone in the suite. His rare smiles— the only memories that brought out Vincent's own anymore.

Sitting on the bike and letting the world go by, the ache in his back hinted at the wasted time. He twirled the thread knotted on his wrist, staring vacantly at the brilliant blue star. A five-pointed, iridescent blot blinded his eyes. Memories were a broken holotape in his head stuttering on the parts he loved most to sooth the ranging beast inside him, weighing down on his shoulders and following closer than his shadow. It was out for revenge. Reprisal. Justice, for the perpetrator, puffy-eyed and staring back in a rear-facing mirror.

—

It began with a report of Legion supermutants smashing an entire patrol from ranger Pason at Delta. Except, that never happened. Legion would sooner purge any supermutant, ghoul, unclean creature, even if it gave them the upper hand. The next report took to him to Ranger Station Alpha where six rangers had been killed in two weeks—but that didn't happen either. At Foxtrot station, trained Deathclaws roamed the hills, wielded by none other than Great Khans. Now, whether or not deathclaws could be trained was up for debate, but he wouldn't put it past a Khan for trying. Still, a certain trend followed.

Lawrence flipped a red chip. One forgotten to be cashed in at the Millennium, now he wondered if he'd ever get the chance. Static bloomed through the interference. She flipped her switches and the high pitch ceased. "Aliens?" Mel chuckled. "Like, little green men from those old comics?"

"I know."

"Wonder who screwed up that report."

"Every ranger station has had the same issue," Lawrence explained. "False reports. Some absurd, some mundane stuff, but not an ounce of truth in it."

"Well," Mel hummed, buzzy like the static she listened to all day. She spun around in the chair. Maroon eyes set on Lawrence across the desk. The last remainder of brown she once had clung to black pupils. "All the reports go through Camp Golf. Things get jumbled up sometimes. Honestly, I would have just gone there first and saved my feet the trouble."

"True," Lawrence shrugged. Every report from all rangers across the Mojave ended up at Camp Golf. Read, dissected, filed away by clerks. Pertinent bits added to compounding lists and advisory reports of their own. Was it just an oddity? Or something more? "But someone looked at these and—"

Sputters ripped outside. Both rangers froze, holding their breath as they listened for more. "Mel! Get out here!" A voice boomed as the front door ripped open and the senior ranger of the station barged in. "Legion assault inbound!"

Firelight glowed beyond the junk walls of Ranger Station Charlie, pushing back a starless night. Tattered metal battlements clamored under marching boots as they rushed by, ammo cases jingling in hands. Each ranger was given grenades from the supply for the glimpses of red emerging like the licking flames of their hungry fires. Red banners glistened like blood. Spearheads glinted. Shotgun barrels shimmered under desert tarnish. At least there was no trebuchets this time.

And hopefully, Lawrence still had some luck left.

—

Vincent stared at the paper. It was a compounding, seemingly endless to-do list created by the conflict between Freeside locals and NCR immigrants, threatening to blow over any minute. The Van Graffs… That one he scoffed at. He had to. Freeside wasn't like the strip. May as well been no-man's land if the King wasn't the glue holding the normal people together. The easiest and most straightforward was the low-life scum sketched on bounty posters. Just shoot to kill. And he got paid for it! Not that he needed the money, but it was a good way of supplementing efforts with the Followers. Still, the list just kept getting longer.

More problems.

More obligations.

Vincent sighed, combing a hand through his hair before the gentle breeze could rustle it unkempt. It was never just the endless to-do list, however. It was the way the sun rose in the east. Blossoming pinks, creamy oranges, and satin reds that painted the sunrise across the desert and the cold nights that melted it away. It was never this frigid when Lawrence was with him. What used to be glittering diamonds in Lake Mead now seemed so worthless.

Another heavy sigh deflated him. He turned away from the shore, twisting to the dashboard of the bike he leaned on and turned the radio's dial. Static and interference blended together when the numbers changed. Blips of music slowed his fingers.

"—SOS!"

Vincent paused. He switched back one frequency. "—Station Charlie requesting help. Under heavy fire—"

Fire washed over Vincent. His mouth dried and his heart stopped. How was it that across such a huge desert did they just keep finding each other?

Nestled in a canyon, protected by jagged peaks, Ranger Station Charlie still stood. Yellow rays bloomed like a crown on the mountaintops. Few rangers wandered the grounds, less than he remembered the first time they stopped at the camp. But none were Lawrence. The dirt trail spat out behind him slowed as he came to a halt. He plucked the helmet off, his scowl jabbing the one man who dared stand outside a wall of cluttered steel frames and jumbled containers.

"Where's Lawrence?"

"Turn around, kid."

"Lawrence. Garrett. Ranger"

"Go—"

He yanked out his revolver. Thumb cocked the hammer. The silvery barrel aimed at the ranger's eyes. "Then fucking tell me where he is!" Vincent's nostrils flared. His face blossomed red, burning hotter than the scorched desert around them.

"Woah now!"

The chain-link gate swung open. Another one butted in. Empty hands raised as he slowly stepped to the two, but this ranger wasn't unarmed. None of them were unarmed—one sniper peeked from a lookout. Obviously, more were hiding among the battlements. Vincent clenched his teeth.

"We don't need to be waving guns around."

"I only want to know where my friend is. Then I go away."

"Hey, I recognize you." Bronze eyes stared out beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Dobson had a friendly smile and calm voice no matter the danger. A cautious hand beckoned Vincent to lower the gun. "Let's put that down. Vincent, right?"

Vincent flicked his wrist up. The barrel turned to the sky and he backed away. Adrenaline subsided, but the young man's glower refused to loosen.

"Thank you," Dobson breathed a sigh of relief but his peer still simmered beside him. "You lookin' for your friend? The ranger you told me about?"

"He was here," Vincent declared. "I heard the emergency call on the radio. It was his voice!"

"I'm sorry, buddy, but you were chasing a ghost. Lawrence already left."

Vincent swallowed the knot tying his throat. His scowl twisted to a grimace as he turned away, pacing to the cadence of his thoughts. "Was he hurt? Is he ok?"

"Yeah, he was just fine when he left," Dobson assured. He looked to the other ranger, jerking his head for him to go inside. Hushed words exchanged and the ranger departed. "He helped us out with a surprise assault squad. Nice guy." Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. Biting back tears that wouldn't come no matter how dismal and empty he felt. "He mentioned getting back to Forlorn Hope."

Rays glared down the desert flats as if the dusty Mojave were the sun's own personal mirror. The terrible glare blinded his eyes on the entire ride through the wilderness. But it didn't matter because by the time the gritty black dots in his eyes cleared, he'd be laying sights on Lawrence; the only image he wanted to see anymore.

Where two towers jutted and clung to red stone walls, hiding the lookouts inside, was Forlorn Hope. Vincent's bike announced him before he arrived and so did the lookouts because standing outside the fortified walls was a rosy-skinned ranger wearing a rather unsettling half-smile that seemed to always linger on his face.

"Where is he?" Vincent shouted, marching over to the man despite the excited trembles. The prospect of touching, hearing, just seeing Lawrence again was the only idea propelling him to square up with a veteran ranger.

"You shouldn't be here."

"Where is he?"

"You're putting him in a bad situation by being here." Clint remained calm. An irritating ranger tactic, except where it seemed heroic on Lawrence, was just infuriating on this one.

"Is he alive?" Vincent halted, boot to boot with the man. He promised no longer he would be intimated, even if he was.

"Alive and well. Now I suggest you leave." Clint turned away; hands still clasped behind his back.

"Let me see him!" Vincent roared, continuing his march after Clint. His throat swelled and scratched, but still he screamed. His eyes finally watered, crushed by the overwhelming helplessness he felt buried in a shallow grave as his life slipped away. "Lawrence!"

Clint turned up to the lookouts, both hunching over the walls of their perch at the free show. "This civilian is not allowed inside the camp."

—

The clerk hummed in thought. She was a bland secretary stuffed into a corner office with the rest of them. The mailroom, filing and intake all in one, was the size of the closet back home—Vincent's home. The suite wasn't his home anymore. "Well, yeah," she shrugged, leaning forward over the desk, handing the ranger back his papers. "The chief signed off on all of these reports."

"I need to speak with him then."

Every one of those false reports were signed off by Chief Hanlon himself. Declaring them all correct, factual, nothing suspicious. Except every bit of it was suspicious. It wouldn't have taken one ranger trekking the desert to investigate to find that out though. Something didn't add up. A forged signature? Failing judgment that came with age? Sabotage? Lawrence had to know.

Lawrence finally turned the knob, shoving through the door into the office. It was small. Nothing grand like he imagined it would be. Instead of trophies, medals, souvenirs of conquest, the place of a man who never quite settled in. And the man himself, was refined with the scent of cigars and brandy, weathered and gray with wise lines creasing hickory eyes.

"Wasn't expectin' anybody this evening."

"I don't mean to bother, chief," Lawrence stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Ranger Garrett, Lawrence Garrett."

Chief Hanlon stood up behind his desk. His eyes crinkled by a smile as he extended an open hand. "Don't think we've met, ranger Garrett."

"It's nice to finally meet you in person." Lawrence flashed a smile with a firm shake. "I wanted to ask you about these. It's probably nothing, but… Wouldn't be a good ranger if I didn't ask questions."

Hanlon took the papers and returned to his chair. His furrowed brows loosened as eyes flickered across the pages. He lowered the reports then those aged eyes turned up to Lawrence. "How long you been you a ranger?"

"Been about twelve years now, sir."

"Signed on when you were still a baby didn't you?" The chief chuckled. "But you got that black armor. Been to Baja?"

"I have."

"So, tell me what you really see here," Halon implored, hand gesturing to the reports stacked on his desk.

"Someone is manipulating intel. The purpose eludes me."

"Someone?"

"From where I stand, from what I've gathered." Lawrence paused, uncertainty disintegrating his voice. He could be wrong. The whole situation was blown out of proportion, and he was just chasing ghosts, a reason to be relevant, a distraction from the real problem. "The reports didn't change until they reached you. I've already been to every ranger station. I've seen their logs. They don't match. Senior rangers deny these statements. Nothin' corroborates them."

"Sorting and manipulating intelligence is what I do. It's what rangers are supposed to do."

"This isn't the kind of manipulating I've done or ever would consider," Lawrence shook his head. "This is blatant lying."

"This is never going to end," Hanlon said. "This fight with Caesar. People back home don't know what these young men and women are in for. The Legion is the worst enemy we've ever faced. I ain't gotta tell you that."

Lawrence's lips thinned. He looked away from Hanlon as his husky voice hushed as he continued. "And even if we do stop them, I don't see how we're ever going to be able to pull out. We need the dam. The water. And even if we hold it, what then? Are we going to send our men and women to die here for another five years? Ten? The Legion won't stop once Caesar's gone. You can't kill an idea. Can't kill ideology."

He thought it would ease him. To hear those words aloud from another mouth. To hear someone other than himself talk about those things you don't say lightly. It would be confirmation he wasn't merely weak for wanting to end the waste of life. Assurance he wasn't a coward for preferring to stay home—the first home he had in a while with the boy he found on the side of the road. Lawrence was only flushed with regret left by a realization he wished had sooner: that all of it was futile. He would never find the legionnaire who murdered Marcus, never get back the friends he had lost to war, never unsee the brutality, the horrors man was capable of—he would never get back the years burned away under a desert sun for a cause he wasn't certain of anymore.

No matter how many soldiers, rangers, bodies—None could hold against a secret under Fortification Hill. Speaking up now wouldn't change a thing either. The republic was doomed the moment they stepped foot in this unforgiving wasteland, and to hear from Chief Hanlon himself…

It filled him with dread.

—

Staring at the page for so long blended the words together. Every one of his carefully laid out plans melted on the pages, turning intricate and specific detail into nonsense until his eyes unfocused and all that remained were black, amorphous blots on stinging white. If it wasn't his eyes refusing to work, his back ached instead. Hung over the desk for hours at a time. Unable to move. Unable to think. And with no one to comfort or distraction. Lawrence would have told him to get up by now. Break the monotony and do push-ups or jog around the room with the boy or turn on the radio and dance to whatever came on in the moment.

Vincent jumped in his chair at the knock. He stared at the suite doors. Heart pounding in his chest as he replayed the heavy thuds in his head. Evaluating everything about the knock; the weight, the pitch, how it echoed on the other side, until he could rip open the door and run into the ranger's arms.

"Evenin', boss!" The securitron waved, flapping something grasped in his steely claw. "Just got this for ya!"

Victor handed him the paper. A blank envelope. No postmark, no recipient, and no originating address. "Who gave this to you?"

"Why, it was your ranger friend!"

"Lawrence? When?"

Vincent zipped past the machine, feet pacing as fast as his brain conjured up images of reuniting with an absent lover that made his knees shake. Excitement rose with repeated jabs to elevator buttons until the door dinged and opened to the gambling hall. He flew across the floor. Shoved the front doors open with a newfound force he didn't know he had in him. Panting to catch his breath, Vincent stared into the passing crowd. The eyes of nameless, faceless people wandered back to him. They were all insignificant compared to the man he searched for. Blobs of colors and sounds faded around him. He frantically searched for the ranger's colors and patterns—his black hair, soft and shiny. Sunkissed skin with a tan that refused to relent to even the brightest neon lights. His height—how he always stood out just a bit.

Nothing.

Still anxiously scanning the crowd he now joined, Vincent called for Lawrence. Each weaker than the last as eyes watered. Glassy tears blended all the colors of a city he once looked on with awe. Now it felt hollow. Empty. Gray…

Defeated, he returned to the steps of the Lucky 38. Lights flashed their guidance towards the doors, beckoning for him to return to the solitude of the tower. Instead, Vincent sat down on the first step. The doors to his back like a quiet refusal to return home until he got what he wanted. Waiting patiently for the man who wrung his heart for all it had. In his imagination, he envisioned Lawrence emerging from the hoard which only excited his heart once more, then again and again as echoes of Lawrence's touch fluttered against his hands. Inhale his cologne. Hear his voice again. To feel his warmth wash away the chill of the night was all Vincent wanted. And if he did get that, Vincent vowed to embrace Lawrence tighter, so he couldn't disappear a second time.

If only he could.

—

"Three confirmed kills," the soldier declared. An accomplished grin crossed his face as a friend reached across the table. The clap jolted Lawrence awake. Mordecai glanced to the young men, lending an approving nod before returning to an almost empty tray of the night's slop. Tonight, was non-stop stories and tall tales all around the table. Boasts of glory and combat prowess. The usual bullshit the fresh meat listened in on as the older vets indulged them. When he was one those boys, he loved to hear it all. The suspense. The heroics. The witty lines and banter between old friends. The things he looked forward to. Now, it just felt like watching someone masturbate in public.

"What about you?" The boy nodded to him from across the table. "Heard you're a vet—Been to Baja and back."

"I am."

"Oh, I know Lawrence has some good stories," Mordecai assured as he managed a smug grin with one full cheek of mush.

He looked to Mordecai, then to the interested faces that looked on him. Young. New recruits, fresh rangers that hadn't quite got their bearings yet. Out of all of them, Mordecai included, Lawrence knew he had the most experience. The most stories. The most blood on his hands.

"I was trailing a group of raiders through Baja," he started. Untouched tray of food slid away before resting clasped hands on the table. "They were getting too close to one settlement there—I forget which—these guys were infamous for robbery, theft, typical shit, but they really caught attention after someone was killed in a heist. They stopped for the night and made camp. I watched them until the sun went down and they went to sleep." He refrained from looking at those faces. Yet still in his peripherals, vague blots taunted smiles and eager grins. "I went down there, as quiet and stealthy as possible. The four of them slept around a snuffed campfire—Didn't hear me coming. I slit each of their throats and let them stay there for the coyotes."

"Don't be humble," Mordecai chided. "Lawrence killed the self-titled 'Fearless-Four'. Bunch of bandits and thieves."

His audience shifted in the corner of his eyes, leaning closer as hushed oohs and ahs hummed around the table. "Fitting end in my opinion," one added.

"Once I was down South, further than Searchlight. Legion expanded their borders again. Another town raised," Lawrence continued. "I followed a troop of them to a farmstead. A family of four lived there; mom, dad, with a son about eight and a daughter of seventeen." Lawrence's eyes wandered down the table. All faced him. Six. "They raped the girl, the mom. Then killed the boy, the mom, the dad. Left her—"

"Hey," Mordecai hissed. His hand lunged to the other ranger as he bore a stern face. A warning. "Dude—"

"I could only watch them take turns and she cried and begged them to stop!" He announced. "Ten red-feather fucks dragged them out of their home and they raped her and I could do nothing." Strange faces glanced over their shoulders at him. "Should I have just sniped them first? Risk them killing the family? I…" Heavy silence came over the tent. Glances wandered over to that conversation far too loud to ignore. "I was so fucking angry I was shaking—They knew I was there and—"

"Lawrence."

He jumped up. Mordecai flinched, startled like the rest of those soldiers at the table. "They left her alive. Tortured. Her slaughtered family on all sides." His voice trembled, still he marched on to relive it again and again. The greatest hits that kept him awake—That kept him angry. Motivated. The glamorous life of a ranger. "I took her to the nearest outpost. Get her the help—She killed herself a day later."

"I murdered women, children—People at Bitter Springs! I fucking massacred them with our standard issue SMG like it was any other day on the job. I told a mother she needed to shut her baby up or we'd all be murdered by the Centurion and his Legion we were hiding from—Outnumbered. Outgunned. She smothered him! She killed her baby boy…"

"I have so many more stories! You wanna hear 'em?" Furious and bloodshot eyes stared at his audience. He looked around the tables silently wondering among themselves if the ranger was serious. One flinched under Lawrence's glare—the young, boasting soldier that provoked him. "I am not a hero. You are not a hero! This is hell." His nostrils flared with every deep breath, lightening his head and smothering his ego. Vessels burst in whitened arms. His fingers numbed under the excruciating grip on sharp table corners. "This is not fun. This is not something I will look back on fondly. This keeps me awake at night and if I do manage to sleep, I wake up panicking from the fucking nightmares of what I have seen. What I have done."

A ghost called his name.

Ringing circled Lawrence's ears. Closing in on him in the vacuum of silence. Then a hand, a light touch on his shoulder. Gentle. The kind that always sent excited shivers fluttering across his skin. Eager to hear the boy's kind words, he whipped around.

"Calm down," Clint whispered.

Not Vincent. Not the boy he desperately missed. His heart fluttered, seizing then racing. Picking up speed with the bombardment in his head. Images and visions of artillery shells exploding before his eyes. Red closing ranks around him. The world spun violently, circling, mocking spits and hisses. Each voice chipping away at a flimsy facade. Fire washed over his skin. His legs collapsed. His lungs seized as hectic breaths drained his consciousness away.