Lost in thought, Vincent gazed beyond the terrace railing, secured in the inner seat that granted him a panorama of the bustling restaurant and the midday crowd wandering through, their laughter and chatter livening the atmosphere like winning slot machines. Yet, outside on the strip, the sun reigned supreme over a desolate kingdom of sweltering concrete and vanishing shadows.

Inside was a different world—an alluring prelude to the incoming evening's escapades. The bars beckoned with their shimmering cocktails; the tables whispered promises of fortune to be won at the flick of a card. His gaze drifted to the window, captivated by the grand entrance of the Millennium. A majestic fountain-lake sprawled below the terrace, its waters dancing to the song of a faux waterfall.

Suddenly, a gentle touch brushed through Vincent's hair, rearranging the strands he had so carefully styled that morning.

"Surprised you can think over the noise."

Lawrence's eyes twinkled when he smiled at Vincent, finally emerging from a daydream somewhere out in the wastes. "Something should be done about Freeside. There's too many problems and no solutions—"

"Do you think you could ease up a bit on yourself and all the hard-hitting ethical dilemmas?"

"It bothers me." Vincent's brows narrowed. He severed their skin-contact and crossed his arms instead.

Lawrence leaned on his armrest. Old wood creaked in dry joints unpleasantly and grating like the realization he offended boy who seemed to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed today. "It bothers anyone with a conscious, Vince, but what I'm getting at it is you can't just go from courier to saving the world—"

"Good afternoon, gentlemen!" The commanding baritone pulled the two to the suave cattle-baron standing at the edge of their table. He clutched a wide brimmed and white suede hat to his chest, revealing a head of thinning and wispy grey hair. His walrus mustache curled at the ends stretching over his gleaming smile. "I'm Clyde McCormick!" He squeezed around to the opposite side of the table, yammering on thick with a salesman's enthusiasm. "I am just elated to finally meet you! Once I heard what you done for the Followers I decided you were clearly a man of business acumen."

Reaching across the table, his thick and sausage-fingered hand was untouched by the toil of hard labor opened wide for a handshake. The grip was firm, just as Vincent had imagined it would be.

Clyde's chair groaned under his hefty weight. "I do hope you read my letter to the fullest," he said, shifting in his seat until he reached a comfortable position.

"I did and I even thought of a suggestion for you," Vincent said, mirroring the man's enthusiasm as many of Mr. House's business-books suggested. "Instead of complicated, expensive machines, or even mules and pack brahmin like you propose, how about a bicycle?"

"A bicycle?"

"Like those old-world ones propelled by the rider. It would be faster and you don't have to worry about complicated and delicate machinery repairs or upkeep for livestock."

"Well, you just outdid me," Clyde enthused, fanning himself with his hat while a toothy smile much too white like his suit. "I knew there was something special about you—ain't nobody gets into the Lucky 38 without being something!"

At the conclusion of a conversation much too lengthy for Lawrence's liking, Vincent and the cattle-baron stood up. The prospect of its meaning revived some life into the quiet ranger. Vincent shook Clyde's hand, reminding himself to be firm in his grip and steady about it too.

"I best be gettin' on my boys in the warehouse. I'll send you the memo when I'm ready!" His teeth beamed back at Vincent much the same as Clyde's suit did the entire meeting. Far too pristine and manicured, this was a man who didn't have to survive. There wasn't one scratch, scar, nor mustache hair out of place on the cattle baron. These kinds of men never lived below his means, but that wasn't always an advantage out here. Clyde McCormick immersed himself in the thick afternoon crowds. White suit and hat eventually disappeared behind two bodyguards lingering at the cafe doors.

Feeling rather accomplished in navigating his first business deal, Vincent turned to Lawrence to share his glee. "What's with that look?"

"You been talkin' to House too much lately."

Vincent chuckled off the comment. Some of him took it as a compliment. While he wasn't blind to House's influence, Vincent aspired to channel the better aspects for philanthropic endeavors the enigmatic Mr. House wouldn't. This deal with Clyde McCormick was going to be one of those good things he was working to accomplish. Clyde had the resources, both human and material, and the business smarts to operate his proposed "taxi" services for the strip and Vincent brought the funding which would be returned with interest to be invested in those tasks Lawrence thought insurmountable in Freeside.

"What if this guy doesn't keep up his end of the bargain once you give him the caps?"

"I've already thought about that," Vincent informed. "To summarize, I'd steal his idea for myself and seize anything he has in that warehouse he mentioned."

"That sounds like something House would do."

"Think that's too bad?"

"Well…" The ranger's voice trailed away with a shrug. "Considerin' the things I seen happen out here, that's more a tickle fight than punishment."

"I don't want to become like Caesar, but I also don't want to be useless like politicians back home. You have to draw the line somewhere."

"What about House?" Lawrence stretched an arm over the back of Vincent's chair. "He ain't got the best track record either."

"I don't agree with everything he's done or says," Vincent shook his head as arms folded on the table. His blurred reflection stared back at him from the wet ring left behind by a tequila sunrise. "House isn't the only answer, just the best one for now…"

Lawrence cocked his head during a brief pause. "What if House wasn't in the picture? Let's say you can take him out of the game and do things your own way, would you?"

It hadn't crossed Vincent's mind, but it was still a valid point. Surely House planned for everything with nothing else to do for two hundred something years holed up in an empty castle… But there was one thing Vincent, and not even Mr. House could deny, even if he'd never admit it, was the fact that he got lucky.

Had Benny been more careful, more smart, more thorough, Vincent never would have survived. None of the old man's plans would have ever seen fruition. Instead, that slimy, pompous fool would have gotten control of the securitron army stowed under Fortification Hill. And then what? What would Benny have done? Just take over the strip? Run it into the ground? Not even his own goon-squad at the Tops had a nice thing to say about the man after being informed of his death.

"No, I could ever do that. I don't think I'd want to." Vincent shook his head. "House has control on the strip for a reason. But I'm also not gonna be quiet when he inevitably has some atrocious idea—I told him I'd hold him accountable."

The ranger's stoic facade cracked. A little smile tugged the corner of his lips. "You told that to House?"

"He said he had no interest in being an abusive dictator controlling every aspect of people's lives and I expect him to keep true to that. House wouldn't have gotten anywhere without me, and I think that has weight."

"Don't go getting' an inflated ego, Vince," Lawrence warned, gentle squeezing the boy's shoulder. "That's what gets people hurt in these predicaments."

A warm breeze carried a whisper of the fountain's mist up to the terrace. Lawrence didn't flinch at the vapor clinging to his cheeks. He looked at the bottom of the second glass he emptied during negotiations and stirred the long wood spear. Vincent hated watching the ranger's softer looks disappear.

"Lawrence." The ranger hesitated to face his younger lover. "I wouldn't ask you to betray yourself either. I guess, I just want to say, I couldn't fault you for siding with the NCR once the time comes."

Lawrence looked away from Vincent before he'd even finished. Anxious and restless hands moved onto the fake plant at the center of the table. Fingertips cleaned the dust off paper leaves. His jaw tensed. "I, um." Words got tangled up somewhere on the way from his head to his tongue. Nothing he wanted to say seemed wholly truthful.

Vincent squeezed his forearm. "I'm not pressuring you for an answer right now." He smiled as his hand rose to Lawrence's face, caressing the five-o'clock shadow that always rolled in a few hours too early. Stubble pressed back against Vincent's thumb and each prick was just one thing he loved about the ranger. However, something stabbed Lawrence's gut, slowly sinking in vulnerable flesh that would never heal for either of them.

—

Engine grumbles quelled as he coasted down the slope. Rolling hills of withered grass and brush swayed behind him like a paintbrush painting the sparkles on Lake Las Vegas. Coming to Camp Golf always felt a little like coming home. This was where every ranger eventually passed through or stayed and standing in the main hall was one of those rangers, pacing in front of the annoyed receptionist's desk. Old hinges creaked behind Mordecai and he spun around. Relief softened his scowl once he saw Lawrence coming through the big doors.

The two met at the foot of a grand staircase, both surprised to see the other. "What's going on?"
Shoulder to shoulder they ascended the ancient wood planks once again. "Got a summons to talk to some bigshot M.P.," Lawrence said.

"You too?"

Lawrence stopped when they reached the top of the stairs. "What do you mean 'you too?'"

"I was just grilled for a fucking hour about some nonsense."

"Why? What're they askin'?"

"The guy wanted to know a lot about you." Mordecai glanced over his shoulder as though sensing the source of his ire. Complaints were put on hold as he frowned to the man in question. Standing at the end of the hallway, prim, neat fatigues, over-shined boots that'd never seen the uneven terrain of a battlefield, beige beret, and posture far too rigid to be comfortable in his rank stared at them. Mordecai sighed wearily, "good fuckin' luck."

In one of many rooms around the old-world-resort-turned-base, identical to each, nondescript and easily lost in, they shook hands over a dusty tabletop.

"Major Parsons."

"Lawrence."

Parsons took his seat and scooted in properly. The gust fluttered a broken cobweb. "You always go by your first name?" he asked, thumbing through the contents of a manila envelope. "It's a little unprofessional."

Lawrence huffed as if it were a joke. He claimed his seat with a casual slouch, a mild dare for the rigid MP. "I don't care to stand on formality—leave that to the people who aren't busy in the field."

Parsons hummed. "I'm here to ask you some questions."

"I gathered that much. Shoot."

A distasteful expression thinned the major's lips and evidently his patience as well. He placed a photograph on the table. A Polaroid, old, but still colored and coherent. Then another. Then a third, the subject of which he knew quite intimately. "Do you know these rangers?"

Lawrence pointed to the third image. "Just him."

"Only him?" The indifferent tone barely disguised Parsons' disbelief.

"Just him."

"Who is he?"

"Marcus Cervantes. Deceased."

"Marcus? His file says Marcos."

A knife plucked his heartstrings. Some distant memory of a decade ago unpacked itself, played out in completeness for a brief second. Funny how something as innocuous as a slip of a tongue became the foundation for love. "You can call him Marcos."

"How did you know him?"

That was obvious information, something easily obtained from either of the rangers' files, or just talking to the CO they had in common. "We were on numerous assignments together through our deployments. We worked well with each other and eventually agreed to team up."

"Your record shows you two have were quite prolific together. Sniper team, stealth, he's even been undercover…" Parsons glanced to the file he kept a tight hold on. Suspicious eyes shot back at Lawrence. They were hollow. Vacant of emotion. He'd seen eyes like those too many times and they never followed anything good. "You know what happened to him?"

"K.I.A. Legion. Not long after the war."

"What about the other rangers?"

"Never met them."

Parsons hummed. "This individual—" He turned to his file and pulled out another photo. Then another, and another, laying them out one by one. Black and white, fuzzy and grainy, images of him and Vincent around the city. The ranger's squint turned to a scowl. He leaned back in the chair. Creaking wood echoed in the little room as Lawrence's unyielding stare fixed on Parsons—a little hint he didn't like present company as well. "Who's she?"

"He is Vincent."

Another hum grated his ears and curled his lip. Being stuck in a cramped room with some army bureaucrat would annoy anyone, but that obnoxious hum… That just made Lawrence's skin crawl. "Why are you with him so much?"

"We're close friends."

Parsons cocked his head. Lawrence rolled his eyes as the major looked into his file. "You look more close than just friends." More photographs. A kiss here and there at the slots. An arm around Vincent playing at the blackjack tables. Holding hands as they walked the strip, Freeside—oblivious.

"The hell is this about?"

Parsons set his files aside. Instinct urged Lawrence to grab the stack and slap the major with it in anticipation of yet another hum. "This is a matter of security for the New California Republic. Vincent is a threat to our efforts here."

The ranger laughed. "Give me a break." He crossed his arms as a leg swayed anxiously underneath the table. "Or give me a good reason why."

"Well let's see, I have numerous reports of you two going in and out of the Lucky 38 and, forgive me if I'm wrong, but that's where Mr. House is right? You are aware of Mr. House yes?"

"I don't know anything about House that the NCR doesn't. Never met him. Never talked to him. Never will."

"So let me guess." Parsons leaned on the table. Hands steepled together as stares fought for dominance. "You don't know what Vincent's relationship to Mr. House is either?"

"Vincent's a contractor for the guy, what else could he be?"

"Well, all these reports—" His hands parted as fingers curled around his words. "—make me curious about why you're really associating with him." He reached for his stack, pinching a portion underneath and pulling it out like splaying dirty laundry across the table. "You have a bad habit of disobeying orders, ranger. So, I don't really believe you." He picked out one, flipping the first two pages automatically before rattling off Lawrence's offense. "Let's see, you killed targets you were not cleared to do so at Rosario—"

"They were Legion combatants openly firing on my unit and civilians."

"Yet in Laughlin, you flat out refused to kill anyone in your zone—"

Lawrence waved the younger man's words aside. "They were terrified civilians disguised as Legion troops! That was an obvious trap set up from faulty intel any other ranger there will tell you the—"

"It cost us our hold on Laughlin!" The major let the report fall into the mess with an accusatory plop. "Now it's Legion territory. Oh! And you're supposed to be on leave after Dr. McCulloch's psych evaluation, yet you're still trotting around the Mojave like you have orders." Parsons spread the documents, pushing up one when it mattered. "Boulder City—no one ordered you to go there. Nelson—no one ordered you to go there. Nellis—no one ordered you to go there. Helios One. Need I say more?"

Parsons paused his melodramatic search and straightened his back. Composure reinstated its command and he brought his hands together again. "But you just keep showing up, with Vincent—" His index and middle fingers pinched from the pile again. Lawrence's glare twitched, interrupting an eyeroll before it slipped. "And every time something interesting happens…" Parsons leaned back comfortably, a mocking but faint smile on his face as though he had all the control here, and Lawrence despised that because it was unfortunately true. "What was your business with the Boomers? Why did you negotiate to let those Khans leave when they were ordered to be executed?"

"There was two of them and twenty—"

"Why were you at Nelson?

"Legion dug in. I was—"

"Why does private Morris claim you assaulted him at Helios One and why are you accusing him of being a Legion spy? Are you—"

Voices clashed together. A terrible cacophony clamored in the room, bouncing between corners, rushing to and fro to strike a hit and hidden among the discord, the door swung open.

"I am not working for House!"

The door slapped the wall and hushed Lawrence and Parsons. Boots thudded on creaking floors as three marched in. "You are on my turf, kid. I don't appreciate my rangers being interrogated without my permission or my presence."

Major Parsons jumped out of his seat. Shock slapped the cocky smirk from his face by now, but Clint's stone wall demeanor and gravelly voice was often enough to do that even without a dramatic entrance. "I am conducting an important investigation—"

Like standing with a brahim-bull in a pen, the major stood nose to nose with Clint. "Who ordered you to come here?"

"That's classified."

"Who ordered you to question him?" Clint raised his voice.

Parsons stood strong. A mild tremor in his lip nearly stuttered him. He remembered to keep his back straight and his shoulders squared but Clint could smell his fear. "That is classi—"

"You can shove that classified nonsense up your ass. Produce some identification and documentation or get out."

"I did upon—"

"We got an intruder, boys," Clint declared. The two rangers in tow aimed their revolvers. Lawrence took his cue and flew out of his chair and out of the way. Parsons inched away, glancing between Clint and the rangers behind him. He stammered out, barely holding onto any semblance of authority. "Who are you?"

"New California Republic Ranger CO, Clint Austin Decker, Cazador company." Parsons flinched at the flinging saliva. "Now, I know that's a mouthful, so I'll write it down for you since you got your hands busy jerking off whoever sent you here." Clint gave the gesture, and his rangers lowered their arms. "I'll give you some advice too, since you army folk are a little soft in the head." A smile stretched his leathery face and the slight tilt of his head added to the insult. He stepped forward when Parsons stepped back. "You don't piss off the guys backing up your whole operation."

The longest second of Parson's life swelled in the short gap between him and Clint. The senior ranger was relentless, unblinking. Lawrence half expected to see a sopping wet spot soaking Parson's trousers. When Clint had his fun, he spoke, and Parsons flinched. "Go ahead and see that our guest finds his way out."

After the two rangers left with Parsons, Lawrence pulled back his chair and slowly descended. His knees trembled as adrenaline faded, not so much from Clint's showdown, but what remained on the table. "Clint." Too many questions crowded his mouth. None would ever get out in time. "What's going on?"

Clint closed the door then turned back to Lawrence. Purposeful steps brought him to the table where he stole Parsons's seat and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table as he met Lawrence's pensive stare. "There isn't one war happening here in the Mojave. There's another and it started back home. I don't know who, I don't know why—I and a lot of other rangers know something bad is happening."

"Does this have to do with why you wanted me to go to Helios One?"

"Yes." Clint pulled the ashtray neglected at the edge of the table between them. "I don't like keeping the truth from my men and I'll be honest, I'm suspicious of Vincent, but I got no reason to mistrust you." Lawrence inched closer to the table, setting his elbows on the table, showing empty hands as if laying down each other's cards to see. "The NCR is being eaten from the inside out. Rangers used to be something better, greater. Our founders fought tooth and nail against tyranny, slavery, the unjust wasteland, and now we're being betrayed by the people we protect."

Lawrence reached into his duster and pulled out the half-empty pack of cigarettes—the crutch. Something to lean on when things got too heavy and up until now, he had forgotten about that pack squished against his armor.

"Lawrence, I need to know you know that too." He lent one to Clint, then lit it before his own. The smoke burned on the way down. He stifled a choke. Did they always taste that bad? "I need to know you will be there at Hoover Dam ready to defy whatever asinine orders Oliver is gonna give. If we don't, the rangers and everything we stand for is going to die with us."

—

When Vincent the Boneyard for the first time, the grey cloud hanging over the city stood out, but not that much compared to the hordes. Humans, ghouls, even a few super mutants he didn't look at too long. People flocked to the NCR to escape the dangers of the frontier, radiation tainted land, vast swaths of nothingness to the east… Buildings upon buildings congested the skyline, rushing him with a sense of dread as he imagined the glittering towers falling down. If you couldn't snag a room in one of those death-traps, nor had the wealth to keep up an actual home in the old suburbs, there were plenty of alleys, eroded beach fronts, and falling hillsides to stake your claim on for a time. New Vegas wasn't different—outside the strip that is. In Freeside, people scrambled for measly scraps, fought over crumbling refuges and cardboard shelters. Plenty of empty buildings for squatters to get a start, yet much of Vegas's old city limits was wild frontier littered with the dangerous types.

But beggars can't be choosers.

It was just another way to survive. Not one Vincent would condone, however. Politicians, congressmen, the senate—all the way from the top to the bottom had proven themselves useless in the New California Republic; the last bastion of freedom and democracy, supposedly. So willing and happy to expand and impose its ideals on others—were they really so different from Caesar at the heart of it? Liberation had two very different meanings to two very different wasteland powers. For Vincent, New Vegas had to be different, but there was always a caveat.

"I am not denying the conflict in Freeside," Mr. House said, a shortness marked his synthetic voice. "I have no intention of assisting a potential threat. The Kings will, without a doubt, protest my annexation of Freeside into the municipality of the strip."

Vincent paused, noting the blatant tension in his neck. He sucked in a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders. With every little chat here and there, Vincent knew the enigmatic man better than anyone else in his kingdom, as little as that was.

"I think you're looking at this from one point of view," Vincent said, taking on an experimental voice. "You're not using them to their full potential." He looked at Mr. House silent portrait. Quiet could be intimidating when faced with the big man. He didn't have the advantage of staring at House face-to-face. Seeing his tells and reading through his facade to navigate a negotiation, but to win the pot, one didn't need to read other players as clearly as you'd a book. One just needed to have a better poker face.

"Go on."

"Think of them as a bridge," Vincent suggested, letting a budding smile through just enough to cloud his own bluff. "The locals in Freeside will never know the strip and all its luxury and this breeds disdain for anyone who does. But, they do respect and look up to the Kings for what they've done to keep Freeside mostly safe. Trampling over them will cause outrage. Using them to bridge the obvious divide between Freeside and the strip can ease tensions and open doors for further opportunities once we expand in Freeside."

A synthetic hum buzzed over the speakers. "A plausible outcome if you succeed. However, if the Kings prove troublesome, I will not hesitate to remove that threat—Or should I say; you should not hesitate to remove that threat?"

One the elevator ride down, Vincent finally exhaled yet the tension didn't dissipate entirely. However, the prospect that outside the doors of the Lucky 38, sat a handsome ranger, waiting just for him. He squinted under the afternoon glare. Each window of the tower-skyline of the strip was a beacon daring to outshine the sun on the desert stage. The intermittent battle waged until night descended upon the land, extinguishing those fires for the better, more colorful ones to take over. Despite that, Vincent focused his full attention to the man leaning against the railing as he fumbled with the same string, pocket-knife, and bottle cap he'd shove into his pocket the moment he spotted Vincent coming.

"What's going on? How'd things go at Camp Golf?"

"Hah!" Lawrence bellowed, a joyous smile crossed his face as he held up his accomplishment. He pulled up Vincent's arm by his wrist then tied a loose knot with the cord. Lawrence turned the bracelet, so the cap faced up. The most pristine one he could find in the odd collection that occupied the ashtray on Vincent's desk. Red crinkled edge smoothed and folded backwards, revealing a silver underbelly marked by a bright, blue star. "I made this for you."

Vincent flung arms around Lawrence, hugging tightly as his words were muffled into the ranger's shirt. "I love it."

"Let's take the rest of the day off instead of runnin' around. What do you say?" Lawrence asked. Glaring windows dispersed their lights as a heavenly aura around him. Stray hair shined like gold at their ends. Nothing could break Vincent's adoring gaze from the man. "Gonna be dark soon in three hours or so. And I'm exhausted."

"Ah, exhausted from what exactly?"

Lawrence rolled his head over to the other shoulder and let out a wistful sigh. "I've been busy being tall, dark, and handsome. It's not easy being me."

"Alright, you convinced me."

On top of the world, nothing could reach them. Not the politics of the strip, the tension at the dam, the casual violence in Freeside, or the raiders on the fringes… There were only two guests in the rotating cocktail lounge, spinning above the colorful neon array and content to dance to nostalgic swing orchestras of a long-gone era. On one table, were the remnants of dinner and an experiment in mixology collected among a variety of glasses.

"Slower is better."

"I agree. You aren't bumping my shoes," Lawrence chuckled. Vincent picked up the quick lesson in proper steps. Circling against the flow of the empty cocktail lounge, Lawrence led him around the floor, losing momentum as the brass band came to a close for another song. "I think if the world was gonna end again, I'd like to end it with you like this."

Vincent lay his head against Lawrence's chest. A soft smile dimpled his cheeks. His eyes closed as he let Lawrence whisk him away. "Nothing could be better."

The warm embrace that began the night, was how it ended as well. Several hours later and in the comfort of a suite high above the city. However, in the early hours when the drunks passed out, the gambling halls were empty, and the showgirls wiped the day off their faces, one man was still awake. High in the white-walled tower, writing, declaring, and pouring a part of himself no one had seen in years into a letter that ended with goodbye.