Mechanical whirs swirled around him. The content hum of machinery ought to have warmed the penthouse, yet no matter the blistering heat waves outside in the Summer or the frigid thrashing winds of Fall becoming Winter, the overseer’s throne always had a chill to it. 

“I reviewed your report of extracurricular activities; namely the events surrounding Helios One.”

“Let me guess—You don’t want me assisting the NCR in any way?”

“Quite the opposite,” House noted. “In light of recent reports from the front lines and observations of Legion movements, the final battle for Hoover Dam draws near—The NCR is failing miserably to maintain their holdings. Obviously, I do not want you to give them the upper hand over me, rather over the Legion.”

“I can—” Vincent voice broke. The knot in his throat bobbed, threatening to throw his voice again as it often did at the worst moments. “But how do you suppose I go about that?” A shrug untangled his arms. He stroked the soft whiskers on his chin—a habit as new as those hairs. “They are aware of me. Aware I work for you. I can’t just show up in their territory promising I’m not gonna sweep the rug out from under them any day now.”

“Oh, but you already have,” House declared with a slight tilt in his voice as if it were praise. “You seized the opportunity for diplomacy with the Boomers. Admittedly, I didn’t think such a feat was possible with their extreme isolationist policies. What of the Brotherhood of Steel? Did you not don the guise of a wasteland yokel to disarm? Feign philanthropic intentions to help with their self-imposed predicament? All to sweep the metaphoric rug out from under them? And for far, far worse than what we have planned for the NCR.”

Vincent stared at the portrait of a face suspended in time, wearing an astute expression captured by millions of pixels that somehow seemed to morph to match whatever the old man faintly emoted. And now, it appeared that Mr. House praised him with that quizzical brow, as if entertaining the thought his protege still clung to notions of humility. 

What he did was murder. Callous, cold-blooded annihilation. Premeditated to painful detail, if not to be precise, to wound himself as well. Chills rushed Vincent’s limbs, prickling his skin with little dots like when he was startled awake in the small hours after revisiting those frigid halls in his dreams. Warning lights flashed. Panicked screams twisted like crashing waves through narrow passages, but no life was to be found. He trembled. Frozen where he stood listening to even yet thunderous steps suddenly echoing through the desolate halls. Closing in on him. Terrified of what lurked around the corner because that shadow stretching across cold concrete walls was his own. 

“Vincent!”

He jumped at his own name. Victor pivoted on his wheel to face the boulevard where two women stood at the end of the Lucky 38’s steps; one glamorous blonde and one lieutenant who seldom parted from her sunglasses. 

“You can’t avoid us forever!” Jackie called. As eager as he was to have some pleasant interaction, Vincent suppressed a budding smile trotting over to the two. Eve held out her hands. It was another homecooked meal in a generous helping of the whole pot, and her beaming smile was the garnish. One of several pots that had shown up on his doorstep, brought to his room by a certain cowboy securitron that stumbled upon a catering subroutine. Or maybe even robots couldn’t resist her charms.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent muttered. “I’m not avoiding you. I’m just…”

“I know.” Eve’s glimmering eyes glanced down to the white dish in hand covered by a fitted plaid cloth of her own making. 

“Thank you,” Vincent returned the smile, a real one this time. “I’m spoiled by your food honestly. Nothing else compares.”

“You oughta come out of your cave once in a while,” Jackie suggested. She plucked off her shades and folded them on the collar of her fatigues. “We’ve been wanting to see that new show at Paradisio.”

“I…” Hesitant glances darted to the ground, avoiding the two hopeful pairs of eyes on him. “I’ve been so busy, but… I can make the time.”

Eve clapped as she stifled an excited squeal. “Perfect!”

Jackie planted fists on her hips as her smile widened, noting her mission was accomplished. “How’s tomorrow night for you?”

“Tomorrow night it is!”




–




After his third deployment, he calculated the most efficient way to pack everything. He stared in the duffel bag lighter than he remembered before setting out on some fateful August day so many months ago. A glimpse of one of those happy-ending-kinds-of-fate was captured in the polaroid pinched between his fingers. A fate he often reminisced on, once about a man he used to know, and now a boy he’d never forget. Broad shoulders weakened with a sigh.  

“Not the luxury you’re used to, right?” Another ranger heaved his bag on the bed with the rest of his things. The fully stuffed, vomit green canvas waited to head out just like every bag in the barracks. Except the owner of this one couldn’t help but glare at Lawrence across from him. 

“Excuse me?”

He scoffed as if Lawrence’s should know what he was talking about. “You the one been hanging on the strip?” A shake of his head followed the beat of his words. “Livin’ it up while the rest of us been fighting like hell. Must be nice.”

Threatening eyes sized up the stranger. Shorter. Younger. Green from the looks of it. Not a man Lawrence was familiar with, but that hadn’t stopped him from throwing punches before. Lawrence leaned on the bunk frame, pressing palms on chilled metal to sober himself. “The fuck you talkin’ about?”

Packing ceased from other bunks. Shuffling boots came to squeaking stops. Chatter hushed alongside a dimming radio. All eyes in the barracks wandered over to the two men. The younger man glanced over his shoulder. A cocky smirk tugged his lips and a chuckle followed when he looked back to Lawrence. He snatched a newspaper from the assortment of his belongings sprawled on the top bunk.

“This.” He held up the paper for everyone to see as he sauntered around the bunk-bed. It was an old print by about a few weeks. The familiar grainy photo plastered on the folded disarray of gray stared back at Lawrence. “You been selling us out? To House? To the Legion?” The ranger stopped in front of Lawrence. A shit-eating grin stretched his smooth face. No wrinkles to speak of. No eyes dragged down by the burden of sleepless nights. Fresh cut brown hair, thick on top and a little too perfect for someone claiming to be out fighting in the thick of war. “What have you really been up to with this little twat? Hm?”

The kid sidled a step back when Lawrence advanced him. He flinched at the seasoned ranger, but still flailed that paper around like a red flag in front of a bull. “You wanna keep those teeth in your mouth?”

“If I were in command, I woulda canned you—”

“Well, you ain’t in charge, Booker, so I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself.” Purposeful stomps marched down the aisles. The stoic face set in red stone halted behind Booker. “Next time you don’t, that’s going to be an order.” Booker peeled away from Lawrence, but his glare was slow to recede. He stood at attention. “Anybody else have something to say?” Clint peered around the room; flattened brows took to an intrigue rise. He clasped hands behind his back, starting his slow, wide-stepped march up the aisle. Each ranger stood at attention when he approached. A quick “no sir” followed had he looked them in the eye. “When the brass commands you to get intel, what do you do?” Clint spun around, now standing dead center in the cramped barracks. “Booker.” 

The young ranger jumped back to attention. Temples flashed at a clenched jaw. He swallowed. “You get intel, sir.”

“Exactly,” Clint boomed. “We got a little dirt on House and one step closer to victory. Now, get back to packing. We set out at oh-nine-hundred.” 

Lawrence watched Clint return to his post by the door, noticing his uncomfortably dry mouth and creeping nausea. His joints gave in and Lawrence crashed on the lower bunk. Slumped over, rubbing away the tension of a headache picking away at the backs of his eyes. Stealing a glance over his shoulder confirmed the barracks were mostly back to normal. Booker scurried to friends; three of them gathered together in hushed whispers and smiles. An eyeroll came after meeting Lawrence’s stare. He stood up and braced for the inevitable looks when he crossed the long room. 

“Clint,” Lawrence whispered as he turned his back to the barracks, “you know I never got any good intel, right? I have no idea what House is planning.”

Clint glanced up at him. “Don’t worry ‘bout that.” He patted Lawrence’s shoulder and then back to the organizing stacks of files and reports awaiting their new life stuffed in a drawer somewhere in Camp Golf. “That’s for the brains of the operation to figure out. You just keep up with their questions.”




–




Vincent returned the wet glass to its watery crescent on the table. A pink umbrella swirled around the red and orange watercolor concoction. “Explain.”

“Well…” Clyde shifted in his chair and Vincent briefly pondered if the man got fatter the more lied. The lounge chair creaked, muffling Clyde’s nervous chuckle. “These thug-types have been a real problem ‘round here lately—”

Vincent audibly sighed, more dramatically than normal. “Do you not have guards? Mercenaries?”

“I do.” Clyde stroked his mustache, setting all those out of place hairs back into position. He leaned forward and clasped hands together as they rested on the white-spread table. “They got the jump on my people last night while they were sleeping. I only found out this morning.”

“Where are your men?”

“They’re still in there,” he confessed, a slight flinch wrinkled his eyes. Fingertips gripped the lip of a nigh empty glass. Sudsy froth clung to smoothed corners and black stout sloshed as the old man rolled the glass on its bottom. “Probably with big ol’ bumps on their heads.”

Vincent leaned back in his seat as if it were his own throne, and it could have been with such a view over the strip and how eager to please the service was. Complimentary drinks here. A stack of chips there with a grin that begged him to go play the tables. Or how those fanciful women strutting the gambling floor waited on him to the point of annoyance. “Well, my food’s coming. I’ll check it out later.”

Clyde’s peppered brows rose as he timidly looked up from his glass. “You’re gonna go to the warehouse?”

“Why not? Clearly, I have to take care of the problem by myself.” A waiter paused tableside, bringing along a grand presentation of a hot breakfast the likes Vincent only dreamt of a few months ago. “I’ll send someone to let you know when I’m done.”

“Oh, well I didn’t know you were of the gun-slingin’ type—Mighty skilled aren’t ya?” Clyde’s characteristic ass-kissing smile crept in at an opportunity to appease.

 Vincent glossed over the meal while the headwaiter observed him ever so patiently to assure it met satisfaction. Several varieties of meat sizzled, a small assortment of fresh fruits untouched by mutated flaws were confined to a bowl, and eggs—Chicken? Gecko? It didn’t matter with a generous helping of tart brahmin cheese melted on top fluffy clouds. Quite indulgent, yet the insatiable hunger that gripped him as of late demanded such indulgence. 

“Is everything as expected, sir?” 

“Yes, thank you,” Vincent flashed a smile to the waiter. With a polite nod, the black-tailed suit dismissed himself. Vincent returned to the antsy entrepreneur across from him, quickly losing the genuine smile reserved for the waiter and gave Clyde the indifferent look he deserved. “You don’t get to where I am being a pacifist, do you?”

Clyde nodded slowly. He quit anxiously wringing his hat and slapped it on his head instead. Standing up, he caught the sun’s reflection on his white suede suit. “I’ll keep an eye out—thank you, young man.” 




–







“Welcome to Forlorn Hope, gentlemen!” Heavy heads raised against the sun’s will. The rangers closed ranks, funneling into the canyon headed by their commanding officer. “Better get cozy. We’re gonna be here a while.” 

Watchtowers loomed overhead. One centered on the canyon wall. Others peeped overhead on the horizon, scattered around the cliffside camp. To the east: a steep dive into the Colorado. In any other direction: certain danger. The safe zone was the beige and green circling the NCR’s claim. All of it centered around the largest tent in the bunch: the command center.

Standing outside that tent, dead center in forking paths, was a signpost. Wood arrows nailed into the beam, each bearing a name. The Boneyard. New Vegas. Shady Sands. Adytum. Redding. Any which way that was home or, maybe just somewhere out of this hell hole.

Clint halted, meeting an approaching soldier of Forlorn Hope’s command. They exchanged salutes, a signal to finally let the burning feet of the rangers behind the two rest. After the brief exchange, the CO turned around to face his charges and another energetic roar followed. “Private Simmons here is gonna give you a tour—Be nice.”

 Sand gritted under disintegrating soles as they pressed onward into the chaos. Soldiers dashed stretchers in and out of the medical tents, limping and ignoring their own minor wounds and sleep deprivation. Exhaustion dragged down every face in the camp. Darkened the under eyes and sent bodies jumping at the blasts from intermittent drills in the clearing downhill.

“Just grab an open bunk,” was what each of them were told. A quick stop at a tent, then a shack, and another tent as the group of twelve dwindled to two. 

The last stop was a crowded tent housing four bunks. One bed was occupied by a quiet soldier, a lanky young man probably not even a month older than the drafting age. Gaunt and haunted eyes stared at the letters from home in his hands, then looked up at the new faces as though seeing ghosts.

“Coming through!”

Sweat soaked fatigues and a smell to match weaved through carrying a small crate in hand. The man knelt at one bed, taking down the letters, photos, and a few drawings pinned to the canvas. Bulbous shapes and smiling faces captured a family portrait through the eyes of a child. One by one, he dropped them in the crate then rushed out when nothing was left of the bed’s former owner.

“Looks like one opened up,” Private Simmons sighed.

Mordecai dropped his bag on the new vacancy, exchanging a quick glance with his friend but Lawrence’s eyes lingered on the empty mattress. The weight of gravity crushed his posture. They would be here awhile. Maybe the rest of their lives. 




–




Below the stretching skyline of towers, flashy and shimmering like pristine oasis waters, was the mud and muck desperately trying to mix in those pure waters. The old bones of the city. Decaying. Rotting. Most knew better than to take up residence in those carcasses, but reality often pushed them into those holes. Nothing wrong with squatter’s rights, but to keep your claim, you better have the strength to back it up. 

Perched on the scaffolding, Vincent peered in the warehouse. Lit only by sunlight veiled in decades of grime and dust on two long rows of windows on either side. The expansive workshop was cluttered by vague shapes of machinery, crates and barrels stacked high, parts and scraps littered wherever they fell. Stowed in a corner, lounging on reclaimed sofas, passing something among their group was the measly little gang of five brigands—No, that was far too generous a way of framing them. They were typical trash. Fueled by a deadly cocktail of chems and zero inhibitions. The ones that lurked in the old ruins of south Vegas, jumping out only to snatch some unfortunate souls’ belongings. Or something far more invaluable—their life. 

He shoved a long hunting knife in the window’s frame, separating dust and chipping paint as he pried it open. The metal frame relented with an unsatisfying squeak—he held his breath. Eyes honed on the squatters. Excited chatter and exaggerated forms communicated some slew of words only they could understand before a deep inhale from a hand pressed to a nose. 

At least they were occupied. 

Vincent crept through the window and onto a catwalk. Quiet and deliberate taps made their way to that far corner while observant eyes absorbed the layout and opposition. Only five. armed by garbage and a putrid stench. Makeshift spears of metal poles ground to a point. Commandeered automatics liberated from previous hits. Nowhere else for them to hide. One direct way out through the front door—Locked. Just them, stuck in here with him…

He yanked the pistol off his thigh, keeping his hawkish gaze on the group below him while his free hand prodded his vest for a grenade, but paused on something more tempting. A sphere of clay, a tiny bomb. An experiment solicited to the young man by a rather convincing saleswoman setup in the Gun Gallery just off the strip. Small enough to fit in his palm, but after seeing that demonstration, size wasn’t everything. Just toss it was all the instruction he needed. And if it didn’t work… Grenades were always fun to play with. 

He held it out over the railing. The fingers clasped around the ball loosening with each heart beat resounding in his head. 

It fell silent and sounded like shattering glass when it landed on the floor. All five men jumped up, delayed by chemicals melting their nerves. Fumes sizzled from the broken clay, spreading toxic tendrils reaching for vulnerable noses and eyes. Coughing fits seized them. Frothy spittle foamed in their mouths. Their faces burned red. Eyes swelled and cried. One by one they fell, tripping over each other as legs refused to work. It was a temporary effect, but he couldn’t help but wonder if it could be made permanent. 

Vincent dashed down the catwalk the same way he came before the toxic cloud could reach him. He shrugged off one side of his backpack, unzipped the middle pocket, and pulled out a gas mask as he came to a stop. Pressing the seals to his face, he recalled the ranger’s instruction—one of many drills practiced together on those not-so-lazy-days in the suite. He tightened the straps, harder, until that memory squeezed out of him. There were more pressing matters to deal with.

Circling the catwalk once more, he found his way to the ground floor where he lingered at the scene. Stared at the unconscious bodies, studying each face hidden under sweat, smeared dirt, and scabs. Ratty clothes sewn and restitched a hundred times over. Arms splattered with bruises gathering around tiny pricks in the bend of their elbows. Vincent rested his palm on the butt of the pistol, cold and stinging like those thoughts fighting in his head—

Thud.

Vincent spun around.

Thud.

Vincent honed in on the thump’s source. A door. A lone door hidden by shadows in a corner. He yanked the pistol out and crept slowly over, listening for it again. The door muffled a pair of voiced on the other side. He paused outside and listened for the agitated whispers again, but the thump came back instead. A quick twist and thrust and the door swung open and bounced off a concrete wall. There stood two men. Bound together by their hands, back-to-back. Armored in rather expensive armor of kevlar vests and complimentary limb pieces, and liberated of their weapons. Clyde’s mercenaries…

“Who are you?” Vincent spoke first.

“We were, uh—”

“I’m Tony. That’s Jim. Those pricks out there snuck up on us as we was sleeping. They leave?”

“They’re unconscious for now. Why is there only two of you?”

“We were just passing by,” Jim muttered, blowing the stringy red hair from his moist, pasty face. “Nobody important.”

“Mind letting us go?” Tony plastered a grin on his face. It was a practiced look, but not practiced enough. Vincent squinted at his usually white smile, noticing other small traits about this man, particularly his grooming and dress. Strip suite—more likely some suite’s dumb kid who wanted to play mercenary. Vincent rolled his eyes and sighed, because of course, Clyde would hire these two flaccid excuses of hired guns because in reality, he was buying favors from cats fatter than him.

 “First, you can start by telling me what really happened,” Vincent stowed his pistol. “Your Clyde’s men. I’m an interested investor cleaning up his mess and I don’t like it. Now, if you don’t tell me, I’ll put a bullet in both of your heads, and I walk out of here. Do tell me and I sweeten the deal. Got it?”

Ambivalent glances avoided the young man’s piercing scowl veiled behind the gas mask’s gaunt face. “Eh…” Tony craned his neck and rolled around those ideas in his head—One better be the truth. “We uh, needed some stuff and…”

Vincent arms folded as an impatient leg bobbed. “You needed drugs.”

“They got some good stuff,” Jim pleaded. An assuring nod followed.

A habitual hand rose to rub the pulsing scar, but the glass screen halted his needs. Instead, he muttered obscenities to himself along with a mental note once he met Clyde again. “Alright. I keep up my end of the bargain. I’ll give you caps, but you have to do something before you leave.” 

“Caps?” Tony’s amber eyes sparkled at that word. “What did you have in mind?”

One by one, Tony and Jim heaved the five intruders up the catwalk then another short flight of stairs, and finally to the roof. Rope tightened around each captives’ wrists and ankles, squirming as they roused from a short nap. 

Tony pulled down a maroon scarf Vincent was sure he saw somewhere in a shop in the Palazzo. He had whined all the way up and down those stairs, evidently never having done manual labor in his life. He took a deep breath, one hand clutching the side stitch in his stomach. “What you want them up here for?”

“Hang them.”

Tony’s thick brows furrowed. He had a peculiar stared on Vincent, and while the young man didn’t care, he kept half his attention on knotted the rope to the roof’s exposed pipe segments. Jim huffed as he reached the top of the stairs, dragging the last drowsy body over to the rest laid out and slowly coming to consciousness. “Now what?”

“Put the noose around their necks and throw ‘em over,” Vincent ordered. He tossed the loops of various ropes and wires salvaged from the warehouse to his new helpers. “On this side of the building only,” he added, hand swirling to the south-face staring on the ruins of Vegas’s wild outskirts. “The rest of their buddies out there can watch.”

“I’ve done worse for less pay,” Tony shrugged, stepping daintily over the pipes. Vincent rolled his once more catching the sheen of his polished black tie shoes he stopped at least five times to inspect for scuffs.

“Just hang ‘em?” Jim piped up, a squint bunched his face as a lip curled. “Easiest caps I ever made.”

Without furthering any useless conversation, Vincent observed his hangmen wrestling squirming, growling bodies to the edge of the roof. Tossing them over, screams faded then when silent completely at crack. They gagged. Writhed. Unable to break free. Unable to breathe. Feeling what Vincent felt and feeling what they’ve inflicted on others. As they should.




–




Yells funneled through the canyon protecting Forlorn Hope. Just vague shouts lost to big open skies, then the clapping joined in. Clanging pots came second and that’s when Lawrence folded his notebook, leaving the pencil in where he left off. He watched the tent flaps, waiting for the clamor to draw closer before he’d investigate.

Canvas doors swung in, picking up a dusty afternoon’s breeze as Mordecai sprng in. “Mails here!” A grin stretched across his freshly shaven face; the smile Lawrence always saw when the man was expecting a letter from the wife and kids. He grew to like those times too, just to vicariously live the joy of a life he’d never have. Especially not after burning every bridge leaving that boy behind. 

“One at a time!” The clerk shouted into a bullhorn, finally putting a reign on an excited crowd. The kid stood on a pedestal of crates, the heavy sack was at his feet for his easy reach and out of the elated mobs’. Once upon a time, Lawrence was excited for those letters. Usually from Eve or buddies scattered around the Mojave. Something from his mother might’ve come too if she got his whereabouts in time. Now that became a one-way line for him, moving around too much, being stuck in the middle of nowhere. But he hadn’t even the courage to write Eve. “Simmons is handing out the NCRA Report,” the clerk shouted, pointing to the private in question as he waded through the masses. Voices clamored for a print while others pestered the clerk if they’d gotten anything. 

“Check it!” Mordecai chirped. He leaned against the flagpole with Lawrence, showing the newspaper’s front page. A weekly progress report of the frontlines, other camps, ranger stations, anecdotes from varying ranks, and abridged versions of the long-winded newspapers back home. “McCarran’s outsourcing guns?”

“Hm?” Habit peaked Lawrence’s brow as he glanced vapidly at the page. Mor

“They’re paying out any dumbass with a gun to hunt down the local slime around Vegas.”

Lawrence scoffed. “They’re gettin’ a li’l’ too hopeful we’re actually gonna take the whole Mojave.”

“Looks like easy pay after this!”




–




To say there was one seedy little casino on the Freeside strip was an understatement. Most of them were by nature seedy, but that was the appeal. Being on the strip, the real one, was a status symbol—the credit check just to get past the gate wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon. You had to have the money or know someone, and naturally, Freeside’s locals’ response was a blunt fuck you to Mr. House and his rules. Little did Freeside know House expected and wanted those seedy little casinos. Not only was Freeside an appetizer for something better, but it concentrated all the “undesirables” and whatnot.

However, House and Vincent had very different definitions for that word. 

Little did the old man know how much those undesirables contributed to his overall plan. Especially when it came to getting on the NCR’s good side. Since, apparently, the wind blew east for the republic’s trash; the escaped convicts trickling down the 15 uninhibited, California grown disreputables roaming in under new guises and blank reputations to name a few varieties out there. Immigrating citizens were the high rollers, though, and naturally complained when their bubbles of gentrification were being encroached upon by their litter. Finally feeling the weight of their fruitless campaign, some pencil pusher in the brass decided to outsource the long arm of the law. Posters began popping up all over Freeside. In the casinos, the bars, even outside the brothels—those pencil-pushers knew their demographic, though, Vincent couldn’t deny that. 

He stopped at the threshold of the Baron’s gambling hall and the Freeside strip. More posters than yesterday had appeared. Pinned in stacks, scattered on a corkboard that only showed up two-weeks ago. Questionable sketches and descriptions beneath the NCR’s seal of guarantee. Then the big payout below. Varying numbers all depending on what that cap-cow did so long as you followed the rule: Bring the head for proof.

“Who’s that?”

“Who?”

“Storm rollin’ in over there.” All but one finger wrapped around the glass in his hand as he pointed. “Youngin’. Seen him comin’ to the front, pluckin’ off posters from the wall every day.” The bartender looked over his shoulder, chuckling once he saw the boy in question. Not a regular, but one of the occasional tumbleweeds that rolled through. “Awful young to be bounty huntin’.”

“He ain’t too chatty, Wayne.” 

“Hah!” The old man huffed. He parsed a bushy white mustache under thumb and index finger, trailing down the sides to a well-groomed beard. Baggy eyes squinted at the bartender. “Wanna bet I can’t coax somethin’ out of him?” Wayne peered over his shoulder, following the young man until he had to switch to the other shoulder. Determined steps waltzed all the way to the high roller’s lounge. He didn’t toss a glance, didn’t part eyes from his destination for those looks that studied his fancy vest and all its accoutrements: a big highway sign shielding his back, shiny twin holsters, and a scowl even the devil would jump at. He took his seat at a blackjack table, setting a column of chips in their spot as the dealer waved a lingering waitress from the poker table for a quick exchange which brought him a drink. 

“Way I see it,” Wayne turned back to the bartender, “what a man drinks tells you all you need to know ‘bout him.”