Every morning was a headache. A pulsing headache in his scar while one eye squinted until adjusted to the light and the other just plain refused. While he wouldn’t call himself a morning morning-person, Vincent didn’t mind mornings before the incident. Now it was a painful chore.

The hefty stretch from the other side of the pillow divider beckoned his attention. Lawrence fared better in the morning. Always ready to go, ready for action, no matter how little sleep he had the night before. Vincent hated it. His bare back arched as he hummed an off-key song. He had no reservation to strut about without a shirt on. Vincent hated that too—not the seeing an desirable man shirtless, rather that he couldn’t do the same. He’d still discreetly sneak a peek at Lawrence and shame was replaced by envy and magnetic attraction. The broad shoulders. The swollen muscles. A pillowy chest and a fuzzy trail leading down a cute belly Vincent longed to trace with a finger.

Once his eyes shirked sleep, the blots on Lawrence’s back came to focus. Patches of artwork marked his skin. Somewhat haphazardly placed, but their designs made up for that.

“You gonna get up or just pout,” Lawrence asked. “Hope you got some sleep. Three hours’ walk to Vegas.” Vincent groaned at the prospect. With just that statement alone, he was already exhausted and ready to commit his day to bed. Lawrence turned around as he fumbled with an inside-out shirt and that was when Vincent spotted it. Compact and artfully drawn under his right breast, was a name.

Marcus.

“I’m gonna get supplies in town and be back soon,” he said. “Shouldn’t take longer than an hour.”

“I’ll be ready by then…”

Only after Lawrence left did Vincent sit up. And promptly froze at the awful gushing feeling that struck him once a month when most inconvenient. Not now. Not here. His stomach twisted. His throat tied itself in knots. He jumped up and stared at the bed. Little red blots dotted white sheets. Tears of frustration and anger swelled. His face twisted in shame as he hobbled to the bathroom with spare clothes clutched in hands. He smacked then them on the toilet lid with a growl. He winced. An invisible knife gutted his belly every minute. 

At the bottom of the tub, legs curled to his chest, water splashing against his back until it felt like radio static was the only place he could find solace. Eyes traced hard water stains sloping down on off-white porcelain. He stayed in there until fingertips wrinkled and water diluted his tears. Every month a reminder of the boy he never was and the man he would never be.

A knock rapped the door. “Vince, you in there?”

Vincent cursed under breath. “Yep! Alright! Coming out soon,” he shouted back. Grimacing with another painful ripple in his stomach. “Just don’t feel too good.”

“What kind of don’t feel good? Need a doctor don’t feel too good or riding the porcelain throne don’t feel too good?”

“No, no!” Vincent pinched and massaged his abdomen to quell the beast. “No doctor.”

“Alright, well food’s almost ready.”

That he could smell wafting up from the kitchen. It would be enticing had his muscles not been trying to burst out from their fleshy container. “I’ll be down soon.”

He could only hide for so long. Eventually, he dragged his water-logged body out from that shower once the hot water ran cold and stomped downstairs with a sour look on his face. The raspy voice of Mr. New Vegas recounted the latest news from over the radio. Vincent’s nervous eyes scanned the morning crowd gathered in the saloon. Nothing like the rambunctious characters of the night before, these folks were the settled down types in proper clothes, chatting in proper language, and content to keep wandering eyes on their own table. Vincent waded through, slightly hunched because his belly would scream if straightened out. He lowered himself carefully into the seat across from Lawrence.

“Breakfast is—” Lawrence paused as a server came by just in time. Gecko bacon sizzled and popped. Warm and fluffy orange eggs occupied a good portion of the plate alongside grated hash browns. Vincent wasn’t hungry when he woke up, but once that plate hit the table, some ravenous beast churned in the boy.

“You said it was three hours to Vegas?”

“So long as you don’t trip on your own feet.”

Vincent scoffed, “You always talk bigger than your guns are fast?”

“Shut up and eat.”

 “I, uh…”  Vincent paused before another bite of gecko bacon. “Noticed your tattoos. I like them. I’ve thought about getting at least one, just to try it.”

“That right?” Lawrence refilled his empty coffee mug, almost pouring too much as his gaze met Vincent’s. Morning light lit the boy’s auburn hair in a woody halo. Curious eyes reflected the sun like silver dishes, but the paralyzed pupil captured any onlookers in its wake. “I drew those myself and had a tattooist friend put ‘em on for a bit of practice.”

“You drew those?”

“I’ll draw sometimes,” Lawrence shrugged. “Mostly just for planning and recon—”

“You’re so good! What about that calligraphy? Must have been an important guy to warrant such pretty letters.”

Lawrence’s expression soured. His smile faded as he turned his eyes from Vincent and out the window. “Was a friend.”

“Sorry,” Vincent withdrew with a timid voice. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“It’s nothing. When you’re done here, meet me outside,” Lawrence said as he stood up, coffee cup in hand. “I need a smoke.” 

Vincent watched him leave. A sigh pushed away a mostly empty plate. He was full anyway, but some remnant of his mother’s voice scolded him for wasting food. Did he really just ruffle Lawrence? A twinge of regret irked him. That’s what he deserved for daring to get a little close to someone.

Where the buildings thinned, weathered, unsettled, and forgotten, did the desert begin its creep inward on Henderson. Departing traders whipped out pistols and rifles starting down the long strip of baking asphalt. Shimmering black water stretched and snaked like a river for miles. Scorched stone mountains and parched flats lay on both sides of the highway, blinding and searing their weathered facades in his eyes despite the sunglasses. Cacti and Joshua trees sprinkled on the flats were just as mean looking as the worn out highway known only by a number. The heat had a way of sucking the life right out of everything. The sun burned a ring on the scalp. Beat down everything in its domain. Standing still did little to cool the body—No one sane lived in these parts.

Ahead of Lawrence and Vincent, several wagons and two brahmin led the way. Their guards were the grizzled, experienced sort of mercenaries. Quiet and concentrated like the ranger a few paces ahead of Vincent. “Comin’ up on no-man’s land!” The driver called out at the front of the line. Caravan guards tightened their formation inward.

Vincent caught up to Lawrence. “What does that mean?”

“It means keep your eyes peeled.” The sun’s glare curved along black lenses that hid Lawrence’s expression underneath. “I hope you’ve been thinking more about what you’re gonna do when you find this guy, or if you don’t.”

“Think I won’t?” Vincent eyed the ranger as he rummaged through his satchel for water.

“Always a possibility.”

“There’s more going on with this whole thing,” Vincent articulated. “I was being paid a lot of money alongside several other couriers to deliver some items, small stuff, inconspicuous, random objects.”

“Seems a tad strange,” Lawrence agreed. He looked past Vincent then continued, “Or seems like they were trying to hide whatever their real delivery was.”

“Exactly! I was carrying a chip. A big poker chip made of platinum. It had the number 38 etched into it.”

“38? Like the Lucky 38?”

“What’s that?”

“A casino on the strip. Not open to anyone,” Lawrence informed, turning his gaze back to the highway. Alert guards surrounded the brahmin and wagons. Occasionally, their occupants stole a peek outside the tarps. “Supposedly, no one has ever been inside. Never see anyone come out either. It’s the tower one. Belongs to Mr. House.” Vincent followed Lawrence’s finger to the skyline. New Vegas was still some ways away, but he could make out the city through the road-shimmer and haze. The tallest tower on the strip was as impressive as it was at night, still beaming during the day as if it could rival the sun.

“Oh, that may have been it’s real destination.”

“Could be. Maybe those guys who attacked you thought it was—”

You always heard them before you saw them. A sound you wouldn’t associate with certain death until the gun shot’s echo came around. Another zipped past them and a blast followed seconds later. Lawrence readied his sidearm and searched for the bullets origin. Guards spread out, scanning the highway and desert. Then they finally showed themselves. A hoard emerged from the hills. Ominous and jutting forms clouded by their dust trail stood in the shade on a ridge.

“Find cover!” Lawrence ordered. Vincent plucked out his gun since that was always the first move Lawrence made then dove behind a concrete divider. Guards exchanged fire—Warning shots, really. Lawrence joined him behind the concrete divider. He donned his helmet and debuted the sniper rifle usually concealed it a cloth case. The long barrel rest atop the concrete spine.  He shoved the pair of binoculars to Vincent. “Tell me what you see. Guns, numbers anything useful.”

“Uh, three of them—rifles.”                                           

“Where?”

“The taller overhang left of us. They’re in the shade.”

The cylinder barrel moved to the left. The boom that followed throttled Vincent even with his ears covered.

“More coming from the south!” A guard roared over the fire. Lawrence ducked behind the next divider and Vincent followed. Both stared down the southbound road. Vincent stayed pushed against the sun-bleached concrete despite the burning heat that melted through his clothes. Vincent jumped at the sudden crash of a guard at his feet. Still alive, coddling his gut and groaning on the sweltering black top. 

The caravan guards pushed on, returning a hail of fire as bandits pressed forward. The ranger rushed over to the next divider. Peering around, he released a few rounds with his pistol then tucked himself away. Wide eyed and unsure of if he should move, Vincent merely gawked at the scene. His hands clammy. Legs jumpy. He struggled to keep a hold of his own gun.

But Lawrence never did. Powering through the shakes, he struggled to follow the ranger’s lead. Just follow what he does and live, right? Still, Vincent was afraid to move. Blasts wracked his head. He flinched and jumped at each explosion. Eyes darted back and forth between Lawrence and the guards, each time they moved a little further from him. Two men were lay dead on the road. The commotion ahead of him startled the cattle and one caravan went darting off. Shadows reached into his peripherals. Vincent homed in on the figure creeping from behind Lawrence. He held his breath and aimed with a shaky hand. The glint of the sun against silvery metal drew the ranger’s glance as he reloaded a spare magazine. Lawrence quickly ducked. Vincent pulled the trigger. Jolted by the recoil, one shot turned into five.

He let up once he saw the body slumped over the concrete divide. The ranger exhaled a sigh of relief staring at the would-be-attacker now slung over the barrier, his face obscured by dirt and a battered bucket-helmet. 

Vincent inched closer to the edge of his cover. “I see two of them still on the ridge.”

Gunfire died down by the time three dead raiders were scattered on the road. Anxious breaths were still held in Vincent’s lungs knowing that wasn’t all of them. Lawrence stayed low, moving over to a wounded guard. He pressed fingers to the man’s neck and quiet curses followed his withdrawal.

“Tanner and Damien are dead,” a guard announced as he observed the scene. A grimace scrunched his face and he turned to his approaching colleagues. 

“Shallow graves,” another said, disappointment apparent in his voice. “We gotta move fast.”

Lawrence stood up, studying the ridge a short distance away as he slung his sniper over a shoulder. “C’mon.”

“Maybe we should help them before leaving?” Vincent sputtered as he joined the ranger’s side again. 

“We will. By killing the ones still out there.”

“We’re going after them?”

“That’s my job,” Lawrence declared. “You don’t have to. There could be more. They could have a base or something, but I have to find out.” 

He had always been warned to never venture off into the wastes alone. It was safer in the town and cities, wherever others were at, but Vincent quickly learned that wasn’t true. Humans were just another kind of danger. But off the roads, it was easy to get lost. Terrain starts to look the same. You lose direction. Run out of food, and you know things are about to get a lot worse when you run out of water. 

Vincent and Lawrence stopped at the ridge the bandits made their assault from. It was a good three extra feet taller than the ranger. Lawrence reached out to the rock wall, palms slid over a surface too smooth to climb. “Wanna do some recon for me?” 

“Me? What do you mean?”

“I can put you on my shoulders and you’d be able to get up there. Then find me a way up and we can figure out where they went.”

“What if they’re still up there?”

“Then we can cross a few things off our to-do list.” Vincent pressed lips together as he thought about it. He supposed it was something to do; be helpful like Lawrence had been for him but the ranger took his silence as hesitation. “I wouldn’t send you up there if it was dangerous.”

“Alright…”

Lawrence squatted faced against the rock, “sit on my shoulders. Then I’ll stand, then you stand, got it?”

Vincent hesitated getting into such an awkward position with the ranger—even if it may have been something he fantasized about. However, this wasn’t exactly that position. Lawrence lifted him, slow and careful. His hands rested on Vincent’s legs to keep him steady. “First time I’ve taken a ranger for a ride,” Vincent stifled a nervous chuckle. 

“Well, it doesn’t have to be the last, so don’t get shot.” Vincent held his tongue before blurting out a cheeky remark. He shouldn’t make his interest too obvious, for his own sake. The ranger wouldn’t be interested in him anyway… 

Leaning on the rock-face, Vincent avoided peeking down. His whole body tensed up. Hands patted the stone’s sturdiness. Satisfied with that, he pulled himself up but not without a struggle. Chills tickled his skin glancing over the edge even though he lay safely on his stomach. Vincent rolled closer to the safety of the rock wall far from the ledge and managed to get back to his feet.

“See anything useful?”

“Not yet,” Vincent said, inching further down to a bend in the canyon.

For as far as he could see and feel, the entire rock wall was too smooth to climb. He pressed onward, leaving Lawrence farther behind than he’d like. Reminding himself he ought to be brave like the ranger was all that kept him moving forward. Not get bothered by all the jagged rocks hiding under a loose blanket of soil should he fall off the ledge. Bandits were another matter, however. He’d high tail it out of there at even a whiff of them.

Sand weathered stone narrowed to a slot canyon. A slit of blue sky curved like a turquoise snake overhead. The dark parts were a great place to launch a highway assault. And it seems he wasn’t the only there with the same idea. Vincent paused at a whisper. He stilled himself and held his breathing, hoping it was just a breeze. The stagnant sweat drenching his body told him otherwise. Then he heard them again. 

Highwaymen.

But he still didn’t have a way up for Lawrence. Vincent slid back into the light of the day and continued to follow the bend southbound. A three-minute walk led him to two railroad spikes pounded in the ridge. A makeshift ladder of rope and pipe brought him back down plentiful ground and retracing his journey along the canyon’s outer wall, he returned to Lawrence nestled in shaded cover.

“Lawrence, they’re still here.”

“Did you see them or they see you?” Lawrence jumped to action, already following the young man’s trail.

“I heard them. I don’t think they saw me.”

“Any idea of how many?”

“Gotta be more than one,” Vincent said. “Sounded like a conversation.”

He led Lawrence to the ladder, explaining the slot canyon and his short adventure in more detail than necessary. Once back up on the ridge, Vincent took cover behind the ranger. Lawrence peered into the darkened pathway. It wasn’t so bad he couldn’t see anything, but just enough to make hiding in there easy for the raiders. He went in first, of course, pistol drawn and aimed. Keen ears listened for their targets. Indeed, they were talking among themselves. Their topic indiscernible—not that it mattered, only that they kept at it for the ranger to zero in on their location. Several more feet in and candle flame flickered on pitted walls.

“I don’t know anymore…”

“Some might just be playing dead.” 

Lawrence studied the shadows; two, close together. The crevice opened wider into a cave. He cautiously leaned around the uneven rock wall where he spotted two oblivious men sat at a table in humble candlelight and dying lanterns. One fiddled with his gun; reloading the magazine bullet by bullet. The other still had his strapped to his leg. Lawrence set sights on the one whose gun was already drawn. Behind him, Vincent took notes of what skill and confidence looked like.

Fire bloomed out the muzzle, briefly blinding anything beyond the dark. The blast echoed around them. With his ears wracked, only the second burst of muzzle fire told Vincent the ranger had fired again.

Lawrence exhaled. He stood up from his squat and retired his pistol to its holster, but his hand hovered at his side. “They got food and water.” 

Vincent followed him in. Two men lay dead, slumped over a table, never knowing who their reaper was. Never even seeing him coming. They would be forgotten to the wasteland like all their kind ought to be, and sooner by the two looting anything of value they could carry from the cave.

“You did pretty good,” Lawrence said, gracing the boy with a smile. Yet when he looked ahead it vanished. They paused on the ridge overlook and something twisted in his stomach when he looked at the distant scene. Wagons stalled where they were left. Some beasts of burden remained hooked on them, but it was terribly silent when men ought to have been gearing up to get back on the road. Climbing up the gravelly slope, the thin black line of asphalt simmered at eye level. Lawrence’s hushed curses hurried Vincent up the slope, however once there he wished he wasn’t.

Dead. 

Guards leaned gracelessly against a cart. All six of them left alive less than an hour ago. Blood splatter painted the slaughter across the asphalt and wagon tarps. Each had a single bullet to the head. This was a scene Lawrence had found one too many times. Sometimes it was soldiers, or civilians like the caravan, but occasionally it was a ranger. 

“They were executed.”

Vincent pulled back the tarp flap of the nearest wagon. Cleaned out. Only useless oddities remained flung about. He rushed over to the second one—the one with passengers. He caught only a quick look at them whenever they peaked out. A young girl and boy, then an older woman in the back—

The wind knocked out his lungs at the sight. He was unable to take another breath. The grizzly sight seared in his mind. No, no sane person lived out here. Lawrence shoved Vincent away from the caravan. He looked at Lawrence, dumbfounded and slack jawed, but Lawrence’s dour look answered all the questions he hadn’t put into words. No longer did the heat bother him with such a chill inside. Even the hot road that he knew would burn through his clothes the moment he sat down, didn’t compare to the cold that swept through that stretch of the 582. 

Lawrence sat with him; his grip tight on the 9mm he never put away. He drew a cigarette then a match with his free hand. He took a long draw. Both breathed in the smoke but only the ranger exhaled a gray cloud. Puffs on the cigarette grew wider apart the longer it burned. The ring of fire pushed towards his fingers, slowly engulfing the white stick into ash. 

“We should bury them,” Vincent finally spoke.

Lawrence crushed the cigarette into a crack on the road then reached for the radio attached to the armor under his coat. “Ranger Garrett, calling for any available stations.” 

Static returned as they listened. A sudden break followed by a silent delay refreshed their hope. “Helios One, go ahead.”

“Large caravan traveling northbound from Henderson was attacked. All dead.”

The static paused again. “Any details on the attacker?”

“Highwaymen. Uncertain of whereabouts.”

“Thank you, ranger,” the voice assured. “Are you in need of assistance?”

“If you have spare hands, I have a lot of bodies that should be buried. Supplied and living cattle might be salvaged.”

“Copy that—Sending a patrol from Helios One your way.”

They sat in silence for most of the time. Eventually shade overtook them as the sun began its descent into the afternoon. It must have been around one when Lawrence stood up. He took off the duster. Hung it over the wagon wheel, ten it the scraped combat armor underneath was off next.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting started,” Lawrence said.

“Is that safe?”

“Whoever killed them got what they wanted. If they were still hangin’ around, we would be dead by now.”

In the late afternoon the final grave was filled. Rocks served as headstones for all eleven deceased. With one final sweep of the area, the soldiers salvaged anything of use with Lawrence’s aid. But Vincent lingered on the side of the road, his fixed on fresh graves. Another hour and they would have reached their destination, alive and unscathed if fate was kinder. If he and Lawrence didn’t go searching for those two, would those men have had a better chance of surviving? Or would the two of them also be dead? More victims to unnamed outlaws… At least the first time around, someone thought to bury him. 

As the sun set in the west, dreamy rivers of orange and pink flowed across the sky. In the east, murky uncertainty brought fear and anxiety for those out on the frontier. Legion, raiders, highwaymen, and the general scum of the wastes ready to wake up among the New Vegas sprawl. The city’s reach halted at Nellis Boulevard right on that eastern front of night. Homes, small farms, and dilapidated store fronts littered the outskirts. Whatever couldn’t fit inside the boundary of Nellis Boulevard, stretched up onto what remained of an overpass to accommodate more shacks, buildings, and people living in impoverished filth. Settled next to the boulevard and encroaching on the locals’ land, NCR farm steads were guarded by their soldiers.

At the end of their long walk, Lawrence and Vincent arrived at the monument to man’s hubris: the city of New Vegas. Survived by nuclear holocaust, inhospitable desert, a war for Hoover Dam and now its upcoming sequel. New Vegas wasn’t so much a city as it was an amalgamation of growing settlements. The strip was what most thought of. The neon lights of a colors of the rainbow, luxuries gossiped wildly about, and an exclusive clientele. The settlements that made it a city revolved like satellites around the strip’s whims. Freeside was just one those places where Lawrence and Vincent ended up. It boasted its own little strip under a canopy of neon lights that danced to music. Dense crowds waded like river currents. All variety of odd types flocked here like a holy site. Glittery show-girls strutt on gold stilts. Dapper ghouls narrated the side-street caravan tournaments, taking bets, wagers, and entrance fees. Wastelanders, rugged and leather-skinned guarded wares at their stalls from sticky fingers. The suits that stood in the warm glow and cooled air of the casino doors shoved off broke vagrants needing to pray at the bar. Sticking to the alley shadows, was where the conmen watched for an opening, chem dealers exchanged caps and chips for a fix while their fried clientele screamed about the end of days two-hundred years too late.

And at the end of it all, was a gate guarded by machine soldiers that kept all of them out of the real paradise Freeside tried to emulate.

Above the Queens, the lone window of their room staved off the chaos. It was a single-bed again and the best respite caps could buy after a long and difficult day. Lawrence exhaled a weary sigh and leaned back, pushing off boots from sore feet. Vincent pulled away from the window, turning to a more pleasant prospect to gander at, but exhaustion drained color of the ranger’s face. “I’ve been thinking more about confronting Benny.”

Lawrence hummed, mustering up what little interest he could in such a state. His arms stretched behind him and came together to cradle his head. “What happened today have some influence on that?”

“Yes,” Vincent said. “All the more reason to go after him. How many times has that happened? What about the other trade routes?” Lawrence nodded, knowing the story all too well. His eyes wandered out the window and to the hollering group of drunken friends huddled together as one held up a casino ticket. “How many times has Benny killed someone because it was beneficial to do so? Without repercussions.”

“Your heart’s in the right place,” Lawrence agreed. Tired eyes roamed back to the boy, finding Vincent’s expression a brutish, brow-beating look, wild and daring with those unusual pupils and icy blues. “Offing one psycho doesn’t prevent others.”

“And burying a group of dead caravan guards doesn’t bury those people left to rot on the side of the road with no grave and no one to witness them.” Vincent retorted, running out of breath by the end it. He crossed his arms tight against the Kevlar vest. “It was better than just leaving them. Better than doing nothing. Better than crawling in a hole and saying nothing can be done.”

“There’s more to it—”

“How can you say that? You’re a ranger—you just do it.” He shut up and so did Lawrence. His strong gaze fell to the neon scene outside. If he had the ranger’s skills, talents, he would do something. Maybe in time he could—Maybe. Although it was better not to offend the man who had been so generous with him, but his question remained. How could anyone capable just sit by and not do something?

“You’re not wrong,” Lawrence confessed, marked by a defeated huff. Fingers pressed his forehead and rubbed away the tension. “But you’re also not invincible.”

“I know,” Vincent said, even if his agreement was weak and half-felt.

“I had the same ideals as you when I joined the rangers,” Lawrence said, snuffing his cigarette in the ashtray. “You can’t save everyone and you don’t win every battle.”

Timid eyes gathered their strength to meet Lawrence’s. His expression held no reserve nor ill-will at Vincent’s words, but maybe that was from the exhaustion. Something new showed up in his eyes. Something Vincent didn’t spot before when he first met the ranger. A kind of heaviness that dragged dark circles under his eyes not seen in the daylight, hidden like all those battles he never won.

In the light of a new day, the expanse of the city showed its true size. Down on the street, Freeside was as different as night and day. Somewhere, maybe in something he read before the war, it was called Fremont East. The older part of Vegas. The city’s structures had survived. Obvious parts of it were rebuilt, but the skeleton of the old-world still shone through. In the Boneyard, the towers in the city were gutted to rebuild, but that was before Vincent’s time. Stripped buildings rebuilt again and again as the NCR grew and expanded. Yet, he hadn’t seen anything like the chaparral of New Vegas, not in the NCR and definitely not stuck in Yucca Valley.

“What do you think Vegas was like before the war?” Vincent beamed optimistically staring up to the towers that lay on the distant horizon. Only the tallest spokes climbed into the sky.

“Exactly the same,” Lawrence declared. “World was too. Same desert, different cactus.”

Vincent hummed, rather disappointed by Lawrence’s answer, but he supposed there was truth in it. “Sometimes I think about what life was like. From the pictures and books I read, it was paradise.”

Lawrence tugged Vincent closer before the boy would step in a pile of vomit. “If it was a paradise why did those idiots bomb each other to kingdom come?”

 “Uh,” Vincent stared at the nutty puddle with a frown. “Good point...”

 Securitrons stood like statues at the gate, staring vacantly at the long street ahead of them and looming over the vagrants and wanderers camped at a safe distance from the machines. The fence’s true height became apparent the closer they came to it. The chain-links and barb wire was just the beginning. Cinder-bricks stood behind that while poles further fortified the layers security so tall none could even so much as see over it while standing close, let alone get close enough to even try to peer over. Among the scrap array, warning signs hung on the chain-links: Trespassers will be vaporized.

“No admittance unless patrons possess a passport or 2,000 caps minimum,” the securitron bellowed as it wheeled over to the two. “Consent to a credit check for entrance.”

“There’s a cap minimum?” Vincent’s whined, shoulders slumping over and confidence drained. 

“Didn’t have that last time I was here...”

“The cap minimum went into effect on the 15th of August, 2281,” the robot informed.

“Thanks, rust bucket, that’s real helpful.”

For a moment, Vincent realized maybe it was some cosmic sign to stop. To understand his mission was foolish and would likely result in his death. Maybe the deathclaw he encountered, the Khans in Boulder City, the raiders on the highway were all the previous signs he ignored. What was he going to do anyway? He wasn’t entirely honest with Lawrence when he asked about it. Vincent sighed as his inner voice mocked that dumb idea and an even dumber excuse wasn’t the whole truth.

Slot chimes drowned in with the regular ambience of the casino. Vague conversation intermingled in with music. Card tables were full of confident poker faces, but it was the slot players that were the most daring. Only poker and blackjack were the ways to win, and even then, it wasn’t likely. Yet something about it kept people coming back. Lawrence and Vincent sat at the bar overlooking the expansive gambling hall of the Queens. The bartender set a glass of swarthy beer in front of Lawrence while the younger boy swiveled about on his stool in a kind of agitated swivel that mimicked the way an angry and hungry nightstalker paced. 

He paused when he noticed the ranger staring at him. Lawrence slid his beer over to the boy and Vincent returned the gesture with a confused look. “I’ve never tried…”

“Well go on. Try.” He nodded to the glass. “You look like you need it more than me.”

“I’m just trying to think how to get on the strip. More specifically, get that many caps.” He picked up the cold glass. Water beads on the side made it slippery and forced him to use both hands.

“I had an idea…” A thoughtful hand perched on Lawrence’s chin. “I can try to get us passports from the bureaucracy stationed at McCarran.”

“Oh?” Vincent took a whiff of the dark lager. A memory of the speakeasy hidden beneath his home flashed before his eyes. Spilt beer on the floorboards never went away and clashed with the girls’ perfumes while his mother chided him when he tried to steal a glimpse of the underworld. Vincent took a dainty sip. He recoiled at the bitter, repugnant drink. A foul tinge coated his tongue as his face twisted to a grimace.

The ranger laughed. “Ain’t nothing to scoff at. It’s pretty good.”

“Compared to what?” 

Lawrence took a braver gulp. Not a wince. Not a spit or sputter. Vincent shook his head. “Anyway.” The glass clicked on the bar top. A satisfied sigh teased Lawrence’s lip. “I was gonna suggest we head over there today, just to inquire.”

“I’m already an NCR citizen so maybe that would help too?”

“Food and beer first though,” his voice echoed in the glass before another drink.

“That stuff’s awful,” Vincent muttered, his offended tongue flicking out.

“You just a virgin or a beer snob?” Lawrence teased. “My money’s on virgin.”

“Whatever.” Vincent shook his head. “Enjoy your piss-water.”

“Boy—I’ve a right mind to slap you silly,” Lawrence balked at that. “If it’s too bitter, try something lighter.”

Vincent shrugged. “I just don’t think I’ve got a taste for alcohol. Never tried it before.”

“Alright, alright. Nothing wrong with that, but I got a few pointers if you’re ever adventurous,” Lawrence said. A wink followed and Vincent wondered if he was alluding to something other than the intoxicating world of alcohol. The ranger’s smile lingered. He had to be teasing Vincent. Testing the waters with the smirk on his lips or the colorful words they made. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind the taste of beer from Lawrence’s lips…

Inside the ancient terminal and behind the thick panes of glass holding back the desert, the heat mirage off the tarmac turned asphalt into dancing water. Little uniformed figures unknowingly twirling before him as they toiled away on a cratered field. Even rotting planes centuries dead shimmered and swayed, but some looked good enough Vincent thought they might take off.

He crossed his arms on the back of the sofa. The faded maroon and faux leather seat he claimed winded like a river hugging the wall-length windows in a lobby that, momentarily he was the sole occupant of. Dreamy eyes lifted to the New Vegas skyline. The tower windows were little suns themselves, beaming back on any who dared look at them. He traced the wall the surrounded the exclusive kingdom of the New Vegas strip. However, street grids stretched further past those walls into an urban sprawl that used to be connected to it. Grey plots varied in size and shapes but none reached as high as those on the strip. The closer to the strip the better the living conditions, or so he observed. These buildings were rebuilt, repurposed for living in the Mojave as a leeches off the greater beast power lines fed. The further away from the strip, the more scattered and ruinous the regions until finally all civilization was lost to the dangerous sorts that found their niche on the fringes. Vipers, Fiends, Jackals, Gauchos—All were raiders and highwaymen no matter what they called themselves. They were all the same thing. Dangerous.

Lawrence crashed next to Vincent, but the boy’s trance wasn’t broken. The moment of tranquility allowed him to observe for the first time, Vincent had a hooked nose he hadn’t quite grown into yet. Strands of rust and gold twined through brunette the waves of overgrown hair. Curls licked the tops of ears and other finer features that would make a handsome young man in a couple years. Looking into Vincent’s eyes reminded him of their differences. Bright and curious, nothing like his own that betrayed his age. That uncomfortable realization cut the moment of admiration short. Lawrence waved his hand in front of Vincent’s face.

Vincent furrowed his brows, flashing an annoyed glare at the ranger. “I knew you were there.”

“Well you weren’t saying anything,” Lawrence shrugged. Vincent thought he saw a hint of embarrassment in the way the ranger sheepishly looked away. “They’ll clear you, but it’s gonna take about a week.”

“A week?” Vincent turned around and plopped down on the seat properly. “It’s something…” 

He would be able to get into the Strip, but that was longer than he’d like. Maybe that was a good thing, too. Time to prepare for his next move he hadn’t given a single thought about. Was a confrontation what he wanted? Thinking about the whole reason that led him to New Vegas still made him wrathfully angry. Moments suffocating in terror as he watched his own grave dug for him assaulted his mind at the most random moments. Waking up in the doctor's house afterward was the seconds most terrifying moment. He knew he wasn’t entirely the same and had yet to take inventory of what changed.

“Lucky you know a handsome ranger to sponsor you,” Lawrence chimed in as he stood up. A cocky smile followed. Vincent mused it was a habitual quirk for Lawrence. He debated indulging the ranger’s invitation to borderline-flirty game they played.

Vincent caught up to Lawrence’s long strides as though he could outpace the bubbling doubts that came anytime he dared think himself worthy of affection. “I’d thank you, but you already stroke your own ego enough.”

“Just don’t go get yourself shot in the head again, otherwise it would have been a waste.”

“Oh, would you miss me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lawrence smiled and rolled his eyes.

“What do you suppose there’s to do in the meantime?” Vincent thought aloud. “Waiting to get processed n’ whatnot…”

“Well, seeing as neither of us are rich cattle barons—” The two shuffled down the final steps of the stagnant elevator. “Guess gambling and drinkin’ our days away isn’t an option.”

The main terminal was a cavernous place that would have echoed their steps back at them had it not been occupied with soldiers on break. Beneath the set of model planes hanging from the high ceiling, radio music and chatter livened up what would be another dilapidated remnant of a dead era. Lawrence led the way through, Vincent sticking close to him as they traversed the edges of the common space. Just before they reached the array of doors leading back into the August heat, Lawrence came to a sudden stop.

“And we do need caps…” The ranger muttered, plucking a flyer from the corkboard.

“What’s that?”

“Bounty hunting.”

“You just told me not to get shot a few minutes ago,” Vincent said but Lawrence didn’t acknowledge that. Vincent stood on his toes for a better look at the paper.  “How much are they paying?”

On the imaginary border of civilization and chaos just beyond the walls of Camp McCarran, Lawrence peered through the scope of his rifle down onto the formerly Las Vegas Steel Factory across a highway. The factory spanned nearly a mile on its own and wasn’t even not even wholly intact. All that remained of it was a bland structure like most that still stood on the edges of New Vegas’s limits. A decayed sign hung by a single rusted cable on pillars, liable to come crashing down any day. The sun bleached away any color it may have had but if you squinted hard enough you could make out something once red and black.

In those mazes of steel beams and reinforced concrete walls were the drudges of society lying in wait to ambush any who strayed too far into their territory. Their numbers were their strength. Any armament they had was lifted off those they killed and because of the ease in which that occurred, those armaments weren’t much to afraid of. Strategy wasn’t much too worry about either as these kinds of folks indulged in various chemical intoxicants.

None crossed their stake lest they were brave or stupid. Yet, a ranger and a courier lodged themselves on a vantage point in one of many crumbling buildings watching the target known to skulk about on the otherside, taunting the soldiers stationed outside McCarran, and harassing patrols. The taunts were seldom met with anything other mutterings from the soldiers. Obscene gestures and flashing unwashed assets wasn’t particularly worthy of wasting bullets on, especially at a distance standard issued rifles wouldn’t reach.

“Snipers are always in pairs,” Lawrence explained. “One shoots, one spots, but both know how to shoot.”

“Is it difficult?” Vincent inquired as he looked at Lawrence through binoculars still attached to his eyes.

“Being able to shoot a sniper rifle is one thing, the real difficulty is can you be a sniper.”  The rifle was an intimidating thing. Vincent figured it would come at least to his elbow standing up next to him. “It’s like hunting…” Lawrence’s voice trailed away. He adjusted another knob among many options. “You decide when this person dies. Where you put the bullet.”

“Does it bother you?” Vincent whispered, but quickly regretted the dumb question.

“Suppose it depends,” Lawrence said to Vincent’s surprise. “What I’m doing and why.” Vincent raised the binoculars to observe the small gang of disreputables strolling alongside the highway. It felt odd to know how oblivious they were of unseen threats. “Sometimes the things you’ve done catch up with you.”

“Aren’t you proud of your work though?”

“Cover your ears.”

Lawrence held firm against the recoil. The blow that followed rattled earth and bone. The rumbling echo sent the group below into a scrambling panic. Vincent brough the binoculars back to his eyes, confirming someone among the raiders had been neutralized. In the middle of the overpass intersection, a blot lay sprawled out on the pavement.

“That him?”

“If the tattoos and cueball head of his is any indication, yeah.” 

“You can see that much detail with the scope?”

“Wanna take a gander?” Lawrence shuffled aside on his elbows and let Vincent move behind the rifle. He knew it would be heavy, but his arms shook trying to hold it while on its stands. Subsequent oohs and ahs followed as he moved it around with the ranger’s assistance.

“Ought to take you for practice,” Lawrence suggested.

“I could use it…”

Moving down to the overpass felt more like being naked up on a stage of everyone you knew. With so many unsavory individuals hiding like snakes in the grass of old ruins, neither let their guard down. It was probably the more dangerous part of collecting a bounty. They had to retrieve evidence of their bounty’s death. An odor lingered around the fresh corpse. It wasn’t death. No, this was months of unwashed human. It crept up on the two before they even got within six feet of him.

Lawrence knelt at the body. “Keep watch,” he said, pulling the hunting knife from its sheath.

The stench turned Vincent’s stomach. At least it wasn’t enough to make him need to vomit, but when he heard that awful tearing, then a wet snap, Vincent needed to steady himself.

“So, this one,” Lawrence started, but Vincent was too busy focusing on keeping watch and not vomiting. “Not only is he ugly, but also is guilty of smuggling. Usually, the people type. Also dabbled in chem dealing back home.”

Vincent hummed his acknowledgement just to keep his lips sealed. The knife cut deep one last time. He shivered all over. A grimace scrunched up his face imaging what ripped sinew and torn ligaments in the neck looked like. Never had he been so not curious. 

Their arrival at McCarran drew attention with a severed head in hand and whatnot. None gawked too long because of that, but on the bright side, there was one less problem in the world. 

“Well look what the cat dragged in,” a mocking voice called to Lawrence and Vincent as soon as they reentered the main terminal.

“Ah, is that a faint whisper of insignificance and mediocrity I hear?” Lawrence returned the favor, stopping to meet the approaching uniform.

He was a major in the NCRA, tall and copper-toned. A bushy black beard framed his face. “What did you do now? Still harassing Legion patrols in your spare time?”

“Oh, here and there. Bounty hunting occasionally,” Lawrence nodded to the sack in hand.

“Yeah, I think I smelled him before I saw him,” the major curled a lip at the sight. “Which ugly fuck is that?” Vincent retrieved the folded bounty from his satchel and presented it to the man. “Ah, my memory is refreshed—Ugly fuck number 65!” He peered into the sack, shifting it around for a better look at the head inside all while wearing a tight-lipped frown at the sight. “Come on. Let’s go get them caps. You gonna actually go for one of the tough ones anytime soon?”

Lawrence laughed. “You want to put your money where your mouth is?”

The clamor of the casino crowd halted at the arch leading to an empty dining hall. Staff wandered about, but the swishing of uniform pants and clinking silverware did little to take either out of their trance. Lawrence lit a cigarette as he looked over his map. Next to him, Vincent propped his head up in his hands. Vacant eyes stared at the glossy wood counter, studying each of its knots and waves as though they represented his own obstacles and the ways around them he had yet to decipher. “I’m still unsure of what to do.”

The ranger glanced up from the map in time for a floor-girl to bring him the tall glass he ordered minutes ago. A heavy top-layer of foam tempted to pour over the glass lip when Lawrence picked it up.

“About what?”

“Benny. We still have to go to the Tops and figure out where he went. I’m just hoping I’m not on some ghoul-goose chase…”

“Well, you have the advantage of surprise,” Lawrence said, although he didn’t seem pleased to say it.

“You think so?”

“There’s no way he knows you even lived, let alone you’re after him.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Vincent pondered the thought, but the whole thing still nagged him. All the unknowns, all the possibilities… Surely Lawrence wasn’t so indecisive. Vincent studied the ranger like it would help him, but it only helped the strange mix of jealousy and attraction growing against his will. He figured it was because Lawrence had all the manly traits and behaviors Vincent wished he did.

Instead, he was weak. Small. Too effeminate to be intimidating or taken seriously. All the times he couldn’t stand up for himself played in his head on repeat. His face twisted and he was tied up, his heart beating hard in his chest. His body trembling. His captors: men he had never seen before, never met, never slighted. They taunted he’d been thrown in any minute. A gun pressed to his temple. He shook his head and gripped the arms of his chair to cement him in the moment. A fire burst inside him, hot and fueling a thirst for revenge and the need to prove something to himself for himself.

“Lawrence,” Vincent said, a newfound confidence in his voice demanded the ranger’s attention. “Can you teach me to be better with a gun?”

Lawrence’s gaze remained on the boy this time. A slow nod came first before he said, “of course.”