A few things: I took creative liberties so I have added and/or changed things. Nothing too drastic, just stuff that doesn't translate well between mediums or added content for this story in particular. New Vegas holds a very special place in my heart, so I want to stay true to the canon but also utilize my own creativity and vision. Yes, all the titles are most likely songs. Why? Because I will it.

More context at the end.

Vincent hadn't been the luckiest man in the Mojave. Shot in the head only a week ago and miraculously survived, now his pistol jammed as a deathclaw lurched ever closer. It was the same suit, but a different color. He fell back on parched soil. Wide-eyed, staring into the abysmal gaze of the monstrous beast descending on him. Time itself slowed to an agonizing halt. It seemed to relish playing with its prey; the slow steps that cornered him, the growls rumbling in its throat as those knives reached for him. It knew he could do nothing. Yet legs still kicked back, whirling up a cloud of dust and soil as any cries for help caught in his throat.

It lunged at him.

Ears rang. His body paralyzed. A gentle breeze rustled his clothes. Timid eyes opened and ringing faded to a fuzzy tickle.

Dead.

Lifeless. Motionless. Murder lingered in those hollow obsidian eyes. Fear loosened its grip on Vincent. Then he spotted the hole in the beast's head. Round and glistening red. Scaly flesh torn away in a bullet's wake. He looked at his pistol, brows twisted in confusion. He hadn't fired… And that humble pistol couldn't have left such a cavernous pit. No. A different gun. A big gun somewhere aimed at him. A shadow washed over him, and soon, awe replaced that fear as he looked up at the ranger.

The stranger yanked off his sunglasses. Frigid gawk narrowed on Vincent, piercing like the deathclaw's own stare. "Didn't your ma ever tell you not to play with deathclaws?"

"She also told me not to talk to strangers," Vincent muttered. Eyes locked on the ranger as Vincent scurried to his feet. Never had he seen one up closer before. Except for the fuzzy pictures in newspapers or the posters plastered around the army facilities and recruiting center—Those didn't do this one justice. Supposedly, there were several at the Mojave Outpost on the border. Yet with such a rushed delivery, he hadn't stayed long enough to steal a glance. Let alone pester one with questions. Tall tales of their gun-slinging and survival prowess were to be envied if what all the soldiers gossiped about was true

He clutched a hefty sniper rifle. Shielded by a leather duster that lightened under the sun's long stare. Edges frayed by wear and maybe a rough scuffle or two. Beneath that and dotted with bullet holes, the black old-world armor. Solid and bullet-proof. Matte sheen nicked and scraped here and there. Dust laden and sun-bleached jeans tucked into his combat boots with two-lifetimes' worth of the desert beneath their soles. A single sequoia strapped his leg. Another holster above that; standard issue pistol, but it was that face the young man lingered on.

"You might want to start headin' back the way you came."

"But I need to get to Primm…" Vincent voice faltered under the stranger's scrutiny. Shoulder slumped, shrinking as he realized the height of the man.

"You want to get ripped apart by deathclaws?" A tilt of his head accented the man's scoff.

"Well, no, obviously—"

"Why you headin' to Primm anyway? Powder-gangers are in that area and from the looks of it, you hadn't even grazed this deathclaw. How in the hell do you expect to 'fend yourself from convicts, let alone a scorpion?"

Were all rangers so rude? Did he think he could get away with that just because he had a pleasant face and wore an experienced uniform? Well… Vincent peeped to the deathclaw beside them. Head bled out on the road. Pooling maroon led a stain down sandy scales, steaming on sweltering asphalt. Frighteningly still as if it was waiting for the opportunity to pounce on him at any moment. He looked back to the ranger—Annoyingly correct.

"You don't have to be mean about it." Vincent crossed his arms and sighed. Eyes laid low, fixed on the road. Not somewhere he'd find his sense or courage as usual. Once again, he got himself into something bad. "I just wanted revenge on the guy who tried to kill me and—"

"Well, be thankful he didn't kill you."

"He was aiming to!" Nostrils flared and eyes widened at the memory—staring down a gun as his heart crawled up his throat. He shook his head and loosened his arms. Fist clenched when he returned his own heavy scowl on the stranger. "He shot me in the head and left me to die."

"You must have some bad luck then." Another chuckle, as if the man thought Vincent's predicament funny. The boy had been reluctant to tell anyone about it. So far, the only sympathetic soul he found was the doctor who put him back together.

"I'll fend for myself," Vincent declared. Smug sneer and a wave of a hand quietly told off the stranger. "I'll figure it out." He turned away and continued down the road. Cracked asphalt mirrored his dwindling hope as second guesses crept in. "I always do!" Vincent shouted, but neither believed those words. Once again, he got himself into trouble and barely make it out. Once again, unable to stand up for himself.

Maybe if he was a real man…

The ranger watched the boy; five-foot-nothing and a few cards short of a full deck, huffing and puffing all the way down the road—The wrong way. Oblivious to the heinous desert on either side of the asphalt. Hills crawling with deathclaws down the I-15. Highwaymen and bandits hid among the old ruins and not to mention hostile tribals—Oh! Can't forget the fact his destination was swarming with escaped convicts armed to the teeth with explosives. This kid wouldn't last a second.

"I'll take you to Primm."

Vincent paused. The ranger's holler lingering in his ears; a bit reluctant, a bit annoyed. He hesitated to turn around after such a dramatic display. Instead, heavy boots clapped against the road, closing the short distance between the two. "Just don't get yourself killed on the way."

"I imagine you're needed elsewhere…" Vincent had yet to shake his aggravated tone. Not something the ranger was solely responsible for bringing out of him, but his patience had been quite thin these past few days. "Being a ranger n' all."

"I'm not needed anywhere, yet." He shrugged, slinging the rifle over his shoulder, and joining a lumpy duffel bag. "Vacation of sorts."

"Okay…" A half-nod acknowledged him. "Then what are you doing out here?"

"Like I said. 'Cation of sorts. So, I'm explorin'."

"Looks like we have something in common," Vincent chirped. "I like exploring."

"Let's head to Primm. We're wastin' daylight."

Vincent followed him closely, stealing the occasional glance at the man. He was the mysterious sort. The quiet type. Observant with a pair of pretty blues hidden beneath reflective aviators. Vincent only noticed them when they darted about, evaluating the lay of the land. His hair was as stark as midnight, a little shaggy. A black shadow coated a strong jawline, unshaven to match the choppy hair, but the thick tuft on his chin and sideburns was clearly an intentional choice. With a face like the ranger's, he couldn't help but imagine what was underneath that armor. Then the pangs of envy set in. It happened once in a while. Getting jealous of those who had what he wanted. What he was supposed to have.

"I'm Vincent, by the way."

"Lawrence," the ranger muttered through the cigarette hanging between his lips.

"I never met or seen a ranger before."

Lawrence cocked his head and plucked out the cigarette. A cloud of smoke mirrored his words. "Now you can scratch that off your to-do list."

The ranger must have had a soft side, like a cactus Vincent presumed. Most everyone did. At least from what he observed where he grew up and traveled beyond. Somebody always had something they hid. The women in the brothel he lived over were experts at extracting those things—along with money. He doubted he'd ever get to see it in this one though. The ranger would disappear in his own time, he was certain of that. Vincent found plenty of passing friends on the road. Kind souls willing to share a campfire. Scavengers who still had a heart and warned him of danger. Once he met a girl his age—that was a rocky start—jumpy and suspicious. But couldn't blame anyone for that, given they met out in the wilderness and happened upon the same old-world ruin and only shade for miles. Eventually they parted in the Boneyard where she reunited with her father. Much like what he left behind at home, he figured the vagrants of characters in his life were only there when needed most.

And now, he had a ranger.

"What do you mean the deputy is with the powder-gangers?"

Vincent flinched. "Well…" He muttered, dragging himself up on the last vacant stool at the bar. A cloudy mix of smoke and alcohol dried his throat. Eyes batted away vapors as he searched for the best way to break the news to Lawrence. "The sheriff was killed, and the deputy was abducted."

"You gotta be…" Lawrence silenced himself with the rest of the shot. Glass clanked against weathered countertop. Weary expression telling all the bartender needed to know to refill the shot glass.

"I don't suppose you have an idea?" Vincent inquired. A sheepish smile and shrug attempted to coax something out of Lawrence. "What with all your ranger training and experience?"

Looking back to Vincent, Lawrence arched a brow. Big blue eyes stared back it him. Like a puppy begging for scraps, Vincent's brows knitted together. Eyes flickered to meet Lawrence's. He sighed. "We'll sneak over at night to get a jump on them. You can shoot, right?"

"Compared to you or just in general?"

Lawrence snatched the glass off the bar. He flung his head back, glass pressed to lips. Cheap whiskey burned on the spiral down. "Guess we'll find out, huh?"

"Well, I've shot my fair share of some big geckos and scorpions."

The ranger suppressed a chuckle. A humored smile stretched his face and crinkled his eyes. A smile Vincent would think quite pleasant had he not felt the laugh more of a slight. He scowled turning proper towards the bar. A sly smile lingered in the boy's peripherals that begged him for attention. "What?"

"Nothing." Lawrence shook his head as that sly grin turned more into a normal smile. "You're just a funny kid—nothing bad."

After 200 years and then some, Primm still stood tall and proud. The two casinos Buffalo Bill's and Whiskey Pete's dominated the valley. Vincent passed through once before, being a trading nexus between Nevada and California. The gateway to New Vegas was just a faint echo of that paradise city. Soldiers stood guard at their camp set up in the parking lot of Whiskey Pete's. The flag of the republic hung vapid and listless. No wind to give it purpose. But hidden below that flag, the strength of that republic. The ranger and soldiers exchanged salutes as they passed. Usually, Vincent would get some warning or lecture every time he neared a military outpost. Don't go here; don't go there; this area is off limits… Now he waltzed on through in the company of the ranger and stared across the empty highway of the I-15, now turned demilitarized zone. The powder-gangers surely stared back at them from their own fortified base of Buffalo Bill's.

"Well, looks like the NCR has the better side of town," Vincent pondered as he looked on from the overpass.

"Good eye," Lawrence stated. "The powder-gangers will eventually give up, get desperate. Only got so much food and water there." He added a shrug, "Maybe less if they get in the booze."

"Oh, I was thinking that because old-world casinos and resorts—this one looks the prettiest here and still mostly put together. Probably more comfortable."

A brow peaked as Lawrence turned his gaze to the outpost ahead of them. Silence returned. Deafening silence… Vincent rolled his eyes, quietly lecturing himself beneath a sigh. A tactical ranger was not impressed by pretty lights and old-world luxuries. That should have been obvious.

"Is the NCR doing anything about the convicts?" So many soldiers, yet nothing was happening. Kicking cans, playing cards in their tents, or patrolling the shade of the overpass. So busy waiting... It had been a week since he learned of the incident over the radio. Citizens disappeared sporadically. Some clung to hope their home wasn't completely doomed. Those ones lingered on the porch and in a temporary shanty town set up in the safe-haven of a concrete field.

"Doubt it. Got bigger problems elsewhere."

"What happened anyway? I didn't hear much beyond some convicts came through and decided to stay."

Lawrence stepped up onto the raised highway barrier for a better vantage point. "They were at the prison off the main highway and tasked with rebuilding the rail-lines from California to Nevada." Lawrence shrugged off the rifle, then went for the pack underneath. "They were given dynamite to clear wreckage and, well…" He produced a pair of binoculars from the bag. Gaze set on at the casino. With a disappointed sigh, he noted, "Here we are."

An old rollercoaster looped around the old-world casino. The rickety old thing creaked and groaned with the wind, giving Vincent chills thinking about riding the thing as it fell apart. The surrounding lot of Whiskey Pete's lay dead quiet. Remnants of the trading get-together strewn about the lot. Even the unfortunate souls lost when the convicts took over still lay where they died. Unrecognizable corpses gored by hungry crows and coyotes. No powder-gangers loitered outside, but that only frightened him to think about how many they didn't see inside.

He followed heavy boot prints of mud and dirt across the tile. Eyes adjusted to the dark but remained fixed on the ranger in front of him. Faint echoes of voices carried across the casino hall to the lobby. Lawrence paused at the cover of a front desk. He peered around, then continued to the hallway leading to the gambling hall. Lawrence stole a daring glimpse before quickly retracting to the cover of the wall. Gun stowed back in its holster. He reached inside his coat. A long, serrated hunting knife followed his grip as he waited and listened. Then Vincent heard it too.

Steps. Alone and unsuspecting.

The ranger sprang up with a quickness faster than lightning. Grasped in his clutched, Lawrence held the convict at knifepoint with a hand over his mouth. He pulled him into their ambush. "Take his gun," Lawrence ordered. Vincent plucked a revolver from the hostler and a knife strap around his thigh with minor resistance. "You scream and I'll slit your throat. There's plenty of you here to gouge information out of."

He huffed under Lawrence's hand. Fear glistened in dark eyes; staring at Lawrence, staring at Vincent—one clearly more intimidating than the other. "You want to make it out of here intact? Tell me where the deputy's at."

He nodded urgently, raising his hands in front of him as a promise not to fight. Lawrence lowered his grip, but only to switch to a chokehold. "They have him in the kitchen," the convict sputtered. Lawrence returned his hand to cover the convict's mouth. He pulled him away from the hallway entrance and took him around the other side of the reception desk.

"Wait!" He begged, ready to repeat his please, then silence. Vincent grimaced a gurgle behind the desk.

Lawrence emerged, exchanging the knife for his pistol. "Alright, to the kitchen."

Quiet. Empty. Not even the machines glowed with their inviting colors. Storefront facades lined the wall, empty of inventory and ransacked by squatters. A catwalk of wood, like the rollercoaster outside, ran through the gambling hall. A fake centerpiece of a tree adorned a circle of dead slots. An odd choice of design the boy pondered revisiting once less dangerous.

Tile turned to carpet, quieting their steps as they followed the signs to the dining hall. Lawrence peered around a corner into another short hallway. Possibly to their destination. He receded, back to scanning the room. Then he paused. A door. A service door adorned with a "staff-only" sign that surely didn't apply to the current era. He raised his aim. The other hand opened the door as quietly as possible. Mischievous hinges squeaked. Rusty screws moaned to be handled gently. Burned out lights hung from their sockets overhead. Dark and littered with glass. At least the service hall was empty of convicts.

A few corners later, they found the kitchen. A spacious room of dark squares and dim tiles. At the far end stood a pair of double doors. Light crept past narrow slits. A warning of the hordes of dangerous, unscrupulous folks ready to go for the kill.

"Deputy?" Lawrence whispered, pausing at the suspected silhouette of a man.

"I ain't done anything!" He hissed, bound hands flailed in defiance.

"Keep your voice down," Lawrence ordered. "You got a light on you?" Eager to be useful, Vincent plucked out a pip-boy. Quickly flicking a switch, the light assaulted every eye in the room with a blaring screen. "Ranger Lawrence Garrett, Second battalion, Cazador Company. We're getting you out of here."

"Well, I am mighty grateful," the deputy winced, shielding his eyes from the light.

"Follow me." Lawrence sliced through the bindings.

The ranger's stealth was something to be feared with that hidden knife in his coat. Unfazed by everything that could have gone worse. Barely even a challenge for the ranger from the looks of it. Vincent wondered if he could ever get to that degree of confidence and bravery. A real man; strong, unwavering in the face of death.

In the safety of the Whiskey Pete's, admiring eyes followed that ranger. Warm lights flattered his dark mane. A blunt stare sized up the deputy, then flickered to the boy gawking at him. A curious brow peaked then he nodded to the deputy.

Recalling the reason they rescued the man, Vincent turned to the sheepish deputy. "I wanted to ask if you knew anything about some people who passed through here. Not powder-gangers."

"I might…"

"Some Khans and a man in a black and white checkered suit. Did they come through here?"

"Yes, they did." He wrung a bruised wrist. "I was, uh, gathering recon on some of the powder-gangers when those Khans arrived with the suit. Mentioned something about a delivery and then they'd be heading to Novac."

"Novac?" Lawrence interjected. "That's a day and a half from here, but we got another problem." He turned to Vincent, hands hung loosely on his belt. Chest broadened and distracting thoughts weaseled back in the boy's head.

"What problems?"

"Any way to Novac from here has…" Those strong eyes faltered for a second. "Obstacles. I was just through Nipton a few days ago and the Legion attacked the town. No survivors, at least none I found. And straight down the I-15 has a 'li'l deathclaw problem at the moment, I think you remember that."

"Welp!" The deputy planted one foot behind him to make his escape. "Thank you for your timely rescue, but I'll be going now and let you discuss your logistics…" He backed away to the gambling hall. The ranger's scrutiny followed until he disappeared into the crowds.

"Deputy's a coward," Lawrence remarked. "Primm's gonna have to deal with those powder-gangers for a while."

"You didn't have much of an issue getting us in and out."

"Well, if I'm ever lookin' for trouble I know where to find it," Lawrence noted. "But what do you plan on doing? We can still get to Novac. It's not going to be the easy way, and it's gonna take us into the hills. It's doable, just rough terrain."

"You want to go with me?"

"I can ditch you here if you'd like," Lawrence chuckled. "Just thought I'd let you know some pertinent information."

"No, no. I'm not complaining, just a little surprised," Vincent said. A smile softened his face. "I still want to track this guy down."

"Alright," Lawrence nodded towards the gambling hall entryway. "Come on."

He splayed the map over the table, then set his beer on one corner of the tattered paper. Plenty of old marks already dotted the map. A few quick scribbles marked Legion territory, curiosities, and NCR facilities around the Mojave. Lawrence pointed to their present location. "We have a few ways to get Novac from Primm." He took a runty pencil and drew a straying down an old service road, then strayed off into wilderness. A sharp line cut through the mountains, bypassing Nipton altogether. Finally, it ended off the highway in the town of Novac. "This way is the easiest, safest way. I've taken it before."

Vincent looked over the map, eyeing all those marks traveling in northern Nevada. Then west back home in California. Down south, a few dotted bits of Arizona. "Novac is a day away?"

He shrugged. "Nipton is a four-hour hike, so without issues, yes we can reach it in a day."

"Then we should go that way," Vincent decided. He leaned back in his chair, a curious look hinting on his face. "But I've heard about some weird stuff in the hills and wilderness"

A curious brow arched. "Strange? Like strange, mutated things?" He retrieved his beer. The damp corner remained obediently stuck to the table. "I'm more concerned about Legion and highwaymen."

"Well, I appreciate your help, Lawrence," Vincent smiled. The ranger returned his attention to the map. A little shy from praise, perhaps? Surely someone of his talents got plenty. "I want to learn to make it on my own like you do."

"You'll learn a thing or two with me, but that also begs the question: What the hell you doing out here?" He laughed at a punchline unheard by the boy. "You were a courier?"

"I don't think I'll return to that," Vincent confessed. "I had to leave home… I wanted to travel and see more of the world so I thought it'd be the best thing to do that and also make some caps."

"Where you from?" The ranger reclined in the chair. A confident splay with that little smile still tugging on his lips. Thick lips, framed by dark stubble, and surely talented with a kiss as they liked to advertise.

"California. A tiny place in Yucca Valley."

"Seen it on maps, but never been."

"You're not missing much."

"Born and raised in the Boneyard. Been a while since I've been home."

"I don't know if I want to go back," Vincent shrugged. He held back other words. The truth was, he wanted to go home, but he knew he wouldn't be welcomed. Maybe when he was older. Maybe when he became a real man. Yet as much as he hoped and wished, he didn't think that would happen. "I don't have anyone or anything there."

Vincent averted his gaze from the ranger. Maybe he shouldn't have been so forthcoming with a man he barely knew. "I can understand that," Lawrence agreed. "I don't either. Not anymore."

"Suppose that's why you're still here. On vacation?"

His own words used against him… The ranger found a rare smile budding. The kind he just couldn't fight. "You got me. Home's where you make it."

Revised as of 6/15/22. Last revision for this chapter. This just means I'm putting out the fully-polished/edited-there-should-be-no-mistakes-or-I-will-scream. Brevity is the soul of wit and I have neither. Editing this has been a huge pain in the ass.

I started this story way back when, in the before times. Somewhere in 2012 when I was still a wee goblin, scheming on how to ditch school that day. Before being an adult, before having to get a real job... Can you hear the wistful sighs? In 2016, I began a personal journey that is vaguely reflected in this story (writing is cathartic), and at the same time, I discovered this dusty word doc on my hard-drive and just got the urge to start it over. AKA procrastinate on something else I needed to do. I also for some reason, against my better judgement decided it was a great idea to post it online(?).

Anyhow, I think writing fanfic is a great way to become a better writer. Whereas this originally was a for-fun-rewrite of New Vegas, I decided to revisit it as an adult with real-world experience, maturation, and introspection about the topics I like to include in my fiction. Then sprinkle in having been to Las Vegas and all the real-world places Fallout: New Vegas used for stages in-game I love so much, I had an idea. So I changed everything. It's all for fun here even if some of the themes/topics could be divisive or heavy.

If you read that wall of text, congrats.