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. A hefty stretch beckoned his attention to the foot of the bed. Lawrence fared better in the morning. Always ready to go, ready for action, no matter how little sleep he had the night before. Bare back arched as he hummed an off-key song. No reservation to strut about in minimal clothing. It was almost insulting, but Lawrence had nothing to be ashamed of.

Once his eyes shirked sleep, the blots on Lawrence's back came to focus. On his upper back a caricature of the sun waving sunbeams of orange and yellow with a solemn face, black eyes, and a small nose while his lower back had a face of the moon to match.

"Morning." Lawrence stood up, tightening his belt. "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 the day to the bed. "I suggest another shower while there's still hot water."

A pang of jealousy stung Vincent. Yet he couldn't help but admire the man. The broad shoulders. The swollen muscles. A pillowy chest and a fuzzy trail leading down a cute belly. Lawrence turned as he fumbled with an inside-out undershirt and then Vincent spotted it. Compact and artfully drawn under his right breast, a name.

Marcus.

"I'm gonna get supplies in town and be back soon," Lawrence 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. Gushing. Disgusting and uncomfortable. Oh, no…. Not now. Not here. His stomach twisted. His throat tied in knots. The inevitable. He jumped up and stared at the bed. Little red blots dotted white sheets. Tears swelled. Face twisted in shame as he hobbled to the bathroom. Spare clothes clutched in hands then smacked on the toilet lid with a growl. A wince forced him to stop. Belly twisted. Cramping in waves, a flurry of heat with every crash. An invisible knife gutting him every minute.

Eyes traced hard water stains down off-white porcelain. Cleansing water. Warm, fresh, drawn straight from the dam. He wanted to spend all night in it before Lawrence kicked him out exclaiming he was using up all the hot water or some nonsense. Eyes avoided the mirror on mornings like this. It was better to just never take a peek. At the bottom of the tub, legs curled to his chest, water splashing against his back until it felt like radio static. Tears disappeared among the droplet splattered across face and skin. Fingertips wrinkled. Dirty red caked under his nails. He stared at them. Each finely pruned nail. Every month a reminder of the boy he never was and the man he would never be.

A knocked rapped the door. In prior days, he didn't need to hide. Even as ashamed of it as he was. His mother unquestionably left him alone; only inquiring if he needed comfort. But the hiding and secrecy was a small price to pay.

"Vince, you in there?" Lawrence asked.

"I'm alright," 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. "No doctor."

"Alright, well food's almost ready."

That he could smell. Enticing had his stomach not been trying to escape from under muscle and flesh. "I'll be down soon."

He could only hide for so long. Eventually, he'd have to drag water-logged flesh out from that cooling shower once the hot water ran cold. Guess Lawrence wasn't wrong about that.

With a sour look on his face, Vincent stomped down the stairs. The raspy voice of Mr. New Vegas recounting the latest news wandered through the hallway. Nervous eyes scanned the morning crowd gathered in the saloon. Nothing like the rambunctious characters of the night before. Chatty and content to keep eyes on their companions. At a table by the window, a familiar face gaze on the lively dirt road that ran through the center of town.

"Get what you need?"

"Indeed, I did." Lawrence confirmed as the young man took a seat. "Breakfast is already—" He 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. He wasn't hungry when he woke, 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."

Vincent paused before another bite of gecko bacon. "I, uh…" Delightfully crispy and filling. Vincent couldn't remember the last time he didn't have to eat foraged cactus fruit, scraps he begged for, or something made two-hundred years ago. "Noticed your tattoos. They're good and I like them. I've thought about getting at least one, just to try it."

"That right?" Curious brow peaked as he refilled the empty coffee mug. Morning light lit auburn hair in a warm, woody halo. Curious blue eyes stared back at him. Vincent always had a wily look in them—or the scar and mismatched pupils just forced that look on the boy. "I drew those myself and had a tattooist friend put 'em on."

"You designed those?"

"I'll draw sometimes," Lawrence shrugged. "Mostly just for planning and recon—"

"You're skilled!" The ranger stifled a smile. It was nice to see him not scowling so much lately. "What about that calligraphy? Must have been an important guy to warrant such pretty letters."

Lawrence's expression soured. Smile faded as he turned his attention away from Vincent and out the window. "Was a friend."

"Sorry," Vincent withdrew with a timid voice. "I didn't mean anything by it."

"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. Full anyway, but some remnant of his mother's voice scolded him for wasting food. Did he really just ruffle the stalwart ranger? A twinge of regret irked him. Maybe he really ought to cull that curiosity. Vincent didn't want to shoo away his new companion or offend him, especially after all the ranger had done for him. Still he burst at the seams with questions. Lawrence had a man's name tattooed on him after all. Family? Brother? Brother-in-arms? Could he ever mean that much to someone else? Five years ago, and with the cracked highway under boot as his witness, Vincent accepted he would spend the rest of days alone with his condition. He dealt with rejection. Expected it whether it was being denied his existence entirely or the romantic type. It was just better that way. No reasons to be disappointed and he wouldn't face disappointment.

Where the buildings thinned, weathered, unsettled, and forgotten, did the desert begin its creep inward on the town. Departing traders whipped out pistols and rifles starting down the long strip of baking asphalt. Shimmering black water stretched 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. Even the plants looked as mean and worn out as the highway known only by a number. Cacti and Joshua trees, a passing prickly bush of dried branches liable to catch fire at a glance. The heat had a way of sucking the life right out of everything. Suffocating and stagnant heat. The sun burning a ring on the scalp. Beating down everything in its domain. Standing still did little to cool the body—No one sane lived in these parts.

Ahead of the two several wagons and two brahmin led the way. Their guards the grizzled 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 the ranger. "What does that mean?"

"It means keep your eyes peeled." Sun glare curved to black lenses, hiding Lawrence's expression underneath as he surveyed the hellscape. "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 that tower one." 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 tower. Taller than the rest of the skyline. As impressive as it was at night, it still beamed 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. More like a wisp or whistle at first. Then it registered. A bullet. Another whipped past them. The ranger and his pistol whipped around to its origin. Guards spread out, searching the highway and desert. Then they showed themselves. A hoard emerged from the hills. Ominous and jutting forms clouded by white smoke stood in the shade on a ridge.

"Find cover!" Lawrence ordered. Vincent plucked out his gun. Well, that was always the first move Lawrence made. He dove for cover behind a concrete divider. Guards exchanged fire—Warning shots, really. Lawrence joined him behind the divider. Helmet donned as he rested the sniper rifle on the concrete top. A hand shoved the pair of binoculars to Vincent. "Tell me what you see; guns, numbers."

"Three of them. I see rifles."

"Where?"

"The taller overhang left of us. They're in the shade."

The rifle twitched to the left. Gunfire blasted—the wrong direction. Vincent whipped around in time for the sniper's boom. Throttling him, just like the first time he heard it. An explosion that rattled his bones. Jolting his flesh and echoing in his heart like a bell.

"More coming from the south!" A voice boomed across the highway. Lawrence ducked behind the next divider. Both stared down the southbound highway. Vincent remained pushed up against the sun-bleached concrete in spite of the burning heat that melted through his clothes. Another divider, off-center in the road would cover them for a time. But it was best not to stay in one spot too long. These ones didn't make themselves visible until one guard fell. Then, he knew they were close. Vincent jumped. The sudden crash of brawny man 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 the bandits pressed forward. The ranger rushed over to the next divider. Peering around, he released a few rounds then tucked himself away. Wide eyed and unsure of if he should move, Vincent gawked at the scene. Hands clammy. Legs jumpy. He struggled to keep a hold of his own gun.

But Lawrence never did. Powering through the shakes, he followed the ranger's lead. Just follow what he does and live. Right? Still he couldn't move. Blasts wracked his head. He flinched and jumped at each explosion. Eyes darted back and forth between Lawrence and the guards. Two men down. Shadows reach in his peripherals. Eyes focused on the figure creeping out of Lawrence's sight. Vincent held his breath and aimed. The glint of the sun against silvery metal drew the ranger's glance as he reloaded a spare mag. Vincent pulled the trigger. Jolted by the recoil, one shot turned into five.

One shot turned into five, letting up once he saw the body slumped over the concrete.

Giving Vincent a look, the ranger exhaled.

A sigh of relief exhaled from the ranger as he stared at the would-be-attacker. Now slung over the concrete, his face obscured by dirt and a battered bucket-helmet.

Vincent inched closer to the edge of the barrier. Beyond the road, the bandits underneath the overhang also peered from their shaded point. "I see two of them still on the ridge."

The gunfire died down. Three dead raiders lay behind him. Anxious breaths still held in his lungs. Lawrence stayed low as he moved over to the wounded guard. He pressed fingers to the man's neck. Quiet curses followed his withdrawal. The ranger had that same scowl he wore the day Vincent met him.

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

"Shallow graves," another suggested, disappointment apparent in his voice. "We gotta move fast."

Lawrence stood up, studying the ridge a short distance away. "Come on," he slung the sniper over his shoulder.

"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," he 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 he 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, you run out of food, but 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. A good three extra feet higher than the ranger had. Lawrence reached out to the rock wall. Too smooth to climb. "Wanna do some recon for 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. "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. Hands rested on Vincent's legs kept him steady. "First time I've taken a ranger for a ride," he stifled a self-satisfied laugh.

Lawrence scoffed. "Well it doesn't have to be the last, so don't get shot." Vincent held his tongue before blurting out a cheeky quip. 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. Groping the rock, testing its sturdiness and in one go, he pulled himself up. Glancing down to Lawrence sent electrifying chills through his body. He ripped away from the ledge then instinct jabbed him to evaluate the rock balcony. Then press around the bend.

"I don't see them up here."

"What about a path up?"

"Going to look!"

For as far as he could see and feel the entire rock wall was too smooth to climb. And the ground, jagged rocks hid under a blanket of loose soil. Vincent ventured further into the shade around the bend. Sand weathered stone narrowed to a slot canyon. Darkened under a curving beam of sky. Just wide enough to traverse. The perfect spot to launch an assault. Vincent paused at a whisper. The wind? He stilled himself. There hadn't been any wind today. The stagnant sweat drenching his body told that much. Then he heard them again.

The highwaymen were still here.

He slid back into the light of the day. The ridge extended onward south, then bended eastbound. Only a three-minute walk and he found railroad spikes pounded in the ridge. A makeshift ladder of rope and pipe brought him down onto parched gravel. Following the bend along familiar ground brought him back to Lawrence waiting in the cover of shade behind a stone pillar.

"Lawrence, they're still here."

"Did you see them or they see you?" He 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 brought the ranger back to the crevice. Lawrence ripped off sunglasses. He peered into the dark. Not so bad he couldn't see anything, but just enough to make hiding easy. He went in first. Pistol drawn and aimed. Quietly, they crept along the wall for guidance. Keen ears listened for their targets. Indeed, 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. Faint light flickered off the walls—candle flame 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 leaned around the uneven rock wall. Two men sat at a table by humble candlelight and dying lanterns. One fiddled with his gun. Reloading the magazine and inspecting it. The other still had his strapped to his thigh. He set sights on the one whose gun was already drawn. Behind him Vincent took notes of what skill and confidence looked like. Steady. Posture rigid. Deathly still.

Fire bloomed from the barrel. The blast echoed around them. Dazingly quick, only the second burst of muzzle fire told Vincent the ranger fired again.

Lawrence exhaled. He stood up. Pistol retired 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. A way to go Vincent was too familiar with. At least now he knew who almost killed him and could get even. After snatching what little the highwaymen had of value, the two headed back to the caravan.

"You did pretty good," Lawrence said, smiling at the boy. Yet when he looked ahead that sweet smile vanished. They paused on the ridge overlook. Something twisted in his stomach when he looked over at the distant scene. Wagons stalled where left. Beasts of burden remained. Terribly silent when men ought to have been gearing up to get on the road. Coming up the gravelly slope, the thin black line of asphalt simmered at eye level. Lawrence's heavy sigh hurried Vincent up the slope.

Dead.

Guards leaned gracelessly against the 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. 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—

Wind knocked out his lungs at the sight. Unable to take another breath. A grizzly sight seared in his mind. No, no sane person lived out here. Lawrence snatched the tarp away and severed Vincent's stared with a shove. He looked to Lawrence. Dour eyes bore through the young man. A quiet warning. Now Vincent understood that look. He couldn't gather his words and speculated there just were none to be said. 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. Grip tight around the glock he never put away. He drew a cigarette then a match. A long draw as they both breathed in the smoke, but only the ranger exhaled a gray cloud. His puffs on the cigarette grew wider apart. How did the man calm the nerves, the shakes, and the adrenaline? How did he deal with resounding emptiness? Too many questions of why and who clouded Vincent's mind. The ring of fire pushed on towards his fingers slowly engulfing the white stick into ash.

"We should bury them," Vincent finally spoke.

His nod was slow. 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 by highwaymen. All dead."

The static paused again. "Any details on the attacker?"

"Highwaymen most likely. Some of them are dead too."

"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. Some supplies might be scavenged."

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

"Thank you. Ranger out."

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. Then it was the scraped and dusty, combat armor underneath next. A lone chest piece, thick and solid, unlike the Kevlar vest Vincent wore.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting started."

"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. With one final sweep of the area, the soldiers savaged anything of use with Lawrence's aid. But Vincent lingered on the side of the road. Eyes 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 and raiders laying out in the road… At least the first time around, someone thought to bury him.

Lawrence lit a cigarette as he stopped at Vincent's side. "I've been wondering how often you see a scene like this?"

"Too many," Lawrence said. "If I'm showing up, it's because of scenes like these."

As the sun set in the west, orange and pink flowed across the sky like water. To the east, ink swallowed refreshing skies. Murky uncertainty that 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 cities reached 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 a highway overpass. More shacks, buildings, people…

Beyond the strip, there were no reliable lights out here—aside from candles and fire. Settled next to the boulevard and encroaching on the local's land, NCR farmsteads, guarded by their soldiers. At the end of their long walk, they arrive at the monument to man's hubris; the city of New Vegas. Survived by nuclear holocaust, inhospitable desert, and now a war. Running the length of Freeside's strip, lights all colors of the rainbow danced across a virtual billboard to music. Denser crowds waded like rival currents. All variety of odd types flocked here like a holy site. Glittery show-girls strutting on gold stilts. Dapper ghouls narrating the side-street caravan tournaments, taking bets, wagers, and entrance fees. Wastelanders, rugged and leather-skinned guarding wares at their stalls from sticky fingers. The suits that stood in the warm glow and cooled air of the casino doors, shoving off a broke vagrant needing to pray at the bar. Sticking to the alley shadows, the conmen watched for an opening. The 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, a gate. Guarded by machine soldiers. The real paradise The strip.

Above the Queens, the lone window of their room staved off the chaos. A small and single-bed room again. But at least it cooler than outside. The best respite caps could buy after a long and difficult day. A weary sigh exhaled as Lawrence leaned back, pushing off his boots from sore feet. Vincent pulled away from the window. He turned to more pleasant prospect to gander at. But exhaustion drained color of the man's face. Vacant eyes darker than usual met Vincent's at the feeling of being watched. "I've been thinking more about confronting Benny."

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

"Yes," Vincent stated. "All the more reason to go after him. How many times has that happened? What about the other trade routes?" A subtle nod took Lawrence's eyes off Vincent and out to the window. Muffled hollering brought a group of drunken friends 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. He looked back at the young man. Face narrowed in a scowl the ranger hadn't seen him wear yet and didn't suspect the boy had in him. A brutish, brow-beating look. Wild and daring with those unusual pupils and icy blues. Then there was that scar. Fresh. Still a bit pink. Long and crawling under thick waves. "But 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 a breath by the end it. He crossed his arms, tight against the Kevlar vest. "But, 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. Vincent flickered at 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. A hand pressed against his forehead rubbed away the strain in tightened brows. "But you're also not invincible."

"I know," Vincent agreed, even if his agreement was weak and half-felt.

"I had the same ideals as you when I joined the rangers," Lawrence continued. He snuffed his cigarette in the ashtray. "But you can't save everyone and you don't win every battle."

Timid eyes gathered their strength to look at Lawrence. Expression held no reserve nor ill-will at Vincent's words, but maybe that was from the exhaustion. Something new showed up in those drained eyes. Something Vincent didn't spot before when he first met the ranger. A heaviness, weighted down by dark circles. Something he may have just been good at hiding, like 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 a different world at night. 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 his time. The stripped buildings then 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 stared up to the towers laying on the horizon. Only the tallest spokes climbed to the sky. So many to explore, experience. All so exciting and new! Already overwhelming and he hadn't even set food on the strip.

"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. Solid and staring out vacantly at the long street and looming over the vagrants and wanderers camped at a safe distance from the machines. The fence's true height distorted, jutting up higher and higher the closer they walked. A chain-link and barbed wire fence was just the beginning. A wall of cinder-bricks stood behind that. Poles of further reinforcements poked up behind that. So tall none could even so much as see over 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 slumped and confidence deflated.

"Didn't have that last time I was here.."

"The cap minimum went into effect on the 15th of August, 2281," the robot said.

For a moment, Vincent realized it some cosmic sign to stop. To understand his mission was foolish and would likely result in his death. Like the deathclaw he encountered. Like the Khans in Boulder City. The raiders on the highway… What was he going to do anyway? He wasn't even entirely honest with Lawrence when he asked. His own voice mocked him. Just ask. Vincent sighed. That was a dumb idea and an even dumber excuse, but it wasn't the whole truth. Not to himself and not to Lawrence.

—

Slot chimes drowned in with the regular ambience of the casino. Vague conversation intermingled in with music. Card tables 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 kept people coming back. The two of them 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. A kind of agitated swivel that mimicked the way an angry, hungry nightstalker paced.

He paused when he noticed the ranger staring at him. Lawrence slid his beer over to the boy. 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. Slippery and cool. Water beaded on the side. It sure seemed like a lot. Did Lawrence always drink this much?

"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 speak-easy hidden beneath his home flashed before his eyes. The faint smell of spilt beer on the floorboards that never went away. The clashing perfumes of the girls. His mother chiding him when he tried to steal a glimpse inside the underworld. Vincent took a dainty sip.

He recoiled. Bitter. Repugnant. A foul tinge coated his tongue. Face twisted to a grimace as he returned the glass to Lawrence. 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 lips. "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's awful," Vincent muttered, his offended tongue flicking out.

"You just a virgin or a beer snob?" Lawrence chided. "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 chortled. "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 winked. A pleasant smile lingered. There was something about the way the ranger looked at him sometimes that felt like a tease. Whether it was 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 through the thick panes of glass holding back the desert, the heat mirage off the black top turned to dancing water. Little uniformed figures unknowingly twirling before him as they toiled away on a cratered tarmac. The chipped paint of pre-war planes shimmered and swayed. Some even looked good enough to fly. Others lay gutted and caked in two-hundred years' worth of time. He crossed his arms on the back of the sofa. Faded maroon and faux leather winded like a river, hugging the wall-length windows.

Dreamy eyes lifted to the New Vegas skyline. So many towers. Like little suns themselves, sparkling and beaming back to the desert like an admirer. A wall surrounded the kingdom of the New Vegas strip. Street grids stretched further past those walls. Urban sprawl, new and old. More buildings, rebuilt, repurposed, refurbished for modern life in the desert wasteland. Ruins littered the farthest flung regions where nobody sane lived. He heard it was all the unsavory sort. Vipers, Fiends, Jackals, Gauchos, raiders and highwaymen—whatever they called themselves they were all the same thing. Dangerous.

Lawrence crashed next to Vincent; head tilted as he observed the boy lost in thought. His nose much too big for his face, a slight hook on the bridge as well. The red blotches on his cheeks lightened since they took refuge inside. Strands of rust and gold twined through brunette waves. But it was his eyes Lawrence could stare in forever. Cooling and refreshing. Bright and bold. Nothing like his own darkened by wear. Only until Lawrence waved a hand in front of Vincent's face did he finally come back to Earth.

"Hm?"

"You alright there?"

"Yeah, I was just looking at the city."

"Quite a view indeed." Lawrence glanced out the windows. "They'll clear you, but it's gonna take about a week."

"It's something!"

Good. He would be able to get into the Strip. But it was longer than he'd like. Maybe that was a good thing, too. Time to prepare. Was a confrontation what he wanted? Still, the catalyst angered him to no end. How terrified he was in those moments watching his own grave dug out in dry soil. Even more so after he woke up in the doctor's house. He knew he wasn't entirely the same and had yet to take inventory of what changed. The days lost unconscious, the paralyzed pupil, and the headaches were just a few he knew of.

"Lucky you know a handsome ranger to sponsor you," Lawrence chimed. A cocky smirk followed. Vincent huffed, humored but debated whether he should indulge the ranger's remark. Quite tempted to, yet… What if Lawrence found out? Throwing all his own strangeness aside, what would Lawrence even like about him? Surely the ranger sees Vincent as a man. Albeit, young and inexperienced. Even if Lawrence had anything interest in him, the moment he found out about Vincent's deformity there's no way the ranger would not be disgusted.

Revolted.

Reviled.

Vincent spun around in his seat, as if doing so would make all his doubts and incessant thoughts fly off and away. If he had any smile on his face, it disappeared by now. "I don't know if I can repay you, Lawrence."

"I'm not asking for anything," he clarified. "Just don't go get yourself shot in the head again, otherwise it would have been a waste."

Vincent laughed. "I'll try not to. I didn't like it the first time around."

"Let's get out of here," Lawrence said coming to his feet. "Paperwork leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth."

"That right?" Vincent followed him back through the terminal lobby. "Does it have something to do with using too many brain cells?"

"Watch it, short-stack," he jabbed Vincent's shoulder then tugged the ratty Kevlar shoulder strap. "That vest ain't gonna protect you from me."

"I took on a deathclaw," Vincent retorted so matter-of-factly. "I doubt a ranger is any competition."

"Hah!" Lawrence shook his head. He stepped first on the stairs; a pair of broken escalators really. "Lotta bark in you for such a little guy."

"What do you suppose there's to do in the meantime? Waiting to get processed n' whatnot…"

"Well, seeing as neither of us are rich cattle barons—" The lobby of McCarran was a huge, cavernous room. A set of model planes hung from a high ceiling. More flashy neon lights indicated terminals and other defunct services. "Guess gambling and drinkin' our days away isn't an option." Lawrence paused by the doors. A cork board mounted on the door-side wall drew him over. Papers pinned into the cork illustrated faces and names, flyers of some NCR events for the soldiers, notices of mundane rules and regulations. That sly smile crossed his ranger's face as he plucked a paper from its spot. "I can think of somethin'."

"What's that?"

"Bounty hunting."

"You just told me not to get shot a few minutes ago," Vincent said but the ranger had only a shrug to give. "How much are they paying?" He stood on his toes for a better look at the paper. A man. A heavy scowl shown beneath a substantial brow ridge. No hair; instead plenty of tattoos on a bald scalp and creeping down his throat.

—

Lawrence peered through the scope of his rifle down onto what was once the Las Vegas Steel Factory. The factory spanned nearly a mile on its own not even wholly intact. All that remained of it was a bland structure like most that still stood on the fringes on New Vegas's boundary. A decayed sign hung by a single rusted cable on the pillars, liable to fall any day now. The sun bleached 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 drywall were raiders, bandits, outlaws. All sorts hidden in the drudges of society. Their numbers were their strength. None crossed into their territory, lest they were brave or stupid. Yet, a ranger and a courier lodged themselves on a vantage point in one of many crumbling buildings across the highway. Their target was known to skulk about on the overpass, taunting soldiers stationed outside McCarran and even harassing patrols. A few obscene gestures and flashing assets rarely seen in the light of day sprinkled in when he was particularly daring.

"Snipers are always in pairs; 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 a huge thing. Black and matte with a long thin barrel. He figured the whole thing would come at least to his elbows if they stood side-by-side. "What do you mean?"

"It's like hunting…" Lawrence's voice trailed away. He adjusted another knob. "You decide when this person dies." Lawrence loaded the rifle's magazine. Bullet by bullet with patience and care. "Where you put the bullet."

"Does it bother you?"

"I suppose it depends." Lawrence paused briefly before looking back into the scope. Not every successful mission was one to be celebrated. "What I'm doing. Why I'm doing it."

"I can guess why it might be rough."

"Trainin' was a bitch and a half, that's true, but I loved it."

Vincent stared to the horizon where their bounty awaited sure death. A small gang of disreputables walked about across the highway, oblivious of the ranger whose crosshairs were set upon them. "Sometimes the things you've done will catch up with you and you regret following those orders. You start thinking about what else you could have done differently."

"Aren't you proud of your work though?"

"Cover your ears."

He held his breath. Shoulders jolted back, but the ranger held firm against the power. A deafening boom followed seconds later. A rumbling trail echoed through the valley. Even through the silencer and the earplugs, the rifle made itself known. Vincent brough the binoculars back to his eyes. Their target lay there on cement. In the middle of the overpass intersection. Limbs splayed out. A growing puddle of red seeped the gaping hole in back and chest. A long trail splattered several feet ahead of him. Any allies he may have had nearby scrambled off into the ruins.

"Yes," Lawrence finally responded.

"Was that him?"

"If the tattoos and cueball head of his was any indication, absolutely."

"You can see that much detail with the scope?"

"Wanna take a gander?" Lawrence shuffled aside on his elbows still keeping low on his stomach. Vincent lay next to him the same way. He knew it would be heavy but his arms shook trying to hold the rifle while on its stands. "Wow…"

"Ought to take you for practice," Lawrence suggested as he lit a fresh cigarette.

"I could use it."

Down on 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.

A disgusting odor lingered around the man. Not death. No, this was months of unwashed human. It crept up on the two before they even got within six feet of him.

Lawrence kneeled at the body. "Might want to look away," 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 crack, Vincent steadied himself. Hands planted on his knees as his stomach threatened another heave.

"So, this one," Lawrence started through a labored grunt. "Not only is he ugly, but also is guilty of smuggling. Usually the people type. Also dabbled in chem dealing back home."

Vincent hummed, refraining from opening his mouth for fear breakfast might come up for another go. The knife cut deep one last time. He shivered. Cracking bone. Sawing cartilage. Rips and tears of ligaments. Never had he been so not curious.

"Alright," Lawrence exhaled as he stood up. "Let's head back."

Their arrival at McCarran drew the attention of the soldiers—a severed head in hand and whatnot. A few grimaced at the sight. None gawked too long. On the bright side, there was one less problem in the world.

"Well look what the cat dragged in," a mocking voice called from across the terminal lobby.

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

A major in the NCRA. Tall and copper-toned. A full beard framed his face. Black, short, and wiry, a bit like himself. "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. A stained and hole-ridden thing was all that carried their bounty's head.

"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 major. "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 scowl on the sight. "Come on. Let's go get them caps," he waved for the two to follow him. "You gonna actually go for one of the tough ones anytime soon?"

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

—

Lawrence lit a cigarette as he looked over his map. The clamor of the casino crowd halted at the arch that led to an empty dining hall. Staff wandered about, but the swishing of uniform pants did little to take either out of their trance. Vincent propped his head up in his hands. Vacant eyes stared at the glossy wood counter. He studied each of its knots and waves. Obstacles and ways around them. Yet, some stopped entirely. "I'm still unsure of what to do."

The ranger glanced up from the map in time for the bartender to bring a tall glass. "About what?"

A heavy white foam tempted to overflow the top while the amber liquid gleamed even in the low-light of the casino floor. "About 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."

"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. Yet it still nagged. All the unknowns, all the possibilities… Surely Lawrence wasn't so indecisive. Vincent studied at the ranger. With the duster set over the back of the chair, stiff armor removed—frankly, Vincent found him better in just the white button-up shirt he wore under it all, but only because he could get a better look at the man.

A strange mix of attraction and jealousy rustled Vincent. Although, the feeling had faded since getting used to the man's presence. Admiration grew it its stead. As did desire. It wasn't the first time, however. No, it happened a little too often for comfort. He figured it was because those men were, in some way, the kind of man he wanted to be. For Lawrence, Vincent wished he had the ranger's confidence and bravery. Good looks were just a boon. He would just be happy with the right body. Anything but the constant discord. A twangy, out of tune bass string resounding in his bones, shaken up with every reminder.

Weak.

Small.

All the times he couldn't stand up for himself played in his head like an old-world movie. His face twisted. Tied up. Heart beating so hard in his chest. Trembling. His captors, men he had never seen before, never met, never slighted, dug his grave right in front of him. Taunting he'd been thrown in any minute. A gun to his head. He shook his head and gripped the arms of his chair. A fire burst inside him, hot and fueling a thirst for revenge and the need to prove something to himself for himself.

"Lawrence," Vincent called, a newfound confidence in his voice demanded the ranger's attention. The ranger looked up from his map. "Can you teach me to be better with a gun?"

Eyes remained on the boy this time. A slow nod came first before Lawrence said, "Of course."