Scouts intercepted him before reaching Fortification Hill. A flash of the medallion and dispositions changed entirely. No questions. No comments, at least not in a language he knew. The stares were expected. Silent guides brought Vincent the rest of the way. The plateau. Bands of rust spanned the foothills, darkening as the eyes trailed up to a flat top. A stalwart natural feature of the desert, jutting up, towering over Lake Mead, and challenging the mountains on the other shore. Rather suiting for some like Caesar.

On the flat, the epicenter of the camp loomed near the Western edge. Sprawled out into the surrounding lands, hordes of Caesar's Legion waited. Training, watching the land across the Colorado river as the sun ascended to its throne. Surely Lawrence was up by now. Probably sourcing in harsh whispers when he realized Vincent left without him. Absolutely mad. Furious. Shaking his head and reiterating what a stupid move the boy made all while Vincent hoped the ranger wouldn't follow him. It would be a death wish even without a wounded leg.

At the gates, soldiers stood watch. Piqued interest brought them together as a stranger approached. The scouts announce themselves. Very little Vincent made sense of. From what he learned of the Legion by Lawrence and other sources, the language was from a world older than that destroyed by the bombs. Latin; some sounds familiar. Little snippets here and there listening ears picked up, but a vexed brain could not decipher.

They ceased their exchange. One soldier looked at him. "I must confiscate any weapons, drugs, contraband you possess before entering the camp." Dark eyes scanned the young man. Shaded under a metal helmet adorned with red feathers and rope. A normal face of man. Not some grotesque, fiendish creature conjured up by the descriptions in the newspapers. The soldier examined his meager pile. Pistol, chip, typical supplies.

"Let him pass."

Beyond the tall gate, black smoke polluted the sky. Burning rubber choked the senses. Searing meat mingled in. Dust flailed along a lazy breeze as he trekked a winding dirt path to the flat of the plateau. Left alone this time. No guides nor scouts watching his every move. A moment of relief. Vincent stared at his boots. Dusty, cracked, once black leather. Worn out laces frayed at their ends. The tread almost smoothed on the underside. A vacant mind fixated on compact soil underfoot. Little rocks fell with every step. Falling as easily as he would if he made the wrong move, said the wrong thing.

There were no words to describe what the Legion was or did. Dangerous felt like an understatement. Nothing fitted the horrors, the crimes, the onslaught from the South that flooded the republic with refugees and disturbing headlines. Gawking eyes followed him. An outsider. Blatantly standing out amongst red and black motifs. Not all soldiers. Some children. Boys, armed and armored, sparring with each other under a centurion's supervision. He only thought it a rumor; kidnapping and conscripting children from annexed territory. If the boys became soldiers—he dreaded to think what became of the girls.

Among the Legion, slaves were the lowest. A well-known enterprise of theirs. Perhaps what people feared most when they came knocking. Beaten and deprived of their humanity. Barely any clothes hanging on emaciated frames. Red and leathery skin. From the sun or the lashes, he couldn't tell. The cooks, the maids, a repository for sexual frustrations. Teeth gritted at the sight. Happenstance the sole force of these people being here. He was just lucky to have been born in Yucca Valley.

Evil.

Evil described the Legion. At the top of it all, the throne he drew closer to. Legs grew heavier, as if some sort of omen to tell him to turn away. He would not. He could not. He had to press on. He would put an end to Benny and maybe the dreams would go away. The fear. The anger. Vincent would be free of awful memories. And to endure the horrors of a Legion camp up close, make it out alive. He would face Caesar himself and it would mean he was strong. It would make him strong.

Two guards stood outside, praetorian, as he overheard. The elite guard of the mighty Caesar dressed to match the title. Elaborate armor of reclaimed metal, polished to a shine and laid out over leather. Helms silvery, adorned with lush red plumes fanning from the crown. Inside the tent, more lined the perimeter. Armed with not just pensive stares on the stranger. Then of course Caesar himself, perched upon his throne.

"So, I finally get to meet the kid I've heard so much about." The man leaned back, nonchalant, and casual on a makeshift chair adorned with three Legion banners. He himself, was a rather unnoticeable man, albeit for his position and rank as an enemy of the republic, a leader of a bloated gang of glorified thieves and slavers. Balding, middle-aged, not much taller than Vincent—he had expected someone more intimidating. "You know why I wanted to meet you?"

"I haven't been told yet."

"This whiny shitbag shoots you—" Caesar gestured to his side. "Nearly kills you." There he was. Benny. Gagged. Bound. The sullen face of ultimate defeat. Completely helpless, just like Vincent was when he was ambushed. "And you follow him back to Vegas? Then my frumentarii told me you waltzed into the Lucky 38 like someone left you a key under the doormat. Now the head of the chairmen flees the strip like pathetic whelp he is." Caesar leaned forward on his throne. Aged eyes narrowed on the boy as odd, twisted yet humored smile tugged lips. "When you set your mind to something, you get results. I like that."

Him? Vincent? Blundering around the desert. Narrowly escaping death. Then trekking on some ill-conceived revenge mission. He wouldn't have had Lawrence not stumbled upon him. The old man unwittingly just revealed his hand.

"So that's what this is about?" Vincent asked. His mask delicately stoic, hiding those vigorous beats thumping ribs. A guarded smile added to his projection. "You want me to do something for you?"

"Correct," Caesar nodded. A precise wave summoned a guard. Hands exchanged something too small to see. "You may have seen that old building at the west edge of my camp. Inside is a floor hatch, and inside that hatch are two steel doors that bear the sigil of the Lucky 38 casino." He held up the chip. Shiny metal gleamed between weathered and callused fingers. "Now, I was under the impression Benny had this, but you've proven to be a step ahead again."

"I see where you're going with this." Neutrality. Remember neutrality. Careful words and careful tone. Nothing that could make anyone suspicious. Vincent's eyes fixed on the chip in the man's hand. "I can get it open."

"There are rewards for doing as I command," Caesar added. Eyes gauged the boy's interest with a cock of his head. "Today, your reward is vengeance. You get to decide how Benny dies, but first—House sent you here with this for a reason, am I right?"

Perceptive. Did House underestimate his enemy? "He didn't specify what exactly—wanted to save that until I actually got here," Vincent explained. Better to confess rather than deny and offend the tyrant in the center of his stronghold. "Something to do with old-world technology…"

A husky chuckle filled battled the tense atmosphere of the tent. "All the more reason to destroy it."

"I gather you have quarrels with Mr. House?"

"House is a coward who hides behind his robots. An inconvenience hidden away in his tower, but you have been inside." Caesar shifted in his seat. A wagging finger accented an already forceful tone. "You can get close to him."

"I know how to remove House," Vincent declared. "But, if I don't follow through with why he sent me here, I can't get back into the Lucky 38. Let me see what it is first—"

"If you do as I say, you'll be rewarded ten-fold. Whatever he's offering." Thin-lipped smile bore rather unflattering teeth. "Money, wealth, women, a cushy position in the Legion…" Caesar's gaze turned to his side. A weathered hand rose to direct him to the man Vincent had been looking for. "Tell me what's down there and he's yours."

"Really now?" Vincent set his glare on Benny. Head bowed. Sweat beads sparkled, trickling down fearful creases of his brow. Soaking the gag wrapped around his head. "Better get to work then."

It was an old weather monitoring station—according to the sign outside. Small, not as important as it seemed to be until one ventured in further. A squad of guards stood at the door. More loomed inside, watching him as he moved from console to console. The sounds of their beeps and whirring fans filled the silence. So many buttons and screens. Some blank while others lit up. He paused at one. A small slot, just the size for a poker chip. A sense of déjà vu clouded his mind as he set it in the slot. Metal on metal screeched below him. The hatch opened in the center of the room, sliding backwards under the floor. Vincent peered down the stairwell. Another set of doors inside just as Caesar described.

"For this mission, Caesar ordered your supplies returned." One guard brought forth a crate of his belongings. Pistol, ammunition; everything he relinquished. "To reiterate his commands, destroy whatever is down there."

Cool. Chilled. Air stale after being locked behind those doors for two centuries. Thick smell of dust dried his throat. The lights still worked. Bright fluorescents that irritated his lazy pupil. Dust and grime coated every surface. Another tomb that encased a long dead world. Steps against metal stairs echoed off concrete walls. At the bottom, he reached another door, not as heavily fortified as the first, but something that would keep out any scavengers looking for quick caps. The main hatch slammed shut. Locked collided.

Well, at least he wouldn't have to worry about nosey Legion soldiers. Vincent turned back to the basement. The hallway opened into a small room. Consoles and displays. Dark and inoperable, at least, until he approached them. Through the dark screens, the portrait's pixels transitioned slowly to color. House's portrait filled the largest display at the top. Only somewhat dimmed behind two centuries of dust.

"I see you've reached your destination safely." The ageless and monotone voice spoke first. "Let's get to work shall we?"

"What did you need me to do here?"

"You must manually upload the data from the chip to the facility's primary computer. There's a terminal at the other end of this facility. Just follow the hallway," House explained. "However, I cannot disable the security as I can only transmit to this location, not exert control."

"What kind of security?" Vincent crossed his arms. Of course, now he wished the ranger were with him—it was better Lawrence wasn't.

"Five protectrons and four laser turrets exactly," house stated. "The control consoles are still active. You may be able to disable them, provided you are skilled with terminal functions."

Vincent hummed. Clearly displeased, but he was here. May as well. There was no returning and no leaving without activating the robot army and convincing Caesar he was on the tyrant's side. "I'll figure something out."

I'll figure something out… He always did, but this time was different than scraping caps together for a meal or bed to sleep in. Too many what-ifs bubbled to the surface. What if Caesar wasn't convinced? He had to conjure up something to satisfy the warlord. Anything to persuade him that ended in Vincent leaving unscathed.

The further he descended into the basement, the more the chill seeped into him. Sweat-dampened clothes now cold on his skin. Suddenly, the Mojave sun wasn't too bad. One machine roamed the hall off to the console room. A protectron model. Not particularly intimidating like securitrons. Slow, clunky and loud, and if you tipped them over—which they were prone too— they took quite some time to stand back up. However, they were equipped with lasers. Simple lasers, but still burned worse than any fortune lost at the tables when they hit. Once it turned away to complete another revolution of its centuries-old patrol, Vincent crept past the machine and into another room across the hall.

A small storage room. Lockers lined one wall, either empty or filled with useless parts and tangled wires in their door-less cubby holes. At the other wall, a terminal sat on a desk. Glowing beneath a light coating of dust. The old man was right again. Vincent recalled a few tricks from his time working in the scrapyard back home. Terminals could be tricky or easy, depending on what they were used for when they were useful. Vincent searched his satchel for the notebook. An inconspicuous thing he was glad to have for these particular instances. He flipped through his notes until he found his section for computers. A thin book, but a good number was just his notes of successful disarmaments, places he had been, skills he had picked up, and passing thoughts found on the road. He could never memorize the programming lines unlike the scrapyard owner. That crazy old man must have had an eidetic memory—it was the only way Vincent could explain how much he fit into a brain soaked in alcohol every night.

Lines rushed past him on the screen. Some of it he could make sense of, but the odd tag or variable here-and-there was nonsense to him. A disapproving beep chimed. He wasn't particularly gifted with old-world programming, but he'd be here a while anyway. Dust clung to clammy fingertips. Heavy steps of the protectron passed in rhythmic and even intervals. Each time Vincent counted. The only means to keep track of time without looking away from the screen.

Then it beeped.

Idle protectrons wandered the empty hallways, oblivious to Vincent as he rushed past them. Powered-down turrets hummed in ceiling corners. Their motion sensors blinked. Only blind red eyes now. Maybe he wasn't just blundering after all. Turning off the last corridor into the final room, he paused. Clouded windows stared out into blackness on all sides. It was an underground bunker... Nothingness beyond dingy windows. Dust and grime caked on fogged glass. Even with working consoles buzzing and whirring, chilled mist lit the icebox by an eerie glow.

He shuddered, pressing onward. An eager voice in the back of his head urged him to get. Stepping to the command center and supreme view out on the ghostly bunker, the last terminal he would need stood at the east window. Patiently waiting. He didn't think twice before shoving the chip in its slot. The monitor beamed. Flashing from abysmal black to blaring white. A plethora of tabs hovered at the top. Every function, section, from the lights to the redundant power system. This terminal controlled the whole facility...

A glow collected on the other side of smudged windows.

Perhaps he would make it out of the fort alive. Thousands of them. Endless rows stretched the length of the warehouse's expanse and beyond. All awaiting to fulfill their purpose. House declared they would stay here until needed. Then they'd emerge like a swarm of cazadors on Caesar's camp once House gave the order. A preemptive strike before the bulk of the Legion's forces could descend on the dam.

Relief quelled his nerves. One task complete. Now he just needed to leave the bunker and then Caesar's camp and finally his territory entirely—as long the dictator didn't take a closer look at the bunker. No, Vincent would think of something. He always did. He had to.

He spun around, bolting down the corridor. Chest heaved, taking in greedy breaths. A dry freeze numbed the back of his throat. Running as fast as his legs would allow him. Legs recanted the direction, skidding around corners in the generator room and dodging wandering robots. Staring down the open doorway at the end of a long hallway—That was it.

The security terminal.

Easier than disarming them, he re-engaged the security measures. If for any reason the Legion ever gains access to the bunker, they would have opposition. Just in case, he figured. Would Caesar think to look? The thought terrified him. Double down. Calling Vincent's bluff. The machines would vaporize any incoming thing even a fly. Summer heat heaves washed over his skin. Feeling every pore in his skin as heavy droplets squeezed out. Each one for a different scenario. A different conclusion of his fate in playing out in his mind.

There was only one way out.

Back on the surface, all seemed as it was before, nothing out of order, and the entire Legion oblivious to what lay in the bunker beneath them. Oblivious to his deception. Caesar watched Vincent approach. The man's face set in a permanent scowl whereas Lawrence may have frowned often, the ranger's face was pleasant to look at. Aged eyes beneath graying and ill-maintained brows held a stern and boorish look on the boy. Evaluating., picking apart every little thing about Vincent. "What did you find out?"

"House was in search of an important program backup he stored here for safety before the war," Vincent stated. "It would bring the reactors online underneath the Lucky 38 so they wouldn't have to rely on power from the dam."

Caesar grunted. "That's it?" Scrutinous eyes glared but didn't remain on the boy long.

"He's planning for the inevitable battle. You know how his kind can be. Want's everything to be business as usual."

"Figures," Caesar scoffed. "It will be useless once I march on the strip."

"While I am still in his good graces, I can use this chip to get access to him. He thinks I have a copy of his program on it," Vincent said. Air of confidence filled his lungs, even as he found himself flooded with adrenaline. "He'll let me back in and from there, I can take care of him. It needs to be done as quietly as possible, otherwise he'll see right through me."

Caesar sighed. A reluctant nod followed. "House doesn't deserve quiet, but I see the tactical advantage. What of his securitrons on the strip? Can they be controlled?"

"Yes," Vincent agreed. "Once House is out the way, I can figure out how to take control of those securitrons—"

"Sic them on the NCR first," he chortled. "Before I let you go—" Some relief washed over Vincent at those words. At least Caesar was planning that much, but clearly it had stipulations. "I promised you Benny." Vincent looked to the man. Gagged and bound by his wrist. The once chairman had it all. Things Vincent could only imagine; wealth, friends, maybe family, being born a real man—Just to name a few things that came to mind. "He almost killed you, so you get to decide what to do with him. Crucifixion, fight him in the arena if you want an audience—Anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

"I want something hard and blunt."

"Praetorian," Caesar barked to the guards at his side. One approached; lead bat wrapped by barbed wire in hand.

Benny shook his head urgently. Muffled pleas whined, muted by the cloth tugging his face. Clammy palms soaked the rubber grip. The chance to kill the man who had nearly taken his life. As he should have. Just as he wanted… Defenseless and bound, like Benny did to him. He thought about this moment as soon as he woke up and now it was in front of them. Yet, did he want to? Could he? That day haunted him. Flashed across his mind's eye when he only wanted sleep and peace. Jolted him awake in nightmares. Taste of dry, dusty soil still lingered in the back of his throat. The shape of his grave burned into an eye like the unchanging shape of a pin-point pupil. The reminder stared back at him every day.

When reason slipped from his mind and he heard only his own blood rushing through him, he found justification. The scar ached. Pulse throbbed. Stinging as the pressure built up in his brain. Eyes seeing, yet all his mind processed blank. Red and black. Fury threw limbs for him. His audience patient, silent, surely reveling in the act. Maybe even admiring such ruthlessness.

He killed those highwaymen. The slavers only a day before. Outlaws and bandits with Lawrence before that too. And everything else he couldn't change. But those times were different. Getting up close and personal was different. Nothing like shooting someone from yards away. You didn't see life leave them in their last breath. You didn't see the damage. The rage one person boiled with. The torn flesh and mangled bone. With guns, it was quick. One hit could kill a man. Maybe not instantly or from the shot itself. Sometimes they suffered. But getting close, with something not lethal until a couple of vengeance-fueled hits in. It was not the same.

It was personal.

"Few pleasures compare to the destruction of an enemy," Caesar reflected. Tone softened to something more akin to nostalgia or just Vincent's hearing hushed by rushing blood.

Vincent threw the dented bat aside. Lungs vied for air. Sweat streamed down his forehead, mixing with blood splatter painting his skin and staining his clothes. Every nerve in his limbs fired. Shocked by a great surge. Eyes refused to peel away from the mess. A mess he surprised himself with. It happened so fast.

Vincent straightened the ache in his spine. He pulled back shoulders and stared at Caesar. Was he supposed to feel something? Relief? Enjoyment? There was nothing. The adrenaline faded. Shakes subsided. Hungry lungs quelled.

"I was very interested in what you might do." A stained grin curled his lips. Wrinkles creased an aging face. It was a test. Everything from the moment he accepted that invitation, was a test. He should have seen through it. House had done the same, watching through the lens of his securitrons, tracking Vincent's path across the desert. Of course, Caesar would as well. He wouldn't let Vincent leave without any indicator for the young man's seriousness of serving his Legion. An idea of how well he could fit in with the army of ruthlessness. "Vincent…" He muttered. "Vicentius. Do you know where that name comes from?"

"It sounds like some of yours."

"It's the name of a conqueror. It's your name." Caesar pointed to what remained of Benny. "That is what I would do. You live up to your name." Caesar stood up from his throne, "Come with me. We have some things to discuss, Vicentius."

One too many times he had asked himself what separated the good men from the bad. Depending on her mood, his mother said all men were awful, especially Vincent's father. Yet he never met his father nor knew anything beyond how awful the man was according to his mother. The madame didn't have anything nice to say either, but that didn't concur with her mood—it was a constant fact. Unchanging. Unwavering. After leaving that little town and seeing the world for himself, he found his fair share of objectionable characters. Men, women, even a few children. But it taught him to read people better than he ever could learn at home.

None were quite like Caesar. That wasn't his true name, rather it was more like a title. Something plucked right out of the old-world that designated him supreme ruler. A judge, jury, and more often than not, executioner all in one. It didn't take many questions, even as carefully worded as they were, for Vincent to gather enough information about the man as he needed. None of which made him feel any easier, but after some time the arrogance, the ego, the disgust… He became numb to it all as the aging man droned on. Reciting his manifesto Vincent conflated more to a vanity project.

Caesar reluctantly admitted to once being a citizen of the NCR. Even receiving education from the Followers of the Apocalypse, but any of that embarrassment was quickly replaced by flagrant criticisms of the republic—the greed, the corruption, nothing it was founded upon was meant to last nor could it. Even if similar sentiment could be loosely found in heavy words Lawrence shared with Vincent in a troubled voice, it still didn't answer Vincent's question. How did one so easily commit atrocities in the name of their cause? How did one justify their actions for their cause? Did the NCR truly seek to bring others into a fold of freedom and choice, or did they want to force what they saw was the right way to live on others. The same narrative the republic's papers framed Caesar as doing. Had enslavement set forth upon the wild peoples Caesar conquered truly helped to bring peace out of chaos? Would taking Hoover Dam in the name of New Vegas's independence and freedom from any foreign entity actually make a difference?

No matter what story he heard whether it was Mr. House's wisdom for a world long gone, or the republic's exposition found in the newspapers and treatises of liberating uncivilized people as if sent from the heavens, and definitely not Caesar's vision of fighting fire with fire. None of it told of a turning point. The crucial moment when one had lost their way. However, such notions expected one to have the moral compass and guidance to be wholly right to begin with. Perhaps it had been the wrong question burning a hole in his head the whole walk to the Fort—Was the cause itself, right?

Vincent forgot how he feared he would never leave Fortification Hill until he was already on top of a mound overlooking the tents of Camp Golf. Tired legs barely remained straight on the descent. They had expected more climbing, more struggle, and then to be faced with the ease of the hillside. It took all the more effort to keep them moving after no resistance. Too many eyes watched him come through. Soldiers in the tower observed the oddity. Alone, dirtied, blood splattered, and a wild look in his eyes. Barely armed, and exhausted by the sun. None of them even so much as moved from their post to raise a rifle at the young man. Loitering soldiers and rangers filled the common ground. Hesitant to speak to the strange sight. He would have ignored them anyway.

Rich smoke and cooking food rattled his stomach. His mouth dry. Uncomfortable and sweat-drenched clothes clung to his skin. He promised he wouldn't rest for anything until he had returned to Lawrence. A familiar face stood among them—rather sat among them on a bench, until he did stand up. Scowling and favoring one leg over the other. Vincent knew he would have to deal with Lawrence one way or another, but he figured coming back alive would soften the blow.

"What happened?" Was the first question when Vincent stopped. Unknown faces watched in curiosity but maintained their conversations and card games. Vincent stared at Lawrence. Silent. For a moment, he forgot how to speak. What words to say or how to say them. What was the most important thing to tell the ranger? "Were you hurt? Whose blood is that?" The ranger stepped forward. A bare hand rested on Vincent's shoulder. Too warm for already sun-burned skin.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Lawrence disagreed. "Look sun-sick. Get some water and sit."

Lawrence closed the gap between them, pulling the boy into a hug. Arms were slow to wrap around Lawrence, but once Vincent felt the reality of the ranger. Felt the solid bones, strong muscles, and tender flesh unguarded by armor. Breathed in the cologne covering up the smell of cigarettes. Listened to a gentle, caring voice hushing whatever shadows may have followed the boy. Only then, did Vincent come back into reality. His grip tightened, pressing himself against the man's chest. "You're alright," Lawrence whispered.

"Lucky."

If he climbed high enough into the mountains that made Yucca Valley, sometimes he thought he caught a glimpse of the ocean. That illusion shattered when he saw it for real. Sparkles on an endless horizon. A watery blur of blues, red, oranges, unfurling in clouds, branding the scene in his eyes. Unable to look away, no longer afraid of the height of the vantage point in the Boneyard. High above the city in a tower, creaking with the ocean breeze. He never wanted to look away nor leave that perch. No sunset would ever be good enough again.

Or so he thought.

Dying light cooled on his back. Ahead, the water of Lake Las Vegas flowed into the sky. An inky blue, lapping up orange carnation petals in silence. Lawrence went through maybe four cigarettes and one beer planted into the sand while the he studied the quiet boy. Vincent wore the same look in his eyes when he came down the hill. Hollow. Stabbing with every glance. He didn't mean it though, Lawrence knew that. He was given that look after a dance with fate. Not once, not twice, and maybe not even thrice.

Lawrence reached to Vincent, setting a hand on his back. A touch of comfort when all involved knew words wouldn't do. So quiet and still since his return. Vincent would speak in his own time, but Lawrence couldn't help and wonder what happened across the river. He took another draw of tobacco and leaned back. Smoke spirited away with the breeze. Another glanced pondered if he ought to at least say something. He licked hesitant lips, bracing for whatever may happen as his gaze returned to the lake. "I wanted to tell you something."

"Whats that?"

"I didn't tell you before the other day, when we were discussing all that—" He swirled his hand about in place of words. A string of smoke followed the trail from the lit stick. "—stuff about House, the NCR…" Their eyes met and the ranger paused. A haunting look that made him reconsider his words. "I didn't tell you why I'm on leave."

"I thought everyone got some time off here and there."

"True," Lawrence nodded. He returned the cigarette to desperate lips. Another deep inhale. Burning his mouth. Numbing his tongue. Funneling down his throat and then absorbed into the rest of him. He would need it. "It was because I did something stupid. Found someone who said he had info on Legion movements, told me about one that matched the guy I'm looking for." Little puff collected irregularly before he finally let his breath go. "He wasn't as forthcoming as I liked so I had to coax it out of him a bit."

"And that got you in trouble?"

Lawrence scratched the scruff of his chin. "Well, that and other things." He leaned forward, a slight grimace from moving a part of his leg that shouldn't have. "First, I was AWOL. Second, I was not on orders to get information from third parties. And third, I did assault a non-combatant."

"Ah." Vincent looked back to the lake. No longer shimmering. Reduced to a dark blot. Day retreated hundreds of miles behind them. "I'd probably do the same thing."

"I could have been discharged." The cigarette blushed with another draw. Faint orange highlighted the wear of his face. Developing crows' feet at the corners of his eyes. Laugh lines only seen by the reddish glare while a heavy sigh rushed out flared nostrils "I'm on leave, but only because my superior vouched for me. Probably even lied to save my ass."

"Maybe he just understood the circumstances," Vincent pondered. "Looking for whoever murdered Marcus…"

Lawrence looked back to the boy, surprised to see Vincent's own eyes lingered on him. Softened with the sunset. "I might have a lead on him."