He knew only from the report of the one that survived who his target was. When he heard those words, it was the first time he felt a real punch. No fight, no brawl, and no bullet could hurt more than those three words. A hit that knocked him over where he stood. Socked the wind right of him worse than any training exercise. He didn't want to believe it—he couldn't believe it. Not without proof. And that he demanded. But those demands were never met. The answer not even spoken. Just the look in his commander's eyes and rigid shake of his head.

When he got a hold of the report, he knew why. There wasn't anything left of Marcus to look at. Wind would've swept him away across the desert… Lawrence read it over and over again. The details, the events, descriptions. Everything seared into his mind. Then later, the face that matched the crime would join the terrible collection. Young. Not some experienced rank. A gash across his lips. Empty, soulless eyes only a Legion soldier had. A face Lawrence clutched onto in the form of a sketch, conjured and remembered by the vilest of emotions man possessed. One of the last sketches he drew. For the sole purpose of tracking that face down to put a bullet in it.

After holding the binoculars for so long, they left two circles around his eyes. Occasionally, the ranger would mutter something then break his focus on the town to write in the pocketbook. Vincent imagined the quick stick-figures were the Legion soldiers. The squares were any barriers and buildings and the haphazard clouds either the rocks or brush one would want to get caught up in. He added a few arrows here and there, usually coinciding with the mumbles.

Vincent recalled when he first heard about the sudden occupation sometime when the two arrived on the strip. The Legion hadn't seized Nelson for more than a week, but the NCR was slow to respond as expected. Even with a few hostages hidden down there. Nelson was a small town, just a little ways southeast of Novac and down a desolate road. Some of its pre-war bones remained; a few bungalows among makeshift shelters and shacks, but the largest one looked more like a barn. Originally, an NCR outpost, but before that no one really knew, or cared.

In fact, it didn't seem to have any advantage to the Legion, other than seizing it from the NCR. Isolated. No clear, strategic advantage that he could see. Just a ghost-town settled in the divided shallow of mountains. Now, it's fate changed once more by Legion occupants.

Lawrence sighed and set the binoculars down. He scanned the drawn map. Completed. "It's doable in the best circumstances. But we'll need help to get out alive ourselves."

"What's gonna make those rangers at the perimeter help?"

Lawrence looked to the boy next to him. Both lay flat on their stomachs, but Vincent was the restless one, gathering dust as he rolled about impatiently. "A bluff."

The ranger tipped his hat, watching the two return. He called himself Milo and wore a thick beard beneath matching brows. Planting a strong set of hands on the holsters at his side, he nodded. "Don't suppose you're bringing me back some good news," his hefty voice resounded as eyes came to a squint.

"You got fifteen of them down there," Lawrence stated. "Nelson can be retaken, but it's not going to be easy."

"With three rangers and a civilian?" He shook his head. A chuckle added insult to injury. "I don't think so. I can't command these kids over here." He nodded to the soldiers meandering about their camp. A temporary set-up all were eager to abandon. "Even if I could, they'd just get themselves killed and we'd get those hostages killed."

"Think sittin' on your ass is any better?" Lawrence mirrored Milo's posture. Face scrunched to a scowl. Glares battled in a standoff. The other two rangers looked over from their watch.

"I think self-preservation is better than getting myself killed in a fight I know I can't win."

Lawrence stepped forward. "I haven't seen a more glaring coward than you in twelve years of service."

"Ladies!"

A barreling shout halted both men in their tracts. She ripped off her helmet, revealing a seasoned face. Frowning, she stared down the two men like her own quarreling sons. "Save your testosterone for the scum down the street." Hazel eyes bore to Milo. "I agree with him." Crows feet deepened when she looked to Lawrence. "I also agree with avoiding a suicide mission!"

"I have a plan," Lawrence announced. His voice returned to an acceptable volume, but an immovable tone remained. He retrieved his pocketbook. "Like I said, there's fifteen of them. Six are stationed at three observation towers around the hills. Each has two men. One to the north. Second is south. Last is east on the road to watch the landing."

"We take them out and we have nine red scumbags left," she nodded, glancing back to meet Lawrence's eyes. "Then what?"

"I have a vantage point on the town. I'm a sniper. I can take out what I see on the ground."

"What about those hostages?" Milo interjected. "There's three soldiers down there."

"If you take out that north tower, me and Milo can get the south and eastern ones—" She turned to the fourth ranger who had remained quiet and content eavesdropping at his watch post. "If you cover us. We'll sneak in. You draw them out with the show and Rick can cover here." She turned back at Lawrence. "I think I saw those boys in the barn on the south side."

Milo's bushy brows narrowed as he studied the woman. Jaw tensed as if silencing his own uncertainty. "We might be able to do that, but who's gonna babysit?' He glanced over Lawrence's shoulder to the four soldiers at the camp—clearly within listening range.

"I'm not staying!" Vincent declared before anybody even set attention on him.

"I rather you didn't," Lawrence looked to the boy. "I need someone to cover me."

"They got guns," the fiery ranger sighed. "They'll be fine." She returned her helmet to her head. Knocking the top of the cap then strapping in for the ride. "Let's stay quiet taking out those towers. Slit throats. Guns are a last resort."

The hike back up the hill was easier than the first time up. It wouldn't be long until they neared the observation tower. Then they would radio Milo and the other rangers. Ready to strike. With four of them, Vincent had some hope the mission would succeed. And Lawrence would get the man he was hunting. The ranger donned the helmet Vincent had seldom seen. He knew Lawrence kept it stowed away in his duffel bag, never to be investigated by curious hands. He'd often forget to ask the ranger about it anyway.

From what he had observed, the eye pieces of the helmet doubled as some kind of special lens. When utilized, they glowed an eerie red. The mask portion, including the eyes, doubled as a gas mask and air purifier. That he knew from the commentary when Lawrence got bored enough to do a little cleaning.

Lawrence ducked behind a ridge. He offloaded the bag from his shoulder then reached for the receiver on the helmet, "Ready when you are."

Static scratched the receiver then silence. "Acknowledged. Good luck."

Lawrence reached to his side just as a pained grunt caught Vincent's ears. "Here." He pulled a sheathed hunting knife from his utility belt. His spare.

Vincent took the knife. "Is your leg bothering you?"

"Just some minor soreness," he said, readying his own knife. "Keep an eye for the one walking around. I'll take out the guy in the tower and meet you back here."

Vincent nodded and Lawrence was off. He ducked between taller rock formations as he closed in on the tower. They hiked head on towards for observation tower before looping around to approach from behind. An easy set up. Sneak directly up the ramp—barely a hut on stilts. One of the Legion's fast builds that sprouted up wherever they dug stakes. Quickly enough, Lawrence disappeared out of sight. Vincent tucked himself away behind the ridge, knife in hand as ears listened beyond the breeze. Sitting still for once was welcomed, but underneath a noon sun, well, that fiery eye in the sky had a habit of testing any souls in its glare. Sweat gathered on his back. The first streams of his face began their fall down his nose. Solace came only in intermittent gusts.

Lawrence should have been done by now.

Along with the wind, quiet steps kicked up dirt and loose rocks. His eyes followed the sound. Either Lawrence or Legion. Vincent resumed a ready stance. White beams glared down the double barrel. Wood stock. Then the tattered red uniform, armored by heavy black padding. Vincent froze. Breath caught in his lungs. Heart raced. Throbbing. An urging pulse sprung up into his head. He lunged forward. The soldier fell back.

Cutting through air. He felt nothing. No resistance. Just gravity pulling him down. Down. Down into delicate, soft flesh as his reflection stared back at him in abysmal goggles. Then the whine bellowed out. Agonizing. Strained to huffs with every thrust. The man's mouth agape. Frozen in shock as he gawked at the knife plunged in his stomach.

Time halted before his eyes.

Vincent pulled away. His grip refused to let go of the hilt. Legs kicked away the shotgun. Ears deafened and all he heard was his out heart. Thumping against his chest. Pounding in his head. Blood rushing through his body, noting every vein and artery he was unaware of until that moment. His own brain numbed. Vacant of thought. Only primal urges told his hands and legs what to do.

Put your weight on it! Kill! Quicker!

Red webbed the silver blade, rising to the stranger's throat. Staring at his own reflection in those blackened lenses, at least he knew he wasn't enjoying the dreadful act. A twisted grimace. One of disgust, terror, fright as if he were on the other side of that knife. Flesh split. Slow. Too easy. A thin paper balloon gushing red out the seams. Choking. Gargling and spitting. A dying man's cacophony broke through his deafness.

By the time he stopped fighting, color drained from the soldier's face. Purple veins dried beneath unnatural skin. Deathly still. Life seeping away as if from a leaky faucet.

Gone, forever.

And now, it was the second time he had seen that look. But this man wasn't someone who wronged him. Just another soul lost to the war in the Mojave.

A light plume of dirt clouded black lenses. Dusty boots stood at the dead man's head. Leather skin cracked, flaking off in thin layers.

"Alright?"

He stared up to Lawrence. Barely able to nod. Pins and needles jabbed his legs. Knees frozen in place despite the heat. Lawrence triggered the radio. "North tower down."

"Acknowledged," Milo responded. "South guards dispatched. We're heading to the East one."

"Do your thing," Lawrence nodded. "I'll keep watch."

In less than a minute his sniper scoped the former town of Nelson. Lawrence discarded his duster in favor of a breeze against his shirt. Vincent watched, wishing he could just as easily discard the vest or the terrible feeling churning in his stomach. He snagged the binoculars for a distraction. The soldiers loitered like any bored NCR troops did. They stayed to the shade of a porch. Scattered around the junkyard. Chatting, inspecting rusted old-world treasures. He reminded himself there would be nine left by the time the others took care of the eastern guards. Nine they would close in on and crush.

"Don't suppose you see who you're looking for?"

"No. I only see six down there. Just foot-soldiers. Helmets…"

Static took over the radio. "East tower dispatched," Milo stated. "Milo and Vicky are in position. Rick, are you set up?"

Static passed Milo's voice. "I'm looking in the barn right now," Rick cut in. "I see our hostages in there and several more hostiles."

"How many hostiles?" Milo inquired then the static resumed. Vincent moved his gaze further down where he spotted Vicky and Milo in the cover of a shack. Near the cover of the barn, hidden from view among the brush and as close as they could get without drawing attention.

"Two."

"I want our people out alive," Vicky ordered. "Do what you can."

"Acknowledged. Rick out."

"Lawrence," Vicky resumed control. "Ruffle some feathers. Vicky out."

"Acknowledged."

Vincent shuffled away from the rifle, flinching before the inevitable. Boom. Shockwaves rattled him. Lingering vibrations tickled him from head to toe. Feet steadied and the lenses focus returned to Nelson.

Hit. Then a shell flung out. Boom. Hit, then shell. Legion scattered. Retreating to the safety of the barn. Boom. Miss. Lawrence adjusted. Another resounding boom and another hit. Vicky and Milo emerged from their hiding spot at the first shot. Two more Legion soldiers fell before they knew what hit them. The sixth one was caught by Rick as he ran unknowingly in the ranger's sights.

Vicky rushed to the nearest door. Milo sprinted around the barn for the other. Despite the man's sturdiness, he had a lightning quickness about him. Lawrence shifted his stance. Surely his back began to ache by now.

"Now's time to reposition," Lawrence announced.

Vincent hefted the duffel bag over his shoulder and followed Lawrence down the ramp. The ranger powered through a mild limp down the hill, wincing in unison with the boy beside him. They joined Rick at his position on a rocky mound. "Can't see too clear in there with just my scope," he said as Lawrence got into position next to him. "Only with the 'noculars."

Vincent waited below the mound, his pistol drawn as observant eyes took over the entire ghost-town. So much old-world garbage, as if purposefully collected and concentrated in one place. A scavengers paradise and plenty of hiding spots.

"I just need one alive," Lawrence stated overhead. Inside the dark of the barn, he spotted them. Two Legion soldiers hesitant to step away from their leverage. Frightened NCR soldiers sat tied together around a post. Still alive, so that was a good sign. Right?

One was cunning. Ruthless. Slippery, scheming, as evident by the fact he wore a decanus's uniform. Lawrence wouldn't make the same mistake as before and let him escape. Vicky and Milo waited for two rounds, but only one came. Once the decanus saw his underling fall by a bullet through the head, he raised his gun. A bullet ripped through wood. Splinters shattered and then he sprinted. Vicky and Milo rushed in.

"He's trying to escape!"

"Which way?" Vincent shouted up the mound.

"Towards the patio! Might be another door 'round there."

Vincent took off from his post, discarding Lawrence's duffel bag in one quick move. He jumped over uneven ground, dodging the brush. Attention split between the search for an unseen decanus and the prickly obstacle course. Only the two rangers in the barn, disarmed by the sight of three troopers incapacitated and gagged. Then, he caught the figure in his peripherals. Bright red dashed across sun bleach soil, clashing with green overgrowth. Vincent raised his pistol. Too far for a precise shot—maybe he didn't need precision.

He fired.

The decanus stumbled. Balance regained and speed picked up. Then again. He tripped, skidding across the road, barely crossing the shoulder boundary. Vincent closed in on the decanus. The man struggled to his feet. A scathed leg twitch. Dirtied by asphalt and debris. Vincent halted; gun drawn on the soldier just as he aimed his own rifle on the boy.

"Take off the mask," Vincent ordered.

The soldier remained silent.

Behind Vincent, the brush rustled. Lawrence muffled pained breaths as he stopped at Vincent's side. The decanus looked between the two. His shoulders relaxed. Realization set in as slow hands pulled the rifle of Vincent and pressed the barrel to his chin. "True to Caesar!"

Red geyser sprayed out. Witnesses jumped back, grimacing as arms rose to protect from the spray. The body, falling to the sweltering asphalt. Dead. Motionless. A mangled hole in the top of what remained of a skull. Bits of flesh splattered on the road with a loathsome plop. Mixed in with confetti of red, white, and black headdress. Lawrence pressed forward. Frown contorting between anger and disgust as he pried off the goggled mask.

"Fuck!"

Fire ripped through his throat. A scathing scream echoed between the mountains to come back to startle the already adrenaline shaky boy.

"What?" Vincent shifted in his stance. Sweaty fingers adjusted their white-knuckled grip on his pistol.

"It wasn't him!" Lawrence growled. A hard kick to the dead man's shattered bone. Cracking and clawing its way into the numerous horrific sights of the day Vincent surely will never forget. Lawrence clawed a hand through his mane, combing away wind-tassel tangles and ending in a tight grip.

"So what if it wasn't him?" Vincent stowed his pistol. Lawrence's eyes wide and strained. Nostrils flared as fists tightened. The veins of his neck about to burst. "We still freed the hostages and took out fifteen Legion soldiers, hell one even did the work for us!"

"I know!" Hands thrust up as if to silence the boy. Lawrence continued his pace down the road. Normal steps digressed into short and pained limps, but the ranger pressed on to the edge of town.

"Well, never seen someone get pissed over a successful mission!" Vicky retorted with a cynical chuckle.

Vincent turned around to see her approach, the other two rangers and rescued hostages close behind. "He's looking for the soldier who killed his friend," Vincent explained. "Thought they might be among the guys here."

"Ah," she nodded. "Well, either way, we won. We'll radio it in, so you have our thanks, and probably theirs too," she noted with a cock of her head to the allies remaining at the barn.

In spite of the strain on his leg, Lawrence kept himself up. Even as his gate slowed and every huff turned into a grunt. Soon to digress into howls from the sound of it. He refused to stop. By the time his thigh began its exhausted twitch that begged no more, Vincent had caught up to him by a leisurely pace. They stood at the intersection of the I-95 and 165 that led to Nelson. The four-hour walk came closer to five and half, excruciatingly painful in silence for the both of them. It seemed the ranger preferred to keep his distance, but once he collapsed on the asphalt, he had to face Vincent.

Looking at him, Vincent wondered if what was sweat or tears glistening on Lawrence's grimace. "Stay down," Vincent ordered as he pressed on the man's shoulders. The weakened ranger couldn't fight back even if he wanted to. Lawrence glanced around the highway, anywhere but to Vincent as he knelt at Lawrence's side. The blistering asphalt dimmed to a warm, solid blanket as the sun began its descent in the western mountains.

Vincent searched his satchel. Stowed away in there was a small plastic box of typical first aid items. He had restocked before disappearing to the Fort, and now didn't mind throwing so many caps for a small vial of morphine. Just as the doctor described in the brief how-to when he bought it under the table; dosage, drawing, and, the part he was more hesitant about, injecting.

"What is that?" Lawrence huffed.

"For the pain." He took the ranger's trembling hand. Vascular from losing too much water. Trembling from the pain. Veins like raised crossroads of the map they often consulted. Well, at least he had plenty to choose from. "Let's give it a few minutes."

Lawrence slumped where he sat. Probably content to say he was forced to rest instead of it looking like his own idea. Weary eyes stared to the blacktop beneath the hand cupped around his forehead. Vincent sighed. Displeased that the ranger carried pain that couldn't be taken away by anything, not chems and not the boy's words or affections. "Lawrence," Vincent brought a hand to the man's chin. Unseen stubble pricked his fingers as he guided Lawrence's face to meet his own. "Lawrence, you haven't failed here."

"I failed the moment I wasn't there."

Vincent shook his head. "If that had happened to any other ranger, any other friend, and Marcus was here now what would he tell you?" Whenever his brows drew together and eyes narrowed, any faltered under that look the boy learned to wear so well. Lawrence glanced away. Eyes drawn back to the cracked and worn-out road he felt something in common with.

What would he say? Marcus never let him sulk or sit around when there was something to do. He would have pulled Lawrence right up off that ground. Told him to get moving because the road doesn't end here. Some part of him thought Vincent would too, maybe word it a little different—he wouldn't have minded that either. Marcus would have continued on and kept his pity to himself. He should have learned that by now. After everything that man had taught him, Lawrence would be ashamed if he could see him now.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you like that," he whispered, shameful eyes kept to the ground.

"I didn't appreciate it," Vincent muttered. Tired legs gave out under him as he sat next to the ranger on the road. "But, I understand where it's coming from."

"It's been years, but sometimes…" Lawrence sighed, clenching his jaw and biting back the glassy look in his eyes. "It still feels like yesterday."

"I don't think you ever stop mourning someone you love," Vincent pondered. Arms hung around his knees as he lent a sympathetic gaze to Lawrence. The ranger's expression relaxing as the medicine took effect, but those heavy eyes still drew low. "I don't think you should either." Timid eyes flickered to Vincent. "Not to say you have to be crying over them forever, but more of a remembrance kind of thing. You feel the way you do because he was important to you." The boy stood up as a few joints cracked. He gave a hand to Lawrence, "Just some thoughts."

Despite a soft bed, albeit creaky, a warm-ish shower, and a new set of underclothes, he still couldn't close his eyes. He figured he lost that exhaustion somewhere between a shower and dinner. Vincent didn't seem to fare any better but Lawrence had him to thank for the quick wash of their clothes, fetching the food, and another shot just to let him sleep for the night. Now the boy sat next to the sprawled ranger, hunched over the pip-boy often hidden in his satchel. The thing had a faint buzz to it. Knobs clicked. Screen flickered, flashing a faint green silhouette on Vincent's profile.

"Where did you find that thing?"

"It was a gift," Vincent said. "Back home, I worked in a salvage yard with the owner. I was probably the only one who ever gave him the time of day—unless someone wanted something from him."

"Oh," Lawrence muttered. Finally finding the courage, he reached to the boy's back. Touching him as he had wanted to the moment everything came crashing down around him. "I've never seen a working one."

Vincent shivered at the ranger's light touch. "They can do quite a bit," he said, smiling as he turned to face Lawrence. "I'm just checking out my map. It has a gee-pee-ess. Geepiess? I think that's what it's called. It keeps track of where you've been. Johannessy said they rely on saddle-lights—he ran the scrapyard." He showed the screen strapped to the brace. Vincent seldom wore it, but anyone who knew what they were, knew the portable computers were a hot commodity. "I added landmarks 'n other things."

A black and green screen told a long journey from the middle of nowhere. It started at the label of "Yucca Valley" and then northwest to the Boneyard. From there, numerous loops, some made several times over—clarified by subtle deviations—traveled all along California before reaching the Mojave Outpost at the border. Various labels hovered over tiny pixel triangles, some obviously not their official name. He retraced their journey from the moment he met the boy somewhere on the I-15 to their present position as indicated by a flashing circle. Even his trip to the Fort, by way of a lengthy line traveling up what he figured was the Colorado River.

"Wow," Lawrence chirped. "I didn't know they could do that."

"You can program them to do a lot, granted you can program…" Vincent shrugged. He pressed a button and the glow faded.

A faint smile tugged Lawrence's lips. His hand returned to Vincent for needed touch. Gentle strokes followed the direction of hair on his shin. "Can I ask about what happened at the Fort?"

Shame flashed in eyes as he glanced away. He set the pip-boy aside towards the edge of the bed. "Nothing bad," Vincent muttered. "I did what House wanted me to, while I convinced Caesar I was doing what he wanted." Vincent hunched over, resting an elbow on his knee, the took Lawrence's hand in his own. "Caesar wants me to kill House. No surprise, I guess. It wasn't easy pretending to agree and listen to that crotchety old man drone on about it all," Vincent rolled his eyes. "Let alone pretend I agreed."

Lawrence chuckled. "Can't say I ever been that deep into subterfuge."

"I didn't get anything new or useful to be honest—information-wise I mean." Smaller fingers brushed over the web of veins. A few bruised knuckles that weren't there before he left Lawrence alone to go to the Fort. Old scars marked those same knuckles underneath red and purple blotches. He turned over the man's hand. Calluses roughened the pad of his palm where fingers began. Broken skins here and there. Yet they were always so gentle with him. "At least I made it out in one piece."

"You made it out stained with blood I hope wasn't yours." Vincent glanced up to the ranger. A disapproving look wanted to coax the story out of the boy. Little did he know, Vincent was already recalling those moments at the Fort. "A little worse for wear too. That was a long way to go too..."

"I know."

Those memories that revisited him. Often when he wanted nothing more than sleep. Drowned him in a shallow grave and loose dirt. The smell of the dry soil and dust suffocated his lungs. Vying for air as the grit of earth rushed in his mouth. Drying. Choking. Those memories that revisited him had been replaced as of late. Now it was his journey to the Fort. Fear and anxiety hitched a ride on his shoulders all the way there. At least he managed to shake that after leaving, but one thing he couldn't shake was the replay of the murder. A replay of a scene of revenge he couldn't describe the somber emotion shadowing the memory. An eerie stillness inside. Conflicted whether he should he hate himself for that? Or revel in the way it sent his heart racing. Endorphins rushing.

"I killed Benny, maybe that helped convince Caesar. It was…" He shook his head. "Very brutal. Something one of them would have done."

Lawrence pushed himself up on an elbow. He tilted his head and searched for the boy's eyes, "What makes you think that?"

"I beat him to death," he confessed. "I don't know what to think or feel about that."

Lawrence stretched out his arms, "Come here." Vincent accepted the invitation and laid down with him. Overly aware arms kept close to his chest. Shame still visited occasionally, even in the company of those who already knew and accepted him as he was. "There's no glory here." A warm embrace tightened around him as light caresses ruffled his hair. "I've killed without remorse and without hesitation when maybe I should have."

"I wasn't ordered to."

"Orders aren't any excuse." Stubble tickled the boy's forehead. He traced the contours of Lawrence's throat in the bedside light. An inhibited hand raised to the man's chest. The feeling of another human's warmth rushed him with all he realized he had been deprived of. It wouldn't be something he could let go now that he had it.

"We have the same mission," Vincent pondered. A single finger brushed the sparse black hair peeking over a low collar. "What do you think you'll feel when you kill him?"

"It's not for me." A light tone, like that found in a sudden epiphany, marked his whisper. "It's for Marcus." His throat bobbed from whatever emotions he swallowed. "I know he'd do the same."