His head throbbed with every lethargic burst of his pulse. At least he knew he was alive, because in that moment he felt closer to death than anything. Dry as a stout barrel cactus. Groggy eyes stuttered like the screen of an ancient terminal. Grunts and groans cried out as he turned on his stomach just to bury himself further into the blankets. The wicked light of day beamed through the windows with all the vivacity and life he lacked the moment the new day roused him. Squirming to the edge of the bed, an already mangled mess of blankets only tangled and worsened around him. Another pained grumble wailed out as he sprawled and debated getting out of bed entirely. Head hurt, stomach swelled, vision stirred like thick slurry, and a single finger ached—the list of grievances thus far. A sore finger being the least of worries. But being the easiest to resolve, he mustered some strength to raise his hand for inspection.

The wall, the floor, the bed, the sofa across from him stuttered, wracking his head and stirring up lingering nausea. His brain's final warning to quit moving subsided. Blurred vision finally adjusted to make out the black band around an irritated ring finger. Between those two simple black lines, read a familiar name: Lawrence. Eyes widened. No matter how hard he rubbed, color refused to leave tender flesh.

A tattoo.

Vincent pushed up. Gawking at his finger, his brain worked overtime searching for answers. Then searching the room for that man who had some explaining to do. Yet the suite remained unusually quiet. A scattered clutter of their clothes, shoes, and a single bucket at his bedside lent an idea to the events he couldn't recall. He craned his neck and peeked inside—that explained the foul taste in his mouth.

"Lawrence," he moaned, wandering about the suite like a poltergeist in his own home. Terribly empty… Lawrence normally had breakfast ready by this hour. Except the idea of food now left him more nauseous than when he woke up. Still, the lack of an answer concerned him. Outside the door, he stood on the balcony overlooking spiraling floors of endless and permanently vacant rooms. Hands grasped the railing for dear life. Spinning around and around, descending or ascending, he couldn't tell. Eyes fluttered about parsing echoes for the real thing. "Lawrence!" A weak cry bellowed out.

Silence.

Once retreating to the safety of even ground, the shambling boy snatched a chilled water canister from the fridge. A long sip turned to a gulp, then a chug. Emptied, he set the bottle on the table. Turning around the kitchen and examining for anything hint, a note, a clue to point him in the ranger's direction. Where could he have gone? Lawrence never left without a note or telling Vincent. On the table, plates and glasses lay set, ready for a helping of food. Instead, a stack of photos piled one plate. Curious hands splayed them out. Various images of him and Lawrence—When did they get a camera, let alone where? Most taken by themselves, but a few by hidden observers. All harmless. In fact quite humorous scenes, while some were better shared between just the two of them. One caught his attention among blank polaroids.

A scene in lavish, but gaudy decorations. Pink paper flowers dotted the walls, carrying alabaster frills between them to match empty rows of white chairs. Plastic ivy crept up the crosshatch arch where he stood with Lawrence. Both bearing wide grins at the camera and obviously plastered while holding each other's hands. Next to him, the securitron cowboy, Victor. At Lawrence's side, a man he didn't recognize; slick black hair, black jacket and striped shirt underneath. Between the two of them, the better dressed of the group struck a dramatic pose. A pompadour cut fluffed up a black mane and thick sideburns, eyes hidden beneath shades, and a white suit sparkling with rhinestones as long sleeves flared out at their ends. In the margins of the photo, he studied the scribble that matched the flamboyant nature of that man in the white suit: The King.

Vincent rushed for the elevators. At the entrance hall, securitrons quietly guarded the casino floor, yet a smell lingered. Not that of centuries old dust, but fresh cut grass and moist dirt. The motorcycle propped by the door, leaning on its stand and their helmets resting on the seats. Wherever Lawrence went, it was likely nearby if he left the bike—or rather Vincent hoped that much. Examining the bike closer, he spotted it. Dried dirt speckled sleek black. Mud caked in the wheel treads. Grass sprinkled in like seasoning.

And one long stain on maroon carpet, leading to the doors…

"Mornin' pardner!" Victor greeted him the moment he stepped outside. Vincent winced. Which was worse? The terribly cheerful cowboy or the inability to turn that light in the sky off. "Mr. House has been wantin' to meet with ya today."

"Ugh!" Vincent whined, holding his head as if it would roll off his shoulders any minute. Scar pulsed. Face scrunched. Squinting eyes still glued to the floor followed the mud trail to the lush lawn of the Lucky 38. "Oh"

Mud circles tore up emerald grass. Uneven rings looped in and out of each other smack in the center of the lawn. Dirt and grass chunks flung out in the street and sidewalk. House will not be happy about this.

"I'll go—" Vincent shuffled down the shallow steps for a desperate look at the other side of the lawn. Thankfully, that was untouched. "I'll see him today, but I need to find Lawrence."

"Come on back n' see the boss real soon, ya hear?"

He rushed for the gate to Freeside. Lawrence mentioned the Kings before and their front man, The King, had to be the man in the photo. There base was on the Freeside strip among the litter of casinos and market stalls. In an old building aptly christened by neon signs with the gang's name. He thought them an odd sort. They dressed the same. Talked with the same in an accent he'd never heard anywhere else. Struck the same dramatic vogue poses for whatever reason, usually while loitering around their club. Pushing through the doors, a few glances met Vincent. Beyond the main entrance, double doors opened to a theater and inside, a few clones occupied the tables, but at the front and center was a man in a white suit.

"Are you the King?" Vincent inquired hesitantly as he paused beside the table. Eyes fought to adjust to the darkness. Mirages of the stranger echoed in one uncooperative eye.

"Well, if it isn't the newlyweds!" He looked over his shoulder. "Wait, where's the other guy?"

"Uh, I'm trying to find him." The King burst into laughter. The dog hidden under his chair came out to join the fun. A quick glance turned into a long stare at the creature. Its brain floated freely under a thick glass dome. Ears perked up while a mechanical butt wagged a happy, furry tail poked out at his haunches. Vincent shook his head, claiming a seat at the King's table before he'd pass out. "I'm drawing blanks on what happened last night."

The King's hearty laugh calmed to a grin. "Y'all came in lookin' to get hitched. I was a li'l' hesitant with soldier boy waltzing in here, but I heard about ya from Julie over at the Fort—I like what you did for them. So, I said why not? But then I asked where're rings at? Ya need somethin' to show for the whole thang! Somethin' better than flimsy paper, so y'all left then came back a little while later." Eyes crinkled and his husky laugh fired up again. "You and lover boy came back n' showed me your hands." He nodded, leisurely reclining in his chair like it was his throne. Brows rose approvingly with a wagging finger. "Outsmarted me is what ya done."

"This?" Vincent winced, looking at the ink ring coiled around his finger. Black glistened on tender flesh. A ring never to be taken off

"Thassrigh'." Vincent rubbed his temples. Sunglasses slid a little further down his nose. "Now, don't come 'ere and tell me you wanna annulment." Chair creaked as The King lunged forward. The dog whined, eagerly nuzzling the man's hand for affection. "That's the best shotgun weddin' I done here in a long time."

"No, no." Vincent chuckled, disagreeing hands waved the accusation away. He stood up and an unfortunate croak of the chair against the tiles wracked his head. "But thanks for clearing things up, Mr. King."

"The King."

"Mr. The King."

"Thassrigh'."

The near-noon sun no longer seemed to bother him, but he'd rather have just stayed in his comfortable bed. Crowds flocked to the street about this time—if his retreating hangover was any indicator as to why. Vendors and performers set out for their attention and money. Side-street hustlers announced the latest round of backstreet craps and caravan. Leaning against the walls of the Freeside strip, tucked away in the shade, women flocked together. Eying the better dressed men as they passed; sprinkled among them, the rarer boys in the same profession.

Rusted metal grinded behind him, announcing his return to the strip in the most grating of ways, like the cacophony of chatter and clashing radio stations wasn't enough already. Grumbles and groans accompanied each step as he navigated the hordes of sluggish tourists. Maybe Lawrence just went out real quick and Vincent barely missed him? He scanned the crowds, but it was futile to think he could spot the man among a sea of faces. At the sidewalk of the Lucky 38, Victor still stood watch outside the doors. Still, no Lawrence walked up those steps.

"Vincent!"

He spun around for the voice. Not Lawrence's but someone he did know. "There you are! I've been looking all over for you."

"Jackie?"

She ripped off her sunglasses. Amber eyes blinked at him, "What's going on?"

"Hell, if I know anymore—Hey, were you and Eve with us last night?"

"No…" Surprised faded to match Vincent's quizzical look. She shook her head and planted hands on his shoulders. "Come on!"

"You know where Lawrence is by any chance?"

"Yes—You don't?"

"I've been looking for him all morning."

"Oh, jeez—I've been looking for you all morning!" She grumbled. "Some MPs dragged him into the embassy and he's sitting in an interrogation room right now. I think you might be able to clear things up."

"What? Why's he—"

"Nobody will tell me anything!" Jackie shook her head. "Wonder if it has anything to do with that." She nodded across the street. Boots halted in their steps. The latest attraction on the strip, apparently. Inquisitive crowds paused, gawking at the disaster. Light smoke plumed up from the blown out northeastern corner. Rebar, piping, and concrete painted an unusual scene among a humble pile of rubble. Surrounding that smudge of the Gomorrah was a gaggle of their henchmen guarding a construction crew. A few fedora-donned men garnered those lackey's eye rolls, arm-crosses, and heavy-sighs as they barked questions on behalf of News Vegas and other trash that wasn't worth the paper it was printed on. Not a stylistic choice on behalf of the Gomorrah.

"No time for sight-seeing!" Jackie tugged him along. She brought him to the far end of the strip. The serenity of the NCR embassy. Preferable for a lingering hangover, but their destination wasn't the courtyard. She led him into one building; cool air chilled him awake the moment the doors opened. Within minutes and a quick chat to some uniform, and Vincent found himself in a little room. Sterile and lit by rather unflattering and offensively bright lights, Lawrence sat at a table. Brow arched—the higher the more annoyed. Head cocked and shoulders slumped. The staring contest with the MP across from him came to a halt.

"Vince?"

The MP sighed and leaned back in his chair. A skulking ranger emerged from a dim corner. "Ah, well now I think we can get somewhere!" He shirked his duster, setting it on the back of an open chair as he wore a look of a man all too proud of his own joke. He pulled the chair out, then looked at Vincent. Leathery face wrinkled and creviced by a wide, welcoming smile. "Take a seat, son. We just have a few questions."

Vincent hesitantly sat down. Anxious tingles bubbled up to the froth of a shaken soda. "You alright?" He whispered, and Lawrence nodded.

"Now, let's start over—" A hand patted his shoulder. Vincent glanced up at the intimidating ranger. Shadows stretched over a cross-hatched face. Sharp angles of a blonde buzz cut glowed around him. Deep-set eyes bore through the MP across the table. That smile hid knives. "I want to know this young man's side of the story, which I don't doubt matches—" His other hand set on Lawrence's shoulder, tugging him to one side. "This young man's story."

Lawrence sighed. "Fine, we'll tell the whole story."

Alright, alright, so we got word something might be happening in Gomorrah, the Omertas' place. They're sleazy, slimy, shady. We've always had problems with them. This doesn't surprise me. We get there, pretend like we're just the regular patrons. Lie low for a bit—we both got 22s—but this guy is a little antsy. Gotta calm him down cause he's spooked after everything I told him 'bout the Omertas—

"I was not!" Vincent declared. Arms crossed as he aimed his scowl on Lawrence.

"Oh, you could barely walk without giving away the fact you're concealing!"

Anyway, we take a peek around the surface. Might've gotten Vincent a little lubricated. Liquid courage helps, y'know? Nothing obvious stands out to us, but again, doesn't surprise me. Well, Vincent mentioned a contact there who could be useful. So, we find her and I start chattin' her up

"Chatting."

"Excuse you—"

"He was blatantly flirting with her," Vincent said. Eyes rolled, setting on Lawrence again. "Horribly too, I might add. I vaguely recall some god-awful line of her eyes reminding you of a dark stout you'd like to taste second hand from her pretty lips."

Befuddles, Lawrence shook his head and scoffed. "It's worked before."

"Who—" Vincent's brows narrowed. He twisted in his chair to face the man. Mind articulating overtime with every one of its gears to unravel that alleged fact. "Who would fall for that crap?"

"What matters is, I persuaded her to give us what we needed."

"You? You couldn't persuade her to leave the building if it was on fire."

"Whatever…" He muttered. Arms tightened across his chest, eyes wandering off Vincent. The little headshakes would follow shortly after. Sometimes with grumbles.

"No, you see what happened was—" Vincent looked to his audience; one exhausted MP and the intrigued ranger pacing behind them. "When we first got there, we disarmed, but yes we kept the .22s. I wanted to talk to our informant right away, but Lawrence wanted to play a bit. I wanted to get to business and get it over with, and then we can have fun, but he throws a fit as usual."

The ranger huffed—there! There were the little headshakes. Eyes squinted under a piqued brow on the boy's reflection on the table.

"What?" Vincent blinked. "You have something to add?"

"No," Lawrence shrugged. "You tell your story."

Fine, whatever, he wants a beer—so we go to the bar. Lawrence thinks he's being some super-spy by scoping out the joint. Omertas aren't hiding anything in the obvious. They're subtle. He's used to Legion twits who like to make a show of power. On the strip, you have to have finesse, hide an ace up your sleeve, and that's exactly how the Omertas operate. So, we get a drink and played some of the tables—I like blackjack, I'm good at it.

"Honey." Lawrence grunted. "Losing two-hundred caps in thirty-minutes ain't good."

"I am talking here."

I won back fifty, but it's all for fun anyway. Finally, Lawrence agrees to go with what we should've done in the first place: talk to our contact. Naturally that means flirting with her, and I use that term loosely. Lawrence offers to buy her a drink, she's obviously not interested, but he either can't see that or chooses to ignore it—I'm going with the former. I finally butt in after some stupid line about "needin' a woman who can handle a wild man", whatever the hell that means. So, I tell her I'm here to collect on an old debt, then she says, 'I wish you told me that first instead of making me suffer through that'—

"She did not!"

"I can read people, Lawrence."

"I was close."

"You were miles away. You were on the east coast and she is on the west coast for scale. That is how far off you were."

So, she directs us to look into Cachino. Some low-level floor manager who might know something juicy. We go find the guy. I decide I'll be the one to talk to him, cause I rather the Omertas not know Lawrence is on to them too. Just to cover ourselves in case things blow up in our faces. Now this guy, total asshole, like, just gaping really. Probably cause he's balding… He brushes me off, but not without some snarky comment; nothing creative and nothing I haven't heard before, but I'm not mad about it.

"Hah!" Lawrence shifted in his chair. He hid a chuckle beneath his hand. "Not mad about it… You skewered that guy."

"I did." Vincent grinned, a cackling chuckle weaving through. "It felt good."

See, I went snooping around his place. I got the key from our contact. Convinced her to give it to me—Maybe the caps persuaded her… Pretty normal, nothing out of the ordinary for how slimy the Omertas are, but I remembered to wear gloves when I looked around his suite. I found a journal. I laughed at first cause I'm reading this balding, tubby, middle-aged guy angstily writing about how his bosses bully him all day and the fact he's crushing on one of the strippers hard. The girl's name is Joanna. Nothing special—I talked to her, but Cachino is just head over heels infatuated with her. But—yes, there's another but in this climatic turn of events—Cachino is also pulling business on the side and that's a big no-no with the Omertas.

So, I blackmail him.

He relents once I show him proof. Oh wait! This is the juicy part and whole reason we were there! Cachino's got an even bigger story for us. The top boss there, Nero—like the top of the top of the Omerta pyramid of slime and grime—is doing something even shadier than normal. Something Mr. House and the NCR would not like. I get Lawrence off the tables, and we go to check out Cachino's tip. He said the boss has some special contractors on payroll: Troike and Clanden. Supposedly, Cachino didn't know what they were really there for, only that they're living it up in the casino.

Now, this is where we split up. I went to talk to this Troike guy and Lawrence talks to Clanden. I find Troike down in the Zoara club—You know what, I would hate to see that place under a black light, seriously, can you imagine? Place would glow brighter than a nuclear crater! I was also wondering if the smoke from the fires was intentional, like do they use it to hide the ugly hookers or make them look better somehow? I may have been the only sober one there and, well, let's just say where I'm from, those were the discount ladies. Well, doesn't matter now—But this guy, if the Omertas didn't put him in the ground all the drugs and drinking would. He was on something; sketched out, tweaking, shaky, paranoid. I didn't believe him at first when he said he was being blackmailed into working for the big boss. Supposedly he killed someone while tripping, but I can see why they wanted him. He was a smuggler, but absolutely awful at hiding it. It really only took a few drinks in him and playing into his paranoia about the boss to get him to fess up.

So, I blackmailed him too.

That's how I found out he was smuggling Omertas weapons, not from their usual dealer either too. Legion is their new supplier. Apparently, he's also some kind of explosives expert and has been working on something for the Omertas. Bad, bad, bad is an understatement. Then I take him out back and rough him up a bit—

"You did not rough him up. Quit. It." Lawrence hissed. "Vincent came to me and told me about the guy. We lured him into an empty hallway and I…" He rotated a hand to coax out his words. "Firmly convinced him to tell us where the goods are being stored."

We check out this vault on one of the lower floors, but not before I tied the guy up and throw 'em in one of the utility closets—knocked him out too for good measure. I don't like loose ends. We find the vault and, well the bad news and the even worse news is he wasn't lying. We decide to come back and get rid of the crap. Possibly in an explosion, but haven't decided that much yet—We still have to deal with Clanden. I asked around about the guy. Our contact, Cachino, ain't nobody knows much about him. Strange though, most people said he's too nice.

Ain't nobody in Vegas too nice, so I'm immediately suspicious of the guy. Me and Vince go back to the utility closet. Troike's starting to wake up so I knock him out again, but we were really there to grab those uniforms the housekeepers wear. We also stole a supply cart too on the way and head up to Clanden's room.

We pretend we're housekeeping to get a look around. He seems normal, but honestly gives me the creeps. Most people don't do that. I tell him we're here to clean and we'll be awhile. Yadda, yadda yadda, anything to convince him to get out. Well, he does and goes the restaurant downstairs. Things seem ordinary until we really start lookin' around. I took the downstairs part of the suite; Vince took the upstairs. Now, downstairs is the kitchen and dining room then a bathroom. Kitchen doors are locked. I bust it in and I am met with the most god-awful, rank, distgustin' overwhelming stench.

I know it.

It's what human jerky smells like roastin' under the sun for a few days. Blood stains on the tile, dried, flaky, but I'm hesitant to open the fridge. Surprisingly, nothing in there, literally nothing. It was clean. I check out the bathroom. Same as the kitchen, but more blood. Tub is splattered with old blood. Rug beside the tub is stiff. Smell is given' me a headache at this point so I go find Vincent. He's been snooping around the freak's room.

Vincent gagged. "It was awful. He'd go real far in the Legion though!"

"Are you insinuating—" The MP jumped forwards, adjusting in his chair as if he found something to latch onto. "This guy is just openly murdering people and doesn't mind if, let's say, housekeeping, a maid, whatever, see?"

"Being their only contact with the Legion for arms?" Vincent chuckled. "No. Looking the other way when people go missing is a small price to pay. Need I remind you we're talking about the Omertas here?"

The man sunk back in his seat.

By the time Lawrence came up the stairs, I already looked through his desk, under the bed, anywhere you could hide something, but nothing! Not until I looked over the bookshelf—I almost missed it—A black tile behind the back of the shelf, so we move it out of the way. It's a safe! We go at it for a while. Couldn't find a key so we tried breaking it and picking the lock, but it was pretty sturdy and nothing worked. At that point we agree to wait until the weirdo comes back.

We ambushed him!

Lawrence tied him up, then we searched him and lo and behold, he's got the key. We open it to find holotapes, pictures, and a few odds and ends. Not the kind you'd put in a safe. I check out the pictures and… It was awful. Maybe that's why we got wasted after? Guy was killing people and taking pictures and recordings of it. He had like twenty holotapes and just mounds of photos. Found out that random stuff in the safe was from his victims. I took it in case we needed the stuff for evidence.

"I roughed him up a bit too," Lawrence added.

Vincent laughed. "If that was roughing him up a bit, then what did you do to Troike? Tickle him?"

Well, we dealt with the boss's contractors, so we brought our information to Cachino. He wasn't in the loop with what they were up to and after we told him, I believed him for sure. The explosives, whatever Clanden was doing, but the weapons smuggling and possibly working with the Legion. He thinks this is really bad and suggested confronting Nero to see if we can find out what's really going on. Cachino also gives us something better than those little 22s to use. We plan for me and Cachino to go upstairs to the VIP lounge where their offices are, while Lawrence waits nearby to bust in.

"Personally," Lawrence cut in. "I thought it was a bad idea. I wanted to get a better drop on them."

"Well, they're dead now so what does it matter?" The ranger pouted, mumbling as he crossed his arms, but it wouldn't be the last Vincent would hear of it. "Gave a whole monologue on their plan like they were some kind of, I don't know," Vincent shrugged. "Cheesy comic book villain, or something."

The MP looked to Vincent. Lazy eyes wandered to Lawrence. "And both of you killed them, to install Cachino as…"

"Someone who'll actually listen and not do stupid stuff like that," Vincent explained.

"So let me get this straight," The MP rubbed his temples as he stared at his notepad. Pen hadn't even set to paper the whole time, despite relaying their story. "The owner of the Gomorrah, Nero, and his bodyguard Sal, were plotting with the Legion to attack the strip with these explosives—"

"Yes." They said in unison.

Shoulders deflated as the soldier looked up to the two. "Where does the explosion come in?"

"Well, after we took care of them, we went back downstairs to the vault," Lawrence explained. "Seemed like a sturdy vault." The two looked at each other, nodding in agreement. "I tossed in a grenade or two…"

The MP sighed, planted his weary head in his palms. Behind them, the other ranger still paced. Arms hung out in front of him as he nodded. "Got the job done!"

"You detonated a vault of explosives" The soldier continued. He set elbows on the table and clasped hands. "Because the vault looked sturdy."

"Yes."

Another sigh. Eyes bulged as he raised a hand to rub his forehead. Hushed mumbles barely registered in either Lawrence or Vincent's ears. "Ok, so one contractor is dead, what about the other, Troike?"

Both men's faces blanked. Vincent tilted his head, glancing at Lawrence as if he would have known. A hum followed a trail of memories that just didn't go anywhere. "I don't know…"

Lawrence shrugged, stroking his beard before he turned the boy. "Probably still in that closet."

Aggressive pen strokes finally put something on the soldier's notepad. An existential dread apparent in his sagging eyes. Vincent swore he found a few new grey hairs on his head since he first laid eyes on the man. "Where did you two go after that?"

"We left the casino," Lawrence said. "Thin I said something…" Hands gestured with hung shoulders, "I don't know, life's too short for this crap let's go party? Somethin' like that."

"Oh?" The boy hummed, turning to his companion. "I think we went to the Millennium; they were doing a special on anything with tequila in it."

"Yes!" Lawrence agreed with a snap of his fingers. "We definitely had too much tequila, but I think we got food after that."

"Food and cazador mimosas," Vincent added, a wide smile agreed along with a nod. "I don't remember going to the King's place though, but we got some pictures to look at later…"

"I vaguely remember going to the Little Chapel, but I'm drawing blanks on this new tattoo."

Vincent held his hand up next to Lawrence's. Aa matching ink ring banded his finger. Vincent's name drawn between the lines as well. He couldn't help but laugh with the man.

The other ranger paused between them again. "So, you see, Lieutenant." Hands patted Vincent's and Lawrence's shoulders again. A wide, cheeky smile crossed a red face. "My boy is just having a good time on leave out there."

The MP let his pen fall to the table. He relented with an urgent wave to see them off. "Fine, you can go."

It was high noon when they came out of the dim embassy office, grimacing and squinting under shades. Passing conversation calmed Jackie, but after telling her whatever they recollected about the previous night a mix of humor and anger twisted her face. She left the two in a fit of giggles and without another word back to her post. Still wincing beneath the sunglasses and staring at the sidewalk, they held hands to stay together on the return home. Distant music pounded against skulls and the ambient chatter felt more like static. At the steps of the Lucky 38, Lawrence paused and stared at the lawn.

"What happened…"

"We happened," Vincent explained, tugging him along. Once in the suite, he drew the blinds and set the lights to a low, reasonable setting. While Lawrence was quick to toss clothes and shoes aside before throwing himself on the bed, Vincent made his way up to the penthouse. Practicing careful breaths on the ride up with a short, concise rehearsal to explain the mud circles on the lawn. Yet, anxiety just had a way of rearing its ugly and tingly little head.

He descended the stairs to Mr. House's console. The man's portrait of better days filled the screen. Hands clasped behind Vincent's back as he stood unusually distant from the monitors.

"Well?"

"Uh," Vincent drew blanks as anything he had planned to say fell out of his head. "I promise it won't happen again. I can probably even fix the lawn."

"The lawn? What did you do to the—" His voice paused. One camera feed's screen flickered and set on the tortured grass. The synthetic voice sighed. "Whatever shenanigans you partook in last night do not interest me. What happened with the Omertas?"

"Oh, that."

Clutter disappeared from the floor when he returned to the suite. Between the entrance and the kitchen, those pictures made their way up on the wall. A storyline of their night detailed captured in photos. The camera of ambiguous origin rested on a shelf of other oddities. Warm and fuzzy swing of a bass band lulled the ranger to a comfortable sprawl on the sofa.

"I don't think Eve's gonna like competition."

The ranger chuckled. He stood up, arms hanging out as an unspoken invitation for the boy. Vincent brushed away iridescent spots glittering Lawrence's shirt. Uneven and unruly. Barely tucked into his jeans. His belt missing. Vincent's smile widened as he embraced the man. "I wouldn't change a thing," Lawrence said. He unwound Vincent's arms. "But—" Fingers intertwined with one hand while the other guided Vincent to rest his palm on Lawrence's shoulder. Then Lawrence set his other hand upon Vincent's back. "I didn't get a dance at my first shotgun wedding."

Vincent laughed. "You'll have to teach me."

"I can't dance either," Lawrence confessed, a bashful smile creeping on his face. "We'll both be terrible together. How's that?"