The Long 15

by TheSupremeButterball

Vincent is a boy with a secret and a weird kind of luck. Running away from home at 16, he never imagined the danger and the power he would find in the ruins of the I-15. Planting himself in the middle of a power play for the wasteland and its future, he finds leading the best show in all of New Vegas has a steep price to pay.

13. Bad Moon Rising

They dotted the wasteland and in the city too—those functional ones were under tight guard by House's securitrons—but one in particular lay to the east. Nestled between mountain ranges, relaying power from Hoover Dam to other stations and subsequently the entire valley. Except, when it suddenly decided not to. Unusual rolling blackouts swept through Freeside intermittently in the past week. Each day brought more unpredictable outages and while they hadn't affected the strip, House forecast it only a matter of time.

Lawrence twiddled the cigarette between his lips. Idle tongue moved it up and down in irregular circles while he stared down on the relay station. Next to him, an impatient boy leaned on his shoulder. "What do you see?" He whispered to Lawrence for the umpteenth time.

"Nothin' new."

Vincent rolled on his back and knocked out another sigh. They'd been nested on the rock for far too long. Watching. Waiting. Baking in the sun… Reconnaissance had become his least favorite part of being in the field. A passing tumbleweed held his attention better than the nothing below out in the middle of nowhere. They knew people lived there so far. Odd fixtures propped up outside the station's gate, curious decoration borne of some child's fevered dream decorated the high fence. Then when they perched themselves atop the hillside, the tents and the fire pit in the center confirmed suspicions.

"Probably tribals."

"Y'know, I hear a lot about supposed tribals, but I haven't seen them."

"They're out there," Lawrence added, voice trailing off along with his thoughts.

Vincent rolled back to Lawrence and propped himself on an elbow. "House is suspicious the Brotherhood of Steel might be behind the outages."

"They ain't Brotherhood," Lawrence muttered. "Scavengers maybe… Look at all that junk."

Lawrence lent Vincent the binoculars. About twelve of them wandered around their makeshift camp, more tucked away under the shade of tents and tarps. Scarcely clothed, painted with colorful pigments, and lethargic as they gathered around the dormant fire pit. Strewn about their camp, junk piled on itself. Aside from squatters, the relay station appeared to be in good condition. "They don't look armed."

"Noticed that too."

Vincent hummed and lowered the binoculars. "Maybe this can wait a bit?" A brow arced as Lawrence looked at the boy. "Why don't we go check out Helios One? I think finding the guy is more important."

"I suppose."

Lawrence's tone caught him off guard. Uncertain, apathetic… Exceptional coming from the man who pitched a dramatic fit after unmasking what remained of the legion soldier in Nelson. "You don't seem too interested."

"I just…" Lawrence sighed. Gaze remained fixed on the facility below. "I just haven't been thinkin' much on it since we were at Nelson."

Vincent rested his chin in his palm, studying the man's expression. Terribly solemn. Forced, as if trying to hide something beneath. The same look he spurned on the boy in the saloon in Henderson one morning. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing, that's the thing." He gave his elbows rest and turned on his back instead. Sandy soil scraped against the back of his armor while the front shirked a loose coating of dust. "I've been thinking about it for three years now, but it's like chasing clouds I figured."

Vincent chuckled. He reached for the ranger's hand. "I know that feeling."

Small and comforting fingers wound between his. Avoidant gaze trailed over to meet the boy's smile. Guilt had lingered with him lately. The true reason—if there was just one—he couldn't settle on. Was it playing two sides? Potentially branding himself a traitor of the NCR if things went south? Or the fact he hadn't truly decided on whether he backed Vincent to the fullest? He hadn't any issue with what Vincent was doing. Truthfully much of it was good; settling the Boomers, investing with the Followers to fix up their place, and thwarting the Omertas' absurd plan to take over the strip once things fired up at the dam. Looking at the ink ring around his finger reminded him he had no regrets about the young man who'd grown on him. Another reason to be ashamed. The man who he thought would be the only one to ever hold his heart, usurped by a boy that captivated him in a way Marcus never did. Marcus replaced. The thought terrified him. "I'm thinkin' on it though."

"I'm with you either way."

Drum beats echoed off steep mountains. Even and precise intervals pounding his chest the closer they came to the gates. Hidden below the cadence, a thrum shared by steel bodies dancing on the peaks. Their spindly arms of black chord descended in the substation and disappeared behind sun-bleached canvas. The two crept along the perimeter, peeking through holes in the fading green.

"What do you think they're doing?"

"I'm more curious about what they're on." Eyes darted up and down, following a dance around the center firepit. Skirting certain burns as if it were fun. A few stumbled, but caught themselves before falling in. Laughter followed with smiles. Dizzying, colorful twirls shambled about while their audience clapped between quickening beats. At the end of a dance much too fast for its participants, they fell to dirt. Drums ceased. Lawrence led the way to the gate. A flimsy thing—no wonder these oddballs wandered in. "Just cause they don't look armed doesn't mean they ain't dangerous."

"Visitors!" The woman jumped to her feet, drawing the attention of the entire camp. Voices and idle music came to a halt. "But are they friend or foe?"

"We're friendly as long as you are," Vincent said.

"And you do not come on behalf of the men to the west?"

"No, we're here for…" Vincent paused. Gaze attuned to the interested crowd staring back at them. As equally an alien gawk as his own. Exposed skin bore unique markings. Caked paint of graceful swirls and curves. Odds and ends joined those artificial marks; junk, feathers, fake gems, the glitter you'd find on the characters strutting around the strip decorated scantily clothes. Colorful scraps stitched, sown, and patched together alongside tanned animal hides. "Curiosity!"

Ohs and ahs resonated among them. The right choice it would seem as the tribals flocked to the two strangers. Vincent stepped back, shouldering the ranger to his side. Wide eyed, he stared at the horde—or rather tried to avoid staring at those exposed bits. Voices melded together. A vague collected discussing their guests. Questions melted together. Intrigued hands reached for the visitors' clothes. Grabbing, prodding, and inspecting. Feeling up Lawrence's duster, then the hard armor beneath. Hands groped Vincent's shoulders before moving to jab the sturdy, new Kevlar vest. Anxiety boiled. Heart raced as blood rushed through limbs ready to throw fists. Vincent flailed about, growling and grunting—

"Stop!" she bellowed and all hands let up. "Apologies, travelers! My people are eager to meet new friends."

Lawrence readjusted his belt then tugged the duster back into place. "Gimme a warning next time and I'll just strip down."

"As I was saying…" Vincent eyed a lingering hand. Quickly, it retreated under scrutiny. "What are you doing here?"

"We are the children of the Sky!" She exclaimed as hands swayed above her, shimmering as if the sparkling water of Lake Mead. Her followers imitated her, echoing, chanting their devotion to the sky. Robes teased open as she thrust hands up. "We follow the sky!"

Vincent averted bashful eyes. "Oh jeez…"

How could anyone just waltz around showing themselves like that? Even in a desert! Just looking at her made him feel exposed. Sighing, Vincent looked to the ranger. Surely the two were the last bastion of sanity among these folks. However, he had that look on his face… The one with a peaked brow and little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Vincent elbowed the ranger. Fascinated gawk broken. The boy's scowl on him like a warm blanket in the wee hours of the morning torn away.

"Alright, that definitely answered my question." Vincent grumbled and, reluctantly, looked back at the woman. At least her clothes. "No, I mean, why are you here in the substation? Do you live here?"

"Ah…" Her people turned to her. Smiles faded. Whispers sparked among them. Fearful. Anxious. Daring to ignite the sudden tension in the air. Speculating their guests and something else is harsh breaths. "We are trapped."

A colorful halo of ribbons bounced on thick locks as she brushed them over her shoulder. The skirt clutched in her hand, flowing with each step of her long strides. White frills danced and licked about long legs and dusty feet. Walking across air and parting the sea of tribals, she stopped in front of her visitors. Numerous adornments: the elaborate paint, the flamboyant dress, the crown of heavy dreadlocks—just wearing anything at all added to Vincent's hypothesis.

He knew a matriarch when he saw one

"You're trapped?" He squinted back at the gate they came through. Nothing that could possibly contain a hoard of even the most inept of humans. Vincent rubbed away the oncoming tension in neck. "That gate's wide open..."

Bronze irises focused on Vincent. "We have tried many times," she assured. "The people of Arvee Park see us coming down the road and join us at the crossroads, blocking our way as they beseech their gods to take us into their tribe, and possibly holding one of my people."

"Arvee Park?" Lawrence inquired. "The people living by the lake?"

"Yes."

"We could talk to them," Vincent offered. "Maybe we can diffuse the situation and convince them to leave you alone."

"Hail! Sky has sent us help! What are their names, great sky?"

"I'm Vincent. That's Lawrence—"

"Hail!" she roared, exciting the flock of nomads once again. "The great helpers: I'm-Vincent and That's-Lawrence!"

Lawrence groaned, massaging away an oncoming headache. "It's gonna be one of those days."

"Come new friends!"

Sky-Watcher was her name, but also the name of those that came before her as well and any after that would fall into her position. A spiritual leader and guide for her people across a dangerous wasteland—or at least that's what Vincent pieced together. A small audience gathered with their guests under a breezy canopy. Circling the shallow pit, now dressed in loose robes, fingers parsed brittle clumps of dried green fibers. A quick toss into the fire released a pungent scent. Overcoming savory mesquite in dense white cotton balls that dried eyes at the first glance.

"Cactus-Cooler," Sky-Watcher hummed. Eyes drawn low to the firepit, staring into memories found in the shape of licking flames.

Vincent leaned to Lawrence, keeping his eyes on the hostess as he whispered. "Isn't that a soda?"

"I think so…"

"He is curious about the people of Arvee Park," she said as two girls joined the canopy gathering. Bowls of brilliant pigments cradled in their arms, they knelt at Sky-Watcher's side. New swirls added to olive skin. Neon greens and purples like those signs on the strip echoed by white curls. "I would not deny him, but now I wish I had at least warned him to not let them change his true calling."

"So…" Vincent glanced at the woman as he fumbled through his satchel. "He went to Arvee Park to talk to them?" Fingers finally met the chipped plastic frame. He stared into the sack until eyes focused on the pip-boy's glowing screen. Geiger counter lay flat. Something other than radiation got to these people…

"He did." Her crown came next. Feathers assorted by color and length formed a neat apex—the most fabulous among her people. Surely sparking envy even in the showgirls of New Vegas. "He didn't come back. That troubled me so, I sent Quiet-Feet to see what was happening, and she brought me back terrible news." Her attendants stood up, shaking the dirt from bare knees. Her crown finally complete. Not real feathers. No, these were neon fuzzy things, dotted by glistening plastic stones thanks to a salvaged glue gun. "She claims to have witnessed Cactus-Cooler fall at their hands."

The attendants returned. Three bowls between them, each with bended straws and mini paper umbrellas. Two for their guests and one for Sky-Watcher. "Uh thanks." Lawrence looked at Vincent next to him. Unusually quiet. Captivated by the orange reflection staring back at him. Lawrence continued in his stead, "Was this the first time you've met the people in Arvee Park?"

"Yes," Sky-Watcher sighed. "This land has changed since we last visited."

"I ain't never dealt with them either," Lawrence said before testing a sip of the concoction. Eyes bulged. Indulgently sweet. Citrus fizz burst on his tongue and tastebuds promptly begged for more. "Quiet-Feet—She witnessed somethin' between Cactus-Cooler and..."

"I do not mistrust Quiet-Feet, but for everything she sees, there is more she does not. I took her, Wise-Guy, Husking-Bee, and Gary—"

"Gary?"

"Yes," she nodded. A peculiar squint darted between her guests; one slack-jawed boy staring into his bowl and a ranger that steadily swayed side to side to a silent tune. "Gary."

"Hi." A rather generic voice and amicable wave of a hand drew Lawrence's eye to the man next to Sky-Watcher. "I'm Gary." Lean and starkly pale for someone living in a sun-washed desert. Modestly draped by a patchwork of blankets and shaded by the wide brim of a weave hat.

"He is my wise man and I trust his judgments of others—"

"Wait, wait, wait." Lawrence raised a hand. "Gary's your wise man, but not Wise-Guy?"

"No…" Her words drawn out, she exchanged uncertain glances with Gary. "It was his idea to ask Arvee Park of our kin. They denied he ever visited them. We spoke to George. He offered my people a place at their camp and said perhaps, one named The-Lord, would have insight to Cactus-Cooler's dis—"

"This is soda," Vincent announced. Red-eyed, he looked up from the bowl. Beholden to a profound revelation whispered in every burst and crack of the bubble. Swirling and singing of the world. His gawk lingered on Sky-Watcher. Colorful snakes on olive skin danced. Entwining and curling around her arms. White coils lifted off a copper canvas, stretching and wafting into the sky along the smoke.

"Anyway, I ask where I could find this The-Lord." A regretful sigh exhaled. "George then told us The-Lord is all around us and we simply must…" Sky-Watcher paused and leaned to Gary. "What was that word they used?"

"Pray."

"Yes, he said we must pray!" She shook her head. "But it did not work. Unlike the great sky, The-Lord works in mysterious ways. I do not understand why, but neither did George—they are odd people."

"I see…" Lawrence muttered. "Mind if I talk to Quiet-Feet?"

Lawrence tugged Vincent along while the boy did his best just to remember how to walk. Meanwhile, the ranger did his best to shake the fog in his head. Eyes squinted at colors more vibrant than normal. He flinched at the noise berating sensitive ears. Tucked away among a towering salvage pile, children played. Cheers and laughs chirped between junk piles. Curious eyes peered out from under a makeshift shelter as the two strangers passed. The older ones lingered among the young kids. The girls worked wire weave baskets in a circle, occasionally pestered by idle boys. And the boys…

Lawrence paused, leering at them. Three boys gathered around the substation's transformers. Luckily gated off—unless they already learned that lesson the hard way. One clutched the handle, forcing it up as friends either scolded his weakness or cheered him on. It snapped to position. An invisible surge sent hairs on end. A scene that didn't change much no matter where one went.

"What are you doing?" The ranger chided on the march over.

They jumped at the ranger's demand. Turning around, wide-eyed and huddled together. He reached through them, pushing the lever back up into the on position.

"Just pushing up the lever…"

"Do you even know what that does?" He crossed his arms as they timidly shook their heads. "That thing could be gearing up to explode on you, or worse." Lawrence leaned towards them. Lowering to their level as hands slapped down on his knees. Glare tightened. Voice deepened to a raspy growl. "Interrupt my time off, forcing me to deal with some tribals on the verge of causing an economic and humanitarian disaster because they want to play with the big switch!" The boys slinked away. Pushed by the ranger's judging squint. Backing away from the deathclaw slowly, they darted once out if his reach. "Let's hope that solves that."

He marched back to Vincent. Still where he left the boy. Oblivious to the world around him, vacant eyes stared into nothing. Mindless hands brushed along his Kevlar vest. Enamored by the feeling of the minuscule bumps of every seam. Every deviation in texture of thick straps and firm, bulletproof padding to the utility pockets stuffed with loaded clips, a hunting knife, and other goodies. Swishing clawed his ears. Visceral and grinding. Back and forth. Every other stroke daring to yank up the man's stomach contents. Lawrence reached for Vincent's hands, begging through a whisper, "Please…"

"Hmm," Vincent hummed. He stopped, instead grasping Lawrence's fingers for a different distraction. "What were we doing?"

Lawrence nodded his head to the group. Staring at their guests, smiles budded. Dreamy gazes lingered on Lawrence while skilled hands continued to weave wire and straw. Gossip hushed, only to be shared directly from lip to ear. He nudged Lawrence's arm, then tucked himself behind the man.

"What?"

"Well, go on," Vincent urged.

Lawrence turned his back to their audience. "Why me?"

"I don't want to talk to teenage girls," Vincent murmured, a hint of repulsion in his voice. Giggles bubbled up. Mischievous smiles swirled around Vincent. Closing in on him, dancing to the beat of their laughs before suddenly retreating to their proper faces.

"I don't either," Lawrence whined. "I dealt with the boys—"

"You do it better!" Vincent declared; fist planted firmly on his hips. He peered around his brawny wall, retreated again once seen. "They scare me…"

Lawrence sighed, giving Vincent one of those looks that warned the boy his tab was growing. He marched over to them. Air of confidence projected, not even the slightest drop of blood for them to sense, and any notion of making it out unscathed reconciled as one does when deal with teenaged humans. "Make room," he grumbled, hands swept the air and pushing them aside. "Which one of you is Quiet-Feet."

"That's me!" She chirped. A small girl wrapped in colorful clothes, frayed and torn, repurposed and re-used indefinitely.

"I heard 'bout what happened to Cactus-Cooler," Lawrence said. "I'm lookin' into what happened to him, hopefully bringin' him back home."

Regretful faces overtook soothing smiles. Once intrigued eyes withdrew from the ranger and returned to their work. "I saw him down there with those people, but didn't see much."

"What happened to him? Any fight or harsh words between him and them Arvee people?"

A hesitant hum filled the silence. Her friends glanced at her. Hands slowed work. "Not everything." Emerald eyes flickered up for a second. "I saw them carrying him to one of the buildings. It was a small one, not like the houses, but in between two homes."

"They were carrying him? Was he awake?"

Quiet-Feet shrugged. "I don't know. He seemed limp."

—

To the east of the relay station and set on an overlook at the shore, was once a campground along Lake Mead. What remained of a visitor's center building became the hub of a small community of farmers. Fields of petite cacti, humble mesquite trees, and agave overtook the terrain across what used to be Boulder Beach. Snaking through the revitalized skeletons of old-world bungalows were the homes of those farmers. Rather quaint and charming, with their identical facades. Neat, humble little gardens, and inviting scents of home cooked food.

"Huh," Lawrence grunted. Head tilted as he read the sign planted in the sagebrush. "Arvee Park…"

"Arvee…" Vincent echoed. The shape of the words lingered on his tongue, echoing like radio static in his mind. "Are. Vee. Arvy."

Rolling in like tumbleweeds, scrutinous eyes judged the town. A severe lack of obvious arms, but not as bad as the oddballs in the relay station. Lever action, a few shotguns, nothing automatic as he pointed out to Vincent. None of the women looked to be armed, not on the surface and probably not under heavy dresses, even as stiff as their gait was. Interested characters stole glimpses at the two strangers. Working men went about their business, tending their humble gardens while glancing over their shoulders between whispers. Passing the porch of one house, hushed conversations and creaking floorboards drew the stranger's stares. A gathering of women, rocking to and fro on a swinging bench. Sewing in unison tiny garments over swelled bellies.

Quaint, quiet, maybe even ideal for some folks just like those paintings the madame adorned the hotel with. Vincent stared into those framed scenes often in the late hours when restless and unable to sleep. The way the people always had their backs to the observer, standing in swaying wheat fields and gazing on at the horizon left a hollow feeling. A facade hiding a dark aura underneath a chipping veneer. In those nightmares that woke him and brought him to those paintings, he saw the people turn around in their picturesque little world to face him.

"Afternoon, strangers!" A voice called. Among the group of chatting women, a man in a black suit and tall hat to match emerged from the house. He stepped down onto the dirt road. "My name is George." Beneath that tall hat was a common face of an older man. Creases of his forehead glistened with sweat. A pleasant grin plumped sullen cheeks. The same face Vincent witnessed in one painting. Smiling as all others around twisted in agony and tears.

He extended a hand to Lawrence and they shook. "I'm Lawrence." A subtle twitch of George's brow lowered his glance at the handshake that went for a few seconds too long. The ranger turned to Vincent, keeping that shake up to the farmer's dismay. "This is Vincent. Don't suppose you might be the one in charge around here?"

"My people look to me for guidance," he said, finally seizing the opportunity to reclaim his hand. "We live together and support each other."

George peeked to Vincent, friendly hand ready to shake—at least until the boy spoke. "Farmers, I see," Vincent added. "Never heard of Arvee Park or seen it on any maps."

The man's friendly demeanor disappeared. Amicable hand quickly found an excuse to pull the hat off his head. A double take at the thing, and Vincent swore it had grown an inch taller since he last looked at it. "We settled here less than a year ago," the man stated. Another peek at the hat confirmed Vincent's suspicions. Was it in his head or did the man's shifty glean prefer to set on Lawrence, even if it was Vincent who spoke? Or was it the face in that hat's wrinkles whispering things to the farmer? Telling things about Vincent to George he didn't want anyone to know—

"Y'all don't look like you're from the NCR," Lawrence noted as curious beard scratches resumed. Every kink and curl of those hairs brushed his knuckles before his hand flipped to grope them in bundles between fingertips.

"Oh, no we come from up North," George continued. Not one glance to Vincent, but it didn't help he shrunk as the stove-pipe hat grew, rather mockingly once dueling scowls met. "Our great home is Utah land, but we decided to migrate down South and spread the good word."

"The good word?" Vincent butted in. "I don't hear anything." Arms folded across his vest, tight as the boy's glower found its way back on the unassuming farmer. Restraint gave the man the benefit of the doubt. Not all were intentionally disrespectful, but there was an ugly trend that kept rearing its head when he least expected it.

"The word of the Lord showed us to a land in need of guidance!"

"Do you think the people in the power station need guidance or something?"

"They…" A quick glance shot to dry soil, then returned to Lawrence. Vincent simmered, steam practically wafting off him as suspicious eyes shot between the two men. "They are unrepentant sinners. I recommend avoiding them for your own sake."

"Sounds like fun," Lawrence muttered, tugging the short strands of chin hair as if he was hiding his true thoughts in there. Brows furrowed and fingers ceased their strokes. A cross look bunched his face like a voice only he heard just gave him a good scolding. "Why's that?"

"They are wild!" George urged. Crows' feet deepened around bland eyes. Clinging to the sharp angle of bones beneath thin skin. "Dangerous, concocting up false stories of false gods. They will doom us all if they continue."

Bloodshot eyes squinted at the man. "Go on…"

"Sinners and blasphemers such as those people are the reason the Lord has sent the demon-men from the South to these lands—To set us right."

An intrigue brow arched. A hand slowly rose to his chin, needing to peruse his beard once more. The ranger quickly snapped himself back into shape. He cleared his throat, then planted idle hands on his belt. "Demon-men?"

"Yes, the men of Caesar."

"Ah," He muttered dryly. "Welp!" Lawrence clapped his hands, spooking his companion out of a battle of glares with a certain hat. His nose wrinkled, smile turned to a sneer, and hands rubbed together. "Sounds reasonable." Heavy hands set on the boy's shoulders, squeezing as he turned Vincent around. "We ought to get back out on the road."

"What?"

"Come back again soon," George smiled. "All are welcome here if they listen to the good word."

"What are you doing?"

"Will do!" Smaller boots struggled to keep up with the ranger's long strides. Once they returned to the solitude of the highway bend did he let the young man loose. Lawrence stared down from the overlook to the community. Business, as usual, returned; gossiping women dispersed while George turned his back on the stranger to observe his kingdom. "Something weird is going on; maybe not skinwalkers or desert lights weird, but not good either."

"Was it just me, or did he not even acknowledge me?"

"I noticed," Lawrence grumbled. "That was odd, but after hearing all the religion bullshit and comin' down south from Utah…" He shook his head and shoulder hung in a shrug. "I don't know. Something seems off. Let's get back up on the hill so I can get a look at their layout."

Another hike up the hillside gave them not only a better vantage point, but generous shin-splints. Once at the apex, at least a nice breeze child away from oncoming sweat under an afternoon sun. Lawrence studied the town's layout, but for what purpose Vincent couldn't conjure. He doubted plans of an assault or some kind of shakedown without a better reason than they're just weird. Unless Lawrence did it just-because. Sneaking in drawing practice after Vincent encouraged him to keep at it, but maybe it was also a way to think. Avoid the current problem and occupy oneself with another thing sometimes brought about those solutions needed for the original issue—walking did Vincent better. The sounds of nature, the long stretch of road that led somewhere better or dirt slapping his soles like the percussion of old-world bands on the radio. It all lulled away those problems and cleared up his mind.

The ranger grumbled as he took to squat. Pen scribbled against his notebook among bitter mumbles. Notes as it appeared to the eye peeking over the man's shoulder. Rather harsh and quick. Enough to leave an indent on the next blank page. Nothing Vincent could read, but occasionally he caught phrases in the man's grumbles. The usual protests of "hippies", "nut jobs", or "can't get a goddamn break".

Scribbles paused.

"Ok!" He huffed. "Hippies move into the power station; Arvee Park doesn't like them, seeks to convert—" Wrist flicked in unison with his words. "Doesn't go well. One Hippy goes to Arvee Park and is maybe dead. Hippies try to investigate. Arvee Park corrals them back into the station, won't allow them to leave, and of course they're fuckin' pacificists..."

"Maybe there's another way out?" Vincent muttered. He dove into his satchel and plucked out two water cantinas. From the vantage point atop the mountain, the two studied the little community plopped on the shore of Lake Mead. Isolated and harmless on the surface. Branching out off the main highway was the access road that led to the relay station. Corralled in like cattle, not unable, but rather unwilling to put up a fight.

"Aside from climbing." Another heavy groan slapped the notebook shut. Head rose, and he peered out onto the scene below. Vincent plucked Lawrence's empty bottle from the ranger's hand as he studied the man's studious expression. A trickle of sweat beaded down his temple, pausing at each ridge of his skin's topography then curling down the convex of his cheek. Deep in thought, the ranger's face always stayed firmly stoic. Eyes glanced about—the only indication those gears in his head still turned. "They're armed, but would they really attack? There's not many of them on either side," Lawrence noted. "Forty being generous..."

"Maybe they're bluffing?" Vincent returned to the moment, peeling his eyes away from admiring the ranger. Barely even forty of them... Were they all willing to start a conflict with some passing tribals over their faith or was it something else? What would they gain that would outweigh the casualties?

A finger pointed to Vincent, "That's the other thing botherin' me. What would bring 'em down here? I've seen Utah. This is a hell-hole compared to there."

"You've been to Utah?" Vincent cocked his head and looked down to the ranger.

Lawrence stood up. Joints cracked as he let out a groan and stretched. "Part of it, but what I'm getting at is there's more to the story than what he's telling us."

"Like why they left Utah for this 'hell-hole'?"

"Yes."

"Y'know, I like it here."

"Well, nobody's perfect," Lawrence muttered, setting out on the path down the mountain.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Vincent stomped after the ranger; his glare searing holes in the back of Lawrence's head.

"Think I might have an idea who these people are."

"That's not what I asked."

"Bunch of religious nuts live in Utah, the same as these folks. Boring. Dull. Too fuckin' nice..." He slid down the rock face to a stone balcony. A whirlwind of dirt and pebbles caught up in his wake adding a layer of dust to his boots.

For the hundredth time since he met the ranger, Vincent planted fists on his hip and calculated whether he should toss a pebble at the cocky man or just follow him. "What's on your mind then?"

"Let's go poke around some more."

In the later afternoon, the quiet community of Arvee Park looked more like a ghost town. Had eyes not peeked out from behind curtains their homes, Vincent would have been none the wiser. Identical houses. Decorated the same. Painted the same. The people who inhabited them, the same looks and clothes. All proving how odd the farming community was and leaving Vincent with a bitter taste in his mouth. The same that struck him when he visited the Fort. Opposite to Sky-Watcher's people. Was it solely by choice?

Gentle creaks halted. An old woman looked up from her knitting. Suspicious eyes tracked the two pass her porch. Nestled between her house and the next, sat a large shed. Painted sun bleached gray and shaped like the rest of the homes, nothing about it would stand out if that door wasn't hung ajar. Dark. Stark black against the sun washed shores and blue depths. Not one hint inside of what it was for.

"Hey!" George hollered over the slamming doors. Lawrence and Vincent glanced to the noise. A foul stench drifted in the wake. Scraping metal behind the doors locked them before any nosier eyes came wandering over. "Welcome back!"

Lawrence spun around. "Thank you!" A forced smile crossed the ranger's face as he sauntered casually to the farmer. "Well, Vince here is curious about this 'good word' you mentioned."

"Yes!" Vincent declared, despite the uncertainty twanging his voice. "Tell us."

"Oh, well." A humble grin creased the man's face. Weathered, wrinkled from a hard lifestyle yet still managing a genuine grin. "We believe in a simple life, nothing fancy like what you might find in that sin city. Hard work is happy work."

"Ah…" Vincent forced his distasteful grimace into an insincere smile. "What do you grow?"

"Basic crops," George said, rather enthusiastically for something so mundane. "Corn, agave, and sometimes potatoes come out nice enough." Even as he feigned interest, George never looked Vincent in the eye. Barely stealing a glimpse at all... He waved the two along to continue down the dirt road. "The men tend to the fields and the women usually stay indoors rearing the children and tending to the home." Thumbs pulled up the straps of his suspenders as he gazed on to the quiet fields that lacked their plows. Prideful smile widened an ugly mustache-less beard. "Tell me, what is it you two do? Are you married or family?"

"Uh…" Vincent looked to Lawrence for his queue, but the ranger laughed it off.

"Vince is an odd name for a girl—"

"I am not—"

George about-faced. Vincent's sour glean met George's gaze. "Oh, apologies," he chuckled. A little too long for Vincent's liking. As if George expected him to just laugh it off too. "I meant no offense."

"No hard feelings!" Lawrence interjected. A disarming hand came between them, tempting Vincent to bite back. "What brought you down south again? Nevada ain't the best place for makin' a life right now."

"No, it isn't," George agreed. "We left our old land in Utah after it became apparent only so many could stay—the land just couldn't support all of us."

"I seen Utah," Lawrence said. "It's quite beautiful."

"Oh, that it is," George nodded as a nostalgic smile brought out all his laugh lines. "But we'll make the best of it here while finding others willing to join the light."

"Unlike those people at the station? They don't want to." Grating steps paused at the end of their town and the beginning of a field of corn that wrapped around their homes along the main highway.

"No, not yet at least," George turned away and surveyed the field. Sudden déjà vu whipped Vincent, and he was back in the narrow hallway of the inn. Staring at the same picture for what felt like hours. "What you see is what you get here," George declared. He then turned back to Vincent and Lawrence, auspicious smile, and all. "We're still a small community." George led the return down the dirt path. "We have a hall where we have weekly events. We also educate the children over there. Of course, a barn—we've just begun breeding cattle and beasts of burden."

"What's that shed?" Vincent asked as they passed it again.

"Oh…" Contrived chuckles peeved the boy's ears. "Cold storage. Tools and things here and there… Would you like a place to rest for the night?"

"No, no, we'll be heading back home soon," Lawrence informed.

"We were just curious as to what your people were about." If the boy blinked, he would have missed that brief glance on him. "Never heard or seen your settlement here before."

The farmer clapped hands together. "You're free to stay as long as you'd like."

Vincent raised a finger, poking Lawrence where his armor didn't protect him. Acknowledging glance flickered on the boy. "Thanks," he nodded. "Maybe we'll stay for a bit."

"I ought to return to my work, but let me know if you need anything," George noted with a tip of his hat before finally leaving them altogether. Nonchalant paces took far too long. What if the old man suspected them? Maybe he ought to have culled some of those pensive stares on the stranger….

"What?"

"He said they keep their farming equipment in there," Vincent nodded to the shed. "Then why do they hang them up on the side of the houses? Maybe they got more but…" Lawrence looked over his shoulder to the homes. Sure enough the men retrieved their hoes, pitchforks, and shovels off hooks on the side of their homes. "When we passed by it earlier, those doors slammed shut—did you catch a whiff of that stench?"

He turned back to the boy. Brow arced over the rim of his lenses. "Did you happen to see inside?"

"No, it was too dark."

"That could be the building Quick-Feet mentioned," Lawrence muttered, stroking wiry chin hairs.

"I'm pretty sure her name was Quiet-Feet."

"Never mind they're names!" Lawrence groaned. "They're names are dumb. Weird. Ok? Too much hippy-dippy-hyphen crap."

"Coming from David-Ashley Wyatt-Garrett?"

Lips thinned to a frown. Eyes rolled as Lawrence peered over his shoulder. Nothing too different from the town's he'd find back home, but something just below the surface made him uneasy about the place. Those quirks up in Utah weren't this bad. Lawrence lent a hand to Vincent's arm, "We need to go about this carefully, so we don't raise suspicion."

"Do you really think these are the same people you found in Utah?"

"Obnoxiously nice? A tad self-righteous?" An on-the-fence hum followed a shrug. "Not the exact group I met, but extremely close."

"Maybe we can get the others to help us investigate?"

"Too risky. Plus, I strongly doubt any of them are sober."

"Then let's come back after dark."

Tucked away on the service road, hidden among the brush and a twisted weathered tree, stood their bike. Clearly a great joy to the ranger by how much he tended to every little spot on the sleek body. He even stowed away special rags just for cleaning it. Fuzzy little things he'd get testy about if Vincent used them for anything but the bike. Vincent watched him wipe away another smudge. An insignificant speck of dirt only Lawrence would have noticed. Seemed more like a fool's errand to the boy given they lived in a desert. Lawrence glanced at him, a stale look still soured Vincent's expression.

"Are you mad at me?" He inquired, an unusually timid voice that barely sounded like Lawrence.

"Why would I be mad at you?"

"I did dismiss the obvious offense—"

"Oh," Vincent muttered. "It's whatever…" Eyes rolled along with a sigh. "Just ever notice how everyone talks to you and not me?" He folded arms across his chest, hands hid themselves in his pits for warmth, but it was the drawn brows that brought Lawrence to his feet. A light touch rested on the boy's knee.

"No." Lawrence scratched the scruff of his chin. Now that Vincent mentioned it, he was right. George's discomfort only obvious in hindsight, but then there were the things he couldn't recall. Whether or not the boy's questions had been answered when they stocked their supplies... He could have been clear across the room and some peddler approached him, passing a very prepared Vincent and his list at the counter. The dismissive sighs from a few dealers once the boy sat at the table, but after a drink or two he didn't hesitate to snap back at them—an amusing observation for the ranger. It went completely over his head the whole time and he was ashamed to say it. He was supposed to notice little details like that. "I'm sorry I didn't…"

"I got other stuff on my mind—I'm not mad at you."

"What's on your mind?"

Vincent gazed up to the sky. Dwindling light cast shadows across a clouded canvas while the blue faded to the orange, he compared to cocktails served in the casinos. Scent of fragrant sagebrush conjured up a recent memory shared with the ranger over one too many mojitos. Swirling around in crystal but biting and soothing as minty specks snuck in his sip. Cool. Refreshing like the shade that overtook the warmth of the fading light. A pleasant change from a scathing sun, but his skin seemed to get used to it the more they were out. Burns healed into bronze tans confined to borders dictated by a sleeveless undershirt and its collar. "It's just the more I go along with House, the more I feel this burning question in the back of my mind."

Lawrence swung one leg over the bike and took a seat to face Vincent. "What is it?"

"Well…" Uncertain shoulders rose before hands fell out from their hiding spot. "What separates Caesar from House or either of them from the republic? What makes Caesar wrong and the NCR right?"

"You've mentioned that before." The ranger hung his head. Eyes studied the small hands as he scooped them up into his own. Warm in his chilled grasp. The boy always asked the hardest questions. The kinds that he just didn't have any straight answer to. "I figured Caesar always gone about things the wrong way. It's the same goal we have, same as the NCR too when you boil it down to its bare bones; make peace from a whole lot of chaos here and survive."

"Did I tell you he believes he's doing them a service?" Vincent asked as that lengthy conversation resurfaced. Whenever he contemplated that meeting as he sat across from the most dangerous, wanted man in the Mojave, he always had some new revelation. A realization that blurred the territory of morals and ethics he once thought so rigid. A creeping shadow cast by the tall peak as the sun disappeared. Fading away, a warning of how easily his own light would fade should he fall into the maw of a bear-trap. "He did bring peace to his land—according to the words of the traders I spoke to before I left. He solved the problem of raiders, outlaws, and infighting among his people so they didn't have to worry about being killed out in the wild."

"Yeah, he did. I know that and can't deny it," Lawrence agreed. Only a hint of reluctance seeped through his tone. "I know how he did it too—destroyed everything those people had. Their names, their language, the way of living they thrived on. Then he beat submission into 'em. Truth is, Caesar only funneled that energy into a different conflict." Thumbs followed a repetitive trail across the back of Vincent's hands, but soothing touches seldom shooed away harsh thoughts. "In some ways, the NCR ain't any better with expanding borders, snatching up land even if people already been livin' there—you know how I feel about that. Conflicted is an understatement."

"Yeah..."

Lawrence tilted his head to look in the boy's eyes that had focused elsewhere. "I'm undecided on where I stand on House, but that's a whole other debate givin' me a headache just thinkin' about, honestly." He leaned to Vincent. Strokes paused. A careful breeze picked up the man's cologne. Stronger than he typically remembered. The stench of cigarettes had faded the more he doused clothes in the spicy scent—another reminder to ask Lawrence where he got the stuff. "Are you worried you're on the wrong side?"

"I'm worried about what it is that turns someone into a monster and how to avoid that."

"I couldn't tell you that either." Lawrence loathed to say it. "But, at least you can look at Caesar and know what not to do." A little smile attempted to ease the boy's anxiety when Vincent finally looked at him.

"Did you follow orders and later come to regret it?"

That smile thinned. Jaw clenched as he tore his gaze from Vincent. The second time he'd seen a look of shame cross the ranger's face. "Bitter Springs." He hadn't spoken that name in so long it felt foreign. Taboo as it sent his hairs on end. Was it because how easily it roused those feelings in him, he rather not have? The fear, the regret, and realization he should have had a long time ago. Not every order was the right thing to do.

"I don't know anything about that—Isn't that a refugee camp?"

"Convenient," the ranger scoffed. "It was four years ago. It was murder. We murdered people—I murdered people."

"What do you mean? What made it different from—"

"I was told like every other ranger, like first recon, and other soldiers it was a raider camp. Khans." He took a deep breath as eyes lowered to replay the scene in his head like he had done so for the past four years. "It wasn't. It was a Khan settlement and we—" Shame choked his words. The knot in his throat bobbed. Brows tightened as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Unwanted memories burned in his eyes. The vibrations of the machine gun in his hands as he unleashed it. The commander barking orders at them over the deafening roar of the other guns next to him. Kill them all. Anguished faces that stared on at the firing squad. That look he was too familiar with—the one people wore once they stared down death. Heart pounded against his ribs, erratic as he vied to calm his breaths. "We were told to fire until we're out of ammo—It was regular people. Families, kids—"

"I'm sorry," Vincent shook his head as he cupped the man's face. "Don't torture yourself thinking about it."

"No. I should," he retorted. "Maybe that's what makes people like Caesar. They forget. They don't remember and don't hold on to those regrets to keep their humanity."

Knuckles cracked to fill the silence. Reveling in stretching his joints just a little too hard as if to turn that inner turmoil into something substantial. The physical pain he learned to deal with that. That training he got before ever enlisting. Then ranger training tortured any lingering weakness out of him. Whatever bullet wounds, gashes, and punches he had gotten along the way were nothing compared to the shame and regret that twisted him up inside. That kind of pain just didn't heal.

Vincent caught a glimmer in the stalwart ranger's eyes by the dying light. He refused to look away from the man. Refused to withdraw the warm palms on prickly cheeks. "It's wrong to forget."

Vincent pulled Lawrence to him. Even stronger arms closed what little space remained between them. Needy hands grasped the boy, clinging on for dear life as if the ranger was about to fall into the rushing Colorado. Quelled flutters twitched against Vincent as a hand combed the man's hair. Hushed sniffles quieted behind grating teeth. Doing all he could to stuff those memories and the misery he deserved in the back of his mind for the sake of an image. Gentle hands drifted across his back and shoulders. Whispers assured him while loving touches he didn't earn and weren't owed flowed along. Despite the atrocity he confessed to the boy, Vincent remained. But would he if he knew all the others?

Spent eyes opened, the colorful mess of sunset had vanished completely. A murky sky took over. Breaks in the clouds revealed the stars beyond alongside a timid moon. Shame remained as he hung his head, just for different reasons now. Warm palm rested at the angle of his jaw. He avoided compassionate eyes that beamed so patiently on him.

"I can't say I know what you feel or the things you've done that you aren't proud of," Vincent started. His hand fell to cool white fabric. Then stopped to find the man's limp hands set on the leather seats. "I can say it doesn't change how I feel or think about you. I think you're a good man."

Those words almost threw him into another fit. He seldom heard them before, but he didn't deserve them anyway. Sometimes, in passing from those he helped, he may have earned that title. Yet, from the people who knew him, who knew what he was capable of and what he had done in the name of the New California Republic, he just couldn't recall hearing those words said in any familiar voice. As many times as he sought comfort in moments of weakness of the man who was supposed to help him through it, whenever it came to the things they'd done as rangers, Marcus just never understood him—they didn't understand each other sometimes. Marcus wasn't a callous man, however. These things just never bothered him. It was like dusting the desert off his shoes. He did his best as that was good enough for him, even if he walked away from a massacre or a razed field. Not callous at all, more reserved than healthy sometimes. Absolutely flawed. Just as himself…

"Maybe we should put this off for tonight?"

"N-no," Lawrence shook his head. "Let's figure this crap out and…" His voice trailed away as he got off the bike. Mind wandered away from his thoughts and instead he occupied himself with donning his chest armor. Trembling hands refused to cooperate and bring the buckles together.

"I got it," Vincent said as he reached for the straps. Two clicks later secured the chest piece to the man. Lawrence pulled on his duster—at least that much he could do—before retrieving the helmet from the bike's storage box.

"Why don't you stay here," He suggested.

"Uh, why?" Vincent's brows furrowed as he studied the man, barely meeting his eyes. The man was hard to figure out at times. Lawrence had no reservation comforting, coddling the boy whenever unseen hurt tormented Vincent and he returned that whenever something clearly troubled the ranger… Except, nothing ever did.

Red lenses glowed under intermittent moonlight. A sharp gleam highlighted the scuffs and dents of the helmets. Each one a part of the ranger's story, numerous on their canvas—perhaps one the reasons why he acted in such a way. Lawrence tightened the straps until it fit snug. "I need you to keep watch." He pulled the hidden radio receiver from under his duster. "I have another radio inside my helmet, so use this one and the binoculars to feed me info from high up."

Vincent took it in stride. He meant no slight, but Lawrence also knew Vincent wanted to be down there with him. Maybe he'd just slow the ranger down, anyway. At least perched atop the hills, he had a good look at the layout. Houses glowed by lantern lights. Dirt roads lay empty, quiet and free of prying eyes. He supposed it would be a quick infiltration. Look around the town. Inside that shed.

"Approaching the shed."

Binoculars stopped on the structure. A shadow peaked out behind the corner of a house. Vincent pressed a button on the radio, "I see you. You're clear."

Lawrence turned the corner. Deliberate and quiet steps crept alongside weathered walls until he swung around to the doors. A lock as he expected. He pulled the pouch from his pocket. Delicate tools he seldom had to use wrapped in a rubber band.

"How am I?"

"Still clear." Eyes eventually wandered for a glimpse at the town. Windows dimmed as curtains drew across the glass panes.

"I'm in."

Rusted hinges creaked as Lawrence opened one side as slow and carefully as possible, just enough to slip through. He slid into the darkness. A switch beamed his headlamp on. Dust particles floated by. Washed out wood reflected dampened his light. Tools hung upon their designated hook gleamed. All the normal things needed for a small settlement surrounded empty worktables. "Looks nor—"

Then a hatch nestled in the Northeastern corner.

"There's a hatch in here." He shuffled over to the doors. Tread scraped along a cement floor. "Another lock too," He grumbled. Lock-picking wasn't something he'd say he was the best at. It required a light touch and there was nothing light about the ranger's touch in the field. The fragile pick broke.

He pulled out another pick among the handful he'd learn the hard way to keep on him. A dark pit stared back at him. Soft white painted the first few steps. Edges flickered, battling encroaching darkness. "I'm going into the hatch."

"Town is still quiet."

Intermittent creaks followed him down the rickety stairs. Once feet found solid ground, he scanned the basement. Cold. Bone-chillingly cold. Unusually frigid even for a basement at night. Already shivers crept in and sent his core into spasms. Exposed fingers numbed as their joints hardened. His headlamp glossed over the nearest wall. A long table pushed up against concrete bore a mean glare back at him. Boots clicked, echoing off every surface as they exchanged jeers. Not only did the cold get to him, but the dreadful silence. Heart filled the void, thrumming in his ears, picking up pace.

"Oh fuck!"

Heartbeat scurried up his throat. Adrenaline rushed throughout his body at the morbid sight. Hurried feet nearly tripped over themself without eyes to look where to go. Metal clapping against metal sent a screaming cacophony through the room while heavy breaths vied to escape his mask.

He stared into the serene face. A young man. Stripped of his clothes and dignity, yet clean and in pristine condition. Except for the thin purple lines around his neck. Lawrence pushed off the table, regaining his senses once he realized again he was unfortunately alone. A single corpse swayed gently in front of him. However, something about the young man seemed familiar. A narrow, rather pleasant face with high cheeks asleep. Naturally dark skin, further tanned by a life under the sun as evident by lighter nether regions. Not many went around the desert unprotected. The hair only furthered his suspicions of the man's identity. Single blue ribbon bound long brunette cords behind his back. A hesitant hand rose to the man's face.

"Lawrence, you've been quiet…" Another heart attack nearly seized the ranger at the boy's static whisper.

"I've…" Heavy breaths came back over the radio. "I found something—I need a moment."

"Are you ok?"

"Just spooked the hell out of myself, but yes."

Lawrence sighed. Another long breath to quell the nerves then reached for the unfortunate man again. "Sorry," He whispered as a grimace crinkled his nose. Stiff lids resisted his thumb. Bronze. A similar mix of greens and browns to Sky-Watcher's own eyes. Another heavy sigh blast against his mask. Beyond the corpse, glinting metal caught his eye. Another table and accompanying it, butcher's tools hung on the wall. An assortment of knives, odd oblong things that ended in hooks, but it was the pair of shears with the dense blades that let the cold get to him.

–

He pulled the straps free then plucked off the helmet. The ranger had been silent over the radio on his return trip. Only the instructions for Vincent to meet him at the bike his last words. "What did you find?" Vincent asked, deciding that a few minutes of silence had been enough. Lawrence's thumb and index finger stretched across his face, pulling down weary eyelids. He sat on the bike with a drawn out huff. "Nothing?" Vincent murmured as shoulders fell along with his hopes.

"Where the hell do I start?" Arms flailed out in a dramatic shrug. With one look, Vincent understood the severity, but confusion still hinted in his expression. "They have one corpse on a meat hook, a freezer of butchered meat and a barrel of bones which I can only imagine is what gave them all that meat—and while I am no doctor, I know a human skull when I see one and I saw a lot."

"Oh, jeez…" Vincent started an antsy pace around the bike. "They're cannibals?"

"That's what it's lookin' like—I don't know if I should call this in to Camp Golf or not…"

Vincent stopped as he returned to the ranger. "Why shouldn't you?"

"They're gonna ask me what I'm doing here, why I'm trespassing, regardless of what I found." He shook his head as arms folded across chest. "Even then, NCR may or may not get involved—Not really our territory here."

"Then we do something about it!"

Brows rose over tired eyes. A high arc that meant he was either annoyed at Vincent's plan or interested. "What do you suggest?"

"We confront them," He explained. "Get George alone, maybe threaten him a little and we'll go from there."

Lips pursed in thought as he looked over the boy. Little detail lent to him by the light of the moon. Enough to make out the angle of his nose and cheeks. Moonlight traced all the strands of wavy locks atop his head like it was his crown, while those eyes gleamed defiantly in the dark. "Either way we have to," Lawrence confessed. "I can't let cannibals go on knowing they're here and rangers are supposed to be law in situations like this."

"I'll be with you," Vincent assured him.

A quick ride around the 564-highway loop landed them in Henderson. Night still young enough for the town to harbor a rowdy crowd in the saloons, but nearly too late they almost didn't catch a room. The door creaked shut behind Vincent. He gazed on at the freshly washed man on the bed, bare as the day he was born with but a towel beneath him and already knocked out. He'd only left Lawrence moments ago to satiate a craving for sarsaparilla. Vincent set the bottles on the nightstand then crept around the bed. Warm skin glowed under the lamplight. Damp hair rustled and spiked in all directions after a tassel with a towel. Finally, peace and serenity relaxed every twitchy muscle and sore nerve.

A lone finger glided across his collar bones. Admiring the slope and dip that led to a chest which couldn't have sparked just envy in Vincent alone.

Eyes fluttered open. "Oh!" Lawrence hurriedly covering himself with the towel under him. "Sorry, I fell asleep."

"Nothing I haven't seen before," Vincent laughed. He leaned to the man, pausing before a kiss, "But definitely something I like."

One always turned into two, but tonight was one of those nights when Lawrence needed a third. "You can always join me."

Vincent pulled away, still wearing his smile. A quick shuffle about the room discarded what he did have on in favor of the usual several-sizes too big shirt for sleeping. Curling up in any bed, even if it wasn't actually a bed, managed to bring out all those hidden aches and pains gathered through the day. Yet, having Lawrence next to him, hands entwined as he reclined in the crook of the man's arm numbed all that away.

"Lawrence," Vincent whispered. A hum acknowledged him. "Are you alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Vincent propped himself up on his elbow for a better look at him. Tired eyes met his as a single brow peaked. "What's with that look?"

"After we talked earlier…" The boy's voice trailed off along with courage to confront the ranger. Instead, it seemed that courage made its way to his fingers as he caressed Lawrence's stomach and followed the long trail of short and wiry hair up his midline. "It's like you get embarrassed after saying things like that. Revealing something about yourself you don't like..."

Lawrence's eyes returned to the ceiling. Termite eaten craters dotted the wood panels and supporting vaults. Far too many to count much like the things he was ashamed of. "I've never really told anyone about some of these things I've done."

"That's an awful burden to bear and I'm talking from experience." He glanced at the boy. A worrisome look spurned guilt. He didn't deserve that look or a shoulder to lean on. Eyes faltered and only then could he continue his thoughts. "What about Marcus? Both of you were rangers so he must have understood—"

Lawrence scoffed and shook his head. "Marcus and I couldn't be anymore different when it came to difficult crap."

"Oh." Vincent's hand paused on Lawrence's chest. "Sorry."

"Nothin' to be sorry about," Lawrence muttered. "Everyone's got different needs and while I loved Marcus, he just…" A deep sigh sank his chest. "Wasn't available in the heart most times."

"That must have been difficult to deal with," Vincent whispered. Lawrence raised a hand to Vincent's while the other found the young man's thick mess of waves. A smile reassured him and quickly Lawrence found the boy beaming back at him. "If I'm ever like that, tell me. I didn't like being treated that way by my mother and I don't want you to feel that either."

Silence overtook him as he studied the boy's features. Warmth emanated around him. Bright and welcoming like the aura of the sun that breathed life into the desert outside. Is that what drew him to Vincent? Or was it the smile? A wide grin of not-so perfect teeth framed by soft, inviting lips he loved to feel on his own. Maybe it was the way those eyes just didn't let Lawrence get away with anything. He brought the boy back down to him. Warm, comforting embrace washed away murky clouds in his mind. Life had been wading through mud for far too long, except for all that time he thought it was just water.

"I love you."

Whispering vibrations sent elated, tingling shocks through Vincent. Unexpected. Sudden. Surprising! Echoing in his head as he tried to find his own words. "I—" He sputtered after realizing he'd been staring far too long at Lawrence. "I love you." Part of him hadn't believed it real yet he kept hearing Lawrence's voice in his head as their embrace tightened with a kiss. A kiss to seal those words between them so neither could ever forget. When silence returned, it wasn't an uncomfortable kind. Instead, lulling comfort in each other's embrace as they often found themselves tangled in a more luxurious suite on the Strip.

"Did you feel strange too earlier today?"

"Yeah," Vincent mumbled, brows drawing together as he recalled peculiar events. "It happened after we left those…"

"The hippy camp?"

Vincent laughed and nodded. "I felt everything… At one point I'm sure I was having a staring contest with George's hat."

"Speaking of…" Lawrence's tone darkened. "Are you going to tell them what we found?"

"Think we shouldn't?"

"Well, who I found might not even be one of their own—"

"But, they most likely are…"

Lawrence sighed, "Yes, you're right. I'm more worried about excitin' them and they go on some revenge mission and get themselves massacred."

"They seem harmless though," Vincent reminded. "I think they deserve to know."

"Alright, but let's leave out the cannibalism part."

Vincent pushed himself up and hovered over the man. Tired eyes stared up at him as he smiled at Lawrence. Lips twitched, goading out a smile from the ranger while a hand rested on Vincent's cheek. "I can agree with that."

The bike's roars and sputters echoed all the way through the mountains, announcing their presence before they could show themselves to the camp. Friendly smiles and waves met them, but the novelty of the two men had worn off since their last visit. Several slapped together an odd sculpture of junk, wire mesh, gears, rods, and weathered plastic into vague shapes of the world around them. A typical day it seemed for these people was mostly one of leisure, but others tended to their shelters, albeit resetting scrap metal to hold down the tarps wasn't much work anyway. Sat where they last seen her, Sky-Watcher gathered with others around the fire pit upon a nest of blankets, pillows, and pelts. Long metal wires plucked from the surrounding fence their camp skewered their foraging success over the fire. Hands passed around familiar bowls; little umbrellas included. Lively conversation recalled last night's dreams in wild and fanciful tales surely embellished by an imagination.

A bright grin flashed to the two once she saw them. "I'm-Vincent, That's-Lawrence return."

"Hello," Vincent timidly nodded, glossing over the affable crowd. Happy smiles unaware of the danger down the road, he reconsidered Lawrence's words. Vincent knelt next to their leader, careful to avoid dirtying her long and colorful skirt. "I think we should talk. Privately."

She glanced to Lawrence then to her people, before quietly agreeing and coming to her feet. "Continue," she urged her kin, assuring she would rejoin soon. Then, Sky-Watcher led Lawrence and Vincent to one of many limbs of the pylons systematically lining the old station. Faint buzzing irritated the ears, loud enough to hear, but low enough to make you question if it was really there. Overhead, long cables surged with their unseen load. Stretching across the station until it met the towering metal giants that carried precious energy all the way to Vegas.

"Secrets are like weeds, but your faces speak more than words."

"I may have found one of your people," Lawrence stated. He opened his notebook. Black and white blots blurred on the pages as he flipped through. "Is this Cactus-Cooler?"

Lips quivered at the sketch. One Lawrence had made with diligent care over breakfast. Vincent watched quietly as the ranger debated himself, even neglecting a full plate of food in efforts to capture the face he saw. Correcting the little details here and there. The trivial things that could give someone his identity back. Despite Vincent's assurance, the ranger regretted the drawing was only that of a sleeping boy. Copper-tinted eyes blinked away tears as she stared at the paper. A weak voice fought through the knots in her throat, "Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"You saw him where?" She recomposed herself, still failing to hide the pain watering eyes.

Lawrence glanced at Vincent. His frown deepened, hesitant, but he knew Vincent was right. He thoroughly questioned anyone about Marcus, and he knew the man was dead for sure. He never thought what he would have done, let alone feel if he thought Marcus was still alive somewhere. "The people in Arvee Park…"

"May I…" Sky-Watcher's hand rest on his wrist. Pleading eyes begged for his generosity. "May I keep that?" Lawrence pulled the page out, carefully, and delicately as he learned from one too many rips on the pages before it.

"Who was he to you and your people?" Vincent inquired as he observed the woman staring at the grey scale still. "If you don't mind me asking."

"He is my son."

A terrible silence drained any energy to speak. Sky-Watcher however, hadn't noticed. Too enthralled with the paper death-mask of her son. Tears streamed down her cheeks, darkening rich skin in narrow lines before dripping off her chin. "I have felt it. Now I must let others feel it." She hung her head back, taking in deep breaths before turning back to the gathering at the fire. More joined the crowd gossiping among themselves. Almost all eyes watched the distant meeting.

"We should talk to George," Vincent decided. Sky-Watcher stood in her spot, looking over all the familiar faces of her people in silence, before raising Lawrence's sketch. Muffled under creaking towers and buzzing wires, one didn't need to hear those words to know what she said.

"After hearing that," Lawrence grumbled as a grimace scrunched his face. "I got a lot more than talkin' to do."

Vincent stole a last glance at the group surrounding the firepit. Just a small tribe trying to make it in the wild of the desert as they saw fit. Children, elders, and all those in between, except for one. A young man, but still someone's son, brother, friend, maybe lover, wouldn't return. In the lows of a valley to the West, amidst a sea of Joshua trees, a different mother lost their child. While the great tragedy had been several years behind her, there was no doubt the missing child in question knew it had to have hurt. It wasn't a tragedy of death, but with several years gone, she may have thought that was the case now.

—

During the day, the men of Arvee Park could be found tending their crops and animals. The women made their presence known taking brief breaks outside, beating carpets or washing and hanging clothes to dry. The children… Did the children know too? Sleeves wrapped around his arms soaked up sweat. Gray spots on a white shirt clung to him as he tilled the soil of an empty field. The farmer paused for a breather, then looked up to oncoming guests.

"Good morning to you," He managed to shout between heavy breaths.

Lawrence halted at the fence. One boot rose to the lowest plank while elbows rested on the upper bar. "Mornin' George," He nodded while discrete eyes surveyed their surroundings. Just the three of them and an open field set on the side of the highway. "Mind if we talk?"

Still keeping a friendly smile, George joined them at the fence. "I could use a drink of water," he said, a few aches and pains slowing his gait on the way over. Curved back straightened after a few steps and one wince. "What can I do for you?"

"It's about the tribals in the station and what you have in your shed?"

He paused. A cocked head and drawn brows looked to Lawrence, "The shed?"

"I've seen what's down there."

George laughed, "Alright." He turned back on his trail to the well, leaving Lawrence and Vincent to exchange concerned glances. Hands rest on the butt of their pistols. Each evaluating the man, then the town for any allies of his. Crunching gravel stopped under George's boots. "What's all that?"

Shouts and hollers funneled down the road. Colorful and bare skinned, he recognized them far away. George ditched his staggered pace and bolted for the commotion.

"This is not our way!" Sky-Watcher cried. Several of her own stood with her holding back a line of no longer unarmed hippies. All junk. Wires wrapped around shaped to a barbed bat, a club of corroded wrenches, and pipes waved in excitement.

"They killed him!"

"You cannot wash blood with blood!" She grasped the young man's shoulders and stared to him, beckoning the mob to turn around and back to the station.

"My Lord, what has happened here?"

"The sinners came out of the mountains!" A line of farmers stood at the edge of town, rifles in hand. Loaded and cocked, aimed at the blasphemers.

"Hold your fucking horses!" Lawrence shouted, planting himself in the middle along with Sky-Watcher and a few of her frightened girls. Hands rose to both sides. Far too twitchy and trigger happy, a scene he'd seen plenty of times before and one that rarely ended without a few new holes in somebody. Dirtied hands urged his brethren to lower their arms as George stood before them.

"Nobody here is going to attack anyone!" Vincent roared, taking his place next to the ranger. Both drew their pistols while less deadly glances studied the mobs. "Sky-Watcher—"

"Forgive me, I'm-Vincent," She pleaded. "Some of my family are overwhelmed with anger at my son's passing."

"He was murdered!"

"And killing another will not bring him back!" Arms waved widely, pleading for them to see reason. Distress twisted her face and eyes teared. "Haven't I taught you better?"

"We do not murder!" George exclaimed. "I do not know what happened to your missing man, but it was not my people."

"Lies!" Ambiguous shouts and echoes tensed the farmers. Now more gathered behind their front line. Their wives and children watched on in curiosity even as husbands and fathers urged them to leave. "That's-Lawrence saw him!"

"Saw him?" George turned his scowl on Lawrence. "Is this what you're doing? You lied to—"

"Maybe you should have left them alone and you wouldn't be in this mess!" Vincent growled as he crossed the short distance between them. Thumb rested heavy on his pistol's hammer, waiting for the right move, the right excuse to fire. "Do I need to remind you?" He lowered his growl to a whisper. "We know you're cannibals."

"How dare you!" Disgust deepened every wrinkle. Teeth grinding, George's face washed red. Steaming hotter than the sun, Vincent thought he may have detonated the man. "Blasphemers! Heathens! The lot of you!" Rifles cocked, startling Lawrence, ripping his attention back to the hippies.

"No!" Sky-Watcher begged. She rushed from one to another, hands send upon familiar faces as she stared in their eyes. Shaking legs nearly tangling between her. "Please, come to your senses."

"You should listen to her," George suggested. "We want no war with you people."

"Let them pass and let them be," Vincent ordered. George's glare flashed to the boy then back to his more serious threat.

"When my people have disputes, we settle them," George declared. Rifles behind him lowered as his neighbors watched him. "We duel. No guns, just hands and wit."

"I win you let these people go—" George scoffed and shook his head as he looked at the boy. The mobs quieted, but twitchy eyes and feet still danced around, ready to resume their assault. Vincent closed in on the man. Nearly as tall as Lawrence, not as battle-hardened but still obviously stronger. Chest puffed with a relentless stare to the taller man. "What's so funny?"

"Girls don't—"

"Good thing I'm not girl, so let's go!" Another chuckle bleated as Vincent raised little fists. George looked over him to the few between the horde of angry tribals. "Down here, asshole—You got a problem with me you settle it with me."

"If you are a man—" The farmer's glower settled on Vincent again. Arms crossed, flexing forearms the size of both Vincent's put together. "Then fight like one."

"Hold on!" Lawrence cut in. Vincent grumbled as the ranger pulled him away. "You are going to get hurt."

"I want to fight my own battles!"

Lawrence sighed. Palms slid down Vincent's shoulders to meet the boy's hands. Lawrence knew he'd be just as angry if anyone yanked him out of a fight thinking he was incapable, yet Vincent had everything but the capability to back him up. "Vince," he whispered.

"You can always send a real man in your stead."

"Now he's gone and made it personal!" Vincent hissed as he pushed away. He spun around to face the man. Just another Benny—except he couldn't kill this one. He paced around George with a firm stance and hands out to grab just like Lawrence taught him. Size had been his weakness for as long as he could remember, but as a girl he could have skated by on the "you-don't-hit-girls" bull. However, he still found his fair-share of trouble. Usually, it was a different kind of assault than just fisticuffs. Too many times he let fear get to him. Chase him off from a job or a town.

Shouts and cheers drowned out as he focused on George. He may be taller and bigger, but he was older. Slower. Vincent rushed the man. George threw his first punch, but Vincent jerked to one side. Grabbing the older man by his arm, Vincent sprung up. Clawing up by tearing him down. Legs propelled by adrenaline wrapped around George's neck as grunts and fist flailed, striking the man's head and face. Growls turned to screeches as everything the farmer did to slight him boiled to the surface. Tunnel vision snared him. Not even as the man fell to his knees did he halt—at least until he got a better idea to keep George down.

George hunched over, hiding his head beneath his arms. Vincent jumped off his back then planted a kick on his side. One hard punt on the man rolled him over on his back. Strained huffs inflated then deflated his chest with a dire rapidness. A pained wince twisted his face. Down—Maybe, but that wasn't a risk Vincent was willing to take. Another swift boot to the man, this time in his most sensitive area sent a collective groan over both sides of the riot.

Arms strangled his waist, plucking him up off the ground as he kicked and flailed. "Vincent!" Lawrence shouted and pleaded as he set the boy down. "Please don't kick my dick!" One leg came up to guard his dedicates. Wild eyes fixed on Lawrence until Vincent took control once again. "I was hopin' you liked that part..." The thrill washed away, leaving Vincent shaking. Tunnel vision decayed and opened up his eyes to the scene. George lay coddled by two women. Handkerchiefs patted away a bloodied nose while another whispered to calm the man's own nerves. Tribals whistled and cheered, calling for I'm-Vincent. "Alright, well you surprised me again," Lawrence patted Vincent's shoulder.

"You will let these people come and go as they please." The man winced and Vincent drew closer. A flinch followed an accusatory finger. Fire still burned in his eyes, threatening to explode once more. The women jumped, clutching heavy skirts, and crowding the man as if to protect him from the boy. "You will refrain from forcing whatever beliefs you have on others. You will stop the cannibalism or I'll get the NCR involved and they will not be as lenient as me."

Gasps rounded the farmers. Cries wailed from the women as chatter picked up on both sides. George exhaled, a spray of blood painted his lips in little dots and splatters. "We aren't…" He huffed and pushed himself up. "We aren't cannibals. I swear by all that is holy! We have never eaten another human, nor have we murdered anyone."

Lawrence sighed. Arms crossed his chest as he looked down on the man. "NCR has a reputation for executin' cannibals—"

"If you don't believe us…" George groaned as his peers helped him to his feet. Splotches darkened beneath tanned skin. Burst blood vessels webbed under the surface as a hand protected a tender ache in his side. "Go look. Look in the shed. We don't butcher people."

"George." One man spoke up. A heavy silence came over the crowd on both sides. Eyes turned to him and his face drained of color. "I have a confession."

"Brother Tomas?" George huffed and winced as he turned to his kin.

"My hunters and I…" Tomas pulled the hat off his head. Rolling and pinching the brim in his hands, he continued, "We haven't found anything untouched by radiation. No more sheep, cattle, not even birds in this land!" Eyes lowered, weighed down by a cold sweat streaming along his brow and cheeks. "A few visitors—sinners and blasphemers of course!—Are the meat we've been eating."

George's jaw dropped. Face washed white. Disgust, horror seized him as he nearly fell to his knees again. "What have you done?" Trembling legs gave out under him.

Lawrence raised his pistol to Tomas, "Drop the rifles." The hunters complied, setting the rifles at their feet then raising hands for all to see. Horrified wails echoed through the town. "Go to the cooler," George ordered his nearest men. "We must bury everyth—everyone in there."

"My son!" Sky-Watcher called. Plans put on hold as the farmers looked at her. "Please, if anything remains of him…"

"Give the mother her child," George muttered. Once the men disappeared for the shed, the farmer slumped over as reality set in. Face buried in the privacy of his hands as he cried. Not even the tribals took any ounce of glee in seeing their harassers so ashamed. Silence thickened. Voices fell to whispers. Suspicious eyes studied their enemy. When they emerged from the shed, truth cast its light on the evidence. A body, chilled and blue, drew out his mother's cries once more. As quickly as they disappeared, the farmers' wives came from their homes ready to give up linens to wrap the man in.

"I don't know if I feel accomplished here," Vincent said. Lawrence set a hand on the boy's shoulder, taking him away from the scene.

"The dick-kickin' was a little much…"

"I did get a li'l' carried away," Vincent shrugged.

Once they retreated to the shade of a porch, Lawrence leaned on the beam. Heavy sigh exhaled before he quieted his lips with a cigarette. Lighter whipped. Two tries took it to ignite. "That's been a lot of my work, to be honest. Not knowing how you done."

"I think I misjudged these weirdos as much as it pains me to say."

"Which weirdos?"

Vincent chuckled, hiding a bashful smile. But those smiles disappeared too often. Sky-Watcher wrapped her son with the help of those women who were their enemy only moments ago. Delicate and tender, as if he was their own. Several of his family hefted the stiff body up, carrying the burden across each other's shoulders. Sky-Watcher came to her feet again. Anguish hid beneath a hand as her attendants whispered comforting words. Maybe a similar sight was witnessed somewhere back home and several years ago. "You can only do your best, Vincent," Lawrence whispered. Arm reached around the boy's shoulder, pulling him into a hug.

"Great helpers."

The embrace paused. Slow feet brought Sky-Watcher their way. Hands clasped behind her and back straightened. No smiles remained. Just damp trails, glistening under a midday sun alongside brilliant eyes. "I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for us."

"Didn't do much…" Vincent muttered.

She shook her head, "No, you have given me my son back. Please, join us tonight. The least I can do is share our fire and food."

The rest of the day had been given to the late Cactus-Cooler. Memories of the man passed around just as soldiers and rangers often did in the mess halls. Stories, serious and silly, brought a gathering around the firepit, until it was time. Sky-Watcher explained as she removed her adornments, washed away the paint on her skin and face until she was bare as the day she was born. Layer by layer, they removed the linens around the body. Then oddly enough, they left him atop the mountain. On the highest peak, as close to the sky as they could get. To "return him to the sky" as she put it. Then it seemed as if none of it had happened. Smiles and laughs returned to the tribe, continuing well into the night gathered around their fire.

Little feet scurried over to them, weaving through dancers and meanderers. "Food!" Quiet-Feet exclaimed. She left them their bowls and disappeared back to where she came from. Several more rounds to go before she'd get to sit down and enjoy her own.

"Oh…"

"What?" Lawrence looked at him. Fork combed out a mushroom, then another, and another.

"I don't really like mushrooms…"

"Food's food," Lawrence muttered through a full mouth. He raised his plate to Vincent's, scraping off the fungus for himself. "You gettin' picky?"

"I'm getting refined."

Around and around, they danced to the beat of drums and a few reclaimed guitars. Warmed by firelight but illuminated by the moon. Curious ones stopped at the two, introduced by Sky-Watcher before they'd sing praises or ask an odd question or two about the strangers. Each one however, Sky-Watcher had an antidote to tell. A humorous trait or how they got their names. An emptying cauldron mellowed the crowd. Beats calmed and strings silenced. Dancers, minglers, and musicians took permanent spots around their camp.

"Don't suppose you want to head to Henderson?" Vincent asked.

Then the peculiar silence drew Vincent's attention to the emptiness beside him. He turned around, scanning the crowd. Still, calm as they babbled about the paint on their skin, the events of the day, or gazed on at the sky. He turned his back to the fire and called to the dark corners of the power station. "Lawrence?"

—

"Hey!" His smile gleamed on par with the fire that engulfed him. Amber eyes still twinkled despite the horrors they'd seen. Beautifully tanned all but where his sunglasses shielded his eyes. "How you doing?"

Another bright day on the 15 gathered around them. Not a cloud in the sky. Not a peep of danger in the hills or the highway. Just the hot air that dried the back of his throat and warmed his lungs with every breath. Brilliant sun beat down, juicing the two like sponges. He pushed the rifle out of the way behind his back. Arms raised out, inviting him in like he always did when they reunited from a long divide. Where Lawrence hesitated to reach the man engulfed in flames, Marcus closed that gap between them. Once he felt those arms around him, the snug bear hugs he was known for by any who were blessed to experience them, his heart settled. Nothing could end the moment. No matter how hot they already were. No matter how much he hated the way wet clothes clung to his skin or the sun burning his scalp. Breaths evened and his nose picked up a familiar scent. Overpowering. He hated it at first, but the cologne grew on him. Marcus wore it for the same Lawrence had his own. Hide the stench of that bad habit they both picked up from someone else. "Still looking good," He chuckled. His voice echoed. Gestures stuttered like a busted terminal screen. He wore a smile stuck in a photograph.

"You died," Lawrence whispered.

"I did," Marcus confirmed. Yet Lawrence still felt his hair between his fingers. Jealousy thick, brown that caught the gold light of the sun at its tips. Then the gray shadow of stubble on his cheeks. Prickly, dreadfully unshaven and unruly just as Lawrence missed. The rhythm of the dead man's heart beating along with his own. A knot tied up his throat while his grip around Marcus tightened.

"You'll have to let me go eventually—Gotta get back to work out there."

"No." Lawrence shook his head. Eyes shut against the relentless fire. Searing, blinding, lights that should have burned just as hot, yet it wasn't sweat that streamed down his face.

"I'll be back before you know it." The echo faded. A lingering toll in his ears like a gunshot leaving him with a wince as it zipped by. Strong embrace weakened. Firelight faded. Delirious eyes opened to catch the last glimpse of a ghost.

"No!" Lawrence cried, voice breaking under the suffocating grip on his heart. Frantic hands reached for the apparition. One last static image burned in his eyes replaced the other that haunted him for so long. A smile he'd always miss. One that could never be replaced, worn upon a man that could never be usurped. He fell to his knees. The clear day on a desert highway disappeared. Disbelief wrung his face. Twisted his heart as if he suddenly learned again, Marcus was dead. Yet something else accompanied that revelation he didn't have the first time around. The reality of it. It wasn't guilt that had eaten him alive the past few weeks—It was grief.

The grief he had denied himself the moment the news broke. Mourning something wonderful he once had, but this time knowing it was truly gone forever. A reality he should have learned somewhere in those years on his own; holding on to something so tight had only hurt him the moment he grabbed it. No matter how many broken veins bruised his arms, nor nails slicing his palms, and not the aching tendons clamped around the hope the news wasn't true, none of that would change a thing. A somber epiphany that oddly brought some comfort and once disappeared, taking whatever had watered his eyes along with it.

"Lawrence!" Enormous pupils overtook oceanic irises. Staring up at him. Seeing him, but not knowing him. "Are you alright?" Vincent raised a hand to the man's cheek, but those vacant eyes reflected Vincent's outline back at him. Despondent. Empty as if there was nothing behind them. Yet, he still breathed. Blood still colored his skin and his heart still beat. "Ok…" Vincent shifted, discomforted by the stare and the prospect there was to be no comfy bed tonight, not even a bed. "Guess we're stay—"

Rabble picked up. Louder than it was moments ago. Too loud and anxious. He whipped around to the crowd. A hoard of them gathered around the fire, staring on at the gates. Between the gaps he spotted red. A particular red he had enough of when he visited the Fort. Fear struck him first, then the cold metal holstered at his side. Vincent looked to Lawrence. Completely gone. Lost in his own world staring at a sky as empty as him.

Fear became dread at the first shot. Vincent jumped up, cocking the pistol and examining the crowd. Cries and wails followed as the horde of them fled. Three legion soldiers stood at the gate. At their feet, their victims. Blood leaked from holes not meant to have—the result of one shotgun. The other two soldiers wielded spears and machetes typical of the legion, basic foot-soldiers told by their uniforms. The one with the gun however… Commanding officers got the better guns, the better uniforms. At least he may have an upper hand once he took the shooter out of the equation. He held his breath. Eyes focused down the sights. No time for anxiety or fear he reminded himself. It's what Lawrence would have done, right?

Clammy trigger finger pulled. Not even a flinch got between him and his targets. Red spurted from the soldier. He dropped the gun and clasped his neck. A geyser sprayed through his fingers as he fell to dirt. Tribals scrambled again. Soldiers startled, they poked and hacked at the swarm as if swatting flies. Rigid arms stayed with his pistol, cursing as any clear shot lost in the chaos.

Amidst the commotion, one fought back as Vincent drew closer. Fists flew. Unskilled, but coordinated by instinct. The legionnaire blocked, bringing the spear shaft across his chest. One brave man faced the legionnaire. He grabbed the shaft. Wrestling for dominance, struggling dances skirted the fire pit for only seconds before the soldier found his footing and kicked the man. He stumbled, tripping over a fallen ally and landing on his back. Before eyes could focus, the spearhead plunged into his gut. Shirked off like trash and left to rot in the dirt, the legionnaire pulled the spear out excruciatingly slow. The dying man clutched his wound. Grasping at the glistening strings twisted around the spearhead.

Certain death washed any color from the man's face. A terrible look that struck the boy with dread as if feeling it all over again himself.

He unleashed rounds in the soldier. Only once the legionnaire was on his knees, recoiling from the blow did he look up to his killer. Vincent closed in on the soldier. Fury rushed through and before he truly decided to, he shoved the invader into the fire pit. Exasperated breaths turned to screams as he flailed about. Burning and frantic for relief. Desperately clawing the walls of the hole. Dirt slid, slipping his grip along as gravel and rock tore burning flesh.

A final bullet pushed him into the fire where he belonged. Not dead. No, no part of Vincent wanted the soldier to die, yet.

But he wasn't the only legionnaire who needed to suffer. The cock of the shotgun showed him to the man in question—On the other end of the barrel. "Leave!" She wailed. Tears and sweat mixed in with black paint. Crooked trails flowed over the curves of an anguished face that had seen one too many tragedies for the day. Wild eyes focused on the stranger. Daring to shoot. Threatening to set aside her own ethics and morals she touted hours earlier. Her people gathered around her. Armed by random junk and finding their confidence behind Sky-Watcher.

The soldier's expression hid behind darkened goggles. Hands tightened around the machete. A subtle twitch in his head evaluated the woman. Wondering if he was quicker than her. Wondering if her threats had substance. Vincent knew better. Anything in that red uniform wasn't one to give into threats. He pulled the trigger. No longer did it seem to have any weight to the boy. No doubt. No second-guess. No resistance… As gracelessly as that nameless man was brought into this world, he left. A flailing mess, gripping the gushing wound in his chest. Gagging on his own blood as the world slipped away.

Sky-Watcher lowered the shotgun. Back straightened as she vied to retain her composure. She turned to Vincent. Eyes glistened by the firelight with an expression that told all he needed to know. Gaze flickered around him. Lips quivered. She shook her head. Dead. More or her people dead.

"Sky-Watcher." Vincent holstered his pistol as he approached her. Adrenaline diffused, leaving him to shaky withdrawals. Fearing the kind woman's reprimand or accusation of bringing these monsters to them, he studied her face. Blank. Terribly solemn despite the horrors that came with the dark of night. Nothing to lend him any idea of what the woman thought of her alleged "helpers".

"What have we done?" she whispered.

"There's probably more out there," he said. "Plea—"

"Have we done something to deserve this?"

"No!" Vincent declared. "They are Legion. They're just… Evil. Enemies of any who aren't one of them." She blinked away oncoming tears. Gentle streams broke through as she stared to the sight. Three—no four. Then five. More numbered the longer she looked. "Look. You need to stay here. Gather everyone around, stay together while I take care of the rest."

"There could be an army out there!" A man called from the crowd.

"There is no army out there," Vincent corrected. Stern tone hushed any who thought to speak. A tone that reminded him of Lawrence. He looked over his shoulder. The ranger lounged against the concrete foundation of a pylon just where Vincent left him. Blissfully unaware of anything as he reached for invisible lights around him. "Legion are opportunists. I don't doubt this is just a roaming party of them," Vincent continued. "Stay here and keep that shotgun ready—I promise I'll do my best to make sure you won't have to use it."

Sky-Watcher nodded. She turned to her people, "Stay by the fire light. No more will die tonight!"

"Bring Lawrence over," Vincent added as he pointed to the ranger and two men splintered off for the dazed man. Vincent parted the flock for the bike stowed by a mound of salvage. Just where he knew it would be, he pulled Lawrence's helmet from the compartment mounted to the back. His glare stared back at him. Ignited red by the lenses, the glow of the fire behind him reminded he couldn't afford to hesitate. He tightened the straps, still a bit too big for him. Black mountains bloomed in the unseen light of night. Every little detail clarified in a slate palette. Even the black sky glowed overhead in silver. At least no one occupied the mountain range.

He checked his clip—No, a full one would be the tactical choice. Lawrence taught him better than that: don't underestimate how many enemies you have out there. He stole a spare from his vest and reminded himself of three more full ones. Now came the hard part. Surviving. He had been good at that, but Vincent wouldn't have said so aloud for fear it would turn his luck. Luck he would desperately need without Lawrence's help. He tore back the loose fence-wire. A quick glance through the hole cleared him to squeeze out.

Treading lightly around the fence, he parsed through everything the ranger told him about the legion. Every seemingly minute detail Lawrence stored in a notebook and his brain: tactics, weaponry, and of course the suicidal tendency Vincent witnessed first-hand. The preference for "traditional" arms would be his advantage—perhaps a matter of pride or an insult on Caesar's part, or just plain idiocy as Lawrence pondered. Yet, Caesar's less-than-ideally armed men often got the upper-hand on the NCR's automatic weapons. Wide eyes scanned bleached surroundings. Searching for any trace or trail of more soldiers as he took the long way around the compound. Lawrence said their basic troop structure was always five, led by one commanding officer easily told apart. Depending on their mission, those others could be recruits, foot-soldiers without any experience outside a training ring or they could be an experienced hit-squad.

He held his breath.

Harsh whispers caught his attention. Vincent paused and listened. Nothing he could parse aside from the tone easily recognized as bickering. Nothing coherent—Unless it was because it was Latin.

Quiet steps continued. He peered around the corner. Retreating the moment he saw all he needed. Two soldiers. No gun holsters. Just machetes in their grips and knives at their waists. He took a deep breath then jumped around again. Shot after shot rang out. Explosions from the barrel blinded low-light lenses. More shots than needed. Just for good measure. He pulled back to his cover. Gun aimed for whatever could turn the corner at any moment.

Nothing.

Rings chiming in his ears beneath anxious breath. He jumped out. Arms lowered at the sight of two collapsed bodies. One on the other. But it wasn't over yet. He scanned the road. Then the mountains. Then again and again. He climbed up the hillside, perching on a ridge for a better view. Only the secrecy of night. Rustling brush in the wind. Howls funneled through the canyon. Frightened lizards kicking up dirt before Vincent stepped on them. Muscles burned. Back ached from rigid posture. Sweat dampened his clothes, but nothing bothered the boy. Not when his life or Lawrence's could be at stake. Motivation for the next night all he held onto in spite of a faltering grip on the next rock. Another comfortable night in their suite. Alone, cuddled on the sofa listening to the radio after a pleasant dinner, or maybe in bed… Shaking arms refused to cooperate. Even a generous coating of dirt and grime on his fingers wouldn't grip the rough stone. Maybe it was time to return…

Sky-Watcher stood at the front line. Staring down the gate with the shotgun alongside what remained of her people. The crackling fire the only noise in their camp. No conversation and no more tears left to shed. Instead, they mourned silently at the bodies of their family laid by the fire and covered by spare blankets and tarps. Double-barrels lowered to the ground as Sky-Watcher eagerly awaited the boy at the gate.

Vincent pulled off the helmet. "I only found two," He breathed. Chest heaved, needing more than his lungs could take in. Cool air chilled a sweaty head. Shaking legs gave out under him, keeping their promise not to collapse until he returned to Lawrence. "I searched everywhere. I didn't find any more." Sky-Watcher nodded. Shoulders relaxed. She set the shotgun aside to take her place at the fire. "What's going on with him?" Vincent scooped up the ranger. Still as disoriented as when he left. Tired, half-lidded eyes stared up at him. Lips mumbled nonsense as Lawrence shivered.

"I propose a new name; Took-too-much," one said—The one he was certain was Gary—a little chuckle broke through his words. He hunched over one man, tending to a wound with high hopes for it to not be fatal.

"The mushrooms in the dinner have that effect when you eat too much," Sky-Watcher said. "He will be alright in the morning with wild things to tell you." She adjusted a knitted shawl around her shoulders. The shotgun sat between them. The space between her and the weapon like a hint for Vincent to take it away. "It is a part of the mourning dinner. They can show us those we lost."

"Oh…" Vincent muttered. He draped the duster over Lawrence. He combed his fingers through the man's hair. Dampened by sweat, the rest of him undecided between the heat of the fire or the chill of night. His gaze faltered at the boy's touch. Finally closing as he relaxed in Vincent's arms. Show us those we lost… The man surely wasn't having a good time if that was true. "I'm so sorry this happened," Vincent shook his head as he looked up to Sky-Watcher. "I can't imagine how much this has hurt you, your people..."

"You did not kill my son, or my people," Sky-Watcher corrected. "We are grateful you are here. More would be dead. Maybe all of us."

Never had he felt such strangeness, staring up into a sky he saw a million times over and knew never changed. Yet, he stared until blue seeped in, dyeing away the orange and red and finally engulfing the dark completely. It was different. Or maybe his eyes were different. Feeling a new world after some epiphany from the night before enlightened him. As if stricken deaf, but he could still feel the toll of a bell. Ringing in his ears with no end near. The quiet morning disappeared once the others gathered around him, but not for him. They lifted their kin. One by one, two men hefted stiff bodies cradled by dusted blankets and crumpling tarps. A sight that finally made him rise before he would be next. People gathered around a dimming fire. Silent as they shared breakfast. Solemn faces colored by cracked paint. Eyes darkened from a sleepless night leaving no energy to tame bed-tossed hair.

Donning his duster, he searched the traffic for Vincent. He followed the bearers outside the gate. Their trail led them up the hills to the peaks of the mountains, but Lawrence paused once he spotted the boy. Alone, Vincent dragged a legionnaire to their own pile. He searched them, tossing aside ammunition or the odd valuable here and there. A soft dust cloud broke his attention. He looked up to Lawrence. Mouth agape as he stared at the boy, unsure what to say let alone how to say it.

"You feeling ok?" Vincent asked.

"What?" Lawrence rustled his hair as brows narrowed. One charred to a crisp, twisted and shrunk to his bones. The others dispatched by bullets. "What happened? I don't—"

Vincent sighed and stood up. "Legion ambush last night. I took care of it though."

Lawrence planted his hands on Vincent's shoulders. He stared at the boy. Gray pooled under his eyes. Exhaustion slowed his limbs. Dirt dusted his face and clothes. He pulled Vincent into a tight embrace. "I didn't do anything…" He muttered. "I thought I was dreaming. I couldn't move. I couldn't say any—"

Vincent laughed. "You were wasted."

"What?"

Vincent looked up to him. Disarming smile met the ranger. The last thing he'd expect after Vincent's briefing. "Mushrooms. Speaking of—Sky-Watcher told me they can make you see things that aren't there, like people who've passed away..." Vincent took the man's hands as his tone softened. "If you want to talk about it, I'm here; I can imagine it must have been terrifying not knowing that could happen."

Lawrence blinked. Gaze faltered as he squeezed the boy's hands. "I just want to get out of here."

Vincent nodded. "Me too. I was just waiting for you to wake up."

Departure wasn't any easier. Despite feeling as though he should stay and bear the weight with them, Vincent did all he could do. He managed to get the upper hand on a Legion troop by himself and save them from certain death—but he was lucky. Sky-Watcher assured them they would depart after leaving their kin in their final resting places. "To the great basking," Sky-Watcher commanded, and that was all he needed to know. Most were silent. Giving thanks, but still so very twisted up inside and he felt it.

Turning the bend of the road brought some relief. They would be home in less than an hour and he could confirm to Mr. House the power relay station would no longer be an issue. The old man would probably send out two securitrons and keep a grip on the place. Then definitely put in requests for repairs after getting a better look. But relief was short-lived. Black smoke polluted the sky. Pluming up in fluffed columns. Pooled overhead the small town of Arvee Park like rad-storm threatening clouds. The motorcycle came to a hard stop. A quick squeal followed then ended in a jolt, but nothing that could shake them harder than what they saw.

Ash.

All that remained were the smoldering armatures of their homes. Humble fields burned to black plots. Tainted by the legion's touch. Smeared across the shoreline, ash mixed with sand awaiting to be lapped away by Lake Mead. No hard workers shuffled around to tear down the decay. None to comb through the soiled field—and then he spotted why. Three crosses he'd mistaken for more resilient beams of the crumbling homes stood among the ruin. Singed, blackened bodies still hung on shriveled wood. The rest of the town most likely dead. Slaughtered, massacred according to the Legion's traditions—his only hope was they died quicker than the crucified.

When Lawrence looked back at him, he wasn't sure what he expected. Horror? Tears? Twisted up in self-loathing and grief? Instead, Vincent only stared. Stone-faced, better than anything Lawrence could muster. His piercing glare down on the town ignored the ranger yet it struck Lawrence like lightning. The rest of him still felt some need to reassure the boy it wasn't his fault even though Vincent didn't appear to need it. It had to gouge him. He knew Vincent knew. Those legionnaires were there for him. Maybe commanded by Caesar himself or just taking an opportunity where they saw one. Lawrence sighed and reached behind him to touch Vincent's knee. "I'm sorry."

"He can keep sending them and I'll keep killing them."

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Back by "popular" "demand"
I've been busy with school and work and procrastinating! I'm updating, writing, and illustrating any chance I get. Editing previous chapters as form of personal torture. This one had a lot good god. Ngl tho I was either high or drinking when I finished it. Gotta find inspiration (motivation) where you can...