Light beamed in his eye, burning a black and purple iridescent ring in his sight like a brand on a brahmin. She glanced from one pupil to the other—still no response from the right eye. Then she peered in his mouth and finally in his ears before coming back round face-to-face. "How have you been doing?"
"Fine."
"Oh! Your voice has gotten deeper already," Julie noted. A congratulatory smile followed. He wouldn't say deeper, rather tighter. Like an oncoming cold gripping his throat for past few weeks. Julie dabbed his arm. The same routine every time; a cotton ball soaked in a solution that left a small patch of orange skin on his shoulder. Then the needle. He wondered when that would be taken away, too. "But you know what I'm talking about," she whispered. When faced with the most angry and volatile people, she had a way of calming them—a soothing voice and soft features to match. Vincent wasn't one to throw looks however, yet she still picked up on it.
He flinched. Searing pain burrowed through his shoulder. "I'll survive."
"Survive?" She pressed a fresh cotton ball to the injection site. Round motions massaged away the sting. "I'd be devastated." Vincent bit his tongue. He already was devastated and would be. A permanent state of being from then on. Nobody could compare to Lawrence, and nobody would want him. Hell, the only man who did up and vanished. Only a letter and a few odd items remained in his absence. The letter, his confession. The crystal square, a little chipped on the corners with a scratched label—his cologne—the promise to return he wrote in a shaky hand. "It's only been a few weeks. You don't have to face it alone, Vincent."
"Thank you," he whispered, biting back tears that couldn't be bothered to show up anymore. A few weeks… No, it had been the longest day of his life. The sun never rose or set. The seasons never changed. A constant winter in the desert under a cold sun. The suite didn't feel the same. Empty. Cold. Surrounded by memories of their time together. A stolen camera's collage of photos taped to the wall by the door. The ranger's letter pinned by a pocketknife on the opposite side. Like it was all a dream…
But it had only been a few weeks.
Synthesizers hummed, mimicking a notion of displeasure in the artificial voice constructed for the collection of pixels that made up an artificial man. "You look ill."
"I'm not sick," Vincent corrected.
"Very well then. Your current assignment is to eliminate the Mojave chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel."
Eyes flicked up at the image. The monitor refreshed the portrait of Mr. House and any minuscule amount of concern he may have had disappeared in his voice. Vincent crossed his arms. Indulging in the old man's pause, he waited. Did House get enjoyment from giving orders or keeping people on the edge of a seat that felt more like a steep cliff?
"I have considered putting this task aside until after we have reclaimed Hoover Dam, but the Brotherhood of Steel has resurfaced." House's portrait disappeared. A detailed map of the region overtook the screen. An old one. Larger borders stretched further down the I-15. A perfect grid of streets, highways, and structures painted a picture of the city long before it's nuclear hibernation. Precise coordinates appeared alongside a perfect circle encompassing an empty region south of the interstate. A sprawling conservation area. The map expanded. Image blown up, further highlighting a path to his destination. "Several securitron scouts have gone missing near these coordinates in Hidden Valley—I suggest looking there. As for surviving, I expect you to. In four of six incidents during NCR assaults on Brotherhood strongholds, the bunkers self-destructed. A self-destruct system would align with their uncompromising nature, so I deduce such a system exists in this bunker."
Well, at least he wasn't intentionally sending Vincent to certain death… Although the suspicion wasn't unfounded. When the NCR moved into the Mojave, they managed to uproot the Brotherhood from Helios One—a coincidentally good thing—and further beat them down. However, their conflict existed long before the republic's expansion eastward. Whatever papers blew into town with the wind, he always had to read them. One of those rare times he got to spend with his mother without tension. Just as she read to him the old books from her own childhood, frayed or loose pages, spines dwindling to thread, and the smell of the glue that held together a world of black and white, they'd read the papers. Discuss matters of the world beyond the forest of Joshua trees. Except for all those lessons in thought, she never could see past her own clouds looming overhead.
His mother hadn't much to say about the Brotherhood of Steel, well, nothing nice that is. So little was known of them, other than they were enemies of the New California Republic. As for Vincent, they seemed like a myth. Just words on a page. So far flung from where all the problems and skirmishes took place. A strange collective of people, hidden out of sight. They only came out of the woodworks when some unfortunate soul found something they shouldn't have. Always technology. Weapons to be specific, just as Mr. House corroborated. In hindsight, their presence began to make sense. The Brotherhood of Steel wanted to be at the top of their game. Ahead of any other powers, present and emerging. They must have thought themselves guardians, protecting wasteland savages from their own ignorance all while keeping "dangerous" technology to themselves. No doubt they would see an opportunity to retake Helios One while the NCR's forces were busy defending the dam and other posts. Should they succeed, it would only be a matter of time before they marched on Hoover Dam, then New Vegas and beyond.
Bullets rattled in a plastic case. She pulled them out. One by one, counting in hushed mumbles before packing them into a smaller cardboard packing. Déjà vu struck him and Vincent pulled away from the counter. He had been here so many times before Lawrence. The ranger loved perusing the guns. Pistols, rifles. New and old. All their accessories and accoutrements like a kid in a candy store. He just wanted to touch with his eyes, admire, and observe. Vincent swallowed the knot in his throat.
"What do you have that can kill a deathclaw?"
The woman paused. A glance faltered at the young man's scowl. "Well, have a preference for a pistol or rifle?"
"Either."
"Any survivalist would tell you a standard issue anti-materiel rifle with a long-range scope is your best bet," she explained. Counting resumed. She closed one box of rounds then moved on to the next. "A hunter would tell you a revolver shooting 50-70 gov's is more fun."
"Have one I can shoot?"
"Kickback is a bitch on the wrist if you don't know what you're doing. There's smaller—"
"I know what I'm doing," Vincent sneered. The woman stopped, setting the finished case on the pile. Fine lines creased her forehead as she studied him. Gauging? Considering? Evaluating if he really did or if he was just some brash kid about to accidentally kill himself. "Or I can just buy one," Vincent noted at her hesitation, crossing his arms with a displeased sigh. A cocky shrug accented his demeanor. "Toss it if I don't like it. Money's no object to me…"
"Personally." She moved to the next display case in the counter. Three rows like pedestals held them up under a gleaming light. Silver, steel, cobalt. All as pretty as the next. She reached under the glass, pointing to one on the middle row. "This is one of my favorites. If you like revolvers that is."
Black. Glossy. A long, accusing, determined barrel jutted forth. The grip arched, a graceful curve of chilled black ridges melting against his palm as if it were made for him. Heavy with the weight of power. Not long ago, he held one like it for a moment. The Sequoia. A custom made piece, bestowed on its former owner. Now, Vincent had the bigger one. Not that it mattered. He'd never see the sequoia again to compare.
A glare beamed along its length. Blinding spears warped to the cylinder as he stared down the iron sights. Not a cloud in the sky. Just the looming sun overhead like a gentle reminder of another day on the same highway. November winds howled through jagged corridors. Swirling dust devil twisted down the hillside, kicking up rocks and debris as it rushed for the clearing below. A valley floor. Marked and scarred, but not entirely flat. Odd mounds pushed up here and there. He glanced back at his bike. Boot? Check. Supplies—he tightened the burden on his back. Check. Guns? Vincent shoved the new revolver back into its holster, tight and snug to its shape. Check.
Alone. He'd have to face a cult of weapon hoarding loonies alone. If Lawrence were here, they'd have a plan. Of course, that wouldn't have happened without some tantrum from the ranger. He could already hear Lawrence in his ears… Too dangerous! Why the hell would House send you there? Are you insane? Vincent rolled his eyes. He'd figure it out. He managed just fine for years without Lawrence. One less distraction anyway. One less thing to worry about...
Sand and dust piled up against the doors. Each mound a secret entrance to something below the surface. Heavy, sturdy vault-like doors reflected the oncoming noon sun. Scratches and gouges littered the metal. Faded graffiti dripped, frozen in time at the moment paint was put to steel. All nonsense. Weird shapes and illegible forms. Not unlike what he'd seen all over the Boneyard or the distant rock formations sticking up on the northern highway out of Yucca Valley. Remnants of the war perhaps? The art of the radiation-insane victims of a great nuclear onslaught. Ghoulish artists recalling fragmented memories of better days? He found himself doodling nonsense lately too. The mind has a terrible way of wandering with heavy burdens.
Screaming. Screeching. Steel grating steel. A stray spark here and there caught his eye. If he had to open one more door, he'd be deaf! Dust scurried. Stale air jostled the second coming of his morning headache. He paused. A faint light glowed in the dark. He lifted the sunglasses, verifying it was indeed a real light in the ancient bunker. Light steps ventured forth. Eyes fixed on their destination. The narrow hallway opened to a larger chamber. Flood lights stared him down from all corners. Metal clinks echoed, pounding his brain as if the headache wasn't enough.
The vault opened.
"Stand down!" A bellowing voice commanded. Vincent squinted past the lights. Towering, bulky figures closed in on him. Three stepped into the light. Not supermutants, no… Power armor. Steel-clad, without one spec of vulnerable skin showing. Armed with energy weapons the likes of which scavengers only dreamed of. Long, black, vented barrels and heavy bodies aimed at him. "You are in a restricted area."
"Who are you people?"
"You don't need to know that. Remove all your belongings for inspection." Narrow lenses glared down on Vincent. A judge, jury, and maybe executioner all wrapped up in tarnished armor. Beneath that patina, however, was still a man. Flesh and blood. Human. Killable. Only when the young man was stripped down to his bare clothes did the doors behind them open. They escorted him through a narrow hallway. Clanking armor echoed between cold cement. Heavy steps on the catwalk beating to the same nervous tune of his heart. Pounding in his chest. Sweat beading on his forehead, soaking his back. Every lingering trail down the curve of his spine or slope of a cheek, the reminder to think quick and fast.
On the surface, the young man's scowl soured. Was this really worth the pay? The lofty suite? The weekly concoction that was supposed to fix his body? The power? One wrong move, wrong word, wrong look, and he could end up dead.
For real this time.
Tolling steel bells came to a halt at the end of the stairs. Round seals illuminated a vault door in neon white. They glided open with a touch to a wall panel and beyond them, the fortress opened. An underground bunker of winding halls, chambers, thrumming turrets waiting orders to fire, all of which controlled by the reclusive, infamous, dangerous Brotherhood of Steel.
His escorts stopped at the end of the maze. To his right a door, a normal one, and to the left, people passed in the hallway crossroads. A quick glance slowed their steps as they gawked at the stranger. Not all were shielded by power-armor—Good to know. The lead turned to him. "You are about to meet the elder. Your presence here, this meeting, is highly irregular, so be on your best behavior." With his final warning, he pushed open the door.
Awaiting in the dim chamber, guards clung to the walls while one man sat in the center of them. The door sealed behind him, guided by with the leading Paladin on his heels, Vincent stopped before the elder. Suspicious glances gauged his opposition. Nothing he'd pick a fight with. Yet, no way out as well.
"You took an extreme risk trespassing into our facility." Hollow words resounded the chamber. High above the elder, fluorescent lights beamed down. Every wrinkle, flaw, and pock highlighted in scrutiny. Not nearly as elderly as his title led Vincent to believe. "The security of the bunker is my primary concern and I want to minimize our exposure to the topside. Why did you come here?"
Vincent's stiff expression faded. He took a careful and slow step forward. "I'm just an explorer, admiring the natural beauty of Nevada's landscape—I know that sounds dumb." Vincent shrugged; a sheepish smile added further honesty to his words. "This area used to be a park people visited—before the war, y'know—to take in the beauty, landscape. I'm not a soldier, like the rest of you look like. I was hoping to avoid any danger…"
The elder hummed. An agreeing nod followed. "I gathered much from your primitive…armaments. Come forward." A few more steps took him to the older man's desk. "What is your name?"
"Vincent."
"Vincent, you are awfully young to be out exploring on your own."
"Well, it used to be me and my father, but he passed a few months ago and I've…" Shoulders slumped, he averted sorrowful eyes to the cold floor. "I've just been wandering since. It's what we did for as long I could remember."
"I am elder McNamara."
"Nice to meet you. Quite the place you have here…"
"I am suspicious of strangers as any good elder ought to be." Vincent looked at the man. Their eyes met, leveled as the elder sat behind the curve of a half-circle desk while the young man stood on tensed legs. "However, I want to make you an offer. An outsider unfamiliar with our association could be useful. I cannot force you to help us and if you decline, I will let you go so long as you swear to never return here or reveal this bunker's location."
"Oh, you want my help?" Vincent cocked his head. Brows knitted together as he wore his best impression of the meek explorer character that blipped into existence. "I don't mind helping people, but I'm not sure what I could do for you."
"An NCR ranger has set up a post in one of the other bunkers in the valley. I'd prefer he leave without knowing we were here."
"Oh, well, I can try to…" Vincent shrugged. "Point him to better prospects and keep your secret safe."
"Excellent." McNamara looked to the guard behind Vincent. A hand waved him forward. "Paladin Ramos will escort you back to the bunker's exit—" Vincent looked over his shoulder, meeting the towering soldier face-to-armor. He flinched at drawing shadows. Cold metal coiled around his neck. Hand raised to the new collar. Heavy, thick. He wasn't a fan of anything around his neck. Especially not explosive collars. "Now, rest assured we won't use this unless you leave the boundaries of Hidden Valley."
Fuck.
A hushed chorus of groans, grumbles, and generally annoyed sputters followed a particularly unlucky, lucky young man across a blinding swath of dirt. Criticisms of a nameless ranger—the one who made camp in a specific bunker or the one who had abandoned him was up for debate. Kicking up dirt and sand as he pushed through. Dust devils whirled around him. Spitting debris and goading the boy to fight the air. Hands flailed. Swatting here then there to spare his eyes. If it wasn't this or that, then it was the collar hidden by a scarf—it was always something—but, at least he got his belongings back.
Vincent pried the door open. The one bunker he hadn't gotten to. Cool shadows washed over him as he stepped inside. Dust swirled around him in the door's wake, kicking him into a sneezing fit that echoed down a cavernous hallway. He pressed on, halting now and then for a sneeze or two. Throbbing pressure pushed against his nose, festering behind his eyes. "Fucking hell!"
"Hello?" A voice returned. Vincent leaned against the wall. Fighting through the terribly snotty onslaught, he searched for the stranger. A kaleidoscope of lights swirled. Flickering as something passed in front of them. "Alright now!" Hearty chuckles bellowed beside him. A hand thrust to him, towels in palm.
"Ugh!" Vincent groaned, voiced muffled through gifted rags. "Sorry…"
"Take ya time," the pleasant voice suggested. Rubber soles skidded against concrete. Standard issue boots, beige to match the landscape, scuffed and scraped. He looked up to his savior. A ranger indeed. Rich skinned, on the younger side with a rifle slung over his shoulder. "Yeah, you can keep those."
"Oh, a ranger! Thank you."
"What you doing here, kid?"
"Just needed somewhere to hide for a bit."
"Why? You run into trouble?"
"Oh, just sandstorms. For now."
"Yeah, those storms been causing me trouble too."
"Nice to see a friendly face out here, though," Vincent chimed, finally regaining his composure. "I'd shake your hand, but—" He shrugged, a light chuckle followed. "I'm Vincent."
"Ranger Dobson." The stranger tipped his wide brimmed hat. A gold emblem of a standing bear and star shimmered in the center of the body. "You sound like you're from California."
"I am," Vincent nodded. "Born and raised in Yucca Valley. How about you?"
"From Redding myself."
"Oh, up North! I've been there before. I miss the greenery and clean air, oh and this one little place that made the best mutfruit pies."
"I do too," Dobson agreed. "Mojave hasn't been my favorite assignment. And you talkin' about Ol' Georgia's pies!"
"Yes, that's the place, right off the I-5 and 44 exchange."
Dobson patted his belly, "Those were my favorite. I ate a whole one for myself one summer—Hey, as long as you're friendly, you can hang out here with me."
"I'd appreciate that." Vincent followed Dobson down the hallway. At the end of the chamber, crumbling concrete, jagged rebar, and jutting pipes caved in the North wall. Not a viable bunker. The ranger had no idea how close to danger he was. A decent little camp occupied a pristine corner. The ranger's supplies and equipment comfortably strewn about. A small workspace surrounded his radio project, small parts and the necessary tools. A chunk of wall turned up for its smooth face became the ranger's chair. "Surprised to see you in here honestly," Vincent remarked. "Usually, the powder gangers hole up in these bunkers."
"Oh?" Dobson peered back to him. Tools in hand, he fiddled with an old radio. "How you know that?"
"I watch them. While scouting for supplies n' things," Vincent shrugged. He joined Dobson by the lamplight. "They usually leave me alone for some minor compensation."
A discontent sigh paused his work. "For real?"
"Well, yeah. The old prison is just down the road. Not to mention deathclaws from the quarry that'll spook anybody passing by."
Dobson hummed. Thick brows narrowed and his expression tightened. "Well shit, maybe I bit off more than I can chew this time…"
"What do you mean?"
"I've been wanting to set up a safe house here, but I've had the worst luck." Dobson shook his head. He set the radio aside with a defeated sign. "Radio don't work. Sandstorms keep me from getting out and scouting. And, well, those powder-gangers been on my mind too."
"Maybe it's a sign that there's better areas out there," Vincent suggested. "I have a friend who's a ranger, in Cazador company—" Dobson looked up at the boy, full attention captured by just those words. "If he felt something was off, he'd go looking for a better place to set up camp."
"Best know when to fold 'em, right?" Dobson stood up. Another huff exhaled when he examined his humble camp. "Say, what's your friend's name? Cazador company is a bit legendary among us."
"Lawrence," Vincent whispered. "Lawrence Garret. He taught me a lot about surviving out here." Vincent inched closer to the ranger. Hopeful and eager, a sharp stare set on Dobson. "Do you know him?"
"Can't say I've met him, but anybody in Cazador company is a veteran ranger. I'm still new on the scene."
"Well, if you do ever meet him—" Vincent paused. He stared into the strangers' eyes. Deep brown, surely richer like the bronze landscape had they been outside in the sun. Yet, nothing like the cooling oasis he found gazing on Lawrence. So inviting when he smiled, or winked at the boy… No, these eyes weren't clear waters keen to parch his thirst. Dry like an old lakebed. Rough like the broken mountains. As well as this ranger's intentions were, he wasn't Lawrence. Maybe if he closed his eyes and wished it all away, he'd find himself waking up in the morning how he ought to have. Lawrence in bed beside him, getting ready for the day together, sharing a meal, and heading out to face the world together. How would he ever go on losing the one person who'd ever love him?
"You alright?"
Vincent blinked away oncoming tears. "Tell him to write more often."
"Will do," Dobson nodded. "I'm gonna be packing up soon and heading back to base, I guess. It was worth a shot out here."
"Good luck and get home safe, ranger Dobson."
"You not gonna stay?"
"Thanks for the offer and the rags," Vincent smiled, nodding politely and still clutching said rags in hand. "I best be moving. I'm not the sitting type."
Dobson nodded, a final tip of his saw the young man off. When Vincent returned to the Brotherhood of Steel's bunker, the same paladin who led him in and out waited for him. He disarmed the collar and removed it all while narrating his actions. They were an odd sort. Demeanor, mannerisms, the marching—all echoed structure of a bygone era, the same the NCR drew guidance from as well. What could have possibly formed such a group? Suspicion was rife in the wastelands, far from any semblance of civilization. A matter of survival of course. Even in the most remote places Vincent had traveled in California territory, small town interest in a lone stranger seemed so quaint in hindsight compared to the Brotherhood of Steel.
But a thief always assumes thieves around him. Oh, yes, they definitely thought themselves guardians worthy of their loot. Did they realize what they looked to the 'topside'? Terrorists who nearly toppled the republic's economy in a different war. Robbers who stole precious technology that could help grow crops, heal sick and injured, protect from encroaching, bigger monsters like Caesar. Anarchist who antagonized the budding democratic-republic of California, unprovoked.
The question wasn't if they knew, but rather did they care? To which he already knew the answer. They were no different from Caesar. Their methods and ethics were merely less revolting. The threat was the same.
The elder leaned forward on his desk as Vincent approached. A solemn, expressionless face of a strong leader—or so he wanted to project. "After listening to how you dealt with that ranger, you know who we are by now don't you?"
"You could hear me?"
"The collar has a microphone. You can learn so much by observation alone, from enemies and friends alike."
"Something Steel… I can't remember, it's really all before my time."
"The Brotherhood of Steel—And you are an NCR citizen."
"Well, technically yes, since I was born there."
"Technically, you've helped an enemy of the republic. What do you think of that?"
Vincent shrugged, "I'm not particularly inclined to any association. I prefer to keep to myself and out of other people's fights. You knew that the moment you asked me to help though, didn't you?"
"You're right," The elder nodded. "And the way in which you completed your task was quite compelling. You could have killed the ranger. You could have discreetly told him about us. Instead, you managed to make him leave of his own accord."
"That's what you wanted right?"
"Forgive me," McNamara cracked his facade with a composed smile. "I'm not criticizing, rather praising your work. Perhaps you'd be interested in another task? One compensated by more substantial rewards."
"Excuse me, elder," Paladin Ramos spoke up. He pulled off the helmet, revealing a handsome face beneath that tin can as he approached his leader. A natural tan and dark eyes to match. Well-groomed black hair and beard framed a strong-squared face. Far too close to a certain face Vincent missed. Ramos leaned over the desk, hushing his voice as he whispered discreet words into McNamara's ears. Vincent lowered his eyes, peeking around the room as if he wasn't eavesdropping. "Is it wise to involve an outsider in our business?"
The elder raised a hand, dismissing the paladin's concern. Ramos retreated back to his post several paces behind Vincent. Barely a hint of defeat remained in his eyes. Yet, for him to so bravely speak up to an authority figure… Nothing compelled a man more than assuredness in his own wisdom. Was there something more going on in this isolated bunker?
"We've lost contact with three exploratory patrols. They were sent topside to search for supplies. If I give you their last known coordinates, will you search there for them?"
"I'd like to help, but suppose that depends where. Some places out here are very dangerous"
"Ramos, brief Vincent on those patrols. I'm sure there is something our creative friend can think of."
Vincent turned to Ramos. The paladin hesitated. He glanced to the outsider, then his elder. "Yes, sir," Ramos nodded, before turning around. A hit to the control panel made way for him to march through while Vincent started after him. "Follow me and stay close. Don't go wandering."
Sounds like something Lawrence told him a long time ago under an August sun on a highway to Primm. The pain struck every nerve in him. Creeping down his limbs, jolting him as if he shoved a fork in a socket. Ramos led him through the maze of corridors and chambers. One room dedicated to terminals and a group of people muttering about viruses and old technology as they labored over tables. Quick fingers typed in the background. Soothing memories of his time in the junkyard with Johannessy resurfaced. Tearing apart salvage while the old man told him what each piece did to make it work. Off the hallway, smaller rooms opened and closed as their inhabitants left. Personal rooms. Storage closets. Then one, bigger than the average dorm. Vincent's steps slowed. A group of children sat at attention in their own little desks as they watched a woman at the front of the room announce the lesson of the hour.
Children…
A chill rushed him. Mouth dried. There were children here?
"Hey."
A heavy hand tapped his shoulder. Vincent snapped back in the moment. Wide eyes stared up at Ramos. "This isn't our destination." He nodded down the hallway. The last room. A collection of tables, crates, and filing cabinets surrounded the centerpiece. A digital recreation of the Mojave. Virtual markers pointed to several locations, some of which were obvious to him. New Vegas, Mojave Outpost less than a mile off the border, Primm, NCR installations… "These green markers are the missing patrols and their last known coordinates."
"Oh, I recognize this place," Vincent announced as he pointed to the marker in question. "It's Boomer territory though."
"Boomer territory?"
"Some vault dwellers that took up residence in the Nellis Airforce base—they don't like strangers and will fire their artillery on sight. People usually avoid them, but…"
Thick brows rose, wrinkling a tall forehead. "But?"
"I got close once…" Vincent boasted, leaning on the screen's frame. He glanced up at Ramos—absolutely interested. "With this thing called a stealth-boy. It makes you invisible."
"What did you learn of these people?"
"I wasn't interested in them, just the salvage in the area. Other than that, they're well-armed."
Ramos hummed. Eyes flickered as they examined the virtual map. Vincent knew that look. Lawrence wore it often. "Can you infiltrate their territory again?"
"If I could get a hold of stealth-boy again…"
"What about the other two areas? Familiar with them at all?"
"I'm curious about something." Vincent pushed off the tabletop-screen. He cocked his head and crossed his arms as he stared at the paladin. "Why haven't any of you gone looking for your missing people?"
A displeased glance landed on the young man. "We can't."
"You all look more than capable."
"It isn't a matter of capability." Ramos sighed. He straightened his back, setting the bulky helmet on the table in the process. "We're in a lockdown. Nobody can leave unless they're essential personnel."
"You're all stuck down here on orders?"
"Precisely."
"Why is that? If you don't mind me asking?"
Before any words made it out of the paladin's mouth, harsh screeches funneled down the hallway. Faint smell of smoke followed behind. Ramos dashed for the door, clanking armor and all while a curious mouse followed behind. Grey smoke thickened. A terrible stench he knew from experience to be electrical in origin. Vincent paused at the outskirts of the commotion.
"Damn thing electrocuted me!" The wounded scribe exclaimed, still coddling singed fingertips.
"There was a small fire, but it's out now," another scribe added. She crossed the room to meet her colleague. "We haven't had much luck isolating the virus,
"The terminal did that?" Ramos inquired. He looked past the two for their cluttered workspace. Light smoke wafted away beneath a dissolving layer of foam.
The singed man grumbled. His colleague opened a plastic box after a quick examination. "At this rate it's a matter of time before it spreads to other systems…"
Spread to other systems? Systems that could trigger a self-destruct command?
"Computer troubles?" Vincent emerged from the hallway. "I'm pretty good with them—hardware and software. Maybe I could help?"
The scribes looked to Paladin Ramos, but his attention fixed on Vincent. The man couldn't make heads or tails of his new charge. "After you retrieve our missing patrols."
Tread gripped earth, pulling it up like carpet and spitting out a curtain of dirt behind him. Vibrations rumbled through him as he barreled down the highway. He focused on the roars. Grasp tightened on the throttle. A jerk of his wrist excited the speedometer. Engine growled. The only thing to keep him focused on a plan, but also unfocused on what dug into him. The watercolor sunset behind him a painful reminder. All those times he sat watching night descend upon the desert like a comforting blanket with Lawrence. Gone. A lone tear streamed along the curve of his cheek. Falling until it met the padding of his helmet. He revved the engine again. Again, until he finally came to a halt outside the Lucky 38.
Vincent rushed out the elevator, sack and helmet left at the doors. Hard steps on the stairs roused House's image on the screen. "What do you know about computer viruses?"
"Does this have something to do with eliminating the Brotherhood of Steel?"
"Yes."
"They are nothing more than programs with a task—How does this further your assignment?"
"Good news is, I can get inside the bunker and have been dealing with them. They're having numerous issues. One of which is a virus in their terminals that they are worried will access other systems." Vincent paced back and forth in front of the monitors. Eyes stared at the plan before him. Hands gestured, eager to seize victory in the moment. "Let's give them another virus. One that can trigger their bunker's kill switch."
"Plausible," House noted.
"Otherwise, my only foreseeable option is to gain their trust—which I have a route for—then I might gain access to their systems and find the big red button. That's playing the long game though."
"And if your plan to infect their network with another virus fails?"
Paces dwindled. Vincent stared at the monitor. The unageing and uncompromising portrait glowered down on him. "Then I come up with a new one," Vincent declared. "This is the most fast and easy way, for everyone involved."
The elevator dinged, rousing him from a daydream recalling better days. He crossed the circular balcony, hoping, wishing that the daydream would come true and all he had to do was open the door. Glossy red paint shined under the lights. He held his breath, staring at the door until it was all he could see. Ears listened for anything alive on the other side. Any hint his companion decided to return. If he had… Vincent promised to ask no questions. Rush to the man. Embrace him. All would be whole again!
He pushed open the doors.
Fading neon lights peeked through drawn curtains. Colors danced across the tall ceiling, shining in the dark. Fading, decaying along with any hope of Lawrence's return. He waded through the darkness. Heart pounding in his head as the pressure rose. Invisible hands choked his throat. Eyes teared while a vicious snarl scrunched his face. He threw his helmet. Hard thud smacked the door before falling and rolling away. Lumbering steps stomped down the stairs.
This wasn't how things were supposed to be.
Vincent stopped at the dresser stowed beneath the staircase. Fingertips felt the wood grooves and dips, following a memory in his mind's eye of how it looked. Palms flattened on the cold top. Glass scraped against the wood at the gentle push of his smallest finger.
Lawrence's cologne.
Vincent took the bottle and retreated towards the dancing lights. Pastel beams peaked out like children playing hide-and-seek behind the curtains. Each color begged him to come down and play. Forget all about the world beyond the strip. He pulled the knob off the crystal square. Timid spurts doused Lawrence's pillow. Surrendering to the sheets, curled up under the layers and protected by one too many pillows, he pulled the special one to him. At least now, he could sleep, coddled by imaginary comforts in hopes of seeing the ranger again in his dreams.
—
"I retrieved one so far."
McNamara studied the holotape. A lost patrol. A severed lifeline to the outside world. "That is…" He sighed. Jaws tensed as only a look a failed leader could wear darkened his face. "Disheartening news. Hope remains the other two are found alive."
"I'm going to look at the map again."
"Thank you," the elder acknowledged. "The day is gone and desert nights are dangerous topside. You are welcome to stay among us if you wish."
"Thank you, elder," Vincent returned the polite nod and smiled. "I appreciate your hospitality."
Roaming the halls, observing them as people… The burden heavier with every step. Especially when he passed the classroom again. What would Lawrence think? What would Lawrence do? As an NCR ranger, they were enemies of course, but would the man be so boldly callous of his actions? Some part of Vincent had to say yes. The driven man followed orders even at his own expense. Yet, he was capable of such deep and intense feelings and thoughts even if he wouldn't admit so himself. The dark rings under his eyes, the weary sighs here and there, confiding in the young man an abridged version of those things he was ashamed of.
"What are you doing?"
Vincent froze in place. He spun around, face to face with Ramos once more. Was the man stalking him around the bunker? "Just roaming…"
Thick brows narrowed. Eyes stared down at the boy, flickering as they studied the outsider. "Some places are off limits."
"Uh, alright? I wouldn't know those places…"
"Elder McNamara ordered me to show you where you can stay for the night." Ramos turned around, hand waving for the boy to follow.
Vincent followed the paladin. Curious eyes studied the magnificent suit of technology. Hushed servos barely made a noise with any movement—it was the clunky steps of lumbering steel boots that made all the noise. The sturdy frame beneath occasionally peaked out in the minute gaps. Thick cords blended in below steel plating, connecting every limb and joint to a central point on the back. Hidden underneath the protective back plating, was a power core. Old-world technology. Miniaturized fusion batteries kept the suit alive, nothing like any normal battery he imagined. Exceptionally rare. Reusable if in the hands of one with the know-how. Stumble upon one and you'd be set for life. They powered so many old-world treasure troves. Everyone wanted one. Needed one. Put in the right hands, what could they do? Maybe someone like Julie; she'd use them to power crucial medical equipment. Put old, salvaged machinery to humanitarian purposes. Something healing, mending, kind, and useful.
Naturally, the tech-fanatics hoarded them…
"You seem to have made an impression on our elder." Ramos stopped at a door. One of many identical dorm rooms in a deeper portion of the bunker. By now, Vincent committed his mental map of the bunker to memory. Always plan for a grand-escape—Lawrence told him that once. Vincent already knew that however, but smiled and nodded as if the ranger bestowed upon him some liberating knowledge. Only to see that look he'd wear after. The look of a man who finally felt himself as useful as rare fusion batteries.
"He seems grateful to have help," Vincent suggested.
"This is your room, for now." Ramos opened the door. Vincent peeked inside. Bland. Sterile. Somehow, what he expected. "I believe our elder is doing what's right for us. Even if that means enlisting the aid of an outsider. I'm still watching you though."
"Oh?" Vincent retracted from the doorway. "Well, we could always spend some time together. Get to know me. Watch me. You like efficiency, right?"
Quizzical brows furrowed. Uncertain eyes stared at Vincent and for a moment, lips parted for words he decided to keep to himself instead. The paladin turned away. At three steps down the hall, he turned around, pointing at Vincent. "Just stay out of trouble."
Vincent stifled his laughs as he closed the door behind him. Strange bunch. Lacking in fun. All too serious. Not so different from House by those metrics. Ears buzzed in the silence. He sat on a made bed. A stiff bed and a simple set of blankets. Too thin and too rough for his liking.
But he wouldn't need to stay.
Humored thoughts evaporated. He was here to kill them. All of them. And so far, he had managed to weasel his way into their bunker, in their elder's trust and make himself useful. He grimaced, feeling slimy in his own skin. The lies came too easy. Donning a facade of a person he wasn't, or at least thought he wasn't. Maybe that's why Lawrence left. It was easier that way. Just up and leave and never discuss his worries, fears of who his young lover was becoming. Vincent hung his head. Trembling fingers pulled the twine around his wrist, bringing forth the underside of the bottle cap. He stared at the blue star.
Or maybe he left because of what Vincent would never be.
A real man. No amount of wealth or power would change any of that. His glaring flaw forever worn upon his bones like salvaged clothes much too big for him. Tripping over the long legs of pants. Stumbling in boots several sizes too big, soles flying off even when he made a proper step. Clumsy hands unable to hold anything with sleeves in the way, dropping even the most important of items or people. Torn and frayed from being worn by someone never meant to fill them.
He wiped away the tears and congested snivels.
Lawrence promised to return! He never broke a promise to Vincent before. Vincent shook his head, but still those thoughts would linger in the back of his mind. Why else would he leave a letter? Leave his cologne? Why tell someone you love so much and so often just to abandon them? Fists clamped. Thumping down on his thighs in a hard slap. The sting of the force better than the company of his own thoughts.
He would have done it all without Lawrence. The ranger had no obligation to him, just as Vincent had none to him. Vincent knew House's plans from the beginning. Any NCR ranger with a brain would too—House wanted Vegas and the dam for himself and the New California Republic knew they were in his way the moment they made first contact. The details of the old man's plans were a little murky here and there. Not all of it confessed until Vincent gained a minutia of House's trust… But it was still better than doing nothing. Nothing would let Caesar trample over yet more people. Subjugate them. Destroy them. The republic would do the same thing, albeit light-handedly and gift wrapped in the image of freedom and democracy.
House was no saint either, but he wasn't Caesar. The strange old man wasn't a useless politician full of empty promises. Not a supreme dictator seeking to be worshipped and blindly followed. As odd and cooky as House was… Vincent shrugged off his backpack. He reached inside, pulling out a wadded pillowcase then unfolded it in his lap. Vincent stared at the holotape. A flat square made of plastic. Inside, two delicate rolls of black film with instructions that would annihilate a bunker hidden below the surface of the Mojave desert. All for a better future. A future that would allow him to have control over his own. Need for nothing. Want for nothing. A future in which he hoped humanity wouldn't fall into the same traps as before.
However, in order to seize that, he had to get in the trenches. Make difficult decisions. Act on tough choices. He had the power of influence! To not use it to even try to make things better… How could anyone live with themself idly standing by with so many lives, so many futures at stake? To always think of what could have been? For too long, he lived in that imaginary world. Imagining what his life would be like had he been born right in every finite detail. Now he had control.
Fingers dug into his knees. The white plastic shaped burned in stinging eyes. Lawrence said everything has a price. Running away from home all those years ago. Cutting off years of hair as if it would trim those unpleasant memories as well. Taking the name he admired so much and kept to himself like a dirty secret. Becoming the boy, the man he always knew himself to be. All of it had a price. A cost. A consequence.
Was it worth the cost? Vincent clamped his fist shut. Tight, bleaching knuckles and digging nails in flesh. Yes, it was worth the price. This was what he deserved. What he earned. Nobody could take that from him.
In the dead of night, when the light taps of shoes and cacophony of power armor ceased outside his door, the restless young man emerged. He peered around corners. Only the sparse night-watch of paladins wandered through the halls. Hums of wires and whirring machinery behind the walls hushed the infiltrator creeping through the maze. He stopped in a familiar room. Filled with terminals and their delicate parts scattered upon tables. Just one terminal was all he needed. A nondescript slot on its side, bare and unprotected for the holotape, then a keystroke. And like that, began the extermination of the Mojave chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel.
He backed away from the machine. Ambient hums quickened. Circuitry alight with activity inside, passing from node to node, terminal to terminal, all behind a blank and unassuming screen. At that point, he had exactly ten minutes to evacuate the bunker. He counted upon his second departure, it would take three and half minutes to exit the bunker entirely. In his head he rehearsed an excuse as to why he was leaving should any wandering paladin spot him. "I'm used to sleeping under the stars." Not entirely a lie, but not the whole truth either. Should his magnificent plan succeed, assured destruction would be partly felt on the surface.
The chill of night washed over him. Cooling the trembling, sweat soaked boy as his drenched back slid down the frigid vault door. Overhead, cloudy skies obscured the stars. Sparse moonlight peeked through intermittent grey. Wind howled in mountains to the east where he hid his bike, ready to make his grand escape as if it were all a fantastical casino heist. Since activating the virus, the device strapped to his arm warmed his skin, slowly increasing under the weight of seconds. Vincent looked at his pip-boy. Overworked as a tether to the Lucky 38, the surplus of escape time was all for House to siphon information from the infected network.
When he looked to the clock, he held his breath. Awaiting the grand finale. The fruit of his labor. An applaud to his performance before he'd receive a brief encore from the man who directed the play. Those small numbers in the corner blinked. A negligible cue to an abhorrent act. However, the shaking was not so dismissible. A sudden and terrible rumble that fizzled out as fast as it came. Black smoke arose in discrete columns. Each one where the emission vents for the bunker were hidden in the desolate valley.
It was over.
Stinging eyes blinked. Knees cracked and ached, finally stretching after being frozen bent for too long. Vincent followed a vague trail into the brush. He stopped at his bike, unlocked the boot, inspected for any signs of tampering as Lawrence showed him, and loaded his backpack in the rear case. Then, he sat. In quiet and isolation. Willfully ignorant of the possibility of danger around him. Was he supposed to just go back home? Celebrate? Mourn? The world still turned around. Unseen birds chirped in the distance, joining nature's ensemble with the crickets. Breeze rustled the sagebrush and juniper clusters. The clouds rolled lazily along with the wind as their shepherds.
As if nothing had happened at all…
Screeching howls shattered his trance. Vincent jumped off his seat, yanking his pistol from his hip before he landed. Vague outlines of dense foliage filled the dark. Birds hushed. He crouched low, searching the dark and waiting for another scream.
Again!
A person. A woman? Who would be out here? He rushed along the trail, ears leading the way where eyes failed. Muffled pleas defined his destination. New voices added in. Not any danger unlike the first. Male voices…
"No!" Fearful and frustrated cries bellowed only to be viciously hushed behind a hand.
"Keep making fuckin' noise and I'll cut out your tongue."
White eyes gleamed by firelight. She sat on mangled blankets, legs drawn to her chest, arms restrained, uncomfortably tight by a man behind her. Face dirtied and glistening on her shoulder, hand over her mouth. "I called dibs on her first," he remarked. "Remember?"
The second man sneered; knife still pointed on his claim. "I don't want no sloppy seconds."
Fire surged in his limbs. Stomach dropped. Sweaty palms adjusted their grip on the revolver. Vincent set his sights on the second man. Easy target; close enough, intermittent paces around a campfire. The blast ignited the end of his barrel, jolting his wrists, and booming like lighting. A bloody, pulpy mess painted the rough cliffside wall. The woman screamed into her captor's hands, writhing away while the man's hold on her faltered. The roar still wracking his ears, he swung his aim on the second man. Rocks skidded under foot. Brush rustled. Eyes met and Vincent pulled the trigger.
Wailing screams ripped through the night. Frozen in terror. Chest heaving with deep breaths. She couldn't have been older than fourteen.
"I'm not here to hurt you," Vincent exclaimed. He stowed his revolver and showed empty hands while cautiously emerging from his cover. Sunburned nose gleamed in the firelight. Eyes followed him. Mouth agape at the horror. "Are you hurt?"
"Who are you?"
He squatted by the fire. Avoidant glances flickered on the overkill. Giant holes in both of them. One to the gut and the other to the chest. Mangled red flesh, gushing red while vacant eyes stared into nothingness. Both of those men wore the same vest. A frayed black denim garment, rife with odd patches, each their label surrounding a main one of a vicious, green snake. Vipers? He looked back at the young woman. "I'm Vincent. I was just about to make my camp not too far from here, and I heard someone scream. Are there more of them?"
"Not for a few miles." She shook her head, stumbling through her words. "I thought I got rid of them." Glassy eyes swelled, reddening around earthy irises.
"I'm heading back to New Vegas, I can take you there if you'd like—I have a bike so it'd only be thirty minutes or so—If you'd like…" Nervous hands fumbled with each other. Worried brows twitched as he rubbed his neck. "Or I'll just leave you be."
She followed behind him, several places back, ready to run if anything spooked her. Her stare bore through the back of his head. He didn't blame her though. He'd been there before. "I have food and water," he said, holding out a full bottle. She stood at the bush line; ratty blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Tight black curls held onto her recent past. Small knots here and there, a stowaway twig caught in a loop. Dirtied and ripped jeans draped on thin legs like sticks below the blanket. Thoroughly used soles clapped against her boots as she came to him. "Are you a bounty hunter?" She asked as she took the water bottle.
"No."
"Oh," she mumbled, twisting off the cap then took a sip. "You killed them so easily…"
"They didn't seem like friends of yours."
Stuffy nostrils vied for air. "I thought they were."
"I'm sorry that happened to you."
"How old are you?"
"I just turned twenty-two."
Timid eyes flickered to Vincent. "You look a lot younger."
"I get that a lot," he confessed. "Sorry, I didn't ask your name."
"I'm Abigail. I'm sixteen."
"You look like you've been out here a while," Vincent noted. Tin can in hand rattled as he offered it to her. A variety of nuts according to the label taped on its side.
Abigail took the can. Eyes teared and throat swallowed. "I have."
"I'm sorry—"
"I'm—" She stumbled over her words, biting her tongue to fight the tears. Abigail hung her head. A solemn moment until she was ready to look up again. "I live in Henderson. On a farm with my mama and pop." Lips quivered, pleading eyes begged for help, begged for someone to trust. "Can you take me to them?"
"Of course," he eagerly nodded. "Whenever you're ready, take your time."
Braving the chill, the wind, and a fretful first ride on a roaring, sputtering two-wheeled machine, the two rode non-stop. She pointed the way down the dirt road leading outside Henderson proper. Distant lights illuminated the humble farmsteads on the outskirts. With each house they passed, her grip on his shoulder tightened. Snivels and tears resurfaced, muffled by an engulfing breeze. She pointed to their final destination, a quiet and small farm. A modest field for their crops to the east. A makeshift shed slapped on the home housed piles of junk. Old farm equipment and eroding vehicle frames surrounded the shack, waiting to be sorted and salvaged.
Vincent stopped the bike and pulled off first. She followed suit, hesitant and uncertain like a newborn calf. Abigail stared at the house. Grey-blue panels outlined by moonlight. Dusty white trim glowed. Dark behind the curtains in the windows.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"Why are you scared to go home?" Vincent looked at her. She dabbed her cheeks with the corners of her blanket.
"I was stupid. My daddy told me Gavin was bad. Warned me and I—" Lips thinned. She shut her eyes, squeezing dwindling tears.
"If your family loves you, they can accept you for your faults. Forgive you. Move on."
Abigail nodded. She opened her eyes. Sensitive. Raw. Exhausted. "Would you be kind enough to come with me?"
Vincent hesitated. It could have been a trap. Some ploy. Dangerous. Or, maybe it just reminded him too much of what he ran away from. "Alright."
Abigail knocked on the door. They waited in silence. Muffled creaks sounded on the other side. Soft glow of candlelight caught his eye in the living room window. Quickly, the curtain fell back into place. Locks clicked and the door rushed open, pulling a draft along with it. Astonished faces stared at them. One old man and an old woman. "Abigail!" A hoarse voice whispered, staring at his daughter as if she were a ghost. Behind him, his wife burst into tears. She rushed through the doors; arms open ready to scoop up her daughter like she was a baby again. Through blubbering tears, at least happy ones this time, Abigail explained how she came home. Relieved parents thanked the young man, even offering their own hospitality and for a moment, he considered it.
Instead, Vincent sputtered excuses to get back on the road—his own family waited. More half-truths. He backed away from the door, wishing those strangers the best from then on. If he had taken their offer, maybe he would have a distraction for a moment. Something else to ponder instead of wondering if his mother would have had the same reaction. Welcoming him back home with open arms, tears in her eyes as she wailed for her missing baby. What would she think of him after everything he had done? Was he still her child she claimed to love unconditionally? It seemed there was one condition though.
Stormy clouds followed him back to New Vegas, lingering overhead as he rode through Freeside, then onto the barren Strip, and swirling on up the white tower. He would never know. He could never go back home, not after all these years. His mother would loathe him. The rest of the town already hated him, any friend he may have had too. Yet, that didn't seem to hurt as much when he thought of Lawrence. The one who had loved him, understood him, held him, gaping flaws and all. The ranger would never love him if he saw the boy at that moment. Shapes warped in the mirror, staring back at him as he leaned on the sink counter. The sad and weak little girl he left behind on the side of a desert highway, lost somewhere in California, had survived. The very thing he never wanted to be. All wrong. Miserable. Self-loathing. Unhappy…
It was time to stop.
Stop being sad. Whiny. Moping and sullen. He had conquered worse. Running away from home, still very much a child. A life of solitude, secrecy, and certain danger. Wandering from town to town. Near death! Braving the Fort, surviving Caesar, and his sociopath cult. An entire bunker of tech-fanatics! And he emerged unscathed, braver than before. A broken heart was nothing compared to his real fight. The tangible war outside his white walled castle. Nothing would stand in his way. Not Caesar. Not the NCR. Not Lawrence. And absolutely not himself.
He pulled away from the mirror. Teary eyes dried. Frown stiffened. Real men don't cry.