Gentle whirs swirled around. A content hum of machinery that ought to have warmed the penthouse. However, no matter the blistering heat waves outside in the Summer or the frigid thrashing winds of Fall transitioning to Winter, the overseer's throne always had a chill to it.

"I reviewed your report of extracurricular activities; namely the events surrounding Helios One."

"Let me guess." Scarred brow peaked and arms crossed. Vincent glanced up to the still image. "You don't want me assisting the NCR in any way?"

"Quite the opposite," House noted. "In light of recent reports from the front lines and observations of Legion movements, the final battle for Hoover Dam draws near—The NCR is failing miserably to maintain their holdings. Obviously, I do not want you to give them the upper hand over me, rather over the Legion."

"I can…" Vincent hummed, the tight knot in his throat bobbed threatening to throw his voice. "But how do you suppose I go about that?" Arms untangled by a shrug. Fingers stroked soft whiskers on his chin. "They are aware of me. Aware I work for you. I can't just show up on their territory promising I'm not gonna sweep the rug out from under them any day now."

"Oh, but you already have," House declared, a slight tilt to his voice as if it were a praise. "You seized the opportunity for diplomacy with the Boomers. Admittedly, I didn't think such a feat was possible with their extreme isolationist policies. What of the Brotherhood of Steel? Did you not don the guise of a wasteland yokel to disarm? Feign philanthropic intentions to help with their self-imposed predicament? All to sweep the metaphoric rug out from under them? And for far, far worse than what we have planned for the NCR."

Vincent froze. He stared at the portrait. A face suspended in time. An astute expression captured by millions of pixels that somehow seemed to morph to match whatever the old man faintly emoted. And now, it appeared as Mr. House praised him with that quizzical brow. As if entertaining the thought his protege still clung to notions of humility.

What he did was murder. Callous, cold-blooded annihilation. Premeditated to painful detail, if not to be precise, to wound himself as well. Chills rushed through him. Startled him awake at night as he visited those frigid halls in his dreams. Warning lights flashed. Panicked screams rushed, twisting like crashing waves through narrow passages, but no life was to be found. He trembled. Frozen where he stood as calculated steps echoed, closing in on him. Terrified of what lurked around the corner because that shadow stretching across cold concrete walls was his own.

"Vincent!"

He jumped at his own name. Victor pivoted on his wheel, turning to face the boulevard from his watchful post at the Lucky 38's doors. Vincent spun around. There stood two women at the end of the steps. One glamorous blonde and one lieutenant who seldom parted from her sunglasses.

"You can't avoid us forever!" Jackie called. As eager as he was to have some pleasant interaction, Vincent suppressed a budding smile as he trotted over to the two. Eve held out her hands. A homemade dish in a generous helping of the whole pot. A beaming smile for garnish. One of several that had shown up on his doorstep, brought to his room by a certain cowboy securitron that stumbled upon a catering subroutine. Or maybe even robots couldn't resist her charms.

"I'm sorry," Vincent started. "I'm not avoiding you. I'm just…"

"I know," Eve whispered. Glimmering eyes glanced down to the white dish in hand, covered by a fitted cloth of her own making.

"Thank you," Vincent returned the smile, a real one this time. "I'm spoiled by your food honestly. Nothing else compares."

"You oughta come out of your cave once in a while," Jackie suggested. She plucked off her shades, folding them on the collar of her fatigues. "We've been wanting to see that new show at Paradisio."

"I…" Vincent hesitated. Glances darted to the ground, avoiding the two hopeful pair of eyes on him. "I've been so busy, but… I can make the time."

Eve suppressed an elated squeal as she clapped. "Perfect!"

Jackie planted fists on her hips as a smile widened—mission accomplished. "How's tomorrow night for you?"

"Tomorrow night it is!"

–

After his third deployment, he calculated the most efficient way to pack everything. He stared into the duffel bag. Lighter than he remembered packing before setting out on some fateful August day so many months ago. The type of fate he often reminisced on. The happy ending kind. Captured in the polaroid pinched between fingers. Broad shoulders weakened after a sigh.

A throaty grumble across the top bunk drew his eyes up. "Not the luxury you're used to, right?" A ranger heaved his bag on the bed with the rest of his things. Fully stuffed, vomit green canvas, waiting to head out just like every other ranger in the barracks. Except this one couldn't help but glare at the stranger across from him.

"Excuse me?" Lawrence retorted.

"You the one been hanging on the strip?" A huff and slight shake of his followed. "Livin' it up while the rest of us been fighting like hell. Must be nice."

Threatening eyes sized up the younger man. Shorter. Younger. Green from the looks of it. Not a man he was familiar with, but that hadn't stopped him from throwing punches before. Lawrence leaned on the bunk frame, pressing palms on chilled metal as if he needed to sober himself. "The fuck you talkin' about?"

Packing ceased. Shuffling boots came to squeaking stops. Light chatter hushed alongside a dimming radio. All eyes in the barracks honed in on the two rangers. The younger one took note, glancing over his shoulder. A little chuckle and cocky smile followed. He snagged a newspaper from the assortment of his belongings sprawled on his bunk. "This." He held up the paper for everyone to see. Sauntering around the bunk=bed to Lawrence, an old print by about a few weeks in hand. A familiar grainy photo plastered on the folded disarray of gray. "You been selling us out? To House? To the Legion?" He halted at Lawrence's side. Shit-eating grin stretched on a smooth face. No wrinkles to speak of. No eyes dragged down by the burden of sleepless nights. Fresh cut brunette hair, thick on top and a little too perfect for someone claiming to be out fighting in the thick of war. "What have you really been up to with this little twat? Hm?"

Nostrils flared. Brows tightened. The kid sidled a step back when Lawrence advanced. Eyes flinched, but still he flailed that paper around like a red flag in front of a bull. "You wanna keep those teeth in your mouth?"

"If I were in command, I woulda canned you—"

"Well, you ain't in charge, Booker, so I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself." Purposeful stomps marched down the aisles. A stoic face set in red stone. Clint stopped behind the cocky kid. "Next time you don't, that's going to be an order." Booker peeled away from Lawrence. Eyes pointed at the man as if brandishing a knife. He took to attention at the sight of their CO. "Anybody else have something to say?" Clint peered around the room; flattened brows took to an intrigue rise. He grasped hands behind his back, starting his slow, wide-stepped march up the aisle. Each ranger stood at attention. A quick "No sir," followed had he looked them in the eye. "When the brass commands you to get intel, what do you do?" He spun around, now standing dead center in the cramped barracks. "Booker."

The young ranger jumped back to attention. Temples flashed with a clenched jaw. He swallowed. "You get intel, sir."

"Exactly," Clint boomed. "We got a little dirt on House and one step closer to victory. Now, get back to packing. We set out at oh-nine-hundred."

Lawrence watched Clint return to his post by the door. Mouth dried. Knees weakened. His stomach plummeted. Joints gave in and he crashed on the lower bunk. Slumped over, rubbing away the tension of strained brows. Lawrence stole a glance over his shoulder. The barracks were mostly back to normal. Booker scurried to his friends. Three of them gathered together. Hushed whispers, scoffs, and smiles. An eyeroll after meeting Lawrence's stare. He stood up, bracing the inevitable glances as he crossed the long room.

"Clint," he started, barely a whisper as he turned his back to the barracks. "You know I never got any good intel, right? I have no idea what House is planning."

Clint glanced up to him. "Don't worry 'bout that." He patted Lawrence's shoulder. A quick nod then back to the organizing stacks of files and reports awaiting their new life stuffed in a drawer somewhere in Camp Golf. "That's for the brains of the operation to figure out. You just keep up with their questions."

–

Vincent returned the wet glass to its watery crescent on the table. An orange and red concoction. A pink umbrella to match the sunrise, piercing a citrus garnish through the ice cubes. "Explain."

"Well," Clyde shifted in his chair. Wood creaked, muffled behind a nervous chuckle. "These thug-types have been a real problem 'round here lately—"

Vincent cocked his head and stared back at the man. Plump cheeks reddened and Clyde hushed himself. "Do you not have guards? Mercenaries?"

"I do." Clyde stroked his mustache, setting all those out of place hairs back into position. He leaned forward, clasping hands together as they rested on the white-spread table. "They got the jump on my people last night while they were sleeping. I only found out this morning."

"Where are your men?"

"They're still in there," he confessed, a slight flinch wrinkled his eyes. Fingertips gripped the lip of a nigh empty tall glass. Sudsy froth clung to smoothed corners. Black stout sloshed as the old man rolled the glass on its bottom. "Probably with big ol' bumps on their heads."

Vincent sighed. He leaned back in his seat as if it were his own throne. And it could have been with such a view over the strip and how eager to please the service was. Complimentary drinks here. A stack of chips there with a grin that begged him to go play the tables. Or those fanciful women strutting the gambling floor, waiting on him to the point of annoyance. "Well, my food's coming. I'll check it out later."

"You're gonna go to the warehouse?"

"Why not? Clearly, I have to take care of the problem by myself."

A waiter paused tableside, bringing along a grand presentation of a hot breakfast the likes he could only have dreamt of a few months ago. "I'll send someone to let you know when I'm done."

"I just didn't know you were of the gun-slingin' type," Clyde said. Hands rolled a hat brim under the table while he wore an almost convincing smile.

Vincent glossed over the meal. Inspecting the contents to assure it was indeed what he ordered while an intrigued headwaiter observed ever so patiently. Several varieties of meat, a small assortment of fresh fruits untouched by mutated flaws, eggs—Chicken? Gecko? It didn't matter with a generous helping of tart brahmin cheese melted on top fluffy clouds. Quite indulgent… Yet that insatiable hunger that had gripped him as of late demanded such indulgence.

"Is everything as expected, sir?"

"Yes, thank you," Vincent flashed a smile to the waiter. With a polite nod, the black-tailed suit dismissed himself. Vincent glanced at the entrepreneur across from him. "You don't get to where I am being a pacifist, do you?"

Clyde nodded. He slapped on his hat, catching the sun's reflection on white suede as he stood up. "I'll keep an eye out—thank you, young man."

–

"Welcome to Forlorn Hope, gentlemen!" Heavy heads raised against the sun's will. The rangers closed ranks, funneling into the canyon, headed by a commanding officer. "Better get cozy. We're gonna be here a while."

Watchtowers loomed overhead. One centered on the canyon wall. Others peeped overhead on the horizon, scattered around the cliffside camp. To the east, a steep dive into the Colorado. In any other direction: certain danger. The safe zone, the beige and green circling the NCR's claim and stark contrast against the sun-bleached stone and dirt. All of it centered around the largest tent in the bunch. The command center. Standing outside that tent, dead center in forking paths, a signpost. Wood arrows nailed into the beam, each bearing a name. The Boneyard. New Vegas. Shady Sands. Adytum. Redding. Any which way that was home. Or maybe just somewhere out of this hell hole.

Clint halted, meeting an approaching soldier. They exchanged salutes, finally letting the burning feet of the group behind the two rest. The CO turned around to face his charges. Another energetic roar followed. "Private Simmons here is gonna give you a tour—Be nice."

Sand gritted under rubber as they pressed on into the chaos. Soldiers dashed stretchers in and out of the medical tents. Limping, ignoring their own minor wounds and sleep deprivation. Exhaustion dragged down every face in that camp. Dark under wide eyes. Hollow gazes, jumping at the intermittent drills in the clearing downhill. "Just grab an open bunk," was what each of them were told. A quick stop at one tent. Then a shack. Another tent as the group of twelve dwindled to two.

The last stop. A small tent of four bunks. One occupied by a quiet soldier. A lanky young man probably not even a month older than the drafting age. Gaunt and haunted eyes stared as he sifted through letters from home. He paused, looking up at the new faces.

"Coming through!"

Sweat soaked fatigues and a smell to match weaved through, small crate in hand. The man knelt at one bed, taking down the letters, photos, and a few drawings pinned to the canvas. Bulbous shapes and smiling faces. A family portrait captured through the eyes of a child. One by one, he dropped them in the crate.

"Looks like one opened up," Private Simmons sighed.

Mordecai dropped his bag on the new vacancy, exchanging a quick glance with his friend. Lawrence's eyes lingered on the empty mattress. The weight of gravity dragged his shoulders. They would be here awhile. Maybe the rest of their lives.

–

Below that stretching skyline of towers, flashy and shimmering like pristine oasis waters, was the mud and muck desperately trying to mix in those pure waters. The old bones of the city. Decaying. Rotting. Most knew better than to take up residence in those carcasses, but reality often pushed them into those holes. Nothing wrong with squatter's rights, but to keep your claim, you better have the strength to back it up.

Perched on the scaffolding, Vincent peered in the warehouse. Lit only by sunlight veiled in decades of grime and dust on two long rows of windows of either side. An expansive workshop cluttered by vague shapes of machinery, crates and barrels, parts and scraps strewn on a workbench. Stowed in a corner, lounging on reclaimed sofas, passing something among their group was the measly little gang of five brigands—No, that was far too generous a way of framing them. They were typical trash. Fueled by a deadly cocktail of chems and zero inhibitions. The ones that lurked in the old ruins of South Vegas, jumping out only to snatch some unfortunate souls' belongings. Or worse—their life.

He shoved a long hunting knife in the window's border. Separating dust and chipping paint as he pried it open. The metal frame relented. An unsatisfying squeak—he held his breath. Eyes honed on the squatters. Excited chatter and exaggerated forms communicated some slew of words only they could understand. A deep inhale from a hand pressed to a nose.

At least they were occupied…

Vincent crept through the window and onto a catwalk. Quiet and deliberate taps made their way to that far corner. Observant eyes absorbed the layout. Only five. Nowhere else for them to hide. One direct way out through the front door—Locked. Just them, stuck in here with him. Them, armed by garbage and a putrid stench. Makeshift spears of metal poles ground to a point. Commandeered automatics liberated from previous hits.

He yanked the pistol off his thigh. Eyes stayed on the group below him while a hand prodded the vest. His hand lingered on a grenade. Tempting, but something else tempted him better as his palm crawled down for the small ball pinned underneath. A sphere of clay. A tiny bomb. An experiment solicited to the young man by a rather convincing saleswoman setup in the Gun Gallery just off the strip. Small enough to fit in his palm, but after seeing that demonstration, size wasn't everything. "Just toss it," was all the instruction he needed. And if it didn't work… Grenades were always fun to play with.

He held his hand over the railing. Fingers clasped around the ball. Loosening with every beat resounding in his head.

Glass cracked. Five men jumped up, delayed by chemicals melting their brains. Fumes sizzled from the shattered ball, spreading tendrils from a toxic cloud. Coughing fits seized them. Sputtering and spewing frothy spit. Eyes swelled, reddening, drenched in tears. One by one they fell, tripping over each other as legs refused to work. A temporary effect, but he couldn't help but wonder if it could be made permanent.

Vincent dashed down the catwalk the same way he came. He shrugged off one side of his backpack, unzipped the middle pocket, and pulled out a gas mask as he came to a stop. Pressing the seals to his face, he recalled the ranger's instruction. One of many drills practiced together on those not-so-lazy-days in the suite. He tightened the straps. Harder, until that memory squeezed out of him. He had more important things to worry about. Circling the catwalk once more, he found his way to the ground floor.

He lingered at the scene. Staring down at unconscious bodies. Studying each face hidden under sweat, smeared dirt, and scabs. Ratty clothes. Sewn and restitched a hundred times over. Arms splattered with bruises gathering around tiny pricks. He rested his palm on the butt of the pistol. Cold and stinging like those thoughts fighting in his head.

Thud.

Vincent spun around. Thud. Eyes honed on its source. A door. A lone door hidden in the opposite corner and shadows. He yanked the pistol out. Creeping slowly, listening for more as he stared at the door. Muffled voices on the other side. Deep. Male. The mercenaries?

A quick twist and thrust. The door swung open, bouncing off concrete walls. There stood two men. Bound together by their hands, back-to-back. Armored. Expensive armor. Clyde's mercenaries… Just two?

"Who are you?"

"We were, uh—"

"I'm Tony. That's Jim. Those pricks out there snuck up on us as we was sleeping. They leave?"

"They're unconscious for now. Why is there only two of you?"

"We were just passing by," Jim muttered. An older man, stringy red hair and pasty skinned by nature, but burned red across plump cheeks and a wide nose. "Nobody important."

"Mind letting us go?" Tony plastered a grin on his face. A practiced look, but not practiced enough. An unusually white smile. He was the suave type. The kind to take control especially with such a flaccid excuse of a hired gun tied to him.

"First, you can start by telling me what really happened," Vincent stowed his pistol. "Your Clyde's men. I'm an interested investor cleaning up his mess and I don't like it. Now, if you don't tell me, I'll put a bullet in both of your heads and I walk out of here. Do tell me and I sweeten the deal. Got it?"

Ambivalent glances avoided the young man's piercing scowl. "Eh…" Tony craned his neck. Rolling around those ideas in his head. One better be the truth. "We uh, needed some stuff and…"

Vincent glanced over to the trespassers. Arms folded as an impatient leg bobbed. "You needed drugs," he corrected.

"They got some good stuff," Jim pleaded. An assuring nod followed.

Vincent sighed. A habitual hand rose to rub the pulsing scar. The glass screen halted his needs. Instead, he muttered obscenities to himself along with a mental note once he met Clyde again. "Alright. I keep up my end of the bargain. I'll give you caps, but you have to do something before you leave."

"Caps?" Tony's amber eyes sparkled at that word. "What did you have in mind?"

One by one, they heaved the five intruders up the catwalk then another short flight of stairs and to the roof. Rope tightened around wrists and ankles. Squirming as they roused from a quick nap.

Tony pulled off his own mask. Barely enough to protect against the paint fumes, both those dolts were lucky the bomb dissipated before they stepped foot out that room. He took a deep breath. One hand clutching the side stitch in his stomach and the other clutching his mask. "What you want them up here for?"

"Hang them."

Thick brows furrowed. Tony stared at the boy then to the rope knotted around exposed pipe segments. He wrung his wrist, coaxing out the rope burn pressed into caramel skin. Jim huffed, hovering over the man he dragged up. "Now what?"

"Put the noose around their necks and throw 'em over," Vincent ordered. He tossed the loops of various ropes and wires salvaged from the warehouse to his new helpers. "On this side of the building only," he added, hand swirling to the south-face staring on the ruins of Vegas's wild outskirts. "The rest of them can watch."

Tony shrugged, "I've done worse for less pay."

"Just hang 'em?" Jim peeped. A squint bunched his face as a lip curled. "Easiest caps I ever made."

Without furthering any useless conversation, Vincent observed the hangmen. Wrestling squirming, screeching bodies as the two hefted them over the roof. A hard thud followed a few seconds later. Gagging. Writhing. Unable to break free. Unable to breathe. Feeling what Vincent felt. Feeling what they've inflicted on others.

As they should.

–

Muffled yells funneled through the canyon. Vague shouting. Nothing unusual. Then the clapping picked up. More joined in with the clanging pots. Lawrence filled his notebook, leaving the pencil where he left off. He stared at the tent flaps, listening intently as the roars drew nearer.

Canvas doors swung in, picking up a dusty afternoon's breeze. "Mails here!" Mordecai exclaimed, grinning a grin he hadn't worn in years. The one Lawrence always saw when the man was expecting a letter from the wife and kids. He grew to like those times too. A little glimpse into a life he'd never have. Especially not after burning every bridge after leaving that boy behind.

"One at a time!" The clerk shouted into a bullhorn, finally putting a reign on an excited crowd. The kid stood on a pedestal of crates. Heavy sack at his feet for his easy reach and out of the elated mobs'. Once upon a time, Lawrence was excited for those letters. Usually from Eve or buddies scattered around the Mojave. Something from his mother too if she got his whereabouts in time. Now that became a one-way line for him. "Simmons is handing out the NCRA Report," the clerk shouted, pointing to the private in question as he waded through the masses. Voices clamored for a print while others pestered the clerk if they'd gotten anything.

"Check it," Mordecai chirped. He leaned against the flagpole with Lawrence, showing the newspaper's front page. A weekly progress report of the frontlines, other camps, ranger stations. Anecdotes from varying ranks. Abridged versions of the long-winded newspapers back home. "McCarran's outsourcing guns?"

"Hm?" An intrigued brow peaked as Lawrence looked to the page. Mordecai pulled the print closer to squinting eyes.

"They're paying out any dumbass with a gun to hunt down the local slime around Vegas."

Lawrence scoffed. "They're gettin' a li'l' too hopeful we're actually gonna take the whole Mojave."

"Looks like easy pay after this!"

–

To say there was one seedy little casino on the Freeside was an understatement. Most of them were by nature, but that was the appeal. Being on the strip, the real one, was a status symbol—the credit check just to get past the gate wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon. You had to have the money or know someone and naturally, Freeside locals' response was a blunt fuck you to Mr. House and his rules. Little did Freeside know House expected and wanted that. Concentrating all the "undesirables" and whatnot.

However, House and Vincent had very different definitions for that word.

Little did the old man know how much those undesirables contributed to his overall plan. Especially when it came to getting on the NCR's good side. Apparently, the wind blew east for the republic's trash; the escaped convicts trickling down the 15 uninhibited, California grown disreputables roaming in under new guises and blank reputations to name a few varieties out there. Finally feeling the weight of their fruitless campaign, some pencil pusher in the brass decided to outsource the long arm of the law. Posters began popping up all over Freeside. In the casinos, the bars, even outside the brothels. They knew their demographic; Vincent couldn't deny that.

He stopped at the threshold of the Baron's gambling hall and the Freeside strip. More posters than yesterday. Pinned in stacks, scattered on a corkboard that only showed up two-weeks ago. Questionable sketches and descriptions beneath the NCR's seal. Then the big payout below. Varying numbers all depending on what that cap-cow did so long as you followed the rule: Bring the head for proof.

"Who's that?"

"Who?"

"Storm rollin' in over there," the old man pointed. All but one finger wrapped around the glass in hand. "Youngin'. Seen him comin' to the front, pluckin' off posters from the wall every day." The bartender looked over his shoulder, chuckling once he saw the boy in question. Not a regular, but one of the occasional tumbleweeds that rolled in. "Awfully young to be bounty huntin'."

"He ain't too chatty, Wayne."

"Hah!" The old man huffed. He parsed a bushy white mustache under thumb and index finger, trailing down the sides to a well-groomed beard. Baggy eyes squinted at the bartender. "Wanna bet I can't coax somethin' out of him?" Wayne peered over his shoulder, following the young man until he had to switch to the other. Determined steps waltzed all the way to the high roller's lounge. Not a glance, not a look to those eyes that followed him, studying the fancy vest and all its accoutrements: that big highway sign shielding his back, shiny twin holsters, and a scowl even the devil would jump at. He took his seat at a blackjack table, setting a column of chips in their spot as the dealer waved a lingering waitress from the poker table. A quick exchange brought him a drink.

"Way I see it," Wayne started as he turned back to the bartender. "What a man drinks tells you all you need to know 'bout him."

Have y'all ever been to Fremont street? There's always some weird shit going on. It's a complete departure from the strip proper. Recently Vegas cleaned up the strip (or so it seems), personally I noticed a higher police presence, a lack of """adult entertainers""" handing out their cards, and less homeless folks. You want some weird shit? You wanna see the absolute down-trodden of society passed out drunk as hoards flow by, completely unfazed? You like listening to Lovecraftian rambles of the batshit insane? Are you into grown-ass men dressed as giant babies charging $5 to spank them? Maybe you just wanna see some tiddies? Well have I got the place for you, discerning tourist! check out FREMONT STREET! You'll get all that and then some!