No matter where one went, remnants of the old-world lingered like ghosts. Some of those phantoms were the towers of the Strip, polished to perfection 'til they rivaled the brilliance of sun. Every bit of their inner-workings renovated to near mint-condition all for the sole purpose their visitors forget they lived in the shadow of another world. Other apparitions were the decrepit blocks of concrete sprinkled around the desert. Old structures, repurposed a hundred times over, claimed by wildlife only to be evicted by a bigger, badder creature.

Then there was Hoover Dam.

A grand monument. A leviathan testament of concrete and engineering belonging to a distant era. Steel pylons crooned in the wind, peering over the cliffside like an eager audience. Each silvery giant connected to one another by a web of black cords. Beneath them, stretching the divide, pushing against rough valley walls like a prospector staking his claim and refusing to budge, the wall of the dam. Sun-bleached stains leaked down precise seams of a thousand and one perfect blocks. Bended, but not bending. A long steep drop with nothing to catch you nor soften the fall. The lone wall bore the burden of a road on its spine. The convex side held back the sparkling blue waters of Lake Mead. Scorched sepia stone, jagged and rough wrought the valley. One endless band of white lined the rugged shore. The last vein sending blood in and out the Nevada-Arizona battleground. The last stand between the warring East and West. The sole reason the house of cards that was New Vegas hadn't collapsed yet.

Staring over the overlook wall did Vincent realize no paintings, no grainy black and white pictures, or those rare colored photos preserved in House's library, and certainly no words could do the colossus justice. Never had he felt so small in his life. Insignificant, minuscule, and mortal. As if carved into each brick, faces of those lost in the first battle and those to follow in the days to come stared back at him. Thousands of soldiers of the republic, Caesar's Legion, and those who fought for neither side for a cause as old as time—Each a judge for him. Taunting or cheering, betting on his win or loss. The most crushing one of them all, a ranger.

Shivers rattled his spine. Goosebumps crawled his skin, sending hairs on end. He pulled away from his vantage point, retreating to the visitors' center behind him. Tiled in tinted windows, bronze scales gleamed despite the patina of time and age. A chill met him first at the door. One lazy pupil refused to adjust, content to annoy Vincent with an unruly and bulbous glare. Gathered at a reception desk, a posse of rangers discussed their plans. Tattered dusters, the standard issued boots, and black armor, each with their own pattern of wear as unique as its owner.

He glanced from one to another as hope swelled in his chest. Could his ranger be among them? The chatty group hushed once they noticed their audience. Glossing over their faces, only strangers stared back. Why would Lawrence have been there anyway? He would have likely scurried away the moment he spotted Vincent. Don his helmet, slip out the back door. That kind of thing he was apparently good at…

No, the young man wasn't there in search of that specific ranger. Instead, a different one. An older veteran; umber-toned skin, glossy under any light. Pitted texture highlighted by little bronze dots and one sharp eye—The other covered by a patch. Short curls of gray seasoned black hair, prim and neatly groomed like the mustache coating his upper lip, split down the middle, and forming a face that never strayed from sour.

"Ranger Grant?"

"That's me," He announced, a commanding voice that pulled all eyes on him. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm Vincent."

With a tense glance to his peers and a hushed sigh, Grant departed from the group. Vincent followed at the ranger's wave. Still in plain sight and at a quiet corner of the floor-to-ceiling windows, interested eyes and ears listened for the two. Suspicious rangers, soldiers on guard, and the repurposed exhibit hall now turned to a command center for the dam's operations.

"Mr. House has helped me in the past so when that securitron came here to inform me of what's going on," Grant started, husky voice kept to a low grumble. "I couldn't ignore it." One hand gripped his other's wrist. Leather-backed, soft white underbelly-palms. Nails as curt as the man's words. "I will be keeping an eye on you though."

"You would be incompetent if you didn't. So, let's get started."

—

Danger waited around every corner. In the mountains. The intake towers on the reservoirs. Hell even the crowds—civilian and soldier alike. The Legion knew the value of subterfuge, Vincent noted as he stared at the jumpsuit. A bland gray thing each of the maintenance workers wore. An ID tag clipped to a breast pocket, the plastic slot stuffed with someone else's card. He zipped up jumpsuit over an emptied vest. Only his concealed pistol and wits would protect him. Anyone of those people, the maintenance workers, the guards, anyone could be a spy—Frumentarii, as Caesar called them. However what separated the Legion from the NCR was the willingness to do whatever it took to get the job done. No pesky morals or ethics to get in the way, especially not when you dehumanized your enemy and turned them into the one lacking morality and ethics. Both sides were good at that, to tell the truth.

But what was on the menu for the President's speech?

Something blatant and bloody, he imagined, securing a matching cap on his head. Sneak in. Wait for the right moment. Then get down to business. It would rock the NCR to the core. Demoralize the military forces. Sow seeds of fear just as the Legion wanted. Salt the wounds of an already anxious population, uncertain of their own futures, let alone that of the republic. Vincent emerged from the bathroom, quick glances absorbed the visitor center's scene. Same as he left it; rangers, soldiers on guard or idly staring at the old exhibits for the umpteenth time that day. Everyone waiting for the inevitable. Outside the windows, the concrete barriers moved forward. Civilians followed behind, cheery and eager faces drawn towards the stage splayed across the road. They were ineffective, but the political leaders of New California had a way of bolstering their people.

Maybe an assassination would do the same.

"I want to know who the hell invited these people!" Ranger Grant fumed. Subordinates at his side flinched. The smarter ones slinked away, off to some pretend work elsewhere. He shook his head, watching the hoard go by, waving little flags as they marched along. Radio chatter broke up the man's profanity-laced grumbles.

"Bear Force One has arrived."

Before Grant barked his orders, Vincent pushed through the doors and out into the light of day. Whirling blades peaked over the roof, sending gusts below, weakening their spin as time itself came to a slow stop. In only a few minutes, President Kimball would descend the roof for the stage. Stand upon a target in front of his citizens and military to deliver a speech. Waves rushed through Vincent, leaving him hollow inside, draining him of hours of preparation and memorization. There would only be one outcome to his speech. And Vincent would be the only one responsible for it.

"Ain't those flyin' machines a sight!"

Vincent spun around, groaning at the familiar voice. Wayne squinted at the rooftop, craning his neck as if trying to spot the rest of the vertibird.

"I told you to stay in Freeside." The old man laughed, fanning away the boy's demands before returning his hat to its throne. "How did you even get here?"

"Oh, with the rest of 'em," Wayne jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Corralled behind the barriers and under watch by an entourage of soldiers, eager civilians waited for the main event. A convoy of caravans and wagons curved around and up the road behind them. Each bore a sure promise, painted on wood, scrap metal, or tarps; Get to Hoover Dam and back safe and sound! For a fee of course.

Vincent planted his head in his palm, muttering harsh whispers to himself. Eyes squinted shut as he moved to massage his temples. The noise. The crowds. The pressure! He took a deep breath. His head shot back up. Attention snapped to the old man. "How did you get past the barrier? Who else—"

"You're just full o' questions today!"

Vincent sighed, staring at Wayne as one does when they've met an immovable object. "Kimball is going to be on stage in a minute."

"I'll be on the sidelines…" Wayne said, rather reluctantly as he pinched the brim of his hat. "I know you got your duties to see to."

Arms crossed against Vincent's chest. Posture rigid while he watched Wayne turn around. "Wayne."

The old man paused, only half-turned as if he knew Vincent would stop him. "I have to prevent a surefire assassination plot against the republic's president and have no idea what I am doing." Silvery eyes fell to the ground as pursed lips drew the bushy mustache along. Wayne nodded, taking those few steps back to Vincent. "I mean, I got the obvious; snipers and lookouts posted around, the guards, the rangers on duty, a detailed schedule down to goddamn bathroom breaks."

Shoulders deflated with another loaded sigh. Shame turned his face away from the old man, settling on a pretend evaluation of the stage splayed across the road. Whatever strength Vincent had that brought him to the dam diminished on the ride over. Frankly, he doubted he had any to begin with. Of all the people in the NCR, the Mojave, and the forces stationed at the dam, the least qualified to prevent the death of the republic's leader was some kid dragged out of a grave and a few cards short of a full deck.

Wayne clapped his hands together. "Let's get to it then!"

—

Held off at a distance from the stage, but not so far on couldn't get a clear view of the President, the uninvited crowd of civilians shouted and cheered—The better points of view were reserved for NCR's service personnel. Miniature flags bobbed up and down. In the far back, painted signs jutted up—Supporters and critics. Weaving through that crowd, one irate young man evaluated each one of those people as he passed. Grumbling and pushing back should one oblivious body bump into him. What was he supposed to look for anyway? The Legion had the know-how to blend in. Well, assuming it was only the Legion out to get Kimball. The president accrued enough opposition and political enemies back home. Support dwindled, withered away just like all the young men he sent to die out here.

"Thank you!" His voice boomed over the speakers. A slight scratch echoed in the ancient tech. "Thank you!" He smiled, waving to the servicemen collected around the stage then to the audience beyond. "To all my fellow Californians who have come so far to answer the call to service."

Vincent rolled his eyes. A testy sigh brushed his lips. Frankly, the man wasn't much to look at. An average, forgettable face. Dressed in a black suit, the flag of the republic shrunk down to a pin stuck on his lapel, and surrounded by an entourage of rangers. That itching thought returned. An echo from the darkest parts of the mind that urged one to do the things they shouldn't. Getting his brains blown wouldn't be so bad for the Republic.

As if it could be a real wake up call for these people. Vincent stared at them, straining to wrangle control over his own mind. Pressure ballooned in his head. Starting at the base of his skull, jabbing his eyes with every pump of an anxious heart. Wincing through the pain, he scanned the boisterous strangers. Focus on the mission. Fist clenched, digging nails in his palms then releasing to start over. Wayne wandered among them as well. Inching a bit closer to the front. Then to the sides. Falling to the back. Wading in a sea of potential danger. Suffocating in the heat of tightly packed bodies. Inhaling stale air. Musty, moist like the dirt sucked into his lungs. A dry throat. Ears ringing, deafened by his screams as black froth circled in his eyes.

Vincent pressed palms into his sockets. The ringing faded. Cheers quelled, quieting to whirring fans of machines. The scratchy voice in the speakers smoothed. Dispassionate and ageless, recounting the reason he was here. "Will you ensure that President Kimball survives his visit to Hoover Dam?" Mr. House asked. Vincent ripped his hands from his face. He stared at the giant monitor looming above. Bright, burning the black and green portrait in his eyes. "Or do you need Lawrence to do everything for you?"

The screen shattered.

He flinched, preparing for glass shards to rain down on him. Instead, the screams shook him. No glass, no shards. Only the endless blue sky stretching for miles. Terrorized massed rushing below, searching for cover, crashing into one another. The rangers closed ranks on the president, huddling around him, their own pistols drawn as they searched for the source. A second bullet ripped through the crowds. Louder. Closer. Vincent spun around. Peeking through the scattering numbers, stumbling over one another in a desperate attempt to flee. Standing still in the flurry, a lone gunman. A whisper of smoke exhaling from the barrel. Matte lead, a small pistol held by one leather-clad hand. Blonde, curt hair. Brown eyes. Pock-scars splashed across his cheeks. Fire sputtered, spewing out another bullet.

Vincent fumbled with the zipper. Eyes fixed where the man stood, a ghostly face flashing like strobe lights in the stampede. By the time his hand wrapped that icy grip, gone. Growls clawed up his throat. Curses screamed inside. How could he just let him disappear? Stand there frozen like a fucking idiot? Vincent dashed for the human shield, certain not to make the same mistake again.

"Nobody leaves!" Grant roared over the radio.

The rangers started their slow crawl to the visitor center. Hidden among them, Kimball. Alive or dead? One ranger fell to his knees, hands clutching the red seeping out his hip. Various ranks scattered on the scene. Soldiers marched down the road, joining the line standing between the civilian spectators and the only road out. They pushed and shoved like waves against the line of soldiers. Screaming and spitting threats against the military blockade and trampling over those little flags they once waved.

"Scene secured," One declared as the huddle entered the center. The rangers dispersed. Fatigued medics rushed to the president. Vincent stared from the sidelines, barely stealing a view when the doctors went to work. Fuming, burning up in a bubbling stew of fury and dread, he ripped away from the scene. Wrath blinded his eyes, narrowing his vision to pinpoints. A fire raged inside, flooding his limbs and flinging him out the doors. Nostrils flared. Huffing, pacing back and forth outside the doors like a bull ready to charge. The only thing missing, his victim.

"What's the news?" Wayne approached, hands gripped his belt. His ready stance. A quick swipe to his hips would withdraw the revolver; the squint in his eyes keen to gather the scene.

Vincent halted his charge. Jaw clenched as he stared to the ground, hoping to find some sense down there. Instead just blood. Little splatters on gray, each a reminder of his failure. The trail led back to the spot where it all took place and one bigger splotch. A lot of blood—But a ranger was hit. Not just Kimball…

"I saw a ranger collapse," Vincent announced as he scanned the personnel loitering the stage and road. Obviously none were that wounded man, yet he was nowhere to be seen. Not inside the visitor center. No, those medics B-lined for Kimball and only Kimball right away.

Wayne hummed, parting the ivory hairs of his mustache back in place. "Saw him get escorted off. Didn't see much else though."

"By who?"

"Soldier. Why?"

"Where? What did he look like?"

"I vaguely recall light hair," Wayne pondered. Brows narrowed as arms folded across his chest. "What's on your mind, son?"

"I saw one shooter." Vincent zipped past him, head spinning around on a swivel in search of one platinum blonde soldier. "You're certain he was a soldier? I didn't get a look at his clothes."

"Saw them fatigues," Wayne confirmed.

Vincent followed the red blots. Little drips strayed from the main trail. Minuscule, easily mistaken for flaws in the concrete. He followed to the side of the visitor center, then around the bend to an overlook. Smaller and smaller. Then, nothing…

Behind him, the tinted windows of the building. Nobody would be near them during this chaos. No, all attention would be on the president, corralling the civilians, swarming the stage. No snipers or guards stationed back here. There was only one way in and out and that was already secured. Why come back here? Privacy? The natural rock walls provided some cover from peeping eyes. The man made walls lining the path? Just get to a low crouch and nobody would notice. But to so boldly drag a wounded man back here? For what purpose? And a ranger at that…

A disguise. A better disguise.

Vincent rushed to the stone railing and peered over the walls. A long drop led not to the water below, but the roofs of the twin-facilities built into the weathered mountain on either side of the dam. And there among the shadows of steel cages and cable arms, a blot splayed out on sweltering gray. A man.

Nails dug into the concrete. Pressing back into fingers, daring to break off entirely should he use his full strength. Teeth gritted, muffling the ripping screech clawing out his throat. Dead. A good man dead because he wasn't paying attention again. The count: one ranger. President Kimball, maybe. Should there be a third, well it was going to be by Vincent's hands—That he was sure of.

A whirlwind zoomed past Wayne, ordering him to follow with a wave. Vincent swung open those doors again. Metal clanked in their frames, announcing his arrival. One more time and they might break off. "Grant."

—

A warped reflection stared back at him. A twisted smear of his colors tinted in gold, tarnished to brass by the years. Scowl twisting colder and colder as the elevator descended the height of the dam. Vision defocused, leaving his mind to wander. Was there more? Something he missed? Over and over, they assessed the civilians, the soldiers, the rangers, locked down the visitor center. After venturing every possible route to weed out the disguised frumentarii, only one place remained. The one place an urgent inner voice kept telling him to go…

There was one phrase the Legion muttered often. One of many phrases Caesar sprinkled in their little chat; carpe diem. Seize the day. And if he were a Legion soldier, eager to prove oneself and move up the ranks, one with the opportunity to sabotage, gather intel, or otherwise, then seize the day, he would.

Hallways ran the length of the dam, stretching into Arizona and Nevada, leading on for what looked to be miles. Lit by fluorescent lights splashing an eerie tint on colorless corridors. Walls hummed, vibrating the collage of chipped white tiles. Ambient thrums hushed his steps. Further and further, deeper into the belly of the leviathan, not a soul in sight. Any jitters or second guesses shook off like rust under the power of strumming machines.

At the end of the hallway, the heart of the beast. Bright spheres dotted the distant ceiling. Blackened steel armatures webbed behind the lights. One long row of gargantuan generators lined the floor below. Tiny blots roamed, moving from one to another, climbing up a flight of stairs to reach their tops. Above them a verdigris catwalk. The flag of the republic splayed out, hanging from the rails. On the maintenance floor, Vincent blended in with the jumpsuits and red hardhats. Eyes darted beneath the shade of the visor, scanning each face he passed. Nondescript faces. Just workers from California keeping the lights on and water running. No news from a mere hour earlier reached them down here—His and his prey's advantage.

However, getting on the man's trail was another task entirely. When he found idle hands, Vincent inquired about a ranger passing through. Most of the answers were a firm "no" or rebutting with why he wasn't at work. Returning to the maze of tunnels, one ended in a corner of four doors. He paused, glancing from door to door, only one labeled—The bathrooms. Pushing through the middle door opened to a control room. Stuffy, far too warm with so many beeping and fanning consoles. Light dust coated black screens. A wall of gauge needles pointed in the green or various numbers and temperatures. Doorways led to more rooms. Offices, a small break room, more bathrooms…

But shouldn't there have been at least someone here? Vincent paused on to the last room. A smaller office. A neat corner desk topped by a terminal, screen on. The only sign of life, a cup of cold coffee and a radio. Quiet steps shuffled inside. Eyes examined paperwork on the desk before hands. Nothing interesting, just metrics on the dam's power production and something about a menacing breed of mollusks living in the cooling pipes. Vincent sighed. He turned around, meeting the wall of filing cabinets, topped with various accouterments one decorates boring spaces with. An array of fake flowers. Pictures in mismatched frames. Stacks of papers waiting to be organized.

A ranger's helmet.

Static washed over him. He stared at the lenses. Arms unfolded from his chest. Heart thumped against his ribs. A million questions flashed across his mind. The same one? Eyes flickered over the little scratches, dents, paint—Evaluating all its flaws. A maroon shadow flashed in ruby eyes. His breath knocked out of him. The ceiling spun. He blinked. Eyes focused on the attacker looming over him. Blonde hair illuminated in a halo around a vicious smile as a hand slipped inside the duster. Vincent balled his fists, springing up and landing his strike between the man's legs.

The soldier recoiled. Knees buckled under the weight of a breathy grunt. Eyes bulged, swelling with murderous fury. He lunged for Vincent, reaching through the boy's flailing hands. The frumentarii laughed. A throaty chuckle skirting a malicious growl. Fingers closed around Vincent's throat. Pressure pushed against his eyes. His heart crawled up his closing airway. Adrenaline shakes seized him, igniting waves of fire across his body. Vincent swung again.

Chuckles turned to growls and the grip loosened. Pink gashes flushed red. Four long, deep marks across his cheek. Threatening something in Latin, nostrils flared and eyes narrowed on the boy. Vincent jumped forehead-first into the agent's face. His nose smashed against the bull-headed boy with a nasty crack that left both grimacing. A heavy thud met the wall. Head bounced. Eyes fluttered as a sneer twisted the stranger's face. Stunned and dazed, Vincent struck him again. Thunder jolted his knuckles, sending shock waves through his wrist. Again and again, refusing to relent. Screeching and roaring to dull the pain of his battered knuckles.

Eyes stung. Wide and settled on the man's face, but not looking at the bloody mess. He saw only the torrent of memories. Events and emotions, recent and far, dredged up from the deepest depths of his heart he promised never to peek at. The rejection. His mother. Lawrence. Everyone and everything that ever hurt him. Every wrong and slight he never made right. Burning white hot. A fire nothing could put out. One fist unfurled, sore, slow., and stiff. Stinging as it joined the other hand clutching the neck of the fiery beast. Wicked temptations seized him. Two voices shouting in his ears. One chiding, reminding him of the man he did not want to be. The other, sultry, salacious, playing into the dark desires every man hid from themselves. Hypnotic. Enthusiastic, encouraging, pulling the corners of his lips to a smile.

Weak hands pushed against him. Mouth agape, gasping for air. His body slipping down, the flared collars of the duster pinned to the wall behind the agent. Black armor diffused to gray under the light, highlighting the knicks and scratches in white. Each one telling the story of the ranger it belonged to. Some of them Vincent almost remembered. Desperate eyes stared at him. Fluttering, consciousness drifting away, catching a glint of light. Blue. As blue as sorrow.

Vincent ripped away from the man. Pins and needles jabbed his heart. The man fell forward. Splayed out on the floor, sucking in air. Chest ballooned up and down as he hacked and coughed. The mirage of Lawrence faded away, yet he couldn't shake the horrifying image of the ranger. Pleading eyes, begging the boy he loved to not kill him. No. No. No! He would never! That's not what he wanted. No matter how angry he was at Lawrence—Tears beaded in his eyes. Guilt strangled the knot in his throat. One jittery hand reached for the radio clipped to his belt. He swallowed the knot, shutting his eyes tight, and gathering those strayed pieces of himself before pressing the button.

"I found him."

—

After the excitement of near death, a shootout, a brush with a sharp, cold blade, or all of the above wore off, it left him tired. A weariness that dulled his brain and stifled his emotions. Not even the cold stone wall he leaned against could shake him awake. Nor the brilliant ball of orange vacant eyes stared at. The Colorado river sparkled below, following the setting sun, afraid of the encroaching dark of night. Shadows dimmed the bland gray, leaving only the natural colors of red stone. The last light of day caught on pitted and jagged edges. Did Lawrence still watch the sunset anymore? Or was it just as painful for him as it was for Vincent?

Soles skidded next to him. An older, rougher pair of hands rest on the cool concrete next to him. A breeze whistled through the canyon, carrying the old man's faint scent of cigar smoke and whiskey. "Welp!" Wayne announced. "Grant n' them got everything covered here. Kimball's alive. A killer in custody."

"Wayne," Vincent started, voice muffled by the hand pressed to his chin. The old man looked to him, all his lines, wrinkles, and gray hairs contrasted in light and dark. "Why is it the most unqualified, stupid, horrible, or all of the above are always in positions of power?"

Wayne scoffed. "Hell if I know, son."

"Caesar is just heinous. Kimball is uncaring towards the lives he's throwing in this conflict. House is detached—" Vincent paused. And him? What was his glaring flaw? The reason he shouldn't be where he is. Well, he practically stumbled his way across the Mojave and to House's doorstep. Unqualified would be his first guess, but lately… "What's wrong with me?"

"What?" Wayne turned to him, bushy brows drawn together.

"I—" He choked, catching his voice before it'd break. "I nearly beat that man to death with my bare hands."

"You were in a fight for your life. I'm surprised both of ya are still alive! But I'm glad you are."

"No!" Vincent shook his head. He raised an idle hand to his head. Fingers massaged his temples, hiding his shame. Any excuse not to look Wayne in the eyes as he admitted it aloud. "I enjoyed it."

"Look, son." Wayne set a hand on Vincent's shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze when their eyes met. "Every man dances with the devil at some point in his life."

"Have you?"

Wayne nodded. Lips thinned and eyes blinked, softened by a humble reminder. "I was an angry, angry man after I lost my wife and boy. Lost myself for a while, but I ain't ashamed to admit it. Wouldn't be who I am today. A better man."

Vincent turned back to the sunset, rubbing away the gathering tears from his eyes. Jaw clenched, witnessing again the terrible scene added to the collection of memories he rather not have. It wasn't the first time malice whispered in his ears like a seductive lover. Except lately, that voice was getting louder. Far too many what-ifs clouded his mind. What if his mother accepted him? What if Lawrence were here? What if there was an alternative solution to slaughtering the Brotherhood of Steel? What if—And now, a new one joined, louder than the rest. Asking what if he was becoming the vile thing he never wanted to be?

I feel like this one took me a while. I didn't actually plan this chapter out because there were too many ways to approach and execute it—I was also running on empty and just hadn't had the cognitive capacity to even try to tackle it for the last two weeks. Ugh! Life gets in the way... Anyway, my intention for Vincent is the usual struggles that come with growing up (puberty pt 2: electric boogaloo) and becoming who you are and want to be. I wish I didn't feel the need to preface this, but I will in case: His flaws and character are not representative nor reflective of all/any transgender people. People are people: each have their own unique problems/issues to tackle, et cetera, that are completely separate of their gender/sexuality.

Anyway, y'all ever been to Hoover Dam? Wow! All I could say was wow! when I first saw aeons ago. Honestly, it's really incredible. I can't describe the feeling it evokes. Definitely do the tour, it's really something to see when you go down into the power plant area. Then go hit up Boulder City; there's some nifty antique shops there with neat finds if you're into that stuff (I am).