"It's been quiet too long."
Lawrence glanced up to Mordecai from the cards. The third game of caravan they weren't paying attention to. Laying them down without care to keep score. The bet: a box of snack cakes manufactured a few centuries prior, only partly crushed.
He tossed another card on the pile. Mordecai twisted around, gawking behind them, but it was the same scene wherever he looked. Waiting. Packed together in a musty trench. Rifles clutched to their chest. In the dead of night, staring at nothing or closing eyes where they stood to catch up on robbed sleep. Ears didn't sleep though. Listening to the clerk's radio on a makeshift comm desk of crates, prayers whispered under the breeze. A young man—barely a man yet. Holding his breath as trembling hands clutched the microphone and pressed the ear piece to his head.
"What do you think they're planning?" Mordecai murmured as if the Legion horde across the dry flats could hear them. Only an hour earlier, two platoons dispatched at the sight of a raiding party. Alarms wailed minutes later. Orders ripped through each tent and every whole body in Forlorn Hope jumped to action.
Lawrence opened his mouth, but it wasn't his own voice that came out. Crackles sparked. Roars thrummed. Firelight washed the jagged mountain peaks towering above their moats. Brighter and brighter until the burning ball slammed the stone face, shaking loose rock and debris. A chorus of rifles cocked before jumping on the firestep. Silence returned. Peering into the dark beyond the parapets, fretful stares turned to squints at the vague glow.
"What the fuck is that?" Mordecai whispered.
One by one, those lights ignited. Brilliant, furious blots evenly spaced on the horizon. Each one rose in near perfect unison, tearing through a dark night, leading a gray trail behind them. Then they grew. Bigger and bigger. Flying.
Falling.
Earth shook. The mountain groaned again, shirking its dusty skin. Fire rained down with scorched stone. Wood braces buckled on dirt walls, furiously splintering as passages toppled. Every man in its wake devoured under cold dirt. Thunder slammed again. Bewildered, deafened, and brought to knees. Ringing echoed in his ears. Lawrence reached to the wall still standing beside him, the other hand desperately clutching the rifle's handguard. The world spun around him, taunting and refusing to let him gather his senses. He reached out to the statue next to him. His hand sank in powdery gray. Mordecai shook loose ash and dust. Squinting, little almond blots stared back at Lawrence.
He choked on his words. Dry and dusty. Moisture sapped from skin, mouth, and throat. Thick air barely graced his lungs. Lawrence waved further down the trench. Demolished. Painted in black and gray, splattered by hundreds of little fires. Medics rushed into the chaos, ushering in stretchers and a fresh round of soldiers. They filled up cots as reinforcements jumped in. Rifles spit out triplets. Muzzle fires sparked. Flashes stuttered, capturing stills of feverish digging in bleak gray. Hacking and coughing, they dug with cupped hands. Frantic calls whirled around, barking orders. Orders to the soldiers: advance. Orders from the medics: rush the live ones back, just cover the dead with something.
Throbbing palms, washed in warmth of the day he wasn't sure would come. Sore, red pads hidden by a dense layer of soil. Dirt gathered at the seams of broken skin. Black crescents tipped aching nails. Weary eyes trailed up his arms, following dusty gloves thinning along his forearms. Cuts stung in open air. Tender spots turned to bruises. One of the fortunate ones and the beginning of a long line sitting outside the collection of medical tents. Each one an arm hooked up to a bag siphoning their blood.
"Fuckin' trebuchets…" Mordecai huffed, slamming against the back of his chair. "Do we have trebuchets?"
Lawrence scoffed. Shaking his head, eyes wandered to the valley. On the horizon, the sun barely peaked noon. Staring down the remnants of another battlefield. Scattered holes blackened the plains. Rows of trenches like the dashes and dots of an encoded message. Remaining armatures lingered on the flats, blown to pieces just like their builders. Forlorn Hope's death count still on the rise—the Legion always got the last laugh.
That boy's luck must have rubbed off on him.
—
Cold air stung a dry mouth, clawing down his throat as he choked on greedy breaths. Thin tread slapped hot soil. Sore feet stung with every hit. He twisted around, peeking back once more for his pursuer. Just in time to stare down a little black hole. A lick of fire spat out and hollow skies echoed the blast. One tiny dot ripped through the smoke. Flesh jolted in its wake. Flung forward, skidding on knees. One hard thud parted loose soil, knocking out his last breath before he could take it
"What's with the pose?"
"What?" Vincent whipped around, sneering at the accusation. The old man kept a slow pace behind him during the pursuit. No longer rushed for anybody or anything—Lest it be his favorite seat at the bar. "I'm just aiming."
Wayne stopped at the boy's side. Eyes squinted under bushy brows. A slow nod that knew everything followed. "You did a pose, son."
"Aiming." Vincent jutted forth the revolver. Sights aimed on his target as he had done countless times before. "See?"
"You practice that in the mirror?"
"You're just pissy I can use my knees," Vincent hissed, shoving the pistol in his holster.
"Hah!" Wayne scoffed, shaking his head and watching the boy depart for the bounty. "I can still use my knees."
Vincent knelt at the man. Foul even before death. He was nothing special, just one of many wanted heads one was bound to stumble upon out in the wilds. Not the best payout for small-time thugs though.
"Come back over here an' I'll show ya." Still catching the old man's grumbles, Vincent glanced over his shoulder. "Pop you right in the balls n' we'll see who can't run…"
Vincent rolled his eyes and yanked out the long-bladed hunting knife. His least favorite part of the job. Cutting back and forth, throwing his shoulder into it while he scanned the horizon. Distant winds howled through the valley. Sand flung up like wispy strands of hair, catching the dry brush littering a bleached canvas. His real destination set on the border of cloudless blue and sandy flats.
"Need any help with that head?" The distant voice called.
Vincent whipped the sack inside-out as he stared at Wayne—A look he gave the cowboy often. One that knew damn well the old man wasn't going to lift a finger.
"On the bright side," Vincent started once he came into earshot. He nodded to the sack. "It ain't too hot anymore…"
"Why don't we uh, leave that with the bike?"
"What? It's gonna stink up the box!"
Wayne sighed, crossing arms and arching a bushy brow. "Just tuck n' roll it under. Ain't nobody gonna peruse a bloody sack."
Vincent hummed and looked down at the dripping canvas sack. "Alright," He grumbled, starting the walk back to the bike.
"So what's at this El Dorado station?"
"I'm just doing recon on the place for later. Figuring out what the NCR is doing there." He squinted beneath the shades, scoping out the road further south. Black water shimmered on the horizon. Searing a gray-washed installation jutting up on a flat swath of desert. "I wouldn't mind help, unless it's nap time for you."
"Well," Wayne muttered. He scratched a prim beard, shaking loose all those though important considerations revolving around a stool and a shot of whiskey. "I suppose a drink alone ain't much to do anymore."
—
The most calm seen in any camp was the day when the mail arrived. Letters from home, little creature comforts sent on the way, something to look forward to that lit up a defeated soldier's face like neon lights. Every other week, Mordecai marched in the tent. A smile stretched from ear to ear, reading aloud something new about a daughter and wife in the Boneyard. Then he'd leave, go wandering around the grounds before his shift, searching the letter for some new detail before starting his own. For a moment, nothing else mattered.
For Lawrence, there was rarely a letter. Either from moving around too often or in the far found wilderness where the mail didn't reach. Instead, he received a more complex thing. Hand delivered to himself, by himself. Not jealousy, envy, resentment… No, just guilt. A hollowness left by the vacuum when Mordecai left the tent, taking any sense of good in the world with him.
"Y'know—"
Lawrence jumped in his cot. Wide-eyed, he stared at a leather-faced ranger standing in the entrance.
"I think it might do you good to get out in the field."
"Forlorn Hope is a little short-staffed right now," Lawrence reminded as he lowered the pen and notebook. A letter in the making baring only doodles in the margins and the name of its recipient thus far; Vincent. "Things ain't gettin' any easier here."
Hands clasped behind his back, Clint shoulder his way through the flaps. "Some people been raising questions about you."
"About what?"
The senior ranger tapped on the latest NCRA Report, rustling up the print's musky scent. Still opened to the second page. He had stopped there. Unable to tear his eyes off a picture. A black and white still of trio in Bitter Springs. One lieutenant, an old man, and Vincent. "Alright," Lawrence sighed. "What did you have in mind?"
"Com officer here has been raising a stink about radio security," Clint explained, handing Lawrence a plain envelope. "I want you to deliver the new codes to a few installations and also look into something."
Lawrence scoffed as he opened the envelope. "That'll sound good for the gossip, don't you think?"
"Don't get fussy princess."
"Alright—"
"That's not it though," Clint continued. A low, ominous tone Lawrence seldom heard pulled eyes to the man. "Ask the ranger stations about those reports in there. You'll know why when you read them."
"I'll get ready tonight and leave tomorrow."
"I knew I could count on you."
Left alone once again, Lawrence looked to his notebook. Eyes wandered over to that newspaper again. Across time and space, that boy's eyes bore into him. An irate scowl. Judging. Angry. Gouging out the ranger's insides with but a glance that struck guilt. Not a touch, not a knife, and not a bullet needed. Just a look of a changed young man in a gray photo.
—
Flung off the 93 highway lay a dormant field of solar panels. Scattered like weeds around craters. Black faces coated in dust, no longer staring at the sun. A despondent gathering of wilting flowers on a barren plain, their panels and parts like fallen petals blown across the dust by vicious winds. Watching the defunct array, a lone concrete building. A short complex, untouched by bombs, but not the brutality of time. Behind it, towering power armatures and poles stood their ground while the newest prospectors patrolled their claim.
Beige uniforms wandered lazily in the afternoon shade. Watching from his vantage point, he counted the squad of five soldiers staying close to the substation and out of the sun. Further guards roamed the flats among steel skeletons. However, it was the ones he couldn't see that bothered Vincent. Inside the building? Rangers in the mountains? The NCR clutched the substation desperately. A routing station for power from the dam connected to a greater power grid that reached into the republic.
He shook his head, grumbling as Mr. House's words revisited him: It is unfortunate your ranger companion is no longer here.
A thinly veiled tone of disappointment. Hinting at some shortcoming as the synthetic voice trailed off, leaving a vacuum for Vincent to fill all those distasteful details. He conquered more in the ranger's absence. Raider gangs, outlaws, banditos in the North Vegas ruins. Hoover Dam! Muttering and making a mocking face House would never see, Vincent grasped the stealth boy. At least he learned something other than the pain of a shredded heart from his ranger friend.
Jamming the knife in the frame, Vincent pried the window open. He stole occasional glances over his shoulder. The mountain-facing wall of the building and a fortunate oversight for a precious few minutes. One eye adjusted to the dark room. Barracks. Beds lined against the walls. Footlockers at their ends. He hoisted himself inside, creeping inward, clutching the stealth boy close should he need it. Beyond the room's door, a hallway leading to two more. Bathrooms and one to the main operation. An open office. A clutter of desks, terminals, a powered board displaying the distribution of precious energy across the region and beyond.
Among them, his target. One console. A slit measured for the platinum chip in his pocket waited for him among the array of ports, buttons, and flashing lights. He scanned the beeping and whirring array. Pacing along the assortment while ears attuned elsewhere. He paused. Staring at the black rectangle—
"I'm just gonna rest awhile inside."
Spinning around, Vincent held his breath. He stared at the door. Muffled voices talked beyond the main entrances, then the knob twisted. He dove for a desk, shoving himself tightly underneath in time for those voices to come inside.
"There's plenty of water in the fridge if you need."
"Thanks."
Brows furrowed. He peered through the seams of metal, blinking past a draft and searching for those men. That voice… An unmistakable baritone. Something to envy and admire all at once.
"I'll leave the intel on the comm desk before I go."
The door shut, taking the light of day and a sergeant with it. A chair groaned under the ranger's weight. Then his own sigh as limbs tingled from overuse. Pleasantly basking in a moment of rest. Sprawled out on the least luxurious seat in the Mojave but still so content.
Lawrence.
His heart fluttered. His stomach twisted. Eager. Excited. Trembling as static flood fingertips and lips. The same since he last saw the man, albeit for the neglected stubble and a sun-reddened nose. He shrugged off the duffel bag and searched its contents, finally pulling out an envelope. Unblinking eyes stared at him. Taking in all the monotony of the man like precious water. Everything about him committed to memory for fear of never seeing him again. A canteen came next, then a pause. Lips muttered to himself before standing up and setting the bag aside. He disappeared around the hallway. A bathroom door clicked behind him.
Vincent exhaled. He couldn't stay under the desk forever. Twirling the chip in his fingers, he debated letting the ranger see him. Come back out. Stare in awe of him like the first time they'd met. Would he rush to Vincent? Embrace him? Apologize? Come back home with him? Clenching his jaw, he turned away as if to escape those fantasies. Lawrence made his choice. And Vincent made a promise. No matter how it hurt, he promised Lawrence—He pushed the chip in the slot. This was more important. Terminal screens blanked. Interfaces rebooted and in minutes Mr. House would have access to the station. The dormant reactors under the Lucky 38 would fire up. The substation would become House's own relay point, furthering his reliable field of control over the securitron army in time to seize the dam.
But Lawrence…
Vincent turned around, facing that hallway. A million thoughts and consequences bombarding him in seconds. Frozen. Fearful and excited. Needing and wanting. Hinges creaked. The ranger rounded the corner, head hung as hands dried on a rag. Lawrence glanced up. Eyes met for the briefest moment. A gasp escaped the boy's lips, activating the stealth-boy in his grasp, and disappearing before Lawrence's eyes.
"Vince?" He whispered. Voice hoarse, hushed in disbelief.
He froze. Stare fixed upon one spot in that room. Vision narrowing to black tunnels. The apparition of the young man seared into his mind. Had he finally lost it? Was it just his weariness, oncoming heat stroke, dehydration? Or was it really him? Lawrence collapsed on the chair, snatching the water canteen off his sack on the way down. Chugging, stopped only by a choke. Legs trembled. Heart fluttered. Lips muttered beneath the hand washing over his face, ending at a pinch on the bridge of his nose. He sat silent. Still. Lifeless save for shallow breaths. Back twitched and a congested snivel broke the silence.
Vincent stared until eyes stung. Blinking away oncoming tears, he stood as petrified as Lawrence. Unable to move forward to the ranger during such a time he promised he would no matter what. Strangled sobs gouged him. Every bit of his sense, his instincts, any lingering droplets of emotion told him to stay for the ranger.
Swallowing the knot in his throat, he backed away. Pulled like a puppet on strings. Dragged back to the window he came through as he tripped on his own feet. His boots stumbled. Legs trembled, refusing to go any further as if knowing better than his own brain. Feet tangled in uncertainty toppled the boy. He stared back to the open window. One dark square smeared along gray walls. Tarnished metal frames shimmered to a blur of colors. He wiped his eyes. A reminding voice in his ears told him to leave. A monotone, professional voice coolly giving him orders. Gifts of silver in the hand that feeds. The reason he was here. To have everything—Except the one thing he could never buy.
Needles crawled across his skin, stabbing every nerve in his body as his heart joined the protest. Falling, sinking in his chest, daring to beat no more lest he crawl back through that window. Reach out to the ranger. Feel him again. The touch of his skin, his hair, his warmth still lingering on Vincent's fingertips. His love. A laugh Vincent swore he heard at times when dreadfully alone in the suite. His smile, the only memories that brought out Vincent's own anymore.
Sitting on his bike and letting the world go by, the ache in his back hinted at the wasted time. He twirled the black thread knotted on his wrist. Staring vacantly at the brilliant blue star. A five pointed, iridescent blot blinded his eyes. Memories played on rewind. A broken holotape in his head stuttering on the parts he loved most. The only soothing remedy to calm a raging beast inside. Weighing down on his shoulders. Following closer than his shadow. Out for revenge, reprisal, justice. The perpetrator, puffy-eyed and staring back in a rear-facing mirror.
—
It began with a report of Legion supermutants smashing an entire patrol from ranger Pason at Delta. Except, that never happened. Legion would sooner purge any supermutant, ghoul, unclean creature, even if it gave them the upper hand. The next report took to him to Ranger Station Alpha where six rangers had been killed in two weeks—But that didn't happen either. At Foxtrot station, trained Deathclaws roamed the hills, wielded by none other than Great Khans. Now, whether or not deathclaws could be trained was up for debate, but he wouldn't put it past a Khan for trying. Still, a certain trend followed.
He flipped the red chip. One forgotten to be cashed in at the Millennium. Now he wondered if he'd ever get the chance. Static bloomed through the interference. She flipped her switches and the high-pitch ceased. "Aliens?" She chuckled. "Like, little green men from those old comics?"
"I know."
"Wonder who screwed up that report."
"Every ranger station has had the same issue," Lawrence explained. "False reports. Some absurd, some mundane stuff, but not an ounce of truth in it."
"Well," Mel hummed. She spun around in the chair, facing Lawrence across the desk. "All the reports go through Camp Golf. Things get jumbled up sometimes. Honestly I would have just gone there first and saved my feet the trouble."
"True," Lawrence shrugged. Every report from all rangers across the Mojave ended up at Camp Golf. Read, dissected, filed away by clerks. Pertinent bits added to compounding lists and advisory reports of their own. Was it just an oddity? Or something more? "But someone looked at these and—"
Sputters ripped outside. Both rangers froze, holding their breath as they listened for more. "Mel! Get out here!" A voice boomed as the front door ripped open. The senior ranger of the station. "Legion assault inbound!"
Firelight glowed beyond the junk walls of Ranger Station Charlie, pushing back an starless night. Tattered metal battlements echoed under heavy boots as they rushed by. Ammo cases jingled in hand. Lids clapped on metal as they jogged by. Each ranger given grenades from the supply. Staring into the black, glimpses of red emerged like the licking flames of their hungry fires. Legion banners, illuminated by torches. Spearheads glinted. Shotgun barrels shimmered under desert tarnish. At least no trebuchets this time.
And hopefully, he still had some luck left.
—
He stared at the paper. A compounding, seemingly endless to-do list. Conflict between Freeside locals and NCR immigrants merely simmering, threatening to blow over any minute. The Van Graffs… That one he scoffed at. He had to. Freeside wasn't like the Strip. May as well been no-man's land if the King wasn't the glue holding the normal people together. The easiest and most straightforward was the low-life scum sketched on bounty posters. Just shoot to kill. And he got paid for it! Not that he needed the money, but it was a good way of supplementing efforts with the Followers. But it just kept getting longer. More problems.
More obligations.
Vincent sighed, combing a hand through his hair before the gentle breeze could rustle it unkempt. It was never just the endless to-do list, however. It was the way the sun rose in the East. Blossoming pinks, creamy oranges, and satin reds that painted a sunrise across a desert. Melting away a cold night. Yet still the air chilled him. It was never this frigid when Lawrence was with him. What used to be glittering diamonds in Lake Mead now seemed so worthless.
Another heavy sigh deflated him. He turned away from the shore, twisting to the radio of the bike he leaned on. Dial turned, catching invisible waves on the way. All the static and interference blended together as the numbers changed. Blips of music slowed his fingers.
"—SOS!"
Fingers paused. One frequency switched back. "Station Charlie requesting help. Under heavy fire—"
Fire washed over him. His mouth dried. Heart stopped. How was it that across such a huge desert did they just keep finding each other?
Nestled in a canyon, protected by jagged peaks the station stood. Yellow rays bloomed like a crown on the mountaintops. Rumbles announced Vincent before his arrival. Few rangers wandered the grounds. Less than he remembered the first time they stopped at the camp. None were Lawrence. A dirt tail spit out behind him as he came to a halt. He plucked the helmet, scowl jabbing the one man who dared stand outside a wall of cluttered steel frames and jumbled containers.
"Where's Lawrence?"
"Turn around, kid."
"Where is Lawrence?"
"Go—"
"Then fucking tell me where he is!" Nostrils flared. Face blossomed red, burning hotter than the scorched desert around them. He yanked out his revolver. Thumb cocked the hammer. Silvery barrel aimed at the ranger's eyes.
"Woah now!" The chain-link gate swung open. Another one butted in. Empty hands raised as he slowly stepped to the two. Not unarmed though. None of them were. One sniper peeked out from a lookout. Could be more hiding. Gritting his teeth, Vincent groaned. Sliding back into old habits from the looks of it. "We don't need to be waving guns around."
"I only want to know where my friend is." He stole a quick glance at the man. "Then I go away."
"Hey, I recognize you." Bronze eyes stared out beneath a wide-brimmed hat. A friendly smile and calm voice no matter the danger. Dobson. A cautious hand beckoned to lower the gun. "Let's put that down. Vincent right?"
He flicked his wrist up. Barrel turned to the sky and he backed away. Adrenaline subsided, but the young man's glower refused to loosen.
"Thank you," Dobson nodded as he breathed a sigh of relief. His peer still simmered beside him. "You lookin' for your friend? The ranger you told me about."
"He was here," Vincent declared. "I heard the emergency call on the radio. It was his voice!"
"I'm sorry, buddy, but you were chasing a ghost. Lawrence already left."
His heart sank. Scowl twisted to a grimace as he turned away. Pacing to the cadence of his thoughts. None made sense. Too many interrupted by strangling fear. "Was he hurt? Is he ok?"
"Yeah, he was just fine when he left," Dobson assured. He looked to his peer, jerking his head for the other ranger to go inside. Hushed words exchanged and the ranger departed. Yet eyes still bore into him from the camp. What if Lawrence had been there? Seen that embarrassing shit-show… "He helped us out with a surprise assault squad. Nice guy." Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. Biting back tears that wouldn't come no matter how dismal and empty he felt. "He mentioned getting back to Forlorn Hope."
The distant sun beamed down on the flats as if the dust Mojave were its own personal mirror. A terrible glare blinding his eyes on the entire ride through the wilderness. But it didn't matter. By the time the gritty black dots in his eyes cleared, he'd be laying eyes Lawrence. The only image he wanted to see anymore.
Two towers jutted up on both sides of the camp gates, clinging to red stone walls, and hiding the lookouts inside. They saw him long before he did. The rosy-skinned man standing outside the fortification confirmed that much. A neat buzzcut, hinting at the bit of platinum hair left by middle-age. A rather unsettling half-smile that seemed to always linger on his face. Well, any time Vincent seen the man.
"Where is he?" Vincent shouted, marching over to the man despite the excited trembles. The prospect of touching, hearing, just seeing Lawrence again the only idea propelling him to square up with a veteran ranger.
"You shouldn't be here," Clint stated.
"Where is he?"
"You're putting him in a bad situation by being here." Clint remained calm. Some irritating ranger tactic. Except where it seemed heroic on Lawrence, it was just irritating on this one.
"Is he alive?" Vincent halted, boot to boot with the man. Anxiety quelled by clenched fists. He promised no longer would be intimated, even if he was.
"Alive and well. Now I suggest you leave." Clint turned away, hands still clasped behind his back.
"Let me see him!" Vincent roared, continuing his march after him. Throat choked by a knot. Still he screamed. Eyes watered. Helpless. The same helplessness felt stuck in a shallow grave, life slipping away. "Lawrence!"
Clint turned up to the lookouts, both hunching over the walls of their perch at the free show. "This civilian is not allowed inside the camp."
—
"Hm," The clerk hummed. A bland secretary stuffed into a corner office with the rest of them. The mailroom, filing, and intake all in one the size of the closet back home—Vincent's suite. It wasn't his home anymore. "Well, yeah," She shrugged, leaning forward over the desk and handing the ranger back his papers. "The chief signed off on all of these reports."
"I need to speak with him then."
Every one of those false reports, signed off by Chief Hanlon himself as if correct, factual, nothing suspicious. Except every bit of it was suspicious. It wouldn't have taken one ranger trekking the desert to investigate to find that out though. Something didn't add up. A forged signature? Failing judgment that came with age? Sabotage? He had to know.
Lawrence finally turned the knob, shoving through the door into the office. Small. Nothing grand. The place of a man who never quite settled in. And the man himself. A refined scent of cigars and brandy. Weathered and gray as wisened eyes creased by fine lines peered up from the desk.
"Wasn't expectin' anybody this evening."
"I don't mean to bother, chief," Lawrence stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Ranger Garrett, Lawrence Garrett."
Chief Hanlon stood up. Eyes crinkled by a smile as he extended an open hand. "Don't think we've met, ranger Garrett."
"It's nice to finally meet you in person." Lawrence flashed a smile with a firm shake. "I wanted to ask you about these. It's probably nothing, but… Wouldn't be a good ranger if I didn't ask questions."
Hanlon took the papers and returned to his chair. Furrowed brows loosened. Eyes flickered across the pages. He lowered the reports as aged eyes turned up to Lawrence. "How long you been you a ranger?"
"Been about twelve years now, sir."
"Signed on when you were still a baby didn't you?" The chief chuckled. "But you got that black armor. Been to Baja?"
"I have."
"So tell me what you really see here," Halon implored, hand gesturing to the reports stacked on his desk.
"Someone is manipulating intel. The purpose eludes me."
"Someone?"
"From where I stand, from what I've gathered…" Lawrence paused, uncertainty disintegrating his voice. He could be wrong. The whole situation blown out of proportion. Just chasing ghosts. A reason to be relevant. A distraction from the real problem. "The reports didn't change until they reached you. I've already been to every ranger station. I've seen their logs. They don't match. Senior rangers deny these statements. Nothin' corroborates them."
"Sorting and manipulating intelligence is what I do. It's what rangers are supposed to do."
"This isn't the kind of manipulating I've done or ever would consider," Lawrence shook his head. "This is blatant lyin'."
"This is never going to end," Hanlon said. "This fight with Caesar. People back home don't know what these young men and women are in for. The Legion is the worst enemy we've ever faced. I ain't gotta tell you that."
Lips thinned as eyes turned away from Hanlon. The old man's husky voice hushed as he continued. "And even if we do stop them, I don't see how we're ever going to be able to pull out. We need the dam. The water. And even if we hold it, what then? Are we going to send our men and women to die here for another five years? Ten? The Legion won't stop once Caesar's gone. You can't kill an idea. Can't kill ideology."
He thought it would ease him. Hear those words aloud from another mouth. Someone other than himself to talk about those things you don't say lightly. Confirmation he wasn't merely weak for wanting to end the waste of life. Assurance he wasn't a coward for preferring to stay home—The first home he had in a while with the boy he found on the side of the road. Flushed by regret. A realization he wished had sooner. All of it, futile. No matter how many soldiers, rangers, bodies—None it could hold against a secret under Fortification Hill. Speaking up now wouldn't change a thing either. The republic was doomed the moment they stepped foot in this unforgiving desert. And to hear from Chief Hanlon himself…
It filled him with dread.
—
Staring at the page for so long blended the words together. Every one of his carefully laid out plans melted on white pages, turning intricate and specific detail into nonsense until his eyes finally unfocused and all that remained were black, amorphous blots on stinging white. If it wasn't his eyes refusing to work, his back ached instead. Hung over the desk for hours at a time. Unable to move. Unable to think. And with no one to comfort or distract him. Lawrence would have told him to get up by now. Break the monotony and do push-ups with Vincent on his back, or jog around the room with the boy, turn on the radio and dance to whatever came on in the moment. Just something to move.
He jumped up. Startled, staring back at the suite doors. Heart pounding in his chest as he replayed the heavy thuds in his head. Evaluating everything about the knock; the weight, the pitch, how it echoed on the other side, until he could rip open the door and run into the ranger's arms.
"Evenin', boss!" The securitron waved, flapping something grasped in his steely claw. "Just got this for ya!"
Victor handed him the paper. A blank envelope. No postmark, no recipient, and no originating address. "Who gave this to you?"
"Why, it was your ranger friend!"
"Lawrence? When?"
Vincent zipped passed the machine. Feet pacing as fast as his brain conjured up images of reuniting with an absent lover. Knees shook. Impatiently dancing inside the elevator. Excitement rose with the chorus of repeated jabs to the buttons until the door dinged and opened up to the gambling hall. He flew across the floor. Shoving the doors open with a newfound force he didn't know he had in him. Panting and heaving, he stared into the passing crowd. Eyes wandered back to him. Nameless people around him. Insignificant compared to the man he searched for. Blobs of colors and sounds faded around him. Eyes frantically searched for the ranger's colors and patterns. His black hair, soft and shiny. Sunkissed skin with a tan that refused to relent to even the brightest neon lights. His height—How he always stood out just a bit.
Nothing.
Still anxiously scanning the crowd he now joined, Vincent called for Lawrence. Each weaker than the last as eyes watered. Glassy tears blended together all the colors of a city he once looked on with awe. Now it felt so hollow. Empty. Gray. Defeated, he returned to the steps of the Lucky 38. Lights flashed their guidance towards the doors, beckoning for him to return to the solitude of the tower. Instead, Vincent sat down on the first step. Doors to his back like a quiet refusal to return home until he got what he wanted. Waiting patiently for the man who wrung his heart for all it had. Imagination envisioned Lawrence emerging from the hoard, exciting his heart once more, then again and again as echoes of Lawrence's touch fluttered against his hands. A ghost of his scent carried on the breeze. Feel his warmth to wash away the chill of the night. Inhale the cologne scent until it numbed his nose entirely. To hear his voice again! Laughing as he told lighthearted stories. Smiling as Vincent laughed at his jokes, then joining in because he just couldn't hold back either. He vowed to embrace Lawrence tighter, so he couldn't disappear a second time.
If only he could.
—
"Three confirmed kills," The soldier declared. An accomplished grin crossed his face as a friend reached across the table. The clap jolted Lawrence awake. Mordecai glanced to the young men, lending an approving nod before returning to an almost empty tray of the night's slop. Tonight was non-stop stories and tall tales all around the table. Boasts of glory and combat prowess—The usual bullshit the fresh meat listened in on as the older vets indulged them. When he was one those boys, he loved to hear it all. The suspense. The heroics. The witty lines and banter between old friends. The things he looked forward to. Now, it just felt like watching someone masturbate in public.
"What about you?" The boy nodded to him from across the table. "Heard you're a vet—Been to Baja and back."
"I am."
"Oh, I know Lawrence has some good stories," Mordecai assured as he managed a smug grin with one full cheek of mush.
He looked to Mordecai, then to the interested faces that looked on him. Young. New recruits, fresh rangers that hadn't quite got their bearings yet. Out of all them, Mordecai included, Lawrence knew he had the most experience. The most stories. The most blood on his hands.
"I was trailing a group of raiders through Baja," He started. Untouched tray of food slid away before resting clasped hands on the table. "They were getting too close to one settlement there—I forget which—these guys were infamous for robbery, theft, typical shit, but they really caught attention after someone was killed in a heist. They stopped for the night and made camp. I watched them until the sun went down and they went to sleep." He refrained from looking at those faces. Yet still in his peripherals, vague blots taunted smiles and eager grins. "I went down there, as quiet and stealthy as possible. The four of them slept around a snuffed campfire—Didn't hear me coming. I slit each of their throats and let them stay there for the coyotes."
"Don't be humble," Mordecai chided. "Lawrence killed the self-titled 'Fearless-Four'. Bunch of bandits and thieves."
Figures shifted in the corner of his eyes. Hushed oohs and ahs hummed around the table. "Fitting end in my opinion," One added.
"Once I was down South, further than Searchlight. Legion expanded their borders again. Another town raised," He continued. "I followed a troop of them to a farmstead. A family of four lived there; mom, dad, with a son about eight and a daughter of seventeen." Lawrence's eyes wandered down the table. All faced him. Six. "They raped the girl, the mom. Then killed the boy, the mom, the dad. Left her—"
"Hey," Mordecai hissed. He lunged to the other ranger, baring a stern face. A warning. "Lawrence."
"I could only watch them take turns and she cried and begged them to stop!" He announced. "Ten red-feather fucks dragged them out of their home and they raped her and I could do nothing." Strange faces glanced over their shoulders at him. "Should I have just sniped them and risk them killing the family then and there? I…" Heavy silence came over the tent. Glances wandered over to that conversation far too loud to ignore. "I was so fucking angry I was shaking—They knew I was there and—"
"Lawrence."
He jumped up. Mordecai flinched, startled like the rest of those soldiers at the table. "They left her alive. Tortured. Surrounded her slaughtered family." His voice trembled, still he marched on. To relive it again and again. The greatest hits that kept him awake. That kept him angry, motivated. The glamorous life of a ranger. "I took her to the nearest outpost. Get her the help —She killed herself a day later."
"I murdered women, children—People at Bitter Springs! I fucking massacred them with our standard issue SMG like it was any other day on the job." He declared for all to hear not just in the mess tent, but outside as well. The whole world had to hear. The entire republic. Everyone should know by now. "I told a mother she needed to shut her baby up or we'd all be murdered by the Centurion and his legion we were hiding from—Outnumbered. Outgunned." Anguished twisted a stoic face. Heart crawled up into his throat. Pounding. Thrashing. Rage throttled his vision until only narrow tunnels focused on singular faces. Rushing from one to the next. Shaking hands cleared the table of Mordecai's and his own tray just to slam on the top. Thunderous shock of frigid metal in his hands and arms, stinging flesh, crushing joints, and pounding bone. "She smothered him! She killed her baby boy..."
"I have so many more stories! You wanna hear 'em?" Furious, bloodshot eyes stared at his audience. Timed glances darted around the tables, silently wandering among themselves if the ranger was serious. One flinched—A young, boasting soldier. "I am not a hero—You are not a hero! This is hell." Nostrils flared with every exhale, lightening his head and smothering his ego. Vessels burst in whitened arms. Fingers numbed under the excruciating grip on sharp corners. "This is not fun. This is not something I will look back on fondly. This keeps me awake at night and if I do manage to sleep, I wake up panicking from the fucking nightmares of whatI have done."
Lawrence, Vincent called. Ringing circled his ears. Closing in on him in the vacuum of silence. Then a hand. A light touch on his shoulder. Gentle. The kind that always sent excited shivers fluttering across his skin. Eager to hear the boy's kind words, he whipped around.
"Calm down," Clint whispered.
Not Vincent. Not the boy he desperately missed. Heart fluttered, seizing then racing. Picking up speed with the bombardment in his head. Images and visions. Artillery shells exploding before his eyes. The world spun violently around him. Circling. Mocking spits and hisses. Cold, callous, just as he deserved. Each voice chipping away at a flimsy facade. Fire washed over his skin. Legs collapsed. Lungs seized as hectic breaths drained his consciousness away.
And the worst part of it all, was that it was for nothing.
Yes, things are wrapping up and I am falling apart. That's ok though, it's expected. Currently re-planning/over-planning the last chapter for obvious reasons. Originally I wanted just 20, but there will be 21. (Coincidentally, I am a huge blackjack player/enthusiast. (I like to set up at a table or machine close to the bar(those 25 cent ones like right on the bar are ideal))).
Back on track: I have been editing previous chapter—Brevity is the soul of wit and I have neither. I know some way, somehow this story could be told more concisely (and maybe in an original setting but we can't all be E. minus the misinformed erotica) but I am indulgent. Hedonistic. Handsome. The list goes on. I love writing for the sake of it. Every little detail has some relevance. Did you spot the M.A.S.H. reference?