Night falls. The two guards stand as ever-vigil sentinels of the dark. One is especially restless.

Anatolius is sick of letting people in without anything happening. He wants action, something to take off the edge so he could wait out his shift (without feeling the urge to pace around for the last hour). Now is not the time to have to stand still. With nothing to do but watch the pale waxing moon rise into the night sky.

"What does she look like?"

Simon snaps out of his daydreaming and takes in a breath, soaking in pleasant memories,

"Gorgeous, man…" his voice is soft in recollection.

"They say she's the most beautiful and deadly woman to ever come to the Mojave. I tend to agree- even a Cazadore ain't got nothin' on that piece of ass. She wears a dark tight trench coat a lot of the time, and carries this big ol' modded out Gauss rifle around- can't miss her if you see her."

The man's eyes darken, his mind drifting into the melancholic memories of the past. Plunged into inner turmoil, he has nothing to distract him. Talk is cheap and no potential customers walk the streets as the night winds down. All there is left is the sound of despair.

Finally opening his mouth to speak, Simon cuts him off-

"Well shit," he glances at the Pip-Boy attached to his wrist, "Looks like we're officially off duty."

"Good."

"Excellent first day, Anatolius," he reaches out and shakes his new partner's hand, "Let's get paid and I'll pull that name for you."

.

.

.

Moments later…

.

.

.

The man bursts out of the Silver Rush, a fresh bag of caps jingling at his side. He's in his usual attire but his face is markedly furious as the metal door strikes the brick wall. Before he even makes it under the illumining glow of the corner streetlight, someone appears in the doorway. Simon.

"Yo, man! You sure you wanna go that distance?" he yells after him,

"It's hours away. No love story-gone-bad is worth that hike!"

Anatolius stops underneath the yellowed light and turns around,

"It's worth it. Do you know where she is exactly?"

"Like I said; probably Westside."

"She stopped by yesterday. Put her contract on hold. Said she needed to help out a friend of hers or something and was headed to one of the Vaults in the middle of nowhere. That was, after she makes a pit-stop at Westside," he scratches his head, leaned up against the frame, "Sounds like a Mojave goose chase to me, dog. I'm just sayin'."

"I need to find her, Simon. Thanks for the info." He begins to turn around again and head down the street.

"Alright, man, alright. Hey- want me to walk you down? I need a cig break."

"If you want." The man doesn't stop.

Simon pokes his head inside for a moment and yells about 'burning anyone who touches his paycheck,'

then he hops down the single step and catches up to him.

The way out -the main causeway of Fremont St.- is fraught with squatters and thugs that are far more interested in someone's money than the person themself. Some sit in their doorways and broken porches while others wither away in dark alleys full of empty jet canisters and detritus. A sign above haphazardly reads "Welcome to Freeside"- the 'Freeside' part being a conglomerate of letters all from totally different original designs. A few gunshots pop in the distance as the two fearlessly walk down the middle of the street. Directly ahead is the King's School of Impersonation glowing in its effervescence of neon. The entire scene repulses him, with its ignorance and hopelessness far worse than the doomed Old World.

Anatolius learned to stomach it. It wasn't easy, but neither was his role in the war to unite the desert.

"So… how far do you and her go back?" Simon asks out of genuine curiosity, lighting up a cigarette.

"Twelve years."

"Jesus!" Smoke pours out of his nostrils, "That's dedication. Longest I've ever made it with a single broad was five months.. and that wasn't pretty." He hoists his tri-beam laser rifle with one hand at a beggar trying to walk toward them.

"It isn't like that."

"Awww, screw that man! Twelve years and you're tryna find her? You kiddin' me? You've gotta be head over heels with her…"

Simon would never understand the relationship between him and her. Have enough scars in the same place and it can create art, but most of the time it creates a better story- one that can only be witnessed fully in the head who's experienced it. A story that shouldn't be told.

"Not exactly."

"Fine man, I get it. Touchy subject. We can leave it at that, but remember," he stops at the intersection to the Boulevard and drags heavily on his smoke, "She's got a day on you. It's gonna take some serious tracking skills to find her."

Little does he know- Anatolius is the best in his field.

"And don't go getting yourself killed by Fiends or something! We got work at three."

The man departs and jingles all the way down Las Vegas Boulevard, flashing his revolver at any impudent begging lowlife who 'asks' him to share. The lights of New Vegas shine indomitably behind him.

Yes, he is the best at what he does…

He is Frumentarii.