Fallout: Prometheus

The sun sagged low on the horizon, casting a molten-orange glow across the dusty lot behind the Prospector Saloon. The faint clang of bottles and the murmurs of nervous conversation filled the air as I paced along the rough fence line.

Six… no, seven of them. Ranchers, settlers, two prospectors by the look of them — all carrying that same tightness around the eyes. Fear… but also resolve.

Good. I could work with that.

I stopped in front of them, Varmint Rifle in hand, the worn stock cool beneath my fingers.

"First lesson — forget everything you think you know about shooting."

A few exchanged glances, uncertain.

I continued. "This isn't about gunslinging cowboys or stories of old, it's not about bravado. A gun isn't magic. It's a tool. You use it right, it'll keep you alive. You use it wrong, it'll kill you faster than Cobb ever could."

I held the rifle up for emphasis.

"It starts with stance. Feet shoulder-width apart. Stable. Like you're ready for a sandstorm to hit."

One by one, I guided them — correcting a foot here, adjusting a shoulder there. Sunny assisted, her sharp eyes catching what I missed, Cheyenne lazily watching from the shade.

"Next — breathing. You control that, you control your shot." I demonstrated, steady inhale, slow exhale. "Don't rush. Don't hold your breath 'til you're blue."

The townsfolk followed — clumsy at first, but eager.

"Trigger control — gentle squeeze. You don't yank it like you're mad at the gun." I mimed the motion, precise, steady. "Smooth. Let the rifle do its job."

We ran through it again… and again… and again.

Hours slipped by. The first few shots were wild — bottles missed, rounds striking the fence or dirt. But little by little, the group found their rhythm.

The older rancher, clumsy at first, started landing consistent hits.

The young prospector — twitchy and green — learned to steady his aim.

They weren't soldiers yet… but they weren't helpless either.

As the last bottle shattered beneath a clean shot, a faint murmur of approval rippled through the group. Sunny smirked faintly at my side.

"Told you they'd catch on."

I nodded, surveying the group. Sweat-soaked shirts, sunburned faces… but their posture? Straighter. Their eyes? Sharper.

"We've still got a lot of work ahead," I reminded them. "But if Cobb comes knocking…" I gave a faint, confident smile. "He'll find this town a lot less friendly than he expects."

The last echoes of gunfire faded into the Mojave night.

Empty bottles littered the ground behind the saloon, shattered glass glinting faintly in the moonlight like a battlefield after the dust settled. The air still carried the acrid scent of spent rounds and gun oil, mingling with the dry desert breeze.

The townsfolk — ranchers, prospectors, a few brave greenhorns — drifted off in small groups, quiet but with shoulders a little straighter, steps a little steadier. Calloused hands patted backs. Quiet nods were exchanged.

They weren't soldiers.

But they weren't helpless anymore, either.

I watched them disappear down the dirt paths toward their homes, the faint glow of lamplight flickering through the settlement.

"Not bad for one day," Sunny muttered beside me, adjusting her rifle sling as Cheyenne trotted at her heels.

I gave a small nod, but my eyes stayed fixed on the horizon for a moment longer.

The real work wasn't over.

"C'mon," Sunny added, jerking her chin toward the saloon. "Trudy's got the good whiskey stashed for nights like this… and Ringo agreed to crawl out of his hole."

The faintest smirk crept onto my face as I turned, boots crunching on the hard-packed dirt.

Inside, the Prospector Saloon was dim, the usual hum of scattered conversation replaced by quiet focus. Trudy stood behind the bar, a bottle of amber liquid and four glasses waiting. Ringo sat at a nearby table, his posture still carrying that nervous edge, but there was less panic in his eyes now.

Sunny pulled out a chair, settling down beside him.

I crossed the room, the old wooden floor creaking faintly beneath my steps, and joined them.

Four people.

The reluctant leader.

The sharpshooter.

The outcast.

And the man with no past.

The town's best hope — or its last mistake.

The amber glow of the Prospector Saloon's lanterns cast long shadows across the floor as I pulled up a bar stool, the worn leather seat creaking faintly beneath me.

Sunny slid onto the stool beside me, resting her rifle against the bar with practiced ease. Ringo followed, still a little stiff, eyes flicking toward the windows now and then, but at least his hand wasn't hovering over his holster anymore.

Across the bar, Trudy poured out three glasses — the whiskey sharp, rich, cutting through the exhaustion that clung to the edges of my thoughts. She set them down with a solid clink, then leaned forward, arms braced against the scarred wood.

"Well," she started, eyes flicking between the three of us, "first day of drills and you didn't manage to shoot each other. That's better than I expected."

A faint smirk touched Sunny's lips as she took her glass. "They'll get better. Give 'em time."

I swirled the whiskey in my glass, watching the light catch the ripples.

"Time's the one thing we're short on."

Ringo shifted beside me, nursing his drink without taking a sip. His voice was quiet, but steady. "You really think they're ready? Half of 'em looked ready to drop the rifle after an hour."

"They're scared," I admitted, setting my glass down gently. "But scared isn't useless. It keeps you sharp. The trick's turning that fear into focus."

Trudy crossed her arms, eyes narrowing slightly. "And when Cobb comes knockin'? You think fear and a few lucky shots are enough to stop him?"

"No," I replied simply. "But organization? Discipline? Surprise?"

I met her eyes evenly. "Those can."

Sunny gave a slow nod, backing me up. "We drill 'em again tomorrow. Stance, cover, maybe set up some proper barricades."

Ringo exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I just… I didn't want any of this," he muttered. "I thought Goodsprings was far enough off the beaten path that I could disappear. Guess Cobb's got longer arms than I figured."

"The Mojave doesn't let you disappear," I said, my voice low but certain. "You either carve out space for yourself… or you get swallowed whole."

Trudy let the silence stretch a moment, then finally straightened.

"Two days," she reminded us. "Then it's them or us."

I drained the last of my whiskey, the burn steady in my chest.

"Then we better make those two days count."

The whiskey burned away the edge of exhaustion, but not the weight settling in behind my eyes.

The room fell quiet after that — no grand speeches, no promises of victory. Just the sound of glasses clinking, the faint creak of the old saloon settling into its bones, and the whisper of the Mojave wind outside.

Sunny finished her drink, giving Cheyenne a quick scratch behind the ears before pushing off the bar stool. "I'll be back first thing," she said. "Bright and early. We'll run 'em through drills again."

I gave a small nod, appreciating the quiet certainty in her voice.

Ringo lingered for a moment, then stood as well, adjusting the old leather strap on his shoulder that held his holster. His eyes flicked to me, hesitant, but… steadier than earlier.

"Guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Count on it," I replied simply.

He nodded once, then slipped out the saloon door, disappearing into the cool desert night.

That left me and Trudy, the quiet hum of the old ceiling fan above filling the silence.

She grabbed a worn key from beneath the bar, setting it down in front of me.

"There's a room in the back," she said, her voice even but with that same quiet strength she carried all day. "Vacant. Sheets are clean enough. You've earned at least one good night's sleep before the real mess starts."

I took the key, fingers brushing the cold metal.

"Appreciate it."

"Don't mention it." She paused, watching me a moment longer. "You're not like most folks that wander through here… just try not to get yourself shot again."

A faint smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth as I slid off the bar stool.

"I'll do my best."

I turned, the key cool in my hand, and headed for the back.

The floorboards creaked beneath my boots as I made my way down the hall toward the vacant room.

The bed wasn't much — rough sheets, stiff pillow — but it beat bleeding out in a ditch or sleeping in the sand.

For now… it'd do.

The door clicked shut behind me.

The small room was spartan — bed, chair, cracked mirror on the wall. The faint scent of old wood and desert dust lingered in the corners. A single window let in the cool silver light of the Mojave moon, casting faint lines across the floor.

I set the Varmint Rifle down by the bed, the battered thing practically held together by stubbornness and scrap metal. With time… I could fix it. Make it better. Everything in this place needed fixing, it seemed — rifles, towns… people.

I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring down at my hands.

They were steady.

Strong.

Familiar… and yet, foreign.

A weapon's grip came naturally.

A battlefield's layout made sense the moment I saw it.

But my own face? My own name? Only fragments.

Prometheus.

A name pulled from some half-buried corner of my mind… the rest still lost to the dark.

Whoever I was before, the Mojave didn't care. It only cared what I chose to be now.

I exhaled slowly, pulling off my boots, setting them by the door. The sheets were rough, the mattress thin… but it was the softest thing I'd felt in what seemed like a lifetime.

Laying back, I let my eyes drift to the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the saloon settling for the night. The distant howl of coyotes carried on the wind. Somewhere far beyond those hills, danger was waiting… but for tonight, at least, the walls held.

My hand moved… without thought.

Forehead.

Chest.

Left shoulder.

Right.

I paused, staring at my hand for a moment, uncertain.

I didn't know what the gesture meant… not really. The name of it, the words that might've gone with it — they were gone, buried somewhere in the fractured mess of my mind.

But the motion itself? It felt… right. Ancient. Familiar in a way I couldn't explain. Like the quiet echo of something that had once been mine — before the grave, before the gunshot, before the Mojave.

A part of me clung to it. A spark in the dark.

I let my hand fall to my side.

Sleep found me soon after.

…

The faintest whisper of dawn light crept along the edges of the cracked curtains.

My eyes opened — sharp, clear, fully awake.

No grogginess. No stiffness. Just… clarity.

The old Pip-Boy 3000 strapped to my wrist hummed faintly, the dull green glow of the display casting soft light across the room. I tilted it toward me, eyes narrowing at the time and date blinking across the screen:

04:30 AM — March 18, 2281.

I frowned slightly.

Barely four hours of sleep — if that — yet my body thrummed with quiet energy, alert and ready, as if I'd been resting for days.

Strange. But… not unwelcome.

I sat up, boots to the floor, and finally gave my scattered belongings the attention they deserved.

The Varmint Rifle leaned against the bedpost. The thing was a mess — rust creeping along the barrel, stock worn smooth from years of use. Its internals? Loose, sloppy. If I pushed it too hard, it'd come apart like wet paper.

But I could fix it. Given the right tools… I could make it better.

My eyes drifted to the Pip-Boy, curiosity sharpening the edge of my thoughts. Doc Mitchell had mentioned the basics, but I hadn't explored it properly.

Fingers danced across the interface, cycling through menus, data logs, status readouts. Crude design. Outdated hardware. But the tech buried inside? Pre-war genius.

Inventory Management. Health Monitoring. Radio Frequencies…

Then… something new caught my attention.

V.A.T.S.

Vault-Tec Assisted Targeting System.

The interface shifted — target outlines, trajectory estimates, percentage breakdowns… a combat targeting algorithm. Military-grade tech, miniaturized, disguised as a civilian tool.

A faint smirk pulled at my lips.

"Explains a lot."

Instinctively, I cycled to the inventory function, selecting the nearby Varmint Rifle, experimentally choosing Store.

In a blink, the weapon atomized — a stream of faint blue particles vanishing into the device.

I stared at my now-empty hands, then at the Pip-Boy, brows raised.

"Alright… that's going to come in handy."

Stretching out my shoulders, I took a steady breath.

Plenty of questions still. But for now? I had working tech, a few salvageable weapons, and a body that didn't seem to follow normal rules.

It was going to be a productive morning.

With a few hours to kill before the town stirred, I decided to put my energy to good use.

It wasn't even a decision, really — more like… instinct. Muscle memory. Some part of me, buried beneath fractured memories and gunshot scars, remembered the routine… even if I didn't know where it came from.

I started slow.

Stretching, first — every major muscle group. Legs, arms, back, shoulders. Methodical. Precise. Like I'd done it a thousand times before.

Then, the real work began.

Push-ups. But not the lazy, half-hearted ones you saw in NCR camps or caravan posts. No — these were perfect. Controlled descent, chest grazing the floor, steady press back up. Over and over, no wasted movement, no tremble of fatigue.

Sit-ups. Core tight, rhythm steady, breathing sharp.

After a few sets, I transitioned into planks, holding my body rigid, the seconds ticking by on the Pip-Boy display. The faint hum of its interface was the only sound in the room besides my measured breaths.

Next — squats, dropping low, keeping balance centered, form flawless.

Then, the real challenge — the thing that told me whoever designed this routine didn't intend for ordinary men to survive it:

Plyometric drills.

Isometric holds.

Shadow strikes and precise, practiced strikes into the air — elbows, knees, fists — a combat warm-up buried deep in my bones.

By the end, my breathing was steady but elevated. No shakiness. No dizziness.

Just… readiness.

I stood there, shirt damp with sweat, heart pounding in my chest — not with exhaustion, but with anticipation. A quiet certainty that, even stripped of memories, this body… wasn't ordinary.

And whoever made me like this?

They made damn sure I could survive the Mojave.

The Pip-Boy screen flickered softly as I tapped the display.

06:03 AM.

Plenty of time left before the town fully stirred.

The workout left my muscles warm, loose — not strained, not fatigued — but humming with quiet, unsettling potential. I could've sat, waited for breakfast or conversation… but standing still never suited me.

So I ran.

Boots hit the dirt road with a steady rhythm as I slipped out of the saloon and into the cool morning air. The Mojave sky was just beginning to lighten, a pale blue stretching over the horizon, with streaks of amber and pink bleeding into the clouds.

Goodsprings was still asleep for the most part. Lights flickered behind shuttered windows, the faint clatter of livestock shifting in pens. But the streets were quiet — perfect for getting my bearings.

I jogged down the main road, past the saloon, the general store, houses in varying states of care — some well-kept, others sagging from age and neglect.

My breathing stayed steady. Footfalls controlled. I could feel it — the strength in my limbs, the sharpness in my lungs, the unnatural ease with which my body responded.

I didn't know where it came from. The… improvements, if that's what they were. No one heals from a bullet to the skull like that. No one runs for miles without so much as a heavy breath.

But for now, I'd live with the questions.

After looping around the central street, I veered off toward the outskirts, cutting through overgrown patches of brush and scrub.

That's when I saw it.

The old schoolhouse.

Weathered wood, broken windows, faded paint clinging to warped siding. Half the roof looked ready to cave in. The yard out front was overgrown, the remains of an old playground rusting quietly in the dirt.

But… it hadn't been fully stripped. Not yet.

To someone observant — someone with a mind for forgotten places — it was obvious. A few untouched drawers, maybe an old safe, forgotten supplies. Potential.

I jogged a slow circle around it, noting weak entry points, collapsed beams, and hidden corners. I'd come back later — when I had more time and maybe a pry bar.

The rest of the outskirts told similar stories — abandoned shacks, dilapidated homes, sun-bleached ruins of a once-growing frontier town clinging to life on the edge of the Mojave.

Some of it still useful.

Most of it forgotten.

But where others saw decay… I saw opportunity.

By the time I made my way back toward the heart of town, the sun was cresting the hills, and Goodsprings was finally waking up.

And so was I.

The sun crept higher, spilling golden light over the rooftops of Goodsprings, chasing away the last traces of night.

A few ranchers stirred near the corrals. The faint clang of metal on metal echoed from somewhere down the road — someone working on tools, maybe a water pump. The town was waking, stretching its limbs cautiously under the Mojave sky.

I kept my pace steady, jogging back toward the Prospector Saloon.

The cool air was starting to warm, the desert promising another dry, blistering day. But for now, the morning was calm. The streets were still mostly empty — just the occasional glance from a porch or behind a window curtain. Folks here didn't trust easily.

Couldn't blame them.

The saloon came into view, its old wooden sign creaking gently in the breeze. I slowed to a walk, boots crunching over the packed dirt as I approached.

The Pip-Boy still hummed faintly on my wrist, its green glow dim under the rising sun.

Slipping through the saloon door, I found the place quiet, save for the faint sound of Trudy moving behind the bar. The smell of coffee and stale whiskey still lingered in the air, along with old wood and sunbaked dust.

She looked up as I entered, raising a curious brow.

"You're up early," she remarked, wiping down the bar with a rag.

"Couldn't sleep," I replied simply. "Figured I'd get to know the place."

Her eyes lingered on me for a moment — sharp, assessing — then she gave a small nod.

"Smart."

I headed for the back room — the one she'd offered me last night — peeling off my sweat-damp shirt as I went. A proper wash would have to wait, but I could at least freshen up, clean what I could, and check my gear again.

A small part of me wondered how long it would be before this quiet morning was replaced by smoke, gunfire… and choices.

But that was for later.

For now… I had time to breathe.

The small room was just as I left it. Sparse. Quiet. Dust motes drifted lazily through the shafts of sunlight pushing in through the window.

I stripped off my shirt, damp with sweat from the run, and grabbed the cracked basin sitting by the nightstand. The water inside was lukewarm, but it would do.

A quick splash to the face. Hands. Neck. I ran wet fingers through my hair, pushing it back as best I could. The reflection in the chipped mirror stared back — sharp green eyes, black hair still rough and untamed, and that familiar, lingering unease beneath the surface.

The questions were still there.

The gaps in my memory. The… wrongness of how easily my body recovered, how sharp my reflexes were, how I could run like a machine on just a few hours of sleep.

But no answers. Not yet.

I toweled off quickly, pulling my shirt back on and securing my belt, eyes drifting again to the Pip-Boy. It sat heavy on my wrist — bulky, old-world tech… but invaluable.

Another quick systems check. V.A.T.S. still operational. Inventory stable. Local map updating.

A knock at the door interrupted the quiet.

"Prometheus?"

It was Sunny.

I straightened up, wiping my hands on my pants before stepping to the door and cracking it open.

She stood there, rifle slung casually over her shoulder, that same easy, sun-baked confidence in her posture.

"Town's starting to stir," she said, offering a small nod. "Trudy figured you might wanna grab somethin' to eat before we see what kinda mess today's got in store."

I offered a faint smirk.

"Thanks. I'll be right out."

She gave me another nod and disappeared down the hall.

I strapped the Varmint Rifle to my back, rolled my shoulders, and took one last glance at the quiet little room.

The day passed in a steady rhythm — work, observation, preparation.

Morning.

Breakfast at the Prospector Saloon was plain — eggs, bread, something that tasted vaguely like coffee but probably wasn't. Trudy spoke with travelers and ranchers while Sunny lingered near the window, eyes always watching. Goodsprings was small, but it wasn't careless.

Word about Cobb still floated in low, uncertain whispers. Some folks wanted to pretend it'd all blow over. Others… they knew better.

I spent the hours after that surveying the outskirts again. Marking the old schoolhouse as a point of interest, spotting abandoned homes, noting weak spots in fences and natural chokepoints along the trails.

I was… methodical.

Midday.

Ringo reappeared in town — cautious, but his nerves seemed steadier after last night's plans. Sunny had been quietly spreading the word. A handful of ranchers, prospectors, greenhorns — those with more guts than sense — were more than expected so we had to use the outskirts near the hill of the town graveyard.

By early afternoon, we'd set up an informal shooting line beyond some rundown homes.

Training.

It wasn't much. Old hunting rifles, half-rusted pistols, some ammo that'd seen better decades. But for now? It was enough.

The heat was relentless. Dry air scraped the inside of my throat, sweat pooled under my shirt — but my body kept going. Efficient. Tireless.

The drills were simple — stance, breathing, trigger control. I wasn't just teaching them how to shoot. I was teaching them how to survive.

Most were terrible. But… they were improving.

Evening crept in, golden light bleeding across the Mojave sky, casting the hills and rocky outcrops in long shadows.

Another round of target practice — dry firing, controlled shots — the same drills again and again. Repetition forged skill, whether these folks liked it or not.

The group started thinning as the sun dipped low, folks wandering off with tired shoulders and dusty boots, muttering thanks or quiet farewells as they went.

I stayed behind a moment longer, eyes scanning the horizon, rifle slung lazily over my shoulder.

Not bad for a town that was ready to roll over yesterday.

I exhaled, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

"That's enough for today."

The words were quiet, more to myself than anyone else.

I slung the rifle properly, turned back toward the saloon, and made my way down the hill as twilight swallowed the Mojave.

The sun was clinging to the edge of the horizon as I made my way down the main road, shadows growing long, the town quieting down.

The others drifted toward the saloon — I veered left.

The General Store.

The faded sign creaked softly in the desert wind, and the front windows were dim but open. I pushed through the door, the old bell above it giving a faint jingle.

Inside, it was cooler — dust settled lazily in the still air, and shelves lined with worn supplies filled the space. Food, tools, scattered odds and ends. On the far side behind the counter stood Chet, lean, sharp-eyed, with the look of a man who counted his caps twice and trusted no one on credit.

He glanced up from the old pre-war terminal humming at the counter.

"Evenin'," he greeted, arms folding loosely. "Word's already out — you're the one rilin' folks up about standin' their ground."

"They deserve a fighting chance," I replied, stepping forward casually, eyes scanning his shelves. "That's why I'm here."

Chet's gaze narrowed a fraction — not hostile, just wary. I couldn't blame him. In a place like this, with Powder Gangers breathing down their necks and NCR patrols stretched thin, resources didn't flow — they trickled in, if at all.

I rested a hand lightly on the counter.

"I'm not here asking for handouts," I said plainly. "I know how tight things are. Powder Gangers scaring off trade, fewer caravans, fewer caps." I paused, letting that settle. "But I need munitions. Some spare leather armor — not the good stuff, just anything serviceable. If this town's gonna hold together, folks need protection."

Chet tilted his head, considering me, weighing both my words and what little reputation I'd built in the past twenty-four hours.

"Caps first," he replied, predictable as ever. "But… I can work a little with you. Least I can do, considerin' you're the only one stickin' your neck out."

"I'm not here to bleed you dry, Chet," I said, pulling a small pouch of caps from my belt. "But I won't turn down a fair deal for trying to keep your storefront free from Cobb and his crew."

That got a faint, dry chuckle from him as he tapped a few buttons on his terminal, the ancient machine chirping softly.

"Armor's in the back. Ammo too — not much, but enough to make a dent."

The caps exchanged hands — not cheap, but not gouging either. Fair. Practical.

A few minutes later, I stepped back out onto the street, the added weight of leather gear and a few spare magazines tucked under my arm.

The lanterns of the Prospector Saloon glowed warm in the distance, calling me back.

It wasn't much… but it was a start.

The familiar glow of lanterns flickered gently against the cracked wood of the Prospector

Saloon as I approached, leather gear and spare ammo tucked under one arm.

The dry, desert wind had quieted for the night, leaving only the faint creak of old signs and the distant chirp of night creatures along the hills.

Pushing the door open, I stepped inside.

Warmth met me — not just from the aged lighting, but from the quiet hum of voices within.

The saloon was modest, worn, but alive. The scent of cooked meat, old wood, and that ever-present undertone of whiskey filled the air.

Trudy stood behind the bar, wiping down a glass, her eyes flicking up as I entered.

Sunny Smiles leaned lazily on the counter, a half-empty glass in front of her, rifle propped within reach.

Ringo occupied the seat beside her, still looking a touch uncomfortable in public, but less jumpy than yesterday.

Sunny spotted me first — her eyes immediately landing on the leather armor slung over my shoulder and the boxes of spare magazines under my arm.

"Huh…" She straightened off the bar, curiosity flickering across her face. "That from Chet's place?"

"Got the best deal I could," I replied, setting the gear down on the counter with a soft thunk.

"Figured the folks training tomorrow'll stand a better chance if they're not just wearin' their Sunday clothes when the bullets start flying."

Trudy's brows lifted faintly as she set her glass aside.

"That's… more than I expected," she admitted, stepping closer to inspect the gear. Her fingers brushed the leather, testing the seams, checking its condition. "We haven't seen fresh supplies like this in weeks."

"Not fresh," I corrected, smirking faintly. "But it'll hold."

Sunny flipped one of the ammo boxes open, checking the rounds. Her sharp, practiced eyes gave a small approving nod.

"Not bad," she remarked. "Most folks talk about helpin'. You actually do it."

Ringo offered a nervous chuckle, still nursing his drink but visibly relieved to see someone taking this seriously.

"Town's starting to notice," Trudy added, sliding a glass of water toward me as I settled onto the barstool. "Might just be you convincing some of these folks to believe we've got a shot."

I picked up the glass, cool condensation slick beneath my fingers.

"We'll need more than belief," I replied, taking a sip. "But this is a start."

The four of us sat there — small, tired, but a flicker of determination hanging in the air.

Outside, the Mojave night crept in, cool and dark.

"We've got a ways to go," I admitted. "But it's a start."

The four of us sat quietly for a moment — the weight of the situation heavy in the air, but no longer suffocating.

I set the glass down, its faint clink echoing against the worn bar counter.

"Tomorrow," I began, voice steady but low, eyes drifting between them, "we're up at the crack of dawn."

Sunny raised an eyebrow, curious, while Trudy simply listened — sharp, cautious, as always.

"We've got wagons," I continued, "rusted, broken down, but they'll make decent cover if we line 'em right. Chokepoints along the road. And spots up high for a decent rifleman to pick off Cobb's crew before they even know what hit 'em."

Sunny's lips curled slightly — not in doubt, but in quiet approval.

"I like the way you think."

"It's not perfect," I admitted, fingers tapping absently on the wood, "but with what we've got. It's the difference between rolling over… or standing our ground."

Ringo fidgeted with the rim of his glass, but nodded, determination blooming just beneath his nerves.

Trudy leaned forward slightly, crossing her arms.

"Then I'll make sure the town knows. Folks willing to fight'll be ready."

I gave her a small, firm nod, pushing up from the barstool.

"Good. I'll be there at first light."

Before I lay down, I gave the leather armor one last check — seams intact, straps secure.

The magazines I'd picked up from Chet were stacked neatly on the table beside the bed, ready for quick access come morning. Everything was in place. No more preparations to be made. The town was quiet now — the kind of tense quiet that sinks into the bones before a storm. I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment longer, instinct guiding my hand as it moved to my forehead, tracing the same as yesterday night. The motion was familiar — deeply buried, yet undeniable — like muscle memory from another life. I didn't know why… but it felt right.

With that, I lay back, eyes heavy, mind steady. Sleep came quickly.