Fallout: Prometheus

The darkness of the Mojave was beginning to retreat.

A faint, pale blue crept along the jagged edges of the distant hills as I stood near the center of town, the sky still heavy with early dawn haze. The air was cold — not the bitter cold of winter, but that sharp desert chill that settled in the bones just before the sun burned it away.

We'd been up for hours.

Wagons — old, splintered things meant for trade or farming — now lined the center of town, angled into crude barricades. Rusted sheet metal scavenged from behind abandoned homes reinforced the gaps. Barrels and crates were stacked into cover where they could be spared.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't even pretty.

But it was enough to turn Goodsprings — a quiet, sun-baked settlement — into a battlefield.

The folk I trained over the last two days moved like greenhorns, sure… but with nerves settled by repetition. Ranchers, prospectors, and young men and women still growing into their boots — holding rifles with tight grips and tighter jaws.

Sunny Smiles knelt beside me behind one of the wagon barriers, eyes sharp, rifle ready. Her dog, Cheyenne, lay low at her side, ears perked, sensing the tension in the air.

Ringo stood just a few feet down, visibly anxious but holding it together. He checked his pistol again, for the third time in as many minutes.

Across the street, I spotted Trudy, watching from behind the saloon's windows, shotgun in hand. More townsfolk hid within — those who couldn't fight, but would defend their homes if it came to it.

I adjusted my own rifle, fingers running along its worn, familiar frame.

Any minute now.

The sun was barely cresting the hills, casting a faint glow over the dry earth, turning the cracked highway into a dull, silver line. The faint crunch of boots on gravel echoed in the distance — faint, but deliberate.

"They're coming," I muttered, my voice low, steady.

Sunny didn't flinch.

"About time."

I steadied my breathing, eyes locked on the road ahead as the first silhouettes appeared — Cobb, and the Powder Gangers trailing behind him.

This was it.

We'd made our stand. Now we'd see if it was enough.

The sun was only a suggestion on the edge of the horizon, casting pale orange streaks across the cracked earth. The desert chill still clung to the town, but sweat already beaded on the back of my neck — not from the heat, but from the weight of what was coming.

I rose from behind the barricade.

"Where the hell are you going?" Sunny's voice hissed behind me — a sharp, worried whisper, half command, half plea.

I held a hand up to silence her, eyes still fixed on the figures in the distance. Cobb and his Powder Gangers, striding down the road like they owned it. Maybe they thought they did.

"Just a conversation," I replied calmly over my shoulder. "If it goes south… you'll know."

Her jaw clenched, but she stayed put — rifle tight in her grip, eyes hard.

My boots echoed faintly off the hard-packed dirt as I stepped out into the open. Every head turned as I approached, both townsfolk and Powder Gangers alike. Even Cobb's smug grin faltered for a half-second when he saw me walking straight toward him without so much as a flinch.

Fifteen men, maybe more — dynamite strapped to their belts, crude firearms at their sides, sneers plastered on their faces. They weren't expecting this. Not like this.

I stopped a dozen paces from them, standing tall in the center of town. My hands hovered near my belt, not on my weapon — not yet.

"Joe Cobb," I greeted, voice steady, eyes locked onto his. "You and I both know how this ends if we go the stupid route."

Cobb tilted his head slightly, lips curling into a smirk.

"You got guts, I'll give you that," he chuckled. "But guts don't stop bullets. You comin' out here to surrender the town, or just say goodbye?"

I shook my head, slow and deliberate.

"I came to offer you a choice. You walk away — no blood, no graves. You still got your crew, your lives. Maybe you even find a different town to push around."

Murmurs rippled behind him, uncertainty flickering through the ranks.

Cobb's smirk faltered, just for a moment, before returning, sharper now.

"You think you got the firepower to make that happen? You've got farmers and greenhorns behind wagons." His eyes narrowed. "I've got men. Real men. Dynamite. Guns."

I let the silence stretch, eyes scanning the Powder Gangers, reading them. Some confident… some less so. Fear breeds hesitation. Hesitation… breeds openings.

"You'd be surprised what 'farmers and greenhorns' can do when their backs are against the wall," I replied smoothly. "But hey — if you're confident, go ahead. Make the call."

Cobb's gaze held mine for a beat longer, weighing, calculating… but I could see it — the arrogance. The refusal to back down in front of his crew. Pride over logic.

His smirk twisted cruelly.

"Suit yourself."

My hand moved.

V.A.T.S. engaged.

Time slowed, the faint hum of the Pip-Boy resonating in my ears as the world narrowed to crosshairs and highlighted targets.

Three heads.

Three clean, calculated shots.

Cobb's eyes widened just as my finger squeezed the trigger.

V.A.T.S. engaged.

The world seemed to shudder, slowing into a cold, mechanical rhythm. The hum of the Pip-Boy buzzed faintly in my ear as targeting data flooded my vision. Every figure ahead — highlighted. Every movement — calculated.

I shifted my stance, rifle steady against my shoulder.

First target: A Powder Ganger near the front, hand hovering over his holster.

The reticle snapped into place. I squeezed the trigger.

The sharp crack of the shot cut through the still morning air. Membrane and sinew spilled over the ground as the bullet went right between his eyes.

Second target: Another, scrambling with a stick of dynamite.

Reticle locked. Another shot fired.

The bullet went through his right eye. His body crumbling and laying right next to his comrade.

Third and fourth targets: One standing behind the other.

The trajectory aligned. One careful shot.

The first stumbled back as the bullet went through his throat.

The second

V.A.T.S. disengaged.

Time slammed back to full speed, the air charged with panic and the sharp bark of voices.

Cobb's expression contorted from smug certainty to simmering rage. His crew faltered, eyes wide, the sudden losses rattling their confidence.

I didn't wait.

The rifle's bolt clicked as I chambered the next round, my boots grinding against the dirt.

Behind me, I could hear Sunny shouting, the townsfolk scrambling into position, weapons raised.

The first shots were mine. The rest… belonged to Goodsprings.

Cobb barely had time to bark an order before the townsfolk opened up.

Rifles cracked from behind wagon cover, muzzle flashes bursting like fireflies in the early dawn light. The open square that Cobb and his Powder Gangers had marched into — so confidently, so arrogantly — became a shooting gallery.

Cobb's men scrambled for cover that wasn't there. A few ducked behind crates and rusted fence posts, but most were exposed — out in the open, their boots slipping on the dry, cracked earth as panic set in.

Sunny's voice rang out, sharp and clear from her position beside the wagons.

"Keep your heads down! Pick your shots — don't waste ammo!"

The townsfolk listened. Greenhorns, ranchers, prospectors — shaky hands but determined hearts. Their shots weren't perfect… but in that wide, exposed square, they didn't need to be.

Cobb's crew fell apart fast.

One of his men — a wiry raider with wild eyes — tried to light a stick of dynamite, but a round from the saloon window caught him in the shoulder. The explosive rolled harmlessly into the dirt as he collapsed, groaning.

I kept moving, sliding along the barricade, eyes scanning for targets. Cobb ducked low, cursing, his pistol drawn, barking frantic orders.

"Push forward! Flank them! Get to cover—"

But there was nowhere to flank. Nowhere to hide. The open square was unforgiving — a kill zone of their own making.

Ringo, hidden just behind a crate, fired off careful shots, his nerves steadier than before. The townsfolk beside him did the same, turning the Powder Gangers' confidence into dust.

Another of Cobb's crew went down, clutching his side. Another stumbled, tripping over a fallen body, only to be caught in the next volley of fire.

It wasn't a battle.

It was a rout.

And Cobb… he knew it.

His eyes locked onto mine — wild, furious, cornered.

This wasn't going how he thought.

Not by a long shot.

"Fall back! Back to the outpost!" Cobb's voice cracked through the rising dust, hoarse and ragged.

He had ducked behind a feed trough, desperately signaling to the last few Powder Gangers still standing. His bravado had collapsed — replaced now by frantic retreat. His men scattered, tripping over the fallen, confused and frightened as their ranks thinned and their leader shouted empty commands.

He wasn't planning a victory. He was planning an escape.

But if he got away now — if he regrouped — he'd be back, and next time he wouldn't be so careless.

I couldn't allow that.

Drawing both 9mm pistols from my sides, I surged out from cover. My boots struck the cracked ground hard, the air sharp in my lungs. The recoil-ready steel in my hands felt steady. Familiar. Right.

I sprinted across the town square, dodging debris and drifting smoke, and caught sight of Cobb just as he turned. His expression twisted in recognition — not fear, not yet, but surprise.

I raised both pistols.

Two precise shots.

One went through his leg while the other went through his back, into his spine, both going through his entire body and into the Mojave sand.

Cobb collapsed forward, face-down in the dirt. His arms flailed for a moment, then stilled as he tried to push himself up. He couldn't. He wasn't going anywhere now.

I advanced slowly, eyes locked on him—then—

Pain. A heavy punch to my shoulder.

I staggered to the side as one of the pistols slipped from my grip. My shoulder burned; the impact forced the breath from my lungs. I turned just in time to see one last Powder Ganger still alive, hunched behind a broken crate, revolver half-raised in shaking hands.

Before he could try again—

CRACK.

A rifle shot cut the air clean.

He fell still behind the crate, unmoving.

Across the square, Sunny stood from behind the wagon cover, her rifle lowered. Her expression was focused, fierce… and then softening in relief when she saw I was still upright.

"Prometheus!" she called, running toward me.

I dropped to one knee, hand pressed over the fresh wound. It was high in the shoulder — painful, but I could still move. Still breathe.

I was alive. Cobb wouldn't be marching back.

The town square fell into stillness, save for the breeze tugging at worn flags and empty boots.

Goodsprings had stood its ground.

And it had won. Not through sheer numbers or firepower but through tactics, some good placed rifles, and some willing defenders.

The morning sun had finally broken over the ridge, painting the Mojave in soft gold — but it felt more like the quiet after a storm.

The square was silent now, save for the groans of the wounded and the crunch of boots over gravel. The bodies of the Powder Gangers lay scattered like broken chess pieces across the battleground they'd never expected to lose.

I staggered upright, holding my shoulder, the blood warm beneath my palm but already slowing. My breath came in short, tight bursts, but my legs still moved.

"I've got you," Sunny muttered, sliding under my uninjured side.

On my left, Ringo flanked me without a word, hand steady beneath my arm. His eyes darted to my wound, but he said nothing — just kept pace.

Each step toward the saloon felt like it took a piece of me with it — not from the pain, but the weight of it all. We had won. But it hadn't come without cost.

Behind us, Sunny raised her voice loud enough to snap the townsfolk into motion.

"Gather the bodies! Strip the weapons, ammo, anything we can use! Gear goes in a pile — we'll sort it later inside the saloon!"

Some of the volunteers flinched at her tone, but most obeyed quickly. The adrenaline was still in their veins, but now they needed guidance — purpose. And Sunny provided it with steel in her spine.

"Get the wounded first," she barked at a couple of younger boys, one of whom still clutched his rifle like it might bite him. "Leave the dead for last."

We reached the steps of the Prospector Saloon, and I paused, breathing deep. The scent of gunsmoke and earth still clung to the air. Inside was quiet… waiting.

Trudy pushed open the door before we even reached it, face pale but composed. She stepped aside wordlessly as Sunny and Ringo helped me inside and lowered me onto a chair by the bar.

My head tilted back against the wall. The wood was cool behind me.

"We'll get Doc Mitchell," Ringo said. "He'll want to see that shoulder."

Sunny nodded, already heading out the door again, issuing more sharp commands as she went. The saloon door swung shut behind her, muffling the noise but not the rising energy outside.

The people of Goodsprings — barely held together a day ago — were working as one now.

And somewhere deep in my mind, past the ache and exhaustion…

I knew this was only the beginning.

The world had steadied into a low throb — not quite pain, but pressure. My shoulder pulsed with heat beneath the fresh bandages, a dull reminder that even with all my advantages, I was still very much mortal.

Doc Mitchell was working quietly, his brows furrowed in focus as he wrapped the final strip around my shoulder, tightening it with practiced care.

"Bullet went clean through," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "Didn't hit bone. You're lucky — could've been a lot worse."

He stepped back, gave me a look that was half admiration, half exasperation.

"You're not supposed to be out there playing hero with stitches still healing, you know."

I smirked faintly, the expression tight but sincere. "Didn't plan to take a bullet, Doc."

He grumbled something under his breath about "hardheaded youngsters with rifles" and shuffled off toward his med kit again.

The saloon door creaked open. Sunny Smiles stepped inside, the weight of command still clinging to her. Her rifle was slung across her back, sleeves rolled up, hands dirty from lifting the fallen — but her eyes were sharp, bright with something like pride… and fatigue.

"We finished sorting through their stuff," she said, leaning against the bar beside me. "Got ourselves a decent haul. Ammunition, about two dozen firearms in salvageable condition, some explosives — including dynamite. Light armor. Food, water, stimpaks. Even a couple of radios we can repurpose."

She paused, watching my face as I absorbed it all.

"We stacked the bodies near the old well," she added more quietly. "We'll need to decide soon whether to bury them or burn them. Town's split on it. Either way, it'll need to be fast. Heat'll turn the place into a graveyard if we let them sit."

I nodded slowly. The weight of the fight hadn't left yet — it hung in the air like dust that refused to settle.

"And Cobb?"

Sunny hesitated.

"Still alive." Her voice was careful, measured. "Paralyzed from the waist down. Ringo's watching him in the storehouse. Trudy wants him gone. Some of the townsfolk want to finish him. Others want to turn him over to the NCR."

She didn't say what she thought — not yet. But I saw it in her face.

"What do you want?" I asked.

She exhaled, crossing her arms. "I want him gone. He's trouble, even like that. But I won't pull the trigger unless the town agrees. That's not who we are."

I looked away, out the saloon's window. The morning sun had climbed higher now, lighting the dusty street with a quiet, golden stillness. The blood had already begun to fade into the dirt. But the memory would linger.

There would be a reckoning. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow.

But one thing was certain.

Goodsprings had stood up. And I had stood with them.

I leaned forward in the chair, good arm resting across the table, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The saloon was quiet now — only the soft clink of glasses and the hum of low conversation behind closed doors. Outside, the heat was rising, and with it, the urgency.

The aftermath lingered.

The bodies—we couldn't just leave them where they fell. Letting them rot in the middle of town would be a mistake. The townsfolk didn't need that sight every day. But burying them?

That took time. Manpower. Shovels. And none of us had much of either.

Burning them would be cleaner. Quicker. Less sentimental, but this wasn't a time for sentiment. The Mojave didn't care for rituals. The desert devoured everything eventually.

Or we could just drag them out to the edge of town and let nature — or worse — take care of it. Coyotes, radscorpions, hell even Cazadors. It wouldn't take long.

Then there was the gear — weapons, ammo, armor. We had a decent haul. Enough to outfit nearly everyone who fought. Fairness dictated that it be distributed among the volunteers.

Not as charity — as compensation. Payment for risking their lives. Letting it collect dust in some back room would be a waste.

And then there was Cobb.

Paralyzed. Powerless. But still poisonous.

Leaving him alive was a risk. But executing a defenseless man? That was another line, and once it's crossed, it doesn't wash off easy. If the NCR passed through and found out, or if word spread… the town's image would suffer. Still — risk or reputation — one of them had to give.

"Hey," Sunny said softly.

I looked up.

She stepped over, the tiredness starting to show in her shoulders now that the fight was done. In her hands were two small sacks, heavy with the unmistakable clink of metal.

She placed them down gently on the table before me.

"Town pitched in," she said, nodding to the first sack. "It ain't much, but it's what we could gather. Call it our way of saying thanks."

I opened the first one. A modest but respectable number of bottle caps, jingling softly in my palm. It wasn't just payment. It was trust, bundled in canvas.

"And this one?" I asked, gesturing to the second.

She smiled faintly. "Everything Cobb and his boys had on them. We figured you earned it more than anyone."

I opened the second sack. It was heavier — noticeably. Dozens of caps, some marked with NCR stamps, others worn smooth. Cobb had been planning on celebrating a victory… maybe buying his way into something bigger. Now his spoils were mine.

Blood money, some might say.

I tied the bags shut again, slow and thoughtful.

"This'll help," I said simply.

Sunny nodded, but her eyes were searching mine. "You thinking of leaving soon?"

I looked out the window again, past the glare of the sun, into the wide open Mojave.

"Not yet," I said. "I'll wait till the doc says I'm fit to run down the road."

The caps weighed solid on the table — not just payment, but proof of survival. A small fortune by Mojave standards. Yet my thoughts drifted back to the blood in the dirt, the stares of the people who still hadn't fully processed what had happened.

Sunny had given a small nod and walked off to help with the gear sorting. The saloon's door swung open behind her and creaked closed again, leaving me in a moment of rare stillness.

Then, I heard the shuffle of boots across wooden floorboards.

"You always were a bit too quick to collect bruises," came that familiar, scratchy voice.

I turned slightly to see Doc Mitchell approaching, sleeves rolled up, stethoscope swaying slightly as he adjusted the spectacles on his nose. He looked tired, not just in body but in spirit — a kind of weariness only a doctor living through the end of the world could understand.

"Figured you'd still be here," I said.

He pulled up a stool and sat across from me, resting a hand on the table near the bags of caps.

"Wasn't gonna leave 'til I knew you were patched up proper, having them other folks needing patching up made me lose focus on you. And until I saw with my own eyes that this town didn't get wiped off the map." He gestured loosely toward the window, where the glow of morning still lingered over the cracked street. "Looks like I can finally exhale."

I didn't say anything for a moment. Just met his gaze and nodded slowly.

He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest.

"I'll be honest," he continued, voice lowering. "Didn't think you were gonna make it. First time I saw that wound of yours… well, I'd seen bodies brought in with less and still dead."

I chuckled softly, shoulder protesting the motion.

"Stubbornness counts for something," I muttered.

He smirked. "Stubbornness or somethin' else entirely. I don't know what kind of man you were before you got that hole in your head… but I'm startin' to get a clearer picture of the kind of man you are now."

He tapped the tabletop once, slow and deliberate.

"They'll remember you for this."

I looked down at my hands — scarred, steady, still trembling faintly from adrenaline and fatigue.

"We won today," I said. "But war doesn't stop for a single skirmish. This place — these people — they're gonna need more than just luck going forward."

Doc Mitchell nodded. "Then they're lucky they've got you… even if you still don't fully know who you are."

I opened my mouth to reply — then stopped.

Because for the first time since waking up in that medical bed, I realized I wasn't just looking for my past anymore.

I was starting to choose who I'd become.

Doc Mitchell's eyes had settled on me now — not as a patient, not even just as a survivor… but as someone who was changing. Someone beginning to carry more than just his own burdens.

He leaned forward on the table, elbows on the edge, and said quietly:

"Some words of wisdom, Prometheus: you can't always be the one helpin' folks. Sometimes… you just gotta let people be, even if it means they get hurt. It ain't what we want, but it's the way the Mojave is."

He let the words linger, not as a reprimand, but as a weathered truth — the kind that settles into your bones.

"Had any other person been in your boots," he went on, "they'd have run for the hills the first minute they could, instead of helpin' this poor town."

I looked at him for a long while. Not offended. Not defensive.

Just… quiet.

The idea of letting people be, even at their own peril — it ran against something I couldn't quite name. Something ancient inside me. Even with so much of my memory a blank slate, the instinct to act, to fix, to protect — it was built in. A reflex. A purpose.

"Maybe so," I finally said. "But maybe the man who got shot in the head wasn't built to run."

Doc gave a small chuckle — the kind that comes from deep in the chest. Then he stood slowly, brushing dust from his trousers and slinging his med bag over one shoulder.

"Maybe he wasn't," he agreed, tapping the brim of an imaginary hat. "Just don't burn yourself out tryin' to save a world that doesn't always want savin'. Even good hearts got their limits."

With that, he stepped out the saloon doors, the morning sun casting his long shadow down the steps and into the quiet street.

I sat back in the chair, staring down at the two sacks of caps still on the table. My fingers traced the stitching of the bag from the townsfolk, then drifted to the heavier one — Cobb's.

Doc Mitchell was right.

The Mojave wasn't a place that forgave easily. It took. And took. And took.

But as long as I was still standing…

I could choose what it didn't take from me.

The saloon doors creaked shut behind me.

For a while, I stood in the street, feeling the desert wind brush past my face like a whisper of old ghosts. The sun was climbing, warming the dust and ash. Somewhere near the old well, the townsfolk were deciding what to do with the rest of the Powder Gangers.

But I had a different problem.

Cobb.

His name tasted like something foul at the back of my throat.

The storehouse loomed ahead — squat, faded, with its broken windows patched over with scrap. A single volunteer stood watch outside, rifle slung low across his chest. He recognized me immediately and nodded, stepping aside without a word.

The door was shut tight. I opened it slowly, the hinges groaning in protest.

Inside, the air was stale. Too warm. The light came from a dusty window and a lone lantern on a crate.

Joe Cobb was sitting in a corner, slouched against the wall with his legs stretched out uselessly before him. A rough blanket was thrown over his waist. His eyes flicked to me, venomous, yet dulled by pain and the weight of failure.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

Silence stretched.

"You come to finish me off?" he asked finally, voice low and bitter. "Go ahead. Make yourself feel like a hero."

I didn't answer right away. I studied him — the once-cocky face now pale, drawn, streaked with dust and sweat. The muscles in his jaw twitched, like he was trying to hold back the fear beneath all that bravado.

"No," I said, voice calm. "I'm here to decide what to do with you."

He gave a bitter laugh. "Doesn't matter what you decide. I'm already dead. Just slower than the rest."

I took a few steps closer, arms folded, eyes never leaving him.

"You came into a peaceful town, threatened them, extorted them, and were willing to kill anyone who got in your way. And now that it's over, you're begging for pity?"

"I didn't beg."

"You didn't have to," I said. "I can hear it in your voice."

He clenched his fists but couldn't rise. Couldn't even flinch right.

"You're not worth a bullet," I added flatly. "But you are a danger. And I have a town to protect."

He sneered. "You think these yokels are gonna stay safe? That they're gonna pat you on the back forever? Wake up. You're just the guy who happened to stand up when no one else would. You ain't a leader. You're a problem they'll tolerate until you scare 'em."

His words weren't wrong.

But they weren't right, either.

I stood there a while longer, just watching him — no hate, no rage. Just calculation.

He was crippled. Powerless. But if left alone too long, even a caged animal could become poison.

"The NCR has a bounty on Powder Gangers," I said finally. "Alive if they can be moved. Dead if not."

Cobb's eyes narrowed. "So you gonna hand me over like a good little bootlicker?"

"No," I said, turning to the door. "Not yet."

I paused at the threshold, looking back over my shoulder.

"After I recover, I'm going to bring you to Primm where presumably there is still an NCR outpost or encampment that still stands. Pray to God there is still one standing, if not then I'm leaving you out in the desert for the Geckos, Coyotes, and Cazadors to feast on your sorry ass."

Then I stepped outside, closing the door behind me — and leaving Cobb in the stillness he deserved.

The desert air was cooling now, the last hints of gold fading behind the hills. My boots hit the cracked road with a steady rhythm, each step a little heavier than the last. Pain hummed beneath the bandages on my shoulder, but I welcomed it — a reminder that I was still alive… still moving forward.

The familiar glow of the Prospector Saloon spilled out onto the street, warm and steady. And standing there under that halo of lantern-light were two figures: Sunny and Ringo.

They'd been waiting.

Ringo was the first to step forward, hand raised in greeting, a grin already breaking across his face.

"There he is!" he said, voice light with relief. "Our very own Mojave miracle."

Before I could even raise a hand, he gave me a firm pat on the back — right on the injured shoulder.

"Ah—careful!" I winced, stumbling a step. Then I laughed through the pain. "Still got a few holes in me, you know."

Ringo's eyes went wide, both hands raised in apology. "Oh! Oh damn, sorry—sorry, man. I didn't mean—"

I waved it off, still chuckling.

"You're good. Just… maybe next time, aim for the uninjured side."

He smiled sheepishly, then his expression grew more earnest.

"Seriously though… I mean it. What you did for me, for the town — that wasn't just brave. That was insane." He paused, then added with a touch of dry humor, "Insanely good."

I nodded quietly.

Ringo pulled something from his coat — a small, folded scrap of paper, yellowed at the edges.

"If you ever make your way up north, and find yourself at the Crimson Caravan headquarters — show them this. Tell 'em Ringo sent you. I'll make sure your payment's waiting for you. Proper, real payment. Not just some bar tab and bottle caps in a sack."

I took the note and tucked it into my pocket with a nod.

"I appreciate that," I said. "You're a good man, Ringo. Try not to get into Ganger business again."

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, before stepping aside.

That's when Sunny stepped forward, arms crossed loosely, a warm glint behind her eyes.

"Also… before you turn in," she said, tilting her head slightly, "we set aside a small pile of what was left from the Gangers."

She nodded toward the saloon behind her.

"Didn't feel right pickin' it apart too much without you. Most folks just grabbed ammo. Said the heavier stuff — the rifles, pistols, armor — should be left for you to sort through. Since…"

She paused, then shrugged. "…you did the heavy lifting."

I raised an eyebrow. "You saying I'm the town armory now?"

She smirked. "Maybe. Or maybe folks just figure the guy who didn't run when bullets started flying should get first pick."

Her voice was calm, but I could sense it — respect, unspoken, but real.

"Anyway," she added, voice softening, "it's in your room at the saloon. You'll know what to do with it."

For a moment, I didn't say anything. Just let the quiet of the street wrap around us. There was no celebration. No parades. Just tired hearts and silent thanks.

"C'mon," Sunny finally said, turning toward the saloon. "You've earned some sleep."

I followed them both inside, the saloon doors swinging gently shut behind us — warm light and the scent of old wood welcoming us in, like a hearth waiting for the last survivor to come home.