Fallout: Prometheus

Note: Sorry for the late chapter. It's been hard getting one out since I was so busy this weekend but promise the next update(This Sunday: July 27) will be prepared as according to schedule: 9:00 AM PST(Philippine Standard Time)

The sun hadn't risen far above the ridges when I reached the outpost Cobb and his crew had once squatted in. It sat ugly and half-collapsed along the highway, a forgotten rest stop in a forgotten war. The sands still bore the faint outlines of old tracks, the kind left behind by boots, dragged limbs, and careless feet. The Powder Gangers hadn't exactly been subtle.

I unhooked Cobb's cart and dragged it beneath the shade of a bent overhang, tying the brahmin loosely to a rusted pipe. He groaned again but didn't open his eyes. I barely spared him a glance. He'd get his due in Primm — God willing.

Turning my eyes to the surrounding stretch, I spotted a small structure across the cracked road. A faded sign, crooked and half-obscured by blown sand, read: JEAN SKY DIVING.

Huh. Sky diving. Couldn't tell if that was a joke or a death wish in this world.

I squinted at it. The building sat quiet — a little too quiet — and that made me pause. It could be empty. It could be something worse. I marked it in my mind and decided to clear the outpost first before wandering over.

The building itself wasn't much: a few reinforced walls, an old couch with dried blood crusting the cushions, and lockers that looked like they hadn't been opened in years. Still, this was raider territory. That meant opportunity — and danger.

I got to work.

I scoured every inch of the Powder Ganger outpost — the dusty shelves, the empty ammo crates, the moldy mattresses — until I was sure nothing useful remained hidden. Between the scattered supplies and loose rounds, I managed to put together a decent haul. But what caught my eye was a crumpled note wedged behind a cracked lantern on the desk.

Most of the page was smudged with sweat and ash, but I could make out enough:

"Jean shack's locked up tight. Looks like a safe in the back, connected to a terminal. Bobby and Rask tried cracking it — no luck. Terminal says last try left. Idiots probably wasted the password attempts playing hangman. Might give it one more go if we get bored."

I glanced across the road again at the shack or what was left of it. A squat, rusted thing half-swallowed by sand and silence. There was no movement, no lights. Just the creaking wind and the hollow stillness that meant either no one was inside… or they hadn't moved in a while.

I crossed the road slowly, boots crunching over scattered gravel. The door creaked open on rusted hinges and let out a sigh of stale air.

The place was tiny. Looked more like a supply kiosk than an actual building — walls lined with old promotional posters of grinning pre-War skydivers. A single desk was bolted into the back corner, next to a terminal whose screen still flickered dimly green. Sure enough, a small safe sat beside it, integrated into the wall.

I knelt beside the terminal. Dust clung to the keys, and the screen blinked a quiet warning:

"1 ATTEMPT(S) LEFT BEFORE LOCKOUT."

They weren't lying.

I pulled out one of the Programmer's Digest issues I had stashed in my pack and flipped it open — the one with diagrams on bypassing security subroutines. A lot of it was theoretical, but it reminded me of what I'd picked up from hacking that schoolhouse terminal earlier.

Alright. One chance.

I studied the code. Long seconds passed.

Then, fingers steady, I typed.

The screen blinked.

ACCESS GRANTED.

I exhaled and let out a short, satisfied chuckle. "Praise God."

With a hiss, the safe unlocked.

Inside was a real prize — a tidy stack of pre-war dollars, a full box of .308 rounds, a lightly-used scoped hunting rifle, and, wrapped in oiled cloth, a stimpack and a set of repair tools. Beneath all that was a weathered holotape labeled "Jean Tower Logs – Final".

Now that was worth the detour.

I packed it all away into the Pip-Boy's inventory system, feeling the total weight tick upward in the interface — almost at my limit, but manageable for now. I took one last look around the empty shack, then slipped back outside into the Mojave morning.

Jean Sky Diving may have been forgotten, but today, it paid its due.

As I made my way to the door, something caught the corner of my eye — a glint of silver beneath one of the overturned floor tiles near the entrance.

I knelt down, brushed away the dust, and there it was.

A bottle cap. But not just any cap.

This one had a distinct blue star stamped on its face — the kind I'd only ever heard rumors about. Old Wasteland tales talked about these… prizes, or curses, depending on who was telling the story. Starred Sunset Sarsaparilla caps. Supposedly tied to some long-forgotten jackpot, or maybe a death sentence if the wrong folks saw you holding one.

I turned it over in my fingers, the metal warm from the sun filtering through the cracked window. There was no writing, no indication of its purpose — just that unmistakable star.

I shrugged, atomizing it into the Pip-boy alongside the rest of the loot. "Might be worth something… someday."

Then I stepped back into the Mojave, the sun rising ever higher over the road ahead — and over the town of Primm, waiting on the horizon.

A few moments down the road from Jean Sky Diving, I slowed my pace.

The dry breeze whispered across the cracked asphalt as I stopped, eyes narrowing on the horizon. There, nestled between two low hills, were the shapes of a broken-down trailer and an old bus, rusting beneath the unforgiving Mojave sun. A small plume of smoke curled upward — faint, but enough to catch my attention.

Behind me, I heard the soft creak of the cart wheels and the faint rattle of Cobb's restraints. He stirred, groaning from the bump of a rock beneath the wheel.

"What's the holdup?" he rasped. "You see somethin'?"

I nodded without looking back. "Encampment. Looks like some of your old buddies, Cobb."

There was a beat of silence. Then: "The hell you mean 'you see'—" he paused, squinting ahead. "You serious? I can't even make out nothin' but heat haze."

I glanced over my shoulder, smirking slightly. "Guess your eyes just aren't as good as mine."

He scoffed and leaned back against the cart wall, muttering something under his breath.

But I kept watching the site. Tattered flags tied to metal rods flapped lazily in the wind, and faint shadows moved between the trailer and the gutted bus. Powder Gangers, no doubt — maybe four or five.

If I kept walking on the road, they'd spot me before I got within shouting distance. And with Cobb in tow, they'd likely assume the worst.

I crouched down, brushing my fingers through the dust, weighing my options.

Take them by surprise? Avoid them entirely and circle around the rocky ridge? Or… walk in straight, cool and calm — let them decide if they want to make the first move.

I gave the brahmin a quick tug to follow, leading them just off the road behind a patch of low shrubs and jagged stone. The brahmin gave a soft grunt, unbothered. Cobb, on the other hand, gave me a wary look as I untied the rope from my wrist and fastened it to a bent rebar jutting out from the rock.

"Don't get any ideas," I muttered. "There's no one around here who'll untie you — and if a gecko doesn't get you, I will."

He scoffed, settling into the dust with a faint groan as I stepped away.

I crouched low and started a slow approach along a ridge that sloped gently toward the ruined trailer and the carcass of a bus. The sun had already begun to rise higher, casting long, warped shadows from their makeshift shelter. I moved from rock to rock, staying low, boots soft on the dirt. A dry breeze carried the scent of rust, smoke, and something stale — unwashed bodies and week-old campfires.

Peeking from behind a boulder, I could finally get a better view.

Four of them.

One leaned lazily against the side of the bus, a shotgun resting across his lap. Another was inside, just a flicker of movement seen through the shattered windshield. A third paced the perimeter — twitchy, clutching a revolver like he expected a ghost to jump out from the sagebrush. The last one, taller and probably the leader, sat on a folding chair near the campfire, tinkering with what looked like a busted pistol.

No real perimeter defenses — just scattered boxes, broken furniture, and the natural cover of wreckage. Sloppy and overconfident. Probably didn't expect trouble this far out after what happened in Goodsprings.

I took mental notes of their weapons, their habits, their blind spots.

It was all useful.

And I didn't plan to waste a single opportunity.

I squatted behind the rock outcrop, peering at the camp nestled between the rusting frame of a pre-war tour bus and the crumpled shell of a trailer. A makeshift fire crackled at the center, with three of the Powder Gangers lounging nearby. Another kept watch a few meters out, pacing slowly, dragging a crowbar along the gravel.

I studied them.

Four total.

I slipped my hand inside my duster and checked the weight of the combat knife on my belt, then let my fingers brush the grip of the old varmint rifle slung at my back. But I didn't pull it out. Noise would just ruin the advantage I had. Besides, I didn't need it.

I gave Cobb a final glance—he was lying flat under a bush, hands bound but calm. "Don't scream," I had said. "And don't run." He hadn't even replied. Just stared, maybe wondering what kind of man could tie up a prisoner, vanish into the brush, and promise to take down an entire gang by himself.

I crept down the hill, using the dry, uneven terrain as cover. Slow, steady breathing. One foot in front of the other, no rush. The Gangers were talking, laughing, half-awake from the sun. One took a swig from a dirty bottle. Another threw rocks at an empty can.

I made it to the back of the trailer.

The sentry was first. I watched him turn his back to the others. He kicked at a bottle, sighed, and began his slow patrol. I waited until his steps brought him near the trailer. When he walked past the corner, I grabbed him from behind, one hand around his mouth, the other gripping the hilt of my knife. He struggled for just a second—then slumped.

I eased him down behind the trailer. Not dead. Just out cold.

One down.

The two sitting by the fire were talking about caps and cards. One pulled out a small deck and started dealing hands. I stayed low, watching from behind the bus. No sudden moves—just patience.

Then the third Ganger stepped into the bus.

Now was the moment.

I pulled a small rock from the ground and flicked it toward the hills. It clinked against metal.

"Hey, what was that?" one of them muttered.

The card player stood up and wandered off toward the sound. His back was turned. I moved in. Swift and silent, I crossed the space between us and delivered a sharp strike to the back of his neck with my elbow. He fell limp to the ground.

Two.

I glanced at the last one outside the bus. He was still standing, still distracted, peering at the rocks.

I circled around and came up behind him, yanking him to the ground and pressing his face into the dirt. "Stay quiet," I warned. He didn't even try to fight. I tied him up with strips of cloth from his own shirt and left him there—alive and breathing.

Three.

That left the last one, still inside the bus. I slid in through the side entrance and found him kneeling beside a metal box — a locked safe, from the looks of it. A terminal sat nearby, humming faintly, its screen flashing red: "1 ATTEMPT REMAINING."

The Ganger hadn't even noticed me yet. He muttered to himself, "C'mon, c'mon, I know this one…"

"I wouldn't try that if I were you," I said coldly.

He spun around and froze.

"I-I didn't know—who the hell are you?!"

"The guy who just dealt with your whole crew."

He stared at me in disbelief. "You… What?"

I motioned toward the exit with my head. "Out. Slowly."

He did as he was told. I tied him up alongside the others, all alive, all disarmed. No unnecessary killing. Not today.

Back in the bus, I turned to the terminal. That blinking cursor taunted me. But I had time, and I had skill. With slow, careful keystrokes, I found the right code. The screen unlocked.

SAFE UNSEALED.

A soft hiss came from the metal box beside it as the lock disengaged.

Inside, I found the haul: pre-War money, a box of .308 rounds, a mint-condition silenced 10mm pistol, and—strangely enough—a bottle cap with a blue star engraved on it. I turned it over in my palm. It glinted in the sunlight coming through the window.

Another one of those…

I pocketed it and gathered the rest of the valuables into my pack.

As I stepped out of the bus, I turned to the tied-up Gangers.

"You're lucky," I said. "I'm not in the mood to waste ammo. But if you try anything dumb before I'm gone…"

I let the silence carry the rest of the threat. The look in my eyes was enough to make one of them glance away.

"You're not leaving us here?" the smallest of the three asked, his voice dry and unsure.

"No," I replied, tightening the straps of my pack. "You're coming with me."

They all looked at each other.

"You'll walk tied to the caravan," I continued, "hands bound, feet free. I've got no time to babysit, but I've got eyes on you."

I turned to the nearby hill where Cobb was waiting, resting under the shade beside the brahmin. He squinted at us as we approached.

I knelt and undid just enough of his restraints to let his arms move. "Congratulations," I said flatly. "You're in charge of them."

Cobb's brow rose. "Me?"

"Yeah. You keep them walking, keep them in line. If any one of them bolts, you yell. Loud. And if you even think about running…" I reached over, patting the butt of my holstered pistol, "…you won't like how fast I can pull this."

He snorted. "Tch. Fine. Beats rotting in the sun."

"You're not out of the cage, Cobb. Just being given a longer leash."

The brahmin gave a low groan as I adjusted the cart harness. I tied a length of rope between the three Powder Gangers, their hands already tied in front, giving them just enough room to walk behind the cart without slowing us down. Cobb walked a few paces behind them, the rope of his own bindings tied to the back of the cart in case he got ideas.

With one last glance at the encampment—now stripped of its supplies, the fire pit cold—I led the caravan back to the cracked road.

The morning wind was sharp, and dust blew across the asphalt like pale ghosts.

"Why'd you stop back there anyway?" Cobb eventually called out from behind, irritation in his voice.

I didn't look back.

"Thought I saw movement. I was right. Just didn't expect it to be your friends sleeping off a night of jet."

He muttered something under his breath.

Another of the Gangers grumbled, "How the hell did he see us from that far?"

I smirked faintly to myself.

"Good eyes," I said. "Real good."

The group fell quiet after that.

No one asked where we were going.

But I had my route already planned: Primm first, then down to Nipton, eastward past the Mojave Outpost, then north toward Novac. And eventually… New Vegas.

They didn't know it yet, but for some of them, this was a one-way march. For the rest, maybe a second chance.

Maybe.

The road from Goodsprings to Primm stretched ahead like a cracked artery, half-buried in sand and windblown ash. What used to be a highway now bore little more than faded yellow lines, crumbling asphalt, and the twisted skeletons of cars long since looted and rusted hollow.

I led the caravan with the sun just peeking over the hills, casting a golden glare across the Mojave. We moved slowly but steadily—me at the front with the brahmin and the cart, the three Powder Gangers trailing behind, roped together, with Cobb watching them from the rear. None of them had said a word in over an hour.

The Mojave wasn't silent, though.

Every so often, the unmistakable rasping hiss of a Gecko echoed from the hills—followed by the sound of small rocks scattering, or the snarl of something animal and desperate. Radroaches scattered across the road in twos or threes when our footsteps came too close. In the distance, I spotted the wingbeats of bloatflies, drifting like sick balloons over a half-sunken sewer grate by the side of the road. Their drone was unmistakable.

One of the Gangers flinched when a particularly big roach skittered across his path. "Ugh. Hate these things."

"They hate you too," I muttered. "Keep walking."

None of the critters tried to pick a fight. Maybe the fire-breathing Geckos further out could sense I wasn't worth the trouble. I wasn't exactly dressed like prey and the scoped rifle from Jean's Sky Diving was a wonderful addition to my growing arsenal of weapons.

By midday, sweat soaked through the back of my shirt. The wind was dry and sharp, and the only shade came from whatever rock or signpost hadn't yet been bleached to bones. I reached for my canteen and took a long drink. Then, curiosity got the better of me.

I tapped the Pip-Boy, fiddling with the interface again. The more I learned about it, the more it felt like an alien machine wrapped around my arm. But it had potential—endless potential. I scrolled past the inventory, the maps, and then…

[RADIO]

The word blinked quietly at me.

I raised an eyebrow, thumbed it open.

There it was: a list of stations. Most were faint, crackling static or dead signals… but some were active and one was highlighted as stable.

Radio New Vegas – Signal: Stable

I tapped it.

Immediately, the Pip-Boy's speaker hummed to life. A soft guitar strummed through the hot wind, followed by a warm, polished voice:

"…you're listening to Radio New Vegas, bringing the truth to you, no matter how bad it hurts. And now, a little number for all you Mojave lovers out there…"

The music started—an old-world tune, smooth and full of charm. A voice followed. Male, confident, and effortlessly cool.

"Blue moon… you saw me standing alone…"

I blinked. Even the Gangers behind me seemed to notice, slowing slightly as the music filled the emptiness between our footsteps.

"That… the hell is that?" one of them muttered.

"Music," I replied. "The kind that doesn't try to kill you."

Cobb glanced over. "How the hell do you have a radio on you?"

I tilted my head toward the device on my wrist. "Pip-Boy. Got one built in. Real handy."

He raised an eyebrow. "Vault stuff?"

"Something like that."

The music kept playing as we walked—sweet, haunting, strangely comforting.

It became our new companion—the kind that didn't complain, didn't drag its feet, didn't plot an escape.

Every so often, the signal dipped when we passed under the shadow of a leaning billboard or the crumbled bones of an overpass, but it always came back.

By late afternoon, the silhouette of Primm began to form at the horizon—its broken rollercoaster sticking up like a thorn against the sky.

I lowered the volume slightly and looked over my shoulder.

"Not much farther now," I said.

None of them replied. Their faces were burnt red by the sun. The Gangers were exhausted, but alive. Cobb looked irritated, but watchful.

Still, I saw something in his eyes—something thoughtful.

I adjusted the rope on the brahmin and took another drink. The taste of old metal filled my mouth, but it was better than thirst.

Primm was near. And with it, the next step of the journey.