Fallout: Prometheus

The road climbed upward with a slow, crumbling incline. Cracks spread across the asphalt like dried veins, and shattered guardrails clung desperately to the edge of the highway. Ahead, a concrete bridge stretched between two rocky hills, casting a long shadow over the underpass below.

Prometheus squinted through the rising dust and the dry sun glare. To the left of the bridge—across a low, rusted guard fence—sat the faded ruins of Primm proper. The skeletons of old casinos stood crooked and defiant, their neon guts exposed and long-dead. A half-toppled rollercoaster wound through the skyline like a cracked spine, part of it now claimed by the raiders and escaped convicts who'd made the town into a butcher's den.

To the right, on the other side of the incline, sat Outer Primm—a broken scattering of tents, scrap, and sandbag bunkers barely holding the line. The NCR flag hung limply from a bent pole, its yellow and red dulled by the sun. The encampment was small—far too small for what it was meant to contain. A few troopers milled about, many clearly running on empty. This wasn't a base. This was a last stand with too few boots and too many problems.

Then came the bark of a megaphone, sudden and harsh:

"This is NCR territory! Turn back immediately! Primm is under lockdown due to hostile elements—repeat: turn back!"

Prometheus halted the caravan with a light tug of the reins. The brahmin snorted, tired and slow. Dust kicked up around his boots as he stepped forward, raising his hands high over his head.

"No weapons raised! I've got something for you!" he shouted. "Prisoners, and some valuable intel! Might wanna hear this before sending me off!"

There was a pause, long and cautious.

From behind the nearest sandbags, another voice—closer and more skeptical—called out:

"Approach slowly! Hands visible! Any sudden moves and you're getting lit up!"

Prometheus turned his head to glance at Cobb, still tied up and slumped in the cart with that sour, defeated glare. Behind the cart, the captured Gangers stumbled forward with rope-burned wrists and sunburnt necks, muttering quietly to each other.

"Play nice," Prometheus muttered to them under his breath. "I'm not in the mood to dig holes in the Mojave today."

He clicked his tongue and moved forward, leading his strange caravan through the wind-choked approach to the NCR checkpoint.

The perimeter of the NCR camp came into focus with every slow step. Sandbags were piled in irregular rows, forming haphazard walls barely chest-high. Scrap-metal sheets reinforced corners, patched together like a child's attempt at a fortress. Guard towers—if they could even be called that—rose above the perimeter. They were little more than stacked pallets and rusted scaffold, held together by stubbornness and desperation, with sunburnt troopers manning them behind salvaged rifles and worn scopes.

Prometheus stopped when signaled, letting the tied-up prisoners lag behind under the watchful eyes of troopers with twitchy fingers.

A gruff NCR soldier wearing a dusty helmet and mismatched armor stepped forward, flanked by two others. He carried a clipboard like it was more valuable than his rifle. His name tag read "Corporal Miles."

"Alright, stranger," the corporal grunted. "You say you've got prisoners, and you're not looking to get shot. I'm gonna need to check everything—bags, weapons, cargo, hell, even your boots if I have to."

Prometheus nodded. "Be my guest. Just don't scratch the revolver, it's got sentimental value."

The corporal didn't laugh. He nodded to the others, who moved in to search the caravan. One trooper patted down Cobb roughly, muttering curses about Powder Gangers and "damn escapees." The other went through Prometheus's packs—rifling through food rations, water bottles, salvaged loot, and the locked containers with the Gangers' weapons stowed safely away. The captured Gangers were kept under watch at rifle-point, standing silently with the dusty wind in their eyes.

The inspection was thorough. Not efficient—just thorough, and slow.

Eventually, Corporal Miles flipped a page on his clipboard and gave Prometheus another look.

"You're clean. The Gangers match a few wanted descriptions—especially this one." He motioned to Cobb. "He was marked for retrieval, dead or alive. NCR correctional's got a file on him."

He scribbled a few more notes, then handed Prometheus a small tin badge—an NCR-issued visitor's pass.

"Report to Lieutenant Hayes. Command tent's near the radio mast in the center of camp. And don't wander. We're undermanned, overworked, and a few bad accidents from losing this place entirely."

Prometheus gave a casual salute—half mocking, half tired. "Understood. I'll be good."

He walked forward as the perimeter opened enough to let his brahmin cart through. The NCR troops eyed the whole caravan warily but stood down. Around him, the camp buzzed with weary motion—troopers patching up broken tents, others smoking while crouched in shade, and some sharpening combat knives with tired hands and red eyes.

This wasn't a military base. It was a bleeding wound held together by gauze and grit.

As I stepped past the sandbag checkpoint, my boots hit the cracked pavement of Outer Primm. The NCR perimeter was barely holding together—makeshift wooden towers leaned slightly with age, and their sandbag walls were more wishful thinking than actual cover. It didn't look like they lacked time—it looked like they'd just run out of everything else.

The soldier who cleared me waved me through, and I gave him a nod as I led the brahmin forward. The Powder Gangers shuffled behind, their hands tied to the back of the caravan cart while Cobb wobbled a little as the cart kept hitting uneven pavement. They didn't speak, just stared at the NCR flags flapping listlessly in the dry wind.

Everywhere I looked, the camp screamed exhaustion. Soldiers sat on crates and bent rebar benches, their armor dusty, their eyes heavier than their rifles. A few tried to pass the time—some were hunched over playing Caravan, cursing at each other as though the cards held the key to salvation. One guy cheered, tossing down a hand like he'd just beat the Devil himself. His opponent muttered something about reshuffling the deck and the NCR being cursed. I didn't argue with that.

One trooper leaned against a rusted support beam, smoking a bent cigarette like it was his last. A pair of others stripped a rifle on a mat laid across an old crate, cleaning parts with strips of shirt. Not standard-issue cleaning cloths—just what they could tear from worn fatigues. A third group huddled near a low firepit, boiling what looked like ramen with bits of iguana jerky thrown in.

The whole place smelled like metal, sweat, and the distant sharp tang of gecko musk. A brahmin pen sat near the back corner of the yard, half-fenced, half-rope. I parked mine there and looped the reins over the rail, then tied the other gangers to a splintered post just beside the feeding trough. They stood out—powder tattooed faces, blue shirts and jeans faded into sandy beige.

Cobb gave me a sideways glance. "You sure this ain't a war camp?"

"Not yet," I muttered, checking the ropes. "But give it a week."

I turned away, walking toward the largest tent in the middle of the encampment—the only one that looked like it hadn't been patched with tarp and tape. The command tent.

A soldier stood near the entrance, rifle slung low, one hand resting on the flap.

"Hey," he said as I got close, eyeing me with suspicion. "This tent's for command only. What're you doing here, civilian?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Got something your Lieutenant Hayes will want to hear. It's about Primm—and who's got it by the throat."

The soldier squinted at me, then glanced past my shoulder at the gangers tied up by the pen.

He didn't say anything yet, but I could see the question forming in his head.

The soldier stared at me for another moment before sighing. "Fine. Don't make me regret it." He pulled back the flap and stepped aside. I nodded my thanks and ducked into the tent.

Inside, the air was only marginally cooler. A dusty lantern hung from the center pole, casting a yellow glow on a folding desk cluttered with maps, notes, and a dented canteen. A radio on the corner fizzed with faint static—probably picking up more white noise than orders. Behind the desk sat a man with greying temples and sharp lines worn into his face from both sun and stress.

Lieutenant Hayes.

He didn't look up right away—his eyes were focused on a scuffed clipboard, but I could tell he'd already registered me the moment I stepped in. NCR officers didn't last long by being unaware.

"You the one the boys let through?" he asked, voice low and flat, not lifting his gaze yet.

"I am," I replied. "Name's Prometheus. I brought a delivery."

"Unless you're smuggling in food, ammo, or troops, I don't have time for jokes," he muttered, finally looking up. His eyes were tired but alert. "What kind of delivery?"

I pulled a folded paper from my coat—one of the posters from the Mojave Correctional Facility. I placed it on his desk, face up.

It was a wanted sheet for Cobb and a few others. "Prisoners," I said. "Four of them. Former Powder Gangers. Had a little hideout up North the highway. It's empty now."

That got his attention. He reached for the paper, squinting at the faces. "Cobb? No shit."

"Alive," I added. "Tied up by the brahmin pen and paralyzed from the waist down. If the NCR still takes prisoners, they're yours."

He leaned back in his chair, the metal frame creaking. "You're serious?"

"Deadly."

Hayes rubbed his jaw, glancing toward the tent's entrance like he could see through canvas and sandbags. "We don't exactly have the manpower to process prisoners right now," he muttered. "But I'll take what I can get. That still doesn't explain why you'd go out of your way to help the NCR. What's your angle?"

I shrugged. "Let's call it… strategic charity. I'm going through Primm. Figured doing you a favor might clear the way."

Hayes stared at me, then gave a short, dry laugh. "Well, hell. You've got better instincts than half my men. Smart. Primm's a goddamn mess. Raiders and escaped convicts dug in deep. We're not cleared to engage, and I've got less than a dozen men, most of them barely holding a rifle steady."

"So you're just… letting them squat there?"

He sighed. "Not by choice. But without reinforcements, I can't order an assault. And if we charge in and lose, we'll have to pull out of here completely."

I nodded. "Then maybe you and I can find a solution that doesn't end with your men dead and me shot in the back by some hopped-up thug with a tire iron."

Hayes looked at me again—this time not like a civilian, but something else. Something useful.

"I'm listening."

Hayes was listening now, eyes fixed on me, calculating. I could tell he didn't like being in this position—cornered by circumstance, dependent on strangers—but that was the reality of the Mojave. Pride didn't refill ammo crates or staff outposts.

I leaned forward slightly, resting my palms on the edge of his desk. "Here's my proposition," I began. "You let me into Primm. Officially. I'll go in, scout the situation, and assist however I can to break the grip those raiders and convicts have on the town."

Hayes raised a brow. "You offering to clear Primm for us?"

"Not promising anything yet," I replied with a faint smirk. "I'm offering to make a dent. Clean out what I can, get intel, and—if possible—create an opening for your boys to push in. But I'm no NCR grunt. I don't work for free."

He frowned, already shaking his head. "We don't have the caps to pay you. Barely have enough to keep the men fed. You've seen the state of this camp. We're running on lint and willpower."

"That's fine," I said, waving it off. "I don't want your caps."

He looked at me, skeptical. "Then what?"

"Looting rights," I said. "Everything I clear, everything I take, is mine. No claims from the Republic, no seizure after the fact. If I find something worth selling, trading, or keeping—it's mine by right."

Hayes stared at me a moment, then slowly leaned back, folding his arms. The canvas above us creaked faintly in the breeze. "That… sounds an awful lot like mercenary talk."

I gave a slight nod. "Think of it like a contract without ink. You get results, I get salvage. No risk to your men, no wasted ammo, no logistical nightmares. I'm just a third party making the mess slightly less bloody."

He rubbed his chin, weighing the offer. "You're serious about this?"

"Dead serious. I'll even report back once I know more about how bad it is inside. If it's too much for one man to handle, at least you'll know what you're really dealing with."

Hayes sighed through his nose. "You walk into Primm and get yourself killed, I'm not sending anyone in after your body."

"Wouldn't expect you to," I replied dryly. "Just don't send anyone in to claim my gear either."

That got the faintest twitch of a smile from him.

"Alright," he said after a long pause. "You've got your looting rights. But if any of my men end up dead because of this, it's on your head. You work alone, you keep the chaos contained, and if I get even a whiff of you stirring up more trouble inside Primm..."

"You'll what? Put a bounty on me?" I asked, one brow raised. "Guess I'd deserve it."

He exhaled, then extended a hand across the table. "We'll consider it an unofficial agreement. Do what you can in Primm. And Prometheus?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't die in there. We've got enough corpses piling up already."

I took his hand and gave it a firm shake. "No promises, Lieutenant. But I'll give them hell."

I turned toward the flap of the command tent, ready to step out into the sun and steel myself for what lay beyond. But just as I brushed the canvas aside, I heard Hayes call out behind me.

"Prometheus."

I paused and looked back.

He stood from his desk, something clutched in his hand. A moment passed before he crossed the space between us and held it out. A rough paper bag, weathered from time and handling. The scent of processed rations and gun oil drifted faintly from it.

"Here," he said. "Consider this… a sign of good faith. Not payment, just—support."

I opened the bag. Inside were two MREs—NCR-issue, sealed tight—and a small box of .357 rounds. I glanced up at him.

"You said you had no caps," I remarked.

"I don't. But bullets and food we can spare—barely. Don't make me regret it."

I gave him a half-smile, not the sarcastic kind I usually wore. This one had a bit of something behind it—respect, maybe. "I won't."

Hayes didn't smile back, but his posture eased slightly. "Watch your back in there. Convicts in Primm aren't just scavengers. Some of them were serving time in the NCRCF for a reason."

I nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."

I tucked the MREs into my pack and slid the box of rounds into the holster pouch beneath my duster. Every bullet was worth its weight in gold in the Mojave. And this little gesture, as minor as it seemed, meant something. Not every officer would bother.

With that, I stepped out into the light again, wind tugging gently at my coat as I made my way toward the caravan and the slow, quiet march toward a town that had forgotten what peace looked like.

I left the command tent with a heavier pack and a purpose clear in my head. I crossed the camp, weaving through the sandbags and threadbare tents, past soldiers too tired to salute. Their eyes followed me—some curious, others just weary. Cobb and the others stayed where I left them, tied to the post near the brahmin pen. I gave them a glance and a nod. "Stay put," I muttered, more to the world than to them.

I took the dirt path toward the bridge.

It stretched out like a cracked rib across the dry scar of the Mojave, linking the broken bones of what used to be a town. The casinos on the far side—Primm proper—stood like drunk old kings with their neon crowns long since shattered. Between here and there, the bridge sagged in the middle, its concrete spine full of bullet holes, scorch marks, and craters where grenades or something worse had once kissed the asphalt.

It was a wonder it hadn't collapsed yet.

A miracle this bridge is even standing.

The wind howled through the metal beams like a wounded dog. I stepped carefully, scanning the uneven roadbed ahead. Sure enough, just past the halfway mark, I spotted the shimmer of metal in the dirt—a fragmentation mine, dusty but still armed. And another a few paces ahead. Tripwire setups, too, woven low and easy to miss if someone wasn't paying attention.

Good thing I always paid attention.

I crouched and moved low, shifting my weight slowly with each step. The Pip-Boy's motion sensor pinged once, faintly. Another mine—closer than it looked. I exhaled and stepped around it.

Sweat gathered along my back as I inched forward, boots just barely skimming over sections of gravel. Whoever laid these wasn't sloppy. These weren't meant to be traps of last resort—they were meant to keep people out.

Or in.

I reached the end of the bridge in one piece, heart steady but pulse sharpened. I rose fully once I hit cracked sidewalk, eyes sweeping the old welcome sign for Primm. It had a bullet hole through the "P" and scorch marks across the cartoon cowboy's smile.

The town was waiting. Somewhere in that mess, behind barricaded windows and busted slot machines, were thugs, convicts, maybe worse. But I was ready to dig in.

The first building just past the bridge was more ruin than shelter — a sun-bleached husk of what used to be a corner store or office. Half the roof had caved in. Rebar jutted from cracked concrete like broken bones. I moved low, hugging the wall, my steps measured and silent. The door creaked when I opened it, but only just. No gunfire greeted me. No footsteps rushed to meet me. Just stale air and the faint stink of sweat, rot, and something sour.

Inside, it was dim. The light came only through the cracks in the boarded windows, painting lines across the dust and debris-strewn floor. I heard movement—soft, rhythmic, careless.

I crept closer, holding my breath.

Two of them. One slumped in the corner on a grimy mattress, dead to the world, snoring with a bottle still clutched in hand. The other... well, the other was distracted. Pants halfway down, leaning back on a broken office chair, his weapon was on the floor next to him, out of reach. He was mumbling something under his breath, eyes half-lidded and lost in whatever fantasy kept him from hearing me.

I moved like a shadow.

First the sleeper. I slipped behind him, placing a hand over his mouth just as his eyes blinked open—confused, then terrified. My knife did the rest. Quick. Clean.

Before the second one even realized he wasn't alone anymore, I was already on him. His expression turned to shock, but by then it was far too late. I kicked the chair out from under him, slammed him against the wall, and knocked him out cold with the butt of my revolver. No need to kill someone that dumb. Not yet, anyway.

I tied him up and gagged him with some old scrap cloth. His weapon—an old 10mm pistol with half a mag left—went into my pack.

I took a breath and stood still, letting the silence settle again. Then I started checking the rest of the room. Caps, cans, junk food, and half a medkit. Not a bad haul. One of them even had a holotape labeled "Lucky 38 Broadcast — Pre-War Archive." Probably useless, but I tucked it away anyway.

I glanced at the tied-up raider one more time before stepping back out into the Mojave heat. Distractions like him didn't live long out here.

The floor creaked under my boots, but not loud enough to give me away. I paused at the edge of the first building's exit, eyes scanning the next ruin through the broken doorway. Like most of Primm, these old structures were tightly packed together—businesses once stacked side by side, their walls now cracked open like dry bones.

A narrow hallway had collapsed between this building and the next, but the roof above had held just enough that someone—maybe a scavver or a convict—had bridged it with a plank of warped metal and some half-rotted wood. Sloppy work, but functional.

I crossed the makeshift bridge slowly, crouched low, rifle slung tight to my chest. My steps were careful, silent, measured. Wind blew through the gaps between bricks and broken windows, but it didn't cover the distant crackle of radios or the idle muttering of voices deeper inside the structure.

The next building was an old storefront. The faded outline of painted letters above the entrance read "Dino Dee-Lite Gifts" or something close to it. The walls were peeled, the shelves stripped bare, but I spotted cigarette butts on the floor—still warm. Someone was here.

I moved like smoke through the main shop and slipped into the employee hallway in the back. Light filtered through holes in the ceiling, illuminating dust motes like falling ash. Just around the corner, I heard two voices—low, male, and irritated.

"Shut up about the damn cards, Tucker. You always think you're winning even when you're losing."

"It's just luck, man. You shuffle like a blind radroach."

A game of Caravan. Lucky for me. Idle gamblers rarely expect company.

I took position behind a cracked office door and peeked inside. The two convicts were hunched over a makeshift table, half-drunk and distracted. Their rifles leaned against the far wall—out of reach. I raised my pistol, suppressed and steady.

Two shots. One to the head of the louder one, the other through the neck of the second before he could react. Both dropped with little more than a wet thud against the carpet.

I waited five seconds. Ten. No alarms. No yelling. No boots running across the floorboards. Just the low whine of a half-broken radio buzzing in the corner and the hum of desert wind outside.

I moved in quickly, looted what I could—ammo, a few stimpaks in a half-buried medkit, some NCR dog tags strangely enough—and shut off the radio before it attracted attention.

Then I noticed the staircase. Crumbling, but still intact. It led up to what looked like an old break room. I climbed carefully, each step groaning under my weight. From the top, I could see the street outside through a shattered window: sandbags, overturned cars, and one of the old rollercoaster support beams jutting like a rusted spear into the sky. I was closer to the center now.

More enemies would be holed up near those places. But now I knew the layout better. I had a path through the connected rooftops and back alleys.

And I had momentum.