Fallout: Prometheus

I stepped off the fractured sidewalk, past the creaking fence, and up to the half-hinged door of a rundown brick house. The Mojave sun cast long, slanted shadows through the broken shutters. The mailbox read "Nash", hand-painted and peeling.

The name meant nothing. At least, it should've meant nothing.

But a strange feeling tightened in my chest—like a memory hovering just out of reach. A word I'd once spoken in a dream. Nash.

I shook it off and slipped inside.

The interior was crammed with courier gear—satchels, caps, and reams of paper stacked in uneven towers. It wasn't abandoned, but it hadn't seen care in weeks. Dust floated in the still air, glittering in the slivers of light that pierced the boarded windows.

Against the far wall sat a desk, warped by heat and time, its drawers barely holding together. On its surface, half-buried beneath other receipts, I spotted something different.

A manifest.

Courier Six — SPECIAL DELIVERY. Destination: New Vegas Strip (Platinum Chip). No substitutions. Do not deliver by proxy.

My fingers twitched at the name. Courier Six.

The pit in my stomach deepened. That was more than familiar—it was personal.

The paper crackled in my grip. No name, no identifying marks. Just that designation. The delivery path scribbled in ink: Goodsprings -> Primm -> Novac -> New Vegas.

Someone had underlined Primm.

Beside it, in hurried scrawl:

"Route interrupted. Courier missing. Chip not recovered."

My throat went dry.

I couldn't remember ever coming to Primm.

But now, standing in this room, breathing in the faint metallic tang of rust and old ink… it felt like I had. Like I'd been here a hundred times, in a hundred dreams I could never recall when I woke up.

Before I could reflect longer, a sound cut through the stillness.

A mechanical chirp. Faint. Weak. Like a dying bird buried in wires.

My hand went to my holster as I turned toward a hallway veiled by a torn, moth-eaten curtain. Something shifted behind it—small, metallic, uncertain. Not hostile. Not strong either.

I pulled the curtain aside and found a forgotten workroom barely lit by the amber dusk slipping through a cracked window. Amid the tools, clutter, and courier junk was a familiar shape:

A battered eyebot.

Scorched casing. Broken frame. Wires spilling from its belly like exposed nerves.

Its optic flickered in a dim, rhythmic stutter, barely holding on. And just beneath a coating of grime and rust:

ED-E

So much for subtle warnings.

I stepped closer and knelt beside the thing. One of its thruster brackets had shattered, half its sensory grid looked melted, and the casing had split along the midsection. Whoever had tried to fix him had stopped halfway through, as if they ran out of time—or hope.

He wasn't junk.

He was trying to work.

Trying to function.

Trying to wake up.

"Hold still," I muttered, setting my bag down and fishing through the few scraps I'd been carrying since Goodsprings. A bent metal plate, some old wiring, and a length of repurposed circuit mesh—I wasn't a genius engineer, but I could work a patch job when it counted.

I set to it. A few bolts replaced. Wiring reconnected. I popped open a maintenance hatch on his back, rerouted the power through a less corroded conduit, and secured the melted frame with a jury-rigged support bracket from a Brahmin harness buckle. Crude, but solid.

With one final adjustment, I hit the reboot button near the audio port and sat back, holding my breath.

For a second—nothing.

Then, his core blinked bright white. A high-pitched startup whine filled the room. The thrusters kicked, sputtered, then hovered steady. The eye focused, blinking twice like it was adjusting to light for the first time in years.

ED-E floated upright, gently wobbling in the air. A low whirr echoed as he scanned me.

"Hey there," I said, almost surprised to hear myself smiling. "Welcome back."

He beeped. Once. Twice. Then trilled a long, curious chime like a cautious thank-you. It was the sound of a machine waking up from a long, lonely sleep.

I didn't know where he came from. I didn't know what he remembered.

But maybe—like me—he was trying to piece something back together.

"Stick close," I told him, standing. "We've got more ghosts to dig up."

He gave a confirming chirp and floated beside me as I made for the door. The dead town of Primm was still full of noise. And maybe, if I was lucky, some answers.

I stepped out of the Nash house, my hands still lightly dusted with grease from fixing ED-E. The sun hadn't shifted much, but it felt hotter somehow—like Primm was holding its breath, waiting for the next thing to go wrong.

The road ahead split, one side curling toward the half-ruined Bison Steve Hotel, its facade scorched and pockmarked by bullets. I could hear distant shouting from somewhere inside—rough voices, tense. The Powder Gangers were dug in deep.

Not yet.

I turned the other way, toward the only other building in town that still looked halfway alive: the Vikki and Vance Casino. From the outside, it looked like it had been part museum, part gambling hall. The big red letters were still hanging overhead, though a couple had fallen into the dirt. "V KKI N V_NCE"—close enough.

The NCR had posted some troopers outside, slouched in makeshift chairs with their rifles across their laps. They didn't bother looking at me. Too tired. Too broken down to care. That was the mood here. Half of Primm was held hostage, and the other half was clinging to routine like a bad habit.

ED-E floated behind me, humming softly, like he was picking up signals again.

Inside the casino, it smelled like old alcohol, old regrets, and newer desperation. The air was stale, but cooler than outside. NCR gear was piled against the walls—ammo boxes, ration crates, even a couple of busted radios. A few troops sat around a folding table in the back, playing what looked like Caravan, but with rules I didn't fully grasp. They were using bottle caps for bets, laughing softly through chapped lips.

ED-E chirped once.

Then I saw him, Johnson Nash, behind the counter, and Ruby organizing what supplies she had left.

That's when the déjà vu hit. A sharp jab to the gut.

I knew this place.

Or rather, something in me did.

I stepped forward, trying not to show the flicker of recognition that gripped my chest like a vice.

"Afternoon," I said, my voice flat.

That was when Nash saw ED-E floating beside me—and the story began to unfold.

Inside, the place was lit by weak, flickering lights from a few still-functioning slot machines—most had been gutted, their metal innards ripped out and looted long ago. The floor was a mess of torn carpet, bullet casings, broken glass, and faded hopes. A couple NCR troopers sat against the far wall nursing stale rations and dull stares, too tired to even glance my way.

ED-E hovered just behind my right shoulder, giving a soft whirring chirp. He'd been quiet most of the way over. The old bot still had a few dings I hadn't fully patched up, but he was running. That was enough.

Behind a rickety old counter made out of a busted craps table stood two people: a grizzled man with the tan skin and sunken eyes of someone who hadn't slept properly in weeks, and a woman sorting what looked like scavenged canned goods and playing cards.

The man's eyes narrowed at me the second he spotted ED-E. "Well, I'll be…"

He stepped forward, wiping his hands on a dusty rag. "That eyebot… you fix him up just now? You were in my house."

I tensed slightly, reflexively scanning the room, but his tone wasn't angry—just surprised. Cautious, maybe.

"Found the bot offline. Didn't realize it was yours," I replied.

He eyed me a moment longer, then waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, that little fella's been busted a long while. We were hopin' someone with tech know-how might wander in eventually. So I guess… thanks." He glanced back at ED-E. "Kinda glad to see the old scout flying again."

ED-E let out a soft, almost proud beep.

The woman—Ruby, if I recalled the name from some half-buried scrap of memory—gave a small smile. "If he trusts you, that's good enough for me."

The man extended a hand. "Name's Johnson Nash. I run what's left of the Mojave Express outta this place. And this here's Ruby, my wife."

I shook his hand, firm and brief. "Prometheus."

He tilted his head slightly. "Prometheus, huh? That a courier's name or a codename?"

I gave him a flat look. "You tell me."

Something about my tone made him pause, his eyes narrowing. "You really don't remember, do you?"

My jaw tightened. "No."

"Well," he said slowly, "you were one of ours. Courier #6. I saw the logs—you went out with a custom job, special order, paid in advance, no return. Last we heard, you were headed north, toward Vegas."

The words hung there like dust in dead air.

I blinked, lips dry. "You got proof?"

He nodded. "Next door—used to be our house. We stored the manifests in there. You already know that, though."

I didn't respond. Couldn't. The déjà vu I felt earlier flared like a wound reopened.

Nash didn't push. He gestured around the casino. "You're welcome here. Just mind the NCR boys—they're on edge, what with the Powder Gangers across the street at the Bison Steve."

I nodded. "I heard your deputy's in there."

"Beagle, yeah," Ruby said with a sigh. "Went in thinking he could talk 'em down. Poor man's been their hostage ever since."

Johnson rubbed his temple. "We ain't got the guns or the people to go rescue him. And the NCR… well, you've seen what shape they're in. They're more sandbags than soldiers these days."

I turned to the door, pausing only once.

"If I can get him out," I said, "he owes me a story."

Nash gave me a slow nod. "You get him back alive, you can ask all the questions you want."

I stepped outside again, the sun still beating down mercilessly. Beside me, ED-E let out a curious, expectant chime.

We weren't done in Primm. Not yet.

After the talk with Nash, a dull ache had begun to settle in my shoulders—a reminder that I hadn't properly rested since Goodsprings. That strange weight in my chest still lingered too, stirred by that name… Nash. It echoed in my mind like a faint bell, far-off and half-remembered.

"I'll need a place to rest," I muttered, half-distracted.

Nash gestured toward a hallway behind the bar. "A few rooms still standing in the back. Take your pick."

I gave a curt nod. "Thanks."

The hallway creaked under my boots, every step sinking into threadbare carpet. I chose Room 6—its number half-faded on the rusting plaque. The door didn't lock properly, but it closed well enough. Inside: a bed with sagging springs, a chair with one leg too short, and a table scarred with old cigarette burns. The TV in the corner was long dead—guts hollowed out by time or looters. Still, it was shelter.

I set my weapons down slowly: rifle against the wall, pistol near the bedside. ED-E hovered by the door, quiet, his optic whirring softly as he scanned the room's corners like a nervous sentinel.

I took a deep breath, then lifted my left arm and flicked open the Pip-Boy screen. The familiar green glow greeted me with a comforting hum. I scrolled past the radio frequencies and ammo counter, moving straight to my inventory and data tabs.

The familiar click… click… click of the dial filled the room.

Weapons: 9mm pistol, varmint rifle, one frag grenade, combat knife.

Aid: A couple of MREs from Hayes, some water, and a couple of med-x stims.

Miscellaneous: Scrap electronics, caps, and the holotapes from the Nash house and that raider home.

I downloaded the holotape again, watching the brief loading bar flicker before it returned to standby. No new message. Whatever was on it, I'd need time—or someone skilled—to break its encryption.

I closed the Pip-Boy with a snap and exhaled slowly, the quiet beep fading into silence. I pulled out one of Hayes' MREs from the inventory and ripped it open. It was chili mac. Barely warm, overly salty, and weirdly metallic. Still, it was food.

I chewed slowly while organizing the rest of my belongings. Ammunition went into neat piles by caliber. My tools were sorted by use—field repairs, lockpicking, patching gear. Duct tape. Wrench. Some fuses. A screwdriver with a chipped handle.

When I was done, I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on my knees. ED-E floated closer and gave a soft, warbling tone.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Not exactly the Biltmore, huh?"

He gave a low chirp, something like sympathy.

Tomorrow, I'd hit the Bison Steve. I needed every edge I could get.

And with luck… I'd find another piece of myself along the way.

I sat on the edge of the creaking bed, the silence of the room pressing in like a blanket. The light from the Pip-Boy dimmed as I flicked it off, leaving only the soft electric hum of ED-E in the corner. He'd gone into standby, floating near the door like a silent companion.

Without thinking—without knowing—I brought my right hand to my forehead, chest, left shoulder, then right.

Clean. Exact. As if etched into my muscle memory. I still didn't know why I did it. Only that it felt… right. Like breathing.

Sleep claimed me shortly after. No dreams. Just the deep, cold dark of exhaustion.

…

The smell of dust and old wood woke me. My back ached, the springs had pressed into my spine all night, but I'd had worse. A thin ray of sun crept through the gap in the curtains.

I sat up, stretching slowly. ED-E whirred awake in sync, the glow from his optic brightening as he rose a few inches higher into the air with a soft bzzt.

After gathering my gear—rifle slung, pistol re-holstered, Pip-Boy humming—I stepped out into the casino proper. The place was quiet. A couple NCR troopers lounged near the roulette tables, off duty or off morale. Ruby was wiping down the bar. Nash stood near the register, as if waiting for me.

I approached and reached into my duster, pulling out a small handful of caps. "How much for the room?"

He waved me off. "Forget it."

I blinked. "No, I insist."

"No need," he said, crossing his arms. "You came from the NCR camp, didn't you?"

I hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah."

"Figured as much," he continued. "Some of the boys down there told me they let someone through—quiet type, carrying tied-up Powder Gangers and enough firepower to scare a Yao Guai. Then you come into town and check out my place—and bring ED-E with you."

He nodded toward the floating eyebot. "I'd say you earned that rest. You've already done more to clean up this place than the NCR has in weeks."

I paused, the caps still in my hand. Slowly, I tucked them back away.

"…Thanks."

"Don't thank me," Nash said, with a tired smile. "Just keep doing what you're doing. Someone's gotta remind these convicts that Primm still belongs to decent folk."

I gave him a short nod. "I'll handle it."

As I turned away, ED-E gave a quiet beep and floated after me.

I was about to head out when something caught my eye—tucked into the far corner of the casino, mostly hidden behind a busted roulette table and some half-splintered crates.

A workbench.

I turned to Nash. "Mind if I use that?"

He looked up from a ledger he was scribbling into. "Be my guest… Not like anyone else around here knows how to use it anymore."

I gave a nod of thanks and crossed over, dropping my sack beside the bench with a thud. ED-E floated nearby, almost curious, his optic focusing on each tool I touched.

From the Pip-Boy, I brought up the inventory menu. My fingers navigated instinctively through the clunky interface, and in a few clicks, it synced with the workbench's reader node. Data flickered onto the dusty terminal embedded beside the bench—schematics, parts lists, wear levels. A tech relic of pre-War industry, still holding on.

I unloaded what I had—scrap metal, duct tape, bent springs, a few worn-out weapon parts I'd stripped from the Powder Gangers back on the road.

First, the pistol. My backup sidearm. I popped the magazine out and opened the upper assembly. The barrel had a few pits, but nothing too deep. With a bit of care, I scrubbed it down, reseated the slide, and added a makeshift suppressor from an old tin can, a few strips of rubber tubing, and the internals of a broken flashlight. It wouldn't silence a shot entirely—but it'd muffle it enough in a gunfight.

Improvised .9 Suppressor attached.

Next, I pulled out the scoped hunting rifle I'd looted off the raider sniper back in Jean's Sky Diving. Beautiful piece. Simple, rugged. Still had some fight left in it, but it could be better.

I adjusted the bolt tension, smoothed the receiver using a rough sharpening stone I'd bartered off a trader, and reinforced the stock with a metal bracket. The scope? A cracked lens got replaced with a salvaged optic lens from my Pip-Boy repair kit. Still foggy around the edges, but it'd do.

Scoped Hunting Rifle repaired and reinforced.

I stepped back, satisfied. Hard work, but it was worth it.

ED-E chirped once. Approvingly, I think.

I holstered the pistol, slung the rifle across my back, and gathered the scraps I hadn't used. They went back into the sack, tied and clipped to my belt.

Now I was ready.

Time to hit the Bison Steve.