Fallout: Prometheus

AN: Please forgive me for this late chapter. My notifs didn't work and I thought I had already uploaded a chapter back in July 29.

The morning sun hit like a hammer against the Mojave dust, casting sharp light through the broken streets of Primm. I stepped out of the Vikki and Vance, the reinforced doors creaking shut behind me, ED-E floating silently at my rear. The breeze carried the scent of burned gunpowder, motor oil, and scorched pavement.

The town was still—a hollow silence broken only by the distant clatter of scrap metal shifting in the wind. From here, I could see the battered marquee of the Bison Steve Hotel, once a garish roadside attraction for pre-War tourists. Now, its faded sign leaned like a dying man, rust streaks bleeding down the walls beneath it.

Between me and the entrance, the convicts had thrown together a makeshift barricade. Sheets of corrugated iron, busted vending machines, and even an old mailbox had been jammed together to form an uneven perimeter around the front double doors. A sign crudely spray-painted in red read:

"KEEP OUT OR STAY DEAD"

Subtle.

Four men loitered near the barricade—two on the outside, rifles in hand; two more seated on folding chairs, gnawing on something dry and stale-looking. None wore proper armor, just scraps of leather, mismatched raider gear, and stolen NCR fatigues. One of them was sharpening a blade on a whetstone with slow, menacing rhythm. Another had a bottle of what looked like moonshine tucked beside his chair. They weren't professionals, but numbers made them dangerous.

I crouched near a half-toppled traffic sign, watching.

The Bison wasn't going to walk up and let me in.

I shifted the strap of my rifle across my shoulder, hand resting lightly on the holstered, newly-silenced pistol. This wasn't going to be about brute force—at least, not yet.

The question now was: how do I get past the guards?

And more importantly… how quietly?

The barricade outside the Bison Steve was a mess of scrap metal, busted furniture, and twisted rebar—all held together with duct tape, wishful thinking, and maybe a few rusted screws. Four convicts stood watch, mean looks and dirt-smeared clothes, barely holding back their itchy trigger fingers.

I raised both hands up slow, walking calm-like with ED-E floating behind me. The bot gave a low hum as we got closer.

One of the guards pointed his gun. "Hey! What's that floaty thing? NCR drone?!"

"Nah, nah," I said fast, keeping my tone light. "Ain't no NCR tech. Found it off some caravan wreck—thing was busted up. I fixed it, sorta. Follows me now."

A guy with a scar on his chin squinted at me. "Why would you fix somethin' like that?"

I shrugged. "Makes noises. Keeps bugs away. Don't talk too much. Kinda like a dog that floats."

ED-E let out a cheerful beep.

Another guy laughed. "You give it a name?"

"Sure. Ed. Short for… Ed."

"Right." Scar-face didn't look convinced. "You NCR?"

I shook my head. "Nah. Used to be stuck in one of their holding pens back in Barstow. Busted out couple weeks ago. Been layin' low. Heard this place was free now, figured I'd come by. Maybe help out. You boys got it good in there?"

The one chewing lizard meat spat to the side. "Used to. Now it's full of soft-bellies, cowards, and that psycho upstairs."

"Oh yeah?" I scratched the back of my head, feigning dumb interest. "Could maybe help with that… if I'm welcome."

Scar-face kept staring at Ed-E, then finally lowered his rifle. "Alright, Casey. You act smart or pull anything slick, you and your bot get turned into junk."

"Fair," I said, grinning. "Wouldn't be the first time."

They stepped aside, and I slipped through the barricade with Ed-E right behind me, his blinking light flashing like a tiny spotlight.

These guys weren't the brightest—but in the wasteland, charm works better than bullets. Most days.

The old wooden doors of the Bison Steve creaked as I pushed them open, stepping inside with ED-E humming low behind me. The moment I entered, the stale air hit me—must, smoke, and gunpowder. This place had seen firefights… and recently.

What used to be the main lobby was now a convicts' den.

Cigarette butts littered the filthy carpet. Furniture had been dragged into makeshift barricades or haphazard circles where gangers played dice and spat insults. A few of them stopped to look at me—ED-E hovering behind drew more stares—but I kept walking with the easy, confident gait of someone who belonged. Chin high, back straight, just another bastard looking for a place in the post-war sun.

I kept count.

Two by the stairs—leaning on their rifles and watching everyone with twitchy eyes.

Three at a broken roulette table, loud and drunk, barely noticed me.

One lounging behind the old reception counter, fingers idly tapping a sawed-off.

Another near the elevators, chewing what looked like expired gum, pistol hanging loose in his grip.

And a trio more near the hallway, probably guarding the route deeper inside.

Nine. In just the lobby. That wasn't counting the ones I'd seen at the door.

I was walking into a nest, but my face didn't show it. Just another dog among wolves.

One of the thugs from the dice circle leaned forward, squinting at ED-E.

"Where'd you get that bot?"

I shrugged, voice low and lazy. "Scav'd it off a dead caravan. Dumb tin can was just beepin' in the dirt."

The thug nodded slowly. "That right?"

"Yup," I added, slapping the side of ED-E's dome with a chuckle. "Little thing's good at findin' loot, though. Gonna make me rich if it don't get shot first."

That got a laugh from the others. I laughed too, casual, as if I hadn't planned twelve ways to kill the whole room if things went sideways.

I scanned the busted stairwell. Bloodstains. Bullet holes. Whatever was going on deeper inside this place wasn't just squatting—it was full-on occupation. These weren't just raiders; they were turning the Bison Steve into their own fortress.

And if Deputy Beagle was in here… he was probably way past begging for help.

"Heard you wanted to join us," one of the convicts grunted, pushing off the wall and jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "Boss is up in the special suite near the top. Don't make him wait or else."

Of course he does. I kept my face smooth, like I was flattered. "Heh, sounds like a real gentleman."

The convict smirked but said nothing else, just motioned lazily toward the half-collapsed staircase wrapped in rusted sheet metal and debris. The carpeting leading up was shredded, stained with dried blood and... whatever else had soaked into this place.

I gave a nod and started up the stairs, ED-E close behind. The buzzing of its hover system was softer now—either I'd fixed it too well or it was trying to stay out of trouble too.

The higher I climbed, the worse it smelled—sweat, gun oil, and the sour stench of men using a pillow to satisfy themselves in a broken-down hotel. Paint peeled off the walls in long strips, and bullet holes turned whole sections of plaster into makeshift air vents. Somewhere below, someone screamed… then got cut off fast.

"Don't think about it," I muttered under my breath.

By the time I reached the upper floor landing, my Pip-Boy was ticking softly—probably catching a radiation pocket near the collapsed water lines. I paused by a cracked mirror hanging loosely on a nail. In it, I saw my own reflection—dusty, calm-eyed, confident. Or at least pretending to be.

A final NCR prisoner, come home to the wrong side of the fight.

I adjusted the pistol at my side, loosened my shoulders, and approached the suite at the end of the hall. Two guards stood outside, tougher-looking than the lobby rats. One smoked, the other watched me like a hawk.

"You the new guy?" the smoker asked.

"Yeah," I answered, lowering my voice. "Heard the boss is lookin' for real muscle. Figured I'd show him what I can do."

He grunted, knocked on the door twice, paused, then once more. The bolt slid.

"In you go. Don't do anything stupid."

I smiled. I never do.

The door creaked open, revealing a room that might've once been classy—now it looked like a graveyard for old luxury. Torn velvet couches, busted lamps, broken slot machines stacked like barricades. At the center, lounging like a king on a throne of filth, was the man himself.

He wore what might've once been a sheriff's duster, now caked in grime and blood. His face was thin, twitchy. His eyes locked onto me the second I entered—those weren't eyes you reasoned with. They were wild, burning, too bright. A starving animal looking for an excuse to bite.

"Well well…" he rasped, voice cracked like old vinyl. "So you're the NCR mutt who got loose, huh?"

I kept it casual. "Was. Ain't nothin' left of that now but bad dreams and scars."

He let out a high-pitched, unhinged giggle that made my skin itch.

"Bad dreams, huh? That's what this place is! A bad dream for all them folks still tryin' to pretend the world didn't end. But not us. We're awake." He stood, spreading his arms. "Welcome to freedom, brother."

ED-E hovered behind me, silent. I stepped forward, matching the boss's manic energy just enough to sell the lie.

"You run a tight crew," I said. "Place is crawling with fighters. Makes me think maybe I didn't run far enough."

"Oh, you ran the right way, alright. Right to me." He got in close, face inches from mine. I smelled blood on his breath. "Question is… do you got what it takes to stay?"

I smiled slow. "Depends on what you're lookin' for."

The boss laughed again—louder this time, echoing off the cracked walls. Then, suddenly, he stopped. His face went still.

"I'm lookin' for someone who hurts. Someone who can kill and not flinch. Can you do that?"

My voice was steady. "I already have."

He stared at me, then nodded like he was hearing music only he could hear. "Yeah… yeah, you'll do fine."

The boss's grin twitched as he turned his back to me, pacing the cracked linoleum floor like a preacher building up to some unholy sermon.

"Well, words ain't got nothin', especially here," he spat, waving a hand at the rotted wallpaper and broken furniture. "People come in sayin' all kinds of things—'I hate the NCR,' 'I'm the meanest bastard you ever seen,' 'I once ate a Deathclaw raw'... blah blah blah."

He spun back around and pointed a filthy, jagged finger at me.

"But out here? You prove it. You earn it. You bleed for it."

A silence hung thick for a moment. I didn't move. ED-E hovered behind me, still silent, still watching. The tension in the air was like a taut tripwire.

The boss broke it with a sick smile.

"Basement," he said. "Old Bison's got one. Most don't go down there no more. 'Cause we ain't alone."

I raised an eyebrow. "More convicts?"

He chuckled, low and gurgling. "No. Less. I mean what's left of the old staff. Poor saps locked themselves down there when the place went belly-up. When the bombs dropped, or whatever came after… well, they stayed. Now they stay for real."

I didn't need a full explanation. I already knew what he meant. Ferals.

"Ghouls," I muttered.

"Yup," he grinned. "They're hissin', drippin', mindless old-world ghosts—like the casino's real owners came back to collect. So how 'bout this…"

He stepped forward again, face uncomfortably close.

"You go down there, you clear 'em out. Not just one or two. I want that basement squeaky clean. You walk back up here breathing, then maybe you ain't just another soft-skinned wannabe."

I stared at him, slow and steady.

"Deal."

He cackled again, clapping his hands. "Atta boy. The doors to the basement are labeled as maintenance doors, I have two boys down there to keep it locked. Just tell 'em I sent you. Watch your step. And, hey…" He jerked his thumb toward ED-E. "If your floatin' tin can starts squealin'… probably too late."

I turned without a word and made my way to the lower floor. Each step down felt like it echoed into a grave. But if this was the price to play the part… I'd pay it in full.

Still… something clawed at the back of my mind. A pull. Faint, like a whisper in a dust storm.

I paused at the halfway landing, eyes drifting toward a rusted door marked Kitchen just past the dining area archway. Maybe it was instinct—or maybe something deeper, buried beneath the surface of my fractured memory—but my boots veered off-course before I could stop them.

The stench of spoiled grease hit me the moment I stepped past the cafeteria and into the side door marked "Kitchen." The tile floors were stained with black rot and old food blood. Flies still buzzed around broken pans, and something half-cooked was fossilized to the stove top. Place hadn't seen real food—or real people—in a while.

I didn't expect much… until I heard it. The soft shuffle of feet. Not the kind that creeps with hunger like a feral ghoul. This one paused. Hesitated.

I raised my hand to signal ED-E to hang back. The eyebot complied with a quiet chirp, floating still above the door frame. I slipped in, keeping low, pistol drawn.

Then I saw him. Slumped behind a stack of crates, breathing like a dying mutt, wrists bound and face battered. Human.

Alive.

He looked up at me. Eyes wide, sunken, but still sharp. Fear, hope, and confusion all tangled together.

I didn't know him.

But something about the way he looked at me—something about this place—itched at the back of my skull. Familiar but unreachable. Like a dream just before waking.

His muffled voice came through the gag. I approached slowly, pistol lowered but still ready.

I knelt down beside him. "Easy. I'm not one of them."

His eyes widened further. He tried speaking, but the gag stopped most of it.

"I'm not here to kill you," I said, voice low. "But I can't cut you loose yet. Not now."

A twitch of panic hit his face.

"I've got a plan," I added, steady. "And if I let you go now, it'll fall apart before it starts."

I reached for my canteen and unscrewed the lid. Held it to his lips so he could drink. He coughed, swallowed, coughed again. I pulled it back before he could overdo it.

"You'll be alright," I told him. "Just stay quiet. Wait for me."

He looked at me like I was a ghost. Maybe I was.

"I'll be back," I said. "Don't die before then."

I stood, gave him one last nod, and turned toward the cafeteria again.

The basement was waiting. The ghouls were waiting.

But I had a job to do. And maybe, just maybe… I'd earn a few more answers along the way.

Just before I could reach the maintenance door that led down to the basement, two figures stepped out from either side—posted like rusted statues by the archway. Unlike the usual riffraff, these two were different. Real armor. Not just scrap metal or faded prison rags, but genuine leather armor—cracked and mismatched, sure, but still a step above the usual convict fare. One had a homemade spear slung over his shoulder. The other rested a sawed-off shotgun against his chest, tapping it lazily with his finger.

"Whatcha thinkin' of doin'?" the one with the shotgun grunted, squinting at me.

I raised my hands in mock surrender, offering a cocky grin. "Boss gave me a job. Said it'd be down in the basement. Somethin' about cleanin' house. Real messy types hidin' down there."

They exchanged glances—either unsure or just too bored to care.

"Said he wanted someone with guts. Guess that's me," I added, thumbing toward my chest. "Unless you boys want the honors?"

The one with the spear spat. "Nah. Basement gives me the creeps."

"Be my guest," the other said, gesturing toward the maintenance door with his shotgun. "Hope you don't end up part of the mess."

"Don't worry," I said, stepping past them. "If I die, I'll haunt the both of you."

They snickered at my jest, the way convicts do when death's just another flavor in their daily stew. One of them knocked on the door behind him with the butt of his shotgun, then stepped aside to let me through.

As the door creaked open, a gust of stale, fetid air hit my face—like something had been festering down there for far too long.

"Basement's all yours, ghost-hunter," one of them muttered, still chuckling as I passed through.

I shut the door behind me and took a breath. Cold. Damp. Still. The light above flickered pathetically, casting a sickly glow over cracked tiles and water-stained walls.

Time to work.

I brought up my Pip-Boy, flicking through the inventory with a practiced rhythm. No point wasting bullets on walking corpses. I materialized a well-worn, slightly dented aluminum baseball bat into my hand—the grip taped and the end stained with something old. Something red.

As I descended the stairs, the sounds began.

A low groan.

A dragging shuffle.

The sound of nails scratching against concrete.

My grip tightened.

They weren't human anymore—whatever they were before, they were just meat now. Twisted meat with rage baked into every muscle.

The first feral ghoul stumbled into view from the end of the hallway, jaws slack, eyes glowing like hot coals. It saw me. Screamed.

I charged.

The bat swung through the air like judgment. The crack of metal meeting skull echoed through the corridor. The ghoul dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, twitching once, then going still.

Another came crawling over the broken tiles. I stepped over the first body and brought the bat down again.

Crunch.

They came at me in twos, then threes. Rotting hands. Screaming throats. Blind fury.

But I was fire in motion—swing, pivot, strike. The bat sang its deadly rhythm, each hit a drumbeat of purpose.

I wasn't just fighting monsters.

I was practicing.

Training.

Becoming.

Something more than human…

Time to descend to the belly of the Great Bison