The mattress smelled like rot and sweat, but I made do with what I could and took a nap.
When I opened my eyes again, the light had changed.
Faint moonlight filtered through the broken slats in the window, cold and blue, casting long shadows that swayed slightly with the desert wind. The heat had settled. The building was quieter now. Still.
I didn't move.
Not yet.
Instead, I listened.
It wasn't silence—there was no such thing in a place like this. Not really.
The soft rattle of a bottle rolling somewhere down the hall. A muttered snore, low and ragged, probably coming from one of the Gangers who drank himself stupid before lights out. The creak of rusted pipes deep in the walls. A distant thump of footsteps—slow and heavy, a patrol making its rounds or a drunk stumbling to the latrine.
But no voices.
No orders.
No yelling, no laughter.
Good.
I slowly sat up, letting the springs whine just a little. Not enough to alert anyone. Just enough to remind myself they were still there.
I rubbed my eyes once, slow and practiced—part habit, part cover for glancing at the door.
It was closed.
Not locked.
My coat still hung over the chair, where I'd left it. The revolver tucked neatly under it hadn't been touched.
I stood, quiet as breath, and stretched just enough to roll the stiffness out of my shoulders.
Tonight was the night.
The crew thought I was just another stray taken in off the road. A smooth talker who got lucky with a few ghouls.
They had no idea I was already digging.
And the first shovel of dirt?
That holding room.
The one they didn't want me near.
I stepped into the hallway, slow and silent.
The flickering lamps that lined the corridor were dimmed now, casting sickly yellow pools of light between long stretches of shadow. Most of the doors were shut. A few were cracked open, leaking stale air and the smell of rot, whiskey, and gun oil.
I moved with purpose—quiet, measured steps that kept me in the dark.
The holding room was tucked deeper into the west wing of Bison Steve, past a warped stairwell and a broken vending machine that had spilled out warm, melted Nuka-Cola weeks ago.
They hadn't even bothered locking the door. That was the first sign something was off.
You lock things you want to keep people out of.
You leave things unlocked when you want to pretend there's nothing worth hiding.
I crouched by the door and listened.
Nothing. Not a breath, not a whisper.
Then again… maybe that was the problem.
No one had gone near this room since the day I got here. No Gangers posted near it. No idle chatter about what was inside.
Just Slice's warning.
"Don't go near the holding room."
I tested the knob.
It turned with a dry metallic click.
I pushed the door open just enough to slip through.
Darkness.
Thicker than the rest of the building. No windows. The air was colder here. Still, but heavy.
My fingers brushed the wall until I found the switch.
I paused.
Then flicked it.
The bulb above buzzed once, then sputtered to life.
What I saw made my blood run still.
The bulb buzzed and spat weak light into the room.
It wasn't empty.
It wasn't even close.
The first thing that hit me was the smell—acid, rust, and something bitter and sharp beneath it. Chemicals. Chems. The unmistakable sting of Brahmin-grade Jet and something fouler—like sweat and scorched rubber.
And then I saw them.
Four women—two huddled on the far side of the room behind a stack of crates, one slumped on a stained mattress, barely conscious, and another sitting on the floor with her knees to her chest, arms shaking. All of them were bruised. Starved. Alive—but only barely.
They stared at me with eyes that didn't know whether to flinch or scream.
I stepped further in.
At the center of it all, hunched over a table littered with syringes, flasks, and stained rags, was a man in a dirty NCR lab coat. His face hadn't seen a razor in weeks. His hands trembled as he adjusted the valves of a rusty burner.
He turned, startled when he heard me.
"I—look, I'm working, alright?" he stammered. "Just—just tell Skinner I'll have the next batch by morning. I can't— I'm doing what I'm told."
I closed the door behind me.
His eyes widened. "Wait… you're not—who are you?"
I stared at the setup. The rows of Jet. The vials labeled in shaky handwriting. Med-X. Buffout. Psycho. And another label—"VIXEN"—twice underlined.
I looked back at him. "What is this?"
He swallowed. "Chems. Stims. Some… custom blends. Aphrodisiacs. They made me—I'm a field chemist from Camp McCarran. They grabbed me during the retreat. Said if I didn't cook for them, they'd kill the women first… and then me."
He looked at me, breathing hard. "You're not one of them, are you?"
I didn't answer.
Not yet.
I just looked at the women again.
One of them had tears drying on her cheeks. Another had bite marks on her arm.
My jaw tightened.
They didn't need to know my name.
They just needed to know I wasn't leaving them here.
Not like this.
I took a slow step forward, keeping my hands where they could see them.
One of the women flinched. Another whimpered softly and pressed herself tighter into the corner, legs pulled up to shield what dignity she had left.
My voice was low. Gentle.
"I'm not here to hurt you."
No response—just a dull, frightened stare.
I crouched beside a metal shelf, grabbed a rag and a half-full bottle of alcohol someone had left open. Probably to clean tools. Or bodies.
There was a busted medkit on the table behind the chemist. I took it.
Bandages. Stims. Not much, but enough to matter.
I approached the woman on the mattress first—the one who looked half-conscious. Her lips were cracked. Her skin pale under the grime.
I knelt beside her, hesitated, then slowly reached toward her arm.
She didn't pull away.
Didn't move at all.
I pressed two fingers to her neck.
Still breathing. Faint, but steady.
I cleaned what wounds I could—gently wiping the dried blood from her temple, wrapping the gash along her forearm. Her eyes fluttered open for just a moment, glassy and confused.
Then they closed again.
The woman in the corner was still watching me.
I didn't approach her. Not yet.
Instead, I set the medkit down where they could all see it. Opened. Unthreatening.
I set the medkit down where they could all see it. Opened. Unthreatening.
"I'll come back," I said, slow and low. "I'm not dragging you out just yet. Not tonight."
One of the women raised her head—barely. Her mouth opened like she wanted to speak, but no words came.
I crouched down again, but didn't get too close. "If I try now, it'll go loud. And loud means you get caught in the crossfire."
I glanced at the chemist, then back to the women.
"I need time. Two days, maybe less. I'll make the Gangers trust me. Get myself closer to their weapons, their rotation schedule. I need to know where the guards are and when they sleep. And then I'll come back for you."
I took one of the unopened stimpaks from the medkit and placed it beside the mattress. "Only use this if one of you's about to die. Don't waste it on pain. Not yet."
No one nodded.
But one of the women, the youngest, shifted slightly and reached out—just far enough to pull the medkit a few inches closer. Her hands were shaking. Her eyes still didn't meet mine.
But it was enough.
They were still in there.
I stood slowly, careful not to spook them.
"You never saw me," I told the chemist.
He nodded, fast. "I won't say a word. Just—get us out. Please."
"I will."
I slipped back toward the door.
"And if anyone finds out I was here…"
I glanced over my shoulder.
"…tell them you were high on your own supply and saw ghosts."
He blinked. Then gave a weak nod.
I stepped into the hallway, silent as a shadow, and pulled the door closed behind me.
That door shut behind me, and I was back in the hallway—back in the script.
I walked slow, casual. Wiped my hands on my coat. Rolled my shoulders like I'd just gotten done relieving myself or passing time with some spare Jet.
When I passed the guards near the front of Bison Steve, one of them squinted at me.
"Where you goin', slick?"
I gave him a lazy smile and patted my coat pocket.
"Just stepping out for a smoke. Too damn musty in here."
He grunted and leaned back against the wall.
"Don't take too long. Skinner don't like folks wanderin' off."
"Not wanderin'. Just breathin'."
I gave him a wink and pushed the door open, the cool Mojave night hitting me like a baptism.
Outside, the air was cleaner. Still hot from the day, but the breeze carried dust and freedom. The stars stretched wide over the darkened skyline of Primm—silent, broken, wounded.
I took a turn toward the edge of town, past the cracked ruins and burned-out husks of homes that once held music, warmth, laughter. Now they held ash, silence, and ghosts.
Kept low. Avoided the patrol routes.
No moon. Just instinct.
I moved through the shadows between buildings until I crept past the main road, crossed under the half-destroyed billboard, and angled toward the NCR's makeshift camp on the outskirts.
A couple of flashlights blinked in the dark ahead. I knew their rhythm. NCR patrol pattern. Probably nervous. Probably green.
I crouched behind a crumbling wall and whistled—one short, one long. The way Hayes' scout taught me earlier when I passed as an "escaped convict."
It took a moment, but the reply came—one long, two short.
I stepped out slowly.
The soldier's rifle was already up until he recognized me. He lowered it without a word and waved me in.
A minute later, I was back in the NCR outer perimeter, boots crunching on gravel as I approached the tent with the hanging lantern and the stack of maps beside the door.
Lieutenant Hayes stepped out before I could knock.
"You're lucky I can't file you for treason, stranger," he muttered. "What the hell are you doing back here?"
I gave him a grim smile.
"Doing what you people failed to: saving your own."
His brow furrowed. "What'd you find?"
I looked behind me. Then back to him.
"Get your pen ready, Lieutenant. We've got a chem lab, prisoners, and a madman with government training running a pharmacy for rapists."
Hayes' jaw clenched.
"Prisoners?" he repeated. "Civilians?"
"Women," I said. "Taken during the assault. Ones who didn't make it into the Vikki and Vance. They're being kept in one of the old hotel rooms—turned into a chem lab."
He exhaled through his nose, already pacing.
I went on.
"There's an NCR chemist in there, too. Field-trained. They've got him chained to a table, making Buffout, Jet, and something worse. Skinner's got him brewing up aphrodisiacs."
That got Hayes' attention. He stopped pacing.
"They're—using them?"
"They're distributing them," I replied. "I don't know if they're giving them to outsiders or just passing it around their crew. But if you've got any brass left up the ladder, they need to know what's going on here."
"Hell…" Hayes muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "And Skinner just let you walk around free? Into that room?"
"He doesn't know I saw any of it," I said. "And I intend to keep it that way. He thinks I'm an asset—cleaned out some feral ghouls he planted near the boiler room. In return, he gave me a bed, a drink, and a spot on the wall."
Hayes was quiet for a moment. Then, "This changes things."
"No," I said firmly. "This forces things."
I stepped closer.
"I need you to stall. Make it look like you're still regrouping. Keep your patrols lean and your conversations louder than usual. Make Skinner think you're weak. Complacent. Let him relax."
Hayes looked skeptical. "And what are you planning?"
I smirked, though there was no warmth in it.
"He thinks he's untouchable in Primm," I said. "So I'm going to get him to leave it."
Hayes raised a brow. "How?"
"I'll plant a story—say I picked up radio chatter about a stranded NCR supply caravan a few miles out. Full of rations, ammo, meds. No escorts. Just sitting there, waiting to be picked clean."
"He'll bite?"
"He has to. Raiders like Skinner are predictable—they think like scavengers, not soldiers. He'll want to lead the crew himself. Keep the best loot for his favorites. Prove to the rest he's still got balls."
Hayes folded his arms, thinking fast. "And then?"
"You meet him there," I said. "With every rifle and boot you can scrounge up. Snipers. Traps. Whatever brass you've got lying around. I'll send him right into your teeth."
"And the girls?"
"I'll have someone I trust stay behind," I replied. "Or I'll double back once the ambush starts. But I'm not leaving them in that building once bullets start flying."
Hayes exhaled through his nose, grim.
"You're gambling with a lot of lives."
"I know. But if we hit them in Primm, they'll use the women as shields. If we hit them in the open..."
"They won't see it coming," Hayes finished.
I nodded. "You'll have the advantage for once."
He stared at me for a second, then offered his hand.
"You sure about this?"
I took it. Firm. Unflinching.
"Wouldn't be here if I wasn't."
Hayes held my grip a second longer, eyes narrowed in thought.
Then, just as I turned to leave, he asked, "One more thing."
I looked back.
"That bot with you. The floating one—chrome shell, humming like a damn fridge. NCR doesn't field units like that."
I gave a small nod. "ED-E. Picked him up at the Mojave Express hub in Primm. Fixed his core, replaced a few parts. He's been following me ever since."
Hayes eyed the eyebot over my shoulder—ED-E hovered a few paces behind, silent, antenna shifting slightly.
"That's Pre-War tech, or something close to it," Hayes muttered. "You sure it's safe?"
"He hasn't turned on me yet," I said. "Not once. Quiet. Useful. Smarter than most people I've met out here."
Hayes grunted, still not entirely at ease.
"Well, keep him close. And don't let him out of your sight."
I smirked. "That's the plan."
Hayes was still watching ED-E when I stepped forward, voice low and deliberate.
"How early can you prepare that fake caravan for our ambush?"
He blinked, then refocused. "You serious?"
"Dead serious," I replied. "We set it up on the eastern ridge, near the split in the highway. Wreck a couple of Brahmin carts, throw in some half-buried crates. Something that looks like it got hit, then left behind."
Hayes rubbed his jaw. "I can have a crew throw something together by midday tomorrow. Some spare uniforms, broken rifles, a few empty med-packs. Maybe even an old NCR flag if I can find one."
"That'll sell it," I said. "Make it look abandoned but tempting. Skinner won't send scouts. He'll want to beat everyone else to it."
Hayes nodded. "We'll keep squads hidden in the hills. Sandbags, camo netting, tripwire charges if we have time. Once Skinner's in the killbox…"
"You don't let him out."
He looked at me, something colder in his eyes now.
"I don't intend to."