AN: Cutting the Hiatus Short because I got a stroke of genius yesterday haha. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy this chapter, it's more emotional and meant to highlight Prometheus' growth and a way to convey to you readers his moral compass. Hope you enjoy.
The girl sat at the edge of the bed, legs drawn close, clutching the canteen I'd given her as though someone might try to take it away. The silence stretched between us, broken only by the faint stirrings of the gang beginning to wake outside.
I pulled a chair close and sat across from her, keeping my voice steady, soft.
"What's your name?"
She blinked at me, as though no one had asked her that in a long time. Her lips parted, dry, hesitant.
"…María," she whispered, her voice cracked like old wood.
I gave a slow nod, letting the name settle in my mind. A person—not just a prisoner.
"And your age?"
Her eyes dropped to her knees. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer. Then, barely audible.
"Sixteen."
The word hit me like a slug to the chest. Sixteen—barely on the edge of life, and she'd already seen enough hell to last a lifetime.
I leaned back a little, giving her space, hands resting on my knees so she could see I wasn't reaching for anything. Her shoulders were stiff, her eyes darting between the door and me as if either one might turn on her.
"María," I repeated, gentler this time. "That's a good name."
She didn't look up, but the smallest twitch in her fingers showed she heard me. I didn't press, just let the silence linger before speaking again.
"You don't have to tell me anything else if you don't want to. I just wanted to know who I'm talking to."
Her grip on the canteen tightened, knuckles pale. I saw her eyes flick toward me for a second, then drop back to the floor.
I kept my distance, not moving closer, not crowding her.
"You're safe in here," I said, low enough that it wouldn't carry through the walls. "No one's going to hurt you while you're with me. That much, I promise."
She exhaled, shaky, half-believing, half-fearing it was another lie. I didn't blame her. In this place, trust was more dangerous than hunger.
So I didn't say more than I needed to. I just stayed where I was, letting her breathe, letting her see that I wouldn't force a word or a glance she didn't want to give.
"Look," I said quietly, keeping my voice steady, "you don't owe me anything tonight. If you want to rest, rest. The bed's yours."
Her head jerked up a little, like she wasn't sure she heard me right. I gave a small nod, already gathering a spare blanket from the corner. "I'll be on the floor. Safer that way, right? Easier to breathe."
She didn't answer, just blinked at me, but I thought I saw a flicker of relief soften the edges of her eyes.
I sat down cross-legged on the old rug, fishing out the worn little Bible I kept in the Pip-Boy. The spine cracked faintly as I opened it. "Genesis, chapter eight," I murmured, more to myself than her. "Noah, the waters receding…"
Her gaze lingered on the book, uncertain, then drifted back down to the thin mattress. She shifted, curling into herself, and I turned the page slowly, not rushing the words.
"If you want to sleep," I added, glancing her way, "go ahead. I'll be here a while yet."
I could feel her listening even as her eyes closed, maybe comforted not by the words but by the simple, steady rhythm of someone reading—not shouting, not demanding. Just reading.
Her breathing steadied before long, the tension in her shoulders easing as sleep finally claimed her. I kept my eyes on the page, my voice dropping to a murmur, just enough for me to hear. Genesis 8 rolled into 9, then 10, the long genealogies, the floodwaters giving way to life again.
I didn't rush. The words gave me something to anchor to, a rhythm stronger than the chaos outside these walls.
By the time I looked up, an hour had slipped away. She was deep asleep, her face softened by the kind of peace I doubted she'd felt in weeks. I closed the Bible at Genesis 15, letting my thumb rest against the thin paper before digitizing it inside the Pip-Boy for safekeeping.
Stretching out on the floor, I folded my hands across my chest and let out a long breath. The room was quiet now—quiet in a way I almost didn't trust. My eyes grew heavy, and I let them close at last.
…
I woke before the sun, the dim glow of the Pip-Boy's clock reading a little past four. The air was cool, still, the kind of silence that hangs right before the wastes stir awake. Careful not to wake her, I pushed myself up off the floor and stretched the stiffness out of my arms.
Maria was still curled on the bed, her breathing slow and even. For the first time, she looked almost like a normal girl—like she belonged anywhere but here.
I gathered my gear in silence, sliding the holster over my shoulder, checking the chamber of my pistol, the knife at my boot. Every motion was habit now, a ritual before the day.
ED-E hovered quietly in the corner, his optics dimmed but never fully off. I leaned closer to him, lowering my voice.
"Watch her," I whispered. "Don't let anyone near. Not Slice, not Skinner—no one. She doesn't leave this room unless it's with me."
The eyebot gave a soft series of beeps, low and steady, as if he understood more than just the command. I let out a quiet breath, giving Maria one last look before stepping toward the door.
Time to move.
The stairs groaned under my boots as I descended, each step pulling me deeper into the quiet.
The basement door had been left unguarded. Since the ghouls were gone, Skinner thought having guards there was useless.
Skinner had spoken of renovations, of turning this place into something useful for his empire, but like most of his words, nothing had come of it. Just empty promises drifting like smoke.
The concrete walls still bore faint stains from what had been here before—pipes continued to flow through the halls of the basement. I'd swept it clean, yet I could still feel the echoes of violence lingering.
No one's been here but me and the walls are too thick for anyone to hear what's going on inside.
This would be my way.
The Pip-Boy crackled faintly as I tuned it to the NCR Frequency. I pressed it close and said,
"This is Prometheus. Come in. Over."
The radio sputtered with static before Hayes' voice cut in.
"Prometheus. You there?"
I leaned in close, whispering back. "I'm here. Give me something."
Hayes' tone was clipped, all business. "Tomorrow. At dawn, we'll be ready. Troopers are in place, scouts confirm your reports — Skinner won't know what hit him."
My jaw tightened, teeth grinding. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow. I slammed a fist against the concrete wall, rattling the pipes overhead.
"No. We need that today! I can't wait any longer, lieutenant!"
The static dragged long, out of irritation I pressed the Pip-Boy so hard into my lips it bit the skin.
"Lieutenant, answer back right now."
There was a pause, sharper than gunmetal.
"Have half of your men ready. Half is all I need… because I've got a trick up my sleeve."
The silence on the other end stretched, heavy with disbelief. Then Hayes came back, quieter this time. "You're serious."
"Dead serious," I said. My voice didn't waver. "Skinner thinks he's untouchable. He's not. I can make the difference, but I can't sit here and watch those people rot another night. Give me half, Hayes. Just half. I'll do the rest."
The Pip-Boy hissed, the lieutenant clearly weighing every word.
The pause dragged so long I thought Hayes had cut me off. Then his voice came back, low and deliberate.
"This afternoon," he said. "After twelve o'clock sharp, I'll have that caravan ready by the Nevada Highway Patrol Station. If it's there, Skinner will believe my boys and the Vipers got into a gunfight and both got killed—leaving the caravan up for the taking."
I closed my eyes, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. It was clean. Simple. And more importantly, it would work. Skinner's greed would blind him to everything else.
"Good," I said. "That's exactly the kind of bait he'll bite on."
There was a beat of silence, then Hayes again: "You're playing this tight, Prometheus. If you slip, we lose the hostages and the town both. You understand that?"
"I understand," I answered. My grip on the transmitter tightened until my knuckles went white. "I'll make sure Skinner doesn't."
The line went dead with a crackle, leaving only the hum of the basement around me.
The radio crackled into silence. Only the hum of the basement lights and the faint drip of a leaky pipe kept me company. My hands loosened around the transmitter, but the weight in my chest didn't lift.
I stood there for a long while, staring at the cracked concrete wall like it might give me answers. Then, slowly, I tilted my head back. My eyes fixed on the ceiling, as though the cement and rusted beams weren't in the way—as if I could stare straight through to heaven itself.
"If you're real," I whispered, my voice raw, "then please… in the coming hours, help me. Us. All of us survive this hellhole we call home."
I didn't fold my hands. I didn't bow my head. I just looked up, eyes locked where I thought God might be, daring Him to hear me.
Silence answered.
And yet, somehow, I felt less alone.
With a sharp breath, I turned and made my way back up the stairs.
I shut the basement door behind me and the stillness stayed with me, clinging like dust on my skin. My boots dragged on the wood as I started up another flight of stairs—these ones leading to the apartment. Strange how the same act of climbing could feel so different.
Down there it was war, secrets, death in the making. Up here… I needed to make it feel like safety, at least for her. By the time I reached the landing, I drew a slow breath, forcing my face steady before opening the door. Maria didn't need to see the storm in me.
I leaned back against the wall, arms folded, watching her spoon down the canned food with that quiet desperation of someone who hadn't eaten properly in days. I let her have a few minutes before I spoke.
"You like beans?" I asked, tilting my head with the faintest hint of a smile. "'Cause that's about ninety percent of my diet these days."
Her chewing slowed, and for the first time I caught the tiniest flicker of something in her eyes—not trust, not yet, but a glimmer that maybe I wasn't just another monster in this place.
She swallowed, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. For a moment she looked down at the tin, as if the beans themselves might betray her if she answered wrong.
"…They're better than nothing," she said finally, her voice quiet, but steadier than I expected.
I nodded, letting her words settle. "That's fair. I won't argue with you there. Though, if I ever see a steak again in this lifetime, I'll probably cry."
It earned me the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips—not quite a smile, but close enough to feel like a small victory.
I let her eat in peace for a few more minutes, just the clink of the spoon against the tin breaking the silence. Then, when her shoulders looked a little less stiff, I leaned back against the wall and asked softly:
"…Maria… when you're out of here—when all this is behind you—what do you want to do?"
Her hand froze halfway to her mouth. For a moment, her eyes darted to me, unsure if it was some kind of trick. I kept my gaze steady, calm, patient.
Finally, she lowered the spoon. "…I don't know," she whispered. "I used to think about school… about… maybe being a nurse, like my aunt. But now… I just want to see my brother again. I just want to go home."
Her voice cracked on that last word.
I nodded slowly. "That's a good answer. Home's a better dream than most folks have out here."
I let her words hang in the air for a while, not pushing. She'd already said more than most would in her place. But gently, I asked,
"Do you still remember where your aunt is? Or your brother?"
Her lips trembled a little before she answered. "…My aunt's in Novac. She sent letters when she could, back before…" She trailed off, looking at the floor. "My brother—he enlisted. NCR. I haven't heard from him in months. Maybe he's still at Mojave Outpost. Maybe…"
Her hands curled into her lap. "Maybe he's gone."
I shook my head firmly. "Don't bury him yet. The Mojave eats a lot of good men, but sometimes it spits 'em back out too. Hold on to that chance, Maria."
For the first time since I'd brought her into the room, her eyes lifted to meet mine, faint hope glimmering behind the fear.
Her words hung in the air like a blade hovering just above my chest.
"…What about you? Do you… have anyone left out there?"
I wanted to brush it off, to keep the wall between us, but the question dug too deep. My jaw tightened. My gaze drifted past her, to the cracked ceiling, as if the answer might be written there.
"I don't know," I said at last. The words scraped out, heavy and bitter. "Don't know if anyone's looking for me… or if anyone even mourned when I didn't come back."
My lips pressed together after that, holding back more than I wanted to admit. The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was raw, the kind of silence you didn't dare fill.
I forced a thin smile, one that didn't reach my eyes. "So maybe… maybe we're both ghosts waiting to see if the world remembers us."
I let the words die on my tongue, the ache settling in my chest like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake. Maria didn't answer right away—her lips parted, then closed again, as though she was holding something back.
The silence stretched… and then—
BEEP-WOOP!
ED-E chirped suddenly from the corner, his usual string of whirs and tones cutting straight through the tension. He bobbed slightly in the air, like he was proud of himself for timing it perfectly.
I couldn't help it—my shoulders shook with a low chuckle. "Guess even the eyebot knows when to shut me up."
Maria blinked at ED-E, and for the first time since we started talking, a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
I shook my head, smirking as ED-E hovered closer, beeping like he'd just cracked the funniest joke in the Mojave.
"You proud of yourself, tin can?" I muttered, reaching out to tap his side. "Can't let a man have one serious moment, can you?"
BEEP-BEEP-WOOP!
Maria let out a short laugh—quiet, almost unsure of itself—but it was real. I caught the sound and held onto it, like it was the rarest treasure in the Wasteland.
I leaned back against the wall, glancing between her and the floating ball of metal and light. "Guess he's got better timing than me, huh?"
She gave the faintest nod, her smile still there, soft but steady.
Maria's faint smile lingered, and I caught myself wanting to keep it there as long as I could.
"So," I said, scratching at the back of my neck, "you like brahmin steak? Or are you more of a gecko jerky kind of girl?"
She blinked, surprised by the question, then gave the smallest shrug. "Steak. If it's real."
ED-E beeped something that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
"Don't start," I said, pointing a finger at the eyebot. "I already know you'd take scrap metal over a steak any day."
Wheee-BEEP! The bot spun in a slow circle like it was showing off.
That earned Maria another laugh, a little stronger this time. I let it be, not pushing any harder—just sitting there, talking about small things, like food, clean water, or what the stars looked like outside of Primm.
The hours slipped by quietly, marked only by the soft hum of ED-E and the sunlight crawling higher through the window.
The quiet was broken by a sharp beep-beep-beep from my wrist.
I glanced down. My Pip-Boy screen flickered to life, the glow outlining Maria's face as her eyes darted curiously toward it. On the radio dial, the NCR frequency pulsed in green.
"Right on time," I muttered under my breath.
Maria tilted her head. "What is it?"
"Nothing to worry about," I said softly, turning the knob. "Just… business."
Static hissed, then Hayes' voice cut through: "Prometheus, you there?"
I leaned back on the bed, adjusting the Pip-Boy closer to my mouth. My voice dropped low, calm but edged with steel.
"Get ready," I whispered to Maria, just loud enough for her and ED-E to hear. "I'm about to talk with Skinner."
Maria's eyes darted to me, lips pressed tight. ED-E chirped, his tone sharp and almost questioning. I crouched and brushed my hand over his metal frame.
"Keep her safe," I told him. "Don't let anyone through that door but me."
With that, I stepped out. The halls of the casino were still half-asleep, Powder Gangers groaning awake or stumbling from last night's highs. I climbed the short flight of stairs that led to Skinner's quarters and rapped my knuckles against the door.
"Come in," a voice growled from inside.
Skinner was leaning against a battered dresser, half-dressed and nursing the last of a bottle. His eyes flicked up at me, sizing me up with that lazy suspicion.
"What's got you crawling in here this early, Casey?" he asked.
I stepped forward, lowering my voice so only he could hear. "Word is there's a caravan left deserted just near the Nevada Highway Patrol Station. NCR and some Vipers tore each other apart. What's left is ripe for the taking."
At that, Skinner's bottle lowered. His lips pulled into a grin—wide, hungry.
Skinner's grin lingered, but his eyes sharpened as he set the bottle down with a dull thunk. He leaned forward on the dresser, arms crossed.
"How'd you get this info?" he asked, voice low, suspicious.
I kept my stance calm, my tone even—just another day of "Casey" being useful. "Radio chatter. You know me—I keep my ears open, and NCR's been loud since last night. Got the word they were moving, but didn't expect the Vipers to cut in. Looks like both sides wiped each other clean, left the prize sitting there waiting for someone smart enough to grab it."
Skinner's brows furrowed, like he was weighing every word, looking for cracks. He drummed his fingers on the wood, then chuckled under his breath.
"You always got your nose in places it shouldn't be, Casey." He smirked. "But I'll admit—you've delivered before."
Skinner's smirk widened into a grin, the kind of grin that came with the taste of blood and fortune. He slapped the dresser with his palm and straightened up.
"You prepare your things," he said, already grabbing his coat. "I'm gonna get Slice, get the boys ready. This caravan will be our next big hit—and probably the thing that'll help us kick the NCR out of all of Primm."
He pointed a finger at me, almost like he was crowning me the lucky charm of the whole operation. "Don't you disappear now, Casey. You're riding with me on this one."
Skinner's smirk widened into a grin, the kind of grin that came with the taste of blood and fortune. He slapped the dresser with his palm and straightened up.
"You prepare your things," he said, already grabbing his coat. "I'm gonna get Slice, get the boys ready. This caravan will be our next big hit—and probably the thing that'll help us kick the NCR out of all of Primm."
He pointed a finger at me, almost like he was crowning me the lucky charm of the whole operation. "Don't you disappear now, Casey. You're riding with me on this one."
I forced a smirk of my own, meeting his eyes without a flicker. "Wouldn't wish to miss it."
Inside, my stomach tightened.
A few minutes later, I was standing at the lobby of the Bison Steve, the dusty sunlight bleeding in through the broken glass doors. My hand rested casually on the butt of my pistol, the other tapping against my leg like I had all the time in the world. Truth was, my heart was pacing faster than the ticking of my Pip-Boy.
Then came Skinner. He pushed through the stairwell doors with that confident swagger of his, his coat hanging loose, rifle slung across his shoulder. Behind him came Slice, grinning like he always did before a raid, and about twenty of Skinner's boys—all strapped up and eager, the kind that thought they were about to walk into easy pickings.
They looked ready for war. But not everyone. I noticed he left five men behind, gruff bastards who'd been ordered to guard the Bison. Watching the way they leaned on their rifles, I knew Skinner was nervous enough not to leave his prize empty.
He gave me a look across the lobby, a look that asked if I was ready. I gave him a nod, cool as stone.