The crew spilled out of the Bison Steve and into the streets, twenty strong with Skinner leading the charge. He had his shotgun cradled tight, chin high, while Slice stalked through the middle of the pack, snarling at anyone who dragged their boots.
We moved toward the edge of Primm, toward the NCR's outer camp—a handful of tents and sandbags with rickety wooden watchtowers looming over them, usually crawling with troopers keeping their eyes sharp. The kind of place that always felt like a thorn in Skinner's side.
"Strange," one of the convicts muttered as we passed the first burned-out cars. "That camp's dead quiet. NCR ain't even moving around."
"Yeah," another whispered, squinting ahead. "Usually they got a spotter up there, some sharpshooter watchin' from the tower. Don't see nothin'."
A couple more chimed in, voices cracking with unease, and the muttering rolled through the line like dry brush in the wind.
Skinner spun on his heel, eyes cutting sharp enough to silence them all. "Shut your damn mouths. You want to catch a bullet? Keep flappin' your lips, and I'll make sure you get one."
Slice sneered, slamming the butt of his rifle into the pavement. "Yeah—one more word, and you're saving the NCR the trouble. I'll put you down myself."
That shut them up fast. The road went quiet again, only the scrape of boots on cracked asphalt filling the air. Still, the silence from the NCR camp loomed over us heavier than a storm cloud.
I kept my expression stone, but inside I knew—this wasn't silence. It was a loaded gun waiting for the right second to go off.
We moved toward the edge of Primm, toward the NCR's outer camp—a handful of tents and sandbags with rickety wooden watchtowers looming over them, usually crawling with troopers keeping their eyes sharp. The kind of place that always felt like a thorn in Skinner's side.
But today… it was quiet. Too quiet. The watchtowers were empty, the shadows of guards nowhere to be seen. Some of the boys started to whisper and chuckle, pointing out how "the NCR must've finally tucked tail."
"Keep your damn mouths shut," Slice barked, shoving one of them forward. "You want to announce we're here? Then start hollering, see how quick a bullet goes through your teeth."
Skinner kept his eyes straight, jaw set, not even breaking stride. His presence alone cut most of the chatter, though a few convicts still grinned ear to ear like kids on their way to a candy store. The promise of loot always made men blind.
The road stretched on, cracked asphalt littered with weeds pushing through. Ahead, the broken silhouette of the Nevada Highway Patrol Station rose from the dust—a squat, weathered building scarred by time and gunfire, the rusted sign barely holding to its post.
"Almost there, boys," Skinner growled, the weight of command in his voice. "Keep it tight. Caravan's ours for the taking."
The march dragged on, boots crunching against gravel and broken glass. I kept my place in the middle of the pack, eyes fixed ahead on the Highway Patrol Station. The place looked dead—no NCR, no Vipers, nothing but wind whistling through cracked windows and sun-baked silence.
And that's what made my stomach knot.
Everything was going too smooth. Too clean. Skinner was grinning like the devil himself, Slice was barking at stragglers, and the boys were laughing under their breath at the idea of an untouched caravan just waiting to be picked apart.
But me? I felt the weight of every step like I was walking deeper into quicksand. Hayes had set this up, sure—but I knew the NCR. They didn't just vanish without leaving some kind of sting behind.
Still, I kept marching. Kept my head down, my mask tight. Couldn't show the crack in the façade, not now. If Skinner caught even a whiff of doubt, the whole plan would crumble before it started.
So I swallowed the unease, forced it down like bitter water, and walked on with the rest of them.
The station loomed closer, its faded highway signs hanging crooked, its windows nothing but dark gaps staring back at us. The others were restless now, grins plastered across their filthy faces, already imagining what they'd loot.
I slipped through the pack until I was walking at Skinner's side. He noticed, brow furrowing just a touch.
"Skinner," I said low, keeping my voice even. "Let me go ahead. Make sure no stragglers are holed up in the station. Last thing you want is one NCR bastard putting a bullet in your back while we're celebrating."
He studied me for a beat, his scar pulling as he half-grinned. "You volunteering to walk into the hornet's nest?"
I shrugged like it was nothing. "Better me than all of us walking in blind."
Slice snorted behind us, muttering something about me trying to play hero, but Skinner raised a hand to shut him up. His eyes lingered on me, sharp and suspicious, then finally he gave a nod.
"Fine. Check it out. But don't wander too long. We'll be waiting."
I nodded once, slow, then peeled off from the main body. My boots carried me toward the ruined shell of the station, each step feeling heavier than the last. The farther I got from the pack, the more I could breathe. The more I could think.
Out of the crossfire—that was the plan.
The patrol station's doors creaked when I pushed them open, dust sifting down from the warped frame. Inside was dark, too dark, the kind of dark that made the hair on my neck rise. I barely made it two steps in before I felt it—the cold, hard kiss of a barrel pressing against the back of my head.
My muscles went taut. For a heartbeat, I thought maybe one of Skinner's dogs had followed me in.
Then the door eased shut behind me, a silhouette forming in the strip of light before closing it off completely.
"Geez," came the low mutter, edged with dry humor. "You should've told us you'd be coming in. I almost blasted your head off…"
The voice was familiar. I let out the breath I'd been holding. Hayes.
He lowered the rifle, his eyes adjusting in the dim light as he stepped closer. His jaw was tight, though, no smile—just the kind of look you wore when you were wound tighter than barbed wire.
"Next time, give me a damn signal," he added. "My boys are jumpy enough as it is."
Hayes finally lowered the rifle fully, motioning me deeper inside. A pair of NCR troopers shifted in the gloom, their outlines lit by the faint lantern glow near the back of the room. I gave them a quick glance, then turned my eyes back to the lieutenant.
"I'm guessing you've prepared some explosives in that caravan?" I asked, keeping my voice low, steady, as if we weren't both standing in the middle of a powder keg about to blow.
Hayes exhaled through his nose, something between a sigh and a smirk. "You catch on fast. Enough dynamite packed under those crates to turn half of Skinner's gang into dust on the wind. All you need to do is keep them close and hungry."
"I don't need to…" I murmured, shifting just enough to peer through the small, dust-cracked window in the station door. Out there, Skinner's crew was filing into position around the caravan, eyes hungry, hands twitching for loot.
"The mice are already on the cheese."
Hayes followed my gaze, jaw tightening as if he could already hear the blast before it came.
The blast ripped the air apart.
One heartbeat there was laughter and the scrape of boots on cracked asphalt, the next there was nothing but fire and ruin. The caravan blossomed into a rolling ball of flame, the sky itself lighting up as if God had torn the sun down and smashed it against the earth.
The shockwave hit me like a fist. The patrol station shuddered, windows rattling in their frames. My ears rang sharp and shrill; for a moment I thought I'd gone deaf. Dust sifted down from the ceiling, choking the air, and I had to steady myself against the wall just to keep upright.
I staggered to the door's window. Through the grime and smoke, the world outside writhed.
Bodies lay strewn like broken dolls, flung wide by the blast. Men who had marched with Skinner now clawed weakly at the ground, as if their hands could anchor them back to life. Some had been knocked clean off their feet, sprawled across the blacktop in grotesque angles. Their mouths opened and closed like fish gasping for water, but no sound came out—the explosion had stolen their voices along with their fight.
Six. Maybe seven. That's all that moved. The rest were already still.
One tried to rise, pushing himself to his knees, only to topple as if strings had been cut. Another beat at his chest, wheezing, coughing up red before collapsing into silence. The fire devoured the caravan behind them, wood splattered all over the scene.
Hayes didn't waste time. The second the blast's echo began to fade, he slammed the butt of his rifle against the wall, sharp and commanding, a sound that cut through the ringing in my ears.
"Ten with me," he barked, his voice steady, calm in the chaos. "Move, now!"
Boots pounded behind him as a squad of NCR troopers rose from cover, weapons ready. They weren't green kids anymore; the explosion had burned that softness out of them. These were soldiers with the look of men who'd waited too long for this kind of strike back.
The door flew open, and they poured into the scene.
Through the cracked window, I saw Hayes take point, his silhouette sharp against the fire's glow. His rifle was shouldered, eyes scanning the ruin with the cold precision of a man who'd been in this dance too many times. He signaled with curt hand motions—flanking patterns, overwatch, advance. The kind of efficiency only drilled soldiers carried.
The troopers spread, stepping over the wreckage. The flames lit their faces in harsh, flickering light, steel helmets gleaming like halos of war.
A dying convict reached up, fingers trembling toward Hayes as if to beg for mercy. Hayes's boot came down on the man's wrist, pinning it to the dirt. "You had your chance," he muttered, then gave a nod. A rifle cracked, ending the groan.
The rest followed suit. Methodical. Clean. No hesitation. The NCR wasn't here to take prisoners tonight—they were here to cleanse.
I leaned back from the window, jaw tight. Watching it unfold, I couldn't shake the truth: this was justice, maybe, but it was also slaughter. And I'd delivered the bait.
Hayes raised his fist, the squad halting as one. He scanned the shadows, wary. Even in victory, he expected teeth in the dark.
The flames roared higher, and the night smelled of smoke, iron, and endings.
I turned from the window, the fire painting the glass in shades of orange and red. My boots carried me to the door without a second thought—no hesitation, no second-guessing. Men like Skinner and his pack deserved every ounce of flame they were choking on. If they'd lived, they'd have dragged Primm deeper into hell.
Hayes stopped me at the threshold. His face was grim, ash smeared across his cheek, but his eyes were sharp. Without a word, he reached into his vest and pressed a roll of NCR scrip into my chest. I caught it before it could fall, the weight solid in my hand.
"You earned it," he said flatly. "Skinner believed you because you sold it clean. Without that, none of this works."
He leaned in just a fraction, voice low but carrying the weight of command. "Whether you like it or not, you're an affiliate of the Republic now."
To me, that was fine. Being a nameless mercenary in their eyes meant nothing more than an extra glance from a quartermaster or a trooper wondering who I was. Suspicion, maybe. But never the hatred Skinner's men had earned.
I gave Hayes a small nod, pocketing the scrip. Justice had been served, and I didn't need to justify it to myself.
Hayes stepped aside, jerking his chin toward the yard. "Go on. Take a look at what you've done."
I walked past him, out into the night where the fire devoured the caravan, its glow stretching over the broken convicts sprawled in the dirt.
The flames from the caravan spat sparks into the night, the wreckage still popping as it burned. Hayes stood there with his arms crossed, his face lit orange by the fire.
"Will the NCR help Primm rebuild?" I asked.
He shook his head slightly, exhaling through his nose. "I'll try to get help—but truth is, the NCR's stretched too thin. We've got wars on too many fronts, and Primm? Primm isn't going to solve any of our problems. Hell, it might just add more fuel to the fire."
The words sat heavy in the air. No promises, no reassurances. Just the plain, raw truth.
Hayes' words hung between us, the crackle of burning timber filling the silence.
I didn't flinch, didn't let his grim outlook weigh me down. Instead, I squared my shoulders and looked him dead in the eye.
"As long as peace and order returns to Primm," I said firmly, voice steady against the night, "I say that's mission accomplished, lieutenant."
Hayes studied me for a moment, then gave the faintest of nods, as if conceding the point.
I turned to leave, boots crunching on the gravel as the night air carried the faint echoes of dying fire.
"Hey, Prometheus!" Hayes' voice cut through the quiet.
I stopped, glancing back over my shoulder. He stood there among his men, helmet tucked under one arm, face lit by the glow of the wreckage.
"Thanks for helping us," he said, loud enough for the others to hear. "Not too many folks help the NCR in the Mojave. If you ever need anything—anything at all—you find me."
I met his eyes for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle. Then I gave the faintest grin.
"Keep yourself breathing, lieutenant," I said. "That's what I need from you."
Hayes gave a small, tired chuckle, then raised his hand in a half-salute as I finally turned away.
The lieutenant's laughter faded behind me as I started down the road alone. The streets of Primm lay quiet now, dust drifting across the cracked asphalt like pale smoke. The distant fire still flickered at the patrol station, its glow throwing long shadows across the husks of buildings that had seen too much violence in too little time.
Every step echoed in the silence—no voices, no gunshots, no drunken convicts spilling out of the Bison Steve. Just quiet. Too quiet. For once, the town wasn't bleeding. For once, it almost felt like it was holding its breath.
I passed the roller coaster skeleton looming over me, its rails cutting across the moonlight like broken ribs. The old casino signs buzzed faintly, still fighting to stay alive. In that emptiness, I almost felt the weight of what Hayes had said pressing down on me: an affiliate of the Republic. Whether I liked it or not.
But I did like it. Skinner's gang was finished, and the town had a shot at peace. That was enough for now.
I adjusted the strap on my rifle, set my eyes toward the faint glow of the Bison Steve, and kept walking.
The walk back into the Bison Steve was silent. The air smelled of burnt powder and dust, and my boots crunched lightly on the carpeted floor as I entered the lobby. A few of the convicts who hadn't gone with Skinner were loitering near the entrance, eyes wide, looking for answers.
One of them—a lanky guy with a bandana hanging loose around his neck—perked up when he spotted me.
"Hey, Casey! Where's—"
I didn't let him finish. The pistol was already in my hand, steady, and the crack of the shot echoed like a hammer through the empty casino. His body dropped to the floor, the unfinished question hanging in the air longer than his life did.
The others froze, eyes wide, hands twitching toward weapons but not quite brave enough to draw. I advanced with calm steps, gun raised.
"Skinner's gone," I said flatly. "And so are you."
The second man reached for his rifle slung by his shoulder. Another shot rang out, precise, clean. He collapsed against the roulette table, smearing it red as the chips scattered to the floor.
Panic broke out. One tried to scramble for the stairwell, boots clattering against the steps. My bullet caught him before he reached the landing, his body tumbling back down the stairs with a hollow thud.
I moved through the casino like a shadow, the muzzle flash marking each sentence of judgment. By the time the echoes faded, five lay still across the floor, sprawled where desperation had carried them.
Holstering the pistol, I exhaled slow, steady. No satisfaction. No gloating. Just the job finished.
The Bison Steve was quiet now—quiet in a way it hadn't been since before the convicts took it. And for the first time, the silence felt like something closer to peace.
The smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air as I pushed through the halls of the Bison Steve, stepping over the sprawled remains of Skinner's last men. My boots echoed softly against the worn floor as I made my way toward the kitchen.
The door creaked open, and there he was—Deputy Beagle. Still tied, still pale, still alive. His eyes shot up when he saw me, wide with a mix of relief and resentment.
I froze at the threshold for a second, the weight of time pressing against me. Then I stepped inside, holstering my weapon.
"Beagle," I muttered, kneeling beside him. My voice was quieter than I expected. "I'm sorry. I promised I'd get you out the day after we met. I… broke that promise."
The deputy let out a shaky laugh that quickly turned into a cough. His voice was weak, raspy from dehydration and neglect.
"Well… you sure took your sweet time," he wheezed, managing the ghost of a smile despite the shadows under his eyes. "A man could almost think you forgot about me."
I cut the ropes binding his wrists, the coarse fibers snapping one by one under the knife's edge.
"You deserved better than being left here," I said firmly, the weight of my own words dragging on my chest. "But you're free now. That's what counts."
Beagle rubbed at his raw wrists, flinching at the sting, then looked up at me with tired eyes.
"I ain't gonna lie… I'm annoyed as hell you left me in here so long. But…" he let out a slow breath, "…I'm alive. And that's thanks to you. So… I guess I'll take what I can get."
For a moment, I stood there, not saying anything more. The silence stretched until it was heavy enough to choke on.
Finally, I straightened up, pulling a pistol from my belt and placing it in Beagle's trembling hand.
"Head to the lobby," I said firmly. "Wait for me there. I've still got some business upstairs."
Beagle blinked down at the weapon, fingers curling around the grip like he wasn't sure it was real. His lips tugged into a faint, shaky grin.
"You're trusting me with a gun? Must mean you're serious about keeping me alive."
I gave him a short nod.
"Keep it close. Don't hesitate to use it if you have to."
Beagle nodded back, still weak, still weary, but a spark of confidence flickered in his eyes now.
"Alright… I'll be waiting."
He shuffled toward the door, pistol in hand, leaving me alone in the kitchen once more.
I didn't waste any more time. As soon as Beagle was out of the kitchen, I climbed the stairs, my boots thudding softly on the worn carpet until I reached the apartment.
The door creaked open. Inside, Maria sat curled on the mattress, arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes were wide, still trembling with the echo of fear, as if the blast had shaken her down to the bone.
ED-E hovered close beside her, chirping low and steady, its optics glowing like a watchful guardian.
Maria's gaze darted to me the instant I stepped in, and she flinched before recognition set in. She didn't say anything, but her face said enough—the explosion had rattled her.
I shut the door behind me with a soft click. "You felt that, huh?" I said quietly, keeping my tone steady.
Her only reply was a small nod, eyes never leaving mine.
I crossed the room slowly, crouching down in front of her. "You're alright now," I said, voice low but firm. "It's over. Nothing's coming through those walls."
She swallowed hard, still hugging herself, but her breathing was beginning to steady. I didn't press her further—words wouldn't do much more than presence right now.
I straightened up and glanced at ED-E, who hovered expectantly. "Keep watching her," I ordered, pointing toward Maria. "Don't let anything or anyone near until I'm back."
The eyebot let out a series of sharp beeps—almost like a salute.
I gave Maria one last look, softer this time, before turning for the door. "Just a few more minutes," I told her. "I'll be back before you know it."
Then I slipped out, the hallway swallowing me as I made for the holding room.
The hallway reeked of stale smoke and chemicals as I made my way down, boots crunching against powder that had spilled from the makeshift lab. When I reached the holding room, I pulled the latch and swung the door wide.
The women inside flinched at the sudden light, their eyes wide and hollow from days of captivity. Most of them were bruised but breathing, clinging to one another for comfort. In the far corner, though, the NCR chemist lay slumped against the wall. His skin was pale, his breaths shallow, each one rattling like his lungs were filled with gravel.
He looked up at me with glazed eyes, lips cracked and trembling as if he wanted to speak but couldn't quite gather the strength.
"Still breathing," I muttered under my breath, scanning the room. "Barely."
One of the women whispered, almost pleading, "Please… can you get us out?"
The woman's plea hit me as I knelt beside the chemist. His skin was clammy, forehead burning, veins darkened from whatever cocktail the convicts had forced through him. I pressed two fingers to his neck—weak, but still there.
"I'll get you out," I said, not looking up, already digging through a pouch on my belt. "All of you. Just hold on a little longer."
I tore open a stimpack, sliding the needle into his arm with practiced hands. The chemist groaned softly, eyelids fluttering, the barest flicker of life stirring in his chest. I steadied his head back against the wall, watching for a sign that the medicine was taking root.
"See?" I muttered, more to the room than to him. "No one's dying in here tonight—not if I can help it."
The women exchanged cautious looks, the kind that hovered somewhere between disbelief and desperate hope.
"Can all of you walk?" I asked, scanning their faces. Every pair of eyes met mine, weary but determined, and they nodded.
"Then let's go."
I shifted the chemist over my shoulders, his weight pressing heavy but manageable. He let out a faint groan, still caught somewhere between life and death, but he held on. The others fell in line behind me—silent, bruised, but walking.
We moved down the hall, my boots echoing against the cracked floorboards until I reached my apartment. Maria stood there waiting, ED-E hovering close to her side, both of them tensing when they saw the group at my back.
"Time to move," I said simply, adjusting the chemist on my back. Maria nodded, wordless, falling in step as I led them all toward the lobby below.
The creak of the final steps carried us into the lobby, the air thick with the smell of dust and smoke. Beagle was there, waiting near the doors, shifting from foot to foot like he couldn't decide whether to bolt or stand his ground.
When he saw me—saw the battered chemist slung across my back, the ragged group trailing behind, Maria with ED-E hovering at her side—his jaw went slack.
"Sweet merciful… you actually did it," he muttered, voice a mix of disbelief and nervous relief. His eyes darted from the freed captives to the chemist. "And here I thought you'd forgotten all about me."
I set my boots firm on the floor, shifting the chemist's weight higher on my back. "I said I'd get you out, didn't I?" My tone was even, though the words carried more edge than warmth.
Beagle gave a huff, part laugh, part bitter sigh. "Yeah, but you've got a funny way of keeping promises, stranger. Thought I'd rot in that kitchen forever."
Maria frowned at him, but stayed quiet.
"Be glad you didn't," I answered, voice flat. "You're standing. That's what counts."
Before Beagle could press further, movement stirred at the far end of the lobby. From the shadows of the dining area, where the entrance to one of the maintenance tunnels gaped open, two figures emerged. A man with a revolver in hand, steady but weary, guided a woman clutching a small child to her chest.
The rescued women stiffened, eyes going wide.
"Marla?!" one of them gasped, stepping forward despite her trembling legs. "How—how are you here? We thought…"
Another woman's voice cracked as she clutched at her mouth. "You were in there with us. You were one of us."
Marla's lips trembled into a faint smile, her voice hoarse. "I was. Lance… he found a way during a shift change. He pulled me out before they locked the doors again." She shifted her daughter in her arms, the little girl whimpering softly. "I didn't want to leave you all, but—"
One of the women rushed forward and clasped Marla's free hand, tears streaking her cheeks. "No, no… don't you dare feel guilty. You survived. That's all that matters. And now—now you came back."
The others nodded weakly, a quiet murmur of relief and recognition passing among them.
Maria, standing close to ED-E, finally let out a soft breath she didn't know she was holding. "The Lord kept you safe, Marla… and your little one too."
Lance gave a curt nod, his eyes sharp but softening as they lingered on the reunited group.
I adjusted the chemist on my back, feeling his shallow breath against me, and said firmly, "Then let's not waste this. We're walking out of here together."
We moved out of the Bison Steve in a ragged line, the freed women huddled close with Marla and her daughter at their center. The night air bit cold after the heat and smoke inside, and for a moment it felt like the Mojave itself had gone silent to watch us.
I carried the chemist on my back, his breaths shallow and uneven, but steady enough to keep me moving forward. Every step I took I felt his weight sag heavier, like time itself wanted to drag him down. Still, I wasn't about to let the man die on a Powder Ganger floor.
Lance took point, revolver in hand, eyes sharp and scanning every rooftop and alley. Beagle, to his credit, fell in line at the rear with the pistol I'd given him, his face pale but his jaw clenched like he wanted to prove something.
The women whispered among themselves, keeping low. Every now and then a pair of eyes darted to me, to the limp figure on my back, then forward again. Maria stayed close to my side with ED-E humming beside her, the floating eyebot's sensors sweeping in a soft electronic buzz.
Not a soul moved against us. No shot rang, no shout broke the stillness. The Powder Gangers were gone or dead, their grip on Primm shattered. For once, that silence was in our favor.
By the time we reached the doors of the Vikki and Vance, the ragged group was near stumbling from exhaustion. Lance gave one last look over his shoulder at the dark streets, then gave a nod.
"Clear," he muttered.
Beagle let out a shaky laugh, half-relief, half-weariness. "Haven't had a walk through Primm that quiet in weeks. Almost makes me nervous."
I adjusted the chemist on my back and pushed open the door. "Nervous or not," I said, "this is the closest thing to safety you're going to get."
The doors creaked open, spilling us into the dim glow of the casino-turned-shelter.
The double doors groaned open, and the stale air of the Vikki and Vance Casino hit us. The place was dim, lit by strings of salvaged lamps and half-dead bulbs buzzing against the ceiling.
Inside, maybe three dozen people huddled together in corners and around overturned tables, the last citizens of Primm who hadn't been killed or dragged into Skinner's grip. Mothers clutching children, old men leaning on walking sticks, wide eyes staring at us as though we might be ghosts.
A hush swept through the casino as we entered. Conversations died, every head turned.
I shifted the chemist on my back and stepped forward, the women trailing behind me, Marla clutching her daughter tight. Lance lowered his revolver but kept his stance firm. Beagle, ever the deputy, tried to puff himself up despite the pale exhaustion on his face.
"Sweet Mary…" someone whispered. Then a louder voice rose:
"Marla?"
One of the women from the casino stood up, tears springing into her eyes. The survivors rushed forward, surrounding Marla and the others. Cries of relief filled the room, hands reaching out to touch, to embrace, to confirm that what they saw was real.
"Thought you were dead!"
"They said no one got out!"
"By God, you're back—"
Marla clung to them, her daughter pressed close, sobbing quietly but with relief instead of terror.
I pushed past the cluster, making space for the chemist. "This man needs space, and he needs it now," I barked.
A pair of citizens scrambled to clear a table, spreading out blankets. I laid him down carefully, his face pale as ash, but alive.
Lance stayed near me, eyes still sharp on the crowd. Beagle, though, straightened and cleared his throat, trying to look like he'd been leading the whole march. "Don't worry, folks. Deputy Beagle kept his word and saw to it the people of Primm made it safe."
I didn't bother correcting him. The survivors needed hope, and if Beagle's voice gave it, then fine.
Maria came up to my side, silent but steady, while ED-E hovered near the chemist, sensors flickering in a low whir.
The casino filled with noise again—relieved laughter, weeping, frantic stories swapped as the freed and the hidden reunited. But beneath it, there was still that hum of unease. Primm had survived the night, but the scars weren't going anywhere.
Beagle was lingering near the roulette tables, hands fidgeting like he couldn't quite figure out what to do with himself. He jumped a little when I came up to him.
"Deputy," I said flatly, "Primm needs a sheriff. You taking it?"
His mouth opened, then closed, before spilling out in a nervous laugh. "Sheriff? No, no, not me. I—I'm no lawman, not really. I'd crumble under that kind of pressure." He looked at me, sheepish. "Maybe… you? You've got the look of someone who could keep this town in line."
"Not happening," I said. "My road runs to New Vegas. This town's not mine to hold together."
Beagle sighed in relief, though he looked guilty about it too. "Didn't think you'd want it anyway." His eyes drifted across the room, settling on Lance, who was standing guard near Marla and their girl. Beagle frowned. "What about him? He came in with those Powder Ganger types, didn't he? He's one of them."
I shook my head. "No. He got pulled into their mess by circumstance. Never raised a hand with them, never joined in what Skinner and his dogs were doing. If anything, he's been keeping people alive in the cracks they didn't bother watching."
Beagle blinked, chewing on that. "So he's not one of them?"
"He's not," I said firmly. "He knows how to fight, knows how to lead. He doesn't bend the knee to NCR, but he's no pushover either. That's the kind of man Primm needs wearing the star."
Beagle's eyes went back to Lance. He studied the man with suspicion, but also with a dawning sort of acceptance. "Could be. I'll admit—he looks the part more than I ever did."
I didn't say more. Just watched Lance, the way he kept one hand on his rifle, the other near his wife and daughter, eyes always moving. Primm had been torn apart by Skinner's men… maybe the same circumstances that almost crushed it had already given it the sheriff it needed.
"Lance," I called, motioning him over. He hesitated a second, eyes flicking to Marla and their daughter, but then he crossed the floor to where Beagle and I stood.
"What's this about?" he asked, low and wary.
I cut to it. "Primm needs a sheriff. Beagle doesn't want it. I don't want it. That leaves you."
Lance actually laughed, though it was humorless. "You can't be serious. Me? A sheriff? I've spent half the last month in chains. These people saw me walking in with Skinner's crew. They'll never trust me."
Beagle shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's true—I did think you were one of them. But he," he nodded at me, "says otherwise. And if he's vouching for you, I'll listen."
Lance shook his head, frustrated. "No. I'm not cut out for this. I just want to keep my family alive, not wear a badge."
"That's exactly why you should take it," I said firmly. He looked at me, frowning, so I pressed on. "Your wife. Your daughter. They'll be here in Primm. And the only way you keep them safe is if this town is safe. You've got the skill, the backbone, and you're not some NCR puppet. That's more than Primm's had in a long time."
Lance looked past me to where Marla was holding their little girl close, whispering softly to her. His jaw worked, then clenched. "Damn it…" he muttered, before finally meeting my eyes. "You really think I can do this?"
"I know you can," I said. "And more than that—Primm needs you to."
Beagle gave a small nod. "You've got my support, if that means anything. I sure as hell don't want the job."
For a long moment Lance was silent, then he let out a deep breath. "Alright. I'll do it. For them. For her." He glanced back at Marla. "And for this town."
Lance had barely said, "Alright. I'll do it. For them. For her. And for this town," when Beagle suddenly clapped his hands together and raised his voice.
"Well, there you have it, folks!" he declared, drawing the attention of the weary citizens scattered across the casino floor. "Primm's got itself a new sheriff!"
Dozens of eyes turned toward Lance. The murmurs rose—hesitant at first, then slowly warming as people recognized the former "convict" standing straighter than they'd ever seen him.
"Lance here," Beagle went on, waving an arm as if introducing royalty, "ain't no Powder Ganger, no skin-runner, and no NCR bootlicker. He's one of us now, and he's agreed to keep Primm safe."
A few cheers rang out, tired but genuine. Someone clapped. Someone else muttered, "About time we had someone with a spine."
Lance flushed, shifting uneasily, but I caught the way his hand brushed Marla's shoulder—grounding himself. His daughter peeked shyly from behind her mother's skirt at all the strangers staring at her father.
He cleared his throat. "I'll do what I can. I can't promise miracles. But no one's gonna hurt this town so long as I'm breathing."
The room buzzed with cautious approval. Some faces still held doubt, but for the first time since Skinner's men came, there was a spark of hope.
Beagle, smug in his success, leaned closer to me and muttered, "See? That wasn't so hard."
I just gave him a look, then turned back to Lance.
As the murmurs settled, I stepped closer to Lance. His eyes flicked to me, looking for something—maybe reassurance, maybe a push to stand taller.
I put a hand on his shoulder. "Lance… don't think of it as being sheriff for them," I nodded toward the gathered townsfolk, "think of it as being sheriff for her—" my eyes moved to Marla, then his daughter, "—and keeping Primm standing so they'll always have a place to call home."
He swallowed, jaw tightening, and I pressed on. "You've seen what happens when men like Skinner run loose. You've fought in worse places than this, survived things most of these people couldn't imagine. Use that strength—not for war, not for power—but to give this town a fighting chance."
Lance straightened, shoulders squaring as if the words braced him.
I leaned in just enough that only he could hear the last part. "You don't need to be the sheriff they expect. Just be the man your family needs. The rest will follow."
For the first time since I'd met him, Lance gave me a firm nod, steady and without hesitation.
Prometheus clapped Lance on the shoulder, his voice steady and sure. "You've got the strength, the experience, and most importantly—you've got something to protect. Keep Primm safe, and you'll be keeping your family safe too. That's what makes a real sheriff."
Lance gave a small, reluctant nod, the weight of responsibility settling on him as Beagle loudly proclaimed the new sheriff to the room. Murmurs of relief and cautious hope rippled through the gathered townsfolk.
Prometheus let the sound fade behind him as he turned toward the casino doors. His work here was done; the road ahead still pulled him toward Boulder City and the man in the checkered suit. ED-E hummed softly, drifting close as if ready for the next march into the Mojave.
But just as Prometheus reached the threshold, a hand caught his sleeve. He turned. Maria stood there, her eyes firm but vulnerable.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I want to go with you…"
I stared at her. "…What?"
She clasped her hands together, as if bracing herself. "I feel safer with you than I ever will here, Prometheus. But it's not just that." She took a breath. "My family… I need to know what's happened to them. My brother's stationed at the Mojave Outpost, and my aunt lives in Novac. I can't just stay here, waiting, hoping. If I go with you, I might actually find them."
The room around us went quiet, the townsfolk watching from the corners of their eyes. I studied her, noting the exhaustion and lingering fear in her face. But beneath it all was something firm, something no raider or convict had broken.
"Maria," I said after a long pause, "out there isn't safe. Not even close. You'll see things worse than what Skinner and his men did here. And once you start walking with me, there's no guarantee you'll ever come back to Primm."
Her gaze didn't flinch. "Then that's a risk I'll take. Because sitting here, wondering if they're alive or dead… that's worse than anything I'll see out there."
ED-E gave a faint, sympathetic beep, hovering by my side as if waiting for my answer.
Prometheus blinked at her, weighing her words. He saw the resolve in her face, but also the fear underneath it. For a moment, he said nothing—then he gave a slow nod.
"Alright," he said at last. "You can come with me. But understand this, Maria… if you're on the road, you're no longer just someone I protect. You're someone who pulls her own weight. That means I'm going to teach you everything you need to survive out there—first aid, how to find food, cook it, track water… and how to use a gun if it comes to it."
Her lips parted, half in relief, half in nervousness. "I—I can learn. Just don't leave me behind."
Prometheus gave a small, reassuring smile, one that never quite reached his eyes. "I won't. But you're going to have to keep up. The Mojave doesn't go easy on anyone."
ED-E gave a cheerful series of beeps, almost like encouragement, as Maria gave a firm nod. The new arrangement was set. Together, they stepped out into the Mojave night—Primm at their backs, and the long road ahead waiting for them.