Maria spotted me first, half-hidden behind the shell of a burnt-out house. She took a step forward, searching my face for signs of blood or trouble.
"You're back," she said, trying to sound steady. "What happened? Who were they?"
"Legion," I answered simply. "We're done here. We're going back to the Outpost."
I didn't slow my stride as I passed her. ED-E whirred low and followed.
Maria blinked, glancing past me toward the center of town—the smoke-stained rooftops, the distant silhouettes still twitching on crosses.
"Wait—just like that? We're leaving?" She rushed to keep pace beside me. "There could be supplies here. Food, medicine—guns. People abandon things when they run. Why not check the buildings before we go?"
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended.
She frowned. "But we came all this way—"
"I said no." My voice didn't rise, but it dropped low with finality. "There's nothing here you want to see."
Maria tried to peer past me again. "But the houses in the south end aren't even touched by the fires. We could—"
"No." I stepped once into her line of sight to stop her from moving forward. "You go into one of those homes, you'll remember it for the rest of your life. And not because of what you find."
She hesitated, stubbornness warring with something else—uncertainty, maybe. ED-E emitted a faint mechanical tone, scanning the area with a slow sweep of its sensors.
Maria crossed her arms. "I'm not a child. I've seen blood before."
"Not like this," I said. "Not what they left behind."
That silenced her for a beat. She glanced at the smoke again, then back at me.
"So that's it? We just walk away?"
"For now," I said. "There's nothing here worth you stepping over corpses to scavenge. When we get back to the Outpost, I'll tell Jackson what happened. Maybe they'll send a detachment to collect the dead—or what's left to bury."
Maria's eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you protecting me or wasting time?"
"I'm keeping you from stepping into a nightmare," I replied. "If you want to look through ashes and burned bones, do it when I'm not the one who brought you here."
She opened her mouth to argue again—but something in my expression must've stopped her. Her jaw set, but she looked away.
"Fine," she muttered.
I didn't say anything else. I just turned toward the road leading back north.
Maria didn't move right away. She watched the smoke curling above the roofs, jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line. The silence between us stretched long enough that ED-E gave a low cautionary beep.
I exhaled slowly.
To me, she was still a child—small, grieving, too newly freed from hell to be anywhere near another one. But then my mind flickered back to Primm… to Skinner, and the look in Maria's eyes when she spoke of what he'd done. What he would've kept doing. She had seen ugliness long before Nipton burned.
Maybe I wasn't protecting her from her first horror—maybe I was trying to spare her one more added to the pile.
I loosened my fists.
"You want to search the outskirts," I said at last, voice even, "fine. But you don't go toward the center. Not near the hall. Not near the smoke."
Maria blinked—surprised I'd given even an inch. She tried to hide it, but the relief was there.
"I'm not trying to be reckless," she muttered. "I just… if there's anything left behind that could help us—or help the Outpost—we shouldn't ignore it."
"I'm not ignoring anything," I said. "I'm deciding what's worth scarring you over."
She swallowed but didn't argue.
I glanced back toward the town. "We check the houses on the far edge. The ones untouched by fire. We don't open anything with blood on the door or windows. If I say we leave—we leave. No debate."
She nodded, more serious now. "Alright."
I gave a short nod in return. ED-E's lens swiveled between us before bobbing once in acknowledgment.
I started walking—not toward the heart of Nipton, but skirting wide along its outer ring.
Maria fell in beside me, quiet but resolute.
And though the stench of smoke and death thickened the air ahead, I reminded myself: she'd already survived men like Skinner. Maybe sparing her meant guiding—not shielding.
Still, I kept my body between her and the sightlines to the crucified.
Some things, once seen, refuse to leave a mind. She didn't need more of those—not today.
We started at the edge of town—far from the smoke, far from the nails and ropes and groans.
First House.
Door already kicked in. Someone left in a hurry—chairs overturned, a pack of cards scattered on the floor. A tin of coffee grounds, untouched. A pistol magazine under a table, half-full. Maria pocketed a handful of caps left on a dresser like someone thought they'd be back by morning. I let her. ED-E hovered, letting its scanner sweep for movement. Nothing.
Second House.
A couple of suitcases by the door—empty. Whoever lived here ran with what they could carry and ditched what they couldn't. Shelves still full of pre-War knickknacks. Someone even left a box of .22 rounds under a cot, like they forgot it existed. Found a packet of RadAway behind a sink. Maria perked up—tucked it into her satchel like treasure.
Third House.
Blood smeared on the window, but only outside. I made her wait on the porch while I checked. The place was looted—but sloppily. A scattergun left under a bed. Bent, but repairable. Found a child's toy—a bear with one eye torn off. I shut the door on it. Maria didn't ask what was inside.
Fourth House.
Kitchen still had boxed food. Nobody bothered with Fancy Lads or Blamco when running for their lives. Maria stuffed a sack with whatever wasn't rotten. I took a combat knife off a table—good steel, barely used. Someone's last-minute courage didn't buy them enough time to grab it.
Fifth House.
Too clean. Too quiet. A small safe was bolted into the floor. Someone had tried to pry it open and failed. ED-E gave it a buzz and chirped affirmative. Inside? Caps—three stacks' worth—and a pouch of Legion denarii someone must've been paid with recently. Maria frowned at that. I said nothing. We took the caps, left the coins.
Sixth House. Last one before the center.
Sun-bleached porch. No scorch marks. Window cracked but not shattered. I nudged the door open with the barrel of my rifle.
Inside… different.
Claw marks across the floorboards near the back. Long. Drag marks too—fresh enough to still be dark. Not Powder Ganger work. Not Legion work either—too wild, too uneven.
And on the table, resting like someone placed it there intentionally, was a Legion helmet—plumed, dented, and spattered with something that wasn't ash.
Maria's breath hitched behind me. ED-E's tone dipped low and uncertain.
I stepped forward, gaze tracking the dark trail to the back room.
Something had taken a Legionary. Here. In the middle of their purge.
Part of me tensed at the implication—something strong enough to surprise one of Caesar's dogs.
The other part of me…
...smiled.
Not wide. Not warm.
Just enough to show teeth.
"Well," I muttered, eyeing the broken crest of the helmet, "looks like Nipton gave at least one of them a farewell gift."
Maria shifted anxiously beside me. "What could've done that?"
I didn't answer right away. My fingers traced the bent edge of the helmet before I set it back down.
"Something still out there," I said at last. "Something they didn't plan for."
And for the first time since speaking to Vulpes…
…I felt a shard of satisfaction cut through the smoke.
A faint rustle broke the silence.
I froze, eyes narrowing toward the hall. A thin, dark smear stained the floorboards, trailing into one of the side rooms. I raised a hand, signaling Maria to stay back, then brought my rifle to my shoulder—slow, steady, ready.
I followed the blood trail inch by inch. The deeper I went, the worse the smell became—thick, rancid, clinging to the back of my throat. It didn't hit all at once, but crept in slowly, like it wanted me to notice only when it was too late. Rot. Infection. Something left to die.
The trail stopped at a closed door.
Behind it, something was breathing—but not like anything resting or sleeping. Each inhale sounded like it was clawing its way up a ruined throat. Wet, ragged, desperate. The kind of breathing that only comes at the edge of death.
I tightened my grip on the rifle and forced my nerves into silence. Whatever was in that room was already halfway to death—and I'd be the one to push it the rest of the way if I had to.
I eased the door open with the barrel of my rifle. The hinge gave a long, dragging creak that filled the whole house. At that moment, everything else vanished.
Not my thoughts.
Not my heartbeat.
Not even the ragged, dying breaths of whatever waited on the other side.
Only the sound of that door opening existed.
Finally, as the door fully opened, what I saw inside almost gave me a heart attack.
It was a Deathclaw, a pretty large one at that too however what was most striking was the wounds on it.
Littered all over its back were spears or javelins. Most likely used by the Legionnaires.
One of its horns was broken off.
I could almost make out blood oozing out of its belly however its back was turned on me.
It was on the ground, panting still yet it didn't move. It was lying in a pool of its own blood, waiting for its death.
Had it been moving and alive I would've wanted it dead as soon as possible but seeing it there made me feel pity. Pity that it had to die in such a way.
Not in the dignity of a good defeat but in the pool of its red triumph waiting for the release from its agony.
I stepped forward slowly, each footfall careful over the slick pool of blood. This was a creature feared across the wastes, whispered about as a living devil, a nightmare of claws and teeth. And yet… here it lay, broken, beaten, at my mercy. The irony wasn't lost on me.
I stopped just short of it, rifle raised but still unmoving. Its gaze met mine—sharp, unblinking, and disturbingly aware. There was intelligence there, or maybe just the raw soul of a predator staring back at the hand that would decide its fate. It was as if it was silently pleading, asking for release.
I aimed carefully, the crosshair resting squarely between its eyes. The shot would have ended it instantly. I should have fired.
But those eyes—there was something in them that made me pause. Something that forced me to hesitate and think, instead of acting.
Come on, Prometheus, what the hell are you thinking?!
This is a deathclaw—a monster carved into the nightmares of the Mojave. Everything in me screamed to pull the trigger.
My finger tightened against the metal.
I should kill it.
One squeeze and the threat ends here.
Think of the people that have died because of its claws… because of its jaws.
The settlers torn apart on the outskirts of Nipton.
The NCR patrols that never made it back.
The caravans found in pieces, scattered across the sand.
This thing—this dying heap of muscle and bone—has likely done the same to others. Maybe worse.
It deserves the bullet.
Justice, survival, the natural order of the wastes… that's what the rational part of my mind told me. The philosophy of life: kill before you are killed.
But then those eyes shifted—just barely—and the world inside me cracked.
It looked at me not like a monster… but like a creature in agony, aware of its own end.
There was no hate left in those eyes.
Only pain.
Only the raw, wordless plea of something that didn't want to suffer anymore.
Damn it…
Another voice rose up—the quieter one I always fought to ignore.
The voice that remembered Maria hiding behind me when Skinner raised his hand.
The voice that remembered the sight of Marla holding her child.
The voice that whispered that even beasts, even monsters, deserved a death that wasn't framed in torment.
The philosophy of empathy:
To see pain, and refuse to add to it without need.
Why should something like this stir pity in me?
Why should I care?
I didn't have an answer.
Only this strange ache in my chest, this unsettling realization that the Mojave hadn't stripped away everything human in me—not yet.
I swallowed hard.
My grip on the rifle trembled—not out of fear, but because I wasn't sure which side of myself I wanted to obey.
Kill it and walk away, knowing I had done the "smart" thing.
Or pause… just a moment longer… as if mercy still mattered in a place built on cruelty.
I held its gaze a moment longer. What stared back at me wasn't rage… wasn't the cold instinct of a predator sizing up prey.
No—now that I really looked, there was something else there.
A quiet, desperate yearning.
Not hunger.
Not malice.
Just a plea… for the suffering to stop.
Against all reason, I found myself stepping closer.
Then, slowly, almost cautiously, I lowered myself to a knee beside the dying giant and reached out a hand.
My fingers brushed the rough scales atop its head.
The deathclaw didn't snap, didn't hiss, didn't even tense.
It simply closed its eyes—like it understood.
Like it welcomed the touch, the acknowledgment, the mercy.
As if it knew the end was finally near… and wanted nothing more than the rest waiting on the other side.
I didn't wait any longer.
I rose to my feet, lifted the rifle, and centered the sights between its closed eyes.
It didn't look at me this time—didn't challenge, didn't resist.
Its eyelids remained shut, calm… almost trusting.
As if telling me it was ready.
My breath caught in my throat. A tightness gripped my chest—one last, reluctant hesitation.
And then—
BANG.
The shot echoed through the ruined house, then faded into silence.
The deathclaw didn't suffer anymore. Its body stilled, its massive frame sinking into final rest.
I should have felt relief. Triumph, even—killing a creature like this is something most people never live long enough to boast about.
But instead, something in me felt… hollow.
As if the bullet hadn't just ended a life—
but carved something out of me as well.