An elderly man dressed in Brotherhood of Steel Elder Robes scowled deeply as he made his way through the ventilation ducts of the Sierra Madre Casino.
Elijah gritted his teeth as the metal duct rattled beneath his knees, the sharp edges digging into his palms as he crawled. Each clang reverberated like a warning bell, but he pressed on, eyes burning with obsession.
The Sierra Madre was supposed to be his. He had envisioned this moment countless times: the Ghost People unleashed, his collars snapping his pawns into line, the treasure of the vault secured. A masterstroke, a rebirth of power in his image.
Instead, everything had spiraled into chaos.
As the saying goes, "No plan survives first contact with implementation."
That damned Six and his Brotherhood offshoots had cut through his defenses like they were nothing more than rusted scrap. The Sierra Madre Plaza had become a graveyard for his plans. Dog—his once-perfect instrument of terror—was gone, destroyed before Elijah could reassert control. And when the slave collars' signals failed… when those wretches slipped the leash… he had nearly torn his own beard out in fury.
Only his control of the casino's lingering systems—the turrets, holograms, and force fields—kept him from being immediately cornered. Even now, he clung to those remaining tools like a drowning man to driftwood. But with each passing moment, they felt less like weapons and more like delaying tactics.
After witnessing the remarkable combat prowess of the young Six and his Brotherhood of Steel offshoots, Elijah quickly realized he had no hope in a direct fight. True to a typical Brotherhood of Steel brute, Six ultimately sacrificed himself to save his companion.
"Yes! Finally, things are going my way."
Elijah was ecstatic, convinced that Six would perish in the toxic haze of the Sierra Madre. But then that kurr revealed his ability to transform into a red devil, unleashing chaos and destroying every Ghost near the Sierra Madre Casino. Now, Elijah had no option but to remain hidden, crawling through vents to reach his destination, fully aware that if his former pawns caught sight of him, they would undoubtedly kill him.
What gnawed at him most wasn't just failure. It was the sight of that transformation.
As Six hadn't died in the toxic cloud, as Elijah had so gleefully hoped. Instead, the young brute had become a walking inferno, a crimson devil that obliterated Ghost People in droves. Elijah had seen many things in his long life—twisted mutants, men wrapped in steel—but the sight of Six burning like a living sun had clawed into his mind.
He could not face that.
Not directly.
Not ever.
So now he crept in the shadows, reduced to crawling like a rat through the guts of the Sierra Madre, relying on memory and maps drawn long ago. He could still reach the vault—yes, the vault was the heart of it all, the prize worth bleeding for. Its riches, its technology, its promise of immortality in stasis. He would claim it yet.
But there was that wall. That unyielding, mocking wall.
"The damn last security system…"
Elijah hissed under his breath, voice dripping venom.
"It makes the vault impenetrable. No matter what I try, it spits in my face."
For all his brilliance, all his foresight, the Sierra Madre still laughed at him. The last defense system—stubborn, elegant, incorruptible—was the final chain between him and victory.
Yet as sweat rolled down his temple, his scowl twisted into a manic grin. He had not spent his life defying death, the Brotherhood, and the wastes themselves to be undone here. If Six could become a monster to protect his own, then Elijah would become worse than a monster to seize his prize.
"All it takes is patience."
He muttered, dragging himself forward through the narrow duct.
"Patience… and persistence."
The vault would open. One way or another.
And when it did, Elijah promised himself, not even the devil would stand in his way.
As Elijah was plotting with himself, another guest had already entered the Casino before the gala event.
The casino's gilded halls were silent, but the silence wasn't empty—it was rich, thick, heavy with the weight of forgotten opulence. Velvet curtains sagged with age, chandeliers of crystal hung dark and dust-choked, and the smell of the Cloud lingered faintly, trying to worm its way through every crack and seam.
The intruder moved like she owned the place. Her boots made no sound against the faded carpets, her gloved hands casually rifling through drawers, wardrobes, and safes with an expert's ease.
Each new room of the VIP section yielded treasures like offerings: gold lockets, diamond rings, platinum watches, fine suits still wrapped in protective covers, and fat stacks of pre-War cash. She slipped what she wanted into her pack, humming to herself as though she were browsing a boutique, not looting a tomb.
"God, I missed these little trinkets~."
She murmured, her voice honey-sweet and edged with a wicked grin.
"The rich always did know how to spoil themselves… shame they're all dust now."
Her shadow stretched long in the dim glow of emergency lights as she pushed deeper into the private halls. Unlike the rest of the Casino, the VIP suites had been reinforced, insulated, and sealed with care, preserving them far better than the common areas.
She moved from room to room with practiced confidence, more like a collector admiring rare art than a scavenger in a deathtrap.
But it wasn't just the jewelry and fine clothes that interested her. As she descended into the more restricted wings, she began to notice a pattern—doors stronger than they had any right to be, sealed crates stamped with corporate insignias long thought lost, walls with hidden panels concealing machinery far too advanced for a mere entertainment palace.
Then she found it: a vault door, squat and circular, its steel surface glowing faintly with the unique sheen of Saturnite. The dense alloy gleamed defiantly, untouched by the corrosive Cloud that had eaten everything else. To any other scavenger, it would have been an unbreakable wall. To her, it was an invitation to a challenge.
The woman ignited her chainsword. Its teeth spun with a shrill, savage whine, sparks cascading like fireworks as she carved through the edge of the vault door. The alloy screamed, molten fragments flying, until finally the rim gave way. With a single sharp kick, the massive section of metal toppled inward with a resounding crash, revealing what lay within.
Her eyes widened, glinting in the half-light.
A laboratory, preserved like a time capsule. Pristine, yet coated in the dust of decades. Instruments lined every wall, glowing with the unmistakable insignia of Big Mountain. Consoles. Cabinets. Even the drinking glasses left abandoned on workbenches carried the symbol.
She stepped inside, the air stale but breathable, the hum of hidden generators faintly audible beneath the silence.
"Well, well, well…"
She purred, a smirk tugging at her lips.
"What the hell were you up to in here?"