Hayes gave one last look toward the darkness beyond camp when I spoke up again.
"I've got a built-in radio in my Pip-Boy." I tapped the side of the screen. "All I need's the right frequency. That way you can let me know the second everything's set."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're wired in?"
I nodded. "Not transmitting—just receiving. One-way's safer. You tell me when the bait's ready and when the hills are full of brass."
Hayes turned toward one of the tents and barked something. A young comms officer stepped out, handed over a slip of paper.
He passed it to me. "This frequency's clean. One of our old reserve channels. Not even on most NCR gear anymore."
I scanned it, then keyed it into my Pip-Boy. The soft click and hum of the receiver confirmed the lock.
Hayes crossed his arms. "Once I give the word, it'll be quick. No chances, no hesitation. If you're still inside when we roll in—"
"I won't be," I cut in. "I'll lead them out myself. Skinner first. He trusts me enough."
That made him pause. "Then God help you."
I smirked faintly. "He already has. I'm still alive, aren't I?"
I said my goodbyes and went my way. The lights of the NCR Camp faded behind me as I followed the highway back into Primm. The night air was cool against my face, the kind of chill that slipped past clothing and left you with a knot in your gut. Or maybe that was just nerves.
Bison Steve loomed ahead, crooked and ugly in the moonlight. One of the door guards spotted me first—skinny, twitchy type with a face like a rat. He leaned off the wall, voice low but laced with mockery.
"How much did you smoke for you to be gone that long?"
I gave him a look that froze the grin on his face.
"Enough to remember how ugly this place is."
The second guard chuckled but didn't push. They stepped aside. The door creaked open.
I slipped inside.
The casino was quiet now. Only the occasional grunt or clatter echoed down its dark halls—signs of beasts pacing in their cages.
I made it back to my room. Same mattress. Same stink. Same shadows curling in the corners like snakes.
I locked the door behind me, sat down on the edge of the bed, and raised my wrist.
With a few taps on the Pip-Boy, the screen blinked green and soft. I navigated to the stored file, tagged long ago under "Personal: Sacred."
ATOMIZE OBJECT – CONFIRM?
I pressed the command.
There was a faint hum. A flicker of light. And then—with a low, warping sound—the book took shape on the rusted table beside me.
The Holy Bible. Thick. Heavy. Bound in worn leather. Gilded edges catching the glow from a nearby lamp. It looked like something that belonged in a monastery… not a den of convicts and killers.
New Revised Standard Version – Catholic Edition
Still etched on the spine, still weighty with everything it meant.
I sat back, picked it up slowly. Ran a thumb along its edge.
I opened it.
"In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth—"
I read it once.
Twice.
Then I lay back on the bed, resting the book against my chest. My eyes stayed open, scanning the dark ceiling.
Tomorrow, things would move. Fast. Bloody.
But tonight, for just a breath in time, there was still light in the darkness.
…
The morning didn't announce itself with sunlight.
Just groaning metal, voices cursing over hangovers, and the shuffle of boots through the hallway.
I blinked my eyes open. No dreams. Just weight.
The Bible was still on my chest, the leather cool against my skin.
I sat up slowly, let the book fall open in my lap.
Pages fluttered past like windblown leaves—then stopped.
My eyes locked onto a passage. It wasn't highlighted. I hadn't marked it. But it stopped me all the same.
"Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds,
so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect."
— Romans 12:2
I stared at it for a long moment. Let the words carve themselves into the walls of my head.
I had done things.
Terrible things.
I've condemned men to eternity and I will do far, far more worse things in the future.
But somewhere—somewhere—there was still a line I refused to cross.
And maybe that was what made me different from the rest of these rabid dogs.
Not better. Just not completely gone.
I closed the Bible gently.
"Purity in sin," I whispered. "Even if it means standing alone."
Outside, the casino rumbled to life with morning noise.
But inside, the world was still.
I set the Bible aside and tuned the Pip-Boy to the frequency Hayes gave me—non-standard, encrypted, barely within range. Static gave way to a low hum.
I pressed the mic key.
"This is Prometheus. NCR personnel, do you read? Lieutenant Hayes?"
A short pause.
Then a voice crackled through, alert and deliberate:
"Confirming. Is this Prometheus?"
I leaned back slightly, watching the door.
"Yeah. I've got the line open. Hayes told me to check in."
More murmurs off-mic—voices moving, paper rustling.
The reply came back a second later:
"We were told to expect contact on this band. You're coming through clear. Standby—Lieutenant Hayes will want a word. Anything urgent?"
I didn't hesitate.
"Status update. How soon can your boys have that caravan ready for the bait?"
A few seconds passed—then a heavier voice slid through the static, calmer and older.
"Prometheus. It's Hayes. Good to know you're still breathing."
I smirked faintly, keeping my tone level.
"Not for lack of people trying, I promise you that."
"We've begun preparations on the dummy caravan. Carts, boxes, a couple of our own dressed like settlers. It'll look real enough from a distance."
"How long?"
"We can have it in position within the next twelve hours. Maybe less if the weather holds."
I glanced out the dusty window. Still night, but it wouldn't be long before the skies began to grey.
"I'll need to pick the moment. Skinner's careful. Suspicious. But if I pitch it right... he'll bite."
"Understood. You pick the time. We'll be in position. Just make sure he brings most of his crew with him."
"He will. He won't want to leave the spoils to anyone else."
"You've got the frequency now. Use it if anything changes. And Prometheus—don't get caught playing both sides. That town's got too much riding on this."
"I know. I'm not doing this for the NCR."
A pause.
"Didn't think you were."
The line went quiet.
I leaned back in bed, the soft hum of the Pip-Boy's idle frequency now part of the silence.
A deep breath.
The pieces were moving. And soon, so would the blood.
Just as I reached to power down the Pip-Boy, a sharp knock knock came at the door.
Not urgent. Not loud. But deliberate.
I closed the radio feed and stood.
Cracked the door open.
Slice stood there—his knife sheathed, for once, but his eyes just as twitchy as the blade he was named for.
"Boss wants you," he said, flashing yellow teeth in a smirk. "Says it's important."
"Now?"
Slice shrugged. "You're awake, ain't you?"
I gave him a long look, then nodded.
"Alright. Lead the way."
He turned without another word, boots scuffing down the hallway.
I followed.
The game was on.
Slice didn't knock—just cracked the door open and nodded me in, like always. I stepped inside, and the door closed behind me with a quiet click.
Skinner sat at his desk, backlit by the soft glow of a desk lamp. One hand cradled a glass of whiskey, the other rested lazily over a holstered pistol. He didn't look tired—he looked focused.
When he finally looked up at me, he nodded toward the chair across from him.
"Sit, Casey."
I did, saying nothing. I didn't need to. His smile was already stretching into something that made my instincts itch.
"You're making me believe again," he said, swirling his drink. "You did what no one else here could do—or had the guts to finish. That tunnel job? You cleaned it out like it was nothing."
He tapped the side of his glass thoughtfully.
"And you didn't gloat. Didn't brag. You just said, 'It's done.' You know how rare that is? No noise. No mess. No drama."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the desk.
"That's why I trust you now, Casey. More than most in this hellhole."
I kept my face still. Let him keep talking.
"There's a rat," he said flatly. "Someone in my crew's been slipping notes, rumors—maybe even coordinates—to outsiders. NCR, maybe. Hell, I don't know. But it's someone inside."
His eyes darkened.
"I don't need a thug to handle this. I need someone who can sniff out liars… someone who doesn't ask stupid questions and who knows what to do when he finds the truth."
He raised his drink to me in a mock toast.
"And wouldn't you know it? That sounds a lot like you."
I returned his gaze evenly.
"You want me to find them. Quietly."
He smiled. "No mess. No scene. No trail."
A beat of silence passed.
"Think you can do that, Casey?"
I raised a brow, leaned back just a little in my seat.
"So… you're basically giving me the green light to ice anyone I catch with any dope on them?"
"Notes, codes, caps changing hands, stray NCR stimpaks in their bunk… that sort of thing?"
Skinner's grin deepened—wolfish, crooked.
"Long as it smells like treachery, Casey, I don't care if it's a scribbled map on brahmin hide or a whisper in the outhouse."
He leaned in closer.
"You find something? You deal with it. Clean. Quiet. Final."
He lifted his glass again in a slow, deliberate toast.
"Show me I'm right to trust you."
I stared at him for a long second. No smile. No smirk.
"Alright," I said. "If you're putting that kind of weight on me… I'll carry it."
Skinner gave a slow nod, satisfied.
"Good," he said. "I knew I wasn't wrong about you."
He reached into a drawer, rummaged a second, then slid something across the desk—a tarnished metal pin, once bright with NCR brass. The two-headed bear was scratched out with a blade, replaced crudely with a serpent burned into the metal's face.
"Token of trust," he muttered. "Used to be an NCR officer's. Now it means you speak for me. Show it to anyone giving you trouble—they'll know who you're working for."
I took it, turned it over once in my hand.
"So I just start sniffing?"
"You'll know where to look," Skinner said, voice low. "Start with the ones who've been nervous lately. Twitchy. Avoiding work. Those who keep asking too many questions about patrols or supply runs."
He drained the rest of his drink.
"Do it right, and when this rat's gutted, I'll make sure you've got a permanent place by my side. Not just muscle. Family."
That word lingered in the air like the burn of cheap whiskey.
I gave a small nod, pocketed the lighter.
"Then I better get to work."
Skinner smiled.
"That's what I like to hear."
I slipped the repurposed pin into my coat pocket and stepped out of Skinner's suite.
The halls of Bison Steve hadn't changed—but now they felt narrower. Quieter. Everyone I passed gave a nod or a glance, maybe a grunt. They didn't know it yet, but I wasn't just another muscle anymore.
I was the knife behind the smile.
I didn't draw attention to myself. Didn't bark orders. Didn't ask too many questions.
I just listened.
By the armory, two raiders whispered about someone hoarding caps they found on a dead merchant. I leaned against the wall, cleaning my fingernails with a stimpack needle—eyes down, ears wide open.
In the mess hall, someone joked about Skinner sending "golden boy" out again soon. Someone else muttered, "Wouldn't be surprised if he turns on us like he did those ghouls."
Didn't rise to it. Just gave them a half smile and kept chewing.
At one point, I passed the stairwell and caught a glimpse of someone slipping a small pouch into a vent shaft. I didn't stop—just filed the face, the time, the location.
Later.
Outside, by the loading dock, a couple of the younger thugs were laughing about "that rat bastard who keeps sending smoke signals to the NCR." They thought it was a joke.
They didn't see how close they were to the truth.
I moved through the hotel like smoke—present, but untouchable.
And all the while, I listened.
By the third hour, patterns were starting to form. Words overlapped. Stories repeated—just not in the same ways.
Someone said the chem stash was light. Someone else mentioned that certain supply runs were being "rerouted." Another swore he saw a figure at night by the broadcast shack behind the rollercoaster, but no one followed up.
Little things.
But I noticed.
And one name kept slipping through conversations, never shouted, just murmured—"Lance."
I'd seen him before. Quiet type. Short, lean. Didn't gamble. Didn't joke. Never raised his voice. Just did the jobs Skinner gave him, no more, no less.
And most importantly?
Nobody ever talked to him.
Or more precisely, everyone talked around him.
The kind of guy who memorizes your schedule just by standing next to you. The kind who makes himself invisible without trying.
By midnight, I'd seen enough. He always vanished after lights out, but never left through the front or back. Once, I doubled back to where he'd been standing—and found faint boot scuffs leading to a half-busted utility hatch beneath the old prize room.
Hiding in plain sight.
That was the rat.
I didn't confront him.
Not yet.
But I had a name. A trail. And soon… I'd have the proof.
The hallways were dead quiet—just the occasional creak of old wood, the distant rattle of vents, and the buzz of a flickering bulb. I gave the guards a familiar nod.
"Smoke run again?" the guard asked with a tired smirk.
"Yeah," I muttered, tapping my coat pocket. "Need the stars to clear my lungs."
They didn't press. Why would they?
I stepped out into the cold. The sky was a black sheet pricked with dying starlight. Bison Steve loomed behind me like a tomb. I didn't head for the front gate. Instead, I slipped down the side, boots quiet against cracked pavement, until I found a shadowed alley beside the gutted old souvenir shop.
No eyes here. Just the distant chirp of night insects and the soft static in my ears as I tuned the Pip-Boy to the NCR's secret frequency.
I clicked the mic.
"Hello? NCR personnel? Lieutenant Hayes?" I whispered.
There was a pause. Then, crackling back came a voice—tired, but alert.
"This is NCR Camp Primm—who's calling?"
"This is Prometheus."
Another pause, shorter this time. Then:
"Understood. You're on secure band. What do you need?"
I leaned against the cold brick, voice low but clear.
"I've got a name. A possible rat inside Skinner's crew. Name's Lance. He moves like a ghost. Hangs back. Never jokes, never talks unless spoken to. And no one seems to know anything about him, which is exactly the kind of profile I'd choose if I were slipping someone into an enemy den."
I glanced down the alley again. Still alone.
"So here's the question," I said. "Do you have anyone undercover in Bison Steve?"
"Do you have anyone undercover in Bison Steve?"
Static hummed for a moment. Then a reply came, a little more rigid this time.
"Stay on the line, the Lieutenant will be with you shortly..."
I sighed, pulling the collar of my jacket tighter against the chill. The longer I stood in that alley, the more I felt like a bullet waiting to be chambered. I kept my back to the wall, eyes flicking between the broken fence line and the roof of Bison Steve. No movement. Good.
A click came through the radio. Then, a voice I recognized—steady, gravel-worn, and sharp as a combat knife.
"Prometheus, this is Lieutenant Hayes. You've got something?"
"Yeah," I said, eyes still scanning the dark. "Possible mole in Skinner's crew. Guy named Lance. Keeps to himself. Moves like someone trained not to be seen. I've got no hard evidence yet, but he smells like rotten recon."
There was silence on the line. Then—
"That name doesn't ring any bells. He's not one of ours. No one assigned undercover in Bison Steve—not officially, anyway."
I frowned.
"Unofficially?"
"Nothing I'm aware of." Hayes sounded more serious now. "We never got clearance for a plant inside the casino. Could be rogue, could be deserter. Or maybe you're looking at a wild card none of us accounted for."
That last line hung in the air like dust.
I narrowed my eyes, chewing on the silence between Hayes's words.
"If he's not yours, but he's not Skinner's either…" I muttered. "That means he's still in play."
I lifted the mic again, my voice low and deliberate.
"Would you be open to giving this Lance guy amnesty? Witness protection—whatever passes for it out here. Enough to make him feel safer with the Bear than with the bastards he's stuck with. If he's got dirt, and he flips, that could blow this whole thing wide open."
Another pause. The wind picked up behind me, rustling through the wrecks and skeleton signage.
Finally, Hayes responded, tone firm but open:
"Depends what he's got and how clean his hands are. If he's not a murderer or chem pusher, I can pull strings. But I'll need something concrete. You think he'll talk?"
I smirked, lowering the mic for a moment, then lifted it again.
"I think I know how to make him."
I twisted the dial on my Pip-Boy, cutting off the NCR's frequency. The faint crackle of static faded, swallowed by the stillness of the night. I slipped my arm back down, tugging my coat sleeve over the glowing screen. That conversation would have to hold—for now.
I didn't head for the front entrance of Bison Steve. Instead, I skirted around the side, boots crunching softly over gravel and shattered glass. The night air was colder here, heavier. I passed the smashed neon letters and graffiti-tagged walls until I reached the rust-covered hatch tucked beneath the old prize room. Most of the crew didn't even know it existed. But I'd been paying attention. Lance had a rhythm, and that rhythm always led back here.
I crouched lower, hand hovering just above my knife—not drawn, just there. The darkness thickened as I moved, the faintest glow ahead drawing me closer through the tight, decaying corridor. I stepped lightly, silent on the metal grates, until I saw the source of the light.
A dim lantern flickered in the corner of the room beyond, illuminating a nest of worn blankets, scrap wood, and the dull metal ribs of an old utility storage chamber long forgotten. But what stopped me wasn't the setup—it was the soft sound. Not talking. Not a mutter.
It was humming. A lullaby.
I pressed myself closer to the wall and peered around the corner.
She sat on the floor, back against a broken filing cabinet, holding something small in her arms. A woman—young, but worn by weeks, maybe months, of fear and confinement. Her dress was tattered, her arms bruised. But her eyes… they were gentle. Calm. Focused on the little bundle nestled against her chest.
A baby. Swaddled in faded cloth, cooing softly.
I didn't move. I just watched for a few seconds—until she looked up. Not startled, not afraid. Just tired.
Our eyes met.
She didn't scream. She didn't run. She glanced at me cautiously, then down at her child. "You're… not one of them, are you?"
"Not really," I said softly, stepping closer but slow enough not to spook her.
I sheathed the blade before she even turned fully. No threat here—just a woman shielding a bundle in her arms, swaddled in scraps of soft cloth and trembling silence. The baby cooed once, almost in defiance of the cold air.
She was one of them. From the holding room.
But not anymore.
"Name's Casey. I'm looking for someone. A man named Lance."
Her expression shifted at the name. Relief, maybe. Or fear.
"He's not here," she said. "But he comes back often. Checks in. Brings food, clean water when he can. It's not safe, but it's all he can give us."
I crouched down, resting against the concrete wall. "Who is he to you?"
She hesitated. Then: "He saved me. Back when Skinner's men took the town. Most of the women they dragged off to that awful room… I was one of them. But Lance—he helped me slip away during a shift change. Hid me down here."
I studied her quietly. "And the child?"
She looked down, and the smallest smile crossed her lips.
"Ours."
I nodded slowly. "Why's he still with Skinner?"
"He didn't have a choice," she whispered. "When they raided the area, he was already hiding out here. Injured. Starving. He fell in with them because it was survival… not loyalty."
"Did he ever say where he was before this?"
She shook her head. "Only that he used to be part of some group out in the Mojave. Said it all went to hell one day, and he never went back. He never really talked about it."
Her voice softened.
"But I knew it hurt him."
I stayed silent, letting the words settle in the dark. I had no doubt she was telling the truth. Lance wasn't just some grunt with a guilty conscience. He was a man trying to survive. Trying to protect the only piece of peace he'd found in this nightmare of a town.
And now, so was I.
She cradled the baby with a mother's instinct—gentle, but guarded. Her gaze didn't waver as she studied me through the dim light and dusty air.
"And you… Casey? What's your story?"
The question hung in the quiet like a broken violin string.
I looked away for a second, ran a hand down my jaw. My voice didn't come right away—not because I didn't want to answer, but because I didn't know how to.
"My story…" I said, voice low, almost thinking aloud.
"...is a few chapters missing."
That got a soft huff from her—not quite a laugh, more like she understood exactly what that meant.
"Aren't they all," she whispered.
I nodded. It was the most honest thing I could say. Whatever the beginning had been, whatever ending was coming—I was still stuck somewhere in the middle, rewriting paragraphs with every step I took.
She didn't push further. Just kept rocking the child, humming some half-remembered melody that probably came from a time before the world went dark.
And I stood there a moment longer… thinking of the holding room… the chems… the caravan… Skinner.
And I stood there a moment longer… thinking of the holding room… the chems… the caravan… Skinner.
Click.
Cold steel kissed the back of my head. A pistol.
I didn't freeze—I breathed. One inhale, sharp and silent. Muscles loosened, not tensed. Ready.
"Turn around," came the voice. Uneasy. Young. Male. But trained. He knew what he was doing… mostly.
I didn't speak. I moved.
A blur. Half a heartbeat. My left hand shot up, fingers closing over the slide of the pistol. I twisted my body to the side, dragging the weapon out of alignment just as my right hand came under—pop—striking his wrist and forcing him to release it. By the time the gun clattered to the ground, I already had him pinned against the wall, forearm across his collarbone, knee pressing into his thigh.
Eyes wide. Mouth open. Recognition blooming fast as panic.
"You Lance?" I asked, low and controlled.
He didn't answer. Just nodded. Shakily.
I stepped back, letting him breathe, picking up the pistol and flipping the safety on.
"Let's talk."
"I'm not here to kill you or Marla."
I kept my voice calm, firm. "You're a good man. I can see it. You want nothing to do with Skinner and his rotten batch."
Lance didn't move, still catching his breath from the takedown. His jaw was clenched, but the panic in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something more human. Protective. He glanced back toward the woman—Marla—who was now gently rocking the baby, her eyes locked on us like a hawk.
I lowered the pistol to my side. Safety still on.
"But I need to know," I continued, "what's your plan for getting out? You can't just hide forever. Skinner's already sniffing your scent. You know he's not going to stop."
Lance rubbed the back of his neck. Looked down. His voice came out low, tight with tension and failure.
"I don't have a plan."
He exhaled, shaking his head.
"I've been stalling. Lying to myself. Telling Marla we'll make it out one night when the guards are drunk or distracted. But Skinner—he's not stupid. He's paranoid. Every day I stay here is another thread pulling tighter around our necks."
"I can give you a way out," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, steady but laced with urgency. "But I need help."
Lance blinked, his brow furrowed.
"I need someone who can trust me…" I took a step closer, meeting his eyes. "But also someone who can fight on their own. Someone with spine and sense. I have a plan to bring Skinner down… and return some form of order to Primm."
I let the words hang for a second, then added, quiet but firm:
"Will you help me in my endeavors?"
Lance stood still, caught between survival instinct and the flicker of something buried—a soldier's purpose. He looked toward Marla, then the baby, then back to me.
Lance exhaled slowly. "What's your plan?"
I shifted slightly, watching his eyes in the dim light. "We find someone else to take the fall. Someone Skinner wouldn't hesitate to shoot if he thought they'd crossed him."
Lance's brow furrowed, but he listened.
"That person becomes the scapegoat—the rat. You stay clear. You keep Marla and the kid safe. We feed Skinner a lie, and once he swallows it, he'll chase it right out of Primm."
Lance narrowed his eyes. "And what? He just walks into a wall and dies?"
"No," I said. "He walks into a hornet's nest. NCR troopers. Hayes and his men. I'll lead Skinner right to them. We'll be ready."
That's when Lance froze. "NCR?"
I met his gaze.
He didn't speak for a moment. His shoulders were rigid now, arms crossed like he was holding something in.
"You want me to trust the NCR," he said, carefully. Not angry—wary.
"I want you to trust me," I answered. "They want Skinner gone. I want Skinner gone. And you want your family free. They've got numbers. They've got firepower. And right now, they're the only ones who'll lift a finger for Primm."
Lance looked away. For a moment, he said nothing.
"They're the reason I ended up here in the first place," he muttered—not to me, but to himself.
I didn't press. Whatever history he had with them… it wasn't simple. There was bitterness in the way he said it—worn, like an old scar that still stung when touched.
But after a moment, his gaze shifted to Marla. Then to the bundle in her arms.
He nodded, quiet. "Alright. I'll help you."
"First off," I said, folding my arms, "do you have anyone you know that can be that scapegoat we need?"
Lance looked up slowly, eyes narrowing in thought. "Someone Skinner wouldn't hesitate to burn if it meant tightening his grip..."
He glanced off to the side, jaw tightening.
"There's a guy—name's Kedge. Twitchy bastard. Never stops sniffing, scratching. Always talking about deals he's making, scores he's pulling behind Skinner's back. I don't even think he's smart enough to realize he's on thin ice."
"You think Skinner already suspects him?"
"I think Skinner keeps him around because he's expendable. A scapegoat without even knowing it." Lance leaned forward. "If you give him the slightest push, Skinner will believe whatever story we feed him."
I nodded slowly. "Good. That's exactly the kind of bait we need."
Lance hesitated. "But if we're really going through with this, I need to know we're not just using this as a quick fix. We get Skinner, we get out. No loose ends."
"No loose ends," I echoed. "When this is over, you walk away free. With Marla. The kid."
He gave a solemn nod, glancing once more at the hidden nook where they rested.
"I'll play my part," he said. "But I'm not dying for the NCR."
"You're not dying," I replied. "You're living for them."