The Journey Begins...

The door clicked softly behind me.

The room Trudy gave me wasn't much — just a single bed, a wooden crate for storage, and a small nightstand with a dusty lamp flickering at its lowest setting. But it was mine, for now.

At the foot of the bed, placed neatly in a cloth-lined bundle, lay the pile Sunny mentioned.

I knelt beside it, the familiar scent of oil, leather, and gunpowder rising as I unfolded the cloth. A glint of steel and brass greeted me.

Four weathered 10mm pistols, slides scratched and worn, but the feed ramps looked clean. Reliable. A bit of love and oil and they would bark again like the old days — if I had any idea what the old days were.

Next, a sturdy lever-action shotgun, older make, hammer-worn and lovingly maintained before falling into gang hands. Walnut grip, steel barrel. Could blow a man off his feet with the right shells.

A pair of lightweight armored vests, patched together from NCR surplus and improvised scrap. Functional. Not pretty — but life-saving if worn right.

Then there were two Varmint Rifles — old, scratched, and worn smooth from years of use. The wood stocks were faded, the bolts a little stiff, and the iron sights nicked, but their frames were solid. Functional.

And beneath it all, wrapped in burlap and tied with string: several boxes of ammunition. 9mm, 10mm, .357 — even a handful of shotgun shells.

I sat on the edge of the bed, one round in my hand, slowly turning it over between my fingers.

They gave me this… not because they owed me. Not entirely. But because they trusted me to be the one to hold it. To keep the town safe, if trouble ever came knocking again.

A role I never asked for.

And yet… it felt right.

I looked over to the corner where my Varmint Rifle leaned against the wall — my first real weapon since I woke up in Doc Mitchell's house. I'd cleaned it earlier. The stock was still cracked, and the internals could use a full teardown. But it was a start. A companion, almost.

I laid back slowly, the bed creaking under me, one arm behind my head as my gaze drifted to the ceiling.

There was no rest in the Mojave. Not really.

But there was preparation.

And in that little pile of tools and steel, I saw the beginnings of the man I was meant to become.

I stared at the pile left for me — like a dragon eyeing its freshly gathered hoard. Rifles, pistols, belts of ammo, torn leather armor, and odds and ends scraped off the gangers after the fight. Not exactly a king's treasure, but it was something. Hard-earned. Deserved.

The others didn't take much, Sunny said. Ammunition, mostly. They said the heavy gear, the armor and the real firepower, was better left to me. "You did the heavy lifting," she told me. I guess that was their way of showing respect — or relief that they didn't have to do it themselves.

I looked at the Pip-Boy on my wrist. The Doc said it was pre-war tech, rare, valuable. I hadn't had the time to really poke around in it until recently. Now, though, I felt like I was getting a better feel for it. Like it was made for me. Fit snug on my arm, almost as if it belonged there.

I brought up the inventory screen. Green text blinked softly back at me. One item caught my eye:

[STORE ITEM IN ATOMIC COMPARTMENT? Y/N]

Huh. That's new.

I picked up the Varmint Rifles — scratched stocks, loose barrels, but all in all they were workable. I hovered over the prompt and tapped Y.

With a soft hum and a flash that shimmered like evaporating heat, the rifle vanished. Just like that. Gone, but not lost. Stored.

I blinked. "Well damn… that's convenient."

One by one, I fed the rest into the Pip-Boy. Two pistols, a handful of mags, a couple of frags, pieces of armor folded the best I could. Even a pouch of caps just to see if it'd take currency. It did.

Each time the screen gave me a soft digital chirp and a weight readout:

+5.0 lbs… +2.2 lbs… +6.8 lbs… Total weight: 56.6 lbs/200 lbs.

Not weightless, but I didn't feel burdened. Not like carrying it all in a sack on my back. I gave a small laugh. "Could probably fit a brahmin in here if I wanted to."

I glanced back at the now-empty corner of the room. What was a messy pile minutes ago was now clean floorboards and silence.

This thing on my wrist… it was more than a tool. It was a weapon, a safehouse, maybe even a lifeline. And it made me wonder. Who was I really, to be given something like this?

I sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, easing down slowly, mindful of my shoulder. The pain was dull now — manageable — but still there, like a whisper of everything that happened today.

I laid back, hands behind my head, and stared at the ceiling. The Pip-Boy gave off a low green glow in the dim room, casting faint lines across my arm.

"Whatever you are," I muttered to the device, "you're gonna help me live through this hellhole."

The room was quiet now. Just the soft creak of the wooden walls and the occasional gust of Mojave wind brushing against the windows. My body sank into the mattress like it hadn't felt a bed in weeks — maybe it hadn't.

My shoulder ached, wrapped and stitched thanks to the Doc, and the rest of me felt like someone had rung out every ounce of strength I had. But I was alive. We were alive. And the town? It was quiet too. Peaceful, for now.

I turned onto my side, careful not to press too hard on the wound, and stared at the Pip-Boy's screen glowing faintly on the nightstand. 53.6 pounds of loot in some pre-war miracle device. Still hard to believe.

My thoughts wandered.

Tomorrow. What happens tomorrow?

We'd need to bury—or burn—the rest of the bodies. Say some words maybe, for the dead and for ourselves. Check if the NCR outpost down in Primm was still up and running. Figure out what to do with Cobb. Then maybe… just maybe… I'd get some answers about myself. About why I survived that bullet to the head. Why I had this Pip-Boy. Why I felt like the desert was calling me somewhere far beyond these hills.

But all that could wait.

For now, I let my eyes close. The last thing I remember was the sound of wind against the glass and the weight of tomorrow gently settling on my chest—lighter than today, I hoped.

And then I slept.

…

I woke before the sun fully crested over the mountains — the kind of early morning where the sky glowed dim blue and the desert wind still felt cool on your skin. The aches in my body had dulled into a heavy soreness, but not enough to stop me.

Same routine.

I sat up slowly, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and began the morning exercises. Quiet stretches first, then some push-ups, squats, and breathing drills — ingrained into me like second nature, like someone had wired discipline into my bones. It helped loosen the tightness in my shoulder, at least a little. I finished it all off with a drink of water and a glance at the Pip-Boy.

4:46 AM.

Still early. But today, instead of heading back to the saloon or checking on anyone, I found myself standing on the road just outside of Trudy's. My boots were already turning toward something I'd been meaning to look into — that old, run-down schoolhouse at the edge of town.

I'd passed it before. A sagging roof, walls of half-rotted timber, and faded red paint almost stripped to bare wood. Kindergarten, maybe. Some local place where the town's children once learned letters and numbers — back when Goodsprings had laughter in the mornings instead of gunfire.

There was something about it that tugged at my curiosity. Maybe it was just instinct, or maybe something deeper I couldn't name. I needed to know what lay within those collapsed walls. Supplies? Old tech? Clues?

Or maybe just ghosts.

Either way, I tightened the strap of my shoulder holster, checked the chamber of my 9mm pistol, and made my way across the gravel toward the broken building.

Time to see what the Mojave forgot.

The old schoolhouse door creaked open under my hand, stale air rushing out to greet me. Dust danced lazily in the morning light cutting through the cracked windows. It looked abandoned, alright — desks overturned, papers scattered, blackboards faded with time.

Then I heard them.

Chittering. Skittering.

My eyes adjusted. Big mantises — the Mojave kind — perched like hungry sentries on the broken furniture. Their limbs twitched as they shifted, and among them crawled a few bloated radroaches, antennae flicking, heads twitching.

I tensed.

A quick glance to my Pip-Boy. I could bring out the varmint rifle or even a knife if it came to it. But that'd mean noise — lots of it. Bringing out the item and materializing it is noisy. Not to mention… I didn't exactly feel like turning the start of my morning into a bloodbath.

Quietly, I stepped forward. Careful not to kick any debris, heel to toe. Calm breathing. No sudden moves. Let them think I'm just another piece of junk passing through.

I kept close to the edge of the room, eyes scanning past the mantises and roaches. And then I saw it — a terminal still humming faintly in the back, green text flickering dimly on its dusty screen. Next to it, a safe, welded to the floor and no doubt linked to the system.

A reward for the quiet approach, maybe.

Just a few more feet. No noise. No shooting. No sudden buzzing swarm.

Just hacking a terminal, early morning, bare bones — and bug-filled.

Let's hope I don't sneeze.

As I reached the far corner of the room, careful not to knock anything over, I found myself crouched beside the old teacher's desk where the terminal hummed softly. Faint, flickering — but alive.

What caught my eye first wasn't the keyboard, though. It was the clutter beside it.

Two magazines, dusty but intact.

One was "Programmer's Digest", its cover worn but legible, boasting "Quick Bypasses and Clean Code for Emergency Terminals!" in bold red print. The other looked even older — a Vault-Tec-branded terminal manual, complete with faded diagrams and troubleshooting guides. They must've been used by whoever handled the tech in this place before the bombs dropped.

Lucky find. Very lucky.

I scooped them up with slow fingers, careful not to draw the attention of the oversized insects clicking nearby. These would definitely give me an edge — extra tips, backdoor methods, maybe even insight into whatever was hiding behind that safe's digital lock.

Slipping them into my coat, I turned my attention back to the terminal, my fingers hovering just above the dusty keys.

"Alright, let's see if you still remember your ABCs," I murmured to it.

I settled onto one knee, laying the two finds carefully across the desk. The Vault-Tec Terminal Operations Manual was thick, lined with aging diagrams and notations in both pre-war and corporate shorthand. The Programmer's Digest was more direct — field tricks, system exploits, logic bypasses. Between them, they were a relic hunter's dream.

I flipped through both for several minutes, absorbing as much as I could. They weren't just light reading — they were technical goldmines. Circuit paths, override routines, character buffer tricks, and even a section on "common passkey strings used in public school terminals." I read quickly but thoroughly, connecting new concepts to fragments of knowledge already buried in the back of my mind. It was like flipping a switch I didn't know I had.

Once I was ready, I slid the Digest into my satchel and powered on the terminal. The screen buzzed, green text bleeding through the black like a waking eye:

ROBCO INDUSTRIES (TM) UNIFIED OPERATING SYSTEM

> PLEASE ENTER PASSWORD...

Classic four-attempt firewall, with a string of garbled lines, symbols, and codeword attempts blinking back at me.

But this time... I wasn't fumbling.

My eyes scanned the list with new clarity. Patterns. Duds. Matching character placements. I started eliminating wrong entries by spacing out my guesses with clean logic. The Digest taught me about using bracketed symbols to find and reset failed attempts. A trick hidden in plain sight.

Second try.

Click.

> PASSWORD ACCEPTED

Welcome, Mr. Delaney.

"Gotcha," I whispered, lips tugging into a small grin.

The menu opened up — logs, maintenance requests, even a connected access protocol to the nearby floor safe.

I clicked it.

Safe unlocking... done.

A faint clunk came from my right, behind the desk.

Whatever was inside, it was mine now. And thanks to those magazines... I'd never look at a terminal the same way again.

I glanced over my shoulder, slow and careful.

The radroaches were still nestled in the far corner near an old cabinet, their twitching antennae dipping into what looked like a chewed-up lunchbox from two centuries ago. The mantises, mean-looking things with chitinous forelimbs sharp as kitchen knives, clung lazily to the ceiling beams, bobbing in place like windchimes in a dead air.

No reaction. No shift. They were too busy scavenging or nesting or simply existing to notice the faint click of the safe's release.

Good.

I crouched again and pulled the safe's heavy metal door open, the rusted hinge groaning softly — but not loud enough to disturb the tenants. Inside was the kind of haul that made a man believe in Providence.

One by one, I laid the contents out in front of me:

A small leather pouch filled with pre-war American dollars — at least two dozen pieces, maybe more.

A box of .357 Magnum rounds, still in good condition, with factory stampings visible under the dust.

A well-oiled pre-war revolver, a six-shot with a custom ivory grip and a cylinder that spun smooth as silk. Whoever stored this cared for it.

Two Stimpaks, still sealed. A miracle in this world.

A mint-condition Deputy Badge, real silver, probably for one of the town's long-gone teachers moonlighting as lawkeeper.

And tucked behind it all, a folded letter, yellowed with age, written in a neat, almost sorrowful hand.

I took it all in. This wasn't just loot — this was history. A tiny, dusty time capsule from a people who still had structure, dignity, and hope. All locked away in case someone like me ever came looking.

I slipped the badge and letter into a side pocket of my coat — some things weren't for trading. The revolver found a new home at my hip. Everything else went into the Pip-Boy's inventory slot with a soft beep and a running weight count — nearly ten pounds added, but well worth the load.

I gave the safe one last look before closing it gently.

And then I turned, careful to stay low and quiet, and crept back toward the schoolhouse entrance.

The doorknob was stiff, and as I turned it, the door creaked — loud. Too loud. The kind of sound that cut through silence like a saw through bone.

I froze.

The mantises didn't stir. Still dancing around in their own little insect rituals, creeping along the rafters, rubbing their limbs together like schemers at a poker table.

But the radroaches?

They noticed.

Their antennae twitched. Their bulbous bodies shifted direction. One hissed — or maybe that was just the wind through its carapace — and began skittering toward me, the others slowly following.

Nope.

I pulled the door open just enough to slip through and stepped outside, letting the sun greet my face as I shut the door gently but firmly behind me.

Thunk.

Silence.

I let out a breath. "Thank God," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck.

A morning walk turning into a near-brawl with Mojave critters wasn't how I planned to start the day. But this was the Wasteland — quiet moments didn't come cheap.

I made my way down the road, dust crunching under my boots, the morning still young and the air carrying that dry chill that would burn off by noon. Goodsprings lay ahead, quiet, still a little battered from yesterday, but intact.

The saloon was in view, calm as ever under the rising sun. I remembered the tap in the back room — not much, but the water ran. I'd already bathed last night after the fight, so this morning all I needed was a quick splash, just enough to wake my nerves and wash the desert from my face.

The day was only beginning, and I already had plenty to think about.

The saloon's old door creaked open as I stepped inside, brushing off a light breeze of morning dust from my coat. The place was quieter than usual, but not empty.

"Morning," I muttered to no one in particular—though Trudy was already behind the bar, sipping from a dented tin mug, reading a note in her hand. She gave me a nod, eyes a little tired but awake.

I didn't linger. My room was just as I left it. I peeled off my dusty clothes, the old ones I'd worn since yesterday's fight, and washed up quickly. The water basin was cold, but the splash to my face did more than wake me—it reset me. I dried off with the towel Sunny had left folded on the chair and slipped into fresh clothes from my stash. The weight of the Pip-Boy on my arm was the same, but I stood straighter once I'd buckled my boots. Cleaner. Sharper. Ready.

No sooner had I pulled open the door to my room when I heard her.

"Prometheus," Sunny called, waving me over from across the saloon. She was seated with Trudy at the corner table, a familiar folded note on the table between them.

I walked over, adjusting my coat as I sat.

"Ringo's gone," Sunny said plainly. "Left in the night."

Trudy slid the note toward me. "He said thanks. Said you saved his life and he'd never forget it. Didn't want to wake anyone—just left before dawn, heading north. Crimson Caravan, probably."

I nodded. I wasn't surprised. He got what he came for—safety—and he was smart enough to know when to move on.

There was a moment of silence before Sunny leaned forward, lowering her voice. "That still leaves us with… them."

She didn't need to clarify.

Trudy picked up. "The bodies are still piled up by the shed. We haven't touched them. And… Cobb. He's still there too. Barely breathing. Nobody's gone near him."

They both looked to me.

"What do you think we should do, Prometheus?" Sunny asked, her voice steady, but clearly needing an answer.

I looked past them, through the dusty saloon window where the desert wind was starting to pick up again. The Mojave didn't like lingering decisions. They needed to be made and made fast.

I rubbed the back of my neck, sighing. "There's not a good way to say this."

Trudy and Sunny leaned in slightly.

"The cemetery's too small. You both know that. It was meant for townsfolk—maybe two dozen graves at most. It can't take fifteen Powder Gangers. Not even if we stacked them like kindling."

Trudy grimaced, Sunny stayed quiet.

"We've got two real options," I went on. "We either build a pyre and burn them right outside town—fast, clean, hard to screw up… or we drag 'em up the hill and toss 'em over the ridge near the cemetery. Let the Mojave take them. Coyotes, crows, maybe even a few radscorpions'll do the work for us."

I looked at both of them.

"But the second option means the scent'll draw in more than just scavengers. Could attract geckos. Maybe even a deathclaw if we're unlucky and loud about it."

Trudy stiffened at the word. Sunny's brow furrowed.

"Burning won't smell much better," Sunny said.

"No, but it's faster. Less spread. We do it with enough accelerant, we get it done before the wind turns."

She nodded slowly. Trudy, on the other hand, crossed her arms.

"I don't want their bones mixing with Goodsprings earth," she muttered. "And I don't want them getting a proper burn like our own would. But I'd rather that than having deathclaws sniffing around my saloon."

I met her eyes. "Burning it is then?"

Sunny looked to me. "And Cobb?"

I paused, jaw tightening slightly.

"He's breathing, but not living. Can't feel anything below the waist. Even if we took him to Primm and the NCR took him in, he wouldn't walk again… He'd live, sure, maybe even be patched up. But for what?"

Neither of them answered.

I exhaled through my nose, leaning back in the chair, my fingers tapping the edge of the Pip-Boy. "I'll deal with him. Personally. When it's time."

Sunny nodded. "Alright. We'll start preparing the fuel and wood. If you've got any words to say before it all goes up… now's the time."

I stood, adjusting the strap on my shoulder. "I said everything I needed to yesterday."

I rubbed the back of my neck, sighing. "There's not a good way to say this."

Trudy and Sunny leaned in slightly.

"The cemetery's too small. You both know that. It was meant for townsfolk—maybe two dozen graves at most. It can't take fifteen Powder Gangers. Not even if we stacked them like kindling."

Trudy grimaced, Sunny stayed quiet.

"We've got two real options," I went on. "We either build a pyre and burn them right outside town—fast, clean, hard to screw up… or we drag 'em up the hill and toss 'em over the ridge near the cemetery. Let the Mojave take them. Coyotes, crows, maybe even a few radscorpions'll do the work for us."

I looked at both of them.

"But the second option means the scent'll draw in more than just scavengers. Could attract geckos. Maybe even a deathclaw if we're unlucky and loud about it."

Trudy stiffened at the word. Sunny's brow furrowed.

"Burning won't smell much better," Sunny said.

"No, but it's faster. Less spread. We do it with enough accelerant, we get it done before the wind turns."

She nodded slowly. Trudy, on the other hand, crossed her arms.

"I don't want their bones mixing with Goodsprings earth," she muttered. "And I don't want them getting a proper burn like our own would. But I'd rather that than having Cazadors sniffing around my saloon."

I met her eyes. "Burning it is then?"

Sunny looked to me. "And Cobb?"

I paused, arms crossed. "I've been thinking about that."

They waited.

"I'm heading to Primm anyway. Then South to Nipton, East through whatever's left of the road, and up North to Novac. It's the safest route toward New Vegas. NCR still holds a line through that stretch… I think."

Sunny gave a slight nod.

"I'll drag Cobb with me when I leave," I continued. "Strap him to a wagon if I have to. If the outpost is still standing at Primm, I'll hand him off. Let the Republic decide what to do with him. They want to try him, patch him up, toss him in a cell? Fine. Let it be their burden."

"And if it's not there?" Trudy asked quietly.

I didn't answer at first. My jaw clenched.

"Then I'll leave him in the desert, near the hills. Where the Mojave can judge him better than we ever could."

Neither of them spoke. Sunny just gave a quiet grunt of agreement and stood up.

I rubbed my temples for a second, feeling the morning heat starting to rise through the saloon's old woodwork.

"Oh yeah," I said, looking between Trudy and Sunny. "I forgot to ask. Since it wasn't exactly my priority, what with the whole 'saving the town' thing…" I gave a dry smirk. "But do either of you know anything about the people who murdered me?"

Trudy's eyes widened just slightly.

"A guy in a fancy suit," I continued, voice low. "With him were three thugs, hired muscle he said. That's all Victor told me, and honestly, I'm not satisfied with that."

Sunny glanced at Trudy, who folded her arms.

"Yeah, I remember that bunch," Trudy said. "They came through here, maybe a day before you turned up at Doc Mitchell's. Real loud and obnoxious when they drank here. The man in the suit… he was the one leading the bunch. Asked questions about the roads, supply routes. He paid for a single drink and barely touched it. Looked like the type who didn't belong out here."

"He gave me bad vibes," Sunny added, frowning. "Didn't look like he was here for trading. More like he was hunting something — or someone."

I raised an eyebrow. "And nobody tried to stop them?"

Trudy shook her head. "Didn't give us a reason to. They passed through, stayed for less than an hour. Didn't even spend the night. Next thing we heard, Victor was hauling you to Doc Mitchell's bleeding from the head."

"I figured they were headed south," Sunny said. "Toward Primm maybe, or beyond. NCR patrols don't go that way often — too many powder gangers. Easy road if you don't want to be seen. I did also hear something about them going to Boulder City."

I nodded slowly. "I see. Thanks."

My fingers itched toward my Pip-Boy. Noted, logged, stored in memory. Fancy suit. Primm. Retribution wasn't an if — just a matter of when.

After a few more exchanged words and a sip of warm water from a dented bottle on the counter, I excused myself and stepped out into the growing heat of the Mojave sun. The light was golden, but sharp — already promising another unforgiving day.

I made my way down the dirt path toward the old warehouse. Each step kicked up dust, my boots crunching over scattered debris and tracks from yesterday's skirmish. The calm after the storm had left Goodsprings eerily quiet, but that silence didn't extend to my thoughts.

The door to the warehouse creaked open. Inside, the air was thick and stale, smelling of rust, old wood, and something faintly coppery. And there, slumped in a corner with his back against a support beam, was Cobb.

His face was pale — not from blood loss, but from reality settling in. A man used to giving orders, now reduced to sitting in his own filth, legs limp beneath him. He looked up at me, and his eyes narrowed, but there was no fire behind them. Just resentment — and fear.

"Still breathing," I muttered, almost to myself.

He said nothing. Didn't need to. I didn't come to speak, anyway. I crouched beside him, arms resting on my knees, watching him for a while. He was clearly in pain — not just from the wound, but from the weight of what came next.

"I'm heading south," I finally said, voice level. "Through Primm, Nipton, Novac… on my way to New Vegas."

His eyes flickered. Maybe he'd heard of those places. Maybe he was calculating odds. But I didn't give him the time.

"When I've rested and this town settles, I'll drag your sorry hide with me to the NCR outpost near Primm. Maybe they'll know what to do with you. Maybe not. If the outpost's still standing."

I stood, brushing dust from my hands.

"If it's not…" I let the silence hang for a moment. "Then you're going to meet the Mojave properly — stripped, alone, and unarmed. You'll have the coyotes, geckos, and whatever else wants a bite. The way you led your gang to others? That's how it'll end."

He didn't respond. He didn't have to. His fate was already written — all I had to do was carry it out.

I stepped back into the daylight, closing the door gently behind me. For now, he could stew in the shade.

I had decisions to make and a road to prepare for.

The wind carried the scent of smoke across Goodsprings. I watched the pyres burn from a distance, behind the saloon with Sunny and a few of the other townsfolk. We had stacked the Powder Ganger corpses into a crude but controlled pile, doused them in old lamp oil, and let the flames do what needed doing. There wasn't much said. There didn't need to be. Everyone just watched — some with solemnity, others with bitter satisfaction. Death had knocked on their doors, and they had lived to bury it.

Cobb, still half-conscious and barely moving, had been tied to a stretcher. I wasn't dragging him to hell just yet — but I wasn't going to leave him rotting in a backroom, either. If the NCR had anything resembling justice left, they'd know what to do with him.

After the ashes were done smoldering and the last embers faded into the Mojave air, I made my final rounds.

Trudy stood behind the bar, arms crossed, trying to look strong but clearly a little choked up. I thanked her for her hospitality. She nodded once, then pushed a little bag of dried meat and caps across the bar without a word. I took it with a smile and a soft, "Stay safe out there."

Next was Chet, who had been unusually generous — gave me a few things from his stock "at a discount," which really just meant "on the house." I told him I'd put it to good use.

Easy Pete tipped his hat when I passed. "Reckon you'll do alright, young fella." That was all he said, but it felt like a fatherly blessing.

Then there was Sunny. She met me at the road just before the old gas station. Cheyenne sat quietly by her feet, her tail giving a slow, steady wag. Sunny held a hand out. I took it.

"You got a long road ahead," she said. "Watch your back out there. And if you ever circle back, Goodsprings'll have a drink waitin'."

I smiled. "Thanks. For everything. I mean it."

She hesitated, then quickly stepped forward and hugged me — firm and honest. "You're something else, Prometheus. Don't lose that."

I gave a quiet chuckle as we broke apart. "If I survive Primm, I'll consider that a win."

Behind me, Cobb gave a weak groan from his spot in the cart I rigged to a pair of tired-looking brahmin. He'd stay quiet, unless he wanted me to leave him somewhere between here and the Mojave Outpost.

With one final look back at the town that had brought me back from the grave, I nodded, shifted my pack, and started walking.

The sun was high, and the road to Primm lay dusty and long.

But I had purpose now — and a direction.