Fallout Game Merchant 2.0

Six grinned under his helmet.

"I’d bet that collar of yours was a dud."

Dean gave a bitter laugh, though there was no humor in it.

"Oh, you think Elijah plays fair, huh?"

He said, pacing slowly now that the weight around his neck was gone.

"Dud or not, the threat felt real. And that’s the point, isn’t it? Fear makes a good leash. Better than steel sometimes."

Elijah, having finally reconnected, spoke once more through the speaker of the scrapped collar, his voice crackling with disdain and that cold, composed tone that always hinted impending violence.

"Bzztch! Spare me the dramatics, Dean. You owe your life to my patience, not your usefulness. Bzztch!"

Dean snorted, arms crossed.

"You keep telling yourself that, old man. But we both know you didn’t keep me around out of kindness. You need something—and until you get it, I’m the only one who can dig through this tomb and actually find it."

Elijah was silent for a long moment, and that silence was more telling than any rant.

Kiwi moved closer to Rebecca, her mask unreadable but her hand lightly gripping a Police Pistol now that she was freed. Falco gave a small stretch, his movements loose and ready—like a gunfighter shaking off dust before a duel.

Six studied Dean carefully.

"Come with us. We could use your experience around here... and maybe help you figure out what it is Elijah wants from you so badly."

Dean met his gaze, eyes shadowed but steady.

"You want the truth? Fine. There’s more in this place than gold and pre-war tech. Elijah thinks he’s found a way to rewrite the rules. A stash of prewar technology. Hidden by a signal and code in the Gala Event. But it’s fragmented. And I’m one of the few who know how to pull it out without setting off half the building."

Afton stepped up beside Six, giving Dean a thoughtful glance.

"Then let’s get it before Elijah does."

The speaker buzzed again.

"Bzztch! You’re making a mistake. You think this is about treasure? About revenge? This is evolution. When the Old World burns away, I will be what rises from the ashes. Bzztch!"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"He always did love his monologues."

Six crushed the last scrap of the collar beneath his boot, sparks fizzing briefly before vanishing into the gloom. He gave Dean a half-smirk, eyes glinting with something between respect and amusement.

"Yeah, no shit! He’s your typical Saturday morning cartoon villain."

Six muttered, nodding toward the hallway they’d come from—still echoing with distant groans and the occasional clatter of a Ghost Person’s limb.

"But that’s why I brought my crew to defeat him with the power of friendship."

He turned, signaling the team to move out.

"Let’s see if he likes what comes next."

Dean raised an eyebrow at that, looking around the group. Veronica still flexed her fingers, knuckles popping from the power-fist’s recoil. Boone stood at the ready, eyes sharp, and Rebecca was watching Kiwi and Falco with a mix of disbelief and cautious hope. Raul just lit a cigarette like this was a normal Tuesday.

Dean sighed.

"Well... if this is what teamwork looks like in the Wasteland, I’m either about to regret this or finally cash in a few favors from karma."

Twig grinned and tossed a bent screw in the air.

"Welcome to the club of broken toys that don’t know how to die. Membership benefits include: existential dread, random explosions, and the occasional good hug."

Kiwi, silent as ever, tapped a keypad on a nearby console and handed the device to Six. The screen flickered with a partial map of the Sierra Madre’s lower levels—blinking red markers indicated traps, locked doors, and power relays. Falco added a cracked data chip to it, and the device updated further.

"You’ll want to avoid Sublevel 4."

Falco said, voice low and gritty.

"Elijah’s got automated sentries down there scavenging for whatever’s left of the old vault access codes. Nasty place."

Six slid the map into his pip-boy and looked to the group.

"We press forward. Elijah’s playing scared. That means we’re close."

Veronica cracked her knuckles. "Close to what? Treasure or trauma?"

"Both."

Rebecca muttered, pulling her coat tighter, getting back in her power armor.

"Definitely both."

The corridor ahead beckoned with cold air and flickering lights, and somewhere beyond it, Elijah waited—still watching, still scheming, but now on the defensive.

Six motioned forward.

"Let’s give the old bastard something to really worry about."

And with that, they moved, deeper into the twisted belly of the Sierra Madre.

_______________________________________

Elijah scowled at the monitor, his gloved fingers twitching in irritation as he zoomed in on the grainy feed of Six and his team. They moved with precision—too much coordination, too much control. It wasn’t just luck or brute strength anymore; they were adapting. Worse, they were interfering.

He’d thought everyone was going well when he had two teams, as the second proved they could handle themselves in their fight with the Ghosts. Until the next thing he knew, his former apprentice was with them, and in contemplation, he lost track of them.

He leaned closer, narrowing his eyes. Veronica, his former apprentice, the wild card. Elijah had underestimated just how far the young woman’s ingenuity could take her. If only they were collared, it would have bound them. Though the Ghost People should’ve broken them. And yet, they were still alive... and worse, they’d started freeing others.

"Fools don’t escape the Madre."

Elijah muttered, voice a low rasp laced with fury.

"They don’t."

Elijah’s face twisted in frustrated recognition as he locked eyes with the grainy feed of the first team.

"Of course them."

He growled, dragging his fingers down his face, as if trying to rip the weariness from it.

The camera zoomed in on each of the members.

Maine, ever the walking cybernetic juggernaut arsenal, towered like a war machine in rest mode, his cybernetic limbs flexing even while idle.

Dorio stood beside him, her stance exuding that soldier’s readiness, a woman who had seen too many battlefields and still stepped forward.

Lucy, calm and detached, had already started scanning their surroundings with that piercing Edgerunner sharpness.

Sasha crouched by a terminal, her nimble fingers already halfway through decrypting the Sierra Madre’s ancient code.

Pilar, unpredictable and twitchy... well, he was humming again. That strange, eerie lullaby he always did before a storm.

Then Elijah’s gaze landed on her—another Rebecca, short fuse, big gun, and with a lethal grin. He could see the defiance simmering under the surface. She didn’t kneel when others broke. And for a moment, that cracked something in him.

He slammed a fist onto the console.

"They’ll hold."

He muttered through gritted teeth.

"They have no choice."

He activated the speakers in their chamber.

Bzzt!

"This is your chance."

His voice dripped through the static, distorted and cold.

"Stand at the positions I give you. Do what you’re told, and you may survive. Fail, and the collars on your necks will make that choice for you."

Maine stepped forward, fists clenched.

"You think we’re just gonna play along with your freakshow, old man?"

Elijah didn’t flinch.

"You’ll play... or you’ll die. It’s that simple. The Sierra Madre was never meant for the weak of will. But you—"

He leaned in toward the mic as if peering into their very souls.

"—You have enough steel left in you to last."

He didn’t respond—just glared at the nearest speaker.

Behind him, more systems flared to life. He began coordinating the Gala event from his end: rigging the stage, setting the trap-laden hallways, and aligning the switches to require a perfect sync across both teams.

Because this wasn’t just about unlocking the vault anymore. No, for Elijah, this had become something more personal—a final act of control over the Sierra Madre... and over every soul within it.

And if Six and the others refused to play?

Well. There were always... alternatives.

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