We had a traitor among us—a stain that needed to be cleansed. Ulysses represented a lingering threat, a reminder that even the finest could stray from the path. But this was not the time to confront him. First, we had something far more urgent to deal with: Elijah.
His potential control over Sierra Madre posed a clear and immediate danger. If he managed to harness the technologies hidden in this place, the consequences would be catastrophic—not just for the Legion, but for the entire Mojave. We decided that once Elijah was eliminated, our next priority would be to investigate the pre-War research facility Christine had mentioned—where Ulysses had once moved in the shadows.
As we continued our sweep of the area, we came across a ghoul. A wretched creature, marked by radiation and age, but still lucid. After deactivating his slave collar—a task that had become almost routine—we began questioning him. What started as conversation quickly turned to interrogation, and then to torture. Ghouls are difficult to break due to their dulled nerves, but it didn't take much. His evasions ceased once he realized we would not stop.
He identified himself as Dean Domino, a former entertainer and long-time inhabitant of Sierra Madre, having survived through sheer persistence—and his condition. According to him, his original plan was to rob Sinclair, the owner of the casino. But things hadn't gone as he expected. Sinclair had uncovered the plot hatched by Dean and his lover, Vera Keyes. Vera's betrayal had driven him to the edge of madness. Blinded by a mix of love and heartbreak, Sinclair had transformed Sierra Madre into a deathtrap, meant to ensnare anyone who sought his fortune.
Cross-referencing Dean's story with data from local terminals, a disturbing truth emerged: Sinclair had designed the vault to only open with Vera Keyes' voice. This explained Christine's throat surgery—they had altered her vocal cords to mimic Vera's perfectly, ensuring she could access the vault when the time came.
With that revelation, our path was clear. Elijah had entrenched himself deep within the Sierra Madre casino, and we would have to cut through a gauntlet of traps, explosives, and horrors to reach him. The humanoid monsters and holograms still haunted every corridor, but we pressed forward. Each step brought us closer to the old man who had unleashed this chaos.
The casino, despite its faded opulence, was a labyrinth of death. Hallways rigged with mines, rooms guarded by hostile holograms, and corridors prowled by abominations in the dark—all of it a constant challenge. But the Legion does not retreat. With our own explosives, improvised tools, and unwavering resolve, we cleared a path through to Elijah's stronghold.
He was not what I expected. Before us stood not a warrior or general, but a man hollowed out by obsession—surrounded by screens, devices, and the remnants of a network he had twisted into his own private arsenal. What he lacked in strength, he made up for in cunning. He had prepared his last stand well.
But the end was near.
Elijah had chosen a monument to betrayal and madness as his fortress. And now, he would face the consequences of his ambition. There would be no redemption. No mercy. Only death.
Dozens of my veterans charged into his final defenses, clad in our Legion's power armor. The metallic thunder of their footsteps and the grinding of their servos echoed like war drums through the casino's halls. They bore the brunt of the assault, pushing through waves of turret fire. Many of the defenses were torn apart by grenade launchers and shaped charges.
The monsters came from the shadows—grotesque, fast, relentless—but they were contained. My men, hardened by far worse campaigns, met them head-on. Every clash was brutal. Blades and fists slammed against thickened hide and exposed bone. Some of the beasts rose again after falling, forcing us to crush their skulls over and over until nothing moved.
But our greatest challenge remained the cursed holograms.
No matter how hard we struck, our weapons passed through them. Only by finding their projectors could we destroy them. Our engineers, working alongside the fastest among us, weaved through enemy fire and collapsing structures, locating and destroying the emitters one by one—snuffing out the deadly phantoms that stalked every chamber.
We advanced room by room, purging the poison Elijah had left behind. Sometimes we were forced back by traps. Other times, the thick smoke of improvised explosives choked the air, forcing my troops to rely solely on filters and instinct to push forward. But we did push forward.
Sierra Madre—this decadent temple of ambition and betrayal—shook beneath the advance of the Legion. Elijah hid at the end of the labyrinth like a cornered rat. We were the fire sent to purge him. It didn't matter how many holograms he unleashed, how many traps he laid, how much gas he vented. It didn't matter if every exit was sealed or if he thought he had planned for everything.
We had come to end what he started—and we would not leave without his head.
With most of the threats neutralized, we pushed through the casino's final corridors. Smoke from shattered projectors still clung to the air, mingling with the metallic stink of crushed humanoids and burnt powder. Each step pounded with the weight of my veterans—power armor stained by battle, visors dusted with ash, but eyes fixed on the end.
At last, we reached what appeared to be the main suite. The faded luxury of the place still clung to the walls—dust-covered furniture, the rotting remains of a long-lost grandeur. This must have once been Sinclair's domain, before madness and betrayal consumed it. The doors were thick, reinforced—no doubt built to withstand a break-in. But this was no military bunker, and we were not tribal raiders.
One order was enough.
Two veteran legionaries, each bearing the imposing weight of power armor, positioned themselves at the entrance. With perfect coordination, they rammed the doors with the full force of their armored bodies. The hinges groaned like breaking bones, and with a sharp crack, the structure gave way. The door crashed to the floor with a dull thud that echoed through the entire level.
And there he was.
The decrepit old man from the Brotherhood of Steel.
Elijah.
Barely a shadow of what might once have been a respected scribe or commander. His face, half-concealed by an unkempt beard, was gaunt. His eyes—still holding a flicker of intelligence—were bloodshot and swollen with obsession. He didn't move when we entered. Not even a flinch at the sound of my men's heavy footsteps drawing near. He was waiting, whether by design or simple resignation.
He was surrounded by glowing screens—monitors displaying every corridor of the casino, the routes we had taken, even images of my fallen soldiers and the monsters he had created or unleashed. Around him buzzed a swarm of makeshift devices and terminals. On his chest, the worn insignia of the Brotherhood of Steel—reduced to a relic of a broken past.
He said nothing. Just stared at us with that mix of resignation and fanaticism that only exists in men who've crossed the line between genius and madness.
I did not give him the luxury of speech.
One movement of my hand was all it took.
A command.
The nearest legionary, without hesitation, drew his machete, raised it with the might of powered armor, and with a single swing, decapitated him. Elijah's head hit the ground with a dull thump, rolling to a stop in front of one of his own monitors—almost as if, even in death, his gaze refused to turn away from his futile creation.
His body collapsed without ceremony, surrounded by the machines he once worshipped. A man who sought to master technology, who dreamed of reshaping the world in his image, reduced to blood and bone on the cold marble floor of a decaying casino.
Silence.
Only the low hum of monitors and the steady breathing of my soldiers behind their visors. One enemy less. One threat removed.
Elijah had built a tomb from the walls of his pride—and now he lay in it.
With Elijah dead, everything began to settle. The traps, the holograms, the gas—all ceased to be constant threats. Sierra Madre remained strange, like a mausoleum, but it no longer tried to kill us at every turn. With the path clear, we turned our focus to what had brought us here in the first place: Sinclair's vault.
After reactivating the elevators and descending to the lower levels, we finally reached the heart of the casino. The vault was real. Immense. Bars of gold stacked like scrap, active terminals, intact equipment, forgotten technology—a fortune. But what interested me was at the back: Sinclair's personal terminal.
I approached and began to sift through the files. Most were maintenance logs, security protocols, irrelevant clutter. But just as I was about to access the personal accounts, a message appeared:
"Are you sure you want to access Sinclair's personal files?"
I froze.
That didn't make sense. This terminal should only have been usable by Sinclair himself. Why prompt the user with such a question? Why ask someone if they wanted to access their own files?
It didn't sit right.
The man who built a fortress of traps for his enemies would certainly leave one final surprise buried in his system. I imagined him typing that message with a crooked smile, waiting for someone careless enough to ignore the warning. Maybe it was paranoia. But after everything I'd seen in this place, I'd learned to trust my instincts.
I left the message alone. We had more than enough with what was already visible.
I returned to my men and gave the order: begin extraction. Gold, technology, supplies—the essentials. I left Sinclair's secrets untouched. He wanted someone to read them. I would not give him that satisfaction.
With most of the location secured, we began the next phase. We brought in more legionaries, cargo units, and technicians. The Sierra Madre casino—once a living trap—became a logistics operation. Every room, every hidden chamber, every corridor was cataloged, dismantled, and emptied. We took everything of value: technology, replication tools, schematics, rare components—even parts from the hologram projectors. Nothing was left behind.
Meanwhile, we began preparing its end.
We packed the lower levels with explosives—elevators, maintenance tunnels, old security rooms—all converted into blast points. We would ensure that no one else could claim what had been built here, and even less, repeat the mistakes of Elijah or Sinclair. This place had been a prison, an obsession, a monument to pre-War decadence.
It did not deserve to endure.
Days passed. The operation was methodical. The final bars of gold were loaded onto makeshift transports, and our engineers ran one last check on the detonation links.
At last, we gave the signal.
From a safe distance outside the facility, we watched as a single spark became a chain of explosions—roaring like the thunder of an ancient storm. The casino trembled. The nearby mountains shook. A column of dust rose into the sky as the Sierra Madre—haunted and hollow—collapsed in on itself.
The secret city vanished in seconds, buried beneath rock and ruin as if it had never existed.
Only we knew the truth. Only the Legion had walked its cursed halls and lived.
Now, what was once a trap for the ambitious was reduced to ash and memory.