Hero
2096: NEW VEGAS
Ghost of New Vegas
Fifty years after the death of the Atomic Bot, New Vegas had survived the apocalypse. But surviving wasn't the same as living.
The city sprawled beneath a freezing night sky, squeezed between towering ruins and half-rebuilt skyscrapers. Neon signs buzzed above streets choked with smoke and refuse. Sleek hovercraft glided between the high-rises, their humming engines drowned out by distant sirens and the sharp, echoing crack of gunfire.
Inside an aging apartment block, a fifteen-year-old boy lay awake in his room.
The space was cramped and cluttered. Posters of antique sci-fi cars lined the walls, and crude weapon models rested on a battered desk.
The boy stared up at the ceiling. His name meant nothing to New Vegas—not yet.
Messy white hair spilled across his forehead, casting shadows over icy blue eyes that held a cold, unnatural sharpness for his age. His face was young, but years in a decaying metropolis had long since carved away his innocence.
On his desk sat a black helmet, a grim white skull painted across the visor. Beside it lay a heavy leather jacket bristling with small metal spikes, an old bulletproof vest, and a pair of polished Desert Eagles. A shotgun leaned against the cracked plaster wall, while a sleek Glock sat well within arm’s reach.
No futuristic plasma cores. No military-grade exosuits. Just heavy lead and cold iron—ordinary weapons in an extraordinary world.
The boy stared at the arsenal as his father’s voice drifted back through his memories:
"Fifty years ago, when humanity was almost wiped out during the Bot War, there was a hero. They said he carried the sun on his finger. They said he punched the moon to pieces. Whenever humanity reached its darkest hour, he was there. He never failed us… until the day he drew his last breath."
The Atomic Bot. A legend from an era when heroes still existed.
The boy turned toward the window. Outside, New Vegas told a harsher truth. Humanity was no longer the dominant force on Earth; bots and extraterrestrial scavengers claimed the rest of the globe, leaving only twenty percent of the human population alive across three habitable
continents.
Governments struggled to keep the lights on, resources were depleted, and society was fracturing. Schools were abandoned.
Hospitals were running on emergency rations.
His own family was drowning. His mother hadn’t received a paycheck in three months, his father’s pension was lost in bureaucratic void, and his older brother, Hank, had marched off to war years ago—never to be heard from again.
The local patrol units claimed to protect the sector, but everyone knew the truth: they were understaffed, underfunded, and hopelessly outgunned. The mythic Paladins had vanished decades ago. There were simply no heroes left.
The boy looked down at his calloused hands. He thought of his mother walking home alone through the dark every night. He thought of the predators prowling the alleys below.
Then, he looked back at the skull.
He had been afraid for a long time. But fear wouldn't keep his family safe.
He stood up.
Tonight, he was making a choice. He was going to become New Vegas’s protector—not out of a desire for glory, and not because he believed he could ever replace the Atomic Bot. He was doing it because he could no longer stand by and watch his world burn.
He pulled the vest tight over his chest, followed by the spiked leather jacket. He strapped the twin Desert Eagles to his waist, slung the shotgun across his back, and chambered a round into the Glock.
Stepping in front of a cracked mirror, he took in his reflection. White hair, piercing blue eyes, black leather, and a skull visor. He looked less like a savior and more like a nightmare.
A faint, sharp smile touched his lips. "Good enough."
He pulled the skull helmet over his face, framing the world in a subtle red HUD, and unlatched the window.
A wave of freezing wind rushed into the room. Below, New Vegas stretched into the gloom—a maze of flickering neon, hovering traffic, and shadowy alleyways.
BANG!
A gunshot sliced through the night air, followed instantly by another.
The boy froze for a fraction of a second, then swung his leg over the sill onto the rusty emergency escape ladder.
CREAAAK.
The metal groaned violently under his boots, swaying over the long drop into the abyss.
"Don't give out on me now," he muttered under his breath.
He descended step by step into the bitter wind. From here, he could see the entirety of the city: the broken spires, the flashing lights, the crowded slums, and the dark, lawless ruins beyond. It was broken, but it was home.
His boots struck the wet pavement of the alley below. The street was quiet, save for a distant, agonizing scream that echoed between the concrete walls.
The boy tightened his grip on the Glock, thumbing off the safety.
He took his first step into the dark. He didn't know what was waiting for him. He didn't know if he would succeed, or if he would even live to see tomorrow's sunrise.
