Ignacio thought back on the path that he'd taken to the end.
Reinforcements that never came. Rumors whispered in the corridors about the Legion having reached as far as Nipton, that another battle for Hoover Dam loomed. The New Vegas monorail explosively derailing, cutting off Camp McCarren from vital supplies.
Requests, more urgent each time, for progress updates at HELIOS One. Brotherhood Scouts being found dead not a mile away, proof that something more dangerous than power armor was right outside their doors. Trickling desertion as the plant grew emptier each day.
The sky burned in his nightmares; he hadn't slept well since the day he'd arrived.
A Mohave Express courier who'd given him news of the Old Mormon Fort's destruction with such genuine misery that he'd known it was the truth. He'd seen something in her, sharp eyes and a shared kinship with the Followers, had told her about ARCHIMEDES like she might be the answer to his prayers. She'd given him the power to decide.
If a single person could bypass the defense system, it was foolish to believe that any software attempts to disable the weapons could have lasting effectiveness. The old world's destruction reached through time.
Finally, the news had come that New Vegas had fallen to the Legion.
Ignacio thought of all that being a Follower had given him. The best decade of his life training and teaching out in the Boneyard. Knowledge about his own capacity to feel such faith for his fellow brothers and sisters, tempered by relentless pragmatism in every struggle to protect them. It had even given him a brief moment of being loved. The moment had ended with a struggle for reciprocity, a door being closed by someone who knew how close being loved was to being known.
He sounded the alarms and reengaged the turrets. Enough time that perhaps some might flee, but not enough time for anyone to plausibly stop him if they figured out what he meant to do. He tried to ignore the awful sound as he worked. There could not be any mistakes.
He felt ridiculous for wondering what type of legacy he might have among the Followers. Would he simply be forgotten, another casualty of the war that never ended? Would they scorn him? Or would they understand that the choice had always been inevitable? Could this have been what they'd envisioned when sending him with the order to do everything in his power?
Mostly, he hoped that he would make one speck of fucking difference in the end.
He remembered the day he'd realized that he had far less Med-X than his mother had weeks of suffering left in her. Med-X that other people who might live needed too. He'd been nineteen or twenty, which felt so distant now, had done exactly what was necessary.
He knew what needed to be done now too, tried to tell himself that this sacrifice was no greater. It didn't still his trembling hands or help the feeling of having the floor dropped out from underneath him any. He'd once imagined that he might feel brave if such a moment ever came, emboldened with some sense of determination or purpose. It was some comfort that the terror he now felt was entirely private.
Each step was heavy, as though a solution better than any of the dozens he'd thought of before would suddenly appear in extremis.
He closed his eyes and tried to draw up reserve from radiant memories of being known.
He imagined that there might be an open door waiting for him.
HELIOS One was rendered safe.