The truck rolled down through the empty highway of Nevada. The boy looked outside at the road, only desecrated cars and road remain. He didn't remember this place, nor ever been through it.
"It's getting hot in here, do you think?" Jacob commented, he then took off his helmet, revealing his face.
No, he wasn't human; he was a ghoul. Jacob then nodded his head at the boy, who was confused. He then patted on his head.
"Never saw a ghoul before, boy?" Jacob asked.
The boy just shook his head.
"Thought so. Name's Jacob, in case you haven't noticed. What about you—do you have a name?" Jacob asked again, half-joking and mostly mocking. "Lucius? Markus? What did they even call you, boy?"
The boy only shook his head.
"Hmph. Fine then. I'll just call you Case. Does that work for you?"
The boy nodded. Case. A new name—oddly enough, it fit him. He wondered if this was the moment his life finally turned around, standing here among men dressed in NCR ranger combat armor.
Still, he noticed a few things. They weren't NCR, and they didn't wear NCR insignia—just the same armor style. Their kits weren't standardized either: some carried Assault Carbines, others had repeaters, and a few looked like a cowboy-soldier blend scraped together from whatever the Mojave offered.
And then there was the man in the center, wrapped in full T-51 power armor with a minigun propped casually beside him, who somehow kept his balance on this bouncy ride.
"You're probably wondering who we are," Jacob said. "Let me introduce us. We're the Desert Rangers, protectors of the Mojave, Nevada, and Arizona. I'm Major Jacob, leader of this particular group."
He let that sink in for a moment, then tilted his head toward Case.
"And you, kid… well, today's your lucky day. Not many folks get picked up alive out here. Usually, the moment we walk into a Legion camp, you people are the first ones to end up dead. Good human shields and all."
A ranger cut him off. "Jacob, you're scaring the kid." She stepped forward and gently patted Case on the head. "Name's Amelia. I'm the XO. Nice to see a little boy like you still breathing out here. Sorry—our leader's a bit old."
"Old is an understatement…" Jacob muttered.
"How old are you again?" Amelia asked.
"Two hundred fifty–something," Jacob said with a shrug. "Stopped counting."
"He's as old as dirt," Amelia added.
"Right, that's right," Jacob said. "Been through all of America—"
"And somehow ended up with us," Amelia cut in. "But his experience has been more than useful, for all of us."
The truck rumbled on, continuing its journey across the desert. Sand hissed beneath the tires, the sky washed in pale orange as the sun settled behind distant ridges. Inside, the Rangers fell into a comfortable silence—some dozing, some checking their weapons, others just watching the wasteland roll by.
Case sat wedged between Amelia and a crate of ammunition, the hum of the engine steady under him. Every now and then he glanced at Jacob, the old ghoul staring out the back with an expression that was half boredom, half exhaustion, like he had seen this same stretch of sand for centuries.
The road dipped downward, winding through narrow valleys before opening into the shadow of an ancient structure—massive, monolithic, and scarred by time. It loomed over the landscape like a skeleton of the old world, a relic that would shape battles for years to come. Not a single NCR flag or patrol was in sight.
"Hoover Dam," Amelia said quietly. "It got shut down when the bombs fell. No one's ventured deep inside that old-world maze since."
Jacob huffed. "Used to bring the kids here, back when I lived in Georgia. This place used to be packed—bright lights, tourists, the whole thing. Now it's just another ruin the war forgot to finish."
The truck slowed as they approached a security checkpoint. Rangers stood guard behind sandbags and barricades—figures in familiar armor, armed with heavy machine guns, anti-materiel rifles, and more firepower than most warbands in the Mojave could dream of.
The driver lifted a hand in greeting. One of the guards returned the gesture and signaled for the gate to open. The truck rolled forward.
As they passed through, Case felt something shift in his chest—a quiet, unexpected sense of relief. As if the moment they crossed the line, the danger on the far side of the Arizona River finally let go of him.
"When we get to the camp, let's get you something decent to eat," Jacob said. "I doubt the Legion gives their slaves anything you'd call food."
Case gave a small, uncertain nod. The Legion had fed him—technically. Grit paste, half-burned scraps, whatever they thought a slave could survive on, practically, as long as he didn't die, the Legion wouldn't give a damn.
The truck rumbled over a patch of cracked pavement as they left the checkpoint behind. Ahead, scattered lights glowed against the coming dusk—lamps strung between metal poles, the silhouettes of tents and prefab structures, and the faint movement of Rangers on patrol.
"That's our outpost, an old Farmstead that got abandoned by its owner. It's not much, not even Vegas-quality, but hey, if you need a place to sleep, you couldn't get any better than this place."
Case watched it approach, unsure whether to feel hope or fear.
"You'll be fine, you'll be given shelter and food here," Amelia said quietly, catching his expression.
Jacob grunted. "And chores. Don't forget chores."
Amelia elbowed him. "He's a kid, Jacob. Let him breathe before you start drafting him."
Case wasn't sure if Jacob was joking.
The truck rolled to a stop at the edge of the camp, dust drifting past in the fading light. Voices carried from nearby fires, and the comforting smell of something cooking—actual food—floated in on the breeze.
Amelia hopped down first and held out a hand.
"Come on, Case. Welcome home… at least for now."