Urgh… what happened?
A sharp pressure throbbed behind his eyes, like waking up from a nightmare he couldn't remember finishing.
[THE REAL GAME HAS JUST BEGUN]
"What…?"
The words hung there—too clean, too sharp—floating right in front of his vision.
Then it appeared.
A yellow interface, flickering faintly, translucent but unmistakable. Familiar in a way that made his stomach drop. He knew this screen. Knew it too well. The familiar orange, and the signature vault boy.
No.
That wasn't possible. This wasn't a game. It never had been. This world was real—blood, pain, heat, fear. He had drowned. He had bled. People died here.
And yet—
Name: Case
Level: 9
EXP: 7,200 / 22,000
S.P.E.C.I.A.L
Strength: 7
Perception: 4
Endurance: 8
Charisma: 4
Intelligence: 7
Agility: 4
Luck: 12
His breath caught.
"Twelve…?" he whispered.
Luck.
Of course it was Luck.
He tried to reach out—no, will it—to change, to interact, to do something. Nothing happened.
He couldn't assign points.
Couldn't adjust anything.
For some reason, that bothered him more than the interface itself.
"…Figures," he muttered weakly.
Because looking at it now—really looking—he couldn't deny it. The numbers fit. Too well. He'd survived things he shouldn't have. Found help when he shouldn't have. Run through gunfire, explosions, a river that should've killed him.
And yet here he was.
Still alive.
Rescued by the Desert Rangers. Trained. Thrown into hell. Survived again.
Not because he was the strongest.
Not because he was the smartest.
But because something.
His vision blurred for a moment, the interface flickering like it might vanish if he blinked.
"…So this is real," Case whispered. "Or I'm losing my mind."
He pressed (A).
The interface shifted with a soft flicker, sliding to the next screen—only to present the same thing again. The same numbers. The same locked values. No sliders. No prompts. Nothing he could touch or change.
►Energy Weapons: 17
►Guns: 80
►Explosives: 25
►Melee Weapons: 75
►Unarmed: 60
►Barter: 20
►Speech: 17
►Medicine: 50
►Lockpick: 17|
►Repair: 80
►Science: 30|
►Survival: 50
►Sneak: 60
Case stared at it longer than he meant to.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "That tracks."
Guns and repair sat high—no surprise there. Rifles, machine guns, field fixes done under pressure. Keeping weapons running with whatever scrap was available. Making things work because they had to.
Melee. Unarmed. Higher than he liked.
That was the Ranger training. Close quarters. Hand-to-hand drills that didn't stop just because someone hit the dirt. You learned fast, or you learned hurt.
Medicine was higher than he expected—until he remembered how many nights he'd spent patching himself up, or someone else, with shaking hands and half-light. There hadn't always been a medic nearby. Sometimes, he had been the best option.
Lockpick and energy weapons sat low. Science barely scraped past basic competence.
Makes sense, he thought.
Barter and speech were… disappointing.
He snorted quietly. "Guess I'm not much of a talker."
[Perks]
♦ Ranger Toughness: Years of Desert Ranger training and frontline combat have hardened you beyond normal limits. You gain +30% Damage Resistance against all damage sources. When wearing Ranger-styled armor, you also gain +1 to all S.P.E.C.I.A.L. attributes.
♦ VATS-BT: You can voluntarily enter a heightened combat focus state by conscious thought.
While active, time slows significantly, allowing precise targeting and movement. Warning: This ability is sustained by breath control.Remaining in V.A.T.S.–BT too long will cause severe fatigue, oxygen deprivation, and possible loss of consciousness.
♦ Wrong Place, Right Time: You have an uncanny habit of being where you shouldn't be—and surviving it. You gain a small bonus to critical chance, and enemy misfires happen slightly more often around you. However, your life will be much more colorful.
♦ Never Again: You react violently to attempts to control or dominate you. Massive combat bonuses when fighting after intimidation, enslavement attempts, or threats. Any chance of intimidating you will backfire catastrophically.
The list ended there.
The yellow glow hung in his vision for a few seconds longer, then dimmed—like a Pip-Boy screen timing out. The Vault Boy gave a last, cheerful thumbs-up that felt wildly inappropriate, and then the interface folded in on itself and vanished.
Pain.
Case sucked in a sharp breath and immediately regretted it. His chest screamed in protest, lungs burning like he'd inhaled fire. A crushing headache followed, blooming behind his eyes until the world tilted.
"…fuck," he croaked.
He forced his eyes open.
Canvas. Tan, stitched, gently swaying.
A tent.
Where the hell—?
He tried to move and every nerve in his body lit up at once. Bone-deep pain, dull and persistent, like he'd been taken apart and put back together by someone in a hurry. He groaned despite himself.
Something tugged at his face.
He looked down—slowly—and saw a thin tube running into his nose. Feeding tube. His hand twitched and the movement made liquid slosh softly beside him. An IV hung from a metal stand, the bag filled with a faintly glowing pink fluid.
"…great," he muttered.
His throat was dry. His voice sounded wrong—raspy, unfamiliar, like he hadn't used it in days.
He tried to sit up.
Bad idea.
Pain detonated across his ribs and spine, sharp and immediate, white-hot enough to wash his vision out completely. Case gasped and collapsed back onto the cot with a hiss, heart hammering like it wanted out.
"Easy. Easy—don't do that."
A shadow crossed his vision. The tent flap shifted, letting in a narrow stripe of Mojave sunlight.
Amelia stepped into view. No duster. Sleeves rolled up. She looked tired in the way only someone who hadn't slept properly in days could look.
"Well," she said, arms crossed as she looked him over. "Look who finally decided to wake up."
Case blinked at her, eyes struggling to focus.
"…how long?" he croaked.
She raised an eyebrow. "A week."
That hit harder than the pain.
"A… week?" he repeated.
"Six days and change," Amelia corrected flatly. "You went for a swim, took a .308 to the head—entered here," she gestured vaguely toward her own forehead, "exited through your helmet—somehow—then drowned halfway, lost enough blood to make the medics nervous, and decided to sleep through the aftermath."
Case swallowed. The motion sent a spike of pain through his skull.
"…did it work?" he asked.
Amelia's expression shifted—just a fraction. Relief, buried under irritation.
"The guns are gone," she said. "All of them. Legion never fired a shot across the river." A pause. "And Jacob is absolutely furious."
Case let out a slow breath.
Good.
Only then did he notice the weight—or lack of it—on his body. He glanced down.
Bandages. Everywhere. Chest, shoulder, thigh, and head wrapped thick enough to feel like a helmet.
Under the thin blanket—
Nothing.
"…you couldn't have let me wake up with pants on?" he muttered.
Amelia snorted. "Kid, you were in no condition to argue about dignity. Or pants."
Case managed a weak huff of a laugh and instantly regretted it as his ribs screamed in protest.
"So," he said after a moment, staring up at the canvas ceiling. "On a scale of one to dead…?"
"You're alive," Amelia replied. "Which is impressive, considering we had to pull fragments out of your skull."
That made his head throb again.
Memories came back in pieces. Firelight. The river. The fall. Weightlessness.
And then—
Something else.
He frowned slightly.
"…hey," Case said slowly. "Am I… acting weird?"
Amelia studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp and clinical.
"You took a .308 graze to the frontal lobe and cracked your skull on a rock," she said. "I was fairly certain you were dead. Then you started breathing. Then talking. Then, arguing with the medics."
She shook her head.
"I ran your GCS every hour. You never dropped low enough to justify pulling the plug." A pause. "So yes. You're going to be weird. Trust me, the only reason you're still alive is because of the Stimpak that we combine with Med-X and Buffout."
Case closed his eyes.
"…great."
"Rest up, kid, the team is missing you."