Case returned to duty a few days later, his head still patchy where hair had only just begun to grow back. The scars were hidden for now, tucked beneath bandages and a faint, persistent headache he'd learned to ignore.
Since he was staying on the west side of Colorado, he'd ditched the heavier kit and gone back to the old "plate carrier."
He slung an assault carbine over his shoulder and jingled the keys to one of the jeeps. Before starting it, he popped the hood out of habit—checked the coolant levels, wiped grime off the intake vents, and ran a quick diagnostic on the compact fusion reactor bolted into the frame. Everything read green.
Good.
"Hey, Case," Milla called out from behind him.
He turned just in time to catch her smirk.
"Looking pretty good," she said, eyes flicking to his head. There was sarcasm there—but it didn't quite land like a joke. She snorted, then fell quiet for a moment. Her gaze dropped—not to his head, but to the bandages still visible under his collar.
"…You didn't have to do that," she said.
Case shrugged carefully. "Yeah. I did."
She met his eyes this time. No humor now. "You ran half the Legion across open ground so I could plant those charges. You know that, right?"
"I know," he said. "That was the plan."
Milla exhaled slowly, jaw tight. "You're an idiot."
"Also true."
He started the engine. The reactor purred to life.
"C'mon," Case said, nodding toward the passenger side. "Hop in. We've got a supply run."
Milla raised an eyebrow. "Where to?"
"Small town west of here—Goodsprings. Ever been?"
She smirked. "Once or twice."
"Good," he said, easing the jeep into gear. "They've got some gecko problems that need dealing with. Figured we could help out. It's not much, but it's honest work. Besides, we might be able to meet with the town figure one or two, and probably get some drinks for the Farmstead."
Milla settled into the seat, glancing out at the open road. "So… a little R&R, then?"
Case allowed himself a thin smile as the jeep lurched forward. The rhythmic hum of the engine filled the cabin, a steady backdrop to the desolate landscape. The road was a mess of buckled asphalt and potholes, but it was quiet—and more importantly, it was free of the Legion.
The rangers were mobilizing in force this time. They had secured every inch of the long stretch between Nipton and Camp Searchlight, operating under a strict new doctrine: absolute denial of any insurgency west of the Colorado River.
Every few miles, the horizon was broken by the silhouettes of armored vehicles and the occasional pre-war tank. These iron giants acted as mobile checkpoints, their crews meticulously vetting travelers to ensure no Legion frumentarii slipped through the cracks.
Central Command had finally moved the heavy guns toward the ridgeline. The goal was simple: direct battery fire—and more importantly, counter-battery fire—to suppress the eastern bank. Freshly established Ranger stations peered across the water like hawks, their optics fixed on any movement in the shadows of the Canyons.
As the jeep slowed for a security checkpoint, Case didn't need to say much. His uniform and a few brief answers were enough to clear them. Despite the overwhelming show of force, the air felt heavy. Everyone was tense.
After passing through the checkpoint, a decrepit highway rest area between Nipton and the gas station at the three-way junction, Milla broke the silence.
"Case?" Milla's voice broke the silence.
"Yeah? What's on your mind?" Case replied, his eyes never leaving the shimmering heat of the empty desert.
"Do you think the Desert Rangers will actually be folded into the NCR? You know, in exchange for the support?"
Case paused. From a lore perspective, the answer was an absolute certainty. The Ranger Unification Treaty was slated for this year; like it or not, the independent Desert Rangers were about to become a branch of the Republic's military machine.
"Sadly, yes," Case said. "But look at the map. If we don't cooperate—if we try to fight a war on two fronts—it'll be the end of us. Let's be honest, Milla: we're barely two thousand strong, even counting CentCom. Caesar can drum up that many bodies in a single night. If it weren't for our training and this equipment, you'd probably be wearing an explosive collar right now."
"So, there's no way we can be independent anymore, huh?" Milla asked.
Case sighed, the weight of the coming transition settling in. At their core, the Desert Rangers were less a government and more a glorified, heavily armed neighborhood watch. They didn't collect taxes, they didn't pave roads, and they didn't play at statecraft. They were a volunteer force held together by a shared creed, scouring for supplies and surviving on the goodwill—or the desperate gratitude—of the settlements they protected.
Their true strength, however, lay in their pragmatism. The Rangers didn't care about your pedigree. It didn't matter if you were a ghoul, a Super Mutant, or a stray veteran from the Enclave, the Brotherhood, or even the Master's old army. If you had the skill to maintain pre-war hardware and the stomach to use it for the protection of the wastes, there was a place for you.
They were a brotherhood of outcasts, self-sufficient only in their ability to scrounge for food and keep their rifles clean. But in a world of rising empires like the NCR and the Legion, "bravery" and "old-world tech" were no longer enough to keep the lights on. Their logistics were a nightmare; they relied on whatever ammo they could trade for with the Gun Runners or pull from the rusted guts of pre-war bunkers.
The Rangers had once held a functional ammunition factory north of Vegas, but the Mojave's many predators knew exactly where to strike. The local raider gangs—the Boot Kickers and the Great Khans—had realized that the Rangers were only as dangerous as their supply lines. After countless bloody skirmishes, the machinery was left broken beyond repair. No one with the brains to fix it was brave enough to set foot in the ruins, and no one brave enough to go there had the technical skill to bring the assembly lines back to life.
"I'm afraid our days of bravado are over, Milla," Case said, his voice dropping an octave. "Like it or not, we need them more than they need us. We have our pride, a few tanks, and some armored scouts, but the NCR has an industrial machine. They have the numbers, the logistics, and the Vertibirds. We might not be 'Desert Rangers' much longer, but at least we'll be alive."
Milla stared out at the passing dunes, the reality of his words sinking in. "Yeah," she whispered. "I guess survival has a price."
"Hmph," Case grunted, shifting gears as the jeep climbed a low rise. "Truth be told, I think the NCR is just going to waste us. We'll be buried under their bureaucracy. Honestly, we'd be better off as external contractors than as their pawns."
Milla tilted her head, looking at him with a puzzled expression. "You mean...?"
"Mercenaries," Case clarified. "High-end mercenaries. Think about it: we have advanced military training, we have the hardware, and we know how to use it. More importantly, we aren't afraid to get our hands dirty. I don't doubt for a second that a lot of our people would rather work alongside the NCR for a paycheck than work for them under a desk."
Milla looked out at the shimmering horizon, considering the thought. "Hmm. Fair point," she conceded. "But we'd be selling our souls in the process, wouldn't we? Trading the badge for a bottle of caps."
"I think we sell our souls the moment we sign that treaty and put on their bear-stamped collars anyway," Case replied grimly.
Milla went quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Fair point."
"Goodsprings ahead," Case announced, breaking the heavy silence.
The town sign appeared - old metal, peeling at the edges. Just off I-15, hidden by desert folds, Goodsprings held stillness like it meant to keep it. The General Store loomed sideways, planks warped from sun and time, holding memories more than supplies. Across the way, the Prospector Saloon pulsed faint light through cracked glass, buzzing like something half-alive. Up ahead, the old schoolhouse crouched on the hillside, windows blank, seeing everything without saying a word.
It had flaws. Fences sagged sideways, stripped of color years ago, while gusts dragged whispers of dried dung and earth across cracked soil. Case felt a bit of nostalgia here, in one way or another, maybe because he used to play New Vegas all the time.
"Alright, let me park the car, then we'll get out."