"Goodsprings... it's been a long time," Case murmured, his grip loosening slightly on the steering wheel as the jeep's tires transitioned from the cracked highway to the packed dirt of the town's main drag.
Milla glanced over at him, one eyebrow raised. "What? You've been here more than once, right?"
"Yeah, several months ago, if I recall," Case said, his eyes scanning the familiar weathered storefronts. "We did a supply run—bought some surplus ammo from Chet, grabbed a drink at the Saloon. Well, I was mostly accompanying Jacob, to be exact. He had a thing for the local sarsaparilla and a penchant for gambling away his meager pay at the caravan tables. He said, I'm his lucky charm."
The jeep slowed as they passed the watering trough. A few bighorners lowed in their pens nearby, the sound lazy and domestic. For a moment, the heavy military hardware they were driving felt out of place, a violent intrusion into a town that seemed to have forgotten the world was ending.
"Back then," Case added, his voice trailing off, "the biggest threat we worried about was a stray coyote or a mantis in the cellar."
Case parked the jeep near the side of the road, the engine giving one final, shuddering gasp before falling silent. The sudden quiet of the town pressed in on them, broken only by the distant chime of the wind chimes on a nearby porch. He stepped out, his boots crunching against the dry, sun-baked earth, and adjusted his gear.
"Stay with the rig," Case said, though it was more of a suggestion than an order. Milla leaned back against the seat, pulling her hat over her eyes to shield them from the midday glare.
Case turned toward the General Store. The building was a sturdy relic of the old world, its wooden porch groaning slightly as he stepped up onto the planks. He pushed the door open, triggering a small bell that announced his arrival with a tinny, cheerful ring that felt at odds with the heavy mood he'd carried from the road.
Inside, the air was cooler, smelling of dry grain, gun oil, and old leather. Chet was behind the counter, leaning over a ledger with the same bored expression Case remembered from months ago. He looked up, his eyes traveling over Case's uniform—noticing the quality of the gear and the weight of the man wearing it—before settling on his face.
"The name's Case," he replied, resting a hand on the counter. "The settlement put in a request for help through one of our liaisons. I'm here to follow up."
Chet leaned back, scratching his chin as he looked Case over. "Right, the request. Honestly, it's just some small geckos up on the ridge. Doubt it's anything a man in your gear can't handle. I told Jacob I'd hook him up with some extra ammo for the trouble—5.56, bulk—if he cleared them out. You know how it is, with the Mojave getting more dangerous, more merchants coming through, and—"
"I get it, Chet," Case interrupted, cutting through the man's sales pitch. "That's alright. We'll take care of the geckos for you. Just have the ammo ready for when we get back. We'll pay the standard rate."
Chet gave a sharp, appreciative nod, already reaching under the counter for a ledger. "Fair enough. They're up near the springs. You can't miss 'em—they've been bolder lately, snapping at anyone trying to get a clean bucket of water. If you clear the pack, consider the ammo reserved."
Case turned to head back to the door, the bell chiming again as he stepped back out into the blistering heat. He had a job to do, a simple one for once, but in the back of his mind, he knew even a "simple" gecko hunt was just another distraction before the NCR and the Legion finally collided.
"So, how's the job?" Milla asked, leaning off the side of the jeep as Case approached.
"A trap," Case said flatly. He reached into the back of the vehicle, his fingers locking around the familiar cold steel of his Service Rifle.
Milla jumped down from the passenger seat, her pump-action shotgun already gripped in her hands. She scratched her head, a look of genuine confusion crossing her face. "A trap? What, like an ambush?"
Case didn't slow down. He began the steady trek uphill toward the sound of the bubbling springs, his boots kicking up small puffs of red dust. "Worse. A sales pitch. That merchant just wants to offload his surplus bulk ammo, and he's offering us a 'discount' in exchange for doing his pest control."
Milla hiked the shotgun over her shoulder, scowling as she matched his stride. "What an ass. We're driving military hardware across the desert, and he's treating us like hired exterminators?"
"Ah, well," Case added, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, "once we're done with the lizards, you might be able to be a bit more... persuasive when it comes to the final price."
Milla racked a shell into the chamber with a satisfying, metallic clack-clack. "I like the sound of that."
As they crested the first ridge, the scenery shifted. The scorched brush gave way to patches of stubborn greenery where the water seeped through the limestone. Case took his position high on the overlook, the vantage point giving him a clear line of sight over the entire basin.
"Milla, the usual," Case directed, dropping into a crouch. "You head down; I've got your back."
"Classic sniper," Milla muttered, though there was no real bite to it as she began her descent, her grip tightening on the shotgun.
Below them, several geckos were huddled around the rusted water pump. They were small, young ones—fragile enough that a single well-placed round would be overkill. Without further ado, Case squeezed the trigger of his service rifle.
The 5.56 round punched through the first gecko's thin hide with surgical precision, shattering its skull and dropping it instantly. Case didn't hesitate. He shifted his aim, lead the second target by a hair, and fired again. Another clean hit; another gecko slumped into the red dirt.
"Are you planning on taking all the targets before I even get there, Case? Not funny," Milla's voice crackled over the short-range radio.
"Hahaha—" Case started to laugh, his eye already finding the next target.
This one was further out, darting toward the rocks. Case steadied his breathing, slowing his heart rate as he prepared to lead the shot. He centered the crosshairs on the creature's head. But as he began to squeeze the trigger, the world... glitched.
The gecko suddenly drifted upward, its legs flailing in mid-air as if gravity had simply forgotten it existed. Case blinked, but the sight didn't change. Even more disturbing was Milla—through the scope, he saw her frozen in a slow-motion stride, her boot hovering inches above the ground, moving with the agonizing lethality of a dream. He held his breath, the silence of the desert suddenly feeling vacuum-sealed and heavy. He pulled the trigger anyway.
He exhaled, shaking his head to clear the fog. As soon as he released his breath, the world snapped back into focus. The wind returned, the dust swirled, and the remaining geckos scurried at a normal pace.
What the hell was that?
He experimented. He peered back through the sights, found a target, and intentionally held his breath again. Immediately, the world dipped into a thick, syrupy crawl. Time didn't just slow down; it nearly ground to a halt. He exhaled sharply, and the desert's rhythm resumed instantly.
Oddballs, he thought, a cold sweat pricking at his forehead.
It clicked. This was his new ability manifesting—VATS-BT. In the old records of the first and second Fallout games, VATS had been a tactical pause, a way to calculate odds. But this? This was Bullet Time. In a world where every bullet counted and every raider had a lucky shot, having the ability to perceive the world in slow motion was more than just a tactical advantage. It was a goddamn hack.
He lowered the rifle and tried to hold his breath again while just staring at the horizon. Nothing happened. The wind continued to blow at its usual speed, and the heat shimmer danced across the rocks without interruption.
He frowned, his mind racing. It seemed the system was intuitive—or perhaps tied to his adrenaline. It only triggered when the intent of combat was present, or maybe the "interface" simply knew when he was engaging a target. It didn't activate for a scenic view; it activated when he was ready to kill.
"Case? You still with me up there?" Milla's voice crackled through the air. She was standing over the mangled carcass of a gecko, her shotgun resting in the crook of her arm as she squinted up at the ridge. "Are you daydreaming or what?"
"Yeah," Case called back, his voice sounding tighter than he intended. He wiped a hand across his brow, his heart still hammering against his ribs from the sheer wrongness of the time-dilation. "Just... checking the wind. Finish 'em off, Milla. I've got your six."
Milla let out a skeptical huff that carried even at this distance. "You seemed gone for a second there—just staring into the breeze while the world passed you by. C'mon, we've still got the second well to clear. Cover me."
She turned and began a low-crouched sprint toward the next cluster of rocks where the water pump hissed. Case didn't answer this time. He just pressed his cheek back against the stock of the Service Rifle.
If it's a hack, I might as well use it, he thought.
He tracked Milla's movement through the scope, his finger hovering over the trigger. As she rounded a massive, sun-bleached boulder, the situation turned lethal. Two larger, more aggressive Fire Geckos—their skin a mottled, burnt gray—leaped from the shadows of a rocky crevice. Milla pivoted, her shotgun coming up instinctively, but even with her Ranger reflexes, she was a fraction of a second too slow for the ambush.
Case pulled the trigger six times in quick succession. The first three shattered the skull of the lead gecko, while the final three stitched a perfect line through the eyes of the second. He released his breath.
Crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack!
Time slammed back into gear. The six shots sounded like a single, continuous burst of thunder. Both Fire Geckos were jerked backward as if hit by an invisible truck, their bodies collapsing into the dirt before they could even land their jump.
Milla stood frozen, her finger still hovering over the trigger. She stared at the twitching, orange-skinned corpses, then slowly looked up at Case.
"Okay… Case," she started, lowering her shotgun and wiping a smear of dust from her cheek. "I know you're a marksman, but I didn't see that talent back on the other side of the Colorado. Did one of those Legion bullets do something to your brain? You were moving like a ghost."
"Nah," Case replied, slinging his rifle over his shoulder with a casual shrug. "It's just pure, untapped talent. Maybe the Mojave air just agrees with me."
He looked toward the third well, seeing the last of the smaller geckos scurrying away into the rocks, terrified by the sudden thunder of his shots. The ridge was quiet again, the water pumps finally free of the gecko infestation. The citizens of Goodsprings wouldn't have anything to worry about—at least, not until the next group of raiders came knocking.
"Sure, 'talent.' Next, you'll be telling me you can see through walls," Milla joked, though she kept a curious eye on him as they began the walk back down the dusty trail toward the town.
"Let's just get back to Chet," Case said, glancing at the General Store in the distance. "I want to see you put those argumentation skills to use. If we're doing pest control, I expect more than just a 'pat on the back' discount. Make him sweat a little."
Milla smirked, her shotgun resting comfortably against her shoulder. "Oh, don't worry. By the time I'm done with him, he'll be thanking us for the privilege of giving us that ammo for free. Or close to it."