They drifted through the small town of Primm, passing under the shadow of the roller coaster—which looked surprisingly less rusted than Case remembered from the game—and pushed past the old gas station.
The quiet hum of the jeep faded as Case pulled off the cracked asphalt, the tires crunching over gravel and broken glass. He brought the vehicle to a halt under the rusted overhang of the old gas station nestled at the foothills. Ahead, in the distance, he could see the silhouette of the toll station—the spot where, in a decade, two massive bronze statues would clasp hands to commemorate the very treaty being signed today.
Now, however, it was just a lonely, wind-swept pass.
Milla hopped out, her boots hitting the dirt with a solid thud. She looked at the ancient, skeletal pumps, then back at Case with a skeptical brow raised.
"Are we going to fill the car with gas or something?" she asked, leaning against the side of the jeep. She gave one of the pumps a dismissive flick with her fingernail. "It's been a while, Case. And when I said a while, I mean it's been almost three centuries since these things coughed up anything but dust and spiders."
Case climbed out, his eyes scanning the horizon. He knew she was right—the jeep didn't run on gasoline; like most functioning vehicles left in the wasteland, it had been painstakingly converted to run on high-capacity fusion cells or biofuel. But he wasn't here for the pumps.
"I'm not looking for fuel," Case said, walking toward the back of the station where a small, reinforced shed sat partially buried under a drift of sand.
"Then what? A scenic view of the emptiness?" Milla asked, hopping down from the jeep. She reached back into the seat to snag her pump-action shotgun, the weight of the weapon a familiar comfort in her hands. "I see nothing but desert, a few rusted husks of cars heading toward the toll booth, and… well, you know what I'm going to say next, right?"
She pulled her helmet off, letting a cascade of raven-black hair fall over her shoulders. She shook it out, the desert heat momentarily cooling against her skin, before expertly gathering it back and tucking it away.
As she snapped the chin strap back into place, she caught Case's gaze. He wasn't looking at the pumps, and he wasn't looking at the road. He was staring at the station's boarded-up windows, his eyes darting with a mechanical precision as if he were scanning for a thermal signature that shouldn't be there.
"What did you see back on the road?" Milla asked, her voice dropping into a low, tactical whisper.
"Figures. A squad of them in heavy armor, entering this exact station just as we crested the hill," Case said, his voice level. He began a slow, deliberate approach toward the storefront, his service rifle tucked firmly into the pocket of his shoulder. His thumb hovered over the safety, the metal cold against his skin.
"Legion?" Milla's grip tightened on the forend of her shotgun, her knuckles turning white.
"No. The silhouette was too bulky. They look professional, but they aren't wearing NCR brown," Case said, putting his hand on the door knob, and his rifle on the other.
"We're really pushing our luck here, Case," Milla shot back, though the usual humor had evaporated. She shifted to his flank, moving in a low crouch to cover their blind spots. "Case, I wish I had your confidence, but if this is a professional outfit, I doubt we want to mess with them. We might get out of this with nothing but our underwear—or worse. I'd rather not end up dead, or have them do things to me that make a bullet to the brain look like a mercy."
Case didn't answer immediately. His mind raced through the lore of 2271. If they weren't the Republic and they weren't Caesar's scouts, the options were narrow and dangerous. It could be a Brotherhood of Steel patrol out of Hidden Valley, still arrogant and well-equipped before their eventual fall. Or perhaps it was gun-runners or a similar high-end mercenary company doing contract work for the early NCR expansion.
"If they're who I think they are, they aren't raiders," Case whispered, his finger tightening on the trigger. "But they don't like trespassers. Stay on my heels. If the air changes, get behind the jeep and let's get the hell out."
With one swift motion, Case kicked the door inward. The wood splintered, revealing three figures bathed in the dim, dusty light of the interior. These weren't the makeshift scavengers of the Mojave. They were wearing combat armor, reinforced. A few of them wore the thick, modular plating common on the East Coast.
Their hardware was just as intimidating – a plasma rifle hummed with a low green glow, a modified laser rifle was leveled toward the door, and the third figure clutched a Laser RCW.
"FUCKING BROTHERHOOD!" Case shouted, his heart hammering against his ribs. He dove back, slamming his shoulder against the exterior wall to use the doorframe as cover.
"Go! Milla, get to the jeep!" he yelled.
Milla didn't hesitate. She scrambled back, her boots kicking up gravel as she reached the driver's side, the engine already rumbling as she prepared for a fighting retreat.
"Wait! Wait, wait, kid!" a voice boomed from inside. It was gruff but lacked the cold, zealot-like edge of a Brotherhood Paladin, it was coarse, as coarse as Jacob's voice. "We're not Brotherhood! Please, stand down! We're not going to hurt you or anybody!"
"Oh yeah? Why should I trust you?" Case shouted back, his voice echoing under the gas station canopy. "You're dressed for a war and carrying enough energy to melt this whole block! In this desert, that usually means I'm about to be a pile of ash! You're with the brotherhood, aren't you?"
"Look at the insignia, son!" the voice called out. One of the figures stepped into the light of the doorway, but instead of raising the plasma rifle, he slung it over his shoulder. He held his empty hands up, palms out.
The sight of the armor made Case's stomach drop. It was thick, olive-drab plating—reinforced combat gear that looked like it could shrug off 5.56mm rounds like they were pebbles. His service rifle felt like a toy in his hands.On the shoulder was a logo he didn't recognize from any of his playthroughs: a lone pawn set over a shield.
"We're independent security—long-range scouts," the man explained, his voice gravelly but calm. He reached up and unlatched his helmet. As he pulled it off, the harsh desert sun revealed the mottled, scarred flesh of a ghoul. His skin was the color of old parchment, his nose missing, but his eyes were sharp and weary.
"We're just passing through on a contract," the ghoul continued, gesturing vaguely toward the east. "We heard the jeep and thought you were a Legion raiding party. Can we just lower the temperature before someone does something we all regret?"
"Wait... you're not Brotherhood?" Milla asked, her voice skeptical as she slowly lowered the barrel of her pump-action shotgun, though she kept her finger near the trigger guard.
"No. SO—Sentinel Outcomes. We're just contractors, kid," the ghoul said, wiping a thin layer of grime from his forehead.
Case didn't lower his rifle yet. His mind raced through every mod, every piece of obscure lore, and every corner of the Fallout wiki he'd ever read. Sentinel Outcomes? The name didn't ring a bell. In 2271, the Mojave was supposed to be a tug-of-war between the NCR and local tribes. These guys were an anomaly—a "glitch" in his perfect knowledge of the timeline.
"Alright… tell the rest of your guys to put the guns down," Case commanded, his voice steady despite the adrenaline.
"Alright, stow the hardware, fellas," the ghoul called back over his shoulder.
"You sure, Boss?" one of the figures asked, the blue glow of his laser rifle still humming dangerously. "Are we going to risk getting ourselves shot?"
"I said put 'em down. Show some respect, be the adults in the room," the ghoul replied, his tone sharpening. "The kid might get a lucky shot, but let's be honest—we ain't here to meet the locals. And look at the gear. He's a Desert Ranger. You really want a bunch of those old-world survivalist/vets hunting you across the dunes because you couldn't keep your fingers off the triggers?"
The two armored figures hesitated, then clicked their safeties on and lowered their high-tech rifles.
Case finally eased his stance, though he kept the service rifle at a low-ready. He looked at the green, reinforced plating and that strange pawn-over-shield logo.
"Sentinel Outcomes," Case repeated the name, testing it. "You're a long way from home, 'Boss.' Most contractors around here are just raiders with better grammar. You look like you're expecting a full-scale invasion. What's the target?"
"Oh, so now you're offering your help?"
"Maybe…?"
The man stepped forward, closing the distance until he was just outside Case's personal space. He didn't smell like the typical waste-lander—no brahmin dung or stale rot—just the ozone of energy weapons and gun oil. "Name's Joker. Not my real name, but you get the point. We're hunting a bounty."
He paused, glancing at Milla, then back to Case. "I'm not going to give you the fine print, kid, but he's a nasty fellow. One of those types that leaves a trail of bodies just for the fun of watching the flies. Our Intel puts his last known location around Helios One."
"That's Brotherhood territory," Case said, his voice dropping a dangerous octave. He looked at the high-tech rifles the contractors held, then back at Joker's scarred face. "You're hunting a Paladin, aren't you?"
"I'm not saying that I am," Joker replied, his expression unreadable behind his ghoul features. "And I'm not saying I'm not."
Case let out a slow, weary sigh. "Look, whatever you have in mind, if you're hunting the Brotherhood of Steel, you're better off forgetting it. We—the Rangers—prefer to leave the 'Tin Men' to their own devices. They're a hornets' nest you don't want to poke for a few extra caps."
"Oh, but if you help us, kid, I'd say you deserve an equally high reward," Joker countered, his voice smooth despite the gravelly rasp.
"How much?"
"Three thousand caps for the location alone," Joker said, holding up three fingers. "I'll give you a thousand now, upfront. All you have to do is radio me on frequency 150.50 when you spot the target. If he's where you say he is, I'll bring you the rest. If you decide to help us pull the trigger? That's another eight thousand on top. What do you think?"
"Do you have a dossier?" Case asked.
"Here you go, kid," Joker gave the dossier to Case.
Case flipped the dossier open, his eyes scanning the technical readouts and grainy photographs. It confirmed the essentials: the mark was encased in dark T-51b Power Armor, and he was definitely in the perimeter of HELIOS One.
However, as Case's eyes drifted to the affiliation section, he felt a jolt of genuine surprise. The symbol wasn't the gears and sword of the Brotherhood. Instead, it was a stencil of a downward-pointing dagger interlaced with a sharp lightning bolt. Beneath it, the text didn't mention any wasteland faction; it simply listed a designation for a specialized remnants group of the United States Army.
"Former SF?" Case asked, his voice low as he looked up at Joker.
"Sharp kid," Joker remarked, leaning his weight against the rusted gas pump. The metal groaned under the pressure of his combat armor. "Most people in this desert don't even know what 'SF' stands for. The rangers really trained you well, eh?"
"Hmmm, ok, let me think about it first."
"I'll be waiting until night. Contact me through radio."