The drive back to the Farmstead was drowned in a heavy, contemplative silence. The only sound was the rhythmic rattling of five thousand rounds of brass and lead shifting in the back of the jeep. Milla sat rigid in the passenger seat, staring out at the blurred horizon of the Mojave, her mind clearly reeling from the encounter. Case, meanwhile, kept his hands steady on the wheel, but his thoughts were a chaotic web of maps, lore, and moral math.
The pay was undeniable. Between the ammo in the back and the bag of caps at his hip, they had just secured enough supply for approximately a month. In an era where 5.56mm was often traded like and Anti-Materiel Rifle rounds were painstakingly hand-loaded in smoky garages, Milla's persuation was a strategical advantage.
Yet, a cold knot formed in his stomach. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just stepped into a "quest" that wasn't supposed to exist.
"Case," Milla said finally, her voice small against the wind. "What do you think?"
Case tightened his grip on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the dirt road stretching toward the horizon. "The pay is good, Milla. And it's for us, not for me only. With that kind of money, we can keep the Legion off our backs a lot longer. At least until the NCR backup finally arrives and they hold the Dam for good."
Milla looked at the crates behind them, then back at his profile. "You're talking like you've already seen the bill for the next ten years. We've seen the Legion when they get serious, Case. If the NCR doesn't fully commit—and we both know they're dragging their feet—there's no guarantee this place will hold. Not the Dam, and not the Farmstead."
She shifted in her seat, the worn leather creaking under her weight. "But that's not what I'm asking, Case. We're Rangers. Not mercenaries. We take oaths. We protect people. We don't sell out coordinates of lone soldiers to ghouls in high-tech armor just because the price is right."
"The Rangers are starving, Milla," Case answered, his voice tight but steady. "This is a bounty, nothing more. It's not like we're being asked to turn our guns on our own people. As far as I'm concerned, I'd rather play mercenary for a week than sit back and let Caesar cross that river because we couldn't afford the brass to stop him."
Milla went quiet for a moment, watching the rugged landscape of the Mojave slide past. The disappointment in her eyes softened into a weary kind of acceptance.
"I see your point," she said softly. She reached over, briefly resting a hand on his shoulder before pulling it back. "Well, Case, I'll be right behind you if you need me. You, me, the senior Rangers—we don't always see eye-to-eye on how to survive out here. But to me, you're a good friend. An important one. It would be a loss for all of us to lose our best initiate because he tried to carry the weight of the whole ranger by himself."
"I'm not planning on going anywhere, Milla," Case said as the Farmstead gates finally swung open. "I'm just planning on making sure we have enough bullets to make anyone who comes for us regret it."
As the jeep rolled into the center of the compound, a tall, scarred man in a weathered duster stepped off the porch of the main tent. It was Jacob, the old ranger ghoul. His recessed eyes were already fixed on the crates in the back of the vehicle, calculating the weight and the caliber with a veteran's instinct.
"Boy, that's a hell of a lot of ammo you got there. Are you planning a one-man offensive again?" Jacob called out, his voice half-serious, mostly joking. He walked a slow circle around the jeep, whistling through his teeth as he looked at Milla. "And look at you, girl. Not a scratch on you, and you're hauling enough brass to arm a battalion. I'm impressed. I didn't think the kid could keep you out of trouble long enough to find a haul like this."
"A little bit of persuasion from this pretty face, and everyone would fall in line," Milla said, wiping a smudge of grease from her cheek, though she shot Case a wary glance.
"I can see that. It looks like you brought half of an NCR armory home with you," Jacob added, his humor fading into a sharp, inquisitive edge. "Care to explain where a simple scouting run picks up five thousand rounds of 5.56?"
"Something something about the merchant scammed us to help him for free, and we persuaded him, don't worry, we didn't kill anyone in the process, we just gave him a verbal reason to give them," Milla replied.
"Hot damn, good one, kid. Sure, not everyone is going to like your method, but this is a good start."
Case climbed out of the driver's seat, his face unreadable. "Jacob, walk with me. One-on-one."
The old ghoul raised a hairless brow, but he followed as Case led him away from the bustle of the compound, heading toward a quiet ridge overlooking the Mojave. The wind howled through the rocks, ensuring no eavesdroppers would catch their words.
It was quiet—too quiet. Gunfire wouldn't even make people look twice out here; live-fire training was routine. If there was anywhere to talk about a mercenary company without drawing attention, this was it.
Jacob let out a raspy chuckle, flicking a match with his thumbnail and lighting a worn, hand-rolled cigarette. "What's this about, kid? You dragging me out here for a father-and-son talk? Or are you finally fed up with my mystery stew and planning to bury me in the sand?"
"No, not that," Case said, keeping his voice low. "We ran into a band of mercenaries calling themselves Sentinel Outcomes."
Jacob nodded once, his expression flattening as he leaned back against a sun-bleached boulder. He didn't comment, just took a long, unhurried drag from his cigarette, the tip flaring orange in the fading light.
"I see. And what's so special about this lot?" he said. "I noticed the heavy bag of bottlecaps on your hip—and the haul in the jeep wasn't free. What'd you agree to, son?"
"It's complex."
"Well, shit, boy." Jacob grinned, but his eyes stayed sharp. "If the contract's to kill us all, then we're in deeper manure than I thought."
"No, it's not that. I agreed to help 'em with a bounty. A fellow in power armor hunkered down near Helios One."
Jacob's relaxed posture vanished instantly. He opened his eyes wide, glaring at Case as if the boy had suddenly grown a second, stupider head. "You're agreein' to kill a Brotherhood of Steel Knight? Or worse, a Paladin?" He shook his head, the humor gone. "Case, you'll be dead before you even smell the ozone. Look, we have tanks and APCs, but that doesn't mean we can go toe-to-toe with them."
"No, it's not the Brotherhood. It's someone else. Take a look." Case reached into his vest and handed Jacob the folded dossier—the brief on the target.
Jacob took it with a skeptical grunt, squinting at the grainy, long-distance photograph. As his eyes tracked over the downward-pointing dagger and the spade etched onto the thick, oxidized shoulder plate of the suit, the color seemed to drain from his already grey, mottled skin. Jacob just gave a nod, then stared straight at Case's eyes.
"Hmm. A Special Forces unit, it seems. The dagger... and that spade," Jacob muttered, his voice losing its playful edge and turning into something cold and hollow. He looked up at Case, and for the first time, the old ghoul looked genuinely shaken.
"You'll be more dead than dead then, kid. You know me. You know I'm likely the most dangerous man on this entire farmstead, and I don't say that to brag—it's just the bloody fact of how I was built." He tapped a thick, ropy scar on his neck. "Me? I was with the 75th Ranger Regiment. I was the hammer they used to break doors down back in the old world. But these boys?"
He jabbed a rough, calloused finger at the spade emblem on the paper, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper.
"This is the emblem for the 1st SFG, 4th Battalion. These were the scalpels, Case. If this fella is the original owner of that armor, you aren't hunting a man—you're hunting a ghost that was trained to dismantle entire governments before breakfast. We, the 75th Rangers, we were tough, sure. We were the boots on the ground. But the 1st SFG? They were the ones the Army sent in when they didn't want a single soul left alive to tell the tale. If he's still kickin' in that T-51b after two centuries, it's because the Reaper is too damn scared to tap him on the shoulder."
Jacob handed the paper back, his movements uncharacteristically slow. "You take a shot at a man like that, Case, and you better hope your first bullet is a miracle. Because he won't give you a chance to fire a second."
Case looked back at the grainy photo in the dossier, squinting at the details he'd missed in the heat of the gas station. Now, with Jacob's grim commentary, the silhouette became terrifying. The figure wasn't just wearing the apex of pre-war protection; he was carrying a payload that could level a block.
The bounty was carrying a Gatling Laser. Worse of all, slung across the back of that thick green plating was the long, unmistakable magnetic coil-barrel of a Gauss Rifle.
"He's right on the edge of the Brotherhood's projected patrol routes. Within spittin' distance of HELIOS One." Jacob sucked in a breath through his teeth, the smoke from his cigarette curling around his scarred face. "You know the Brotherhood. They see a piece of tech like a T-51b or a Gauss Rifle, they don't ask for a permit. They will take it, just like they demand our 'APC'."
Jacob turned to Case, his expression dead serious. "You're talking about hunting a man who treats a Brotherhood strike team like a warm-up exercise. That Gatling laser will turn our jeep into a colander before you can put it in reverse, and that Gauss rifle? It'll put a slug through a foot of reinforced concrete and still have enough heat to cook the man hiding behind it."
Case felt the weight of the 1,000 caps in his pocket. It felt less like a reward now and more like a down payment on a coffin.
"Kid," Jacob said, his voice dropping the playful edge entirely. He reached out and gripped Case's shoulder with a hand that felt like iron wrapped in old parchment. "Worry not. I'll tag along with you."
Case looked up, surprised. "You'd go up against a 1st SFG operator? You just said it was suicide."
"It is," Jacob replied with a ghost of a smirk. "You're my son, why else wouldn't I protect you? Besides, if you're gonna go poke a sleeping god in the eye, you're gonna need someone who is as strong as he is.
"We don't tell the others," Jacob said, his tone hardening. "And we don't use that bulk 5.56. If we're huntin' a ghost in T-51b, we're gonna need the heavy stuff—what I keep at the bottom of my personal locker."
He paused, jaw set. "I've got something special for that fella. I want to see it for myself, if it's really him."
Jacob looked back toward the empty range, then at Case. "If a piece of the old world's still walkin' out there, I'd rather be the one to take the shot."