Case stepped into Jacob's private tent, a space that felt less like a living area and more like a high-end armory. The air was thick, reeking of pungent gun oil and the sharp, metallic tang of gunpowder—the perfume of a man who had lived by the trigger for over two centuries. It was a humble, practical setup: a sturdy workbench cluttered with specialized tools, a simple cot, and a small footlocker for his few personal effects.
But the centerpiece of the tent was the massive, reinforced crate sitting on the far side. It was large enough to house a person, and it was where Jacob kept his "serious" business—his weathered Ranger armor and a collection of hardware that would make an NCR General green with envy.
"Kid, what do you know about T-series power armor?" Jacob asked as he knelt by the footlocker, his movements deliberate and practiced.
"The basic T-45 would protect against most, if not all, small-arms rounds, but would barely survive a hit from a .50 BMG," Case recited, his mind flashing back to terminal entries and technical manuals. "The more sophisticated T-51 would tank .50 BMG for days, except for the helmet. The optics and the neck-seal are always the weak points."
Jacob let out a dry, rattling chuckle as he pulled a heavy, velvet-lined case from the bottom of the footlocker. "You got the book-learnin' down, I'll give you that. But remember, the T-51b isn't just thicker steel. It's got a poly-laminate composite shell that's designed to refract energy. You hit that thing with a standard bullet, and the armor just laughs and turns the kinetic energy into a dull thud."
"Hmmm. Well, we can ask Marcus later. He's got one, right? The T-60?" Case commented, leaning back against the workbench.
"Ah, the T-60," Jacob sighed, his voice taking on the tone of a grizzled mechanic. "Some folks call it a 'thick T-45,' others call it... well, an abomination. In truth, it was a middle-ground between T-45 ruggedness and T-51 protection. Cheaper to produce than the T-51, but with better servos and power distributors that allowed for much heavier plating. That's how the T-60 was born."
Jacob wiped a bit of dust off the footlocker. "Field repair-wise? You'd want the T-60 every day of the week. It's mostly high-hardness steel—you can weld it, patch it, and keep it movin'. But the T-51? Its poly-laminate plating is light and tough, but it's brittle. Once it takes a serious hit, the material crumbles."
He glanced back at the crate. "The T-60 only started gettin' fancy with the composite plating on the later models—anything above the 'C' variant. But this fella at Helios? If he's in a T-51b, he's wearin' the pinnacle of pre-war agility and protection. You won't dent him. You have to shatter him."
Jacob popped the latches on the case, revealing two massive, gleaming rifle rounds that looked more like small artillery shells than bullets. Then, with a grunt of effort, he pulled a disassembled Anti-Materiel Rifle from the hidden compartment. Even in pieces, the weapon was intimidating—the barrel was thick as a fence post, fluted to dissipate heat, and ended in a massive, multi-baffle muzzle brake.
"This is what we call an AP bullet," Jacob said, his eyes glinting with a cold, professional pride as he held the massive cartridge up to the dim light of the tent. "Looks like a standard round to the untrained eye, but the core itself is tungsten-carbide. It doesn't just hit and mushroom like lead; it needles right through composite plating like a hot poker through wax."
Case leaned in, his eyes wide as he looked at the receiver. The weapon was a beast of industrial geometry—heavier and more reinforced than any Hecate II or standard NCR-issue Anti-Materiel Rifle he'd seen in the Mojave. The metal was a matte, oil-rubbed black that seemed to swallow the light.
"That's not a standard AMR, is it?" Case asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"Nope. Custom-made piece I found sometime back, chambered in 14.5x114mm," Jacob grunted, clicking the heavy bolt into place with a sound like a sledgehammer hitting an anvil. "Usually, this caliber is for anti-aircraft guns or heavy machine guns. I was forced to make the brass and the bullets myself—pain in the neck, truly—but goddamn, if you want a can of Power Armor opened, this is your guy."
"Interesting," Case murmured, stepping closer.
He observed the AMR on the table, and up close, it was truly humongous. The length of the barrel itself was almost half of his own body; it was a weapon never designed for a mobile skirmish or a quick-draw.
The barrel looked bespoke—heavy-walled and meticulously fluted—designed to stabilize and deliver the most accurate shot possible from a caliber that was naturally prone to wild, wobbling trajectories due to its sheer mass.
Jacob began wrapping the barrel in camo-netting, Jacob finished wrapping the barrel in tattered camo-netting, the burlap strips breaking up the unnatural silhouette of the massive weapon. He paused, looking at the rifle, then up at Case. He didn't pick it up. Instead, he slid the heavy receiver across the table toward the younger man.
"Actually, kid," Jacob said, his voice raspy and uncharacteristically soft. "You're taking the shot."
Case froze, his hand hovering over the cold steel. "Me? Jacob, you've got two centuries of muscle memory. You're the best shot in the territory."
"I'm the most experienced shot, Case. There's a difference," Jacob countered, tapping his temple. "You've got that pre-natural stillness. Faster reflexes than I ever had, even before the skin started sloughing off. If we only have two of these rounds, I want the man with the steadiest hands behind the glass."
"Are you sure?"
"I'll be your spotter," Jacob continued, a grim smirk playing on his lips. "I'll feed you the windage, the elevation, and the thermal drift, but when the time comes to squeeze that trigger... that's all you."
Case reached out, his fingers wrapping around the custom-molded grip. The weapon felt like a living thing—massive, indifferent, and incredibly powerful. It was a "God-killer," and he was the one being asked to wield it.
"Alright," Case said, his voice dropping an octave as he accepted the burden. "I'll take the shot."
"Good," Jacob grunted, standing up and grabbing his pack. "Then let's get moving, we will hunt him under the cover of the night, and let's not tell a soul about what we are going to do, alright?"
"Copy that, sir."
"Don't sir me, kid. I'm your father."
Jacob reached into the locker and pulled out a set of standard-issue combat armor—not the riot gear. For obvious reasons. If they got spotted, the last thing he wanted was to be mistaken for a Desert Ranger running bounties.
That kind of attention led to nightmares. Nightmares meant fighting a proactive war against tin-can soldiers in power armor—and that was before accounting for the fact that the Brotherhood had more than one chapter in the region.
As the two headed toward the jeep, Amelia stepped into their path.
"Where are you going with that humongous AMR, Jacob?" she asked.
"Just… hunting," Jacob said flatly.
Amelia frowned. "Hunting what? Don't tell me you're hunting the Brotherhood."
She pressed because there was only one thing an AMR was good for—and it involved opening armored targets.
"No, I'm not," Jacob replied, sliding the rifle into the back of the jeep.
"Case…" Amelia turned toward him.
"We'll be back before sunrise." Case just smiled.
Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose. "You two…" She exhaled. "Be safe, okay? It'd be a massive loss for the Rangers if the two of you die."
"Don't worry, we won't," Jacob just replied with a quiet nod.