The dust hadn't even settled when the heavy rumble of engines filled the canyon. Joker's technical—weathered truck outfitted with scrap-metal plating and mounted light machine guns—skidded to a halt, their headlights cutting through the darkness to illuminate the fallen giant in the T-51b.
Jacob and Case climbed down from the ridge, their boots crunching on the glass-strewn sand as they approached the "kill-zone." The air here smelled of copper, burnt electronics, and the heavy, sweet scent of coolant.
Joker stepped out of the truck, his combat boots clicking on the rocky ground. He was a tall man, draped in tactical gear that looked a bit too clean for a wasteland mercenary. He didn't look at the bodies first; he looked at the massive hole punched through the center of the power armor's chest.
And yeah, he wore his combat armor, reinforced mark 2.
"Nicely done, boy," Joker commented, his voice smooth with a dangerous, oily charm. He turned his gaze toward Jacob, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. "And it's a great honor to see another Ranger."
Jacob didn't smile back. He kept his marksman carbine slung low, his thumb hooked in his belt near his sidearm.
Joker chuckled, walking a slow circle around the downed soldier. He whistled as he inspected the exit wound. "That wasn't a service rifle. And that sure as hell wasn't a .50 cal. That plate is two inches of poly-laminate composite, and you didn't just crack it—you shattered the whole structural integrity of the frame."
He stopped and looked Case up and down, his eyes lingering on the empty space where the 14.5mm rifle should have been. "I'm curious, kid. What kind of 'persuasion' are you carrying that hits like a freight train? My boys back at the station didn't mention you were hauling a portable cannon."
Behind Joker, the four Sentinel Outcomes mercenaries fanned out with a chilling, synchronized efficiency. These weren't the ragtag raiders Case was used to seeing; they were armed to the teeth with high-end energy weapons—laser rifles with overcharged capacitors, plasma casters dripping green sludge, and even a heavy Gauss rifle held by a man with a cybernetic eye.
"The job is done," Case said, his voice hard as flint. "The mark is down, and his friends are accounted for. We're here for the rest of the caps."
"Straight to the point. I like that," Joker said, a thin, dangerous smile playing on his lips. He gestured to one of his men to begin stripping the long, magnetic-coil barrel of the Gauss rifle from the dead soldier's back. "Shame though. You broke my power armor in the process. This T-51 was supposed to be the crown jewel of my collection, and you went and put a window in the chest."
Jacob stepped forward then, his hand resting casually but firmly on the receiver of his carbine. His eyes were narrowed, scanning Joker's stance and the way his gear sat on his frame. "Wait a fucking minute," Jacob rasped, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "So you're the Green Beret guy?"
Joker's smile widened, becoming something sharper and more predatory. "Well, yeah. And I think you have an interesting point too," he said, extending a hand in a gesture of mock chivalry. "Sir…?"
"Jacob."
"Jacob," Joker nodded, his eyes flashing with a mix of amusement and professional appraisal. "I see. You in the service too?"
"75th Ranger Regiment," Jacob replied, his voice flat. He didn't take the hand.
Joker let out a low whistle, retracting his hand and placing it on his hip. "Hot damn. No wonder you Rangers are so good at ass-kicking. I thought I smelled the discipline on you from across the canyon. The 75th was always a bit too 'loud' for my taste, but you certainly know how to finish a fight."
"Where are you from?" Case asked, his hand still tight on the grip of his carbine, eyeing the Sentinel mercenaries who hadn't lowered their weapons.
"Oregon. Fort Lewis was practically my backyard back in the day," Joker replied easily, his eyes drifting back to the cooling T-51b suit. "Rain, pine trees, and more classified briefings than I care to remember. You?"
Jacob let out a dry, raspy chuckle, the sound of sand shifting in a tomb. "Hmm. I prefer not to tell," he smiled, though the expression didn't reach his clouded eyes.
"Fair enough," Joker said, shrugging. "We all have ghosts we left behind when the clocks stopped. Some of us just decided to keep the uniforms."
He gestured to one of his men, who stepped forward carrying a heavy, reinforced metal case. With a rhythmic thud, he set it on the hood of the jeep and flipped the latches. Inside, stacked in neat, shimmering rows, were the remaining 10,000 bottlecaps.
"The balance of the contract," Joker said, his voice dropping the nostalgic tone and returning to business. "Ten thousand for the ghost, plus the thousand you took as a down payment. A fair price for a miracle shot."
"Thanks," Case said, his heart hammering as he retrieved the reward. The weight was immense—real wealth in a world made of dust.
"And I'm not a thankless bastard either," Joker added, a sudden, sharp glint in his eyes. He looked over his shoulder. "Hey, Achilles, Arthur—give them our spare Pip-Boy MK IV. Two, in fact."
"HUH?" Jacob's eyes went wide, his jaw nearly dropping. In all his two hundred years, the ghoul had rarely looked truly shocked. This was one of those moments.
Case watched as the mercenary named Achilles stepped forward, holding two devices that looked far more advanced than the bulky, beige Pip-Boy 3000s commonly seen in the Mojave. These were sleek, finished in a matte-black polymer with vacuum-sealed seams and glass that didn't have a single scratch.
"Dude," Joker said, his voice dropping into a rare moment of genuine sincerity as he gestured to the ruined T-51b. "You just gave me my power armor back. The same suit I used in Shanghai, Beijing, and a bunch of other Chinese places I can't even pronounce. Getting it back—even with a hole in the chest—is worth more to me than a mountain of caps. It's fair to reward you greatly."
Jacob looked from the Pip-Boy to Joker, his suspicion still simmering beneath the surface. "You're giving away a Mark Four? Those were experimental, even before the bombs. Special Forces prototypes, Joker. You can't just find these in a dumpster."
"Exactly," Joker smirked, leaning back against the jeep. "And like I said... we're all brothers-in-arms, aren't we?"
Jacob didn't hesitate for long. He slid the device onto his gaunt, scarred wrist. The internal servos whirred with a high-pitched, precision hum as the biometric clamps engaged, molding to his arm. He tapped the interface with a practiced finger, seemingly already aware of the sub-menus and the tactile response. For a moment, the old Ranger looked like he was reuniting with an old friend.
Case followed suit, sliding the heavy unit onto his left arm. The MK IV felt surprisingly light, almost like it was a part of his skin. As the screen flickered to life, a high-resolution green glow illuminated his face. Unlike the grainy CRT displays of older models, this was crisp—showing detailed maps, real-time health monitoring, and a radio suite that could likely pick up signals from the moon.
"The OS is decrypted," Joker noted, watching them both. "It'll sync with your neural patterns in about an hour. It's got a localized satellite uplink—still works, surprisingly, though God knows what's still up there in orbit to ping off of."
Jacob looked at Case, then back at Joker. The shock had faded, replaced by a deep, pensive calculation. "You're making us very expensive targets, Joker. Anyone who knows what these are is gonna want to peel them off our dead bodies."
"Then don't be dead," Joker laughed, the sound echoing harshly against the canyon walls as he slapped the rusted side of his truck. "Now, take your caps and your new toys. I've got a piece of my history to weld back together. Me and this old baby are going to have another day together yet."
He nodded toward the ruined T-51b, his eyes reflecting a strange, nostalgic obsession. "If you're ever in need of another job, don't bother coming to find me. Just look at the data section on those units. I'll post when there's blood to be spilled for the right price."
Without another word, the two Rangers turned and vanished into the darkness. They walked in silence, the weight of the caps pulling at their gear and the unfamiliar glow of the Pip-Boy MK IVs lighting their path like emerald torches. Behind them, the sounds of hydraulic winches and shouting mercenaries faded, but the questions only grew louder.
Who were the four companions who had died protecting a "ghost"? Why would a high-ranking Green Beret like Joker give away priceless pre-war prototypes just for a suit of broken armor?
As they reached the ridge where they'd stashed the 14.5mm monster, Jacob stopped and looked down at his new wrist-mounted computer. The screen was scrolling through a series of encrypted handshakes.
Jacob whistled, "Kid, I tell you, I think our lives are going to be hell lot colorful from here."