The treaty—the moment that would legally bind the Desert Rangers to the New California Republic—was finally unfolding.
Case had imagined spent his days at the farmstead or perhaps haggling with a Gun Runner in Primm or Camp Searchlight. Instead, he found himself back on a ridge, squinting through the heat haze. They hadn't brought the 14.5mm monster; it was too high-profile.
Instead, they were "lightly" armed—Case with his marksman carbine and Jacob carrying a battle-hardened 7.62x51mm assault rifle of German origin, its sleek, angular frame a sharp contrast to the rugged desert terrain.
The meeting took place at the old toll booth on the hill overlooking the gas station—the site that would eventually be known as the Mojave Outpost.
The area was stupidly crowded. Every inch of the ridge was locked down by a sea of tan and olive drab. On one side stood the Desert Rangers, weathered and independent; on the other, the NCR Rangers, leaning heavily into their "lawmen of the wastes" persona. They wore dark-brown patrol armor and wide-brimmed sheriff hats, or the iconic heavy riot gear with glowing red lenses peering from behind gas masks.
Looking down toward the road, the sheer scale of the NCR's presence was staggering. From this height, the columns of soldiers looked like a disciplined legion, but far better equipped. Every single trooper was armed with a wooden-furniture service rifle, the sunlight glinting off thousands of bayonet lugs and charging handles.
Case stood firm in a set of reinforced combat armor mark II, the heavy plating making him feel like a walking tank. Beside him, Jacob looked like a ghost of the Old World in his Mark IV Riot Gear, his thumb resting near the selector switch of his 7.62 rifle.
Case watched the high-ranking officer descend from the staff car. The man moved with a stiff, practiced posture, his uniform pressed to a crispness that seemed almost defiant against the desert grit. On Case's wrist, the Pip-Boy MK IV was working overtime; the radar screen was a solid mass of green "Friendly" blips, so dense they practically bled into one another.
The officer's face was stern, his jaw set in a way that suggested he was already imagining the commemorative plaque for this day.
"That's Colonel Oliver," Jacob commented, his voice low and gravelly, barely audible over the wind whistling through the toll booth's rusted eaves.
"How do you know him?" Case asked, not taking his eyes off the man.
"An ambitious man," Jacob replied, a hint of a sneer under his breath. "Back when I was wandering aimlessly through California, that guy was already making plenty of noise. He was the kind of officer who'd trade a dozen lives for a favorable mention in a report. No wonder he's managed to become a full-fledged Colonel by now."
Jacob shifted the weight of his G3, the stamped-steel receiver clacking softly against his combat harness. "Oliver isn't here for the Rangers. He's here for the map. This treaty gives the NCR the legal right to push east toward the Colorado River. We're just the boots that clear the path for his career in exchange for protection for the Mojave."
"Wouldn't the NCR bleed itself dry here, just like how we bleed ourselves dry?" Case asked. He looked at the hundreds of young troopers below, many of them looking barely old enough to shave, clutching their service rifles with white-knuckled grips.
"The Republic has more blood to give than we do, kid," Jacob said, his eyes scanning the ridgeline with predatory focus. "We traded our equipment and territory for men, basically. We have the skill, they have the numbers. It's a marriage of convenience where both sides are hiding a knife behind their backs."
The Colonel finally disappeared into the old toll building, the heavy door thudding shut behind him. Inside, the veteran representatives of the Desert Rangers were waiting with the Ranger Unification Treaty spread across a scarred wooden table.
Outside, the silence was heavy. The "Cowboy" Rangers on the ridges and the NCR troopers on the road were all holding their breath. Every finger was indexed outside a trigger guard, but only just. They weren't just watching for the Legion; they were watching each other.
"Kid, I've been wondering this for days, maybe weeks," Jacob muttered, his eyes never leaving the ridgeline. "What will you do if the NCR asks us to move out of the Mojave? What if they order us back West?"
Case let the question hang in the dry air. He looked down at the NCR troopers below. They looked impressive in formation, but he could see the cracks. Most were just kids from the Boneyard or Hub who had signed up because the pay was steady and the recruiters promised adventure.
They weren't like the Desert Rangers; they weren't born with a rifle in their hand and the desert in their blood. They were cogs in a machine, and cogs went where they were told.
The treaty was clear: integration meant obedience. If the NCR High Command ordered a patrol to secure the Long 15, that was fine. But if the order came down to ship out to California—to act as riot police in Shady Sands or guards for Brahmin barons—Case knew he couldn't do it.
"I didn't fight to keep this farm just to become a glorified security guard for a senator in California," Case said, his voice low and firm. "The Rangers are signing their independence away today. If they want to be integrated, that's their choice. But if the first order is to leave the Mojave? I'm staying."
Jacob gave a short, grim nod of approval, a ghost of a smile touching his scarred lips. "Good answer. I think you're reading my mind, kid."
Case shifted his weight, his eyes tracking a movement in the distance. "So... what are you saying? You're going to desert if the orders go south?"
"Resign," Jacob corrected instantly, his tone sharp but hushed. "'Desert' is a hard word, a soldier's word. It implies you're running away. I've done enough running in two hundred years. If the NCR thinks they can pack me in a truck and ship me off to guard a brahmin pen in the Hub, they're going to find an empty suit of armor and a very polite letter of resignation on the table."
"I don't know," Case said, glancing at the line of Desert Rangers standing at attention. "How about the other rangers? Wouldn't they be angry if we just walked?"
"To be honest? No," Jacob replied, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "The Council—the Centcom—they wanted this treaty because we're running out of bullets and medicine. But at the same time, the Centcom gave options for us to leave if we don't want to be with the NCR. It's a clean break for those who want it."
He adjusted the strap of his G3, his gloved thumb rubbing over the receiver. "Me? I don't think I'm staying in the service, kid. Not going to lie."
"Why?"
"Pay is probably shittier, for one. And I'll be demoted," Jacob grunted. "Ghoul rights isn't a thing yet—well, not a thing that people actually respect. The NCR military is a bureaucracy. They see a 'shuffler' like me, and they'll stick me in a frontline trench or a radioactive scrap heap. Besides..." He looked at the young NCR officers flanking Colonel Oliver. "I can't handle taking commands from a kid who hasn't even seen his twenty-fifth winter. Most of these officers were born long after I'd already forgotten what a steak tasted like."
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The news hit the Farmstead like a physical blow. When the word came down, it wasn't a suggestion—it was an ultimatum delivered with all the cold efficiency of the Republic's bureaucracy.
"The Desert Rangers are to be deployed to Baja, California, effective immediately."
The atmosphere in the room went from tense to toxic. Jacob sat at the command table, his hands trembling with a rage he hadn't felt in decades. Outside, the sounds of the Mojave felt hollow. This wasn't a unification; it was a disarmament.
Oliver's terms were a masterclass in political cruelty. The Rangers were ordered to abandon their heavy equipment—the salvaged armored vehicles, the few functioning pre-war tanks, and the fixed-position heavy ordnance they had spent generations maintaining. To the NCR, these were "unauthorized military assets." To the Rangers, they were the only things keeping the Legion at bay.
"It's a purge," Jacob hissed, his voice like grinding stones. "Oliver knows he can't control the Desert Rangers while we're on our home turf. So he's shipping the veterans to a ghost hunt in Baja and taking our teeth before we go."
Case looked out the window. He could see the dust clouds on the horizon from NCR transport trucks. Oliver's "genius" plan was simple: if the Rangers refused, he would tear up the treaty and withdraw. He'd let the Rangers fight a suicidal, isolated war against the Legion's full might. Once both sides had bled each other dry, the NCR would simply march over the corpses and claim the Mojave for themselves.
"He smelled blood in the water," Case muttered, his grip tightening on the edge of the table. "And he's using the treaty to drown us in it."
Amelia crossed her arms, leaning against the tent pole as she watched the two men grapple with the reality of the treaty. "At least we survive," she said softly, "and the Mojave can breathe for a while."
"Oh, I know that, Amelia," Jacob snapped, his frustration finally boiling over. He gestured vaguely toward the barn where the heavy silhouettes of their vehicles were hidden. "But look—we have to give up three tanks and five APCs. And those are from our farmstead alone! That's a lifetime of scavenging and repair work. That's a lot of military assets to just... hand over."
"Yes, military assets that we can no longer maintain, Jacob," Amelia countered, her voice steady and practical. "I know you're pissed, but those things are hungrier than a deathclaw. They eat fuel we don't have, and they'll run out of ammo faster than Caesar runs out of men. Without the NCR's supply lines, they're just expensive lawn ornaments."
Jacob gave a long, heavy sigh that seemed to deflate his entire posture. He knew she was right, but the sting of losing the "heavy metal" that had kept them safe was visceral. Milla just sat quietly; she was unsure of what to say.
The sharp chirp of the Pip-Boy cut through the room like a knife. Case listened to the sudden radio broadcast.
"All Unaligned Ranger Assets must report to Mojave Outpost for 'Processing' within 24 hours. Failure to comply will result in 'Raider' classification by of Colonel Lee Oliver."
Jacob's fist slammed into the wooden table with a crack that made the lantern flicker and dance. The sheer force of his anger seemed to vibrate through the tent's canvas.
"Jacob, the Centcom changed it all on the table at the last second!" Amelia shouted back, her voice matching his intensity but grounded in a cold, hard pragmatism.
"Without us?!" Jacob's voice was a guttural roar, the sound of two centuries of pride being stripped away in a single bureaucratic stroke. "We bled for this dirt! We held the line when the NCR was still playing with sticks in Shady Sands!"
"What choice do we have?!" Amelia stepped into his space, refusing to back down. "Do you want to roam around out there? Being hunted down by the fucking NCR? They have the Vertibirds, Jacob! They have the radio towers! I'm pissed—don't you think I'm pissed?—but what else can we do? We ran out of options!"
Jacob stood panting, his chest heaving, his milky eyes darting around the small space as if looking for a physical enemy to strike. The betrayal felt heavy, a thick, suffocating weight that filled the tent. He looked at Case, then down at the emerald glow of the Pip-Boy on his arm—the "shiny leash" Joker had given them was now the only thing illuminating his scarred, furious face.
"There's always an option!" Jacob hissed, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl. He turned to Case, his gaze piercing. "Kid, you didn't grow up in this mess. You see it with fresh eyes. You heard that broadcast—stay and be 'processed' like cattle, or leave and be hunted like wolves."
The reality was even grimmer than the broadcast suggested. This specific detachment of Desert Rangers wasn't just being integrated; they were being handed over to an NCR Ranger: Major Bartholomew. The orders were explicit—report to the Outpost, surrender their primary arms to the Major's logistics team, and await "reassignment."
To Jacob, the idea of surrendering his G3 and the farm's armored fleet to a man like Bartholomew felt like a violation. It was as if Joker had sat back and watched his power armor get stripped away—not by a superior force in a fair fight, but by the stroke of a pen on a clean sheet of paper. The bureaucratic theft stung worse than a bullet.
Jacob's hand hovered over the grip of his rifle, his knuckles turning a ghostly white against the dark metal. The air in the tent felt like it was moments away from igniting.
"Let's not be harsh, Jacob," Case said, his voice surprisingly calm despite the encroaching rumble of NCR engines.
Jacob turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Not be harsh? They're coming to take our teeth, kid. What do you propose? We bake them a cake and hand over the keys?"
"See me on the ridge," Case said, already stepping toward the back flap of the tent. He adjusted the strap of his marksman carbine and tapped the face of his Pip-Boy MK IV. "I have an idea."
"Wait, let me get Milla as well. I'll listen to you as well, Case."