"Nice shot, you're a natural at this, Case," Amelia praised him.
The service rifle in his hands was still aimed at the makeshift target. Even from this distance, he could tell he'd scored the most points compared to the other kids. Not too shabby, he thought. Not in the grand scheme of things.
Four years had passed since he first arrived at the Farmstead. His body looked nothing like the half-starved kid the Rangers had picked up. He had some muscle now, his steps were steady, and he no longer felt like a stiff breeze could knock him over. Maybe that was what years of proper food, chores, schooling, and shooting drills did to someone.
He was fifteen now, and the years hadn't been kind to the Rangers. The Legion had pushed them almost completely off the other side of the Colorado River. Hoover Dam was the last bastion, and Case wasn't sure how long the Rangers could even hold that.
For all the Rangers' training, accuracy, and discipline, the Legion had one thing: manpower. A lot of it. For every single Ranger, the Legion had twenty men—sometimes more. And those twenty were told to do suicide charges if that's what it took to overwhelm a position. The year was 2271. The rangers were pushed back to Camp Willow. It was only a matter of time before the rangers were pushed back on the dam.
"Thanks, Captain," Case said.
"I have to say, you've grown a lot since the first time we saw you," Amelia replied. "Now you're a good shooter, good survivalist… but a bit too adventurous, if I'm honest."
Case didn't deny it. His memory had been returning bit by bit over the past few years. He knew he was familiar with engineering and tinkering—he just couldn't grasp the whole picture yet. Some things felt natural: the weight of a wrench, the sound of a healthy engine, the way power armor servos should hum when calibrated right.
Because of that, he spent most of his free time near the vehicles and the power armor parked close to the highway—old machines patched together by Ranger engineers, humming quietly under the desert sun. Something about them made him feel… connected. Like he was remembering a home he never actually lived in.
After the shooting practice, Case picked up his rifle and slung it across his back. Ammo wasn't cheap anymore. Without a steady supplier, the Rangers were stretched thin across every outpost they had. Because of that, the situation was deteriorating—fast.
The Viper gangs had started harassing travelers along Highway 95. Case was part of the group that patrolled between the Farmstead and Nipton, and it wasn't the first time he'd exchanged shots with the Vipers. It wasn't even the second. By now, he'd lost count.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Could the Legion be supplying the Vipers? Possible. They weren't above deception or guerrilla tactics. Even a single Legion advisor whispering in the ears of a chem-crazed gang could turn them into a real problem.
Case headed back toward the patrol staging area. The others were already gathering near the old truck they used for long-range runs.
Milla stood at the front—as old as himself, already being trained as a platoon commander. She carried herself like someone twice her age, rifle slung across her chest, face stern and focused, while wearing regular combat armor. She wasn't officially in charge yet, but everyone treated her like she was.
The patrol consisted of two full adults—Rangers who had been fighting since before Case was even born—and two teenagers. Milla was the one calling the shots during drills and patrols, though. The adults watched her closely, correcting her only when she missed something important, but most of the time she didn't.
"Case, you're late," Milla said, not even looking up from the map in her hands.
"I finished shooting practice," he replied.
"Good. You might need it today." She folded the map and tucked it under her arm. "Vipers hit a caravan near the bend on 95. We're checking it out. Make sure you're ready and loaded."
Case ran a quick check of his gear. His armor was a leather vest reinforced with metal plates—crude, heavy, and uncomfortable, but it stopped most pistol rounds and maybe a weak rifle hit if luck was on his side. The Rangers called it a plate carrier; really, it was whatever scrap they could weld together.
He patted down each pocket: three spare magazines, a small medkit, a knife strapped to the vest, a half-full canteen. Everything was where it belonged, including the radio. His helmet was strapped right on his head.
"Armor good? Radio good?" one of the adult Rangers—Corbin—asked.
"Could be better," Case said, half joking. "Think I've earned that coat yet?"
Corbin barked a laugh. "Hah! Kid, become an officer first. Then you can talk about getting the black armor."
Case sighed. "Right…"
Corbin clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't rush it. You'll get there when you're ready. Armor doesn't make the Ranger. Skill does."
"Just asking, sir."
"Just telling, Case."
The four of them loaded into the single Jeep. Corbin took the wheel. Milla sat up front with her rifle resting between her knees. Case climbed into the rear seat beside Jack, the other ranger.
"Everyone ready?" Corbin asked.
Milla nodded. "Let's move."
The engine rumbled to life, and the Jeep rolled east along the cracked stretch of Highway 95. Case watched the desert slide past—dry shrubs, sun-bleached signs, shacks that looked one good gust away from collapsing. The sun wasn't even high yet, but the heat already pressed on them like a heavy blanket.
"So, Case," Milla said without turning around, "if things go sideways, stick to me. Got it?"
"Copy that, ma'am. I've got your back."
Corbin chuckled. "Relax, kid. We've handled the Vipers before. They're sloppy. Unpredictable, sure, but still sloppy. Keep your head straight and you'll be fine."
Milla shot him a look. "Don't jinx us, Corbin. I'm not in the mood."
The Jeep thumped over a patch of loose gravel and slowed. Corbin leaned forward, posture tightening as he scanned the roadside.
Milla picked up on it immediately. "What is it?"
"Quiet…" Corbin muttered. "Too quiet for this stretch."
He eased the Jeep to a full stop, one hand drifting toward his rifle.
Milla let out a low groan. "Great. I knew you jinxed us."
"Alright," Corbin said. "Dismount. Case, Jack—watch our rear. Milla and I will check ahead."
The four of them stepped out of the Jeep, boots crunching on sun-baked gravel. Heat shimmered off the asphalt, bending the horizon just enough to make distant shapes look alive.
Case swept the area, searching for any hint of the potential ambusher—Viper colors, rags, banners, anything that would give them away. But the road ahead was empty. No movement. No figures. No fresh footprints in the dust.
Jack crouched beside him, scanning the opposite side of the highway. "Seeing anything?" he whispered.
Case shook his head. "Not yet. You?"
"Just sand and dead brush. Same as always."
Up front, Corbin raised a clenched fist—a silent signal to halt. Milla froze beside him, her service rifle at the low ready.
"Hold position," Corbin called back quietly without turning.
Case tightened his grip on his rifle, pulse rising. Nothing new—just the familiar edge before combat. The 5.56 rounds in his service rifle were more than enough to put down Vipers, but only if he could spot them first. This wasn't his first engagement, and his body settled into the rhythm he'd trained for.
Jack nudged him. "Eyes up, kid."
Case exhaled slowly and swept his sector again. That's when he caught it—barely—a scrap of torn cloth hanging from a barbed-wire fence about thirty meters out. Sun-faded but unmistakably red.
"Red…?" Case muttered. And red meant one thing: Legion.
He felt his stomach tighten. "Jack, we might want to call for backup. Maybe the big guns. Those rags—there's only one group that wears that shade."
Jack didn't hesitate. He pressed two fingers to his helmet radio. "Corbin, we've got a situation. Check the ridge. There's a strip of red cloth—might be Legion."
A short burst of static, then Milla's voice came through, sharper than before. "Legion? I thought they didn't cross this far west of the Colorado."
"Get back here, you two," Jack then added.
Corbin cut in, tone immediately more alert. "You sure about what you saw?"
Case kept his eyes locked on the ridge. "As sure as I can be, sir. It wasn't Viper colors."
Milla broke it. "Alright. Everyone stay low and don't silhouette yourselves. If it's Legion, we're not dealing with raiders anymore."
Case clicked his safety off. "Great, the more the merrier."
He then scanned the whole surrounding area. Then, up on the left of the ridge, he saw them, group of people in sport gear, red sports gear, armed with throwing spears, and crude weapons. That's them.
"Movement," Case whispered. "Left of the ridge. Three silhouettes… maybe more."
Corbin shifted his stance, eyes locking onto the ridge. "We've got contact. Milla—your call?"
Milla's jaw tightened. "Call for backup. There are a lot of them."
Jack switched channels on his helmet radio. "Ranger Command, this is Delta-Three. Possible Legion force on our position—requesting imm—"
A supersonic crack tore the air. A bullet whipped past Case's head close enough that he felt the heat skim his cheek. He flinched down instinctively, boots digging into the dirt. He then aimed his rifle at the group of red.
"CONTACT! THEY'RE FIRING!" Jack shouted.