What was a name?
The boy stood still, an explosive collar locked around his neck, the metal biting into his skin. His mouth tasted foul—hours of "service" to the centurion left a bitterness he couldn't spit out. How long had it been like this? Eleven years? Time blurred in the desert. He had forgotten himself, forgotten the face and voice he once had, forgotten that he'd ever lived a life before this.
His memories were fragile. Paper-thin. Every time he tried to grasp them, they slipped away. He had hoped—naively—that a "second life" would be better than whatever came before. Instead, he opened his eyes into a world of slavery, torture, and servitude under Legion.
He was born to a slave of the Legion. That was the only truth anyone ever bothered telling him. He regained real consciousness around the age of six—before that, it was just survival on instinct.
When his mind finally woke, everything changed. He understood what the world was, or at least what he remembered of it. The world of New Vegas. Except he was on the wrong side of the Colorado River, trapped in Legion territory, far from the safety he'd seen in those old memories.
The boy sat in the corner where the dirt sloped downward, knees pulled to his chest, collar cold against his throat. He wondered what would happen next: would he die first, or would he be taken as a legionnaire, going through all the things that would take him to be one and then to be thrown into the meat grinder?
A dry wind rolled across the prison pit, carrying the smell of metal and sweat. Somewhere above, a guard yawned. Another cursed at someone for falling asleep on watch. The boy stared at the dirt between his feet and tried not to think.
Then—crack.
A single gunshot snapped through the night.
The guards reacted first.
"What was that?!"
"Check the ridge!"
A second shot. The guard dropped dead, then the third one, both guards dropped dead, two holes right on their heads, coming from a high angle. The ridge looked dark, as if no one was there.
Shouting broke out around the camp. Legionaries scrambled for weapons. Torches flared to life. The guards above the pit leaned over the edge, trying to see where the shots came from. Then, another bullet flew through his skull.
The boy peered a bit through the pit, looking at what was happening. The legionnaires who chained him and whipped him were screaming in fear, searching for the unknown sniper.
Then, explosion.
Panic spread.
The boy didn't know if that was true or if the guard was guessing, but the way the others reacted told him it wasn't just fear. The group emerged from the smoke, firing their guns at the legionnaires.
The group moved through the smoke, trench coats drifting behind them, black helmets hiding their faces. They cut down the Legionnaires with ruthless efficiency—rifles steady, pistols drawn only when needed. Their weapons moved like extensions of their bodies. Every burst found its mark. Every headshot dropped a Legionnaire before he could scream.
The Legion responded the only way they knew how—charging into the open, screaming battle cries as they rushed the shadowy figures.
Rangers. The boy remembered them, the people in black armor.
The Rangers didn't break formation. They didn't shout. They didn't hesitate. They simply shifted positions, rifles and pistols rising and falling. Legionaries swung blades and spears, only to collapse before they ever reached striking distance.
The group charged through, pushing through with their machine guns, mowing down any advancing legion with ease. One of the rangers, holding an assault rifle, then pushed toward his position.
The ranger walked as if it were a mere park, killing anyone in the process who wore red. Any legion who was in his way got killed with the bullet coming out of his assault carbine, and any dumb enough legionnaire who got in his way got stabbed by his large knife.
Bullets couldn't penetrate his armor, much less the feeble spear that the legion used to attack its enemy. The figure was invincible. He approached the boy, he kneeled down, and then took a good look at the boy.
"Boy, let's get the thing out of your neck, shall we?" He said, with a coarse voice.
The man fiddled with the collar, using a screwdriver and pliers to pry the electronic out. He then threw the explosive content out then released the collar. The boy stood up, looking at the figure in a black helmet.
"Let's get you out of here, shall we?" The ranger offered his hand.
The boy just nodded. Still barefoot, the rest of the rangers were clearing ahead of the camp, slaughtering anyone in their way. The boy took the ranger's hand. His fingers trembled. The ranger pulled him up with one steady motion and guided him toward the edge of the pit.
The ranger exhaled slowly, then nudged the boy forward. "Eyes ahead, kid. We're not done."
They moved through the wreckage of the camp. Fires spread across torn tents. Scattered weapons lay half-buried in sand. The boy caught glimpses of other rangers—long coats, black helmets, the same cold precision. One signaled the all-clear before stepping over a body and reloading calmly.
"Jacob, how's your side?" a ranger called out over the crackling flames.
"All clear. Found a kid here," Jacob replied. "What about you?"
"The centurion retreated with a handful of survivors," the ranger said, annoyed. "Ran the moment things went south. Caesar will probably have his head for that."
"Good riddance," Jacob muttered. Then, louder: "Clean the place out. Grab what you can. We're loading into the truck in ten."
"Copy that, Commander," another ranger shouted back, offering a quick salute before jogging off.
The rangers spread through the ruined camp with practiced efficiency. They flipped open crates, kicked aside bodies, and checked every tent. Food, ammunition, water, medicine—anything with value went straight into their packs. Even Legion coin purses were emptied without hesitation.
A ranger jogged up with a handful of dog tags and a bundle of Legion papers. "Commander, this is all intel worth taking."
"Bag it," Jacob said. "We'll sort it at base."
He turned back to the boy. The kid was shivering, more from the cold night air than fear. Jacob pulled off his outer coat and draped it around the boy's shoulders. It was far too big, hanging awkwardly, but the warmth made the kid breathe a little easier.
"You keeping him?" one ranger asked quietly.
Jacob didn't look away from the boy. "For now. He comes with us, we are the desert rangers after all."
The ranger nodded.
"Truck's prepped," another voice called. "Engine's warmed and ready."
Jacob gave the boy a slight nudge. "Let's get moving."
They walked toward the convoy—a pair of dusty military trucks parked behind a rock formation. Their engines rumbled low, headlights dimmed to avoid attracting attention across the desert.
The boy hesitated at the open tailgate, staring into the dark interior filled with supplies and rangers checking gear. Some of them took off their helmet, put their rifles on the chair, and et cetera.
Jacob noticed.
"It's alright," he said, voice softer now. "Nobody's going to hurt you."
Jacob looked down at him.
"You got a name, kid?"
The boy opened his mouth… and nothing came out.
Jacob nodded slowly, as if that answer made perfect sense.
"Alright," he said. "We'll figure one out."