A beam of brilliant blue light tore through the Mojave air, crackling with ozone. From the shimmering static, four figures emerged, their boots hitting the dry earth with a heavy thud. Clad in reinforced combat armor and bristling with a variety of weaponry, the squad stood tall: Markus, Amelia, Milla, and Case.
They stood there for a moment, letting the teleportation vertigo fade as they took a deep, collective breath.
Case didn't taste the filtered, sterile air of the Sink anymore. Instead, his lungs filled with the familiar, harsh scent of baked dust, sagebrush, and the distant, metallic tang of the wastes. He coughed, the sudden heat of the desert sun pressing down on his shoulders.
"Holy shit," he rasped, wiping his brow. "It's only been a week, hasn't it? How did I forget it felt like this?"
"Yeah, just a week," Amelia added, squinting against the glare of the horizon. She checked the seal on her gloves, her expression darkening as she scanned the landscape. "But I think the Mojave has changed. A lot."
Markus shifted the weight of his heavy rifle, his armor already beginning to absorb the punishing midday heat. "Great," he grumbled, wiping sweat from his brow. "I'm back for five minutes and I already miss the air-conditioning in Higgs Village."
Milla adjusted the tan robe draped over her frame, carefully concealing the high-tech contours of her stealth suit. To any passing traveler, she looked inconspicuous—less like a specialized operative and more like a wandering Brotherhood scribe or a humble pilgrim.
Case pressed a button on his Pip-Boy, squinting at the screen. The Enclave Bunker had never been a marked location in the game's UI, and it remained a ghost on his map now. The distance to Charleston was daunting; the trek would cover nearly 100 miles of scorched, empty desert. He knew that in the old world of code and pixels, this walk would have taken minutes, but in this reality, the distance was as vast and unforgiving as the sand itself.
They were looking at a two-day march on foot. Finding a working vehicle could slash that time to hours, but the odds of finding one that wasn't a rusted-out husk were slim.
"Ok, first stop… the Poseidon gas station," Case directed.
"Lead the way, Case," Milla said, tightening the straps on her heavy rucksack.
The group exited the Mojave Drive-in, leaving the crashed satellite behind them. They performed a quick radio check to ensure they were still linked to the new central command at Big Mountain.
Thanks to the power of the X-2 transmission tower, the signal was crisp—clearer than a face-to-face conversation. The acting radio operator back at the Sink confirmed their signal strength immediately.
The team trekked north, skirting past Nipton. Even from a distance, the town was visibly bustling. It seemed that even without the Rangers' constant presence, the town had thrived; a long line of caravans was parked at the outskirts, and the town center was packed with visitors.
Despite the squad's bristling arsenal, the locals didn't seem panicked. In fact, Nipton felt more alive—and more crowded—than Case had ever seen it. They finally came to a halt in front of the Town Hall, taking a quick breather under the shadow of the old clock tower.
"Has Nipton ever been this bustling?" Case asked himself, his voice barely audible over the chatter of the crowd.
"No," Amelia said, shaking her head as she scanned the perimeter. "The NCR must have been informed of the power vacuum—or the opportunity. Look around, Case. Notice the branding?"
There wasn't a single NCR trooper in sight—no tan uniforms, no service rifles—but the town was drowning in the Republic's influence. Citizens carried bags emblazoned with the two-headed bear; couriers wore dusters with NCR flag patches; even the crates being unloaded from Brahmin were stamped with the Office of Republic Affairs. It looked like the Wild West during a gold rush. The NCR hadn't sent an army; they had sent an economy.
Case gulped. It was the "soft power" approach. The Republic was claiming the Mojave not with bullets, but by making it an extension of their own backyard. For a second, he wondered if the NCR had actually succeeded in protecting the wasteland, but a cynical chill ran down his spine. This wasn't protection; it was a land grab.
He shook his head, trying to clear the "what-ifs" from his mind.
"Guys, let's continue," Case commanded, adjusting his rucksack. "We're still far out."
The Rangers pushed on, leaving the bustling noise of Nipton behind. The road toward the Poseidon gas station was a revelation; unlike the desolate, monster-infested stretch Case remembered from the game, this highway was alive. He stood agape, staring at the horizon. As far as his memories were concerned, the Mojave was a barren graveyard, yet here it was, pulsing with the lifeblood of trade.
The road was a constant stream of caravans. Case made a point to offer a polite nod or a brief smile to the passing merchants, doing his best to project the image of a disciplined professional rather than a trigger-happy merc. He knew that in a land this crowded, "unfriendly" was a quick way to get reported to the nearest authority.
Soon enough, the first NCR patrols appeared. They traveled in pairs—young riflemen who looked barely old enough to shave.
They wore crude plate carriers that mirrored Case's old training equipment, styled like relics from a first world war infantryman. Their tan uniforms were topped with thick chest armor, hiding thin steel plates that offered only a fraction of the protection Case now enjoyed.
The contrast was staggering. The Rangers were encased in pre-war high-tech composites—aramid fibers and high-grade ballistic steel that made the NCR's kit look like scrap metal.
The only thing they shared in common was the caliber of their weapons; Case gripped his 5.56 rifle, though his was a fully kitted marksman carbine, miles ahead of the standard-issue service rifles the boys in tan were lugging around.
"Howee," the soldier commented, his voice trailing off as he turned to watch the squad pass. "Wish the Republic had the budget to equip us with that kind of armor. Look at the plating on that leader... must've cost a fortune in New Vegas."
His partner just grunted, the sound of their heavy boots fading into the distance. "Keep dreaming, Smith. We're lucky if we get a second canteen by next month. Just keep walking."
The Rangers maintained their pace, not slowing down until the NCR patrol was well out of earshot.
"They're jealous," Milla whispered over his shoulder, the sound echoing directly in Case's ear. "If they knew what this suit could actually do, they'd probably desert on the spot just for the chance to wear one."
"Heck, don't blame them. I'm jealous as well, Milla," Case muttered, reaching up to wipe a fresh layer of stinging sweat from his eyes.
While Milla walked in absolute comfort, her Stealth Suit's internal cooling system and temperature regulators humming silently to negate the desert heat, Case was feeling every degree of the blistering Mojave sun.
His reinforced combat armor was a masterpiece of protection, but its thick aramid weave and heavy composite plates acted like a furnace. The fabric didn't breathe and it certainly didn't absorb sweat; it just trapped the moisture against his skin, making every mile feel like a slow, humid crawl inside a pressurized oven.
"Walking the Mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter," Markus muttered.
They moved through the ruins of the Nipton Pit-stop, their eyes scanning the travelers huddled under rusted awnings and the shade of crumbling brick walls. Case kept waiting for the familiar crack of a scavenger's rifle or the yapping cry of a Jackal gang—the usual predators of this stretch of road.
But there was nothing.
The silence of the local gangs was deafening. No Jackals, no Vipers, not even a stray scavenger looking to pick a fight over a canteen. Case looked around, his brow furrowed beneath his helmet.
Had he really underestimated the Republic? It seemed the NCR hadn't just moved in with caravans; they had scoured the highway clean. The security presence he'd seen back in Nipton clearly had a longer reach than he'd anticipated.
"Where are the raiders?" Milla asked, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper. "This place used to be an ambush spot."
"The NCR's doing its job for once," Case replied, his eyes narrowing as he watched a group of unarmed traders laughing near an old pump. "Or they haven't met with the Legion yet so they are not exactly overstretched."
Milla shrugged her shoulders.
Without anymore word said, they continued their journey to the Poseidon gas station.