I watched Major Knight's hands shuffle endlessly through those damn folders, papers scratching against each other like the desert wind through brittle bones. He didn't even glance at me when I pressed him for more.
"Look, I'd love to help you, but I'm knee-deep in requisition forms and personnel reports," he muttered, his tone flat and frayed from exhaustion.
Maria stiffened beside me; I felt the tension in her shoulder even before I looked at her. The girl wanted answers—needed them—and all Knight had to offer was ink and excuses. I tightened my hand on her shoulder, firm enough to remind her to hold steady.
Finally, Knight tore his eyes off the documents, face worn down like the rest of this damned Outpost. "If you're serious about finding him, head over to the barracks. Ranger Jackson will have the time and probably the details you're looking for. I don't."
And just like that, he dipped back into his sea of paperwork, dismissing us without another thought.
I didn't waste words. "Alright. The barracks it is."
ED-E's frame whirred at my side, its optic flickering like it was recording everything for posterity—or insurance. Maria's grip on her satchel strap was white-knuckled, but her eyes held a spark of hope now. A lead was a lead, even if Knight had given it like scraps to a mutt.
As we turned toward the exit, the air of the Mojave Outpost felt heavier than before—sunlight glaring down on rusting metal, soldiers marching with dull purpose, the smell of sweat and gun oil thick in my nose. The barracks weren't far. With any luck, Ranger Jackson would be more willing to talk than the overworked desk jockey we'd just left behind.
One step closer to Rafael. One step closer to keeping my promise.
The barracks stank of dust, sweat, and booze. Soldiers crammed into every corner, some hunched over tables, others laughing too loud with half-empty bottles in their fists. Asking one by one would be a waste of time.
My eyes tracked the bar in the corner—bartenders always knew. I motioned Maria along and we pushed through the crowd, ED-E humming close behind.
The woman behind the counter gave me a sharp once-over as I stepped up. She didn't bother to stop wiping the glass in her hand.
"You don't look like you're here for a drink."
"I'm looking for Ranger Jackson," I said, keeping my tone flat. "Where can I find him?"
Before she could answer, a voice to my left broke in, rough but curious.
"Jackson? Now there's a name you don't hear unless someone's neck-deep in NCR business."
I turned. A woman sat slouched over a whiskey glass, hat tilted low, a battered NCR duster hanging off her shoulders like it had seen better years. Her eyes were bloodshot but sharp, sizing me up with the kind of ease that came from too much whiskey and too much experience.
She lifted her glass in a half-hearted salute. "Name's Rose of Sharon Cassidy. But most folks just call me Cass. You chasing Jackson for work—or something more interesting?"
Maria stiffened beside me, but I kept my focus on Cass, reading the weight behind her words. She wasn't drunk enough to miss details. Not yet.
The bartender finally spoke, setting the glass down with a clink. "Name's Lacey. And for the record, Jackson's in the back offices. Door at the far end." Her eyes flicked between me and Cass like she'd seen this dance before.
Cass gave me a crooked smile, swirling the last of her drink. "He'll talk to you. He always does. Question is, will you like what you hear?"
I didn't answer. Just slid a cap across the bar for Lacey, then nodded to Maria. "Come on."
ED-E's optic flickered as we turned toward the back door. But Cass's words stuck with me, her curiosity trailing after us like smoke.
Maria stayed close at my side as we turned from the bar, ED-E's hum cutting through the drunken noise of the barracks. The crowd parted just enough to let us through, boots scuffing against the dusty floorboards, voices echoing in half-sloshed laughter.
Cass was still slouched at her stool, her whiskey glass nearly drained. She watched us as we passed, that sharp curiosity lingering in her bloodshot eyes.
I slowed for just a second, meeting her gaze. "Thanks," I said simply. No flourish, no extra weight—just enough to acknowledge she'd bothered to speak at all.
She smirked faintly, raising her glass again in a lazy salute. "Don't mention it, cowboy. Just don't end up on Jackson's chore list longer than you have to."
Maria glanced at her warily, but I pressed forward, leading us toward the far end of the barracks. The door Lacey had pointed out loomed ahead, marked by a simple NCR sign that had seen too much sun and too little care.
I rapped my knuckles against the frame. The muffled shuffle of papers came from inside, followed by a low, tired voice.
"Yeah? Come in."
I pushed the door open, stepping into Ranger Jackson's office.
The office was cramped, hotter than the barracks outside, and smelled of paper and sweat. Piles of folders leaned against the walls, some stacked so high they looked ready to topple. A battered desk sat at the center, its surface buried under maps, reports, and half-empty coffee cups.
Behind it was Ranger Jackson—broad-shouldered even sitting down, his NCR fatigues sweat-stained and rolled at the sleeves. His skin was weathered, his face lined deep from years under the desert sun. Dark stubble covered his jaw, and his eyes carried the kind of tired sharpness you only saw in men who had worked too long with too little.
He looked up from the sheet he was scribbling on, pen still in hand, studying me with a frown that seemed more habitual than personal.
"You're not one of mine," Jackson said, his voice low, gravelly.
Jackson leaned back in his chair, the pen tapping against the edge of his desk. His eyes flicked over me, then to Maria, then to ED-E hovering at my shoulder. He didn't say a word for a long moment, just studied us the way a ranger sizes up a stranger in the wastes—measuring if we were a problem, or a waste of his time.
"You've got the look of someone who's been out there," he finally said, his tone slow, deliberate. "Not just another drifter. The girl though…" His gaze lingered on Maria, softer but still wary. "She doesn't belong in a place like this. And that eyebot? NCR property. So tell me why I shouldn't have you turned around and walked back out that door."
Maria stiffened under his scrutiny, her knuckles white on her satchel strap. I shifted slightly, enough to put myself between her and Jackson's stare, and met his eyes without flinching.
"I'm not here to cause you trouble," I said. "I'm looking for a man named Rafael. He was stationed here. Transferred with a squad headed east. His sister deserves to know what happened to him."
Jackson's frown deepened, but not in anger—more like calculation. He studied me a second time, sharper this time, as if weighing the honesty in my words against all the lies he'd heard in this office.
The pen stopped tapping. He set it down and leaned forward, folding his hands together on the desk.
"…Alright. You've got my attention."
Jackson's eyes didn't miss much. He watched my face while I answered, like a man reading footprints in dust—patient, quiet, and not easily fooled. When I finished, he let out a soft, almost amused snort, then pushed himself up and shoved a stack of maps toward me. Coffee rings dotted the paper; routes were scrawled in different inks.
"Talk straight," he said, voice flat. "Rangers don't deal in stories. Give me dates, names, and what you actually know, not what people told you between shifts." He tapped the desk with his pen, each knock measured. "When was Rafael last seen here? Rank? Squad designation? Who signed the transfer?"
I told him what Knight had said—transferred with a squad east toward Novac—then that Maria was his sister and had last spoken to him before he shipped out. Jackson's jaw tightened at "sister," and for a beat I thought he would ask for proof. Instead he folded his hands and began sorting the facts in his head.
"Alright." He spread the map flat and pushed it toward ED-E so the bot's optic could take a look. "If a squad moved out intact, they'd pick one of three lines from here." He traced a finger along blotches and faded roads. "One's the main highway—faster, but predictable. Two's the back country—slower, but avoids checkpoints. Three cuts across old rail lines and washes; lowest footprint, highest chance of trouble with raiders and wildlife." He tapped each route as he named it, his tone clinical, unemotional. "Each has a different risk signature. Ambushes, supply failures, or NCR recalls leave different signs."
He leaned back and steepled his fingers. "If you want the hard facts, the transfer orders and patrol logs are in my stack." He nodded toward the leaning piles of folders. "But that's paperwork. Paper lies, gets mangled, stamped late. Faster way: I can cross-check patrol logs for sightings, talk to the courier who runs between here and Novac, and pull the outbound manifest. If Rafael's squad hit trouble, we'll have trail reports—scavenger sightings, broken gear found, radio chatter. If they made it to Novac intact, the Novac quartermasters will have them on roster."
He regarded me like a judge weighing evidence. "Help me help you. Tell me everything—last known date, any nicknames, gear he'd have had, distinguishing marks. If you're bluffing, I'll know in five minutes. If you're real—" he paused, and for the first time his voice showed something like…professional sympathy, "—then we'll find the trail or we'll find why the trail stopped."
Maria's hand found my sleeve, small and steady. ED-E's light blinked as if to say it was ready to assist. Jackson pushed a blank form across the desk. "Give me names. I'll start on the logs now. Be prepared: if this is a moving target, it'll cost time and I'll need you out of the barracks for patrol interviews. If you want immediate movement, I can brief a scout to run a fast check along Route One, but that's riskier."
He folded his arms and watched me, every line of his face a measuring scale. Analytical. Precise. A ranger doing what rangers do—turning worry into variables.
Jackson pulled a folder from the stack, flipping it open with the weary precision of someone who'd done this dance too many times. Pages rustled, pen scratching in quick, deliberate strokes.
"This'll take a while," he said without looking up. "Transfers aren't clean. Paperwork gets shuffled, stamped twice, misplaced. If Rafael's in here, I'll find him—but not in the next five minutes."
Maria's shoulders tightened, her silence heavy. I kept my eyes on Jackson, knowing he wasn't the type to speak without purpose.
He set the folder aside and leaned back, folding his arms. "In the meantime, I've got something more suited to a man with your build—and that gear you're hauling. Ranger Ghost's stationed on the roof, keeping eyes east. She reported something odd out that way. Needs boots, not binoculars."
His gaze flicked to ED-E, then back to me. "Problem is, I can't spare men. Every trooper here's stretched, and I'm chained to this desk. But you? You look like you can handle the Mojave without someone holding your hand."
Jackson tapped the files with one finger, voice steady, businesslike. "You help Ghost, and by the time you're back I'll have Rafael's trail narrowed down. And for your trouble—there's a reward in it. NCR-issued. Not charity, not favors—payment for services rendered."
Maria's eyes flickered with a spark of hope, though worry still pulled at her expression. ED-E's optic pulsed, humming low like it approved.
I met Jackson's gaze, steady and sure. "Alright. Where exactly is she?"
"Top of the barracks," he said. "You'll know her when you see her. Doesn't waste words, doesn't waste time. She'll point you where you need to go."
I nodded once, then paused, glancing at Maria before looking back at Jackson.
"One more thing," I said. "While I'm checking in with Ghost… can she stay here?"
Maria stiffened beside me, eyes flashing. Before Jackson could answer, she cut in, her voice sharper than I'd ever heard it.
"No. I want to come with you."
Both men's eyes turned on her—mine in surprise, Jackson's in quiet scrutiny. Her hand clutched the strap of her satchel like it was armor. "He's my brother," she said firmly, her voice steady despite the tremor in her breath. "If this leads to Rafael, I need to see it myself. I don't care how dangerous it is."
Jackson's brow arched slightly, though his face stayed unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, arms folding again across his chest. "Bold. Foolish, maybe—but bold. You sure you've got the grit for whatever's waiting east?"
Maria didn't flinch. "If it's about Rafael, yes."
I studied her for a beat, caught between the protective instinct to keep her safe and the respect she'd earned for standing her ground. Finally, I gave her a slow nod.
"She comes with me," I said, voice firm. "But if things go south, she stays behind me."
Jackson gave the smallest of shrugs, already returning his focus to the papers on his desk. "Your call. But the Mojave doesn't forgive mistakes—make sure you're both ready for what you'll find."
The barracks door groaned shut behind us, the heat of the Mojave sun beating down like a hammer. I stopped just outside, letting ED-E hover a few paces ahead while I turned to Maria.
She was trying to mask it, but I saw the way her hands tightened on her satchel, the way her eyes flicked to the horizon and back. Determined, but untested.
"Maria," I said quietly, so only she could hear, "you need to understand something before we climb those stairs. This isn't just raiders with rusty rifles, or some coyote packs prowling the dark. Out there—" I gestured east, where the desert stretched endless and raw— "there are monsters. Things that crawl out of the wastes that don't even have names anymore. Things worse than the convicts we cut down in Primm. Things that eat bullets like candy."
Her brow furrowed, but she didn't look away.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice further. "I can protect you. I will protect you. But if you stay at my side, you have to be ready to see horrors you can't pray away overnight. Are you ready for that?"
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the whine of ED-E's systems and the distant calls of brahmin from the outpost stables.
Maria drew in a breath, steady and deliberate. "I'm not afraid of monsters, Prometheus. I'm afraid of never finding Rafael. If I turn back now, I'll regret it for the rest of my life."
I searched her face for hesitation, for the slightest crack. But there was only fire there, burning brighter than the Mojave sky.
At last, I gave a small nod. "Then stay close. No wandering. No heroics. If I say run, you run. Understood?"
She nodded firmly, her voice clear. "Understood."
I let out a slow breath, then turned toward the stairs leading up to Ranger Ghost's post. ED-E chirped expectantly, as if urging us forward. The wasteland was waiting.
The climb up the barracks stairs creaked under our boots, each step carrying us above the din of soldiers and merchants below. ED-E floated along at my shoulder, his sensors humming faintly. Maria kept close behind, clutching the railing like it might steady her nerves.
At the landing, the heat struck harder—dry winds sweeping over the outpost, stinging the skin. A lone figure leaned against the wall near a mounted spotter's scope. Her rifle rested casually at her side, but her posture said she could bring it to her shoulder in a heartbeat.
"Ranger Ghost?" I asked.
Her head turned slowly, visor catching the desert glare. She scanned me, then Maria, then ED-E, with the cool precision of a marksman.
"That's me," she said flatly. "Jackson send you?"
I nodded. "Said you had something out east that needed eyes."
Ghost jerked her chin toward the horizon. I followed her gaze, squinting against the sun. There it was—thin but rising steady—a black column of smoke smudging the sky.
"That wasn't there yesterday," she said. Her voice was calm, but there was a hard edge under it. "Coming from the direction of Nipton, or damn close. Could be a fire, could be worse. And knowing the Mojave… it's usually worse."
Maria sucked in a quiet breath, gripping the strap of her satchel.
Ghost leaned forward a fraction, visor fixed on me. "I'd check it myself, but I'm chained here keeping watch on the pass. Jackson wants answers, and frankly, so do I. You want the job? Go find out what's burning—and why."
Her head tilted slightly, as if weighing me. "But don't fool yourself. If Nipton's gone dark, it isn't coyotes or a pack of raiders. Whatever did that is big enough to leave nothing but smoke."
I didn't answer her right away. My eyes stayed on that smoke twisting into the sky. It wasn't the kind a cooking fire or caravan accident made—it was heavier, darker.
"What kind of movement are we talking about?" I asked, my tone level. "You've been watching this stretch longer than anyone. Raiders? Legion? Something else?"
Ghost's head tilted slightly, and for the first time, I caught the faintest hint of tension under her calm. "Could be raiders—but too disciplined for that. Could be Legion—they've been sniffing around more, testing our lines. Or…" She let the thought trail off, visor still locked on the column. "Or maybe something worse. Nipton wasn't a stronghold, but it wasn't helpless either. For the whole town to go silent overnight? That's not chance."
Her words hung there, heavy as lead.
I turned to Maria. She tried to stand tall, but I saw the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
"Maria," I said, low and steady, "this is the kind of danger I warned you about. Smoke like that doesn't mean answers—it means death. If it's Legion, they don't spare women. If it's something worse… there might not be anyone left to save."
Her eyes locked on mine, fiery even through the fear. "And if Rafael's there? If he's in Nipton, or if whatever happened there is connected to him?"
I hesitated, then put a hand gently on her shoulder. "Then we'll find out. But you stay behind me. Always."
She nodded once, firm, no tremor in her gaze this time.
Behind us, Ghost gave a dry chuckle. "Well, aren't you two a picture. Lovers, family, whatever you are—doesn't matter. Just don't let the Mojave chew you up. You'll head for Nipton?"
Ghost's words barely left her mouth before my stomach turned. Lovers? The thought made bile rise in my throat. Maria was a girl—brave, stubborn, determined—but still a girl. I shot Ghost a hard look, the kind that cut through armor and made clear where I stood.
"Family," I said curtly, voice clipped. "Nothing else."
Maria's cheeks flushed, not with embarrassment but with quiet indignation, though she kept her silence. Ghost gave a small shrug, unimpressed, and leaned back against the wall like she hadn't noticed the steel in my tone.
I exhaled through my nose, forcing the disgust down. "We'll head for Nipton," I said, the words firm, final. "If there's something out there, we'll bring back the truth."
Ghost tapped her rifle against her boot, visor tilting toward the smoke. "Good. Then maybe the Mojave will spit up answers for once instead of corpses."
I gave her a sharp nod and turned, guiding Maria back toward the stairs. ED-E floated after us, whirring low and restless, like even he could taste the tension in the air.