Case spent the next three weeks learning his way around the place—and the people who ran it. The Desert Rangers weren't what he expected. Jacob was the commander, the old ghoul who somehow held the whole outfit together. Amelia served as his second-in-command, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, and everyone else fell somewhere under their authority.
Their main base of operations was an old gas station—half-ruin, half-fortress. Rangers trained there, kept watch over Novac, Little Lamplight, and the 188 Trading Post, and coordinated every security patrol in the region. The place was small, but always busy: rifles being cleaned, armor being patched, radios crackling with updates from patrols scattered across the Mojave.
There weren't many people, not compared to NCR camps or Legion forts, but the mix was undeniable. Former NCR troopers or rangers, Enclave remnants, ex-US military old-world ghouls, and even a couple of tribals, all living together under the same banner.
Case lived among the other Rangers' kids. It was a small, tight-knit group—more like a family than anything else he'd ever known. They looked out for one another, shared what little they had, and filled the long Mojave days with noise and movement. As far as he could tell, they all had each other's backs.
"How are you able to read so quickly? I don't recall Legion slaves being literate," Amelia remarked as she taught the kids inside one of the tents.
Case wasn't the smartest kid there—that much he knew. His memories were still fractured, like pieces of a story he couldn't put together. He remembered one thing clearly, though: he wasn't from this world. But who he used to be? That part was gone.
He could manage basic math—multiplication, simple equations, the kind of stuff taught in grade school—but anything beyond that slipped through his fingers. Engineering formulas, advanced concepts, anything too technical… it all felt unfamiliar.
Some of the older kids sat in their own group, learning more specialized subjects: rudimentary engineering, mechanical repairs, even basic biology. The Rangers treated knowledge like survival gear—everyone learned something that could keep the Farmstead running.
Case tried to follow along as best he could, eyes moving over the pages faster than he expected, even if the meaning lagged behind. The textbook he'd been given was a simple one—written by the Followers of the Apocalypse and designed specifically for children. Straightforward words, clear diagrams, nothing too demanding… yet even then, some things slipped past him.
His days quickly fell into a routine. At first light, one of the Rangers would take him and the other kids outside the camp to tend the small crop plots, clean the tents, or help with whatever chores kept the Farmstead running. After breakfast came school, stretching from morning until mid-afternoon.
Once lessons ended, it was either back to chores or time for survival training—tracking, navigation, fire-starting, the kind of skills the Desert Rangers considered essential for anyone living under their banner.
Of course, there was Jacob.
"How's my boy doing?" Jacob asked, pulling off his helmet as he stepped into the farmstead.
Case sat on a folding chair overlooking the empty highway, working through the textbook Amelia had assigned and scribbling homework answers in the margins. Beside his chair rested the small 5.56 service rifle Jacob had given him.
It was standard issue for the Rangers. Most non-combat personnel carried the same model. Everyone had a rifle of some sort; that was the Ranger way. Those who grew up with lever-action rifles stuck with them. Others favored long rifles or sniper setups. People kept what they knew—so long as they could handle it.
Case glanced up. "It's certainly a lot better than the Legion. I don't doubt that."
Jacob gave a low chuckle. "One day, kid, this place might be restored to its former glory."
Case frowned slightly. "How? Two hundred years have passed, and nothing's changed. Not really. Even the Rangers couldn't."
"Maybe not us," Jacob said, leaning against the railing. "Maybe not anyone alive right now. Maybe the NCR someday. But the Legion?" He snorted. "They're too busy worshipping the past to build a future."
Case looked back down at his book, letting the words settle in his mind.
Jacob nudged the rifle beside him with a knuckle. "Relax, kid. I've been around long enough to see how the world moves. Stability comes first. And right now?" He exhaled through his nose, the sound half a sigh, half a growl. "We're barely hanging on."
He straightened, stretching his stiff shoulders. "But don't worry. I'm supposedly immortal, remember? I'll stick around long enough to see which bastard finally manages to fix this place."
Case wasn't sure if he was joking.
"Still, we need more sane pre-war ghouls," Jacob went on, lowering himself onto the chair beside Case. "They're the ones who remember how the old world worked. If we had more non-feral ghouls around, maybe the wasteland would've been rebuilt already."
Case glanced at him. "Missing the good old days, pa?"
Jacob paused, then let out a raspy chuckle. "Oh? So you've decided to call me pa now."
"Feels better that way," Case said with a small shrug. "Unless you prefer Jacob."
Jacob shook his head, a faint, tired smile tugging at his face. "Kid, I've been called a lot worse than 'pa.' I'll take it." He reached out and grabbed Case by the hand as he stood. "Come on. This old ghoul promised you a tour across the wasteland."
Case rose from his chair and slung his service rifle over his shoulder. He was no longer dressed in tattered rags—now he wore sturdy cargo pants and a khaki shirt. He headed down the slope of the farmstead toward the rest of the Rangers.
Near the highway, several vehicles were parked in the dust: old military trucks, patched-up utility vehicles, and a few mismatched transports that looked like they'd been rebuilt more times than Case could count. The Rangers moved around them, checking engines, loading supplies, and arguing over coolant.
Case didn't remember much about who he used to be, but his knowledge of New Vegas—the geography, the distances, the layout of the Mojave—seemed strangely intact. One thing was clear: Vegas wasn't anywhere close. Walking from the farmstead to the Strip would take hours at best, days at minimum, and that was assuming nothing tried to kill you along the way.
Not everyone had access to vehicles out here. In fact, most people didn't. The Mojave wasn't built for casual travel. The Rangers, however, were lucky—they had a few skilled engineers and mechanics who knew how to coax life out of fusion-fission engines that should have died a century ago.
"Let's take the Jeep," Jacob said.
Case climbed into the passenger seat while Jacob settled behind the wheel. With a twist of the key, the engine came to life—not with the rattling roar Case expected, but with a low, steady hum from the fusion engine.