War. War never changes.
In the year 2281, the NCR did battle once again with Caesar's Legion at Hoover Dam. Aided by the Boomers, a squad of Enclave Remnants, and a mysterious figure known only as the Courier, the NCR triumphed once again. I had been on the dam that day, holding the line with my fellow Rangers. After the battle, New Vegas declared its independence, Caesar's Legion withdrew, and the Courier vanished into the wasteland. The NCR returned to its own borders, with President Kimball formally recognizing New Vegas as an independent territory.
That's all well and good, but the Mojave Wasteland remains a dangerous place, filled with raider gangs, deathclaws, and all manner of nasty creatures. On this particular evening in December of 2283, my partner and I were out in the wastes, hunting the most vile of all wasteland scum: slavers.
I was crouched behind a boulder beneath a moonlit night. Peering around the rock, my view green from my helmet's night vision, I could clearly see our target. No more than fifty yards away was a caravan of slavers who had stopped for the night.
"Momma Bear to Papa Bear," came a familiar voice through my radio, "I'm in position."
"Roger that, Momma Bear," I promptly replied.
Momma Bear was my partner, Kerry Logan. She was a Ranger veteran with twelve years of service, and perhaps the sharpest sharpshooter I ever met. I could just barely make her out atop the ridge overlooking the camp. All that was visible was the barrel of her anti-material rifle.
"What do you see up there?"
A moment of silence. "I count the same ten slavers that we've been tracking for the past few days. Half are watching the slaves, two are around the campfire, and the other three are walking around the camp. The twenty slaves are in the middle of the camp. Four pack brahmin are lingering nearby."
"Roger that. Commencing my infiltration."
I shut off my night vision to avoid emitting the red glow from my visor, drew my combat knife, and moved from around the boulder, walking at a crouch. I approached the nearest slaver, who was idly walking around. He was a rough fellow, unshaven, wearing torn clothes and improvised armor. His assault rifle was unslung, his finger off the trigger. Did he feel safe? I never found out. Instead, I came up quietly behind him, and in one practiced motion I put my free hand over his mouth and slit his throat with my knife. I gently lowered him to the sandy ground, leaving him to bleed.
The next slaver - a young woman with a half-shaved head carrying a submachine gun - died the exact same way, her bleeding corpse hidden by the night. One more slaver died by my knife, this time stabbed in his hairy chest, which he had left exposed, the fool. With that, the slavers had no perimeter guard. Their camp, whether they knew it or not, was now vulnerable.
I avoided the two at the campfire. Attempting to take them out would almost guarantee that I would be detected. I paused for a moment, eyeing the slavers watching their human and ghoul merchandise. They were all facing inward, watching the twenty slaves huddled on the ground. One of them - a pale-skinned young woman wearing a cowboy hat - stood up. The slaver nearest her raised his rifle.
"Sit back down!" I heard him bark in a gruff voice. His shouting masked the sound of my approach.
"Why should I?" the woman demanded to know.
"Because if you don't," the slaver shot back, "I'll blow your damn head off!"
"No you won't," said the woman, shaking her head. "I'm no good to you dead. You can't sell a corpse to the highest bidder."
"Oh yeah, well let's just see about that, you little bit-" My knife interrupted his ranting by cutting his neck clean open.
That's when my cover was blown. The other slavers had turned to watch the spectacle with the woman, and one spotted my figure.
"NCR!" he exclaimed in a panic and opened fire with his lever-action rifle.
I dropped my knife and bolted for cover behind a rocky outcropping. I turned my night vision back on as I ran, and dove behind the rocks. I heard the boom of an anti-material rifle as I reached down into my holster. With my assault carbine back with Kerry, I instead drew my favorite weapon: my personal Ranger Sequoia. It had been granted to me personally by Chief Hanlon after serving twenty years in the Rangers. Now, I used it to rid the wasteland of scum like slavers.
I peered over the rocks, taking a split-second survey of the battlefield. One of the slavers was dead, no doubt shot by Kerry. The two who had been around the fire had joined the battle, and the remaining three were firing in my direction. One of them, either in an extreme act of bravery or stupidity, rushed my position, firing his lever-action shotgun as he ran. I leveled my Sequoia at his chest and squeezed the trigger. My pistol fired with a roar and a recoil, the .45-70 caliber bullet flew through the air, and the charging slaver fell, his torso bleeding profusely.
I ducked down again as the slavers continued firing. Kerry's rifle boomed again. I stole a glance over the rocks, bullets whistling overhead. Three slavers were left standing. One slaver moved to reload his weapon, cursing that he was out of ammo. Before he could pop in a new clip, I dropped him with my Sequoia. The remaining two slavers smartened up and moved to outflank me. One went left, the other right. The slaver going right tripped over herself, stumbling to one knee, and a shot from my revolver ensured that she stayed down permanently. The last slaver fired a shot at me from his semi-auto handgun, but the shot went wild and zipped past my head. I fired my last shot at him… and missed! I dropped the Sequoia and readied myself for hand-to-hand combat.
The slaver came around the rocks as I stood up to confront him. He fired two shots into my chest, but my armor absorbed the bullets. I heard his weapon click as he pulled the trigger on an empty magazine.
"Hell!" he swore and dropped the pistol and drew the machete at his side. "Time to die, NCR scum!" He goaded me through a bearded mouth.
The slaver swung his weapon downwards at my head, but I dodged the blade and caught his wrist and headbutted him. I twisted his wrist forcing him to drop his weapon. I wrestled him to the ground and caught him in a headlock, constricting his airway. He struggled for several moments, then went limp. I dumped the slaver's unconscious body on the ground, then I slit his throat with his own machete.
"Papa Bear to Momma Bear," I radioed to Kerry, "all hostiles terminated."
"Roger that, Papa Bear, I'm on my way down."
After picking up, reloading, and holstering my Sequoia and recovering my combat knife, I made my way over to the slaves. They were a mix of ghouls and humans, many in ragged clothes, but some were wearing armor. Most were wearing a bomb collar around their throat. Those who did not must have been captured recently, before the slavers had time to put collars on them. They had been smart enough to bind their recent captives' hands, though.
Kerry came up beside me, her anti-material rifle slung over her back and my assault carbine in her hands. Unlike my armor and helmet, which were made based on pre-war riot gear, Kerry wore the standard brown polymer Ranger armor, handcrafted in the NCR by the best armorsmiths that the Republic had to offer. She did not wear a duster, while I did. She did, however, wear the red beret of the NCR recon, her old unit prior to being offered a place in the Rangers. Her short blonde hair poked out from beneath her beret, and she looked at me with curious blue eyes.
"Nicely done, Kerry," I commended her. "Sharp shooting as always."
"Thanks, boss," she said with an approving grin, and handed me my assault carbine. "You didn't do so bad yourself."
"Good to see I haven't lost my touch." I slung my carbine, then looked at the slaves. "Let's see about getting these people out of their bindings."
And so Kerry and I went up to the slaves, cutting their bindings and carefully removing the bomb collars. One by one they were freed from bondage. Each one stood up and thanked us in turn for freeing them. When everyone was freed, Kerry and I stood in front of the huddled mass.
"Your attention please," I called out, my voice amplified by my helmet's hardware, "I'm Jack Beckenstein, Veteran Ranger of the NCR, and this is Ranger Kerry McMillan. You are now all free people."
"But what are we supposed to do now?" asked a ghoul woman.
"That's a fair question," I replied. "I am sure that many of you have homes to return to. We are heading west, to New Vegas. Any one of you is free to accompany us if you intend to go in that direction."
"Well that's awfully convenient," said a young woman. "My caravan was headed that way. Having a Ranger guard certainly would help."
I turned my attention to the woman. She was pretty, with short red hair and pale skin. She wore a cowboy hat and simple trader clothes.
"Was your caravan attacked?" I asked the red-haired woman.
"Well, duh!" was her response. "Those pack brahmin belong to me. Those slavers ambushed us two nights ago. They put those damn collars around our necks while we slept."
"Tough break," said Kerry.
"You don't know half of it."
"We can't stay here," I addressed the crowd. "If you intend to come with us to New Vegas, get ready to travel. We leave at sunrise."
The small crowd began to disperse. The five former captives in armor - who I presumed to be the caravan guards - took the weapons and ammunition off of the dead slavers. Three traders tended to the pack brahmin.
The red-haired woman came up to me and extended her hand, which I shook.
"Thanks for freeing us," she said appreciatively.
"You're perfectly welcome. What's your name?"
"My name's Rose of Sharon Cassidy. Call me Cass. I run Cassidy Caravans."
"Do you have any food or water that you could share with these people?"
Cass nodded. "Just what's on the brahmin. It won't be enough to feed everyone."
"I understand. Share what you can. I doubt many of these people have had a decent meal in days. Slavers aren't known for taking care of their captives."
"You're right." Cass cupped her hands and turned to the traders at the pack brahmin. "Hey! Boys! Share the food! We've got some hungry bellies to feed!"
"You got it, boss!" one called back.
Rose turned back to me. "See? All taken care of."
"Thank you. You'd best tend to your people."
Cass pointed at Kerry, who had been watching the whole exchange. "And you had best tend to your partner." She went off to join the caravan traders and guards.
"She's a real firecracker, that one," Kerry remarked. "I think I'm starting to like her."
"Is that so?" I teased. "Maybe you will… take her aside?"
Kerry giggled. "Maybe."
I checked my watch. "Sunrise is still six hours away. You go ahead and get some sleep. I'll take the first watch."
"You got it, Jack. Time to hit the hay."
While Kerry slept, and Cass, the traders, guards, and former captives ate a meal, I patrolled the camp's perimeter, thinking of the three-day journey back to New Vegas, and what possibly awaited us once Kerry and I returned to base. Would raiders attack? Might a deathclaw catch us unawares? Knowing the wasteland, anything could happen.
And often, something did happen.