Chapter 25 - Chapter 24 Some Things Just Stay the Same

Chapter 24 Some Things Just Stay the Same

Two days after the Deathclaw celebration, Ironwood Grove had cooled. Fires banked. Drums silenced. The bones of the Matriarch had been carried to the forge halls for carving.

I walked into the stitcher's lodge just after midday. The same stitcher I had visited before, Lato. She did good work and I saw no need to go to anyone else.

The forty year old woman didn't even look up as I stepped in.

"You're late."

"I wasn't aware we scheduled anything."

"You weren't. I started sewing like we did."

She gestured to the stand near the window.

The suit hung there. No armor. No plating. Just the underlayer.

But it wasn't the same one I'd dropped off.

It was better.

Fire Bellowback lining had been sewn in under the arms, back, and inner thighs—thin enough to flex, thick enough to hold. The right shoulder and the other rips and tears had been rebuilt using pieces from the Enclave compression suit—dark weave, pressure-stitched, reinforced with micro-filament threading. Smooth to the touch, but ten times stronger than it looked.

White tribal glyphs had been painted across the surface—sharp, clean, and unmistakably Kansani. They traced over seams and down the arms like veins. Every one meant something: breath, survival, rhythm. A language of movement burned into the skin of the suit.

I stepped closer, running a hand along the spine seam.

"You actually got it to fit."

Lato snorted. "It's no different than half the junk those young Ironbone think they can slap into armor. Just needs shaping, not worship."

I blinked. "It was hard ceramic—didn't think it'd flex."

"It doesn't," she said, "but you do. So I cut the socket to match you, not the plate. Re-bored the anchors, shaved the underside flat, and floated it on a flex ring. Lighter than it looks. Won't crack your ribs unless you fall wrong."

I lifted the vest. It had weight—but not burden. The kind of armor that didn't just protect—it remembered.

"Back plate?" I asked.

She gestured to the inner lining. "Stacked leather with a second layer of thigh-grade Deathclaw hide. Not as strong as the chest, but flexible. Won't slow your draw."

I slid the vest on. It settled over the compression suit like it had been built around my body. The ceramic plate hugged flat to the sternum. No shift. No rattle.

"Had to reinforce the underarms," she said. "The tech wasn't meant to move this much. I gave it play using bone thread loops and an internal flex band."

She stepped away again and came back with the rest of it—shin guards and forearm wraps, all shaped from Deathclaw hide. The texture was different now. Not raw or savage. Disciplined. Cut and formed by someone who respected the beast it came from.

"The original straps on the greaves were rotted," she said. "Replaced them with claw-leather. Holds better under wet and won't crack in heat."

I crouched, fastened them tight. The greaves were matte steel—old military plating, refitted with Kansani straps. They flexed, but held—no drag, no excess. White glyphs had been painted down the front of each, shaped like roots bracing for storm.

Then she handed me the arm guards. Right was standard—two leather panels stitched over fire-lining, wrapped with grip cloth and fitted to the elbow. But the left?

Thicker.

Wider.

Tapered to slope over the bulk of the Nanoboy mounted to my forearm.

"I shaped it custom," Lato said. "No one else in the Grove carries tech like that. It needed protection—but flexibility, too. So I gave you a split-sleeve guard. Inner piece is braced; outer shell rides above the panel so you can still tap it through the leather."

I rotated the left arm. The guard moved with me. No pinch. No binding. It was protective without smothering the module underneath.

"It's not perfect," she said, stepping back. "But it's a start. If that tech explodes, at least your forearm might still be recognizable."

I stood fully, gear in place.

Undersuit, vest, leather—shoulders to shins.

Tighter. Sharper. Mine.

Lato circled once, then nodded. "You look less like a man borrowing scraps. More like someone the Grove might actually claim."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

She smirked faintly. "Take it however you want."

She paused, then added, more quietly:

"Next time you bring me something from the old world… bring enough to finish the set."

I turned to the final piece—laid out over a low bench, folded with more care than anything else in the lodge. My new long coat.

It was made from the hide of the Matriarch—deep black, burn-cured, lined in red-thread seams that ran like claw marks down the back. The inside was quilted with a thin mesh of scavenged machine fiber and soft hide, stitched with enough flex to wear over armor without dragging.

I ran a hand over the collar, then lifted it fully. It was heavy. Alive in a way cloth never could be.

"Sometimes," I murmured, "the stuff from the Old World isn't meant for the new."

Lato didn't look up from her workbench.

"Then it gets remade," she said simply. "That's the part they always forget. We don't salvage. We shape."

I slid the coat on.

It settled across my shoulders like it belonged there.

Like it had been waiting for me.

I let the coat settle.

Then I tapped the Nanoboy.

Blue mist curled from the intake as the helmet dropped into my hands—matte black, red visor, seamless edge. No markings. No embellishment. Just presence.

Lato didn't react. She never did. She'd seen it once before and never mentioned it again. That was why I trusted her.

I crossed to the mirror she'd hung near the back—thin and tall, gold-framed in Carja style. Bought from the only merchant here arrogant enough to peddle glass to warriors. But the Grove hadn't smashed it, so it stayed.

I looked.

The undersuit hugged clean—patched, lined, glyph-painted. The vest rested snug over the core, ceramic chestplate dark beneath the layered leather. The greaves caught the light just enough to show the white marks running down their edge. The coat finished it—draped, heavy, shaped by the Matriarch's final weight.

I raised the helmet.

Put it on.

The seals clicked. The visor lit.

My reflection sharpened. Lines tighter. Stance firmer. A silhouette no longer patched together from salvage and grit.

It looked right.

I stood there a moment longer, breathing slow behind the glass. Then I dropped the shards owed to Lato beside her and turned toward the door.

No words from Lato. Just a faint nod as she turned back to her work.

She knew what she'd finished. And so did I.

The lodge door shut quietly behind me, sealing away the scent of leather and oil, the soft sound of Lato's stitching fading as I walked away.

Ironwood Grove stirred gently around me, the afternoon sun tracing lazy patterns across packed earth and timber beams. People moved quietly now, energy muted in the wake of the celebration, settling into their routines. But their eyes lingered as I passed, conversations pausing, gazes drawn to the gear I wore—gear that carried stories now etched deep into leather and ceramic.

At the end of the path stood the longhouse, massive timbers climbing skyward, flanked by totems carved with glyphs older than memory. It loomed like a living thing, the heart of the Grove itself.

Jorta was waiting inside.

He stood near the training circle, arms folded, eyes fixed on a group of younger warriors running drills. As I approached, he turned, gaze sharp, assessing me in a single sweep.

He gave a brief nod. "You listened. Good."

"You told me to train like I'll fight," I replied. "This is how I'll fight."

He studied the armor again, eyes lingering on the ceramic plate, the reinforced greaves, the Deathclaw-hide coat. His expression didn't shift, but something in his stance seemed to ease slightly—approval, subtle but unmistakable.

"Good choice," he finally said. "Deathclaw Kenpo doesn't work unless you trust your gear. If your armor moves wrong, your strikes move wrong. And if your strikes move wrong—"

"You die," I finished quietly.

He gave a curt nod. "Exactly."

Jorta stepped back into the center of the training circle, arms unfolding, stance shifting into the deep, predatory crouch of his style. He gestured for me to join him.

"Show me your stance," he said. "Feel your armor as part of you, not around you."

I moved forward, setting my feet wide, sinking slightly into my hips. The weight of the ceramic plate settled firmly against my sternum. The greaves held fast against my legs, steady and balanced. The helmet sealed around my head, my vision filtered faintly through red, sharpening every motion into precise focus.

Jorta watched closely, circling me once, then twice.

"Good," he said again. "The armor shapes your posture. Now, feel how the weight guides your strikes."

He stepped forward suddenly, arm snapping out in a sharp, tight arc—a ghost strike aimed at nothing but air. He repeated it, slower this time, demonstrating the alignment of shoulder, hip, and foot.

"Deathclaw Kenpo doesn't just use your muscles," he said, voice low, almost reverent. "It uses everything. The gear you wear, the earth beneath your feet, even the air around you. Everything is connected. Everything moves together."

I mirrored his strike, feeling the armor flex and shift exactly as it needed to. No catch. No restriction. It moved like an extension of my body, not a layer on top of it.

"Exactly," he said, stepping closer, correcting my elbow with a firm push. "Now again. Faster."

I repeated the motion, sharper now, trusting the gear, trusting the strike.

"Good," he said quietly, nodding once more. "This is just the start. Now we push further. Follow me."

He flowed into another stance, deeper, harder. The floor shook subtly as he stepped.

I followed without hesitation, armor moving in perfect rhythm.

This wasn't training for a fight.

This was learning to become the fight itself.

We paused after another series of strikes, my breathing steady beneath the helmet. Jorta regarded me quietly, the intensity in his eyes easing into thoughtful consideration.

"Your Deathclaw Kenpo will differ from mine," he said, tone neutral yet firm. "Unlike Sula, whose style thrives on speed and misdirection, you have the mass and frame needed for a more direct approach."

He stepped back slightly, appraising my stance again. "But mass alone isn't enough. You carry previous training—U.S. military combatives, if I recall correctly. That shapes every move you make."

I nodded. "It's muscle memory now. Hardwired."

"Good," Jorta replied. "Don't discard it. Blend it. Your strikes, your movements, your pressure—each must draw from both worlds. Deathclaw Kenpo isn't rigid. It survives because it evolves. You must evolve it further."

"I plan to," I said. "Not just with what I already know. I intend to learn other styles too—whatever makes me stronger."

Jorta's expression remained even, but his eyes brightened knowingly. "I suspected as much from the moment you asked to train. You aren't here to master one style alone."

"No," I admitted quietly. "I'm here to find what works. Everything I learn adds another piece."

He gave a slow nod, deep respect in the gesture. "Then you'll walk the Ever-Changing Path. Few do. Fewer succeed. But those who manage it become something more than warriors. They become legends."

I steadied my stance, adjusting my grip, feeling the armor settle perfectly around my body.

"I don't need legends," I said, voice firm beneath the helmet. "I just need to win."

Jorta stepped back to the center of the ring, stance lowering slightly, muscles tightening in preparation. "Let's test it now, Witness. Words alone won't shape you."

I followed him, matching his deliberate pacing, helmet sealed tight. My heartbeat slowed, my vision sharpening through the red visor, the armor shifting with me like an extension of my body. Every part of me was ready—every piece working together.

"Begin," he said simply.

He moved first, a sharp, sweeping step forward, low and predatory. His palm shot out—quick, measured, aimed at my chest.

I pivoted, redirecting the strike with a short parry, immediately following with a snap of my elbow toward his ribs. Jorta twisted fluidly aside, a slight smirk of approval touching his lips. He struck again, aiming low this time, testing my guard.

My military reflexes took over, and I moved to block—clean, disciplined. Then I remembered the lesson.

Blend it.

I didn't just block—I shifted the momentum, catching his wrist mid-strike and stepping inward. Deathclaw Kenpo surged from instinct, not instruction. My foot drove down hard, aiming to break his balance and disrupt his stance.

But Jorta moved like smoke, pivoting smoothly around my attempted sweep. His knee snapped up, barely brushing my side as I twisted clear, and his forearm slammed into mine, testing the reinforced guard over my Nanoboy.

I felt the armor absorb the impact perfectly, not even a hint of hesitation in my counterattack. I pushed forward again, driving a heavy palm strike toward his chest. He parried it—clean and quick—but I'd anticipated his move. My right leg hooked behind his ankle, pulling sharply to steal his footing.

He shifted back in time, but only just, eyes lighting with genuine surprise.

"Good," he growled, low and pleased. "Better than expected."

We circled each other once more, stances mirroring. My body remembered now—not just the drills, but the fights that had shaped me long before I stepped into the Grove. Every lesson from two worlds flowed through me, interwoven and strengthened.

Jorta surged forward again, faster this time, more serious. I met him head-on, matching his strength, matching his speed, blending every style into something entirely my own.

The strikes flowed—sharp elbows, tight palms, clean blocks, feet gripping the earth. My armor flexed with me, neither constricting nor limiting. Every hit felt natural. Every dodge felt right.

We traded blows for several minutes, circling, testing, refining, each strike cleaner than the last. Jorta's breath finally quickened slightly, matching mine.

At last, he stepped back, raising one hand.

"Enough," he said, chest rising and falling steadily. "You learn quickly, Witness."

I straightened slowly, nodding in respect. "Only because I have a good teacher."

He smiled faintly. "And only because you listen."

He stepped closer, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. "This is your path now. Every style you learn, every lesson you master, it must become yours alone. Do not imitate. Innovate."

I nodded once more, understanding clear.

Jorta removed his hand, his expression shifting slightly. "No rest yet. Sula sent word—she needs you at the Pile. Ubba's there too. They've got a task that requires your help."

I adjusted the armor once more, making sure everything was tight and ready. "Understood. I'll head there now."

"Good," Jorta replied, stepping back to watch me leave. "Don't keep them waiting."

The path to the Pile echoed with the rhythmic clang of metal striking metal, sharp and constant beneath the distant hiss of steam. I moved quickly along the packed trail, helmet sealed, armor flexing effortlessly with each step.

As I drew closer, another sound rose clearly above the forge-work—the distinctive crack and whistle of Railwhistles being test-fired. The sound had become familiar quickly. Over the past week and a half, the Ironbone Clan had poured their efforts into producing them, pushing themselves hard enough to churn out twenty Railwhistles per day—astonishing, considering they lacked even basic industrial infrastructure.

The Pile came into view, bustling with activity. Ironbone craftsmen worked steadily, fires roaring as molten metal flowed into molds, sparks flaring and fading like tiny stars. Near the edges of the forge area, Kansani warriors stood in lines, carefully aiming and firing their new weapons at makeshift targets of metal and wood.

I paused briefly, watching. The Railwhistles sang out sharply, metal spikes punching cleanly through practice dummies and embedding deep into scrap plating. Each Kansani firing line moved efficiently, disciplined, clearly trained by Jorta and Tarn. The two veterans had recognized the weapon's potential immediately and were wasting no time ensuring the warriors learned its use thoroughly.

I knew why. The Legion's patience with the current ceasefire was wearing thin. War loomed at the edge of everyone's thoughts, unspoken yet ever-present. These weapons weren't just an advantage—they could mean the difference between survival and annihilation.

Shaking off my contemplation, I turned my focus forward again and moved into the heart of the Pile, toward where Sula and Ubba would be, wondering what task could be urgent enough to summon me from training with Jorta.

Made it to Ubba's workshop enough walking past the rhythmic ringing of hammer strikes and through the bustle of the Pile. Stepping inside, my eyes quickly adjusted to the warm, flickering light of forge fires and scattered lanterns.

Ubba glanced up first, eyes widening in surprise as she saw me. She set down her tools and stepped closer, openly impressed. "Damn, Rion," she said appreciatively, circling me once to take in the details. "That armor looks even better on you than I imagined. Anyone thinking about picking a fight will think twice when they see you now."

Sula turned, a slow smile spreading across her lips as she took in my appearance—the Deathclaw-hide coat, the ceramic-plated vest, the carefully etched tribal glyphs on the reinforced undersuit, and finally the matte-black helmet with its glowing red visor.

"You look ready to walk through fire," Sula remarked approvingly, her tone warm. She lightly traced a glyph along my arm, inspecting the craftsmanship. "Lato really outdid herself."

I flexed slightly, adjusting the armor. "Feels right. Fits like a second skin."

Ubba nodded proudly. "Good. If trouble comes, they'll regret testing you."

From the shadows in the far corner, a silent figure stepped forward into the firelight. Tall and lean, dressed in rugged Kansani leathers, he carried a meticulously maintained bow slung across his back. His quiet presence radiated intensity and calm authority.

Sula caught my glance toward him and gestured warmly. "Rion, this is Boone—the Ghostwalker. Best scout and bowman the Kansani have seen in generations."

Boone inclined his head slightly in greeting, eyes meeting mine steadily. "Witness," he said quietly, voice calm and steady, reflecting quiet respect. "Heard plenty about you. Glad to finally meet."

Ubba interrupted enthusiastically, stepping forward with two carefully wrapped leather bundles. She handed one bundle to me and the longer, heavier package to Boone. Boone and I exchanged curious glances, but I simply shrugged—accustomed by now to Ubba's surprises.

"What's this, Ubba?" I asked, testing the weight of my bundle.

She grinned broadly. "Just open it."

Unwrapping the leather revealed a beautifully crafted double-barrel shotgun, darkened metal engraved with subtle tribal patterns. Boone uncovered his own gift, a custom Railwhistle rifle modified for long-range precision, its barrel elegantly reinforced and etched with Kansani markings.

Ubba crossed her arms, visibly proud. "Custom-built for you both. Shotgun fits your style, Rion—loud and in their face. And Boone, your rifle matches your skills."

Boone examined his new rifle quietly, genuine appreciation briefly flickering in his eyes. "Exceptional work," he said quietly, giving Ubba a respectful nod. "Thank you."

I gave Ubba a grateful smile beneath my helmet. "Perfect, Ubba."

Sula stepped forward, gently amused but eager to continue. "Now that you two have your shiny new weapons, shall we get moving?"

Boone slung his new rifle confidently across his back, nodding once. "Ready."

Together, we moved from the workshop—friends and warriors, following Boone's quiet, confident lead.

As we prepared to leave, my gaze drifted briefly to Boone's newly crafted Railwhistle sniper rifle. It wasn't envy—I never had much patience for sniper rifles even back when they were just pixels on a screen—but I still shook my head in mild disbelief.

"I only mentioned the idea in passing, Ubba," I said with a sigh, glancing toward her with amusement. "And you just decided to build one?"

Ubba shrugged casually, a proud smirk tugging at her lips. "It sounded like a good idea at the time. Besides," she nodded toward Boone, "when I heard the Ghostwalker had a mission he needed help with, I figured there wasn't anyone better suited to test it."

Boone gave her a brief look of quiet approval, adjusting the rifle comfortably across his back.

Sula shook her head slightly, a small laugh escaping her. "Ubba, you never miss an excuse to make something new, do you?"

Ubba grinned brightly. "Never. Now stop talking and go put them to use. I've still got plenty of work to finish here."

I nodded, securing the new shotgun at my side. "Then let's get moving."

With a final nod from Boone, we stepped out of the workshop—just Sula, Boone, and me, leaving Ubba already turning back to her forge.

We moved swiftly past the hammering metal and whistling test fires, through the crowded paths of the Pile and out toward the quieter outskirts of Ironwood Grove. Boone set a quick pace, silent and focused, with Sula matching him stride for stride. Once we were clear of the settlement, and the sounds of daily life had faded into the background, I finally spoke up.

"So," I began, looking at Boone through my visor, "what exactly is this task you two need help with?"

Boone slowed slightly, voice steady and calm. "Our scouts near the southern border spotted a Carja convoy heading east— and more than likely a Legion squad is on its way to meet them.

My brow furrowed slightly beneath the helmet. "What business would the Carja have with the Legion?"

Boone's jaw tightened visibly. "They're hoping to buy slaves. Prisoners the Legion doesn't find valuable enough to keep around."

I paused for a moment, processing the implication. I had learned some of the terms of the ceasefire, one was no capture or dealing of slaves. "That would break the ceasefire terms," I pointed out. "The Carja aren't even covered by the agreement, and slave trade violates every condition. That means—"

"—we can kill them both," Boone finished evenly, his voice flat but decisive. "No consequences."

Sula nodded sharply, checking the straps on her weapons one last time. "The Legion has gotten careless, thinking we're bound by their peace. And the Carja believe our reach doesn't extend that far. It's about time they learned otherwise."

I adjusted the shotgun at my side, feeling the comforting weight. "Then let's send a message."

Boone's eyes narrowed slightly, and for just a moment, a cold, grim smile touched his face. "Agreed. Let's move."

We moved in silence, the grass rustling softly beneath our feet as we left Ironwood Grove behind. Boone led confidently, eyes scanning the horizon, alert for danger. Sula matched his purposeful stride, her focus similarly outward.

My thoughts drifted inward, briefly distracted by an odd curiosity. Usually, significant meetings triggered a perk—some small shift in ability, some incremental improvement. But meeting Boone hadn't triggered anything. I turned it over in my mind, considering possibilities. Was it tied to friendship or trust? Given Curie's warm, open nature, it had been instant with her.

But Boone wasn't Curie. Boone was reserved—slow to trust, cautious to connect. Even in the games, his friendship wasn't easily earned. Maybe that was it, then; the perk wasn't about simply meeting Boone. It was about earning his trust, proving myself to a man whose trust had been shattered once already.

That made sense. It fit Boone. It fit this world.

I glanced briefly at his calm, unreadable profile. Friendship here wouldn't be automatic, wouldn't come from just words or shared goals. It would come from actions, choices, and proof.

Fair enough. I could live with that. If friendship was what triggered it, then I'd just have to earn it the hard way—the Boone way.

As we walked, Boone's quiet figure remained several paces ahead, his attention laser-focused on the open landscape before us. Taking advantage of the brief space between us, I leaned slightly closer to Sula, voice lowered beneath the helmet.

"Sula," I began quietly, "I haven't heard much about Boone since I've been focused on training with Jorta and keeping busy hunting. What exactly is his story?"

She glanced at me, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Really? Thought someone might've told you by now."

"I've picked up bits and pieces about various well known figures to the Kansani," I admitted, "but nothing solid. Just figured I'd ask someone who knows the full story."

She nodded, understanding. "Boone's... complicated. He's a Ghostwalker—our best scout, hands-down. Deadly with a bow, quiet, almost impossible to track. He's been patrolling the tribe's outskirts alone for years. People barely see him, and when they do, he's usually already finished whatever fight brought him close."

I nodded slowly, internally comparing Sula's words to the Boone I remembered from New Vegas. Master marksman, quiet loner, distant from most. It matched closely.

"He's respected," she continued, her voice lowering further. "Some of the elders see him as the next Champion after Jorta. But he's also someone the tribe handles carefully. Boone lost his wife—Cala—to the Legion. They took her. He found her too late, at the edge of Legion territory, and killed her himself to spare her from slavery. Ever since then, he's been out there, hunting slavers, Legionnaires, or anyone who profits from human suffering."

I remained quiet, absorbing the information. Boone's core story was nearly identical to his counterpart in New Vegas, though shifted into the brutal reality of Kansani life. Even here, the Legion had claimed Cala, just like Carla in the Mojave. And Boone, true to character, carried that tragedy in stony, silent fury.

"So he's driven by vengeance," I said finally.

"Justice," Sula corrected gently. "He isn't reckless. He doesn't put anyone else at risk. But he is relentless. The Ghostwalker doesn't rest until he finds his prey."

I glanced toward Boone's distant form, feeling a renewed respect for him. No, friendship wouldn't come easily with Boone. But it would be worth the effort.

"Thanks, Sula," I murmured. "Good to know."

She offered me a faint smile. "Anytime. Just don't expect him to open up easily. He's been alone for a long time. You'll have to earn his trust."

"I figured," I said quietly, eyes fixed ahead.

Trust was a currency Boone understood clearly—and one I intended to earn.

I glanced forward again, watching Boone's figure ahead. His careful, controlled movements gave no indication of the simmering anger he must feel, knowing Legion slavers were within reach yet protected by fragile politics.

"This ceasefire must be eating him alive," I remarked quietly to Sula, voice low beneath my helmet. "All that rage and nowhere to put it."

Sula gave a dry chuckle, nodding knowingly. "Oh, he finds ways to tame it," she said, her tone edged with grim amusement. "Carja scouting parties keep trying to slip into Kansani territory from the south, hoping we'll be distracted. Boone's made sure none of them ever reach their destination."

I raised an eyebrow behind my visor. "He's hunting Carja scouts?"

"Hunting," she confirmed, eyes briefly flicking toward Boone's steady back. "And making sure the Carja realize our southern border isn't a safe route to Legion territory. Boone's the reason their scouts have started vanishing without a trace."

I nodded slowly, impressed but not surprised. Boone had always found a way in New Vegas to turn frustration into precise, lethal action. Apparently, this Boone was no different.

"Good," I said softly, a note of approval in my voice. "At least he's still getting justice, one way or another."

Sula smiled faintly, eyes sharp with quiet pride. "Exactly."

"It probably makes it easy for Boone to pick off those Carja scouts in the south," I observed, glancing toward Sula. "They can't exactly enter Kansani lands from the west without going straight through Nora territory."

Sula snorted softly, shaking her head. "One of the few good things about the 'proper' Nora—they keep our western border nice and secure."

I chuckled quietly at her phrasing. "And we only have to worry about Carja sneaking up from the south."

She nodded, her expression wry. "Exactly. Plainswalker like Boone take care of that. Between them and the Nora, at least two sides of our territory are covered."

I glanced forward again, eyes settling on Boone's silent form. The Ghostwalker moved with lethal purpose, a vigilant sentinel quietly ensuring the Kansani remained secure, even when peace was uncertain and borders constantly tested.

I considered the situation carefully, weighing the tribe's limited resources and fragile alliances. "If the Carja suddenly stopped their slave raids," I said thoughtfully, turning toward Sula, "it'd make things a lot easier for the Kansani, wouldn't it? Free up Boone and the other Plainswalkers to focus entirely on the Legion. Especially since this ceasefire won't hold forever."

Sula nodded, her expression growing serious. "It'd make a huge difference. Right now, we're fighting on too many fronts. If Boone and the other Plainswalkers didn't have to patrol for Carja incursions, they'd be able to put all their effort into keeping the Legion at bay."

She glanced forward, eyes briefly resting on Boone's silent form ahead. "And someone like Boone unleashed solely against the Legion would shift the balance heavily in our favor."

I nodded in agreement, my voice quiet but certain. "Then let's send the Carja a clear message today—make them think twice about ever crossing our borders again."

Sula's mouth quirked slightly, a grim determination entering her gaze. "Exactly what we're here to do."

Boone suddenly held up a hand, halting our advance. His stance lowered instantly, alert and poised. I followed his gaze, spotting the sleek shape of a Ravager prowling slowly ahead, its optics methodically scanning the area for threats.

Boone's eyes narrowed slightly. He glanced briefly down at the customized Railwhistle rifle Ubba had given him, then shifted toward me.

"Rion," he said quietly, voice steady and calm, "I trained with the standard Railwhistles at the Pile, but since you've been using these in the field for weeks, it'd be smarter to have you run me through this one."

I stepped forward, taking a position at his side. The rifle gleamed subtly, the reinforced barrel and modified components making it a precise, deadly instrument. I kept my voice low and efficient.

"Mechanically, it's similar to what you practiced with, just far more refined. Loading is the same—spikes go in here," I demonstrated quietly, quickly indicating the loading mechanism, "and the pressure release is smoother, so recoil won't throw off your follow-up shots. The scope's enhanced, too. Good optics, accurate at greater distances than you're used to. Take your time on the first shot; let yourself feel it."

Boone gave a short nod, absorbing the information with his usual focused intensity. He smoothly raised the weapon, positioning himself carefully to take aim at the Ravager.

"Noted," he murmured, eyes locked onto his target. "Time to test it out."

Sula and I exchanged brief glances and stepped back slightly, giving Boone the space he needed. The Ghostwalker settled silently, breathing steady as he sighted down the enhanced scope, fingers curling gently around the trigger.

Boone froze suddenly, lifting one hand in a silent signal. Sula and I immediately dropped low, scanning the terrain ahead. A Ravager prowled cautiously across our path, its cannon swiveling as it searched methodically for threats.

Boone knelt, smoothly shifting the customized Railwhistle sniper rifle into position. He gave me a brief glance. "Walk me through this," he said quietly. "I trained with the standard ones at the Pile, but you've used these in the field."

I quickly indicated the critical features. "Load the spike here. Aim's stable, recoil minimal. The optics are enhanced, so trust your sight. Hit the cannon first—take away its range."

He nodded once, already focusing his aim through the scope. Boone's breathing slowed, measured and deliberate. I could almost see his calculations—wind speed, distance, the Ravager's pace.

A breath, held steady.

He squeezed the trigger, and the spike streaked forward with a familiar whistle, hitting the Ravager's shoulder-mounted cannon mount with surgical precision. A burst of sparks flared as the cannon was sheared cleanly away, spinning into the grass.

Deprived of its primary weapon, the Ravager staggered, disoriented but quickly turning aggressive, shifting toward melee combat.

Unfazed, Boone calmly adjusted his aim downward, lining up a second shot toward the Ravager's armored chest. Another quiet whistle and the spike pierced straight through the Chillwater canister on its chest plate. A sudden icy explosion erupted, violently rupturing internal coolant lines. Steam and freezing mist engulfed the Ravager as it stumbled badly, systems clearly compromised.

Boone smoothly chambered a third spike, his movements fluid and practiced. He targeted the Ravager's optics array and fired. The spike embedded deep into the machine's head with pinpoint accuracy, obliterating its visual sensors. Blind and severely damaged, the Ravager clawed uselessly at the ground, mechanical snarls filling the air.

One final adjustment—Boone aimed at the weakened plating exposed by the explosion. He fired again, the spike plunging directly into its glowing power core. Sparks and electricity surged violently as the Ravager shuddered and collapsed, systems shutting down entirely.

Boone lowered the rifle slowly, expression unchanged. "Effective weapon," he murmured quietly. "Appreciate the instructions."

Sula glanced at me, visibly impressed by Boone's meticulous takedown. "Nicely done."

I nodded in quiet approval. "Couldn't have done better myself."

Without another word, Boone stood, shouldering the rifle once more. "Let's keep moving. Carja won't wait for us."

"Wait a second," I said quickly, signaling Boone to hold up. I jogged over to the fallen Ravager, quickly scooping up its severed cannon. The weapon was hefty, reassuringly solid in my grip. Boone gave a slight, impatient sigh behind me.

"That cannon will just slow us down," he remarked tersely, eyes scanning the horizon. "We need to keep moving."

Sula chuckled lightly, nudging Boone. "Just watch."

Boone glanced at her skeptically, but turned back as I activated the Nanoboy. A swirl of faint blue mist enveloped the cannon, quickly absorbing it into storage. Boone's expression shifted subtly, eyebrows lifting in genuine surprise.

"Useful trick," he conceded quietly.

I flashed him a grin from beneath my helmet, already moving to the wrecked Ravager. Kneeling down, I carefully extracted the still-intact Glowblast canister, hefting it thoughtfully.

"Now this," I said happily, holding up the glowing canister, "is even better. Bet I can rig a makeshift reload system for that cannon."

Sula smiled, clearly amused. "You and your toys, Rion."

Boone merely shook his head, but there was a slight softening to his stoic demeanor, a flicker of approval. "Let's move, then," he said, voice calm again. "We've got targets waiting."

With a satisfied nod, I stashed the Glowblast canister in the Nanoboy and quickly caught up, feeling considerably more optimistic with the Ravager Cannon safely secured.

We resumed our pace, Boone leading steadily as we navigated the terrain. I quickened my stride slightly to fall into step beside him, my voice quiet but focused.

"What's the count we're expecting, Boone?" I asked. "And are we getting any backup, or is it just us?"

He glanced briefly my way, never breaking his forward momentum. "We have a scout team of five Plainswalkers positioned on the other side of the planned ambush site," he answered calmly. "They'll close in once we engage."

I nodded, reassured but still cautious. "What about enemy numbers?"

Boone's jaw tightened slightly, calculating quietly before he answered. "Scouts report around twenty Carja—mostly slavers and their escorts. Legion presence unknown, but expect roughly the same number. They'll likely match the Carja's numbers to keep the balance."

Sula made a thoughtful noise. "Two-to-one odds, then."

Boone's expression hardened slightly, eyes narrowing toward the distant horizon. "Odds I've faced before."

"Fair enough," I said, adjusting my grip on the shotgun. "Just wanted to know how many spikes I'd be using."

Boone glanced at me briefly, faint approval crossing his face at my resolve. "Use as many as it takes."

I nodded firmly. "Plan to."

We walked south along the cracked and weed-choked remains of an old highway, the asphalt shattered and uneven beneath our boots. The landscape here bore the unmistakable scars of recent devastation. Twisted hunks of metal and shredded concrete littered the edges of our path, interwoven with splintered wood and the torn carcasses of machines.

"What the hell did all this?" I asked, scanning the chaos. The scale of destruction made even a Deathclaw attack seem trivial.

"Deathstorm hit the area a couple months back," Boone replied evenly, his eyes constantly moving, tracking the distant horizon and shifting terrain. His calm, low voice matched his deliberate pace.

I'd heard the Kansani swear by Deathstorms—usually as a curse—but I'd always just assumed they were exaggerating about tornadoes. I glanced over at Sula, raising an eyebrow.

"What's a Deathstorm exactly? I've heard the word thrown around like a curse, but figured it was just another tornado."

Sula shook her head grimly, eyes fixed forward, wary as she spoke. "A Deathstorm is far worse than any tornado. Tornadoes destroy. Deathstorms erase. I've seen one pick up a Thunderjaw like it was nothing—just a toy being flung around. And at the heart of the storm, there's lightning that doesn't flash—it lives there. The bolts crawl and pulse, waiting to strike."

I exhaled slowly, picturing the scale of a Thunderjaw being tossed around like debris. "So, basically a tornado on steroids and meth."

She glanced at me, clearly puzzled. "Steroids? Meth? What are those?"

I thought for a second, trying to explain. "Steroids were drugs people used in the Old World to make their muscles bigger and stronger quickly. But it wasn't natural—it messed with their minds, made them aggressive and short-tempered, even violent. Meth was another drug, even worse. It gave people a burst of crazy energy, made them reckless and paranoid. They'd do wild, insane things without thinking about the consequences."

Boone's voice cut back in, quiet but firm. "Sounds like Stonefaced battle potion. Nasty stuff. Only good for people who don't want to live to be Tarn's age."

I blinked in realization. The Stonefaced weren't just using herbal concoctions—they were essentially brewing their own version of Psycho. Suddenly, the description of their reckless brutality made a disturbing kind of sense.

We neared a cluster of trees, their shadows stretching out as the sun dropped lower in the sky. Suddenly, a clear whistle broke the quiet. For a brief moment, my mind flashed back to an old Kansas history class—a meadowlark call.

From the tall grass stepped a man, his clothing intricately woven with grass and leaves, blending seamlessly with the surroundings. He moved smoothly and quietly, clearly experienced at navigating the terrain unnoticed.

"What've we got, Vargas?" Boone asked calmly as the man stepped into clearer view.

The scout—Vargas—nodded once, eyes serious and alert. "Carja have set up camp in an old ruin. Big complex. Looks like it was once a marketplace, judging by what's left of it."

As Vargas delivered his report, something clicked in my memory. Vargas… Manny Vargas. Boone's partner from the New Vegas game. For a moment, the strange familiarity of it all struck me—how threads from another life kept weaving themselves into this one, binding old stories into a new narrative.

I glanced briefly at Boone, wondering how deep these echoes ran, but kept my thoughts to myself. We had a mission ahead of us, and lingering on strange coincidences wasn't going to help. Boone gave a short nod, already processing the information.

"Good work," Boone said, his voice steady as ever. "Show us the way."

We crept forward quietly, following Vargas as he led us through the tall grass and brush toward the old ruin where the Carja had made camp. As we emerged onto a slight rise overlooking the location, I had to hold back laughter. I felt it bubbling up in my chest, nearly impossible to contain.

Sula noticed my expression, eyebrows knitting in confusion. "What's so funny, Tourist?"

I snorted, barely managing to keep my voice down. "It's a Walmart! I'm about to shoot up a Walmart! Ha ha ha ha!"

Sula stared at me, clearly baffled by my sudden amusement. Boone merely glanced over, mildly perplexed but otherwise indifferent. Still, I couldn't help it—the surreal absurdity of raiding a Walmart for a deadly firefight in this post-apocalyptic world was just too much.

Sula looked even more puzzled now. "What the hell is a Walmart?"

I sighed softly, amusement still lingering. "It was a massive store from the Old World. You could find just about anything there—food, clothes, guns, medicine. Over time, though, it became sort of a symbol. A symbol of excess, greed, and exploitation. For a lot of people, Walmart represented some of the worst parts of the Old Ones' world."

Sula's confusion melted into thoughtful consideration. "Sounds about right for the Carja, then."

I nodded grimly, my humor fading as reality set back in. "Yeah. Exactly."

As we crept closer to the ruins of the Walmart through the tall grass, I glanced at Boone, keeping my voice low. "Are we waiting for the Legion, or taking the Carja out now?"

Boone shook his head slightly, eyes never leaving the distant camp. "If we didn't care about saving the slaves the Legion was trading, we'd kill the Carja outright. But we have to wait. It's riskier, but we can't let those captives become casualties."

I nodded solemnly, understanding the stakes clearly. The tension tightened within me, anticipation mixing with resolve as we moved into position, watching and waiting for the Legion to arrive.

Standing just within the treeline, I gazed toward the battered ruin of what had once been a Walmart, now just a hollow shell of Old World commerce—ravaged by time and turmoil. Flickering orange torchlight revealed Carja sentries lazily patrolling the perimeter, their vigilance dulled by boredom and arrogance.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes, summoning the familiar interface in my mind. The battle with the Deathclaw Matriarch had left me battered yet undeniably stronger. The energy I had deliberately saved now hummed through my veins, waiting to be harnessed.

The translucent skill grid shimmered before me, vivid against the darkness behind my eyelids. With quiet resolve, I directed all thirteen available points straight into Stealth. The skill bar surged forward, filling rapidly, and instantly I felt something shift inside—a cool, quiet confidence settling into my limbs.

My attention settled on a perk I'd considered carefully—Shadow Veil:

"Shadow Veil: Reduces enemy detection radius by 25% when sneaking or crouching. Enemies take 2 seconds longer to fully detect me after initial suspicion."

The perk pulsed softly as it activated, locking into place. Immediately, the shadows around me felt denser, blurring my outline and cloaking me in an almost tangible darkness.

Opening my eyes, my senses felt sharper, my instincts finely tuned to every subtle shift of shadow and light. Testing my new ability, I crouched slightly and crept forward, amazed by how effortlessly I merged into the gloom. Each step was quieter, my silhouette almost invisible even to my own eyes.

"Useful," I murmured, confidence surging within me.

At the edge of the ruins, I spotted the faint outline of the side entrance Boone had described—a partially collapsed loading dock hidden behind stacks of rusted metal crates. Lowering myself further, I placed my trust fully in my newfound stealth and moved forward.

Carja guards patrolled nearby, yet none turned their heads or raised an alarm. Even as two of them passed dangerously close, I simply froze in place, motionless. They squinted suspiciously into the darkness, confused but ultimately indifferent, dismissing their unease as paranoia.

Emboldened, I slipped between crates and rubble, gliding like a shadow itself. Reaching the loading dock, I pressed against the cold concrete wall, feeling my heartbeat calm and steady.

Casting one final glance back to ensure no one had followed or noticed, I slipped silently through the shattered doorway into the welcoming darkness of the ruin.

Sula appeared silently beside me, her movements as quiet and graceful as ever. We began to cautiously pick our way through the storeroom, eyes scanning methodically across rusted shelves and scattered debris. Most items were rotten, moldy, and useless—long since picked clean by generations of Kansani and Ironbone scavengers.

Moving deeper into the storeroom, I paused at the sight of an old security office, its door ajar. Peering inside, my eyes immediately landed on a familiar shape—a Protectron, standing dormant in its charging station.

A faint smile crept across my face as I considered our options. I glanced at Sula, gesturing toward the inert robot. "What do you think? Activate the Protectron, let it wander out and cause some trouble for the Carja? Might thin their ranks a bit."

Sula considered the Protectron carefully, her expression cautious but intrigued. "Could draw attention away from us. But there's always a risk it'll turn hostile on anything it sees—including us."

I nodded thoughtfully, weighing the possibilities. "True. Could buy us a distraction—or it could make things worse. What would you do?"

She met my gaze steadily, voice firm. "If you think you can control it, it might be worth the risk. But be ready to shut it down fast if things go wrong."

I hesitated, looking again at the robot, decision looming. Finally, I activated the Focus, scanning the dormant Protectron. Satisfied, I pulled out the Overrider module. Though it lacked the power and codes needed to override one of GAIA's machines, it was more than sufficient to commandeer a simple night watchman from a shopping center like Walmart.

With careful precision, I initiated the Override, quickly adjusting the Protectron's friend-and-foe protocols. I programmed it to recognize Kansani black-and-white lines as fellow employees and reset its internal clock to think the store was closed. Now, any Carja it encountered would be viewed as intruders—thieves.

Finally, I skewed its safety settings decisively into lethal territory.

"This should make things interesting," I murmured, stepping back as the Protectron began powering up.

The lights in its visor flickered to life with a low electronic hum. Its head twitched once, then slowly turned toward us. A mechanical voice crackled out through its speaker grill, cheerful and oddly upbeat.

The Protectron's internal systems whirred to life, servos humming softly as its limbs unlocked from centuries of stasis. The machine straightened with a mechanical jolt, sparks briefly flickering behind its tinted visor. A moment later, its synthetic voice resonated with a slightly distorted cheerfulness, the accent reminiscent of a bygone era of retail hospitality.

"Greetings, valued members of the Walmart family," it announced, turning its bulky, steel frame towards Rion and Sula, its faceplate proudly displaying the faded yellow smiley face logo that had once defined the retail giant. "Night shift patrol protocol is now active. Please enjoy a productive and safe evening."

Rion exchanged an amused glance with Sula, who was looking at the machine in caution.

The Protectron pivoted slowly on its metal feet, heavy and deliberate stomps echoing through the empty storeroom. "Commencing scheduled rounds. Remember: Every smile counts," it cheerfully reminded them, before lumbering away into the dimly lit aisles of the ruined Walmart.

Rion smirked, shaking his head slightly. "Old World corporations sure knew how to keep morale up."

Sula watched as the Protectron clomped away, confusion flickering across her face. She leaned in, voice low and curious. "Why isn't that thing attacking us?"

I flashed her a quick grin. "I tricked its protocols into thinking we're employees of the same company. Congratulations, Sula, you're officially employed."

She wrinkled her nose, feigning disgust. "So that's what this grimy feeling is."

I chuckled softly, shaking my head. "Welcome to retail."

She gave a faint snort, rolling her eyes slightly as we continued following the Protectron through the shadows.

The Protectron stomped methodically into the open central aisle, its heavy footfalls resonating ominously in the vast, ruined interior. The Carja sentries turned sharply, confused shouts and wary glances exchanged at the unexpected sight.

"Attention, unauthorized personnel," the Protectron announced cheerfully, its synthetic voice echoing off rusted metal and crumbling drywall. "The store is currently closed. Please vacate the premises or face immediate removal."

One Carja warrior, bewildered and unimpressed, stepped forward, his spear lowered but cautious. "What in Sun's—"

The Protectron didn't wait for him to finish. Rion had skewed its tolerances and overclocked the blasters beyond their intended limits, and when it raised its arms, the resulting energy discharge was devastating. The first laser bolt punched cleanly through the warrior's chest, leaving a smoldering hole and dropping him instantly to the floor.

The other Carja erupted into panicked shouts, scrambling for weapons and cover as the robot advanced with relentless, mechanical determination. "Warning," it intoned pleasantly, lasers firing again, striking down another warrior. "Thievery will not be tolerated."

From their vantage point, hidden in deep shadow behind a stack of collapsed shelving, Rion and Sula watched the chaos unfold with grim satisfaction.

Sula whispered, impressed despite herself, "Did you expect it to be this effective?"

Rion shook his head slightly. "This one's tougher than others we've seen. Not military-grade, but these security models were built to handle more punishment." Another laser blast lit the interior, sending a Carja sprawling. "I also overclocked its weapons. They'll burn out fast, but until then…"

Another Carja warrior dashed bravely toward the Protectron, swinging his sword at the robot's metal chassis. Sparks burst from the armor plating, but the machine barely flinched. Instead, it pivoted sharply and unleashed a close-range blast, flinging the attacker backward, dead before hitting the floor. Another man swung his blade catching it in the head but the robot stuck back sending him flying and a loud snap was heard.

In minutes, five Carja lay motionless, two more severely wounded and dragging themselves painfully into hiding.

But the Protectron's lasers, glowing now a dangerous red from overheating, crackled ominously. An archer, hidden high above on a ruined shelf, sent an arrow deep into the Protectron's back hitting something critical within. Sparks and flame erupted from the wound, smoke billowing thickly as the robot staggered.

"Critical damage sustained," it announced calmly, flickering sparks dancing across its hull. It took one final, purposeful step toward the last standing Carja soldier, who backed away in frantic fear only to slam into a wall.

With a sudden burst of mechanical strength, the robot lunged forward, grabbing the panicked Carja by the arm. Its internal systems began a catastrophic overload, building rapidly toward detonation.

The soldier struggled desperately, eyes wide with terror as the Protectron wrapped him in a bear hug. "Release me! Let go, machine!"

"Thank you for shopping at Walmart," the Protectron said cheerfully, a fraction of a second before its core detonated in a brilliant, fiery explosion that consumed both robot and Carja alike.

The blast illuminated the ruined store for an instant, casting long shadows across the watching Kansani scouts.

In the silence that followed, Sula slowly shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Well… I'd say that distraction worked perfectly."

Rion nodded grimly, eyes lingering briefly on the charred remains scattered across the floor. "Cleanup on aisle four."

Sula carefully scanned the smoldering aftermath, quietly counting the fallen bodies scattered amidst the rubble and flame-scorched aisles. "Six dead, two wounded, and one tied up tending to them," she murmured, nodding approvingly. "That leaves eleven Carja still able to fight."

"Better odds," I agreed softly, making a mental note of how effective the Protectron had been. Opportunities like that didn't present themselves every day, and it was definitely something I'd have to remember for future situations.

Sula gave me a small, satisfied nod before we both slipped deeper into the darkness. Nearby, the other Kansani warriors had silently gathered, their faces painted with anticipation and readiness. Everyone knew the next stage of this ambush hinged on timing and patience. We had done our part to even the odds, but the fight wasn't truly ours until the Legion arrived.

Settling in the heavy shadows, we waited—patient, still, and vigilant—watching the surviving Carja warriors shuffle nervously in the gloom, their morale clearly shaken. Now, it was just a matter of time.

Thankfully, the wait wasn't long—only a couple of tense, silent hours later, the Legion finally made their appearance. Exactly twenty Legionnaires marched into view, their steps disciplined and synchronized. Clearly, their numbers had been agreed upon in advance with the Carja, maintaining a delicate balance of power for their intended exchange.

My gut twisted at what trailed behind them: forty figures bound together in heavy chains. They moved in a miserable shuffle, their shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. Even from the shadows, it was clear who the Legion had decided were expendable—the elderly, the crippled, the so-called "undesirable." My jaw tightened in disgust.

Scanning their faces, my eyes suddenly narrowed in surprise. Among the captive group was a Ghoul—not a mindless feral, but clearly lucid, fully aware of his miserable surroundings. His hollow, sunken eyes swept briefly across the Walmart ruins, quietly resigned to whatever fate awaited him.

Beside me, I felt Sula stiffen slightly. She saw him too, confusion and curiosity flickering in her eyes. I gestured subtly for her to hold steady.

We remained perfectly still, breathing shallowly, hidden within our cloak of darkness. The stage was set, and now it was time to let events unfold—to wait patiently for the precise moment when we'd unleash the ambush that would free these captives, disrupt the slave trade, and teach both the Carja and the Legion the true price of cruelty.

The Legion officer, a Decanus by the look of his distinctive armor and crested helmet, halted abruptly as he surveyed the chaos before him. His harsh features twisted into a scowl, irritation clear in his eyes as he took in the scorched aisles, the smoldering remains of the Protectron, and the Carja scrambling to attend to their injured.

"What, by the Arch, happened here?" the Decanus demanded sharply, his voice snapping with anger and disbelief.

The Carja commander, clearly shaken, stepped forward nervously. "An attack," he said quickly, struggling to maintain a confident tone. "One of the Old-World machines—we thought it dormant—activated unexpectedly and attacked without warning."

The Decanus sneered openly, his contempt obvious. "You lost this many men to a single Old-World relic? I was told the Carja were competent fighters, not fools who panic at rusted metal."

Stung by the insult but wary of further provoking the Decanus' temper, the Carja commander swallowed his pride. "It was stronger than we expected—heavily armed and durable."

The Legion officer scoffed loudly, eyes blazing with disdain as he cast a withering glance at the wounded. "Pathetic. Gather your remaining men immediately. We've wasted enough time already."

From our hidden vantage point, Sula shifted subtly, observing the mounting tension between the Legion and Carja forces with cautious satisfaction. I quietly shared her sentiment—our earlier gamble had clearly rattled their nerves and sown distrust between these supposed allies.

Now, muscles coiled and breathing steady, we waited patiently, ready to strike at the perfect moment to unleash the full fury of our ambush and liberate the chained captives.

Moving silently through the shadows, the Kansani and I began our careful approach, blades drawn and movements deliberate. One by one, Legion sentries posted at the edges fell quietly beneath precise, well-placed strikes. The darkness was our ally, masking our advance, each step closing the noose tighter around the unsuspecting Legion and Carja.

I edged forward carefully, my breath steady, the Shadow Veil perk cloaking my movements. But suddenly, a Legionnaire turned unexpectedly in my direction, eyes narrowing with suspicion. I froze immediately, every muscle tensed, ready for a sudden confrontation.

But just before the Legionnaire could fully investigate, a voice sliced sharply through the silence—a harsh, rasping tone shouting curses in Spanish.

"¡Oye, cabrón! ¿Qué carajo estás mirando?"

Both the Legionnaire and I snapped our heads toward the source. It was the Ghoul captive. He stood defiantly, chains rattling, his faded eyes glaring venomously at the Legionnaire. The soldier sneered and stepped toward him, anger overcoming suspicion, oblivious to how close he'd come to spotting me.

Hidden once more in shadow, confusion filled me. Spanish—real Spanish—spoken fluently, casually. That wasn't possible. The Apollo archives had been purged long ago, causing all GAIA cradle facilities to default exclusively to English. Spanish, like every other Old World tongue, had died out entirely centuries ago.

Yet here stood a Ghoul, shouting insults in fluent Spanish like a living relic from a forgotten past. A cold, curious chill ran down my spine. Whoever this Ghoul was, he wasn't just another unfortunate captive. He carried a secret—one that hinted at a past even deeper and stranger than I'd imagined.

For now, though, I pushed curiosity aside. There was still work to be done. But later, I'd need answers from the old man who could speak in tongues long since dead.

The Legionnaire snarled viciously and slammed his fist deep into the Ghoul's gut, the brutal impact echoing harshly through the quiet ruins. The Ghoul buckled slightly but refused to fall, stubborn defiance still blazing in his eyes.

"Can't wait to finally be rid of your rotten ass, Raul," the Legionnaire spat venomously, contempt twisting his features.

My breath caught sharply in my throat, eyes widening as shock pulsed through me. Raul. That name wasn't just familiar—it hit me like a thunderbolt. Memories from a lifetime ago, back when Fallout was just a game, a story I'd experienced from the safety of my bedroom. It couldn't be. But as I looked closely at him—the worn Petró-Chico jumpsuit, the faded but instantly recognizable features—I knew with absolute certainty.

Raul Alfonso Tejada. The ghoul mechanic and gunslinger from Fallout: New Vegas. A character I'd known through countless hours spent exploring a virtual wasteland.

My mind reeled momentarily, questions and disbelief swirling. But there was no time to dwell on it. Not yet. Steadying my breathing, I tightened my grip on my weapon, determination reignited with fresh urgency. Raul was here, in this impossible world, and I wasn't about to leave him in the Legion's hands.

Raul straightened himself defiantly, chains rattling as he glared fiercely at the Legionnaire.

"You hit like a bicth, cabrón," he rasped, sneering with deliberate provocation.

The Legionnaire scowled, stepping closer, rage clouding his eyes. "Another word, ghoul, and I'll—"

Raul cut him off sharply, grinning darkly as he leaned in, "Or you'll what, Marcos? I can't wait for someone to creep up behind you and slit your arrogant throat!"

My eyes narrowed instantly. It was unmistakable—Raul was giving me a signal. Without hesitation, I moved from the shadows, every step quiet and calculated, my movements hidden beneath the protective shroud of the Shadow Veil perk. The Legionnaire, distracted and furious, never saw me coming.

One swift motion, blade pressed deep, and the Legionnaire fell silently, clutching uselessly at his neck as he slumped to the ground.

Raul looked down at the body with mild amusement, then glanced up at me with a wry, satisfied smile.

"Took you long enough, pendejo," he chuckled dryly. "At my age, I can't exactly handle too many more beatings."

"Sorry, got a little surprised you were speaking Spanish there, buddy," I said, glancing around carefully before cutting through Raul's heavy chains.

Raul's eyes narrowed slightly in surprise. He paused, then spoke quickly in fluent Spanish, testing me. "¿Entiendes español, amigo? ¿Dónde aprendiste a hablar?"

I sighed heavily, feeling embarrassment creep up on me. "Sorry, failed that class so hard I consider myself Spanish illiterate."

Raul's shoulders sagged a bit, his expression shifting from hope to tired resignation. "Of course," he muttered dryly. "Just my luck."

I glanced around quickly, checking the shadows to ensure we remained unnoticed. Satisfied, I turned back to Raul and gave him a reassuring nod.

"Hang tight here for a bit," I said quietly, gripping my blade tighter. "My friends and I need to finish taking out the trash."

Raul gave a small, dry chuckle, leaning back against the wall to steady himself. "Don't worry about me, boss. Not going anywhere anytime soon."

I gave him a quick nod before slipping back into the darkness, ready to finish what we'd started.

Silently, I moved down the darkened aisle, every step carefully placed, shadows wrapping around me like a protective cloak. Ahead, oblivious to my approach, a Carja soldier stood casually relieving himself onto a cluster of mushrooms growing amid the ruined floor.

Without hesitation, I reached down swiftly, seizing both of his ankles in an iron grip. With a powerful jerk, I yanked hard, pulling his legs out from under him. He crashed forward violently, face-first into the filthy puddle he'd created, a startled cry muffled against the grime-covered tiles.

Before he could fully register the indignity, I stomped down hard onto his back, pinning him to the ground. He began to struggle, desperate hands clawing at the slick floor, but it was already too late.

Coldly, I drove the blade of my machete deep into his neck, ending his struggles instantly. Withdrawing my weapon, I stepped back into the shadows, eyes already scanning ahead for my next target.

From across the camp, a sudden commotion shattered the tense silence—someone had been discovered. Shouts erupted, and arrows hissed swiftly through the darkness. The Legion Decanus barely had time to turn and shout an order before a heavy spike from Boone's Railwhistle rifle punched brutally into his thigh, shattering bone and tearing away a grisly chunk of flesh. He collapsed to the ground, roaring in agony, commanding his troops in vain.

Stealth no longer mattered; the fight had erupted into chaos. Without hesitation, I pulled out my new shotgun, its sturdy weight a reassuring presence in my grip. Quickly, I leveled it at the nearest Legionnaire rushing toward me, his sword raised aggressively. I squeezed the trigger, the recoil powerful and satisfying as it kicked back into my shoulder.

The blast was devastating, shards tearing mercilessly through the Legionnaire's chest armor and flesh alike. He toppled backward, shredded and lifeless. I grimaced slightly behind my helmet, momentarily shaken by the sheer brutality of the weapon.

Glancing down at the shotgun, I muttered darkly with grim amusement, "I think I'll call you Warcrime."

The battle intensified, Kansani warriors surging forward from the shadows, blades flashing in the firelight, cutting down Carja and Legion alike. Arrows sliced through the air, some finding their marks with ruthless precision, dropping targets instantly. Kansani warriors moved with lethal grace and disciplined brutality, their strikes efficient and merciless.

Nearby, Boone calmly chambered another spike into his rifle, his face set in a grim mask of concentration. Each shot was surgical—each spike finding vital targets with uncanny precision. A Carja archer stumbled back, clutching desperately at a spike embedded deep in his throat, eyes wide with shock as he fell.

Across the battlefield, I saw Sula, agile and fierce, weaving swiftly between enemies. Her blades cut and danced with deadly elegance, dropping adversaries in quick, brutal succession. She ducked beneath a Carja warrior's desperate swing, spinning gracefully to drive her knife deeply into his ribs, twisting sharply to ensure a swift end.

But the fight wasn't entirely one-sided. The Legion and Carja rallied, forming tight defensive groups. They pushed back viciously, arrows and blades taking down two Kansani warriors in the brutal melee. Blood and screams filled the air, the once-quiet ruin now consumed by chaos and violence.

A Legionnaire charged at me, his weapons discarded in favor of close combat, his fists raised in a disciplined stance—a form of Gladiatorial fighting if I had to guess. Tossing Warcrime aside, I steadied myself, instincts and training kicking in simultaneously as I met his assault head-on.

He struck first, a heavy punch aimed at my head. I shifted sharply, narrowly avoiding the blow, countering immediately with a strike using my newly acquired Deathclaw Kenpo, clawing fiercely into his exposed ribs. He grunted but recovered quickly, retaliating with a powerful kick aimed squarely at my chest. It landed solidly, driving the air painfully from my lungs and sending me staggering back.

Quickly regaining my footing, I blended elements of U.S. military combatives into my Deathclaw stance, aggressively closing the distance. We exchanged brutal blows, each hit heavy and relentless. I felt the crunch of cartilage beneath my knuckles as I landed a crushing strike to his jaw; he responded instantly, landing a vicious elbow to my temple, stars bursting briefly across my vision.

The Legionnaire rushed toward me. I barely had time to brace myself before he crashed into me, tackling me into a rusted shelf. The ancient metal groaned and collapsed beneath us, scattering debris in all directions.

We grappled fiercely, rolling through dirt and wreckage. The Legionnaire was disciplined, his movements precise and relentless. From his stance and the calculated efficiency of his strikes, I guessed he'd been trained in some brutal form of gladiatorial combat—raw, aggressive, designed for survival above all else.

I responded instinctively, my newly acquired Deathclaw Kenpo merging seamlessly with the pragmatic close-quarters methods drilled into me by old U.S. military combatives. We traded savage blows, fists and elbows striking with bone-jarring force. I managed to drive my elbow into his ribs, earning a satisfying grunt of pain—but he swiftly retaliated, hooking a fist hard across my jaw.

I staggered back, tasting blood as I ducked under another punch, pivoting to slam my knee brutally into his side. The Legionnaire winced but caught my follow-up strike, grabbing my arm and twisting sharply. Pain shot up my limb, and I reacted instinctively, headbutting him directly in the face. Blood erupted from his nose as he stumbled back, stunned.

Taking advantage of the opening, I lunged forward, pressing my assault with short, powerful strikes optimized for confined spaces. My fists hammered into him repeatedly, precise blows aimed at vulnerable joints and vital points. But he recovered faster than I'd anticipated, catching my wrist and hurling me backward into another decayed metal shelf.

The impact sent shelves toppling, debris scattering loudly. As I pushed myself up, the Legionnaire charged again, his face bloodied yet determined. Our battle became a brutal dance through rust and ruin—each of us leveraging every ounce of training and survival instinct. Every punch, every kick resonated with feral intensity, echoing through the ancient store.

I narrowly evaded a fierce uppercut, countering with a swift, powerful palm strike to his chest. The Legionnaire stumbled, gasping for breath, momentarily vulnerable. Seizing my chance, I grabbed a rusted length of metal from the ground and swung hard, striking him across the ribs. He doubled over, coughing violently.

Panting, bruised, and battered, I stepped forward, seizing him by the collar of his armor. With one final, decisive strike, I drove my knee into his jaw. He collapsed heavily, unconscious before he even hit the ground.

Standing over my fallen opponent, breathing heavily, I felt a grim sense of satisfaction. This wasn't the elegant martial art Jorta had envisioned—not yet—but I'd survived. The U.S. combatives and Deathclaw Kenpo had merged into something crude, brutal, but undeniably effective. In this new world, raw efficiency mattered most of all.

As I stood there, chest heaving and muscles trembling from the aftermath of the brutal encounter, a familiar sensation drew my attention inward—a soft pulse at the edges of my awareness. Moments later, my internal display flickered into life, the soft glow of letters sharpening clearly before my eyes.

[Notification]: Conditions Met—Deathclaw Kenpo Unlocked

Congratulations! You've successfully applied Deathclaw Kenpo techniques under true life-and-death combat conditions. Your recent battle has permanently ingrained the foundational movements and lessons of this unique martial style into your muscle memory and instincts. You will no longer forget or lose mastery over these techniques.

Achievement Unlocked:First Step on the Ever-Changing Path.

A slow breath left my lungs, my tired body suddenly feeling renewed purpose despite the lingering pain of combat. The Ever-Changing Path—Jorta had spoken of it before, a road only a rare few ever truly embarked upon. It was a path of constant evolution, adaptation, and relentless self-improvement. I felt the weight of its promise settle over me, heavy yet exhilarating.

The martial styles I'd learned, blended together in that savage fight, had finally forged something new, something mine.

A sudden thought crossed my mind: was experiencing life-and-death combat a universal condition for mastering all combat styles, or was this brutal rite unique to Deathclaw Kenpo? Perhaps every style had its own distinct requirements, each demanding a different test of character, strength, or resolve.

"About damn time," I murmured softly, a faint smile tugging at my lips as I straightened and turned my attention back to the battle around me.

This was just the beginning.

I placed my boot firmly against the fallen Legionnaire's neck, pressing down sharply. His windpipe collapsed with a sickening crunch beneath my heel. A fleeting thought crossed my mind—I might have just committed a war crime. Then again, I reminded myself grimly, those didn't exist anymore. Not in this brutal new world.

Steeling myself, I surged back into the chaos of battle. My revolver barked sharply, each precise shot forcing the Legionnaires into defensive stances as they tried to regroup. Quickly making my way to where I'd dropped Warcrime earlier, I holstered the revolver and swiftly retrieved the devastating shotgun.

The familiar weight felt reassuringly deadly in my grip. I fired again, the blast roaring thunderously through the air. Shards tore violently into Legion shields, splintering wood and metal alike. Even if the shields held, fragments sliced through, tearing vicious wounds into exposed limbs. The weapon's destructive power wasn't just physical—it carried a psychological impact. Each explosive shot sent the enemy stumbling backward, their formation unraveling with panic and confusion.

Capitalizing on the chaos, my Kansani allies closed in from the flanks, their blades flashing as they swiftly cut down retreating foes. Momentum was ours now, surging relentlessly forward as the Legion ranks crumbled beneath our coordinated assault.

"Keep pushing!" I shouted, reloading swiftly as the enemy line broke further. We weren't finished yet—not until every last enemy was defeated or fled in terror.

An arrow suddenly slammed into my chest, splintering upon impact against the sturdy ceramic plates and thick Deathclaw-hide armor. The force jolted me, but I remained unharmed, my armor proving its worth once again. With a low growl, I reached up and increased the menacing red glow from my helmet's visor, casting a hellish, intimidating glare through the chaos.

A nearby Carja soldier locked eyes with me and screamed, raw terror distorting his face. He stumbled backward, desperately scrambling away from the looming specter I'd become. I took a step forward, ready to cut him down—but hesitated when I noticed my Kansani allies holding back as well.

At first, I was confused. But as I watched, I realized their intent was deliberate. The Kansani warriors made no move to kill the fleeing Carja soldier, purposefully allowing him to escape into the darkness. They wanted him alive, wanted him to carry the haunting message back to his people:

You're not welcome here.

Around me, Legion soldiers were methodically and ruthlessly cut down by the disciplined Kansani. I understood clearly now—the Legion was an enemy we were actively at war with. Each Legionnaire slain tonight represented one fewer sword raised against us in future battles.

A grim resolve settled within me as the sounds of fighting slowly died away, replaced by heavy breathing and the distant, terrified echoes of the lone Carja survivor's flight. The message had been sent, loud and clear.

As the battle quieted down, the Kansani warriors solemnly turned their attention to their fallen comrades. With practiced respect, they began wrapping the bodies carefully in thick blankets, murmuring quiet prayers and words of farewell.

"Rion," Boone's voice called softly, drawing my attention. He stood near the fallen warriors, expression solemn yet composed. "Can you carry them in your magic pouch?"

I paused for a moment, quickly reviewing my inventory status. After my earlier lesson from hauling the bulky Boxer corpse around, I'd learned to be more selective about what I carried. Fortunately, my storage was mostly clear, reserved only for items of true importance.

"Yeah," I replied quietly, nodding to Boone. "There's plenty of room."

Together, we carefully placed the wrapped bodies into the storage provided by my Nanoboy module. It felt strange, almost surreal, but I knew this was the best way to transport them home respectfully.

Boone placed a firm hand on my shoulder, his voice quiet yet resolute. "Thank you, Witness. We'll see they receive the honors they deserve."

Around us, other Kansani warriors gathered the weapons of our fallen enemies, meticulously salvaging swords, bows, and blades. Despite the battle's harsh reality, the metal was still valuable—solid, reliable, and essential to the tribe's ongoing survival. It was prudent to keep backups on hand, a silent acknowledgment of future struggles yet to come.

Once everything salvageable had been stripped from the dead Carja and Legionnaires, the Kansani respectfully gathered their bodies and doused them thoroughly with blaze. With solemnity, one of the Plainswalkers stepped forward and tossed a flaming torch onto the bodies, igniting them swiftly.

Watching the flames rise, Boone spoke quietly beside me. "Even though I may hate them, I'm not going to let the animals gnaw on their bones. Only my personal enemies will be left to rot."

I nodded silently, watching as the solemn ritual of recovery continued. This battle had cost lives, but the Kansani would ensure that each sacrifice was remembered, honored, and would strengthen us for the battles ahead.

With the grim work of dealing with the fallen complete, the Kansani turned their attention to the captured slaves. As we broke the chains binding their wrists and ankles, it became painfully clear that these captives were precisely as I'd initially observed: the elderly, the crippled, and those deemed undesirable. The Carja's Sun Ring didn't demand strength or vitality—just bodies to sacrifice, a grim reality exploited by the Legion to profit from these unfortunate souls.

Sula stepped closer to Raul, her eyes scanning his ravaged features, wincing in genuine sympathy. "How can you bear to live with burns that severe? The Legion truly showed you no mercy."

Raul, seemingly unfazed, chuckled dryly, clearly accustomed to such questions. "Oh, the Legion didn't do this to me," he said casually, gesturing vaguely to his scarred visage. "My handsome face is the proud result of some maldito hijo de puta causing the reactor in my bunker—back in what used to be Texas—to fail catastrophically."

Sula stared at him in open surprise, then swiftly glanced toward me, confusion etched plainly on her face. "Wait, wouldn't that make him—"

"Almost one thousand years old," I finished for her, nodding slowly. "Yep."

Silence fell abruptly as the Kansani warriors and newly freed captives turned to Raul, expressions of disbelief and awe written clearly across their faces.

Raul rubbed the back of his neck, mildly embarrassed. "Has it really been that long?" he mused aloud, his eyes distant. "Eh, honestly, I stopped counting about two centuries in, give or take."

A Kansani warrior standing nearby muttered softly, almost reverently, "Wouldn't that make him from the time of Jun Sekibayashi?"

Raul's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Sekibayashi? The wrestler?" He paused thoughtfully, a small, nostalgic smile appearing on his lips. "I knew of him, but I was always more of a fan of his protégé, José Kanzaki. But then again, that might have been because we were both Mexican."

I smiled at the mention of Kanzaki and interjected, "I was always fond of Rey Mysterio myself. He really brought authentic Mexican wrestling to the WWE—his style, energy, and sheer authenticity made him unforgettable."

Raul nodded enthusiastically in agreement, his eyes lighting up with nostalgia. "Ah, Rey Mysterio. You've got to appreciate those old-school wrestlers—they knew how to put on a genuine show. Luchadores like him brought pride to Mexican wrestling, showcasing agility and heart like no one else."

Raul suddenly eyed me curiously, raising a skeptical brow. "Wait, how do you even know about Rey Mysterio? You don't exactly look overbaked like me."

I hesitated briefly, choosing my words carefully. "I was in a pretty bad car wreck a long time ago," I explained. "They put me into a cryo pod to heal, but I missed the big show completely."

Raul gave a low, sardonic chuckle, nodding knowingly. "Well, consider yourself lucky, amigo. You missed one hell of a disaster. The end of the world wasn't something you'd want front-row seats for, believe me."

I considered him thoughtfully for a moment, memories of that bunker with its madness and horrors flooding back to me. "I've been in a bunker whose reactor failed too. The people inside went mad—completely lost their minds. How did you stay so reasonable?"

Raul sighed heavily, eyes distant with memories, his voice growing somber. "First thing I did was take out the puta who wrecked our reactor. Bastard didn't even see me coming. Afterward, I hacked into his private journal, found out he planned to run twisted experiments on everyone trapped inside—mental, physical, he didn't care. Without a psychopath pulling the strings, our bunker held together for about three centuries, give or take."

He paused, the weight of memory evident in his weary eyes. "Eventually, though, madness still found its way in. Isolation and radiation were harsh companions. People started losing themselves, slowly but surely. It was like watching a horrible disease spread with no cure."

Raul shrugged slightly, offering a grim, resigned smile. "After that, well—I just took a lot of naps. Long naps, amigo. When you've got nowhere to go and nothing to do, sleeping becomes a pretty appealing pastime. I watched a stalagmite grow near my quarters, used it as a kind of clock to measure the passing years. It wasn't perfect, but it kept me from completely losing track of reality."

We stood in silence for a moment, the Kansani warriors quietly absorbing Raul's haunting tale. Each of us was reflecting on the weight of those countless years and the strength required to maintain sanity and purpose through them all.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I turned to Raul, breaking the silence that had fallen after his haunting story. "If your bunker was in Texas, how did you end up all the way out here in Kansas?"

Raul sighed deeply, his eyes narrowing slightly as he delved back into memories clearly tinged with bitterness. "About thirty years ago, those wannabe Romans stumbled across my bunker. Guess they were looking to expand their little empire." He shook his head with obvious distaste. "They dragged me out of there, saw I was useful, and hauled me up to St. Louis. Put me to work on rebuilding the Arch—you know, that big gateway. It's quite the sight now, with edges lined in gold."

He paused, his expression darkening further. "But it didn't take long to see through their pretty facades. Those bastards worked their laborers to death—no mercy, no humanity. They wouldn't even let the dead be buried, just left the bodies to rot as a warning." Raul's voice grew harder, edged with cold anger. "After witnessing that, I decided they didn't deserve my help."

Raul's voice took on a dry, sardonic tone as he continued. "I started playing dumb—pretended I had dementia. Honestly, it wasn't hard. I'd spent enough time surrounded by folks who genuinely suffered from it. Turns out their madness at least served a purpose, taught me exactly how to act convincingly."

Raul chuckled grimly. "They didn't take kindly to that, of course. Tried every mind-altering drug they had to 'restore' my mind. But here's the kicker—this overbaked body comes with perks. I got all the highs without the crippling addictions. They wasted so many precious substances on me; pretty sure I indirectly got a few Legion researchers executed for failing to fix my 'condition.'"

His expression softened slightly, almost amused by the irony. "Then those white machines started going loco, and desperate folks started flocking to Caesar's banner. With so many people seeking protection, Caesar decided they could rely on sheer manpower instead of my engineering skills. Suddenly, I wasn't special anymore. They started treating me like a regular slave, and eventually, that's how I ended up here."

He fell quiet, eyes distant and tired, clearly burdened by the memories he'd been forced to recall. Around us, the Kansani and freed captives listened intently, faces etched with newfound respect and empathy for this ancient survivor's cunning and resilience.

I turned to Raul and said confidently, "At least you won't have to worry about that kind of treatment anymore. The Kansani are strongly anti-slavery. Their stance against the Legion reminds me of John Brown's abolitionists standing up to the Missouri Bushwhackers back in the old days."

Raul chuckled, eyes twinkling with amusement and respect. "Oh, I've heard plenty about the Kansani defying the 'glory' of New Rome over the years. You'd be surprised how often news travels—even behind Legion lines. Whenever we slaves caught wind of a skirmish that ended badly for the Legion, we'd quietly toast stolen wine in your honor."

Around us, the Kansani warriors listening to Raul's words smiled proudly, a subtle warmth and satisfaction lighting their expressions. Knowing their resistance had inspired hope and defiance among those oppressed by the Legion seemed to renew their determination and pride. Raul's revelation, a small victory born from their ongoing struggle, clearly meant more to them than any battle won on the field.

I chuckled softly, breaking the solemnity. "Well, the most mind-altering things the Kansani usually have are good old-fashioned ale and the peace pipe. They have a few other substances for rituals, but those are mostly reserved for festivals."

Raul grinned, nodding approvingly. "Nothing wrong with getting plastered and smoking a bit. Though I must admit, I really miss tequila."

I shrugged lightly. "I'm not much for drinking myself, but I do have data on how to make carbonated drinks."

Raul's eyes lit up instantly, his worn face animated with excitement. "No kidding? One of the ways I kept my mind active was remembering how different foods and drinks were made. I know how to make Mexican Coca-Cola—none of that corn syrup junk, real sugar, the good stuff."

With sudden intensity, I gripped Raul's shoulder firmly, my voice dropping low and serious. "Even the secret ingredients?"

Raul's eyes narrowed in mock severity, voice matching my tone perfectly. "Even that."

Turning sharply to Boone, who looked thoroughly confused, and Sula, who merely sighed in mild exasperation, I declared with exaggerated seriousness, "We need to get this man to the Grove, no matter what!"

Raul started chuckling loudly, the hearty sound breaking the tension and drawing amused glances from the Kansani warriors nearby.