The Mojave went quiet in that peculiar way it only ever did at night—no wind, no bugs, just the soft hiss of a dying campfire and the distant hum of old-world power lines singing to no one.

Veronica Santangelo sat cross-legged on a bedroll, absently polishing the dust from her power fist. She’d seen a lot of nights like this since leaving the Brotherhood bunker—too many, honestly—but this one had a strange weight to it. Maybe it was the way the stars felt sharper tonight, or maybe it was the Courier, asleep a few feet away like they didn’t have a care in the world.

The Courier didn’t toss or mutter like most wastelanders did. No nightmares. No flinching. Just slow, steady breathing—disciplined, almost military. Veronica had clocked that early on, filed it away under Huh, that’s weird and moved on.

Until now.

She’d only meant to grab another log for the fire when she noticed it—metal catching the firelight at the Courier’s throat. Not a bottlecap. Not a lucky charm. Something clean. Purpose-made.

Her smile faded.

Veronica leaned closer, careful not to wake them. Two small, dull-steel tags rested against the Courier’s collarbone, worn smooth with age but unmistakable to anyone who knew pre-War military gear. She didn’t need to touch them to know. She’d read enough confiscated reports. Seen enough classified junk locked behind Brotherhood steel.

Enclave holotags.

Her fingers hovered there for a moment before she finally picked them up, the chain whispering softly as it slid across fabric. She held one tag between thumb and forefinger, heart thumping just a little faster than she liked to admit.

Every Enclave serviceperson carried these. Personal ID. Rank. Service number. A ghost of a nation that refused to stay dead.

Veronica glanced at the Courier’s face—peaceful, unguarded. The person who cracked jokes while knee-deep in radscorpions. The person who’d walked into Brotherhood territory like they belonged there. The person who survived things no normal drifter should’ve.

“…Well,” she murmured under her breath, forcing a thin grin that didn’t quite stick, “this just got complicated.”

She let the tags fall back against the Courier’s chest, the metal settling like a secret that had been waiting far too long to be found. Veronica sat back, power fist forgotten, eyes fixed on the sleeping figure as the fire popped and the Mojave held its breath.

By morning, questions were going to need answers.

And she wasn’t sure she was ready for any of them.