Shady Sands had changed over the years—rebuilt, reinforced, and reinvigorated—but it still carried the same unmistakable scent of sun-baked earth and ambition. As Six's transport descended onto the newly reconstructed airstrip, a full battalion of NCR Honor Guard stood at attention, their freshly polished armor glinting in the light of the late afternoon sun.
Banners bearing the two-headed bear of the NCR fluttered in the desert breeze, and a full brass band was playing a patriotic rendition of California Dreamin', their instruments echoing across the golden plains.
Six stepped out onto the tarmac in his upgraded Elite riot gear armor—sleek, matte-black, embedded with smart-tech nodes and micro-shield emitters. At his side were a few handpicked representatives: Rebecca in a striking formal jacket over her armored bodysuit, and Ron, his power armor polished to ceremonial standards, the Brotherhood insignia overlaid with the Goodsprings city crest—a fusion of old and new values.
At the head of the welcome was President Aaron Kimball himself, flanked by members of his inner political cabinet and several ranking NCR generals. Kimball was older now, the war-weary lines of his face more defined, but he was still as imposing and sharp as ever. He stepped forward, offered a firm handshake, and smiled with political polish.
"Six."
Kimball greeted.
"Or should I say—the new NCR Secretary of Agriculture. The man who turned a backwater settlement into the Mojave's strongest city."
Six returned the handshake with a nod, his tone cool but respectful.
"President Kimball. It's been a while. I see the NCR's still fond of grand welcomes."
Kimball smirked.
"When someone shows up with the power to reshape nations and walks the line between legend and nuclear deterrent, it's only right we roll out the good china."
They moved to a massive open-air banquet hall constructed just for the occasion, adorned with glowing lanterns, clean white cloths, and dishes that hadn't been seen in the Wasteland in decades—real brahmin steak, roasted corn, mutant fruit salad, and even fresh bread rolls courtesy of Vault-Tec hydroponics. Rebecca looked stunned for a moment, but quickly recovered, snagging rolls for her six kids.
As they sat beneath the stars, music played and conversations buzzed. The room was full of NCR delegates, traders, and influential figures from various factions. The topic, as always, drifted to politics, territory, and power.
Kimball raised his glass partway through the evening.
"To a man who has done the impossible more times than I can count. And to the idea that maybe… just maybe… the Wasteland can be civilized yet."
The crowd clinked glasses, though Six only offered a faint smile, his eyes scanning the room carefully. He wasn't just here for bread and flattery. He knew this wasn't just a banquet—it was a test.
A diplomatic maneuver from the NCR to see where Six stood, now that Goodsprings rivaled even New Vegas in strength and resources.
And deep down, Six wondered how long this politeness would last… and what strings the NCR might try to pull next.
But for now, he would play along. Let them toast. Let them feast.
Because tomorrow, the real discussions would begin.
_______________________________
By dawn, the celebratory mood had dimmed, replaced by sharp suits, sealed meeting rooms, and policy debates thick with subtext. The NCR's ornate capital building in Shady Sands thrummed with quiet power as the cabinet convened—President Kimball at the head, his advisors fanning out around him like hawks in pressed uniforms and datapads glowing.
At the far end of the polished oak conference table sat Six, noticeably relaxed despite the swarm of bureaucracy surrounding him, Rebecca at his side with arms crossed and her expression daring anyone to try her patience.
"Let the record state."
Began the clerk with practiced monotony.
"That Six VI is hereby appointed Secretary of Agriculture, following unanimous cabinet approval."
Applause was perfunctory—Kimball's steepled fingers tapping faintly on the desk.
"Now, Secretary VI."
He said with deliberate politeness.
"About the matter of jurisdiction. I assume you'll want to operate out of Goodsprings?"
Six nodded, calm and unbothered.
"The Mojave's where the miracle happened. The G.E.C.K. turned it from irradiated ash into greenbelt farmland. My power base is there. My operations, my people. You want this office to mean something? It has to be run from Goodsprings."
Kimball didn't flinch. He had expected this.
"Then you'll agree to our terms—federal oversight, stationed officials, and a baseline sharing agreement of any relevant technology."
Six leaned back in his seat, raising an eyebrow.
"You're asking for a lot. Oversight I can tolerate, appointed officials I'll put up with—but my tech isn't up for grabs. I don't hand out nuclear fusion generators like candy."
"Then you don't get autonomy."
Kimball said coolly.
"The NCR may be a democracy, but we're not fools. You're more powerful than most nations at this point, Six."
Negotiations stretched over hours, each side chipping away at the other's position. Rebecca whispered a few creative insults in Japanese under her breath while reviewing a digital map, and Kimball's advisors debated over the long-term strategic risks of letting Goodsprings become a parallel capital. But in the end, a compromise was reached.
Six would hand over:
-A strategic cache of power armor: over 50 units of T-45, T-51b, T-60, and X-01. Each was delivered with training manuals for instruction.
-11 mass-produced Graze Knightmare Frames, stripped of anti-city-grade armaments but retaining close-quarters capability.
-2 Prydwen-class airships, refitted for logistics and long-range surveillance rather than warfare.
Additionally, Six promised:
The restoration and modernization of the old Mojave-Shady Sands railway, using robotic construction crews and Brotherhood-trained engineers. Completion time: under one week.
In return, Kimball formally agreed:
To move the Department of Agriculture's primary office to Goodsprings, now declared a special administrative region.
To limit federal official placements to six, each reporting to Six directly, with no surveillance infrastructure or deep intelligence operations without mutual consent.
Kimball signed the agreement with a smirk that barely masked the tight grip of political containment.
"A pleasure doing business, Secretary."
Six shook his hand firmly.
"If we're lucky, this alliance might even grow something other than bureaucracy."
As Six and Rebecca walked toward their vertibird for the trip back to Goodsprings, she leaned close, grinning.
"You just traded two airships and a few dozen suits for total jurisdiction, a direct rail line, and a federal seat that's basically immune from oversight."
Six smirked.
"That's agriculture, babe. Plant a few seeds, and watch entire empires grow."