Orion kicked through the rusted metal scraps, his boots crunching against the dry earth. The Wasteland stretched out before him like a dead ocean. He pulled his scarf tighter against the dust wind. Somewhere out there, his team was scattered and lost. He would find them, one by one, no matter how far he had to walk. The old ranger station sat half-buried in sand, its wooden beams still solid beneath layers of grit. Orion cleared the entrance with his gloved hands. Inside, steel tables lined the walls, their surfaces scratched but functional. He dragged his pack through the doorway and set it down hard. This place would work. He pulled out his handheld scanner and placed it on the center table. The screen flickered to life, showing a map of the Wasteland split into sectors. Each empty dot on that map was a Ranger he needed to find. He pressed his palm against the wood and felt its strength. From here, he would track every signal, follow every lead, and bring his team home. Orion stepped back outside into the hot sun. A kilometer east, metal towers poked up from the sand like broken fingers. He walked toward them, his Pipboy clicking against his wrist. The device's small screen showed old route markers, paths people had taken before the world broke apart. If his Rangers were out there wandering, they might follow the same trails. He reached the towers and found an old radio center, its antennas bent and covered in rust. Paint peeled off the walls in long strips. He tried the door. It opened with a groan. Inside, dust covered everything. Old equipment lined the walls, dead and silent. Orion wiped a control panel clean with his glove. These radios could send signals far across the Wasteland if he could get them working again. He checked the wiring, tested connections, replaced a blown fuse from his pack. The main unit hummed to life. Static filled the room. He adjusted the frequency dial and spoke into the microphone. His voice carried out into the empty lands, a beacon for anyone listening. He would call out every day until someone answered. His command hub was ready. His broadcast was live. Now the real work could begin.

Orion twisted the frequency dial one last time and listened to the static fade. The radio center had power, but he needed more than just one broadcast point. He grabbed his pack and headed back into the Wasteland, scanning the horizon for anything useful. His Pipboy beeped twice, showing an old structure two kilometers north. When he reached it, he found a maintenance shed with solar panels still attached to the roof. He dragged them free and carried them back to his station, one at a time, sweat dripping down his face. By sunset, he had them wired to the radio system. The equipment hummed louder now, stronger. He spoke into the microphone again, his message pushing farther across the dead lands. Someone would hear it. Someone would answer. The next morning, Orion pulled a metal case from under his bunk. Inside sat his old training manual, its pages bent and stained. He flipped through the Ranger protocols he'd learned years ago aboard the Megaforce Pirate Ship. That colossal vessel with its bright sails had been their home before the scatter. He traced his finger down the squad roster, counting names. Twelve Rangers had trained together on those wooden decks. Now they were ghosts in the sand. He pulled out a blank map and marked the ship's last known position before it went dark. If he could track backward from there, he might find their trails. The manual showed hand signals, radio codes, and rally points they'd all memorized. These were the tools that would bring them back. He closed the case and stood up. Training had prepared him for this. Now he just had to use it. Orion climbed onto the roof of the radio center and scanned the flat desert. Radio waves only worked if someone was close enough to hear them. He needed something bigger, something visible from kilometers away. His eyes caught a metal rack bolted to the wall below, its polished surface catching the sun. He climbed down and examined it. The rack held six emergency flares, each one thick as his wrist. He carried the rack to the highest point near his station and mounted it on a broken tower frame. When night came, he loaded the first flare and fired it straight up. The red light screamed across the dark sky, bright enough to paint the sand below. Any Ranger watching would know that signal. Any Ranger trained on that ship would remember what it meant. He loaded another flare and waited. This was how he would reach them. This was how they would find their way home. Days passed with no response, but Orion kept working. He cleared space behind the radio center and found a stack of rusted medical supply boxes half-buried in sand. A thin layer of frost covered their metal surfaces in the early morning cold. He pried them open one by one. Inside, bandages and medicine packets sat sealed in plastic, still good. If his Rangers came back hurt, they would need this. He organized the supplies by type and resealed the boxes. The cache sat ready now, waiting like everything else. Each night he fired another flare. Each morning he broadcast his message. The station was complete. The signals were live. All he could do now was wait and keep calling. Someone out there would see his light. Someone out there would hear his voice. And when they did, he would be ready to bring them home.