--- Commonwealth - Streets of Boston--
Sergeant Carter moved swiftly through the rubble-strewn streets of ruined Boston, the sound of distant gunfire crackling in the hazy air. His squad kept close, their armor clanking quietly, weapons raised. The distress signal had been urgent — a Minutemen patrol escorting a caravan to Quincy was under heavy attack. The enemy was organized, disciplined… but they weren't Gunners. That alone raised questions Carter didn't have time to answer.
As they neared the location, the firefight's intensity sharpened. Gunshots echoed between crumbling buildings, mingling with the dying screams of the wounded. Carter's squad rounded a corner and saw the skirmish firsthand.
Three of the seven Minutemen lay dead in the street alongside two caravan members and one bloodied Brahmin. The remaining defenders were dug in behind rusted vehicles and shattered concrete, fighting desperately to hold the enemy back. The second Brahmin, bleeding from a grazing wound, stood stubbornly beside a pair of terrified traders.
A lone Minuteman in battered power armor stood at the forefront, his laser rifle sending red-hot bolts through the thick smoke. Most of the enemy's fire focused on him, pinning him behind a half-destroyed APC. But the enemy's numbers were too great. It was only a matter of time.
"Move in! Let's clean these bastards out!" Carter barked, raising his laser musket.
His squad surged forward. The ground shook as Corporal Reyes, clad in his heavy T-45 suit, charged with his Gatling gun spinning to life. The weapon's deafening roar filled the street as a stream of lead shredded the nearest cluster of enemies, forcing the others to dive for cover.
Bullets pinged off cracked asphalt and dented metal.
Carter sprinted toward the surviving Minutemen, sliding in behind a rusted car.
"Status?"
"Three down, two wounded," grunted the power-armored Minuteman without looking. "We're boxed in."
"Help the wounded get clear," Carter ordered, motioning to the caravan members. "We'll cover you. Reyes, keep that fire up!"
"With pleasure, Sarge!" Reyes bellowed as another burst of his Gatling gun hammered the enemy position.
The traders scrambled to pull the injured from the line of fire as Carter's squad laid down disciplined, covering fire. Laser rounds, and conventional bullets filled the air in a storm of lethal light and sound.
But even as they fought, something gnawed at Carter's instincts.
The attackers moved with too much coordination. Clean flanking maneuvers. Sharp, disciplined bursts of fire. Not raiders. Not Gunners. And most surely not super mutants.
Something else.
And as one of the attackers fell into view, Carter caught a glimpse of their uniforms, they didn't look like something he's seen before.
His gut tightened.
"Shit… these aren't locals ."
He clenched his teeth, already knowing this was about to get a lot worse than a simple caravan ambush.
-------------
Corporal Reyes and the power-armored Minuteman continued laying down steady, disciplined bursts of covering fire as the wounded and caravan members scrambled out of the kill zone. The surviving Brahmin, frightened but loyal to its handlers, kept pace with the fleeing group, its hooves clattering over cracked asphalt and debris.
Sergeant Carter waved his squad to retreat, moving from rusted vehicle to broken wall in short, quick sprints. The heavy armored suits followed at a measured pace, never fully turning their backs to the enemy, weapons raised and eyes sharp.
"Reyes— keep those bastards pinned until we hit the corner!"
"Got it, Sarge!" Reyes called out, his Gatling gun roaring once more as spent shells clattered around his feet.
Bit by bit, they withdrew from the ambush site, smoke and wreckage blurring the street behind them. Blood marked the ground where Minutemen had fallen, but there was no time to mourn now.
Once they rounded the corner of a shattered bookstore, Carter signaled a halt. The squad paused, catching their breath behind the safety of an overturned van as the sounds of pursuit faded.
Up ahead, the remnants of the caravan and the wounded Minutemen huddled behind debris. The injured were pale, bloodied, but alive.
Carter strode over to them, his face grim beneath his helmet.
"Alright — listen up," he barked, scanning the shaken survivors. "We're heading to the Castle. Anyone too banged up to walk'll get carried. Doc Forsythe'll patch you up when we get there."
He pointed at the caravan leader, a wiry man with soot-darkened skin and blood on his collar.
"I want everything you've got on what happened back there. Who hit you, how they looked, what they said. Names, symbols, weapons. Everything. I'm taking it straight to Major Preston Garvey."
The man nodded, still catching his breath.
"They weren't Gunners… weren't raiders. I've never seen uniforms like that before. Spoke some language I didn't catch."
Carter's frown deepened.
" we'll find out who those bastards are.You're lucky you sent that signal when you did."
He turned back to his squad.
"Alright people — let's move. Stick together, eyes up. There might be more of them lurking out here."
The caravan, flanked by Minutemen soldiers and power-armored troops, began making their way cautiously through the ruined streets of Boston, heading for the safety of the Castle's reinforced walls.
In the growing dusk, Carter's thoughts turned dark
-- Commonwealth - West Roxbury Station --
A cramped, low-ceilinged room inside the fortified West Roxbury subway station. Concrete walls stained with age, a battered table in the center, and a field radio — one of the old wired models the Metro soldiers favored — crackling with faint static. A Red Line officer stands over it, helmet off, wiping sweat from his brow.
He grips the handset, pressing the call switch.
"Comrade Major, this is Post West Roxbury. Do you copy?"
A brief burst of static, then a voice comes through — gravelly, stern, unmistakably a veteran of countless tunnel wars.
"I read you, Captain. Report."
"Ambush on the caravan partially successful, Comrade Major. We eliminated several of the caravan's guards and captured supplies from one of the beasts they use… a two-headed cow they call a Brahmin.
Reinforcements arrived before we could finish the job. They carried advanced energy weapons and wore powered combat armor. Heavy units… two suits confirmed." the captain reported.
"Hmph. So, the locals are better armed than we expected. But no matter. Every crate of supplies we take weakens them, and every skirmish teaches us how they fight. We bleed them slow." The Major said trough the crackling line.
"Understood, Comrade Major. We've pulled the squad back to West Roxbury and reinforced the perimeter. The prisoners taken were riders . Some kind of local bandits from what we gathered ." Said the Captain , speaking in the radio's microphone.
"Good. Use them for labor or dispose of them— whichever keeps the men sharp. No loose ends, Captain." Came the reply from the Major.
"Yes, Comrade Major. This West Roxbury is secure for now. We'll begin preparations for additional patrols." Said the Captain.
"See that you do. And see if one of those power armor can be acquired ." Replied the Major.
" Understand , comrade Major " responded the Captain.
The line cuts with a click.
Outside West Roxbury Station,barbed wire coils were attached over the station's old iron fences. Red Line banners, faded and weather-stained, hang over the station entrance. Armed Red Line soldiers in mismatched Commonwealth scavenged armor, with a hammer and sickle painted red over the white star on the chest and Metro-issued uniforms and helmets patrol the perimeter. Heavy machine guns cover the road from makeshift pillboxes.
Near a crumbled stairwell entrance, a holding area has been improvised with scrap metal and chain-link fencing. Inside, a group of rough-looking raiders — faces bruised, stripped of their weapons — sit against the walls, guarded by Red Line soldiers. A few crates sit stacked nearby, freshly looted from the caravan ambush.
Red Line soldiers moved through the ruined streets around West Roxbury Station, their boots crunching over broken glass and scattered debris. The air hung thick with dust and the scent of old decay. A pair of scouts, rifles at the ready, carefully advanced toward the Milton General Hospital, its shattered windows and weatherworn facade looming like a bleached corpse against the gray skyline.
Inside, teams picked through crumbling wards and collapsed hallways. They pried open old lockers, stripped cabinets of anything still sealed — ancient chems, scalpels, and salvageable pre-war medkits. One soldier hefted a rusted oxygen tank over his shoulder while another pulled a stash of intact surgical tubing from beneath a fallen gurney.
Across the street, another unit secured the parking garage. The rusted remains of ancient vehicles lay half-buried in rubble, and the soldiers scavenged fuel cells, stripped batteries, and hacked spare parts from anything remotely functional. A few of the more intact vehicles were marked for recovery, their metal stripped for barricades and armor plating.
Beyond the immediate vicinity, Red Line patrols swept adjacent alleyways and ruined homes, pulling out useful materials: old canned food, intact wiring, lengths of copper pipe, and even old tools. Anything that could be repurposed for the war that is to come.
By nightfall, the scavenging parties returned to West Roxbury Station, pushing makeshift carts loaded with their haul — medicines, scrap and some munitions for the weapons obtained from the ambush. The perimeter guards waved them through, and the station's interior buzzed with activity as the occupation tightened its grip on the area.
--- Commonwealth - the Castle ---
Sargent Carter and his squad approached the Castle's walls, the battered caravan survivors trailing close behind. The old stone fortification loomed against the gray skies, its rebuilt defenses reinforced with scrap metal and gun nests. Up in the main gate's guard post — an elongated room with chest-high barricades and two miniguns set on tripods — a pair of guards spotted them immediately.
One of the guards leaned out over the parapet.
"We've got friendlies inbound — open the gate!" he shouted down.
Within moments, the heavy gates groaned open, and the guards hurried down to meet them, weapons still ready.
"What the hell happened out there?" one asked, eyes scanning the wounded and grim expressions.
Sargent Carter stepped forward.
"Caravan to Quincy was ambushed. Multiple KIA. I need to speak with Major Garvey immediately."
The guard gave a tense nod and motioned them inside.
"Follow me."
Passing through the main and inner gates, they entered the courtyard of the Castle. Medics rushed over to tend to the injured as the squad broke off from the caravaners. Carter and his men were quickly ushered through the stone corridors to the command center, where Major Preston Garvey waited by a table scattered with maps and radio equipment.
Garvey looked up as they entered.
"Sargent Carter — report."
"Sir," Carter began, standing at attention. "Distress signal from the caravan team — by the time we arrived, they were under heavy attack. Well-organized and numerous. Five dead — three Minutemen, two civilians. We secured the survivors and fell back."
Garvey's brow furrowed.
"Was it the Gunners? Raiders?"
Carter shook his head.
"Negative, sir. Uniforms and equipment were different. Looked… military. Couldn't place the insignias, but from what I've seen, I'd wager they're from the Metro."
The room fell quiet for a moment, Garvey's expression tightening.
"We always suspected there might be more passages out there — old world tunnels leading from the Metro into the Commonwealth. If a hostile faction's using one, we've got a new problem on our hands."
He turned, grabbing a holotape from the table.
"I'm heading to Sanctuary. Need to meet with the General and command staff. Carter, you and your squad stay on high alert. Inform the nearby settlements. If these people move again, I want everyone to be ready ."
"Understood, sir." Carter saluted sharply, his squad following suit.
Garvey returned the salute, then made his way toward a vertibird resting on the nearby helipad, its rotors idling in the evening haze. Carter turned back to his squad.
"Alright, people — you heard the Major. Lock it down. Check your gear. We've got something brewing."
-- Moscow - Metro - D6 Bunker--
The soft hum of the tram echoed through the dim tunnels as Anna made her way back toward D6 alone. The empty seat beside her was a constant, bitter reminder. The battered railcar rattled on, carrying only her and her grim thoughts. When the heavy doors to the station slid open, one of the Order men stationed in the tram control room looked at her, surprised.
"Anna? Where's Artyom?" he asked, concern flashing across his face as she stepped off the railcar.
Anna didn't break stride, her pace brisk as she made for the elevator.
"Captured," she answered curtly, her voice tight. "By the Reich."
The man's eyes widened in shock, but before he could ask more, she was already in the elevator, jabbing the button for the command center.
The lift groaned upward, carrying her through the depths of D6. When the doors opened, Anna stepped into the busy command center. The low murmur of radios and clatter of reports filled the air. A man at a nearby console caught sight of her and blinked in surprise.
"Anna? What happened? Where's Artyom?"
"I need to speak to my father," she said sharply, scanning the room.
"Colonel Miller's not here," the man replied. "Left for Polis an hour ago."
Anna cursed under her breath and turned to leave. As she moved toward the exit, two familiar figures intercepted her in the corridor — Sam and Stepan.
"Anna!" Sam called out. "Where's Artyom? And what about the Dark One?"
Anna stopped, exhaustion and anger flashing in her eyes.
"That idiot freed the young dark one," she said bitterly. "Then more of those things showed up, then disappeared. Next thing I know, a Reich patrol rolls up in some patched-together car, grabs him, and takes off."
Sam swore under his breath, and Stepan looked down, clenching his fists.
"We need to tell Miller," Stepan muttered.
"He's in Polis," Sam said grimly.
" I'm not waiting for permission. Artyom's out there, and those bastards have him." Said Anna
As Anna pushed past them toward the exit, Sam reached out and grabbed her arm.
"Anna, wait," he said firmly, his voice low but steady. "We can't just rush out there. The Colonel needs to hear about this first."
Anna yanked her arm free, her jaw clenched.
"We don't have time to wait, Sam. You know what the Reich does to prisoners."
"And you know what starting a war with them would mean," Stepan added, stepping in. His tone was calmer, trying to reason with her. "We can't just attack the Reich on our own. Miller will know what to do… without risking everyone in D6."
For a moment, Anna looked like she might argue — her glare sharp, her fists clenched at her sides. The thought of Artyom in Reich hands , after she let them take him , made her blood boil. But deep down she knew they were right.
She took a sharp breath, then let it out through her teeth.
"Fine," she muttered reluctantly. "But the second Miller gets back… we move."
"Of course," Sam nodded. "We'll get him back ."
--- Commonwealth - Sanctuary Hills ---
The vertibird's rotors kicked up dust and scattered leaves as it descended onto one of the helipads overlooking Sanctuary Hills — the capital of the Commonwealth. Its reinforced frame groaned slightly as the skids touched down. Moments later, Major Preston Garvey stepped out, his laser musket resting across his back, flanked by two Minutemen soldiers in combat armor.
Sanctuary Hills wasn't just a settlement — it was the heart of the Commonwealth, a fortified and bustling town of hundreds. Pre-war houses, long since reinforced with metal plates and scrap barricades, lined the cracked streets. Guard towers and sandbag emplacements watched every road leading in, and the distant hum of water purifiers and wind turbines filled the air.
The streets were alive with activity. Among the usual Commonwealth settlers were the newest arrivals — people from the Metro. Survivors from three stations at the far edge of the underground rail network, they were still adjusting to the surface world. The difference in appearance was obvious: Metro folk wore worn, patchwork clothing fashioned from scavenged gear, old military coats, and stitched-together fabrics. None of them carried weapons — a strict policy enforced by the Minutemen for safety.
Children from the Metro wandered the streets wide-eyed, some holding their parents' hands tightly as they stared in awe at the open sky. The brightness, the colors, the towering trees — it was a world far removed from the dim, confined tunnels they'd known all their lives. Their parents moved cautiously, lingering close to each other or staying near the public market.
Some had already found work, eager to earn caps since bullets, their old underground currency, meant little in the Commonwealth. Many took to working gardens alongside local settlers, repairing fences, hauling supplies, or helping scavenging parties. A handful of Metro residents capebal of speaking english , acted as interpreters, assisting with bartering and simple conversations. It had only been close to two weeks since the agreement between the Commonwealth and the Metro survivors, but both sides were learning quickly.
Major Garvey's sharp eyes scanned the streets as he made his way toward the command building— an old pre-war home converted into the headquarters of the Minutemen leadership. Every step reinforced what was at stake. This fragile cooperation was holding, but now there was word of an armed, well-organized force crossing into the Commonwealth from the Metro's depths. And they wouldn't remain a distant threat for long.
" Let's move," Garvey ordered his men quietly, heading toward the wide door of the command building, the minutemen flag rippling above it.
Major Preston Garvey stepped through the sturdy doors of the Sanctuary Hills command center. The buzz of activity carried through the halls — voices, radio chatter, and the distant clank of machinery. The two Minutemen soldiers who'd flown with him peeled off, given a short reprieve while Garvey made for the briefing room.
Inside, the room was already filled. Seated around the large table were Minutemen officers, civilian representatives, and two men from the Metro — Ilya and Sergei. Ilya watched the room warily, his eyes sharp, though he seemed less tense than their first meetings. He was picking up English slowly, with Sergei beside him to translate when needed.
At the head of the table sat General Ward. m
Mid-thirties, clean-shaven, and with a soldier's frame hardened from both pre-war military training and a year of rebuilding the Minutemen — Ward had a reputation for steady leadership in chaotic times. He looked up as Garvey entered.
"Major Garvey," Ward greeted, motioning to an open seat. "Did something happen ? We weren't expecting a meeting."
Preston nodded, sitting down. "Sir, a situation's come up. A caravan headed for Quincy was hit earlier today. Three Minutemen, two civilians dead. We managed to pull the survivors out."
A murmur ran through the room. Ward's expression hardened. "Raiders?"
"That's the thing," Preston continued. "They weren't Gunners, weren't raiders. Well organized, coordinated tactics, moving like a trained squad. The report says their weapons and uniforms didn't match anything from the Commonwealth ,they seemed to be similar to those used by the people from the Metro ."
General Ward's gaze shifted to Ilya. "You've had dealings with Metro factions. Any idea who these people might be?"
Sergei translated quickly. Ilya listened, then answered in Russian, his voice low and measured. Sergei translated his words.
"There are three groups in the Metro capable of something like this. Hansa — merchants and soldiers, but they keep to themselves unless provoked. The Fourth Reich — fascists, extremists, but easy to identify by their armbands. The last is the Red Line. Communist. Expansionist. They believe in bringing everything under their rule."
The room stilled. A few glances passed between the Minutemen officers — not the old-world venom the word "communist" might have sparked two centuries ago, but the word carried weight nonetheless. Not because of ideology, but because any large, organized militant faction on the move was dangerous.
"You sure about that?" Ward asked.
Preston shook his head. "Not one hundred percent, sir. But according to my squad's report — their uniforms were heavy, dark coats. Deep red accents, old-style military cuts, caps on the officers. Carried Metro-made weapons, mostly Kalash . No armbands ."
Sergei relayed this, and Ilya's face darkened. "Red Line. No doubt."
There was a pause, then Ward sighed. "I don't care if they're communists, fascists, or damn mole people. If they're organized, well-armed, and attacking our caravans, that makes them our problem."
A few of the officers nodded in agreement.
"All right," Ward continued. "Send word to every settlement. Lock things down tight. Increase patrols, make sure the defenses are solid. I don't want another surprise like this. We don't know how many of them are topside, or what their next move is."
He turned to Ilya. "You'll warn your people too?"
Sergei translated. Ilya nodded. " I will speak with the other station leaders . They must know what's happening."
"Good," Ward said. "And I'll send a report to Elder Danes. The Brotherhood'll want to keep an eye on this, to ensure that those Reds don't get their hands on anything they could use against us ."
The meeting wrapped up with quiet affirmatives and the scrape of chairs. Everyone left with a sense of unease.
The threat from below was no longer distant — it had arrived on the surface, and war was coming.