The detox room smelled faintly of antiseptic and salt air, a sterile tang undercut by the briny whisper of the harbor winds. Curie had insisted on keeping the windows cracked, even in the grip of winter—*fresh air helps anchor the mind when the body rebels*, she'd said with that unyielding optimism of hers. Cait lay back on the narrow cot, the thin blanket pulled up to her chest like a flimsy shield against the chills wracking her frame. Sweat beaded along her hairline despite the cold, trickling down her temples in slow, treacherous rivulets. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers twitching as if grasping for ghosts.
Nate sat nearby on a rickety stool, not crowding her, just close enough that his presence was a steady warmth in the dim lamplight—a silent promise he wasn't going anywhere.
She stared at the cracked ceiling for a long moment, the silence broken only by her ragged breaths and the distant crash of waves against the Castle's walls. Finally, her voice emerged, hoarse and frayed.
"There's supposed to be a vault somewhere out here," Cait said, each word scraping past her parched throat. "A place called Vault Ninety-Five."
Nate looked up from the chipped mug cradled in his hands, steam rising lazily from whatever bitter brew he'd scavenged. "Gunners told you about it?"
She nodded slowly, her head heavy on the thin pillow. "Yeah. Said Vault-Tec used it for some kind of social experiment. Took a bunch of junkies—locked 'em inside. Poked and prodded, see what'd happen when the chems ran dry."
Her jaw clenched, muscles jumping beneath the skin. "Well… they supposedly had a way to clean people up. For real. Some machine. Some system." She swallowed hard, the motion painful. "That's how the Gunners got me to talk. Said they could fix me. That they had it."
Curie, standing quietly at the foot of the bed like a sentinel in her pristine synth frame, stiffened—but said nothing, her golden eyes flickering with unspoken calculations.
Cait laughed weakly, the sound brittle and self-mocking. "Guess that was the hook, huh? Dangled the one thing I couldn't walk away from."
Nate didn't answer right away. He set the mug aside and reached out, steadying her shaking hand with his own—firm but gentle, his calluses rough against her clammy skin. "We'll check it out," he said, his voice low and resolute. "But not on their terms."
Her eyes flicked toward him—uncertain, hopeful, afraid all at once, the storm of withdrawal raging behind them. "You don't owe me that, Nate. Not after what I did."
"I know," he replied, squeezing her hand once before letting go. "That's why I'm doing it."
Two days later, MacCready returned to the Castle with snow clumped in his hair and a grim set to his jaw, his mercenary coat dusted white from the trek across the frozen Commonwealth. He stamped the worst of it off his boots in the command room, where Sarah and Nate waited amid maps and flickering terminals.
"Vault Ninety-Five's hot," he reported, voice clipped and professional. "Gunners and their machine everywhere. Fortified to hell—assaultrons and heavy weapons on the perimeter, patrols in the halls. They've turned it into a fortress."
He hesitated, glancing between them as if weighing his next words. "And the Brotherhood's set up Waypoint Echo nearby. Close enough to smell the Glowing Sea's rad-stink."
Sarah cursed under her breath, a rare slip of composure as she leaned over the tactical map. "That figures. They don't miss a beat."
MacCready continued, lowering his voice as if the walls had ears. "They're poking around the Glowing Sea proper. Word from a scav I bought off is they're after a pre-War bomb storage site. Something big—deep silo, locked tight."
Sarah closed her eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Ah hell the…Mark 28s."
Nate frowned, crossing his arms. "That bad?"
Sarah looked at him sharply, her gaze cutting like a laser sight. "Those aren't just any bombs, Nate. They're Prime food—thermonuclear warheads, clean yields, enough to glass small sections."
She exhaled slowly, the air escaping in a controlled hiss. "If the Brotherhood gets a stockpile of those, Maxson will call it deterrence. Containment. Strategic necessity." Her tone hardened, edged with steel. "And then if someone will get nervous. Or ambitious. And suddenly they're tossing nukes like footballs anywhere they think the Institute might be hiding."
Nate grimaced, the implications sinking in like rads. "Then near settlements."
"Exactly," Sarah said, her finger jabbing the map where clusters of red pins marked civilian outposts. "Downtown boston is fine cause which still filled with raiders and gang, but Diamond City and small settlement within city limit. there no winners in that kind fallout."
Sarah turned to him then—really looked at him, her eyes appraising not just the General of the Minutemen, but the man who'd thawed the Commonwealth's frozen heart.
"Nate," she said, her voice steady but urgent, "I need you to open a channel with the Brotherhood."
He blinked, caught off guard. "What?…Me?"
She nodded, stepping closer, the faint scent of gun oil and ozone clinging to her uniform. "I can argue tactics. Doctrine. But Maxson doesn't hear people from me anymore unless direct from me — but he also willing to hears factions, alliances he suspects that he can negotiate on."
She placed a hand on the table between them, closing the distance. "He'll hear *you*. The Sole Survivor. The man who stared down Kellogg and walked out of the Institute."
Nate rubbed the back of his neck, a habitual tic under pressure. "And you want me to… what? Ask him nicely not to nuke the Commonwealth?"
Sarah almost smiled, a ghost of one flickering across her lips. "I want you to negotiate." She ticked points off on her fingers, precise as a loading sequence.
"First: restraint. No deployment of nuclear ordnance near civilian population centers—full veto power for Minutemen oversight if possible."
"Second: Vault 95's medical research. Blueprints, data, anything related to addiction treatment. Hand it over clean."
"And in return?" Nate asked, arching a brow.
Sarah didn't hesitate, her eyes locking onto his. "Minutemen supply lines to BOS outpost. My logistics networks. the access to Vault 95's remaining tech once it's cleared of Gunners."
She straightened, chin lifting. "This isn't charity. It's your leverage. They get power without the pyres; we get the cure and the Wasteland stays whole."
Nate hesitated, glancing at the map where the Glowing Sea's irradiated haze was sketched in ominous green. "You sure this shouldn't be you? You've tangled with Maxson before."
Sarah's expression softened—not weakened, just… honest, the mask of command slipping to reveal the mentor beneath. "There are times I won't be around to hold hands, Nate. The Commonwealth needs to see you making these calls—standing tall without my shadow."
She placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and reassuring, her grip conveying years of battles shared and won. "You don't have to threaten Maxson nor challenge his pride."
"You give him a way to look reasonable. A path where the Brotherhood saves the day *and* keeps their hands clean."
Nate exhaled slowly, the weight settling but not crushing. He nodded, resolve hardening in his eyes. "uuuh…Alright."
Sarah nodded once, sharp and approving, a spark of pride lighting her features. "Now *that's* my General."
After few hours since Nate open negotiation in radio hotline with BOS, the radio crackled to life just past dusk, static hissing like distant thunder rolling over the Commonwealth's scarred horizon. Then a familiar, iron-hard voice cut through the Castle's command room, slicing the tension like a vibroblade through rusted armor.
"Elder Arthur Maxson," the voice announced, resonant and unyielding, broadcasting from the Prydwen's lofty perch.
"Commander Sarah. General Nate. This is Elder Maxson."
Sarah didn't sit. She stood with her hands braced on the map table, her knuckles whitening against the weathered wood, eyes fixed on the Glowing Sea marked in jagged red grease pencil—a forbidden wasteland glowing with the promise of death.
"We will proceed with a joint assault on Vault 95," Maxson continued, his tone brooking no dissent. "Medical research, blueprints, and all relevant Vault-Tec data will be turned over to Minutemen custody upon securing the site."
Nate glanced at Sarah from across the table, his expression cautious. She gave a small nod, her posture unchanging. So far, so good—the negotiations he'd brokered holding firm.
"In return," Maxson said, "the Brotherhood will receive expanded logistical support—fuel, ammunition, and field repairs routed through Minutemen supply lines."
A pause crackled over the airwaves, heavy with implication.
"And the Brotherhood will exercise restraint in the deployment of nuclear ordnance for Liberty Prime."
Sarah exhaled quietly, a subtle release of tension that only Nate caught. The room's ambient hum—flickering terminals, the distant murmur of patrols—seemed to quiet in response.
Then Maxson spoke again, his voice dropping an octave. "There is one additional condition."
She stiffened, her fingers digging into the map's edges.
"Our scouts have confirmed the existence of a pre-War Sentinel Site within the Glowing Sea," Maxson said, the words landing with the weight of inevitability. "Bomb storage. Hardened silos. Mark 28 stock."
Nate frowned, leaning forward. "And you want—"
"We want joint access," Maxson cut in, his interruption sharp as a gauss round. "And joint security."
Sarah already knew what was coming; her mind raced ahead, piecing together the Brotherhood's calculus like a tactical overlay.
"The radiation levels and environmental instability exceed acceptable limits for standard Brotherhood personnel alone," Maxson continued, his formality masking the underlying demand. "Your… assets are uniquely suited to such an operation."
The word assets landed like a slap, dehumanizing and deliberate.
"Dolls," Maxson clarified, as if the term needed elaboration. "Combat-rated. Autonomous. Resistant."
Silence filled the room, thick and oppressive, broken only by the radio's faint static hum. Sarah closed her eyes for a heartbeat too long, the ghosts of past losses flickering behind her lids.
When the transmission ended with a final click, the Castle felt colder, the sea air seeping through the cracks like an unwelcome intruder. Sarah straightened, her voice immediate and unyielding.
"Dammit No," she said, the word a barrier thrown up against the tide.
Nate turned toward her, his brow furrowing. "Sarah—"
"I'm not gonna risk throwing another unit into a radioactive graveyard so the Brotherhood can stockpile doomsday toys," she snapped, her pacing sharp and deliberate, boots echoing on the stone floor.
She gestured wildly at the map. "I've already lost enough people to pre-War arrogance. Synths, humans, Dolls—it doesn't matter. The Glowing Sea doesn't discriminate."
Ronnie Shaw shifted uncomfortably in the corner, her scarred hands fidgeting with a laser rifle stock. The AR Team remained silent, their synthetic poise a wall of quiet observation.
Then—a step forward. Not from AR Team. Not from 404.
From DEFY.
AN-94 stood straight, her posture impeccable, calm as ever amid the storm. "Commander," she said, her voice steady and modulated, carrying the faint electronic timbre of her origins. "Our frames are designed for extreme environments. Radiation tolerance exceeds IOP and Sangvis Ferri standards."
AK-12 folded her arms, a faint smirk playing on her lips, her eyes glinting with that irreverent spark. "And frankly, if someone's going to babysit knights in power armor around live nukes, it might as well be us. We won't rust like their tin cans."
AK-15 said nothing—just nodded once, her massive frame a silent testament to unyielding strength.
RPK-16 tilted her head, her grin sharp and predatory, eyes alight with mischief. "Oooh, Glowing Sea~? Explosives? In forbidden places?" She leaned forward eagerly, fingers drumming on her thigh. "Sounds fun. Like a vacation with a bang."
Sarah rounded on them, her expression a mix of frustration and concern. "This is not a test anymore. This is not just a mission with clean extraction parameters."
She pointed at the map, her finger jabbing the red-smeared zone like an accusation. "That place kills people. Slowly. Quietly. Radiation seeps in, mutates, erodes—until there's nothing left but echoes."
AN-94 met her gaze without flinching, her violet optics unwavering. "We were frozen under the Arctic Ocean for two centuries," she said, the statement factual yet laced with quiet defiance. "We woke up to a world that forgot us."
A beat passed, the weight of their history hanging in the air.
"Give us purpose. Ma'am"
The room went still, the command center's hum fading into insignificance.
Sarah turned away, her jaw tightening as she stared out the narrow window at the darkening sea. Her mind churned—this was exactly what she feared: Dolls who chose danger because they had nothing else left to anchor them, no human frailties to temper their resolve.
She remembered one of many blunder like Paradise Falls. Remembered who had stepped forward then, the fractures it had left in their code and her soul.
She looked back at DEFY, her voice dropping to a quiet intensity. "Remember, You are not expendable," she said, the words heavy with unspoken regret. "None of you are."
AK-12's smirk softened, just a little, revealing a glimpse of the loyalty beneath. "Neither are nukes in the hands of people who think they know best," she replied, her tone light but pointed.
Sarah let out a long breath, the air escaping like a surrender. Then, with the precision of a commander sealing fate—
"AN-94," she said.
"Yes, Commander."
"You will operate under my rules. Not Maxson's. Nor his Brotherhood's."
AN-94 nodded instantly, crisp and obedient. "Understood."
"You observe. You secure. AND You do not authorize ordnance movement without confirmation through me or Nate."
RPK-16 pouted, her enthusiasm dimming slightly. "Aww…come on."
Sarah shot her a look, sharp as a bayonet. "And if the situation becomes untenable," she continued, "you withdraw. No heroics. No unnecessary risks."
AK-15 placed a fist to her chest, the gesture resonant with military formality. "Affirmative."
Sarah hesitated one last time, her eyes scanning their faces—their synthetic perfection hiding depths of programmed humanity.
Then she nodded, the decision irrevocable. "Oh right, DEFY deploy to the Sentinel Site."
The vertibird bucked wildly as it sliced through the radioactive winds, its frame groaning under the assault of the Glowing Sea's merciless turbulence. Snow no longer fell out here—only ash, a perpetual gray veil that choked the air and painted the world in desolation. Z11's rotors thundered steadily, a mechanical heartbeat against the chaos, as the irradiated expanse stretched beneath them like a dead ocean. Waves of glowing dust rolled endlessly under a bruised green sky, lit by sporadic flashes of emerald lightning that cracked like veins across the heavens.
Inside the troop bay, the DEFY team stood braced against the vibrating walls, their magnetic clamps locked to the deck with a reassuring hum. RPK-16 leaned perilously toward the open side hatch, her eyes wide with a mix of thrill and mischief as she peered down into the abyss.
Below them, fire bloomed in violent bursts. Vault 95 become a warzone, its ruined concrete facade scarred by the Brotherhood's relentless assault. Laser fire stitched across the landscape in crimson threads, explosions cracking against the hillsides like thunderclaps. Knights in power armor advanced in tight formation, their T-60 suits gleaming dully under the sickly glow, while vertibirds strafed the ridgeline with minigun barrages that shredded gunner defenses.
RPK-16 whistled appreciatively, her voice cutting through the roar. "Oh wow, look at them go~" she said cheerfully, her tone laced with sardonic delight. "Must be fun compared to us heading straight into a radiation shower. At least they've got targets to play with."
Two hands moved at once, swift and unerring.
*SMACK.*
AK-12 struck the back of her head with a flat palm, the impact sharp but measured.
AK-15 followed a heartbeat later, her massive hand delivering a heavier thud that made RPK-16 wince.
"Focus," AK-12 said flatly, her eyes narrowed behind her visor, voice devoid of humor.
RPK-16 rubbed her head, pouting dramatically as she straightened up. "Ouch, You're both mean. Can't a girl enjoy the scenery?"
AN-94 didn't look away from the tactical display projected on her wrist, her fingers dancing over holographic controls. Data streams flickered across the screen—radiation levels spiking, enemy positions updating in real-time. "Vault 95 engagement is not our objective," she said, her voice calm and analytical. "Our mission profile begins after this airspace. Stay sharp."
The vertibird shuddered again, turbulence rattling loose panels. Then another aircraft slid into view ahead of them, its black Brotherhood paint scarred by radiation burns and pitted from endless patrols. A BOS vertibird, sleek and imposing, matching their pace like a watchful shadow.
The channel crackled to life, static giving way to a gruff, disciplined voice.
"This is Knight Wagner, Brotherhood of Steel." The words boomed through the comms, laced with the faint whine of interference. "Visual confirmed. Welcome to the expedition."
AK-12 raised an eyebrow, her smirk hidden but evident in her tone. "Expedition. That's optimistic. Sounds like they're expecting a picnic."
"Proctor Quinlan and Elder Maxson insisted on redundancy," Wagner continued, undeterred. "We lost contact with our scout detachment inside the Sentinel Site."
AK-15 stiffened slightly, her frame tensing like coiled steel.
"Lost contact how long?" AN-94 asked, her query precise and probing.
A pause stretched over the line, heavy with unspoken dread.
"…Six hours."
RPK-16 grinned, her eyes sparkling with dark amusement. "Oh, they're so dead dead then. Probably become glowing brighter than the Sea itself by now."
AK-12 elbowed her again—harder this time, the jab eliciting a muffled yelp.
"It's likely signal interference," Wagner added quickly, his voice steady but strained. "probably from storm activity. Internal bunker shielding. humph... Nothing we can't handle."
AN-94 exchanged a glance with AK-15, a silent communication passing between them. They had all heard that explanation before—optimism masking the grim reality of the wasteland.
"ETA fifteen minutes," Wagner concluded. "Stay tight. Radiation spikes ahead. Out."
The channel closed with a click, leaving only the vertibird's roar.
Below them, Vault 95 burned, flames licking the sky in defiance of the ash. Ahead—nothing but green lightning and ruins, the Sentinel Site lurking like a buried curse.
The Sentinel Site — Inner Bunker
Deep beneath the ash-choked surface, the world transformed into a labyrinth of forgotten horrors. Concrete walls curved inward, ancient and scarred by time, their surfaces etched with the faint outlines of pre-War warnings long faded. Emergency lights flickered weakly overhead, casting the bunker in a dying amber glow that pulsed like a failing heart. Shadows clung to every corner, thick and oppressive, hiding the remnants of a civilization that had engineered its own doom.
A massive blast door dominated the chamber—thick enough to survive the end of the world, its reinforced steel pitted with age and radiation. Rivets the size of fists lined its edges, and hydraulic pistons groaned faintly in the silence, as if the door itself breathed. And behind it—Pandora's box, a stockpile of Mark 28s waiting to unleash Armageddon anew.
A tall figure stepped from the shadows, her silhouette sharp and unnatural against the flickering lights. Metal heels clicked softly on the grated floor, echoing like distant gunfire.
"It appears," the figure said, her voice smooth and amused, carrying a synthetic edge that hummed with calculation, "they must have sent more fools."
Another shape leaned against a cracked terminal nearby, legs crossed casually atop a pile of rubble, her posture relaxed amid the decay. "My, my~" the second voice chimed, light and teasing, like a predator toying with prey. "And we still haven't opened Pandora door yet."
She gestured lazily toward the blast door, her fingers tracing idle patterns in the air. "That fanatic little cult—the Children of Atom—are clinging to the inner storage like it's their personal altar. Worshipping the glow, as if it'll save them."
The first figure folded her arms, her stance exuding cold authority. "They worship radiation," she said coldly, disdain dripping from each word. "Yet fear what lies beyond. How~~Pathetic."
A distorted holoscreen flickered nearby, its grainy feed displaying exterior cams—vertibirds slicing through the storm, power armor trudging through ash, the Brotherhood's inexorable advance.
The second figure leaned closer, her eyes glinting with intrigue as she zoomed in on the incoming forces. "Oh?"
Her smile widened, sharp and knowing. "Well… those aren't just Brotherhood signatures. Not entirely."
The first figure tilted her head, analyzing the feed with mechanical precision. "Interesting."
She stepped closer to the blast door, placing a gloved hand against the cold steel, sensors in her palm humming faintly as they interfaced with the ancient systems. "Perhaps," she murmured, her voice a velvet whisper laced with anticipation, "these newcomers will be… useful."