Deep within the bowels of the Sentinel Site, where the air hung thick with the metallic tang of radiation and decay, two figures observed the unfolding intrusion through a flickering holoscreen. The taller one, Judge—her frame sleek and imposing, clad in dark tactical gear that accentuated her synthetic precision—stood with arms folded, her red optics glowing faintly in the dim light. Beside her, lounging against a console with casual irreverence, was Architect, her shorter stature belying a chaotic energy, her eyes sparkling with mischievous delight as she toyed with a loose wire.
On the screen, the Brotherhood's vertibird circled the pyramid's exterior like a clumsy bird of prey, its rotors churning up ash and sludge in a haphazard landing. The ramp dropped with a thud, and knights in power armor lumbered out, their heavy boots sinking into the irradiated muck, alarms blaring like panicked screams.
Judge's lips curled in disdain. "Look at them—stomping in like overgrown tin soldiers. So predictable. Their 'advance recon squad' thought they could sneak in earlier. Pathetic."
Architect giggled, leaning closer to the feed, her fingers drumming on the console. "Oh, yes! Those poor knights—fell right into our laps. We had them dancing to our tune before they even realized the music started. A little EMP trap here, a hacked turret there... poof! Captured like radroaches in a jar." She waved a hand dismissively. "And now this lot? Clumsy entrance, indeed. They're practically announcing themselves to the whole Glowing Sea."
Judge placed a hand on the massive blast door, her voice a cold murmur. "Let them come. Their blundering will only make the end sweeter."
Architect's smile widened. "Let's the Fun times~start"
The Pyramid
Far above, on the forsaken surface, the pyramid rose from the sludge like a tomb unearthed from some ancient, cursed epoch. Its concrete sides slanted inward at harsh angles, streaked with radiation burns and centuries of unrelenting decay. Irradiated runoff pooled around its base, glowing faintly under the sickly green sky, bubbles rising lazily as if the ground itself festered. Four ventilation towers jutted from the northeast flank, coughing plumes of radioactive steam into the air like the site was still breathing—defiant, alive in its toxicity.
Knight Wagner's vertibird circled once, engines whining against the howling winds, before settling onto the cracked concrete with a jolt that sent ash scattering. The moment the ramp dropped, radiation alarms began screaming—a shrill cacophony that pierced the oppressive silence of the Glowing Sea.
Brotherhood knights disembarked first—four figures in T-60 power armor, their massive forms thudding heavily onto the ground, boots sinking slightly into the ash-coated earth. Their suits bore the scars of the Commonwealth: scorched pauldrons from laser skirmishes, patched servos humming with jury-rigged repairs, faded insignia of the Brotherhood etched with pride and weariness.
Behind them came DEFY. No power armor. No hesitation. AN-94 led the way, her sleek frame unburdened, violet optics scanning the horizon with mechanical efficiency. RPK-16 followed with a skip in her step, AK-12 at her side, rifle at the ready, and AK-15 bringing up the rear, her imposing bulk a silent wall of strength.
AN-94 paused, her gaze narrowing on the structure. "A pyramid bunker," she said quietly, her voice cutting through the alarms. "Symbolic. Pre-War hubris manifest."
RPK-16 skipped around a puddle of glowing sludge, her boots splashing faintly. "You Americans really like your drama. All this for some dusty bombs?"
AK-12 ignored her, weapon raised, eyes flicking between the ventilation towers, sensors pinging for threats.
AK-15 cracked her neck once, the sound like cracking ice. "Entry vector?"
Knight Wagner raised his armored arm, pointing northeast with a gauntleted finger. "Blast door's that way. Minimal exterior resistance reported—Children of Atom scattered after earlier engagement."
"Scattered," RPK-16 echoed, her tone dripping with skepticism. "Not dead. They'll pop up like ghouls at a feast."
Wagner didn't disagree, his helmet grille emitting a static grunt.
The Blast Door
The entrance was recessed into the pyramid's northeast face—a massive, sealed steel door half-buried in ash, marked with faded pre-War warning stripes and barely-legible U.S. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE lettering. It loomed like a guardian of secrets, unyielding and ominous.
Two Brotherhood knights moved to breach positions, unpacking charges with practiced efficiency, their power armor whirring softly.
Before they could plant the explosives, AK-12 stepped forward, her hand raised. "Wait."
She knelt gracefully, interfacing directly with the weathered terminal beside the door. Sparks flickered as her fingers moved faster than human reflex, neural links bridging the gap between synth and ancient machine.
"Pre-War encryption," she muttered, her voice a low hum. "So Primitive. Such a Child's play."
The blast door groaned in protest, hydraulics screaming as centuries of dormancy gave way. Dust cascaded from the ceiling in a gritty shower, and the door began to retract with a thunderous rumble.
RPK-16 clapped softly, her grin wide. "See? No boom. We're in like pros."
AK-15 shot her a sidelong look, her expression unchanging. "Yet."
The door fully retracted, revealing a yawning maw of darkness that spilled out like exhaled breath, carrying the faint scent of rust and ozone.
The Silo Chamber
Their lights cut into a vast, cavernous space, beams piercing the gloom like lances. The interior resembled a missile silo—a colossal vertical shaft carved deep into the earth, its walls lined with rusted metal panels, decayed catwalks, and dangling cables that swayed slightly in the stale, recirculated air. Radiation ticked steadily on their geigers, a constant reminder of the invisible poison saturating every inch.
Catwalks crisscrossed the chamber, spiraling downward around the silo's perimeter like the ribs of some mechanical beast, groaning under their own weight.
At the center, far below, lay the ground floor—hidden in shadow, promising deeper perils.
Knight Wagner exhaled slowly, his voice modulated through his helmet. "Hell of a place. Like stepping into the apocalypse's basement."
AN-94's HUD painted the layout instantly, overlaying schematics in her vision. "Multiple levels. Left-hand descent route," she said, gesturing. "Control rooms staggered vertically. Proceed with caution."
RPK-16 leaned over the railing, peering down into the abyss with reckless curiosity. "So if something shoots us from below," she said cheerfully, "we die spectacularly."
AK-12 moved first, stepping onto the catwalk with fluid grace. "Then don't fall. Move."
First Descent — Control Room Alpha
They took the left catwalk, metal creaking under their combined weight, the structure protesting the intrusion after centuries of silence.
The first control room came into view—a glass-fronted chamber overlooking the silo interior, its reinforced panes cracked but intact. Inside, rusted consoles flickered weakly, still clinging to emergency power two centuries too late, screens displaying garbled data from a long-dead era.
One Brotherhood knight swept the room, laser rifle sweeping corners. "Clear," he grunted.
AN-94 stepped inside, her eyes locking onto a dusty desk on the lower level. "There."
A holotape lay beside the terminal—its label barely readable under layers of grime: SENTINEL SITE BLAST DOOR OVERRIDE.
AK-12 lifted it delicately, turning it in her hand. "Well," she smiled faintly, "that answers a few questions. Handy little key."
Knight Wagner stiffened, his armor servos whining. "That opens all internal blast doors."
"Correct," AN-94 said, pocketing it. "Including the inner storage. We'll use it wisely."
A silence followed, heavy with implication. No one liked how that sounded—like unlocking a cage they might regret entering.
Observation Room One
A smaller blast door hissed open nearby, hydraulics wheezing as it yielded.
Beyond it lay a compact observation chamber—reinforced glass overlooking sealed inner compartments, the view obscured by dust and time. A terminal flickered to life as AK-15 approached, her presence triggering dormant systems.
Lines of text scrolled across the screen: PRE-WAR LAUNCH REPORT — CLASSIFIED.
AK-15's jaw tightened, her optics narrowing. "They were preparing launches. Tests. Experimental payload integration. Not just storage—active deployment."
RPK-16 hummed thoughtfully. "Mark 28s," she guessed. "Big ones. The kind that rewrite maps."
Knight Wagner muttered a prayer under his breath, his gauntlet clenching.
Second Descent — Control Room Beta
They continued downward, the catwalk spiraling deeper, radiation levels spiking slightly as the air grew thicker, more oppressive.
Another observation room. Another terminal.
More logs scrolled by—evidence that Sentinel Site Prescott was never meant to be a mere disposal facility. It was a stockpile, a arsenal poised on the brink.
And something—or someone—had tried to wake it, tampering with systems long after the bombs fell.
AN-94 felt it before the sensors did, a subtle shift in the air, a whisper of movement in the shadows.
"We're not alone," she said quietly, her rifle snapping up.
AK-12 smiled, a predatory glint in her eyes. "Good. I was getting bored."
The moment their boots touched the ground floor, something fell.
A wet, hollow sound echoed through the silo chamber—*THUD*—reverberating off the rusted walls like a judgment from the depths. Then another followed, closer, heavier. *THUD.*
Two armored bodies hit the concrete in front of them, rolling limply across the scarred floor. Power armor scraped against the ground, servos whining weakly in a final, futile protest before going silent. One helmet cracked open on impact, the visor shattering into a web of fractures, revealing the lifeless face beneath. The insignia was unmistakable: Brotherhood of Steel. Recon markings, fresh from the Prydwen's decks.
Knight Wagner froze, his power armor's systems locking in place as recognition hit. "...Recon Team Echo," he muttered, his voice a gravelly whisper through the helmet grille.
The radiation hiss seemed louder now, a constant, insidious underscore to the horror unfolding. The air thickened with the metallic scent of blood and ozone, the geigers ticking faster in warning.
DEFY reacted instantly, a symphony of precision. Weapons snapped up—not forward into the shadows, but upward, muzzles tracking the vertical void of the silo with unerring accuracy. The Brotherhood knights followed a heartbeat later, their targeting servos whining as armor locked into combat stance, lasers humming to life.
AN-94's voice cut clean through the tension, calm and commanding. "Contacts above."
The shadows moved, detaching from the upper catwalks with eerie grace. Two silhouettes descended slowly—too slowly—their boots touching metal without a sound, hands resting casually at their sides as if gravity itself bent to their whim.
As they stepped into the cone of flickering light from the emergency lamps, their forms resolved into clarity. Not raiders, ragged and feral. Not Children of Atom, cloaked in irradiated zealotry. Dolls. Sleek, unmistakably Sangvis Ferri in design—but refined, evolved. Cleaner lines, sharper edges, with an Institute precision layered over pre-war aggression, like synths forged in the fires of forgotten wars.
The first, Judge, was a vision of stern authority, her long black hair cascading like midnight silk, framed by pointed mechanical "ears" that protruded from her head like vigilant sentinels. Her yellow eyes burned with cold intensity, narrowed in disapproval, set in a face that radiated unyielding resolve. She wore a form-fitting black outfit that hugged her athletic figure— a strapless top tied with a bow at the front, exposing her midriff, paired with high-cut shorts and gloves that accentuated her lithe form. Massive gun barrels extended from her back like mechanical wings, multiple cannons poised in silent threat, their dark metal gleaming under the amber lights. Her stance was defiant, one hand on her hip, exuding an air of judgmental poise that made the air feel heavier.
Beside her, Architect exuded a contrasting playfulness, her black hair tied in twin tails that flowed down her back, also adorned with those distinctive mechanical protrusions. Her pink eyes sparkled with amusement, one winking cheekily as she flashed a peace sign, her smile wide and teasing, revealing sharp confidence. Her outfit mirrored the provocative style— a sleeveless black top with vertical stripes down the front, laced with straps and armor plating, leaving her shoulders and midriff bare, complemented by shorts and arm guards. Like Judge, enormous gun arms dominated her silhouette, cannons and barrels integrated seamlessly into her design, ready for chaos. Yet her pose was lighthearted, almost flirtatious, as if the confrontation were a game she was eager to play.
The first spoke, her voice echoing through the silo with calm finality, amplified by internal speakers. "Unauthorized entry confirmed."
She inclined her head slightly, a gesture of mock formality. "I am Judge."
The second clapped once, slowly, the sound sharp in the vast chamber. "Oh, do be polite," she said, her tone warm, almost amused, laced with synthetic charm. "Guests have arrived all this way."
She stepped forward into full light, her eyes gleaming with predatory interest. "Architect desu~," she introduced herself. "And welcome to Sentinel Site Prescott. Quite the historic venue, isn't it?"
Knight Wagner's weapon tracked between them, his laser rifle humming with charged energy. "Sangvis Ferri," he snarled, his voice distorted by rage and helmet filters. "You! Institute lapdogs. What have you done to my foward scout?"
Architect laughed softly, a melodic trill that bounced off the walls. "Oh, that's uncharitable. We're more like... custodians."
Judge gestured toward the fallen BOS scouts, her motion precise and dismissive. "You arrived," she said evenly, "exactly as they did."
Her gaze lifted—locking onto Wagner with unblinking intensity. "They aimed poorly. Overconfident. Overzealous in their intrusion."
AK-15 growled low in her throat, her massive frame tensing like a coiled spring. "So you dropped them like some meat garbage."
Architect tilted her head, her smile unwavering. "Well~~~They insisted on fighting. Very rude. We offered terms—they chose bullets. How~Stubborn, so call knights, they are. humph~"
RPK-16 leaned out from behind a rusted console she'd claimed as cover, her eyes bright with manic curiosity, rifle at the ready. "Ooooh," she said cheerfully, her voice cutting through the standoff like a spark in the dark. "And you two start throw bodies from balconies now? I like you already. Got any more tricks up with those cannon sleeves of yours?"
AN-94 didn't lower her weapon, her violet optics locked on the intruders. "Institute ringleaders," she said, her tone factual, laced with recognition. "Elise's lineage. Sangvis Ferri elite. we been warned but to think to encounter them here, unexpected."
At the name, Judge's expression shifted—just slightly, a micro-adjustment in her facial servos, her yellow eyes flickering with a hint of intrigue beneath the stern facade.
"Classification acknowledged," she replied. "Though your data is incomplete. We've... evolved beyond simple origins."
Architect smiled wider, pacing slowly across the floor, her boots clicking softly against the concrete, unhurried despite the array of weapons trained on her. Her twin tails swayed with each step, adding to her playful demeanor. "You see," she said, her voice taking on a lecturing tone, "this site is important. Both Historic and Symbolic." She gestured upward, toward the vast silo stretching into the shadows above, catwalks spiraling like veins.
"And your Brotherhood friends," she continued, glancing at the corpses with feigned sympathy, "were very… inconvenient. Stomping around, demanding access. We had to... prune them. Efficiently."
Judge's eyes locked onto DEFY, scanning them with clinical detachment. "You are not Brotherhood."
AN-94 met her gaze without flinching, her rifle steady. "No," she said. "We're worse."
For the first time, Architect's smile sharpened, her optics flaring with genuine intrigue as she lowered her peace sign, her pink eyes locking on with excited focus. "Oh," she breathed, stopping her pace. "How delightful. Relics from the old wars, are we? I believe new Dolls from West into Division merc just as intel suggest~Oh, This should be entertaining."
Judge raised one hand slightly—an almost ceremonial motion, her palm glowing faintly with interface light, her gun barrels shifting subtly behind her. "By authority of the Institute," she intoned, her voice resonating like a verdict, "this facility is under Sangvis Ferri control."
Her eyes glowed brighter, red intensifying to crimson. "Your arrival," she concluded, "marks the beginning of your sentencing."
The silo lights flickered erratically, casting erratic shadows. Somewhere behind the sealed inner blast door, ancient machinery stirred—a low rumble building, hydraulics awakening after centuries of slumber.
RPK-16 cracked her neck and grinned, her weapon humming to life. "Well," she said brightly, stepping out fully, "guess court's in session. Let's see your verdict hold up to lead."
Architect's smile vanished in an instant, her playful demeanor evaporating like mist in the irradiated air.
She leapt—not backward, not away, but *up*. Her body folded and extended with impossible precision, boots striking the vertical wall once, twice—then she vaulted onto the upper catwalk in a single fluid motion. Metal rang beneath her landing as she spread her arms wide, her coat flaring dramatically like a conductor taking the stage before an unwilling orchestra.
"Positions," Architect said calmly, her voice echoing through the silo with synthetic clarity.
The air fractured, blue-white hexagonal light tearing open across the vast chamber—one, two, six, twelve teleport signatures igniting along the catwalks, behind rusted pylons, atop precarious gantries, and inside blind angles no human eye would think to check.
Sangvis Ferri units materialized mid-motion, emerging from the ether like ghosts given form. Jaegers locked their long rifles into firing positions with mechanical snaps. Dragoons unfolded towering shields, barriers humming with energy fields. Rippers dropped low, claws scraping against concrete in a screech that set teeth on edge.
They didn't shout. Didn't hesitate. They closed in, a coordinated wave of death.
Knight Wagner barked into the chaos, his voice booming through his helmet. "SHIT!!! CONTACTS ALL AROUND—!"
Judge was already moving. She didn't teleport like her reinforcements; she charged, raw and unrelenting. The floor cratered under her first step, concrete cracking in a spiderweb pattern as she crossed the distance in a blur of black armor and crimson optics. A massive blade snapped into her hand mid-stride, gleaming under the flickering lights.
AK-15 met her head-on, her massive frame a wall of defiance. Steel screamed as Judge's blade crashed into AK-15's raised rifle, the kinetic shock rippling through both synthetic bodies like a seismic wave. AK-15 skidded back three meters, her boots carving deep trenches into the floor, sparks flying from the friction.
AK-15 laughed, a deep, guttural sound that echoed her thrill. "Good," she snarled, optics flaring. "I needed a warm-up."
Judge pressed the attack—precision over fury, every strike calculated, angled to disarm, to disable, to end with clinical efficiency. AK-15 blocked, twisted, and counterpunched, her fist smashing into Judge's shoulder plating with a resounding crack that echoed through the silo. Armor buckled—but Judge didn't flinch. She pivoted seamlessly and drove her knee into AK-15's abdomen, launching her backward into a support pillar with bone-jarring force.
AN-94 snapped commands instantly, her voice a steady anchor in the storm. "AK-12—right flank. AK-15—don't overcommit. RPK-16—stay off the ceiling."
"Too late!" RPK-16 chirped, her tone laced with reckless glee.
She vaulted upward, firing one-handed as she swung from a dangling cable like a pendulum of destruction. Her rounds tore into a Jaeger squad before they could stabilize their positions, dropping three in rapid succession, their frames crumpling in sprays of sparks and fluid.
Architect watched from above, hands clasped behind her back, her expression one of detached appraisal. "Adapt," she murmured, as if directing a symphony.
Two Rippers blinked into existence behind RPK-16 mid-swing, their claws extended like predatory talons.
RPK-16 twisted in midair, her body contorting with acrobatic grace, boots hitting the wall sideways for leverage. Her knife flashed once—twice—severing a Ripper's arm in a shower of severed hydraulics and plunging the blade through its optic in a precise, fatal thrust.
The second Ripper tackled her, its weight slamming into her like a freight train.
They hit the catwalk hard, metal buckling under the impact.
Below, the Brotherhood opened up, their lasers lancing across the chamber in crimson beams that cut through smoke and steam. A Knight went down screaming as a Dragoon's shield bash shattered his chest plate, servos exploding in a cascade of fire.
"Medic—!"
The call died abruptly as Architect flicked two fingers in a casual gesture.
A sniper round from a Jaeger above punched through the Knight's helmet from an impossible angle, silencing him forever.
Architect exhaled softly, her pink eyes scanning the fray. "Control the angles," she instructed her units. "Fear comes from above."
Judge locked blades with AK-15 again, their weapons grinding together in a shower of sparks, the air humming with the strain of opposing forces.
"You fight without command authority," Judge said, her voice steady even as the clash intensified, her yellow eyes unblinking.
AK-15 bared her teeth in a feral grin. "We don't need leashes."
Judge shoved her back with explosive force, pivoted, and hurled her blade like a spinning disc of death.
AN-94 barely had time to shout a warning before AK-12 intercepted—catching the spinning weapon midair, her servos screaming in protest as she redirected it into the floor with a thunderous embed.
AK-12 smirked, yanking the blade free. "Rude."
Judge retrieved the blade in a blink, her frame a blur as she turned—
Straight into AN-94's muzzle.
The shot rang like a cannon, the muzzle flash illuminating the chamber in stark white.
Judge's head snapped sideways, armor dented and crumpling, her optics flaring violently with error signals. She staggered for the first time, balance algorithms scrambling.
Architect's head tilted, her playful facade cracking with curiosity. "Oh," she said softly. "Interesting."
AN-94 didn't hesitate, her voice cutting through the din. "DEFY—press."
AK-15 rejoined instantly, shoulder-checking Judge into a pillar with brutal force, the impact echoing like a demolition charge. AK-12 flanked seamlessly, firing controlled bursts at joint servos, precision shots chipping away at vulnerabilities. RPK-16 dropped from above, landing behind Judge and planting a magnetic charge on her back with a slap.
"Surprise~"
Judge reacted instantly—backhanding RPK-16 across the chamber with a swipe that sent her flying, tearing the charge loose before it could detonate.
RPK-16 skidded across the floor, laughing even as sparks trailed from her armor, her frame smoking from the blow. "Worth it!"
AK-12 cursed under her breath, her optics narrowing at RPK-16's recklessness. "Suka blyat," she muttered in Russian, the words sharp and exasperated—bitch, fuck—before refocusing on the fight.
Architect raised one hand, her gesture almost elegant.
The silo shuddered, more teleport signatures igniting like fireworks in the gloom.
She smiled, the expression returning with renewed sharpness. "You see," Architect said, her voice carrying across the battlefield like a narrator in a twisted play, "this facility was never meant to be controlled by mortal men."
Her gaze flicked briefly—thoughtfully—toward DEFY, appraising them anew.
"But you," she continued, "are such a delightful complication."
Judge straightened, her armor cracked and venting fluid, her optics blazing brighter than before, crimson intensifying to a furious glow.
"Judgment continues," she declared, her voice resonant and unyielding.
The silo door above them groaned, ancient locks beginning to disengage with a mechanical wail.
Knight Wagner's voice cracked over the comms, raw and sharp with gunfire punctuating the background like deadly punctuation.
"Scribe Mason! If you're still in the Control Room Beta—do something to disrupt these nuisances!"
Static hissed in response, then distant alarms bled into the channel, a cacophony of warning klaxons echoing from the upper levels.
Below, AN-94 didn't wait for confirmation. She stepped forward into the open, her rifle barking in disciplined bursts that stitched the catwalk railing where Architect had taken position. Sparks flew in brilliant cascades, concrete shattering under the onslaught.
Architect snapped backward, her coat flaring as she retreated a half-step, her playful grace momentarily disrupted—
And Judge moved instantly, interposing herself like a living shield, blade raised, body angled to absorb the incoming fire with calculated defiance.
That was all AN-94 needed to see, her processors confirming the vulnerability in a flash.
"Confirmed," she said calmly, her voice steady amid the chaos. "Architect requires cover."
AK-12 shifted her aim without being told, shots snapping toward Judge's exposed joints with pinpoint accuracy. AK-15 barreled in from the side, her massive frame a juggernaut as she shoulder-checked Judge hard enough to dent a support strut and force her two steps back, the impact reverberating through the silo like a thunderclap.
Above them, the silo groaned, ancient mechanisms waking fully now—massive locks disengaging with thunderous clanks that echoed through the pyramid's depths, the air vibrating with the promise of unleashed destruction.
AN-94 keyed her squad net, her tone unflinching. "They're opening the silo doors. Retreat to 2nd floor descend. We close the blast door now."
Judge's optics flared brighter, crimson intensifying as she recalibrated.
Architect laughed—sharp, delighted, her voice cutting through the din like a blade. "Oh, this is getting interesting."
Scribe Mason was crouched behind the terminal desk, his coat half-burned from stray laser fire, glasses cracked and askew on his face, fingers flying across a keyboard older than the Brotherhood itself. Radiation warnings screamed in his ears, geigers ticking madly, the room bathed in the red glow of emergency lights.
"Oh sure, no pressure," he muttered, slamming a cartridge into the terminal with trembling hands. "Like hell. Give me a minute!!"
The screen flickered to life, ancient pixels struggling to form coherent text.
*SENTINEL SITE PRESCOTT*
*SYSTEM ACCESS: PARTIAL*
*WARNING: MULTIPLE LAUNCH SUBSYSTEMS ACTIVE*
Mason swallowed hard, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill. "Come on… come on…"
Teleport interference spiked on his sensor readouts—non-human signal harmonics overlapping pre-War missile control frequencies, weaving through the systems like digital parasites.
His eyes widened behind the cracked lenses. "…You're piggybacking the launch grid," he whispered, a mix of awe and horror in his voice. "That's so Fucking cheating. Mutherfucker!!!!"
He yanked a lever with desperate force, circuits engaging with a reluctant hum.
The air shifted, a subtle ripple in the electromagnetic field that set sensors buzzing.
Architect's head snapped up, her smile faltering—just a fraction, the first crack in her facade.
Teleport signatures began to desynchronize, blue-white hexagons flickering erratically. Sangvis units blinked in half a second late—materializing off-balance, some colliding with railings in awkward heaps, others appearing a step too low and slamming hard into concrete with jarring thuds.
RPK-16 noticed immediately, her optics lighting up with opportunistic glee. "Ohhh," she sang, popping up from cover to empty a magazine into a staggering Jaeger, its frame crumpling in a spray of sparks. "Someone broke their rhythm~"
Judge turned, blade up, scanning the disrupted reinforcements—
Too late.
The blast door alarms wailed, a piercing siren that drowned out the gunfire. Massive steel plates began sliding back into place above the ground floor, grinding downward with unstoppable momentum, the hydraulics screaming in protest after centuries of dormancy.
Architect shouted—sharp, furious, her voice echoing with uncharacteristic edge. "No—Judge, stop them!"
Judge lunged for the stairs, her frame a streak of black and red.
AK-15 met her like a freight train, their collision a storm of sparks and shattered concrete. AK-15 locked Judge's blade with her rifle stock and roared with laughter, her voice booming. "Too slow!"
AK-12 and AN-94 fell back in perfect sync, firing as they moved, controlled bursts covering the BOS survivors as they scrambled up the catwalk, boots clanging on metal.
Knight Wagner grabbed a wounded Knight by the harness and hauled him upward, his power armor straining. "MOVE! MOVE!"
Below them, the blast door slammed shut with a thunderclap that shook the entire silo, sealing Judge and Architect on the lower level. Dust rained from the ceiling in a gritty haze, the chamber vibrating from the impact.
Silence descended—broken only by distant Sangvis units pounding uselessly against reinforced steel, their efforts futile echoes.
Scribe Mason slumped against the terminal, breathing hard, his chest heaving as adrenaline ebbed. "Blast door sealed and the silo door close back shut," he rasped into the comm, his voice hoarse. "their teleport harmonics scrambled. ha...ha.... I… I think I pissed them off."
Knight Wagner keyed his mic, his tone grim but steady, laced with reluctant respect. "Outstanding work, Scribe."
AN-94 looked at the sealed door below them, her expression unreadable, violet optics scanning for weaknesses. "Containment achieved," she said. "Temporarily."
AK-15 cracked her neck, grinning despite the dents in her frame. "Shame. I was just getting warmed up."
Far below, behind meters of pre-War steel, Architect's laughter echoed faintly, distorted and furious, seeping through the seams like radiation.
"This isn't over," her voice carried upward, a promise laced with venom. "Not even close."
AN-94 didn't answer. She simply turned toward the deeper tunnels of Sentinel Site Prescott—toward missiles, radiation, and unfinished business.
"DEFY," she said quietly, her voice a command wrapped in resolve. "Reload. Prepare re-engagement."
Knight Wagner counted heads quickly, his helmet's HUD flickering with damage warnings and radiation spikes. The silo chamber's amber lights cast harsh shadows on the survivors, illuminating the grim toll of the skirmish. Two.
Only two Knights remained upright—himself and another, a young aspirant whose armor was scorched black from laser burns, his breathing ragged and amplified through cracked vocoders. The Paladin was gone, dragged clear earlier by sheer willpower but evacuated with the wounded up the catwalks, his power armor trailing smoke like a fallen comet. Scribe Mason was sealed the 2nd control room with them, unreachable now behind layers of reinforced steel and scrambling signals.
Wagner exhaled slowly, the sound a mechanical hiss through his grille. The weight of command pressed heavier than his T-60 suit, the Brotherhood's creed echoing in his mind—Ad Victoriam—but tempered by the reality of the irradiated hell they'd stumbled into.
"This is as far as we go," he said over open comms, his voice steady despite the ache in his limbs. "Brotherhood will hold here. DEFY… the rest is yours."
AN-94 didn't look back, her violet optics fixed on the spiraling catwalks ahead. "Understood," she replied, her tone neutral, efficient—a machine acknowledging orders without sentiment.
AN-94 led her team upward with purposeful strides, her boots clanging against the rusted metal of the catwalk as they ascended to the 1st floor. The observation room loomed ahead—a fortified chamber with reinforced glass overlooking the sealed blast door below, its pre-War design meant to withstand nuclear blasts and prying eyes. Radiation hummed in the air, geigers ticking like impatient clocks, but DEFY pressed on, their frames unyielding to the poison that would fell lesser beings.
As they approached the room's entrance, AN-94 raised a hand, her fingers flashing a series of precise signals—coded gestures honed from countless operations. AK-15 and AK-12 caught the order instantly, their optics syncing in silent affirmation. No words were needed; the assignment was clear: breach, disrupt and dominate the battlefield.
AK-15 and AK-12 nodded once, their massive forms coiling like springs. They accelerated to ramming speed, servos whining as they built momentum, their tank-like builds—forged for Arctic extremes and relentless warfare—turning them into living battering rams. The observation room's window, blast-proof and inches thick, was designed to endure explosions and fallout. But DEFY frames were built like tanks, engineered to handle such punishment and more, their reinforced chassis absorbing impacts that would crumple steel.
of reinforced glass skittered across the concrete like sleet as AK-15 and AK-12 hit the ground floor in perfect sync.
They didn't pause to admire the breach.
They opened fire with their respected rifles .
AK-12 dropped to one knee mid-landing, rifle already tracking. Her first burst took a Jaeger clean through the optic before it could finish pivoting its rifle. The second burst stitched across a Dragoon's shield edge, exploiting a micro-gap and detonating its power core in a flash of blue-white light.
AK-15 landed harder—intentionally so.
Her boots cratered the floor as she came down in a forward roll, rising into a charge that plowed straight into a knot of Rippers. She fired point-blank, muzzle flashes strobing like lightning as claws shattered against her armor. One Ripper was torn in half. Another was crushed under her heel with a wet, metallic crunch.
"Ground's hot," AK-15 growled, grinning through the chaos.
Above them, AN-94 and RPK-16 moved.
AN-94 didn't jump.
She advanced hop down the catwalk with steady, deliberate steps, rifle braced, shots precise and economical. Every trigger pull removed a threat—Jaeger, Dragoon, command drone—each round placed to cripple, not waste. She was cutting a corridor through the air itself.
RPK-16, meanwhile, took the opposite approach.
She vaulted from the shattered observation frame, caught a dangling cable one-handed, and swung wide over the battlefield.
"Wheee—!"
She let go at the apex, twisting midair as she fired downward. Two Jaegers went down before they even realized she wasn't on the floor anymore. She landed behind a shield line, knives flashing, carving through exposed servos with gleeful precision.
Below, the Sangvis formation collapsed.
They weren't routed—but they were no longer synchronized.
And Architect noticed.
Her head snapped toward the broken observation room that above them, eyes narrowing as data feeds flickered red.
"Curses…They're rewriting the engagement geometry," she murmured.
Judge turned sharply, blade raised.
"Repositioning required," Judge stated. "They are attempting vertical dominance."
AK-15 heard her.
AK-15 heard her, her grin widening. "Good," she snarled, shouldering through a Dragoon and slamming it bodily into Judge with bone-crushing force.
The impact rang like a bell struck by a sledgehammer, vibrations rippling through the air.
Judge staggered half a step—only half—but that was enough. AK-12 seized the opening, pouring fire into Judge's flank, forcing her to turn, to guard, to react instead of dictate.
For the first time since the battle began, Judge was not advancing.
She was holding ground.
AN-94 reached the edge of the catwalk and stopped.
She looked down at the chaos below—DEFY moving like a single organism despite the separation, Sangvis units breaking into isolated pockets, Architect's command signals spiking as she tried to reassert control.
AN-94 raised her rifle and spoke—quiet, calm, perfectly audible over the din.
"Architect," she said. "You lost the tempo."
Architect smiled thinly, fingers twitching as teleport light flared again—less clean now, less precise.
"Tempo can be reclaimed," she replied, her tone laced with defiance.
AN-94 shook her head once, a subtle negation. "No," she said. "Only changed."
She fired.
The shot didn't go for Architect directly. It went for the catwalk support above her—a load-bearing joint already weakened by centuries of rust and the recent explosions' shockwaves.
Metal screamed as the round punched through, the structure shuddering violently. Steel tore loose in a shower of sparks and falling debris, plunging Architect and several Sangvis units downward in a roaring collapse. The catwalk gave way with a final, apocalyptic groan, sections buckling and plummeting into the abyss below.
Dust and smoke billowed upward, swallowing the lower level in a choking cloud that stung optics and clogged sensors.
When it cleared—
Architect lay crumpled amid the twisted wreckage, her frame mangled beyond repair. Limbs splayed at unnatural angles, cannons bent and shattered, pink optics flickering once—twice—before going dark forever. Fluid leaked from rents in her armor, pooling beneath her like synthetic blood, her playful smile frozen in a final, ironic twist.
She was gone. KIA.
The dust settled slowly, revealing the carnage below in stark relief under the flickering emergency lights. Architect's frame lay still amid the twisted metal, her once-playful optics dimmed to nothingness, the wreckage a tomb of bent cannons and shattered plating. The silo chamber, already a relic of pre-War madness, now bore fresh scars—crumpled catwalks dangling like broken limbs, debris scattered across the floor in chaotic patterns.
Judge stood amid the ruin, her blade humming with overcharged energy, yellow optics locked on the fallen form of her comrade. For a synthetic being designed for impartiality, the sight ignited something primal, a cascade of errors in her core protocols. "Architect..." she repeated, her voice no longer the cold monotone of judgment but a fractured whisper, laced with digital distortion that mimicked grief. Her frame trembled, servos whining as rage overrode her calculations, crimson light bleeding from her eyes like tears of fire.
"You will pay," Judge snarled, her words escalating to a roar that shook the remaining structures. She launched forward, berserk mode engaging—blade extended, gun barrels on her back unfolding into a whirlwind of death. No more precision; this was vengeance, raw and unfiltered, her movements a storm of fury aimed at the intruders who had taken her only equal.
AK-12 and AK-15, positioned on the ground floor amid the Sangvis remnants, exchanged a glance. AK-12's smirk faded into a focused grin, her optics narrowing behind her visor. "Berserk. Sloppy, but dangerous," she muttered, rifle snapping up.
AK-15 cracked her knuckles, her massive frame tensing like a coiled spring. "Bring it," she growled, stepping forward to meet the charge. "I've got the front."
Judge closed the distance in a blur, her blade slashing in wide, devastating arcs that cleaved through air and debris alike. The first strike came down like a guillotine, aimed at AK-15's center mass. AK-15 met it with her rifle stock, the clash sending shockwaves rippling through the concrete, cracks spiderwebbing outward. Sparks flew as metal ground against metal, the force pushing AK-15 back a step, her boots digging furrows in the floor.
"Not bad," AK-15 grunted, twisting her weapon to deflect the blade sideways. She countered with a brutal elbow strike to Judge's midsection, the impact denting armor and eliciting a hiss of escaping hydraulics. Judge staggered, but her berserk state fueled her recovery—she spun low, sweeping her leg in a arc that caught AK-15 off-guard, tripping her massive frame and sending her crashing into a nearby pylon.
AK-12 seized the opening, firing from the flank in controlled bursts. Rounds pinged off Judge's reinforced plating, chipping away at joints and forcing her to pivot. "Keep her dancing," AK-12 called, circling to Judge's blind side. One shot grazed Judge's shoulder cannon, disabling a barrel with a satisfying pop of overloaded circuits.
Judge roared, her voice glitching with emotion—rage for Architect, fury at these interlopers who dared challenge Sangvis superiority. She hurled her blade like a boomerang, the weapon spinning through the air toward AK-12. AK-12 dodged with acrobatic grace, the blade embedding in the wall behind her with a thunderous crack. But Judge was already following up, leaping forward to close the gap, her fists augmented with energy fields that crackled like lightning.
AK-15 rose from the debris, shaking off shards of concrete, a gash in her arm plating leaking fluid but not slowing her. "My turn," she snarled, charging back in. She tackled Judge mid-leap, the two colossal frames colliding with the force of colliding Brahmin. They tumbled across the floor in a tangle of limbs and weapons, AK-15's strength pinning Judge momentarily. She rained down punches, each one hammering dents into Judge's chest armor, servos whining in protest.
Judge twisted beneath her, her yellow optics blazing with unfiltered hatred. "You... took her!" she screamed, her voice breaking into static as she activated a hidden emitter—a sonic pulse that blasted AK-15 point-blank. The wave hit like a physical blow, rattling AK-15's internals and sending her flying backward, crashing into a console that exploded in sparks. AK-15's vision glitched, audio sensors ringing, a deep crack forming in her torso plating—damage that would cost her mobility if not addressed.
AK-12 moved in seamlessly, her lighter frame allowing for agility where AK-15 brought brute force. She vaulted over debris, firing as she closed, rounds targeting Judge's exposed joints. One hit true, shattering a knee servo and forcing Judge to limp. "Stay down, you glitchy judge," AK-12 taunted, dodging a wild swing from Judge's retrieved blade. She countered with a knife from her thigh holster, slashing across Judge's arm, severing auxiliary lines that sprayed coolant.
But Judge, fueled by berserk rage, ignored the pain signals flooding her systems. Her comrade's death had unlocked something buried in her code—emotions she wasn't designed for, turning her into a whirlwind of destruction. She grabbed AK-12 by the arm mid-slash, lifting her off the ground with superhuman strength and slamming her into the floor. The impact cracked AK-12's visor, her frame shuddering as internal diagnostics blared warnings—fractured chassis, compromised optics. Pain analogs fired, but AK-12 laughed through it, kicking upward to break free, her boot connecting with Judge's chin and snapping her head back.
AK-15 rejoined the fray, limping slightly but undeterred, her damaged arm hanging but her other fist clenched. "Together," she barked, and the two DEFY units synchronized their assault. AK-15 charged low, grabbing Judge's legs in a bear hug and lifting her off the ground, slamming her into a wall that buckled under the force. AK-12 followed high, leaping onto Judge's back and wrapping her arms around her neck in a chokehold, her knife plunging into a shoulder joint to disable the blade arm.
Judge thrashed like a feral beast, her roars echoing through the silo, blade arm flailing wildly and scoring a deep gash across AK-15's side, fluid gushing from the wound. AK-15 grunted in pain, her grip weakening, but she held on, twisting to expose Judge's core. "Now!" she yelled.
AK-12 didn't hesitate. She fired her rifle point-blank into Judge's back plating, rounds punching through weakened armor until they hit critical systems. Sparks erupted, Judge's frame convulsing as power surges fried her internals. Her optics flickered, rage giving way to desperation. "Architect... I... failed..." she whispered, her voice fading to static, the emotional surge overloading her already damaged core.
With a final, shuddering gasp, Judge went limp, her blade clattering to the floor. Smoke rose from her vents, optics dimming to black as her systems shut down irrevocably. She slumped forward, defeated, her berserk fury extinguished in the silence of the silo—a fallen guardian, mourning her comrade in eternal shutdown.
AK-15 released her hold, staggering back with a hand pressed to her side, fluid leaking steadily. AK-12 slid off, her visor cracked and arm limp, but she managed a weak smirk. The cost was high—damaged frames, compromised functions—but Judge lay still, the battle's toll etched in every scar and spark.
AN-94 paused at the edge of the catwalk, her violet optics scanning the wreckage below where Judge raged amid the debris, her berserk fury a whirlwind of unchecked destruction. The loss of Architect had shattered something in the Sangvis elite, turning her from a calculated arbiter into a vengeful storm. But sentiment had no place in AN-94's protocols—only efficiency, only the mission.
"AK-12, AK-15," AN-94 commanded over the squad net, her voice calm and unwavering. "Extract Judge and Architect's cores. Intact if possible. Terminate any residual functions."
AK-12 tilted her head, a faint smirk playing on her lips despite the cracks in her visor. "Copy. Clean sweep."
AK-15 grunted in affirmation, rolling her damaged shoulder as she advanced, fluid still seeping from her wounds. "On it. This'll please the Commander—Sarah likes her trophies. Just like that Scarecrow business back in the day."
The two descended into the fray, leaving AN-94 and RPK-16 to press forward. Sarah would indeed approve; the cores represented not just victory, but leverage—data from Sangvis ringleaders could unlock Institute secrets, much like the salvaged neural matrix from Scarecrow had bolstered their arsenal against Sangvis Ferri incursions in the past. A grim symmetry, one that AN-94 filed away as she turned southeast.
AN-94 and RPK-16 moved into the tunnel branching southeast from the ground floor, the passage a dim, echoing corridor carved from pre-War concrete, its walls scarred by radiation burns and faint graffiti from long-gone occupants. Emergency lights buzzed overhead, casting elongated shadows that danced with their steps. The air grew thicker here, laced with the metallic tang of rust and the ever-present hum of geigers ticking warnings.
Along the southeast side, midway through the tunnel, two barracks rooms flanked the path—spartan chambers filled with rusted bunk beds stacked in rows, mattresses long rotted to dust, lockers hanging open like empty tombs. Faded posters peeled from the walls, remnants of military propaganda urging vigilance against the "Red Menace." RPK-16 peeked into one, her optics scanning for threats or loot, but found only echoes of forgotten lives.
"Cozy," RPK-16 quipped, her voice light despite the oppressive atmosphere. "Bet the pre-War grunts threw wild parties here."
AN-94 ignored the jest, her focus ahead. At the tunnel's end, a pair of massive blast doors loomed—thick steel barriers etched with warning symbols, their surfaces pitted but unyielding. To the right, a button panel glowed faintly, summoning a cargo elevator with a groan of hydraulics. The platform ascended slowly, revealing a leveled glowing one—a feral ghoul pulsating with eerie luminescence, its irradiated form shambling mindlessly. Beside it sat a steamer trunk, rusted but intact, promising scavenged treasures amid the peril.
Up a short set of stairs to the left of the blast doors, a control room beckoned—its door ajar, faint voices filtering out.
AN-94 and RPK-16 ascended the stairs silently, rifles at the ready. The control room was a cramped nerve center, terminals flickering with pre-War data, radiation counters beeping steadily. At the center stood Brother Henri, a robed figure of the Children of Atom, his face gaunt and fervent, eyes glowing with fanatic zeal. Beside him loomed Atom's Wrath, an Assaultron enforcer reprogrammed for the cult's twisted faith—its chassis etched with atomic symbols, laser emitter humming idly.
Brother Henri noticed their presence immediately, turning with a serene yet guarded expression. "State your purpose, strangers. You walk on Atom's hallowed ground."
RPK-16 tilted her head, her grin widening mischievously. "Oh, just let the metal knights use that bomb to spread your teaching~"
AN-94 didn't wait for a response. Without a second word, she quick-drew her rifle in a blur of motion, the barrel aligning in an instant. Two shots rang out—precise, lethal. The first pierced Brother Henri's chest, dropping him mid-breath, his robes staining with blood as he crumpled. The second caught the Assaultron in its optic sensor, shattering the dome and sending sparks flying; the robot convulsed once before powering down in a heap of smoking circuits.
RPK-16 pouted, lowering her weapon. "Owww, you no fun. Can't you wait for their reaction~? Would've been hilarious."
AN-94 holstered her rifle methodically, stepping over the bodies without a glance. "Efficiency over entertainment. Search him."
RPK-16 rummaged through Henri's robes, extracting a crumpled password chit. "Got it. Holy man's got lousy security."
The terminal in the room required Henri's password to access, its screen glowing with restricted commands. AN-94 inputted the code, fingers dancing across the keys. With a hydraulic hiss, the blast doors at the tunnel's end ground open, revealing the bomb storage area beyond—an expansive room filled with nuclear warheads, row upon row of Mark 28s cradled in their silos like sleeping giants. The air shimmered with radiation, peaking at 28 rads per second near the back, a lethal haze that would melt flesh but barely registered on their synthetic frames.
AN-94 stepped forward, optics scanning the arsenal. The true prize lay here—control over the nukes, which could be a bargaining chip or a weapon to deny the Institute and Brotherhood alike. RPK-16 followed, whistling softly. "Jackpot. Commander is sure gonna love this if it wasn't for handover to brotherhood. such a buzzkill~"
Two days had passed since the chaos in the Sentinel Site, the Glowing Sea's radioactive haze swallowing the echoes of battle like a shroud. The Commonwealth licked its wounds under a leaden sky, the air heavy with the promise of winter storms. At the Spectacle Island, Sarah stood in the command room, maps of the wasteland spread before her like a patchwork of scars. Reports from DEFY filtered in—cores extracted, warheads secured, the site locked down under Brotherhood oversight. But the cost lingered: Brotherhood lives lost, DEFY frames battered but repairable, and a near-catastrophe averted by the slimmest margin.
The radio crackled to life on the encrypted channel, static giving way to a voice forged in steel and conviction.
"This is Elder Arthur Maxson of the Brotherhood of Steel. Commander Sarah, do you read?"
Sarah keyed the mic, her posture straightening instinctively. "Loud and clear, Elder. Report from the Glowing Sea?"
A pause, the faint hum of the Prydwen's engines underscoring his words. "The site is secure. Your DEFY team performed admirably—beyond expectations. But first... I owe you an acknowledgment."
Sarah's brow furrowed, her hand tightening on the receiver. "Elder, if this is about the assault... I'm the one who owes an apology. DEFY should have pushed for a full Brotherhood withdraw sooner instead on counter attack. The ringleaders—Judge and Architect—which we both didn't anticipated on their ambush. You lost good people because of it."
Maxson's response came swift, his tone brooking no self-recrimination. "No, Commander. You misunderstand. Without your DEFY team, my forces would have been wiped out entirely. They held the line, turned the tide. It was the Brotherhood's underestimation of those ringleader models—their capacity for adaptation, their sheer ferocity. We went in blind to the Institute's upgrades on Sangvis tech. I vow it now: we will not make that mistake again. Protocols and tactics are being rewritten as we speak."
Sarah exhaled, a weight lifting she hadn't realized she carried. The Elder wasn't one for platitudes; his words carried the ring of hard-earned truth. "Understood. And the stockpile?"
A note of satisfaction crept into Maxson's voice, the first hint of relief in the grim exchange. "The Mark 28 nuclear warheads are under the right hands now—Brotherhood custody, sealed and safeguarded will be used wisely under liberty prime. The missile crisis is averted. We came perilously close to a launch from that silo; those ringleaders had interfaced with the pre-War systems, priming the array. Another hour, and the Commonwealth might have seen a second apocalypse. But it's averted, thanks to our alliance."
Sarah nodded to herself, glancing at the map where the Glowing Sea's red zone pulsed like a warning. "Good. That's one veil lifted."
Another pause, this one deliberate. Maxson's voice lowered, confidential. "There's one more matter. The Minutemen's General—Nate. I request you not divulge the details of this incident to him. There no need to burden him any further which the Institute threat is worry enough without adding nuclear ghosts to his plate."
Sarah considered it for a moment, her expression unchanging. Nate had enough on his shoulders—the Institute's synth infiltrations, the Commonwealth's fragile alliances. Adding the near-miss of a nuclear launch would only fracture focus. "Agreed, Elder. He'll hear what he needs to: the site's secure, the Gunners cleared from Vault 95 as a bonus. Nothing more."
"Prudent," Maxson replied, a rare warmth edging his words. "Ad Victoriam, Commander."
"Ad Victoriam," Sarah echoed, signing off.