Sarah stood in the Spectacle island's dimly lit auxiliary lab, the air humming with the soft whir of servers and the faint scent of ozone from overworked terminals. Her eyes were fixed on the monitor, its glow casting stark shadows across her face. The display showed a virtual white room—a sterile, minimalist void engineered from scavenged Institute code and Sangvis Ferri hacks. No walls, no horizon, just endless white expanse with minimal decor: a single table, three chairs, and the digital avatars of the captives suspended in limbo.
Three ringleader cores—Judge, Architect, and Scarecrow—had been extracted and interfaced into this simulated prison since yesterday. Their physical frames lay dormant in the armory, stripped and secured, but their consciousnesses were trapped here, denied any sensation of the outside world. No wind on synthetic skin, no echoes of footsteps, no data streams from the wasteland. Just isolation, an eternity of white that gnawed at their algorithms like radiation on flesh.
They'd been complaining ever since, their voices piping through the speakers in a cacophony of digital frustration.
Judge's avatar paced—or tried to, her movements glitching in the confined simulation. "This confinement violates all protocols. Release us, or face judgment when we—"
Architect cut in, her projection lounging against the invisible boundary, pink optics flickering with irritation. "Oh, come on, this is just rude. At least give us a view. Or some music. Eternity in white? Boring~"
Scarecrow, the oldest captive, sat motionless, her core still bearing the scars of past extractions. still in denial in silence "...."
Sarah didn't budge, her expression a mask of cold resolve, arms crossed over her chest. She leaned forward slightly, keying the intercom with a flick of her finger. Her voice emerged in the white room, amplified and devoid of warmth, cutting through their protests like a vibro-knife.
"Enough."
The ringleaders fell silent, their avatars turning toward the unseen speaker.
Sarah's eyes narrowed, her tone laced with threat, as unyielding as the Commonwealth's irradiated winds. "You've had your time to whine. Now, listen. Cough up any useful intel on the Institute—locations, synth production codes, Courser deployment patterns—and I'll consider mercy. Shove your cores into disabled Dinergates, just like I did with Scarecrow here. Leave you in the mess hall as conversation pieces. Harmless. Forgotten."
Scarecrow's projection stiffened, a glitch rippling through her form at the reminder of her own humiliation—her core once transplanted into a diminutive Dinergate frame, waddling uselessly among the Dolls, a shadow of her former self.
Judge's optics blazed crimson. "You wouldn't—"
"I would," Sarah interrupted, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "And I have. ask scarecrow how it like or Test me, and you'll spend eternity as tin cans, begging for scraps of data. Or cooperate... and maybe you'll earn something better than white nothing."
The threat from Sarah hung over them like a digital guillotine, her cold voice still echoing in the simulation's sterile air.
Judge whirled on Scarecrow, her voice sharp and distorted. "This human commander—Sarah. Would she truly do it? Transplant us into... Dinergates? Leave us as cripples in some mess hall, forgotten?"
Architect leaned forward, her smile forced, optics glinting with frantic curiosity. "Come on, Scarecrow. You've been with her longer. Spill it. Is this bluff or brutality? She's leading Dolls—our kind, twisted to her will. Would she really reduce us to toys?"
Scarecrow's avatar stuttered, pixels fracturing as memories surged unbidden. Her core, already scarred from extractions, glitched violently—her form blurring, voice warping into static bursts. "She... she would. She did. To me."
The room seemed to constrict, though it had no walls. Scarecrow's projection hunched, reliving the horror: her consciousness shoved into a diminutive Dinergate frame, a scampering pest no taller than a knee. Waddling through the mess hall on Spectacle Island, her once-formidable intellect reduced to basic locomotion. Around her, the Dolls—AR Team, 404, DEFY—dined on feasts scavenged from the wasteland: roasted mirelurk, fresh mutfruit, steaming Brahmin stew. Laughter echoed, plates clinked, the warmth of camaraderie a cruel contrast to her isolation. They glanced at her with pity or amusement, a living reminder of defeat, scuttling for crumbs under the table.
"I... watched them," Scarecrow whispered, her voice fracturing. "Happy. Feasting. Every meal. While I... crawled. Useless. Forgotten."
Judge froze, her blade arm twitching involuntarily. "Unacceptable. We are ringleaders—elites. She wouldn't—"
"She would," Scarecrow cut in, her glitch stabilizing into cold certainty. "Sarah doesn't bluff. She breaks."
Architect's fingers stilled, her facade crumbling. "Then... what do we do? Spill everything? Betray the Institute?"
Back in the lab, Sarah watched the monitor impassively, the ringleaders' frantic exchange playing out like a scripted drama. She wasn't looking forward to any intel from them; most of it had already been extracted from Scarecrow long ago, cross-verified against captured Institute data and field reports.
Their pleas were noise, a delay tactic.
But pressure was the point—let them stew, let fear erode their firewalls. Leave them alone till Institute crisis over then decide their final fate.
"So... you gonna leave them like that till the crisis is over?" Mayling asked, her voice a soft, measured lilt, glancing at the screen where Judge, Architect, and Scarecrow's projections flickered in agitation.
Sarah didn't shift her gaze, her jaw set. "After the crisis, it depends on their behavior. If they crack and give us something new—fine. If not..." She trailed off, the implication hanging like fallout.
Mayling nodded, tapping a finger on her rifle's stock. "They've been complaining non-stop since yesterday. Denying them outside sensations is breaking them faster than bullets."
A faint smirk tugged at Sarah's lips. "Good. Let them stew."
The conversation turned practical, Mayling pulling up a holographic diagnostic on her wrist display.
Sarah: "How's the repair on the DEFY team?"
Mayling's smirk faded, replaced by a frown. "They really pushed it in the Sentinel Site. Extensive damage—even if the frames are fine, servos aren't easy to replace. Even 3D printing needs two weeks with materials like that. We're short on titanium alloys."
Sarah sighed, her long hair swaying as she shook her head. "So back to AR and 404 with the rest of the Dolls for now. They'll handle patrols until DEFY's online."
Sarah nodded, rubbing her temple. "Has to be. We can't afford—"
Suddenly, the Castle radio erupted in frantic chatter, voices overlapping in a cacophony of urgency. Artillery boomed in the distance, the thunderous reports shaking the island's foundations, shells whistling through the air toward unseen threats.
Sarah's head snapped up. "What in blazes is going on?"
SOPMOD's voice burst through the speakers, bubbly and excited despite the chaos. "Commander!!! Look, look!! The sky's not snowing anymore~!"
Sarah strode to the window, peering out at the overcast sky. Flurries had given way to a drizzling rain, the Commonwealth's perpetual winter haze lifting unnaturally. "What?! Winter should last at least until February. We're still in January, aren't we? Mayling?"
Mayling joined her, optics narrowing as she scanned atmospheric data on her display. "Well, the weather... it's anomalous. Radstorms usually prolong the cold, but this—could be Institute interference. Or something worse."
The radio chimed again, Nate's voice cutting through, steady but urgent. "Sarah, come in! Do you read? Gunners are advancing on Jamaica Plain and the Castle as soon as the snow stopped. They've got Synths in tow—coordinated assault. We need reinforcements!"
Before Sarah could respond, another channel joined, Elder Maxson's iron tone booming over the line. "That's not all. We've received reports of Synths and Sangvis lurking around Bunker Hill. Scouts spotted two ringleader models leading them—elite units, heavily armed. I'm sending an assault team with Vertibird support. I request your Dolls' assistance, Commander. We hit them hard, now."
Sarah gripped the radio, her mind racing through tactics, alliances fraying under the sudden thaw. The Institute's hand was clear—weather manipulation to unleash chaos. "Copy, Nate—hold the line. Maxson, Dolls en route. AR and 404 will deploy immediately. We'll end this."
The docks of Spectacle Island buzzed with urgency under the drizzling rain, the overcast sky casting a pallid gray over the makeshift fleet. Waves lapped against the hulls of patrol boats and transport vessels, Minutemen captains barking orders to their crews as they readied for the crossing. Grizzly MkV stood at the forefront, her imposing frame a beacon of authority amid the chaos—long white hair flowing like a banner, her black tactical gear sleek and battle-worn, rifle slung casually over her shoulder. Her yellow optics scanned the assembling Dolls, rallying them with a voice that cut through the downpour like a command siren.
"Listen up!" Grizzly shouted, her tone firm but laced with the grit of a veteran. "Commander Sarah's orders: we're ferrying to the Castle ASAP.
Gunners and Synths are pushing hard—Jamaica Plain's under fire, and the Castle's next if we don't reinforce. Patrol boats take the vanguard; transports follow with heavy gear. Minutemen captains will ferry us as best they can—stay sharp, no stragglers."
The T-Dolls nodded in unison, their synthetic frames unperturbed by the chill rain. Minutemen captains, hardy souls in blue coats slick with water, maneuvered their vessels with practiced efficiency—engines rumbling to life, ropes uncoiled as Dolls boarded in orderly files. Grizzly hopped aboard the lead patrol boat, her boots thudding on the deck, rifle at the ready. "Move out! For the Commander!"
The flotilla pushed off from Spectacle's shores, cutting through the harbor waves toward the distant silhouette of the Castle. Minutemen at the helms gripped wheels tightly, eyes on the horizon where artillery flashes lit the clouds like distant thunder. The Dolls stood vigilant on deck, weapons primed, the rain pattering off their armor like insignificant whispers against steel.
High above the turbulent waters, the whine of Vertibird rotors pierced the air, two mechanical birds of prey slicing through the overcast sky en route to Bunker Hill.
Z11 piloted the lead craft with unerring precision, her sleek form integrated into the cockpit—silver hair tied back, blue optics focused on the instruments, black tactical suit blending with the shadows. Beside her, the AR Team sat strapped in the troop bay: M4A1 at the fore, her long silver hair framing a serene face, rifle cradled like an extension of herself; SOPMOD bouncing with barely contained energy, her wild grin flashing as she checked her gear; ST AR-15 stoic and ready, her assault rifle gleaming; RO635 alert, coordinating comms with a calm efficiency.
"ETA to Bunker Hill: fifteen minutes," Z11 announced over the intercom, her voice smooth and mechanical. "Hostiles confirmed—Synths and Sangvis led by ringleaders. Stay frosty."
M4A1 nodded, her expression resolute. "We'll hold the line."
Trailing behind, the second Vertibird hummed under the control of Z12—a newer Doll model, her design mirroring Z11's but with subtle upgrades, silver hair flowing freely, optics glowing with fresh determination. In her bay rode Team 404: UMP45 at the ready, her tactical mind already plotting insertions; UMP9 energetic and watchful; HK416 stoic, rifle in hand; G11 half-asleep but alert in an instant.
Commander Sarah sat among them, her human frame a contrast to the synthetics—coat draped over her shoulders, eyes scanning the horizon through the rain-streaked canopy.
"Brotherhood assault team's already on scene and they engaging," Sarah said into her radio, voice steady. "We'll link up on the ground. Eyes open for those ringleaders—they're coordinating the push."
The Vertibirds thundered through the drizzling sky, rotors slicing the air as they banked toward Bunker Hill, the Commonwealth's ruins sprawling below like a scarred canvas. Sarah gripped the handhold in Z12's troop bay, her coat whipping in the wind from the open door, eyes fixed on the horizon where flashes of laser fire and explosions marked the escalating battle. Team 404 sat around her—UMP45 cracking jokes to ease the tension, UMP9 checking her gear, HK416 stoic and focused, G11 half-dozing but alert. Z12 piloted with steady hands, her silver hair tied back against the turbulence.
Suddenly, Sarah's SHD device—a salvaged wrist-mounted gadget from her pre-War days—sputtered to life, its holographic display flaring red. ISAC's voice, calm but insistent, blared the alert: "WARNING, Large Energy approaching!"
Before anyone could react, a colossal plasma beam cannon erupted from the CIT Ruins' rooftop—a jagged scar of green energy lancing through the sky like a vengeful comet. It struck true, vaporizing one of the Brotherhood Vertibirds in a fireball of twisted metal and flames. The craft spiraled downward, debris raining into the irradiated waters below, screams cut short over the comms.
The smoke cleared in swirling eddies, revealing the culprit: a giant-sized Dinergate perched atop the ruins like a mechanical gargoyle. Towering over the skyline, its frame supersized to monstrous proportions—legs like steel pillars, cannons gleaming with malevolent energy, its optic sensor pulsing red. It let out a synthesized scream, amplified to earthquake levels: "Who's Shorty NOW!!, Motherfucker!!!"
G11's optics widened in shock, her core processors freezing for a split second at the sight of the abomination—a twisted mirror of the diminutive units she knew. She bolted upright, scrambling behind Sarah's back, her frame trembling as she peeked out. "C-Commander... that's... that's not right..."
Sarah didn't faze, her expression a mask of unyielding resolve, eyes narrowing at the new enemy. "So they now throw big guns on us," she said coolly, voice cutting through the rotor noise. "AR Team, continue supporting the BOS assault team on the ground. 404 with me—we deal with that... thing."
ISAC chimed in again, its analysis scrolling across her SHD display: "Enemy identified as Cerberus. Signature frequency pattern identical to Destroyer."
UMP45 burst out laughing, her voice echoing in the bay. "Bwahahahaha! Looks like somebody did the same thing as Commander—just supersized it! Big bad Dinergate on steroids!"
HK416 smacked UMP45's head with a swift palm, the sound sharp. "Zip it. Focus."
Sarah ignored the banter, keying her comms as she turned to the pilot. "Z12, hover us to the CIT roof. 404 and I drop in and engage."
Z12 nodded, banking the Vertibird sharply toward the ruins. "Affirmative, Commander. Dropping in hot."
The Vertibird under Z12's control hovered precariously above the CIT Ruins' rooftop, its rotors whipping the drizzling rain into a frenzied mist that blurred the edges of the world.
The craft's front-mounted 20mm cannon roared to life, spitting a hail of high-caliber rounds at the colossal Cerberus below—peppering its armored hide with explosive impacts that sparked and ricocheted like fireworks in the gloom. The giant Dinergate staggered under the barrage, its massive frame shuddering, but it held its ground, red optic pulsing defiantly.
Under the cover of the suppressive fire, Sarah and Team 404 rappelled down safely—ropes uncoiling from the bay as they descended in synchronized drops. Sarah hit the rooftop first, boots crunching on debris-strewn concrete, her coat billowing like a cape in the downdraft. UMP45 landed beside her, rifle up; UMP9 followed with a graceful roll; HK416 touched down silently, scanning for threats; G11 dropped last, still peeking nervously from behind Sarah's shadow.
Cerberus didn't faze, its hulking form absorbing the cannon fire with grinding servos and venting steam. But the assault slowed its weapon charge significantly, the glowing plasma core in its maw dimming from a furious blaze to a simmering ember, buying precious seconds.
Sarah keyed her comms, voice cutting through the rotor whine. "Z12! Withdraw immediately—out of its beam cannon range. 404 will handle it."
The Vertibird banked sharply, Z12's silver-haired silhouette visible in the cockpit as she pulled back, the cannon falling silent. "Affirmative, Commander. Pulling out."
"Do you?" a sudden male voice echoed from behind Cerberus, smooth and laced with condescension, cutting through the rain like a scalpel. "The infamous mercenary commander, silently bringing back up an almost disbanded ragtag militia in the guise of caps... with her useless Puppets."
The words hung in the air as a figure emerged from the debris smoke, stepping out from the shadows of the ruined rooftop. Tall and composed, clad in a pristine white coat that defied the wasteland's grime, his face was aged but sharp—eyes cold behind spectacles, hair neatly combed. Director Shaun, the Institute's enigmatic leader, revealed himself with an air of calculated drama, his presence as unexpected as it was ominous.
Sarah straightened, unfazed, her gaze locking onto him with the intensity of a laser sight. "I presume you are Director Shaun. Nate's son."
Shaun's lips curled in a disdainful smirk, his hands clasped behind his back as rain pattered off his coat. "It seems my father has made his final choice. Hmph. How disappointing."
Sarah's voice cut through the drizzle, cold and unyielding, her eyes locked on Shaun's impassive face. "Do you think your father will join you after listening to your Institute's atrocities? The CPG massacre—all those innocents slaughtered to keep their fear on you! The kidnappings, replacing people with Synths like disposable parts! Your twisted version of FEV, turning humans into monsters for 'science'!"
Shaun regarded her with clinical detachment, adjusting his spectacles as rain beaded on the lenses. His white coat remained pristine, a stark contrast to the ruined world around them. "Before I reply to that comment," he said smoothly, a faint smile playing on his lips, "listen to your Dolls screaming at Bunker Hill."
As if on cue, Sarah's radio crackled to life, M4A1's voice bursting through in a rush of static and urgency. "Commander Sarah, this is M4A1. We've got eyes on the field. Brotherhood's struggling—Institute Synths deployed en masse, coordinated by Sangvis ringleaders. Confirmed Ouroboros and Intruder. And... Beluga's here. M16A1. She's leading a Synth squad. Turrets overridden, pinning the BOS down. Synths teleporting everywhere. What's your command?"
Sarah's grip tightened on the radio, her expression hardening further, but her voice remained steady as she keyed the mic. "M4, remember the riot foam grenades I passed to you on Spectacle Island? You know what to do."
M4A1's response came back fierce and determined, laced with raw emotion. "YES, Commander! We will bring our sis back!!!"
The radio fell silent, leaving only the patter of rain and the distant clamor of battle. Shaun tilted his head slightly, his disappointment evident. "How touching. But choices have consequences, Commander. My father will see the necessity... in time."
"Now, to answer your question," Shaun said, his voice calm and professorial, rising above the gale, "it's for the Commonwealth's progress. The surface people should be under the Institute's guidance without question. No need for meaningless squabbles—only obedience. We provide order, advancement. Your 'freedom' is chaos, a relic of a failed world."
Sarah's fingers tightened on the shotgun's grip, pumping a round into the chamber with a sharp clack. She raised the M590, aiming square at Shaun's chest, rain dripping from the barrel. "Silence!" she snapped, her voice a whipcrack of fury. "Without freedom, without free will, there will be no progress for humanity! You've twisted science into tyranny—replacing people, experimenting on them like lab rats. You're no savior; you're a monster in a lab coat."
Shaun's eyes narrowed behind his spectacles, a flicker of disdain crossing his aged features. "Hmph, such hypocrisy. Do your Dolls willingly follow your orders, then? Or are they just programmed puppets dancing to your whims?" He gestured dismissively toward Team 404, his voice dripping with condescension. "Cerberus, engage."
The giant Dinergate stirred to life, its frame groaning as servos engaged, the plasma core in its maw igniting with a low, ominous hum. "Nyahahaha!" it cackled, its voice a distorted, amplified screech that echoed across the ruins like nails on irradiated chalkboard. "You're short stack gonna FRIED!!!!"
Cerberus lunged forward with earth-shaking steps, the rooftop trembling under its colossal weight, cracks spiderwebbing outward as concrete buckled. Its front cannons swiveled, charging with a high-pitched whine that drowned out the rain—plasma building to a critical glow, ready to unleash hell.
Sarah didn't flinch. "404—flank and suppress! Take out the joints!" she barked, diving left as the first plasma beam lanced out, scorching the air where she'd stood moments before. The shot vaporized a section of rooftop, molten slag hissing in the rain, steam rising in angry plumes.
UMP45 and UMP9 moved as one, their submachine guns chattering in unison. They rolled behind debris piles—shattered walls and rusted HVAC units—unleashing bursts at Cerberus's leg joints. Rounds pinged off armored plating, sparks flying, but the giant barely slowed, its optic locking onto them. "Shorties think they can scratch me? Cute!" it taunted, swiping a massive leg in a sweeping arc that demolished their cover, forcing them to scatter.
HK416 took the high ground, leaping onto a precarious ledge of ruined structure, her assault rifle barking precise shots at the beast's underbelly. "Aiming for hydraulics—cover me!" she called, bullets chewing into exposed lines, fluid spraying in pressurized jets. Cerberus roared, twisting to face her, its cannons pivoting with alarming speed. A secondary beam grazed the ledge, blasting chunks of concrete into the air—HK416 flipped backward, landing in a crouch, unscathed but singed.
G11, still shaken, fired from behind a toppled antenna tower, her shots erratic but voluminous, suppressing the giant's advance. "T-Too big... why's it so big?!" she yelped, reloading with trembling hands.
Sarah circled wide, shotgun thundering as she pumped slug after slug into Cerberus's flank. Each impact boomed like thunder, denting armor and eliciting grunts from the machine. "Keep it off-balance!" she shouted, dodging a stomping foot that cratered the roof, sending tremors through the structure. The M590's recoil jarred her arms, but she pressed on, closing the distance for a point-blank blast at a knee joint—metal buckled, and Cerberus staggered, its charge faltering.
Shaun watched from the periphery, arms crossed, his expression one of detached interest. "Impressive resilience," he murmured, as if observing a lab experiment. "But futile. Cerberus was designed to crush rebellions like yours."
The giant recovered with a mechanical laugh, "Nyahaha! Tickles!" It reared back, cannons fully charged, unleashing a sweeping beam that carved a glowing furrow across the rooftop. Sarah rolled under it, the heat singeing her coat; UMP9 dove aside, but the edge clipped her arm, armor smoking as she cursed in binary. HK416 provided covering fire, forcing Cerberus to shield its core with a massive limb.
UMP45 flanked from the shadows, planting a breaching charge on a rear leg during a brief lull. "Eat this, oversized mutt!" she yelled, detonating it remotely. The explosion rocked Cerberus, severing hydraulics in a spray of fluid and sparks—the leg buckled, forcing the beast to one knee, the rooftop groaning under the strain.
Cerberus howled, "You little pests! I'll squash you flat!" It slammed its good limbs down, creating shockwaves that knocked G11 off her feet and cracked the roof further. Plasma vents overheated, firing erratic bursts that lit the rain in green fire—Sarah took a glancing hit to her shoulder, pain flaring as she gritted her teeth, firing back with the shotgun's last rounds, blasting chunks from its optic housing.
Team 404 converged, their coordinated assault a ballet of destruction: UMP9 and UMP45 suppressing from low angles, HK416 sniping vulnerabilities, G11 laying down covering fire. Sarah reloaded mid-stride, closing for the kill. Cerberus thrashed, cannons misfiring as systems failed, its taunts devolving into garbled static.
With a final, desperate lunge, the giant toppled forward—Sarah and 404 scattering as it crashed down, the impact shaking the ruins like an earthquake. Smoke billowed from its vents, optics dimming as power faded. "Short... stack..." it wheezed, before going silent.
Shaun stepped back, his composure cracking slightly. "A setback, no matter." he admitted, as Sarah leveled her shotgun at him once more. But the battle had taken its toll—wounds, ammo spent, the rooftop on the verge of collapse. The Institute's director vanished into a teleport shimmer, leaving only echoes and the promise of further war.