The Vertibird's rotors faded into a distant thrum as Team 404 and Sarah plunged into the murky Charles River, the irradiated water closing over them like a cold, grasping shroud. Bubbles erupted in their wake, the oxygen tanks hissing steadily as they submerged toward the grate. The descent was swift—404's aquatic modules propelling them through the toxic currents with mechanical grace, Sarah's wetsuit and BCD keeping her buoyant amid the heavy gear. The grate loomed ahead, bars warped by time and corrosion, and they slipped through single-file, UMP45 leading the breach.
Minutes blurred into a tense swim through flooded tunnels, rads ticking warnings on their HUDs, feral shadows darting in the gloom. Finally, UMP9 and UMP45 surfaced first, their heads breaking the water with splashes, hands reaching back to haul Sarah up. She gripped their gauntlets, augmented muscles straining against the duffle's weight, and they dragged her onto the dry ledge of concrete—a flooded entrance to the Public Works Maintenance Area, dimly lit by flickering emergency strips. Water sluiced off her wetsuit, pooling around her boots, the air stale and reeking of rust and decay.
Sarah hauled herself up, coughing once as she ripped off the mask, shaking out her damp hair. "Tch, still water-damp. Can't get a dry cloth out for now." She slung the duffle down, unzipping it to retrieve her weapons: the Mossberg M590 shotgun, its pump-action gleaming wetly, and the M1911 handgun, slide racked to check the chamber. She strapped the holster to her thigh and slung the shotgun over her shoulder, the familiar weight grounding her in the subterranean chill.
UMP45 scanned the shadows, submachine gun up. "Clear for now, Commander. That was a swim."
HK416 nodded, wiping water from her rifle. "Path forward—right side."
To the right, a rusted keypad glowed faintly on a bulkhead door, its screen cracked but functional. Sarah approached, her SHD watch interfacing seamlessly. ISAC's voice chimed softly: "Access keypad complete. Door unlocked."
The door groaned open on protesting hinges, revealing a large, partly flooded pipe snaking downward—knee-deep radioactive water glowing faintly green, the path linear but treacherous. "Stay tight," Sarah ordered, stepping in first, shotgun raised. The team followed, boots splashing through the murk.
The pipe crawled with threats. Ceiling-mounted laser turrets whirred to life, crimson beams lancing down—Sarah dove left as one seared the water where she'd stood, HK416 blasting it with a burst that shattered the emitter in sparks.
Mole rats erupted from cracks, their irradiated hides pulsating, fangs gnashing as they charged. UMP9 mowed one down mid-leap, its body twitching in the sludge; G11 yelped, stabbing another with her bayonet as it clawed at her leg. Feral ghouls shambled from alcoves, their ragged forms howling—Sarah pumped the Mossberg, slugs booming to pulp decayed flesh, Team 404's gunfire a staccato symphony echoing off the metal walls.
They waded relentlessly, rads climbing but suits holding, turrets silenced one by one, beasts reduced to floating husks. The pipe spat them out onto an elevated walkway, rusted railings overlooking deeper floods. Ahead, an Expert-locked terminal hummed on a pedestal, its screen demanding credentials.
Sarah interfaced her SHD—ISAC bypassed it effortlessly—but movement stirred in the shadows. Hostile Synths—Institute models, sleek and deadly—emerged from side vents, lasers charging. Two flanked right through a jagged hole in the wall; Sarah spun, shotgun thundering to drop one in a spray of circuits, UMP45's SMG finishing the second in a hail of bullets.
"More incoming!" HK416 called, suppressing the advance as the team hacked the door. Insufficient skills? No issue—Sarah's SHD tech prevailed. They pressed on, another Advanced-locked door yielding to the same digital sleight, leading to a final large pipe on the lower level—more wading, more rads, but the end neared.
The pipe dumped them into the Institute proper: the Relay control room, a sterile chamber of glowing consoles and humming servers, the air unnaturally clean and cool. Synths patrolled, but 404 cleared them in a blur—precise shots, without alarms sound.
Sarah slotted the Institute relay targeting sequence holotape created from SHD brick into the marked console, the device whirring as it interfaced. Blue energy crackled, a portal ripping open—General Nate, Preston Garvey, Sturges, and several Minutemen materialized in a flash, weapons up, eyes wide at the pristine surroundings.
Garvey whistled, lowering his service rifle as he took in the gleaming walls and holographic displays. "Phew, finally arrived. Dang, so this is the Institute—it's so clean, they could hole up down here forever. Why would they need to mess with us?"
Nate holstered his pistol, his vault suit mud-streaked but his expression resolute. "Because they think they're better than us," he replied, voice steady with quiet anger.
Preston chuckled grimly, slinging his musket over his shoulder. "Huh, they should have read the history—that hasn't turned out well for folks like them. In any case, here we are, no turning back now." He reached into his pack, pulling out a compact device etched with warning labels—a pulse charge, its casing humming faintly. "Oh, and General, here's the pulse charge. Set it up on their nuclear reactor so we can detonate remotely. Just make sure to announce an evacuation—give them a chance to escape before we commit to it. We're not mass murderers."
Nate silently nodded, taking the charge with a firm grip, his eyes meeting Preston's in unspoken agreement. The room fell into a brief hush, the weight of their mission pressing down—the end of the Institute, but not at the cost of innocent lives.
Sarah, wiping residual water from her face, finally noticed a familiar figure among the teleported Minutemen. Mayling stood there, her brown hair tied in high ponytails that framed a cheerful face, golden eyes sparkling behind red-tinted goggles perched on her head. She wore a practical mechanic's outfit— a white shirt under a gray vest laden with straps and pouches, black shorts revealing toned legs, and sturdy boots caked in tunnel mud. A massive toolbox hung from her shoulder, brimming with tools: pliers, welders, scanners, and more, while her belt held a water bottle, clipboard, and a compact pistol. Her gloves were smudged with grease, and a purple scarf wrapped around her neck, adding a touch of color to her utilitarian gear. She shifted her weight, toolbox clanking softly, a small smile on her lips as if the Institute's depths were just another workshop.
Sarah's brow furrowed. "Why are you here?"
Sturges scratched his head, stepping forward with a grin. "Oh, you did say there are two teleporter relays in the Institute. Thought you might need to secure both to get all the Institute civilians teleported to your Spectacle Island. But I'll stay behind here at the relay control room—manage this one so I'm ready to let the civilians evacuate via teleport. Plus, I can bring in more Minutemen reinforcements if things heat up. I leave the post-war stuff to you guys—I'm not keen on politics."
Mayling nodded enthusiastically, adjusting her goggles. "Yeah, Commander! Figured you'd need an extra hand for tech overrides or repairs down here. Plus, who else is gonna fix up any jammed relays on the fly?"
Sarah sighed but couldn't suppress a small smile. "Fine. Stay sharp—we're not out of wood yet."
Sarah turned to the Minutemen, her voice calm but commanding. "You Minutemen go ahead—we'll catch up."
Nate paused mid-step, his vault suit still mud-streaked from the teleport, brow furrowing. "Huh, why?"
Sarah pointed first at her dripping wetsuit, the neoprene clinging uncomfortably, then gestured to 404, their gear sodden and circuits humming faintly as they shook off the excess. "Really? I need to change my outfit, and 404 needs to dry up from being soggy wet dogs. Won't take long."
Preston chuckled lightly, slinging his service rifle. "Fair enough, Commander. We'll scout the halls ahead—holler if you need us."
The Minutemen filed out through the door, boots echoing on the polished floors, leaving the room in relative quiet. Sarah grabbed her duffle bag and headed toward a giant pipe access hatch nearby—a massive, rusted conduit jutting from the wall, its mouth wide enough to offer seclusion away from prying eyes. The pipe led back into the maintenance tunnels, dim and shadowed, providing a makeshift changing area out of sight from the main room.
Team 404 followed without a word, forming a human wall at the pipe's entrance—UMP45 and UMP9 standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the front, HK416 and G11 filling the gaps behind them, their frames creating an impenetrable barrier of black tactical gear and unwavering loyalty. No one would peek past them; their optics scanned for threats, but their presence was a silent promise of privacy.
Inside the pipe's mouth, Sarah unzipped the duffle, the metallic rasp echoing softly in the confined space. She peeled off the wetsuit with efficient motions, the damp fabric clinging stubbornly before giving way, revealing her augmented form—scars from old battles faint but present, cybernetic enhancements humming faintly under her skin. She shook out her hair, water droplets scattering, and reached for the new outfit, laying it out on the dry ledge.
The gear was tactical perfection: a black helmet with integrated comms and visor perched atop, ready to shield her eyes and relay data. She slipped into the form-fitting black tactical vest first, its layered plates hugging her torso, pouches bulging with ammo and grenades—shotgun shells in a belt across her waist, frag grenades clipped for quick access. Arm guards strapped on next, black sleeves with reinforced padding, gloves sliding over her hands like second skin. The pants were sleek and armored, knee pads buckling into place, boots lacing up with sturdy ties. A belt with additional tools—flashbangs, a knife sheath—cinched it all together, her M590 shotgun slung across her back, M1911 holstered at her thigh.
She adjusted the final touches—a headset mic curving to her mouth, gloves flexing as she tested her grip. The outfit transformed her: from soaked infiltrator to a battlefield operative, black gear blending with the shadows, every piece designed for mobility and lethality. She looked ready to storm hell itself, the helmet's visor reflecting the pipe's dim light like a predator's eye.
Red emergency lights throbbed like a frantic heartbeat against the pristine white walls, casting elongated shadows that danced erratically with every blare of the alarms—a piercing wail that reverberated through the facility like a siren's call to arms.
As the air grew thick with the acrid scent of overloading circuits and the faint ozone tang of charging weapons systems, the once-sterile atmosphere now charged with impending violence. Nate stood before the elevator panel leading down to the central hall—the same route he'd taken during his first harrowing infiltration—jabbing the call button with increasing frustration. The doors remained stubbornly sealed, biometric locks flashing angry red denials, their denial tones beeping in mocking rhythm.
"Damn it," Nate muttered under his breath, stepping back as the alarms intensified, a symphony of doom signaling the mobilization of every Synth and security protocol in the complex.
Coursers and Gen 1 or 2 models would be swarming the halls by now, teleport relays humming to life in distant chambers, the Institute's defenses awakening like a hive stirred from slumber.
Preston Garvey, ever the optimist in the face of adversity, let out a dry chuckle, with a shake of his head, his tricorn hat casting a shadow over his scarred face. "Haha, well, so much for the element of surprise. Guess they didn't roll out the welcome mat for round two."
Nate shot him a sidelong glare, his combat rifle still warm from the initial relay skirmish, jaw tightening under the strain. "...Very funny. Keep laughing when the Coursers start blinking in."
The Minutemen shifted uneasily, their boots scraping on the polished floor,
Footsteps approached from the rear—crisp and purposeful, cutting through the alarm's din like a knife. Sarah emerged from the shadows, her new tactical outfit a vision of wasteland lethality: a black helmet with integrated comms and visor perched ready on her head, tactical vest layered with ammo pouches and grenade clips bulging across her chest, shotgun shells in a belt at her waist. Arm guards reinforced her sleeves, pants armored at the knees, boots laced tight for grip.
She moved with predatory grace, M590 shotgun in hand, M1911 holstered at her thigh, every inch the commander forged in fire. Team 404 flanked her—UMP45 and UMP9 with submachine guns at low ready, HK416's assault rifle scanning high, G11's sleepy optics sharpening as the alarms roused her.
"There's a door on our left side," Sarah said, nodding toward a side panel half-hidden in the wall's gleam, its outline barely visible under the pulsing red lights. "404, take the lead."
Nate holstered his pistol with a nod, waving his team forward. "Minutemen, let's follow them. Move!"
Team 404 moved like a well-oiled machine—UMP45 and UMP9 approaching the panel, suppressed bursts from their SMGs cracking softly to test the seal, the door hissing open on protesting hydraulics. The maintenance corridor beyond yawned like a maw—bathed in the same red alert lights, the air humming with distant klaxons and the faint whine of charging capacitors. "Clear—for now," UMP45 muttered, stepping through.
The fight erupted immediately as they pushed forward, the corridor narrowing into a chokepoint of exposed pipes and flickering consoles. Synths poured from side vents like insects from a disturbed hive—sleek Gen 2 models with laser rifles spitting crimson bolts that scorched the walls, leaving black char marks and the smell of burned metal. Coursers blinked in with eerie precision, their black coats swirling as they materialized mid-stride, disruptor blades humming to life with a deadly glow. "Hostiles—multiple vectors!" HK416 barked, her assault rifle chattering in controlled bursts to silence a turret that whirred to life from the ceiling, its barrel tracking with mechanical precision, red targeting laser sweeping the group.
Sarah pumped her Mossberg, the shotgun booming like thunder in the confined space, slugs tearing through a Courser mid-teleport—its body crumpling in a heap of twitching circuits and synthetic blood. "Push through—we can't let them pin us down!" she shouted, reloading with a sharp rack of the slide.
The Minutemen fired alongside, lasers flashing in the red gloom—Preston dropping two Synths with precise headshots, their frames sparking as they fell, "Dang, there's so many of them!" a militiaman yelled, ducking behind a console as a beam scorched the air above his head, the heat wave singeing his coat.
UMP45 and UMP9 led the charge, their SMGs rattling in unison—UMP45 shredding a pair of Gen 2 that lunged from an alcove, their lasers misfiring as they collapsed; UMP9 hacking a console mid-stride to disable a turret before it could fully activate, its barrel drooping lifelessly. G11 hung back, her bursts erratic but effective, picking off stragglers with sleepy precision. "Too many... zzz... wake up, fight time," she mumbled, dodging a disruptor slash that carved a gash in the wall.
Sangvis Dolls joined the fray from branching vents—Jaegers sniping from elevated grates, their long rifles cracking with suppressed reports, Rippers scuttling low with claws extended. HK416 pivoted high, her rifle barking to drop a Jaeger mid-snipe, its body tumbling from the grate in a clatter of metal. "Flanking Sangvis—watch the ceilings!"
The corridor twisted downward, stairs slick with condensation, the group heading deeper amid the chaos. A Courser squad teleported onto the landing ahead, blades swinging—Sarah sidestepped one slash, her M1911 drawn in a flash, two shots to its core dropping it mid-swing. Minutemen covered the rear, a militiaman crying out as a Ripper's claw raked his arm, only for Mayling to blast it with her compact pistol, the mechanic Doll's golden eyes fierce behind her goggles. "Got your back—keep moving!"
The descent spanned floor by floor, each level a gauntlet of escalating resistance. On the first lower level, turrets unfolded from wall panels, lasers tracking with deadly accuracy—UMP45 dove, rolling to avoid a beam that vaporized the floor behind her, countering with a grenade that exploded the mount in a fireball. Synths swarmed from service hatches, Coursers leading charges that forced the team into defensive pockets, lasers and disruptors filling the air with sizzling energy.
Nate fired from cover, his combat rifle barking to drop a Synth heavy mid-minigun spin-up. "They're coordinating—aim for the Coursers first!" A behemoth Sentry Bot loomed at the end of the hall, its massive dome powering up with a deep hum, red eyes igniting.
"UMP9, there's a terminal—maintenance bay ahead!" Sarah ordered, shotgun thundering again as she reloaded mid-stride, slugs pulping a Synth that burst from a side door. "See if you can activate that Sentry Bot!"
UMP9 darted to the console amid the gunfire, her fingers flying over the keys, neural links interfacing seamlessly while dodging a laser bolt that singed her ponytails. "Got it..... uh oh...."
Sarah spun, blasting a Synth lunging from a grate. "What happened?"
UMP9's optics widened. "I think the Sentry Bot went haywire—targeting everything!"
The massive robot powered up with a roar, its dome head swiveling, laser emitters charging red. It fired indiscriminately—blasting Synths in sprays of molten metal, vaporizing a Jaeger mid-snipe, but bolts grazed Minutemen cover, forcing them to dive as a beam scorched Preston's hat. "Fall back—let it rampage!" Nate shouted, the team weaving through the chaos as the bot turned the corridor into a kill zone, Synths shredded before they could react, Sangvis Dolls caught in the crossfire, Rippers exploding in sparks.
Mayling whooped, dodging debris with her toolbox clanking. "Now that's a fireworks show! Eat lead, you tin cans!"
They used the haywire bot's fury to their advantage, pushing past the maintenance bay as it mowed down waves behind them—lasers lancing wildly, explosions lighting the red gloom. More Synths poured in from stairwells, a Courser squad teleporting to block the descent, but HK416 and UMP45 flanked them, bursts from their weapons turning the ambush into a slaughter. "Clearing the stairs—go!" UMP45 yelled, a disruptor grazing her arm in a shower of sparks, but she pressed on.
The lower levels intensified—second floor: turrets in clusters, Synths reinforced with Sangvis heavies, lasers and cannon fire turning the halls into kill zones. Sarah led a counterpush, her M590 booming to clear paths, while 404 hacked doors and terminals to turn defenses against the enemy. Third floor: the deepest yet, a labyrinth of labs and vents, where another Sentry Bot awaited—its power-up sequence starting as they approached.
"Quick—destroy it before full activation!" Nate called, but UMP9 was already at a nearby terminal, fingers blurring. "Powering it up—making it hostile to Synths!" The bot activated, its lasers targeting the Institute forces, buying the team time to push through.
The corridor ended at an iris-like hatch on the floor—a circular bulkhead of interlocking plates, glowing faintly with lockdown protocols. Synths charged from behind, lasers flashing, but the team held them off, G11's suppressive fire keeping heads down. Sarah knelt amid the gunfire, overriding the seal with her SHD—ISAC's voice chiming calmly over the din: "Hatch disengaged."
The iris spiraled open, revealing a drop into darkness below. "Down—now!" Sarah ordered, leaping first, shotgun ready as she landed on grated flooring, the impact jarring but controlled. The team followed—Minutemen jumping in pairs, 404 covering the rear with bursts that dropped pursuing Coursers. The hatch irised shut behind them, sealing the chaos above, the alarms muffling to a distant wail.