Walking out of the command center, General Ward made his way through the streets of Sanctuary toward the main gate. Gathering there was the group assigned to head down into the metro and contain the outbreak. The pressure of juggling a war on two fronts weighed heavy on him, but as he approached, a familiar figure caught his eye.
Nick Valentine.
The old synth detective stood by the gate, speaking with one of the guards. Beside him, a rugged, weary-looking young man was deep in conversation with Colonel Miller, Sam, and Stepan.
Nick turned as Ward approached, his face breaking into that trademark half-smile.
"Hey, old friend. Still in one piece, or just glued together with stubbornness?"
Ward let a tired grin show. "Nick — good to see you. I'm still standing, though not for lack of people trying to change that."
Nick nodded grimly. "Yeah, i heard … they're making life difficult for a lot of folks."
Ward's expression hardened. "Danes just sent word. The Brotherhood stronghold at the Boston airport got hit — they sustained losses. But they held and pushed them back . I've left Preston to cover things while we head into the metro."
Nick crossed his arms. "Underground work, huh? Not exactly my usual beat, but if you're calling, I figure it's serious."
Ward gave a quick nod. "It is. Truth is, Nick, I could use you down there. Not many people left who can read a people like you can — sniff out trouble before it starts. The outbreak's one problem, but i need someone sharp when i deal with those in charge down there. Helping getting a read on them ."
Nick gestured to his synthetic face. "You sure about bringing me? Last thing we need is panic when folks sees me ."
Ward waved the concern away. "We'll all be in protective suits down there. No one'll see your face . I trust you, Nick. That's all that matters."
Nick cracked a wry grin. "Alright then — I'm in."
Ward clapped him on the shoulder, then turned toward Miller and his team. As he drew closer, Miller straightened up, his hand resting on the shoulder of the unfamiliar young man beside him.
"General," Miller greeted him, his voice carrying a note of relief. "Glad you're here . This is Artyom."
Ward gave the man a once-over. He looked battered but resolute, his eyes wary and sharp.
Miller continued, "We've been looking for him ever since he was taken by the Reich."
Ward raised an eyebrow, then extended a hand to Artyom. The man hesitated a moment, then grasped it firmly.
"Good to have you with us," Ward said.
Artyom didn't respond verbally, but gave a single, some what understanding nod , have an idea of what is being said .
Sam spoke up. "From what we gathered, Artyom escaped from the fourth Reich with the help of an Red Line soldier. Don't worry — he was suspicious of him from the start. When they ran into a Red patrol, Artyom figured out what was happening and took off. Dodged pursuit, made it to Diamond City."
Ward replied , "Glad to hear it. I remember when you first arrived, you mentioned something about finding him. It's good he made it through without injury. Now, I'll go check on both security and medical teams, make sure they're ready."
Miller nodded in agreement.
Ward made his way through the teams, inspecting them one by one. The security detail was properly equipped, not only to handle potential combat threats but also to avoid contamination. Armed with laser rifles and pistols, their primary task was to protect the medical team at all costs.
The medical team was equally well-prepared, dressed in hazmat suits — the standard issue models salvaged and maintained since the Institute's fall. Their gear, from field kits to specialized equipment, was packed into backpacks and reinforced cases, ready to be deployed the moment it was needed. Ward was especially pleased to see Curie among them; with her expertise, he felt confident that if a cure was possible, she would find it.
Once final checks were complete and everyone stood ready, the group departed Sanctuary. They crossed the familiar wooden bridge and made their way toward the cave entrance that connected to the old metro tunnels.
Walking through the passage, the team emerged into the metro tunnel . Unlike much of the ruined metro system, this section had been partially repaired and reinforced. Metal supports lined the walls and ceiling, and overhead lights had been installed at regular intervals, casting steady pools of pale light along the path leading toward the first station. The air here was noticeably cleaner, with filtration systems at work keeping the worst of the decay and dust at bay.
Before long, they reached a fortified checkpoint — a sturdy barricade separating and protecting the three allied stations from the rest of the metro network. Spotting the approaching group, the guards manning the gate quickly recognized them, moving without hesitation to open the heavy doors and wave them through with brief, respectful nods.
Heading toward Sevastopolskaya Station, they made their way through tunnels and old stations that had once been heavily irradiated. In order to safely reach the inner station's of the metro, the Minutemen had agreed to assist in clearing and containing the radiation. Thanks to their combined efforts and newly installed filtration systems, the levels had dropped significantly.
As they walked, Colonel Miller glanced around . "It's incredible," he remarked, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration. "I never thought it would be possible to reduce the radiation in these tunnels this much."
General Ward smiled and said, "Yeah — even after 200 years, radiation's still one of those problems we have to keep wrestling with. Sooner or later, someone had to figure out a fix." He gestured toward the filtration system overhead. "And if the people of the Commonwealth and the Metro are going to work together, we can't have tunnels full of deadly radiation getting in the way."
Colonel Miller gave a firm nod of agreement, his expression thoughtful. Before long, they reached the entrance to Sevastopolskaya Station. The guards posted there wore gas masks and heavy protective gear, rifles at the ready. As the group approached, the sentries raised a hand, signaling them to stop and requested identification.
Miller stepped forward, exchanging a few quick words with the guards in Russian. After confirming their clearance, the sentries gave a curt nod and waved them through. Before entering the station , Miller and his men slipped on their own gas masks, a practiced, automatic motion.
The station had been transformed into a makeshift quarantine zone. Clear plastic sheeting and heavy-duty nylon tarps hung from metal frames and scaffolding, forming temporary walls that divided the platform into isolated sections. Bright yellow biohazard warning tape was strung across entrances and along the tunnels leading deeper into the metro, marking off restricted areas.
People were separated into isolated sections based on symptoms — those showing signs of infection were kept in tight, enclosed areas, while others were monitored in makeshift holding zones, trying to slow the spread of the virus as much as possible. Guards in gas masks stood watch at each entrance, their rifles slung across their chests, ready to intervene if anyone tried to flee or breach containment.
Inside one of the larger chambers of the station, space had been cleared for the arriving medical and security teams. Folded cots, surgical tables scavenged from old clinics, and medical crates filled with supplies were laid out and ready. The security team took up positions along the perimeter, ensuring no one unauthorized got close, while the medical team — hazmat suits sealed and gear at the ready — began setting up their equipment.
While the teams established their stations, General Ward, Nick Valentine, Colonel Miller, and the rest of their group moved deeper into the station with a different purpose.
Their mission was to reach Polis, the political heart of the Metro, and present their case before the Council. Ward hoped to secure an agreement between the surface Commonwealth factions and the Metro's leadership, one that would see them working together against shared threats and possibly opening secure trade and communication routes between the surface and the Metro .
As they moved through the station, Ward cast a glance toward Miller. "We'll need the Council on our side for this to work," he said quietly.
Miller nodded grimly. "They'll listen… if we can get to them in one piece."
Nick, adjusting the collar of his coat, gave a dry smirk. "One thing's for sure — never a dull day in the Commonwealth, above or below."
And with that, the group continued deeper into the Metro tunnels, toward Polis, carrying with them the fragile hope of forging a new alliance .
--- Commonwealth - near Covanent ---
"Grenade!" a soldier shouted, diving for cover as the explosive clattered onto the cracked ground . A split second later, it detonated with a concussive boom, sending dust and debris into the air. Bullets snapped overhead, chipping at stone and rusted metal alike.
"Fuck! Reyes, watch the right flank — the bastards are pushing up!" Sergeant Carter barked over the gunfire, his voice hoarse but steady.
Without hesitation, Corporal Reyes, encased in his scorched but still-imposing power armor, broke from cover. The barrels of his Gatling gun spun up with a mechanical whine before unleashing a torrent of lead. Any Reich soldier unlucky enough to be caught in the open was torn apart, crimson mist hanging in the air.
But the onslaught didn't go unanswered. A streak of smoke cut through the haze — an AP rocket from an RPG — forcing Reyes to duck back behind the crumbling barricade just as the missile exploded against the debris nearby.
"That was too damn close," Reyes muttered .
Nearby, Corporal Nora braced herself, cranking the lever on her laser musket with practiced precision. The weapon hummed as its charge built, then discharged with a sharp burst of red light. The shot struck a Reich soldier dead-center in the chest, sending him sprawling in a heap of charred flesh and scorched fabric — his reckless charge brought to a violent end.
"Keep it tight!" Carter shouted, moving to reload.
They were currently positioned on a hill overlooking the settlement of Covenant. The ground was rough, scattered with twisted rebar, broken fencing, and the charred remains of past skirmishes. The Reich forces had been relentless in their attempts to seize the high ground, knowing that controlling the hill meant cutting off Covenant's defenders and opening a path deeper into Commonwealth territory. But time and again, Sergeant Carter and his platoon had held the line, refusing to let the enemy expand their foothold any further.
What began as a small defensive detail had grown into a hardened fighting force. Carter, once leading a squad, was now in charge of an entire platoon — nearly thirty soldiers under his command . The enemy had thrown everything at them , but the hill still stood in Minutemen hands.
The battle dragged on, but it was clear the Reich soldiers were losing momentum. Their dead and wounded littered the field below the hill, and their scattered formations betrayed growing desperation. Carter could see it — the way their advances slowed, the way their gunfire lost rhythm. It wouldn't be long before they'd have no choice but to pull back.
Then the low rumble of an engine cut through the din of battle.
An armored truck rolled up, grinding to a halt behind a cluster of large boulders at the treeline. A Minuteman soldier shouted from his position, "They've got reinforcements incoming!" The back doors of the truck swung open and Reich soldiers began pouring out, quickly taking cover and returning fire. Alongside them emerged a figure clad in power armor — its plating blackened and marked with Reich insignias.
Carter cursed under his breath and turned to a nearby soldier. "Grab a launcher — now!"
The soldier sprinted to a weapons cache and returned moments later, carrying a missile launcher slung over one shoulder. "Sir, we've got four rockets left," he reported, panting.
Carter grimaced. "We make 'em count."
Just then, the armored truck's engine roared to life, the vehicle pulling away to avoid staying a stationary target. Carter didn't hesitate. "Take the shot! Take it now!"
The soldier ducked behind a jagged slab of stone, bracing the launcher on his shoulder. He tracked the fleeing truck, then squeezed the trigger. A guided rocket screamed from the tube, streaking across the field. The driver saw the incoming missile and tried to swerve, wheels kicking up dust and dirt as he veered sharply. But it wasn't enough.
The rocket struck the side of the troop compartment in a burst of fire and twisted metal. The rear of the truck erupted in flames, rendering the vehicle unoperable . The two soldiers manning the cab bailed out, abandoning the wreck as it burned, and fled away from the battlefield .
A cheer rose briefly from the Minutemen positions.
Carter allowed himself a grim smile. "That's one less problem." But his eyes stayed fixed on the power-armored Reich soldier now advancing up the slope, firing a machine gun undeterred.
"Get me another rocket ready," Carter ordered. "We're not done yet."