Sarah – POV
The air hung still as we made our way up the slope toward Sanctuary Hills. The cracked asphalt groaned under our boots, the ruins of pre-war suburbia stretching around us in silence. Shattered rooftops. Faded mailboxes. Time-frozen memories.
UMP45 stood at the ridge, eyes sharp on the horizon. Just beyond the bridge, the rusted silhouette of the Red Rocket Station loomed. She glanced at HK416 with her usual smirk.
"Called it first," she muttered.
416 didn't look away. "You call everything."
I stepped up beside them. "Talk to me, 45."
She turned, saluting. "Gunfire about twenty minutes ago. Origin: Red Rocket. Not Raiders—sounded like controlled bursts. Suppressed. Tight grouping."
I frowned, raising my scope. No visible movement now, but the echoes in the air had a story. 45 wasn't wrong.
UMP9 chimed in, lifting her SMG to ready. "Also saw Mr. Nate earlier—him and his dog took down a molerat pack near the station. Quick and clean. No injuries. Then they headed southeast. Probably Concord."
I glanced back toward the gas station. "So Nate's passed through, no sign of injury. Red Rocket saw combat. But the real fight's probably up ahead."
Z11, one of the support-model T-Dolls, jogged up from our temporary outpost.
"Commander. Mrs. Mayling's set the supply tent and fallback line. No hostiles within two hundred meters."
"Good." I turned to the team.
ISAC:"Displaying local terrain."
My SHD device flared to life, a glowing 3D map hovering above my wrist. I pointed to Red Rocket Station.
"Z11, pull three Dolls from the standby pool. Once we clear the station, I want it fortified. Minimum fire unless provoked. Vault Dweller's nearby, and we don't want to spook him."
Z11 saluted and headed back down the hill.
I turned to Team 404—already checking mags and syncing their comms.
"404, sweep the station. Standard Delta formation. Fast and silent. Confirm threat before engaging."
UMP45 grinned. "Copy. 416, right flank. 9, rear watch. Let's ghost in."
They crossed the bridge, movement fluid and precise. I followed behind, rifle low, watching every shadow.
The Red Rocket Station stood empty… but not untouched. The pumps were rusted out, the signage creaking, but signs of a scuffle were clear. Burned tracks in the dirt. Blood splatter near the bay. And near the garage entrance—molerat corpses, riddled with bullets or mauled.
416 (comms): "10mm rounds. Precise grouping. Same casing as before—Vault Dweller's been here."
UMP9: "Dog tracks too. No signs of pursuit. They moved on clean—probably to Concord."
"Copy." I knelt beside a chewed-up molerat, eyes narrowing at the wound patterns. Clean kills. Not a panicked shootout—this was controlled. Trained.
Z11's team arrived moments later and began deploying perimeter gear. Signal dampers. Cover panels. Portable defenses. The beginnings of a proper forward station.
"This is Outpost Alpha now," I said. "Hold it. Full report every thirty. 404, recon sweep northeast—eyes on Concord. Report, don't engage."
UMP45: "Roger that. We'll sniff out the real fight."
They moved out, shadows against the rising sun.
I stood at the station's edge, wind brushing past, the Commonwealth stretching before me—tired, dangerous, but not without hope. Someone was pushing forward. Someone with purpose.
I tapped my comms.
"Mayling, this is Command Actual. Red Rocket secure. Molerat signs only. Vault Dweller's passed through—en route to Concord. Recon in progress. Stand by for uplink."
ISAC:"Command node synchronized. Outpost Alpha is now active."
Whatever awaited in Concord, it wouldn't be a quiet homecoming.