Sarah – POV
The midday sun filtered weakly through fractured clouds, bleeding pale light over the Massachusetts ridge. Below, cracked pavement stretched across the land like scar tissue—old wounds that never healed.
Team 404 moved in formation, silent as shadows. Concord lay ahead, a carcass of a town. Rust-choked vehicles lined the streets like tombstones, storefronts collapsed inward with their contents gutted and strewn. The wind tugged at frayed banners. Somewhere, a long-dead radio hummed static into the dust.
UMP45 led point, rifle shouldered. HK416 scaled the right flank, moving like a panther across debris-strewn rooftops. UMP9 trailed behind, sweeping their six with sharp-eyed grace.
No chatter. No distraction. Only mission.
Above them, ISAC's recon drone—a wasp-like node deployed from my SHD rig—swept in concentric spirals overhead, streaming thermal overlays back to our Red Rocket command post.
ISAC (softly): "Multiple contacts detected in Concord proper. Numbers fluctuating. Movement erratic. Raider presence: highly probable."
I keyed into the team's comms.
Sarah: "404, tighten formation. Contact cluster, dead center. Check elevation and fire arcs."
UMP45: "Copy. Taking rooftop positions. Advancing silent."
As they crept toward Concord's battered shell, the sounds found them first—shouting, then the jagged staccato of gunfire. Familiar... but something about it was wrong. Controlled. Disciplined.
UMP9: "That's not Raider spray-and-pray…"
They ducked behind the collapsed husk of a diner. ISAC's thermal pulse spiked—over two dozen heat signatures, clustered around the square near the old Museum of Freedom. Raiders. Swarming like ants.
Then came the roar.
The unmistakable whine of a minigun—spinning up, then unleashing hell.
HK416 (low, focused): "Confirmed. T-45 Power Armor. One user. It's him."
UMP45: "Nate's alive. And he's pissed."
From their vantage, they saw it all. Nate, encased in weathered but fully functional T-45 armor, stood like a relic of war. The minigun in his arms shrieked, brass shell casings raining down in torrents. Raiders died mid-sprint, mid-scream—cut down before their deaths registered.
Beside him, Dogmeat—bloodied, breathing—rushed left, yanking a molotov-wielding raider off their feet and tearing them down with fury.
Sarah: "404, support him. Controlled fire. Keep his flanks clear."
HK416: "Roger. I've got the east balcony. Clean line."
They moved as one. HK416 sighted and dropped a rooftop sniper with surgical calm. UMP9 popped a flashbang into a Raider cluster; UMP45 swept in seconds later, her SMG barking in sharp, silenced bursts.
The tide turned fast.
Nate surged ahead, boots pounding pavement, armor tanking rounds like they were pebbles. The minigun roared again—an iron wind tearing through anything in his path. Raiders broke and ran, tripping over their dead. Some tried to regroup behind a delivery truck, but 9's second flashbang made sure they didn't.
UMP45: "He's not falling back—he's clearing the block."
Sarah: "Copy. Z11, prepare medlift. Dogmeat's injured."
Then—movement. A raider heavy broke from cover, hoisting a missile launcher, eyes locked on Nate.
HK416 (calm): "Not today."
Two shots. One to the chest, one to the visor. The body hit the ground like a bag of concrete.
Then—silence.
Ash drifted in the air. Brass cooled on the ground. Smoke curled from smoldering debris.
In the center of it all stood Nate, steam rising from the overheated barrel of his minigun. Slowly, his helmet turned toward 404's position.
HK416: "He sees us."
UMP45: "You wanna wave, or…?"
UMP9: "He's waiting."
They approached, weapons lowered. Dogmeat limped over, muzzle bloodied, tail wagging low and tired.
I patched into the channel.
Sarah: "Mr. Nate, this is Command Actual. Red Rocket is secure. We observed your engagement. You're not alone anymore."
He said nothing. But his helmet dipped once—a small, deliberate nod.
Behind him, the shattered doors of the Museum of Freedom swung limply in the wind. Blood ran in lazy streaks down the marble steps.
But before anyone could breathe, the pavement behind them cracked open with a groan that felt too deep to be natural.
Something roared.
Not machine. Not animal. Something between. Something wrong.
ISAC: "Warning. Thermal contact: Subsurface. Classification: Unknown. Not Raider. Not synth. No match in SHD archives."
404 spun around, weapons rising. Behind the diner, asphalt split wide, trembling like it was breathing. Something below shifted.
Sarah (tense): "Regroup. Defensive formation. It seem like that wasn't the main threat."
Nate turned again. The minigun rose in his hands, barrel smoking.
Whatever was coming… didn't belong to this war.