Night fell fast over Concord, swallowing the shattered streets in violet shadows. The Deathclaw's corpse still smoldered faintly, its charred bulk a grotesque warning to anything that might follow. Wind whispered through broken windows and bullet-riddled storefronts like the town itself was exhaling.
Inside the Museum of Freedom, the survivors huddled around makeshift heaters and cracked lanterns—exhausted, cold, and silent. Eyes darted to the floor more often than the sky.
Sarah stood at the entryway, arms folded, helmet off, her shadow stretching behind her. She scanned the room—Preston tending to a young man's burn, Sturges fiddling with a half-dead fusion generator, Mama Murphy muttering softly to no one.
Preston walked up beside her, voice quiet, words worn down from too many battles.
Preston: "They're scared. Sturges says the core's gonna run dry before morning, and Mama's talking about... the deep again. Whatever's under us—it ain't natural. We can't stay here."
Sarah nodded, gaze still fixed outward.
Sarah: "Then we move."
Preston (uncertain): "You sure? What about that—thing? And whatever it came from?"
Sarah: "It's still there. But my priority's not the anomaly. It's your people. We'll come back to Concord. When we're ready."
She tapped her earpiece.
Sarah: "ISAC, begin evac prep. Set Sanctuary Hills as destination. Route all civilians through secured paths. 404, perimeter sweep and escort detail."
ISAC: "Command acknowledged. Mapping civilian pathing now."
Behind her, Team 404 shifted into motion. The war could wait. The people could not.
Hours Later – Road to Sanctuary Hills
The cracked pre-war road stretched beneath moonlight like a scar, winding north through ruins and silence. A tired convoy of survivors trudged forward—broken boots, shaking knees, and guarded eyes. Team 404 flanked both sides, their weapons lowered but eyes sharp. Dogmeat led the group slowly, ears flicking in the dark, limping but unbroken.
Just past midnight, they arrived.
The cul-de-sac stood quiet beneath pale stars, its ghostly silence somehow welcoming. The homes were wrecks—collapsed walls, mold-eaten furniture, shattered windows—but they were still homes. A place with doors. A place to stop.
Nate moved without a word. His armor was scorched, movements stiff, but he said nothing as he entered the remnants of his old house. The roof sagged. The walls cracked. A cot had been placed where his bed once stood.
He sat. He didn't cry. Didn't speak. He just... stopped.
He stared at the shadows on the walls and let memory do what it would.
Later That Night – Sarah's Command Tent
Sanctuary's center buzzed with low energy—survivors settling near barrel fires, sharing rations, watching their children sleep. In the command tent, folding tables and lanterns lit the space. HK416 handed out food trays in quiet efficiency. 9 ran inventory. G11 dozed against a ration crate, occasionally jolting awake just long enough to pass someone a bowl.
UMP45 smirked from a support beam.
UMP45: "You know, this is wildly off-brand. Since when do we feed people without charging credits?"
Sarah (flat): "Just for tonight."
HK416 passed a tray to a boy no older than ten. The child clutched it like a lifeline.
HK416 (soft): "They need it more than we do."
Preston approached Sarah at the tent's edge, eyes sweeping the precision of the team—the way they moved, patrolled, the drone still overhead circling like a hawk.
Preston: "You're not mercs. You don't move like 'em. This—this is something else. What is The Division?"
Sarah didn't answer right away. Her gaze was fixed on the drone feed, still monitoring Concord. Then:
Sarah: "Tomorrow. You and Nate. I'll explain then."
She walked off before he could press further.
Behind her, Preston turned back to the campfire where Mama Murphy now sat, still murmuring about tunnels and echoes.
But for the first time in weeks, his people weren't dying. They weren't running.
They were breathing.
That Night – Nate's House
Nate lay on his side in the dark, the firelight outside flickering across his cracked walls. A photo frame sat nearby—shattered glass, warped paper, the image of a family distorted by time and water damage. Nora. Shaun. Himself.
Now, only ghosts.
Dogmeat lay beside him, soft whines coming with every breath, his body curled close.
Nate said nothing. But his hand rested lightly on the dog's head.
Outside, the wind creaked through the skeletons of Sanctuary.
The answers would come tomorrow.
But tonight... he could finally sleep.