Elder Maxson POV – Boston Airport Command Deck
The wind outside howled against the Prydwen's hardpoints — the kind of deep, metallic resonance that only came from winter storms off the Atlantic.
December.
The Commonwealth was starting to freeze.
Minutemen patrols were hunkered down in settlements and bunkers, conserving heat, conserving ammo.Meanwhile — his men could still move.
Because Minutemen farms had supplied the Brotherhood before the freeze hit.
And because the Brotherhood's agricultural reclamation array — the tech they shared — boosted crop yield by 28% on every settlement that adopted it.
A mutual benefit.
A truce — with Sierra.
Maxson hated how much that mattered now.
He stood near the logistics map table, armored gloves behind his back, staring down at the last week's supply ledger.
Food crate manifests.Left side — before winter.Right side — current rations remaining.
Large red circles were marked by the scribes.
Missing stock.
Food. Only food.
Not ammo.Not fusion cells.Not components.
Food.
This was not some Raider smash-and-grab.Raiders would've taken everything they could lift.
This was selective.Targeted.
Sabotage.
His jaw clenched.
He wanted to blame the Minutemen — as he always had, instinctively — the militia were undisciplined, scattered, sentimental.
But this made no sense for them.
Sierra would gain nothing. In fact, she'd lose supply leverage.
He forced himself to admit it — even quietly in his own mind:
This wasn't her.
Kell cleared his throat.
Kell: "Elder. We've re-checked all manifests. The missing crates were all food. Nothing else. No tampering signs on locks or manifests. The thieves knew what to take and when."
Maxson didn't respond right away.
His pride dug its claws in.
He hated what he was about to do.
He turned to Kell finally:
Maxson: "Send for Knight Rhys. And Scribe Haylen as well."
Kell blinked. "Sir?"
Maxson's tone was sharp — but there was steel behind it.
Maxson:"Tell them both this is not some recon exercise.We are going to Commander Sierra.We'll ask for assistance."
Kell hesitated.
Kell: "After all… our last meeting ended with… tension."
Maxson's eyes narrowed.
Maxson:"I don't like her methods.I don't like her Dolls.And I certainly don't like needing her."
He paused — a bitter taste in his mouth.
Maxson:"But this is sabotage. Someone wants the Brotherhood weakened through its stomach — and starving soldiers don't fight well. Whoever did this knows logistics. Knows our cycles. Knows when patrols rotate."
Maxson:"If the Institute is probing our resilience through winter — I intend to know. Now. Before spring."
Kell nodded stiffly.
Kell:"Yes, Elder. I'll notify Rys and Haylen immediately."
Maxson turned toward the frosted viewport — the Prydwen looming over the airport like a silent winter colossus.
He hated this.
He hated that he needed the Division.Needed Sierra.Needed her data and her infuriating restraint and those damn Dolls.
But his responsibility was larger than pride.
Steel. Duty. Survival.
Castle — Command Room, Late Morning
A thin dusting of snow still clung to the outer ramparts as Scribe Haylen's voice crackled through the radio and into the Castle's command room. He sat hunched over a console, the Prydwen's transmission still warm on the intake.
Scribe Haylen (over comm): "Commander Sierra — Elder Maxson requested we pass this manifest. He wants an explanation for irregular ration draws tied to the Minutemen shipments."
Haylen stepped forward, handing a rolled transcript across the table. Knight Rys and Paladin Danse stood nearby, silent as statues; General Nate listened closely, brow furrowed.
Sarah skimmed the manifest, lips compressed. Lines of numbers and crate IDs scrolled in her mind until one detail snapped into focus.
Sarah (flat): "This is odd. These manifests show an extra ten-family allotment on every delivery that hit Brotherhood depots the past three resupply rotations."
Rys made a sound that was almost a groan.Knight Rys: "That can't be clerical error. Maxson's logistics are clean — someone knew exactly what to take."
Paladin Danse: "If true, then someone's siphoning food intentionally. That's sabotage."
Haylen's eyes darted. "We traced the manifests back to the collection nodes — the Minutemen recorded the transfers correctly. The discrepancy shows up only after Brotherhood intake."
Sarah folded the paper, then looked up with the hard patience of a commander used to ugly problems.
Sarah: "I can't just march into the Prydwen and run their logistics by myself. I'll need eyes inside their chain that won't spook their soldiers."
Rys' skepticism was immediate.Knight Rys: "You'd send a Doll into the Brotherhood's larders? She'd be shot on sight the moment she steps past their guard lines."
Haylen nodded. "They won't trust anything unvetted — not without the Elder present."
Nate moved before Sarah could answer, voice even.
General Nate: "I can go. A Minuteman with the proper orders and a calm approach won't be hostile. I'll speak to Kell directly."
Sarah considered, jaw working. Then she smiled — only the corners of her mouth — and a faint, dangerous amusement warmed her tone.
Sarah: "A high-ranking Minuteman walking the Prydwen with a single Doll as escort? That's… workable."
She slammed her palm against the table and called, loud enough to carry down the corridor.
Sarah: "GRIZZLY MKV — report!"
A light clank echoed through the doorway. Grizzly MKV appeared, hauling a battered T-45 frame painted in Minutemen colors across her shoulders like a child carrying a doll. The power armor's bulk made her slender servos whine, but she moved with the practiced composure of an asset used to impossible tasks.
Grizzly MKV (saluting): "Yes, Commander. You summoned?"
Sarah pointed at the armor and then at Nate.
Sarah: "You're going to don that frame and act like Minutemen escort. Nate, you'll be the lawful authority. Grizzly, you'll be the silent observer — no fire unless I give the order. Haylen, you ride the comm and feed us any logistics chatter you pull from Prydwen channels."
Haylen's recorder chirped affirmative. Rys' jaw loosened into a tight nod. Danse's hands tightened around his rifle; he didn't like the plan, but he respected the calculus.
Boston Airport – Logistics Deck
Kell didn't waste time with pleasantries.
Kell: "General. I shall skip the pleasentries, Report to Logistics. We have missing goods. And Elder wants answers."
Nate nodded once — tight, professional — and Grizzly MKV lumbered behind him in Minutemen-painted T-45, servos humming.
Knight-Sergeant Gavil was first contact — and predictably territorial.
Gavil (brusque): "Don't look at me. We don't need witch-hunts in my section. If you want suspects, talk to the new blood. Knights Lucia and Initiate Clarke. Everyone else is off-limits — Elder's orders."
He practically shoved them toward the small side office where Lucia worked.
Knight Lucia's Desk
Lucia looked up from her datapad, startled.
Lucia: "Missing goods? I— I only handle intake stamps. Clarke handles outbound prep."
Clarke shifted in his chair, eyes down, hands trembling just enough for trained eyes to catch it.
Clarke (too quick): "I'll be right back. Need a smoke."
He grabbed his jacket and slipped out the side door.
Nate continued questioning Lucia — but Rys' eyes narrowed.
Knight Rys (quiet, to Grizzly): "Clarke's acting off."
Grizzly's visor dipped once in acknowledgment. Her armor however — even with Minutemen paint — still had that T-45 hydraulic growl. Too loud to tail someone quietly.
Rys: "Damn. Your armor's going to give us away."
Without hesitation Grizzly popped her seals and stepped out of the frame — mechanical elegance collapsing down to her real height — body lithe and silent like a cat.
Rys nearly flinched.
Rys: "Are you insane? If they see you out of that suit—"
Grizzly smiled like she'd done this a thousand times.
Grizzly (soft): "Clarke's already too far ahead to look back. And no one checks this corridor. General can deal with the paperwork later."
She slipped into the shadows — a doll built for espionage, not parade stance.
Rys followed — grumbling — but cautious.
Tail Route – Ruins Entrance
They tracked Clarke through a maintenance alcove, then into the ruined exterior concourse — an exposed skeleton of Boston Airport pre-war storefronts.
Clarke moved like a man who knew the way.
Rys whispered:
Knight Rys: "…He's not going for a smoke."
Grizzly stopped them with a palm up gesture — then pointed forward.
Ahead — half-buried under fallen concrete — was a recess hatch into the ruins beneath the airport.
Clarke paused — checked if he was alone — then descended inside.
Rys got his pistol out, jaw tight.
And the two of them did not back off.
They pushed forward — deeper.
Grizzly moved silent on soft boots. Rys moved behind her — pistol drawn, jaw clenched, breath slow.
They tracked Clarke down the disabled escalator shaft into the lower concourse — a place the Brotherhood never listed on official access maps.
Clarke reached the far hallway, glanced around once, then slipped into an elevator alcove.
Rys hurried to catch the elevator doors — but they snapped shut before he could reach them. The panel flashed ACCESS LOCKED – ID REQUIRED.
Rys hissed a curse under his breath.
Rys: "…he had clearance. That elevator needs an officer keycard."
Grizzly: "Then we take the stairs. Come."
They moved to the emergency stairwell. Rusted — unlit — but open.
Down one level.
Down two more.
Moist air. Dripping concrete. Old blackout signs. And then — an access corridor with a busted light flickering like a dying pulse.
In a side room — left door, half collapsed — they found him.
Knight Rylan.
Half torn apart. Armor raked open. Holotag dangling.
Rys froze — all tough attitude gone in an instant. He kneeled — steady hands — and pulled the holotag, thumb brushing the engraved name once before pocketing it.
Grizzly watched his face, voice soft but level:
Grizzly: "Friend of yours? …my condolences."
Rys didn't look up.
Rys (low): "He was a good Knight. Took his oath seriously…"
He leaned closer.
Teared flesh — not cut. Not burned.
Rys: "…this wasn't a weapon strike. This is… animal. Something ripped him apart."
Before Grizzly could reply —
— a howl echoed down the tunnel.
Wet. Ferals.
Another one answered it.
Then the unmistakable scrape-shamble of multiple bodies dragging forward in the dark.
Grizzly slid her sidearm free, smooth as ritual, stance shifting to a predator's balance.
Grizzly (dry): "Well… guess we know what happened to your Knight buddy."
She flicked her optic lens to combat mode — faint brown glow in the dark.
Rys raised his pistol beside her, anger replacing grief.
The stairwell spat them out into a dim, flooded service corridor. The air tasted of rust and old things. At the end of the tunnel a hulking concrete gate sealed off the flooded passage; the only way through was a ramp to the right and a long, crumbling stairwell that led down into an underground parking garage. They picked their way across the sludge, slid between smashed cars and up the other side, then followed the service tunnel into a subway throat that hummed with long-dead power.
Past the next platform they ducked into the luggage terminal — a low, echoing hall half-choked with filth and the silence of the long-dead. The reek of feral ghouls hit them like a wall. Grizzly thumbed her optic to low-light; Rys tightened his grip on his pistol.
They kept moving, following the spoor until they reached the room Clarke was in — a maintenance alcove above the generator room. From there they could see the hatch that led down. The metal ladder was slick with algae and something darker. Below, the generator room pulsed with faint light and the soft, wet breathing of things.
Clarke stood in the doorway, paint on his sleeves and an empty tin in his hand. When he saw them he startled.
Clarke: "Huh? Who's there?"
He blinked at the sight of a Doll and a Knight.
Clarke (too quick): "What are you two doing here?"
Rys: "We were sent to investigate missing supplies from the Minutemen. You were marked as last person to clear the outbound manifest. Where've you been?"
Clarke's face drained an inch of color. He tried to laugh it off.
Clarke: "Dammit — I thought I was careful. Someone was bound to find out eventually. I can't keep this forever."
Rys (flat): "So you stole the supplies."
Clarke (hurried): "Yes. I'm with logistics — nobody suspects me when I pull some out of the terminal. At night I've been bringing food down here to feed the ghouls. So far it's working."
Grizzly cocked her head, puzzled. "You feed feral ghouls? If they're feral that's—"
Clarke (voice tightening): "Not all of them are mindless. Not the ones I found. I had a friend who turned — he's still… there, but he's still him. The Brotherhood calls ghouls abominations. They hunt them all down. Would you kill a man because of what he is?"
Rys's expression didn't soften.
Rys: "If he's feral, he's a threat."
Grizzly: "If feral, yes."
Clarke's breath hitched. He backed away a step as if the confession cost him something.
Clarke (broken): "I joined the Brotherhood two years ago. I believed. I followed orders. But during the airport battle… the ghouls swarmed. They kept coming. I lost count of how many I killed. Later, when they fled underground, I couldn't— I couldn't just keep killing them. So I brought food. Maybe if they stay down here, there won't be more slaughter. Isn't that better? Do you think I did the right thing?"
Grizzly's face was unreadable. Rys stared at Clarke, the oath in his eyes like a blade.
Grizzly (soft): "You did what felt right. But I'm not the one to say it was… correct."
Rys (after a long moment): "I'm sorry. The ghouls are too dangerous to leave here."
Clarke flinched, then shook his head with stubbornness.
Clarke: "No. I can't let the Brotherhood come down here and slaughter them again."
Before the argument could twist further, Grizzly's hand dipped into a pouch at her belt and pulled out a small, water-smudged holo-tag — the one they'd taken from Knight Rylan's body.
She held it up. "Wait. The holotag we found. You know this one?"
Clarke paled and his eyes darted wildly. "Where did you get that? I—"
Grizzly:"It also include a note stated it was (if anyone finds this, don't trust Clarke with the manifest— taking crates south) the rest covered in blood"
Clarke crouched, the color draining from his face. He opened his mouth and closed it again.
Rys's tone snapped from quiet to hard. "Explain why Rylan was in that corridor and the note mention your name."
Clarke swallowed, voice small, propped on panic and whatever was left of principle. "I… I didn't mean for him to die. He followed me down once. I— I told him to leave. He kept coming. He slipped — he was pulled into the ghouls. I heard him scream. I tried to help but I couldn't. He… I couldn't—"
A low, wet howl answered from below, close enough now to set Grizzly's sensors buzzing. Rys's jaw clenched; Grizzly holstered the holotag.
Grizzly (level): "Whether you meant it or not, people died. Right now your priority is the living. We can't open that hatch — you heard the generator room. If we go down there we'll run out of ammo and we'll all die."
Clarke's hands trembled. "Then what? If I turn myself in they'll hang me. They'll call me traitor."
Rys's voice lost none of its severeness but carried something softer underneath — the weight of someone caught between law and mercy.
Rys: "You're coming with us. We'll take you back for questioning. You cooperate, you tell the truth about who else knew, and we'll bring your case up high. I can't promise forgiveness, but I can promise you won't be left down here as bait."
Prydwen – Elder Maxson's Ops Deck (Revised)
Kell stood at parade rest while Maxson read the brief. Outside the starboard glass, a Minutemen-painted vertibird peeled away toward the west — General Nate aboard — returning to the Castle.
Maxson watched it go for a moment, jaw tight.
Maxson: "…so Clarke was the thief. And he did it to feed ferals?"
Kell: "Yes, Elder. Knight Rys and the Doll confirmed it. The ghouls were contained in the old airport substructures."
Maxson folded the report, expression unreadable. Not anger—something colder, a calculation.
Maxson: "Cambridge Police Station. He is to be held there. Confinement — not execution. We will not waste a Knight on a gallows while the Institute still breathes."
Kell: "Understood. Clarke is in transit. Secure and alive."
Maxson: "And the supplies?"
Kell: "Recovered. Most of it. Some crates were ruined—eaten by the ferals—but the majority is back in inventory."
Maxson inclined his head. That was acceptable.
Kell then dropped the part of the report that caught Maxson's attention: the field test.
Kell: "The prototype pacification grenade performed beyond expectations. It calmed and incapacitated feral ghouls and even reduced aggression in a small supermutant sample long enough for retrieval."
A thin smile — almost a scar — crossed Maxson's face. He sat forward, fingers steepled.
Maxson: "Good. That's a powerful capability. But listen carefully: it will be used only against feral ghouls and hostile supermutants—targets that pose an active threat to Brotherhood operations or civilian life."
He tapped the holo-table to emphasize the point.
Maxson: "We will not deploy it against non-hostile ghoul communities — settlements like The Slog are off-limits. We won't weaponize this and turn neighbors into enemies. I refuse to give the Minutemen or any other ally cause to believe the Brotherhood massacres noncombatants or peaceful communities."
Kell (relieved): "A prudent directive, Elder. That will prevent unnecessary escalation with local groups."
Maxson: "Exactly. We wield power to secure, not to savage. Log the device as operational under restricted use. Forward protocol updates to Proctor Quinlan and Scribe Neriah. If Nate and Sierra keep funneling surplus, we'll coordinate deployment—and vet each strike through command."
He tapped the holotable one last time, then rose.
Maxson (quietly): "The Institute war comes with its own shades of gray. We will not paint ourselves black when there is room for restraint."