--Taffington Boathouse – Nightfall --
The night air was still, broken only by the distant croak of bullfrogs on the water and the occasional rustle of leaves in the trees. The tall, sturdy walls of Taffington Boathouse settlement loomed in the moonlight, lanterns mounted at regular intervals bathing the perimeter in flickering yellow light. The Minutemen flag hung motionless on the wall by the main gate.
Then — a sudden, soft pop.
One of the guards patrolling the platform slumped forward, a dark hole blooming in his forehead before his body tumbled down to the ground below. Another pop, another sentry dropped. One by one, silent rifles cracked from the treeline, extinguishing the outer lights and the sentries who manned them. Darkness crept in.
The alarm rose too late.
From the shadows, figures in black uniforms scaled the outer walls. Camo face paint and gas masks glinting in the weak starlight. The Fourth Reich had come.
But the settlers weren't entirely unprepared.
Word of the Reich's cruelty had come from the four ragged prisoners who arrived earlier that day. While some dismissed it, the settlement's leader — Clint Maddox — had believed every word. He'd doubled the watch, ordered weapons checked, and quietly planned fallback points. It wasn't enough, but it gave them a chance.
The infiltrators breached the walls and chaos erupted. The Reich soldiers inside were met with a hail of bullets from settlers firing from the windows. Most of the infiltrators were cut down in seconds, several writhing on the ground before being finished by settlers' fire. A few managed to dive behind cover — barrels, crates, the shadow of a generator.
More settlers scrambled to the walls, crouching behind chest-high barricades and firing down into the darkness as more black-clad figures emerged from the tree line.
"They're everywhere!" one of the settlers shouted, frantically reloading.
The settlement leader, Clint , gritted his teeth as bullets whizzed past.
"We can't hold 'em!" someone yelled.
Clint Maddox made the call.
"Evacuate! Get the civilians out through the east gate! Now!" he bellowed, grabbing a battered combat rifle and leaping into the fight himself.
Inside, settlers grabbed what they could — weapons, supplies, children clutched by terrified parents. They fled toward the east gate, a narrow passage partially obscured by brush and debris.
The first settler through, a wiry man, shotgun in hand, crept into the dark. A younger man with a pistol followed close behind. A handful of others — unarmed, frightened — pressed behind them. Among them, two of the four escapees from earlier.
As they stepped into the clearing beyond the wall, gunfire erupted from the trees. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness as Reich soldiers in their dark uniforms and face masks emerged, cutting down the first two settlers before they could react. The unarmed settlers screamed and scattered, several falling as rounds ripped through them.
The last two prisoners from earlier were hit, their bodies dropping near the gate.
Back inside, Clint heard the gunfire and swore.
"They were waiting for us out there too…"
A final stand began, those unwilling to surrender taking cover and continuing to fire at the attackers. The battle dragged on for precious minutes, but it was hopeless. The Reich pressed forward, tossing makeshift grenades and pushing through the gaps in the wall.
By dawn, the battle was over.
A handful of settlers managed to escape into the dark, but many lay dead in the streets and fields of Taffington Boathouse. The bodies of those who fought hardest bore the most wounds.
The survivors were rounded up — those who resisted until the end executed on the spot. The rest were shackled and dragged toward the road, another line of prisoners in the Reich's growing chain.
The flag of the Minutemen was torn down, a black and red Reich banner raised in its place.
----------------------
The flickering lights of Medford Memorial Hospital cast long, sickly shadows along the now cleaned walls. Within what used to be a triage ward, now converted into the Reich's command post, the Obersturmführer stood over a table littered with maps and pre-war documents , of the Boston ,Commonwealth. The air smelled of oil , and old blood.
A soldier stepped through the entrance, his black uniform smudged with dirt and blood, the Reich insignia gleaming faintly in the lamplight. He snapped a sharp salute.
"Herr Obersturmführer , reporting from the operation on the local settlement."
Obersturmführer didn't look up immediately, marking a point on the map before gesturing for the man to speak.
"We've secured the settlement, Herr Obersturmführer. Two of the escapees were recovered — two dead during the fighting . The other two… are still missing . Our patrols are searching the area."
Obersturmführer's cold gaze finally met the soldier's.
"Losses?"
"Minimal. Acceptable casualties. The operation was a success. We've seized valuable resources — a functioning generator, weapons, food stores, and captured several of the locals alive. Some are already being… processed." The soldier's tone was clinical, dispassionate.
The Obersturmführer gave a slight nod, steepling his fingers.
"Good. The generator will be relocated here. Our engineers can rig it to restore full power to the building . Every advantage counts."
He leaned back, regarding the soldier.
"Is there anything else?"
The man hesitated, then spoke.
"Yes, Obersturmführer. Our scouts have located another settlement. According to preliminary reports, it's larger than Taffington — better fortified, more people. They couldn't approach too close without risking detection, but it appears to have defensive walls, sentry posts and what seem to be automated turrets."
Obersturmführer's brow furrowed in thought, a cruel smile flickering at the edge of his lips.
"I want full intelligence. Numbers, armament, vulnerabilities. No direct contact yet — tell the scouts to observe, chart patrol routes, and identify weak points. When we strike, it will be swift and absolute."
"Yes , Herr Obersturmführer." The soldier saluted, crisp and sharp, then turned and left.
--- Artyom and Pavel ---
Artyom was jolted awake by a firm hand shaking his shoulder. Instinct took over — his eyes snapping open, hand reaching for the rifle at his side. His heart pounded in his ears.
"Ho ho — easy there, Artyom, it's me!" Pavel's voice, low and edged with amusement, cut through the haze.
Blinking away sleep, Artyom took a breath, realizing it wasn't an enemy looming over him, but his older… and ever-questionable… comrade. The dim, gray light of dawn seeped through the broken window slats, painting long shadows across the dust-covered room.
He sat up slowly on the ruined mattress, rubbing his face.
"Damn it, Pavel… you nearly got yourself shot."
Pavel chuckled softly, slinging his pistol into its makeshift holster.
"Wouldn't be the first time someone tried. Sorry — but it's already morning, my friend. We need to move."
Artyom groaned quietly, pulling his rifle up and checking it by habit . The world outside was still unfamiliar, and every sound felt alien, too open compared to the crushing tunnels of Moscow's Metro.
"Where are we going?" Artyom asked, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and following Pavel as he stepped out into the hallway.
"Same direction as before. Away from the Reich, toward… somewhere safer. Trust me." Pavel replied, offering one of his lopsided grins.
Artyom frowned. He didn't trust Pavel — not entirely. He never had. But in this strange, ruined land, surrounded by unfamiliar dangers and no real allies, he didn't have many other choices either.
They carefully made their way down the crumbling staircase, the floorboards groaning under their weight. Outside, the world was painted in hues of pale orange and cold blue, the rising sun casting long, eerie shadows over the remains of the city.
Artyom paused as they stepped out, the fresh, clean air still feeling surreal compared to the choking, irradiated fumes of Moscow.
They moved cautiously, feet crunching against broken glass and scattered debris. The skeletal remains of cars sat rusting along the cracked road, their frames twisted and blackened by age. Artyom kept his rifle raised, eyes flicking between windows and alleyways, while Pavel mirrored him on the other side of the street, pistol gripped tightly, knife sheathed but within reach.
As they rounded a bend, the charred spire of a collapsed church came into view, its wooden doors hanging open, one barely clinging to rusted hinges. The faded remnants of stained glass glinted in the morning light, casting fractured, multicolored patches onto the street.
Pavel grunted, pointing with his pistol.
"There — by the church."
A low, guttural moan rolled out from the shadows. Then another. The hunched, shambling shapes of feral ghouls stumbled into view, skin sloughing from their bones, dead eyes locked forward. They sniffed the air like starving animals.
Pavel tensed.
"Shit… mutants. We need to find a way around."
But it was too late.
One of the ghouls raised its sunken face toward them, let out a wet, rattling screech, and broke into a lurching sprint. The others followed instantly, a wave of irradiated flesh and jagged claws.
"No time — drop them!" Pavel shouted, raising his pistol.
Artyom shouldered his rifle, breath steadying as he sighted the lead ghoul. A sharp crack rang out as he squeezed the trigger. The bullet punched through the creature's skull, sending it sprawling, but the others surged forward undeterred.
Pavel fired rapidly, the sharp cracks of his pistol echoing through the ruins. One ghoul fell with a bullet to the chest, but another was on him before he could fire again. With a curse, he drew his knife and plunged it into the creature's throat, twisting it free with a sickening wet sound.
"Artyom — move! Left!" Pavel barked, already backing toward the side of a burnt-out diner.
Artyom fired twice more, dropping another ghoul. Their numbers thinned, but the remaining two came on fast, claws swiping wildly. Artyom struck one with the butt of his rifle, sending it staggering, while Pavel tackled the other, wrestling it to the ground before driving his knife into its temple.
The last ghoul hissed, lunging at Artyom — but this time, Artyom didn't hesitate. He brought his rifle up, point-blank, and fired. The creature dropped lifeless at his feet.
Both men stood in the street, breathing hard, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the chaos.
Pavel wiped his knife clean on a scrap of cloth.
"Well… so much for a quiet morning."
Artyom gave him a grim look, lowering his rifle.
"How many more things like these roam this place?"
Pavel gave a dry chuckle, sheathing his knife.
"Probably enough to fill every tunnel back home . We'll be lucky if these are the worst we run into."
Artyom huffed out a humorless breath, shaking his head.
"Great."
They moved on, weapons at the ready, the ruined world stretching out before them.
------
They moved cautiously, the ruined brick buildings on either side casting jagged shadows, the looming highway overhead blocking out much of the daylight and leaving the street in a perpetual gloom. Every broken window, every rusted-out car felt like it was hiding something watching them.
Ahead, the street narrowed, and they ducked behind the skeletal remains of a rusted-out truck, its frame half-collapsed and overgrown with creeping vines.
About two hundred meters ahead, gathered around what might've once been a corner shop, a group of super mutants milled about. Their guttural voices carried down the street — cruel laughter, barked in that harsh, gravelly tongue. Around them, sharpened wooden spikes jutted from the ground, and several of those grotesque, blood-slick meat bags swung lazily from hooks and makeshift poles.
Pavel glanced at Artyom, his expression grim.
"No way, my friend," he muttered quietly, shaking his head. "We don't have the firepower to take on those bastards. We have to find a way around."
Artyom narrowed his eyes at the creatures in the distance, fingers tightening around his rifle's grip. For a second, the same thought itched at the back of his mind — how does Pavel know where they're even going? It wasn't the first time he seemed to know which direction to take .
He opened his mouth to ask, then stopped himself, knowing that he won't get an answer from Pavel .
"We use the alleys," Artyom suggested, his voice low.
Pavel nodded.
"Good plan. Opa ."
Staying low, they moved quickly toward the nearest alley, skirting piles of debris and rubble, careful to avoid loose metal and glass. The stench of rot hung heavy in the air, and the crumbling alley walls seemed to close in around them.
Eventually, the narrow path ended at a brick wall that blocked their way. Pavel clicked his tongue in frustration, then without a word, took a few steps back, sprinted, and vaulted up, gripping the edge and hauling himself onto the top.
He crouched there, glancing down.
"Give me your rifle."
Artyom passed his weapon up to Pavel, who secured it beside him, then Artyom backed up, mimicking Pavel's run-up and leaping to grab the edge of the wall. His muscles ached, the rough brick scraping his palms, but he managed to pull himself up.
For a brief moment, both of them lay against the brick wall, catching their breath. From here, they could see the street beyond — more ruined homes, half-toppled lampposts, and an old, rusted billboard they couldn't understand, one proclaiming a "Better Tomorrow with Vault-Tec!"
Pavel handed Artyom his rifle.
"Let's keep moving before something else appears. ."
Artyom gave a tight nod, following Pavel into another alleyway. The two of them disappeared into the maze of ruined streets, the echo of distant mutants and the ever-present threat of the Commonwealth chasing them with every step.
--- The Corridor towards Commonwealth---
Colonel Miller and his squad followed Ilya's team through the corridor, the rhythmic crunch of their boots echoing off the worn concrete walls. Every few meters, a single lightbulb hung from the ceiling by frayed cords, casting pools of dim, flickering light along the passage. It was narrow, humid, and smelled of damp earth and rust — like every other tunnel in the Metro — but there was something… different here. Cleaner. Maintained.
"Still can't believe this exists," Sam muttered under his breath, adjusting his gear.
They walked for what felt like hours, the monotony of the identical walls occasionally broken by side passages, all sealed tight with thick metal doors. Every so often, a Minuteman soldier in armor passed by, giving curt nods to Ilya's group.
Eventually, the corridor began to end giving way to a rough-cut stone passage. The walls showed signs of blasting, reinforced with metal support beams. And ahead, where the ancient Metro tunnel connected to a cavern, strange devices were attached to the rock walls — large, white and red machines with thick cables running along the ceiling and floor, pulsing softly with power.
Miller held up a hand, signaling the group to halt.
"What the hell are those?" he asked, eyeing the devices warily.
Ilya stepped forward, glancing at them.
"Some kind of scanners or something like that . From what I've been told, they detect fluctuations in radiation, pressure changes… and something else."
"Something else?" Anna raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah," Ilya said with a shrug. "Minutemen scientists are studying this place. The connection between the Metro and the Commonwealth. No one really knows how it's possible — this passage shouldn't exist. They say it defies every map and geological record."
Miller exchanged a glance with Sam and Stepan.
"And you trust them?"
"We've had no reason not to," Ilya answered plainly. "Without them, our people would be starving or dead from sickness."
There was nothing else to say. Miller gave a short grunt of acknowledgment and motioned for them to move on.
They stepped past the strange devices, the air growing fresher as they left the narrow tunnel behind. Ahead, the cavern opened up wider, and far in the distance, they could see the faint glow of artificial lights.
"We're close now," Ilya said. "The checkpoint's ahead."
The group walked in silence, the tunnel ahead illuminated by a string of lightbulbs hanging from thick cables bolted to the rough stone ceiling. The air grew cooler as they moved, the stale, metallic scent of the Metro gradually replaced by the sharp bite of night air seeping down from the surface.
Up ahead, the end of the tunnel came into view — not the blinding daylight they half expected, but the dim, silvery-blue sheen of nighttime beyond the cavern mouth. Electric floodlights on poles and mounted spotlights cast long shadows against the rough rock walls, while the unmistakable silhouette of fortifications loomed ahead.
Around the entrance, a crude yet sturdy defensive line had been constructed. Metal sheets, scrap-plated barricades, and sandbag emplacements formed a perimeter. A pair of large shipping containers had been hauled into place, repurposed as makeshift barracks . A fire burned in a steel drum near one of them, illuminating a small group of armed figures huddled around it.
It was clear this was no ordinary checkpoint.
The guards here were a mix — some in patchwork combat gear familiar to the Metro dwellers, others in more uniformed attire belonging to the Minutemen.
As the squad approached, one of the soldiers standing watch noticed them. From his appearance — a Metro man, though kitted out in sturdier combat gear clearly supplied by the Minutemen — he stepped forward quickly, his rifle slung over his shoulder.
He recognized Ilya immediately, giving a crisp salute.
"Sir, wasn't expecting you back so soon," the soldier said .
"We're passing through," Ilya replied. "These people are from the Order. Official business."
The soldier's gaze shifted to Colonel Miller and the others, his expression curious but cautious. After a moment, he gave a short nod.
"Understood. I'll let the others know." He turned back toward the checkpoint's fortifications, raising a hand in signal.
Within moments, the heavy metal gates creaked open, pushed aside by a pair of watchmen. The sound of the night — distant insects, the crackle of the fire, and the wind whispering through the trees .
The world outside was dark, the night sky overcast but visibly open, with no oppressive ceiling of concrete above. Even under the cover of night, it was a disorienting, alien sight for those beneath the streets of Moscow.
No one spoke as they crossed through the gates .
"We'll head to the Sanctuary Hill," Ilya said, his voice steady as he gestured toward a path leading up the rocky hill.
--- Sanctuary Hill ---
After a long, cautious trek through the rocky terrain, the group finally approached their destination.
Sanctuary Hills.
Even at night, it was a sight none of them expected to witness on the surface. Bright electric lights cut through the darkness, illuminating streets lined with restored homes and solid defenses encircling the perimeter. Well-paved roads stretched out from the town center, and structures of metal and pre-war concrete stood proudly beside new constructions of clean timber and stone.
Colonel Miller and his Spartans slowed instinctively as they reached the old bridge leading to Sanctuary's gates. His sharp, battle-hardened gaze swept across the scene — fortified walls, watchtowers, thriving crops beneath electric lamps, and people moving with purpose even at this hour.
"Incredible…" Stepan muttered under his breath.
"A real town… after everything…" Sam added, his voice low with disbelief and quiet awe.
Even Anna, hardened as she was, couldn't stop her eyes from roaming the sight before them. This was something none of them thought possible on the surface.
"Alright, stay sharp," Miller grunted, regaining his edge. "We're not tourists."
As they approached the entrance, a pair of Minutemen soldiers stepped forward, their uniforms crisp, bearing a symbol utterly foreign to the Spartans. One of them eyed the newcomers warily before his gaze settled on Ilya.
" Ilya ! Who are they , someone else from the metro ?" the guard asked, his voice steady but cautious.
Ilya, his English thick with a Russian accent but understandable, gave a firm nod. "Yes. They… want to speak with the General."
The guard looked at Miller and his group then exchanged a glance with his partner, he gave a nod of his own. "Alright. I will send someone to inform General Ward . I will escort you to the command center. Follow me."
They were led through the bustling heart of Sanctuary, past courtyards where Minutemen drilled under the glow of lamps, past a gleaming communications tower that hummed in the night air. The group exchanged glances, the weight of what they were seeing settling in their chests. This wasn't just a settlement— this was a city .
Araving at the command center , they were guided into the briefing room. A few minutes later, the door opened, and a man in a sharp, well-kept uniform stepped inside, confidence in every line of his posture.
"General Ward," the Minutemen introduced him before stepping aside.
Ward took a seat at the head of the briefing table, fingers steepled.
"I hear you've come a long way," he began, his voice professional and steady. "What's your business with the Commonwealth?"
Sam took a step forward, ready to translate, but Miller raised a hand to stop him.
"I speak English," Miller said, his tone firm, accented but clear.
The room stilled.
"I am Colonel Miller of the Spartan Order. We came because the Red Line and the Fourth Reich have cut themselves off from the rest of the Metro. My man — Artyom — was taken by the Reich. Ilya said that the Red line attacked one of your caravans , and if they are here , i believe the Reich is as well."
Ward's expression hardened, leaning forward.
" I want you to tell me more about the Red line and this fourth Reich . We have some information from Ilya and other's but because they are some what disconnected from the rest of the metro, they don't know much."
That was when a Minuteman radio operator burst into the room, panting.
"General—sir!"
Ward snapped his head toward him. "What is it?"
"Distress call, sir. From Taffington Boathouse. It's under attack." The operator held out a scrap of paper, reading quickly. "Short message — attackers in black uniforms. Coordonated and well equipped."
The room went deathly quiet.
General Ward looked at a map of the commonwealth on his pipboy and said " the settlements it's to far from the area where we encountered the Red line soldiers and the uniform's don't match . So , it might not be them."
Miller's jaw clenched. Sam's face darkened. Anna's hands tightened into fists.
"Reich," Miller growled.
Ward didn't hesitate.
His expression grim, he turned to Miller and spoke . "Before we move on them, I need to know what we're dealing with. Tell me everything about this Fourth Reich — and the Red Line. I won't have my people fighting an enemy we don't understand."
Miller gave a curt nod. "Understood."
Ward then turned his gaze to the radio operator. "Warn every settlement near Taffington and along that area . I want every patrol on high alert.
The operator straightened, saluting. "Yes, sir!" He turned and sprinted out the door, already shouting into his headset.
Ward's attention returned to Miller, his voice low but urgent. "Now… let's start talking."