Morning light broke over the Commonwealth, pale and gray, the sun struggling to cut through the mist rising from the wasteland.
Inside the Sanctuary command center, the final plans had been laid out. After hours of briefing and pouring over maps through the night, General Ward now had a clearer picture of the enemy lurking on his territory — and he wasn't about to face them unprepared.
Ward stood by the makeshift landing pad near the town's outskirts, the Minutemen's lone Vertibird idling nearby, its engines rumbling softly. Beside him stood two of his soldiers — both armored in combat gear, weapons slung and ready.
Moments later, Colonel Miller approached with three of his Spartans: Anna, Stepan and Idiot . Their faces were drawn and tired, but their eyes remained sharp, determined.
As they neared the landing pad, all four of them slowed, their gazes locking onto the Vertibird. The massive, angular craft loomed over the clearing, its dark hull gleaming under the morning light, rotors slicing lazily through the mist.
"Incredible…" Stepan muttered, awe clear in his voice. "I've never seen one like this. Not since… before."
"I don't think anyone's flown in something like this back home in decades," Idiot added, shaking his head slowly. "Most of the old birds we found in Moscow were wrecks, buried or rusted through."
Miller's expression softened just a little, a distant glint in his eye. "Last time I was in a helicopter , was during the war, before the bombs fell. Mi-8 transport. "
Anna folded her arms, glancing at the aircraft with something like curiosity.
The group stood silently for a moment, watching the Vertibird's rotors turn as the pilot ran final checks.
Ward turned to them as they neared. "We'll head out first, recon the area near Taffington Boathouse, see what we're dealing with. I don't like charging in blind, and I don't intend to risk more lives than I have to."
He gestured toward the Vertibird. "This is our only bird. The Brotherhood helped us repair one ."
Before the time to depart came , Ward had sent radio transmissions to the nearby settlements — Sunshine Tidings, Tenpines Bluff, and Abernathy Farm — requesting small detachments of soldiers from each location. Just enough to support without leaving any place dangerously undefended. They were ordered to rally at a predesignated clearing south of Taffington, where they'd link up with the General's team after the initial recon.
Colonel Miller nodded . " the others will meet us later," he told him . "They will be moving with your soldiers, linking up with us there .
Ward cast a look toward the horizon as the wind picked up. "We move fast, we move careful. Once we've scouted the area, we'll decide whether to strike directly or use different tactics ."
Miller gave a grim nod. "Understood. We'll watch your backs."
"Good," Ward replied, climbing aboard the Vertibird. The others followed, weapons checked and ready, as the pilot gave the signal.
The rotors roared to life, lifting them into the misty morning sky, heading east toward whatever awaited them at Taffington Boathouse.
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Inside the troop compartment, the steady thrum of the rotors filled the cabin. Even with safety straps securing them to the bench seats along the walls, Anna, Stepan, and Idiot gripped the edges of their chairs with white-knuckled hands. The unnatural sensation of being lifted into the sky, weightless yet violently rattled by turbulence, was something none of them were prepared for.
Anna's jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the metal floor beneath her boots. "I don't like this," she muttered under her breath.
Stepan gave a nervous, breathless chuckle. "Feels like the whole sky's trying to shake us loose."
Idiot — the broad, often lighthearted Spartan — clung to his harness, his expression uncharacteristically grim. "I was better off underground," he grunted.
Miller, seated across from them, watched with a small, knowing smirk. He'd spent enough time in aircraft during the old wars to know what it felt like — though even he couldn't deny how strange it was to be airborne again after so long. He glanced toward General Ward, who sat calmly beside the Minutemen soldiers , eyes sharp and focused.
Within minutes, the Vertibird dipped lower, circling toward a clearing near the designated rendezvous. The pilot's voice crackled through the internal speakers.
"Approaching LZ. Hold tight."
The craft shuddered as it descended, kicking up a cloud of dust and dead leaves. With a final jolt, it touched down on uneven ground.
"Move!" Ward barked, unstrapping his harness and grabbing his rifle.
The Spartans followed, eager to be on solid ground again. As soon as everyone was clear of the landing zone, the Vertibird's engines surged and it lifted away, banking toward a nearby settlement where it could land safely and remain on standby for extraction.
Ward didn't waste a second.
"This way," he ordered, motioning them forward.
The group moved quickly across the open terrain, keeping low as they approached the crumbling remains of a pre-war ruin — shattered stone walls, rusted cars, and collapsed roofs offering modest cover. The sound of the Vertibird's rotors faded into the distance, leaving only the wind and the distant caw of a crow.
Miller crouched behind a cracked concrete barrier, scanning the horizon through his scope , then spoke to General Ward. " If the Reich's out here… we'll should see signs of them soon enough."
General Ward raised a clenched fist, signaling the team to hold. His sharp gaze swept across the overgrown terrain and crumbling structures ahead. The only sounds were the rustle of wind through shattered windows and the distant caw of a scavenger bird.
After a long, tense moment, he lowered his hand.
"Area's clear," Ward murmured to Miller. "We move quietly, find an overwatch position."
Miller nodded and turned to his people, speaking low in Russian.
"It's clear. Move quietly , we are to follow him "
Anna, Stepan, and Idiot gave curt nods, reading the urgency in Miller's tone. The two minutemen soldiers took up positions alongside General Ward, weapons at the ready, nerves sharp.
The team slipped through the decayed landscape, hugging the cover of rusted vehicles, fallen lamp posts, and the shattered remnants of old homes. Their advance was methodical, the seasoned warriors of the Metro adapting seamlessly to the Commonwealth's ruined surface.
After several tense minutes, they reached a vantage point — a rise of broken stone and dirt overlooking the Taffington Boathouse settlement. What they saw made the air grow colder.
The settlement's sturdy walls were still standing, but now bore the crude, red-and-black flags of the Fourth Reich. The Minutemen banner had been torn down, its remains tossed in a heap near a pile of corpses just beyond the perimeter. The bodies were fresh — settlers, some still wearing Minutemen insignia.
Within the walls, the scene was no better.
Dozens of settlers and captives — some likely taken from nearby farms — were being worked like animals. Under the watch of armed Reich soldiers, they carried crates of supplies, tools, and scrap out of the settlement, toward the distant treeline. A grim efficiency marked the operation. The captives looked ragged, faces hollow, while the Reich soldiers moved with military precision.
General Ward swore under his breath.
"Damn it…"
Miller raised his rifle , his own gaze narrowing as he peered through it's scope .
"It's strange…" he muttered in a low voice, almost to himself.
Ward glanced over. "What is?"
Miller's face was like stone.
"The Reich… they don't usually use slave labor." He gestured subtly toward the captives. "Anyone they deem a 'mutant' , anyone not like them — they execute. Always. No exceptions. This…" he shook his head, his voice cold. "This isn't normal for them ."
Ward gave a tight nod.
"Right. Binoculars out. Eyes on everything — numbers, weapons, supply routes. Anything we can use later."
The team settled into cover, Ward and his two Minutemen using binoculars while Miller and his Spartans used their rifle scopes. They scanned the perimeter, noting guard positions, patrol patterns, heavy weapons placements, and the route the Reich patrols were using to move the captured supplies.
Stepan, watching through his scope, muttered something in Russian. Miller translated for Ward.
"He says they've got a sniper post in the attick of the house . Good eyes."
Ward gritted his teeth.
"They're not just scavenging. They're fortifying."
The group stayed low, watching as the prisoners stumbled under the weight of salvaged resources, Reich officers barking orders in a cruel, guttural tone.
"Look," one of the soldiers pointed out . "That's a long supply trail. Leads north-east ."
Ward made a mental note, keeping his binoculars steady.
"Got it. We'll mark it for later."
The minutes dragged by as they recorded everything they could — numbers, positions, weapon types, prisoner count, and the likely direction of enemy reinforcements.
"Alright," Ward finally said, pulling back. "We've seen enough here . Let's move before someone spots us."
Miller relayed the command in Russian, the Spartans silently nodding. One by one, they withdrew from their vantage point, slipping back into the ruins.
After quietly abandoning their vantage point, the group moved swiftly into the cover of a nearby ruined house, its collapsed walls and sagging roof offering just enough concealment to shield them from the eyes of the Reich patrols and of the sniper .
General Ward crouched low behind a broken window frame, scanning the treeline ahead.
"We follow the captives ," he whispered.
"See where they're moving those supplies."
Miller relayed the order in Russian to Anna, Stepan, and Idiot. The Spartans nodded, grim-faced and alert, their weapons held ready.
The group slipped out of the ruined house, one by one, using the dense foliage, crumbling stone walls, rusted-out husks of pre-war vehicles, and overgrown shrubs to conceal their approach. The ground was soft underfoot, covered in damp leaves and ash-gray dust — perfect for moving silently.
They kept their distance, careful not to get too close to the column of enslaved people being forced to drag carts and bundles of salvaged equipment. Reich soldiers marched alongside them, rifles slung, keeping the prisoners moving with sharp barks and occasional strikes with rifle butts.
Anna tapped Miller on the shoulder, pointing toward a line of low ruins ahead. Miller gave a sharp nod. They moved to it, pausing briefly behind a broken stone fence as one of the guards scanned the area lazily.
When the moment was right, they darted forward, keeping to cover, slipping between the shadows of trees and behind rusted street signs long overtaken by creeping vines.
The column trudged along the broken concrete road . The group followed cautiously, sticking to the ruins and dense undergrowth along the roadside.
After twenty tense minutes of tailing the column, the true destination revealed itself — the towering, battered silhouette of Medford Memorial Hospital. Even in its ruined state, the building's blocky, brutalist form loomed over the surrounding wasteland like a silent sentinel.
But this was no abandoned ruin.
Reich banners hung from shattered windows. Makeshift fortifications surrounded the lower levels — sandbags, barbed wire, and gun emplacements. Watchtowers constructed from scrap overlooked every approach, and patrols moved along the perimeter. They'd turned the old hospital and the area around it into a fortress.
General Ward scowled, raising his binoculars.
"Medford Memorial," he muttered.
Miller adjusted his rifle scope, surveying the defenses.
"They've dug in. It's more than an outpost… this is a forward command post."
Anna peered through her scope, her expression darkening as she spotted more slaves being forced through the barricades.
Ward gave a long, grim sigh.
" We'll continue gathering as much information we can , until the main force arrives ."
--- Medford Memorial Hospital ---
Inside the dimly lit upper office of Medford Memorial Hospital, converted into a command post, Obersturmführer stood at a scavenged desk with a map of the commonwealth and different documents on it . The room's light's having been repaired by fourth Reich engineers, a Reich banner draped along the far wall.
The door opened sharply, and two Reich officers stepped inside, snapping to attention.
"Report," Obersturmführer ordered, not looking up from the map.
The first officer stepped forward, his uniform streaked with dust and dried blood.
"The settlement at the lakeside has been secured, Herr Obersturmführer . We've begun stripping it for anything of value. The labor force is moving supplies to our position as we speak." He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "We captured one of their guards alive. After a little… persuasion, he confirmed the settlement belonged to a local military force they call themselves 'Minutemen.'"
Obersturmführer's gaze finally lifted, eyes narrowing.
"Minutemen." The word was foreign, unpleasant on his tongue.
"And what do we know of them?"
" Limited details, sir. The prisoner claimed they were once little more than scattered militias, but under a leader named General Ward, they've consolidated into a military force." The officer took a breath. "They've organized trade routes between settlements, secured roads, and reportedly possess soldiers in power armor. Their numbers aren't clear, but the man claimed they've grown significantly in recent months."
Obersturmführer's eyes narrowed.
"And how reliable is this information?"
"It's fragmented, Herr Obersturmführer. The guard was likely unaware of the full scope of their strength or strategic holdings."
Obersturmführer gave a cold smirk.
"Even so. It seems the surface rats have grown bolder." He made a mark on the map, his gloved finger tracing a line through the nearby territories. "All the better. We'll break them before they realize the storm is upon them."
He waved the officer aside and gestured to the second man.
"Your report."
The other officer stepped forward, a sheaf of notes in hand.
"Progress continues on the special project, Herr Obersturmführer . We've successfully integrated several key components acquired from the Commonwealth machines and have begun reinforcing the primary frame." He glanced down at the paper. "Field tests on the drive system are scheduled begin soon."
Obersturmführer raised an eyebrow.
"And the specialists? Any issues?"
"None, sir. Our engineers report the integration of this world's systems is proceeding ahead of schedule. Once final armament is mounted, it will be operational."
A thin, predatory smile crossed Obersturmführer's face.
"Good. The wasteland will soon learn what true power looks like."
He let the statement hang in the air for a moment before waving them both out.
"Return to your duties."
The officers saluted sharply and left, the heavy door thudding shut behind them.
--Near the Medford Memorial Hospital--
General Ward, Colonel Miller, and their small recon team moved cautiously, sticking to the cover of twisted trees , foliage and the scattered large stones. The rising sun did little to warm the uneasy chill in the air.
Ahead, a low hill offered a vantage point, and with practiced care, they scaled its slope, keeping low. Reaching the crest, they positioned themselves behind a line of trees and high weathered grass .
From their concealed position on the low hill, General Ward, Colonel Miller, and their small team watched in silence as the scene below unfolded.
The Fourth Reich had turned the Medford Memorial Hospital and its surrounding area into a makeshift base of operations. Guard towers crafted from rusted scaffolding overlooked the perimeter, their sentries methodically scanning the ruins beyond. Barricades of scrap metal, wrecked cars, and sandbags formed choke points, while black-clad soldiers patrolled the fortifications in disciplined, organized pairs.
But what caught their attention most was the steady movement within the walls.
Dozens of enslaved people — filthy, exhausted, and beaten — labored under the watchful eyes of Reich soldiers. Men, women, even teenagers, carried crates and scavenged equipment through the broken streets around the hospital. Some hauled heavy metal beams and planks, others transported fuel canisters or struggled with damaged machinery.
Reich engineers and technicians, identifiable by their lighter grey uniforms and distinctive tool harnesses, worked to reinforce the occupied structures. They welded together barricades and patched holes in makeshift walls. The old Police Station nearby, now visibly integrated into the Reich's fortifications, had its walls rebuilt with scavenged rebar and fresh concrete patches. The sound of hammers striking metal and welding torches crackling echoed faintly up to the team's position.
From time to time, small groups of Reich soldiers carried crates — with supplies that clearly were brought up from the Metro. Machinery parts, sealed fuel drums, and other salvaged equipment were stockpiled near the hospital's rear loading docks.
Stepan gripped the stock of his rifle tightly, his jaw clenched as he watched the slaves being driven like animals.
Idiot shook his head, muttering a curse in Russian under his breath.
Miller stayed silent, scanning the base through his scope, making note of the patrol routes and troop concentrations.
Ward exhaled slowly.
"They're digging in for the long haul," he murmured.
Lowering his rifle, Miller gave a grim nod.
"So that's it…" he muttered, more to himself than the others. "This is why they sealed off their stations. They weren't hiding — they were moving."
Beside Miller , Anna remained silent, her expression unreadable as she slowly swept her scope across the compound, searching faces and figures. She lingered on the groups of prisoners, Reich officers, and workers — but saw no sign of Artyom.
Her jaw tightened slightly, though she said nothing, eyes never leaving the scope.
"How the hell did they get here? From the look of it… they've been here for a while," one of the Minutemen murmured, peering through his binoculars .
Ward frowned, considering the layout.
"There's got to be another route from the Metro to the Commonwealth in this area."
Another Minuteman spoke up quietly.
"Malden Center station, sir. It's an old subway hub north of here. If they found a connection… that's where it'd be."
Ward gave a grim nod, his gaze still fixed on the fortified grounds below.
"Good thinking. We can't see it from here with the hospital blocking the view, but from the way they've built those walls, I'd bet the station's right in the center… and heavily defended."
Ward raised his binoculars again, studying the positions of the guards and the laboring prisoners. His brow furrowed.
"There's a problem," he muttered. "If we hit this place head-on, there's a damn good chance we'll lose a lot of those people in the crossfire. I'd rather find a way to get them out alive."
He lowered the binoculars, his jaw tight.
"We need a plan that won't turn this place into a slaughterhouse."
Miller gave a quiet grunt, thinking it over.
"It'll be difficult," he admitted. "But if we can find a way in… during the attack, a small team could slip inside and get those people out while the main force keeps the Reich busy."
He glanced toward the compound again.
"It's risky. But better than leaving them to die."
Ward gave a single, sharp nod.
"We'll figure it out."
The group remained there a moment longer, each one quietly marking what he could of the enemy's layout. The hospital blocked too much of their view, and no better vantage point was in reach. What they'd seen was more than enough to confirm the scale of the threat.
Ward turned to the others and told them .
"Before we do anything, we'll need to scout for a way in," he said. "Check for old tunnels, service access, anything that gets us inside without raising alarms. Quiet and careful — we can't tip them off our presence here ."
Keeping low and to the shadows, they withdrew from the hilltop, careful to avoid the line of sight from guard towers .