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Sico turned off the lights and walked out into the corridor, already carrying the weight of the dawn.
Dawn came thin and gray, the kind that didn't announce itself so much as creep in quietly, as if unsure it was welcome.
Sico stood on the balcony of his office at Freemasons HQ, hands resting on the cold metal railing, coat pulled tight against the morning air. From up here, Sanctuary unfolded beneath him in layered detail with rooftops patched with scrap, walkways already beginning to fill, guards rotating shifts with practiced efficiency.
And below all of that, movement.
A lot of it.
The courtyard in front of HQ had transformed overnight into controlled chaos. Soldiers moved in lines and clusters, checking gear, locking armor plates into place, securing weapons with the kind of familiarity that came only from repetition and survival. Voices carried upward in short, sharp bursts from orders, confirmations, call signs.
Sarah was everywhere at once.
She stalked between units with a data pad in hand, stopping to correct a strap here, swap a rifle there, her presence snapping spines straighter just by proximity. She wasn't shouting. She didn't need to. Her authority sat on her shoulders like a weapon.
Preston stood nearer the convoy, hat low, clipboard tucked under one arm as he spoke with squad leaders one by one. He listened more than he talked, nodding, asking short questions, committing faces to memory. These weren't just numbers to him. They never were.
Five Humvees lined up near the outer gate, engines idling, their frames armored and reinforced. Behind them, eight transport trucks sat heavy with personnel and supplies, canvas sides drawn tight. And further back was the looming, silent, unmistakable which is the three Sentinel tanks rested like sleeping beasts, their turrets angled slightly downward, patient and lethal.
To the side, separate from the main force, Robert and MacCready were assembling the commandos.
Thirty of them.
They didn't stand in neat rows. They never did. Instead, they checked weapons in pairs, murmured to one another, moved with a looseness that came from confidence rather than discipline. Robert stood at the center of it all, issuing low-voiced instructions, his eyes never still. MacCready leaned against a crate, helmet under one arm, talking to a young commando with a crooked grin that didn't quite hide the seriousness behind it.
Sico watched them for a long moment.
He didn't feel pride.
He felt weight.
To the east, near the supply depot, Magnolia and Jenny were overseeing preparations. Crates were being loaded carefully from water, rations, medical packs, spare filters. Magnolia moved with her usual efficiency, hands moving, eyes scanning, mind already three steps ahead. Jenny worked beside her, quieter, her movements precise, jaw set. She didn't look up toward HQ. Not once.
Beyond all of that, beyond the soldiers and vehicles and logistics, the settlers were gathering.
They didn't understand.
Not yet.
People paused in their routines, hands stilling mid-task as they took in the sight. Traders whispered to one another. Parents pulled children closer. Eyes followed the tanks with a mix of awe and fear.
This wasn't routine patrol preparation.
This was war posture.
And Sanctuary felt it.
Sico exhaled slowly.
This was the moment he'd known would come with the space between decision and action, where doubt crept in not because the choice was wrong, but because it was irreversible.
He turned as the door behind him opened.
Piper Wright stepped out onto the balcony, notebook already in hand, hair pulled back hastily as if she'd come the moment she was called. She stopped short when she saw his expression.
"Well," she said lightly, though her eyes were sharp, "judging by the hardware parade downstairs, I'm guessing this isn't about a missing Brahmin."
Sico didn't smile.
"Good morning, Piper," he said.
She stepped closer to the railing, following his gaze downward. The humor drained from her face.
"Oh," she murmured. "That kind of morning."
Sico nodded once.
They stood in silence for a few seconds, listening to the sounds below wengines revving, metal clanking, boots on concrete.
"You called," Piper said finally. "Which means you want something official. And probably unpleasant."
"I want you to tell the truth," Sico said.
Piper looked at him then, really looked. "That's rarely the unpleasant part," she said. "It's the consequences."
He gestured toward the courtyard. "People are scared. Confused. They see soldiers and tanks and no explanation. That vacuum will fill itself if we let it."
"And you don't want rumors writing today's headline," Piper said.
"No," Sico replied. "I want you to."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "You're asking me to be your mouthpiece."
"I'm asking you to be Freemason's," Sico corrected. "There's a difference."
Piper tapped her pen against the notebook, thoughtful. "What exactly do you want me to say?"
Sico didn't answer immediately. He watched as Sarah barked a short command, sending a unit jogging into formation. As Preston clasped forearms with a soldier, murmuring something that made the man nod fiercely.
"We're launching an operation against the Children of Atom," Sico said at last. "Today."
Piper's pen froze.
"…That's big," she said carefully.
"Yes."
"And not subtle," Piper added, glancing at the tanks.
"No."
She turned fully toward him now. "You're aware that once I put this on the radio, there's no walking it back."
Sico met her gaze. "That's why I asked you."
Piper searched his face. "Are you arresting them?"
"No," Sico said.
Her mouth tightened. "Are you…?"
"Yes," he said quietly. "We're destroying the cult."
The word hung between them.
Piper inhaled slowly through her nose. "That's… going to shake people."
"It already has," Sico replied. "I'd rather it shake them with truth than fracture them with lies."
She was silent for a long moment.
"You know they'll call this an execution," Piper said. "Some will say you're becoming what you fight."
"They can say that," Sico replied. "I won't pretend this is clean. But it's honest."
Piper studied him, then looked back out over Sanctuary.
"You're asking me to stand in front of everyone," she said, "and tell them that their government is choosing violence."
"I'm asking you to tell them why," Sico said.
Her jaw worked as she considered it.
"And if I disagree?" she asked.
Sico didn't hesitate. "Then you say that too. On air. I won't stop you."
That surprised her.
She looked back at him sharply. "You'd let me criticize you live?"
"I'm not afraid of scrutiny," Sico said. "I'm afraid of silence."
Piper let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. "You're either incredibly confident," she said, "or incredibly tired."
"Both," Sico admitted.
She closed her notebook slowly. "All right," she said. "But I'm not sugarcoating it."
"I wouldn't ask you to."
"And I'm not turning this into propaganda."
"I don't want propaganda," Sico said. "I want context."
Piper nodded once. "Then let's give them the cold, hard truth."
They moved inside together.
The Freemasons Radio building was already active when they with arrived technicians adjusting dials, checking signal strength, rerouting frequencies. The hum of power generators blended with the low static of open channels.
As Piper took her seat in front of the microphone, a technician glanced at Sico.
"Broadcasting settlement-wide?" he asked.
"Yes," Sico said. "And beyond."
The tech hesitated. "This'll reach… everyone."
"That's the point."
Piper adjusted her headset, took a breath, and looked at Sico one last time.
"Anything else?" she asked.
He thought for a moment.
"Tell them I'm not asking them to be comfortable," he said. "I'm asking them to survive."
She nodded.
The red light blinked on.
Piper leaned toward the microphone.
"This is Piper Wright, broadcasting live on Freemasons Radio," she began, voice steady, clear. "If you're hearing this, it's because you're part of Freemasons Republic. And today, the Republic needs to hear something difficult."
Sico stepped back, out of frame, listening.
"For the people of Sanctuary, you've all seen the soldiers," Piper continued. "The vehicles. The tanks. And I know what you're thinking, what happened? What's going on? Are we under attack?"
A pause.
"The answer is no," she said. "But we are responding to one."
Outside, people slowed, stopped, gathered near radios, leaned closer to speakers.
"Yesterday," Piper went on, "a Freemason soldier opened fire on his own unit. Three were wounded. One is still fighting for their life."
Murmurs rippled through Sanctuary and Freemasons Republic territory.
"The cause wasn't drugs. It wasn't equipment failure. It was belief," Piper said. "The Children of Atom, a cult that preaches purification through radiation have been recruiting within our borders."
Her voice hardened slightly.
"And yesterday, that belief turned violent."
Sico closed his eyes briefly.
"The leadership of the Freemasons Republic has made a decision," Piper continued. "One that will make some of you angry. One that will make some of you afraid."
She didn't rush it.
"They are launching an operation today to eliminate the Children of Atom presence near Sanctuary."
The word eliminate landed hard.
"This is not an arrest sweep," Piper said. "This is not a negotiation."
A pause.
"It's a preemptive strike."
Gasps. Shouts. Questions shouted into the air.
Piper raised her voice just enough to carry.
"I won't lie to you," she said. "People will die today. That's the reality of this decision."
Sico watched through the glass as technicians exchanged uneasy looks.
"But here's the rest of the truth," Piper said. "This cult doesn't stop when you put bars in front of it. It doesn't fade when you ask nicely. It spreads. It waits. And yesterday, it proved it was willing to kill from the inside."
She took a breath.
"You deserve to know that this choice wasn't made lightly. There were arguments. There were objections. There still are."
Sico's gaze flicked briefly to the courtyard below, where Magnolia was sealing a crate, her movements sharp, controlled.
"This isn't about power," Piper said. "It's about fear. And how you answer it."
Her tone softened.
"You can be angry. You can disagree. You can question the leadership. That's your right."
Then, firmer.
"But don't pretend this came from nowhere. Don't pretend it's simple."
She paused again.
"And when this is over, when the dust settles, you should ask hard questions. You should demand accountability."
The red light glowed steadily.
"But today," Piper finished, "the people you see gearing up outside are doing it so you don't have to."
She leaned back slightly.
"This is Piper Wright. Stay safe. Stay aware. And don't look away."
The light clicked off.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the radio room erupted into movement with the technicians scrambling to manage incoming chatter, messages flooding in from outlying posts.
Piper removed her headset slowly.
She didn't look at Sico right away.
"That," she said quietly, "is going to follow you."
"I know," Sico replied.
She turned to him then, eyes fierce. "Don't make me regret saying that."
Sico met her gaze. "I won't ask you to forgive it," he said. "Only to understand it."
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.
"Good luck," she said. "You're going to need it."
Outside, the convoy engines roared louder.
Then Sico returned to the balcony one last time.
Below, Sarah raised a fist, signaling final checks. Preston climbed into the lead Humvee. Robert and MacCready moved toward the commandos, helmets going on, faces set.
Magnolia and Jenny stood near the supply trucks now, watching.
Jenny finally looked up.
Their eyes met across the distance.
She didn't nod.
She didn't smile.
But she didn't look away.
Sico turned from the railing.
The balcony door slid shut behind him with a soft click, cutting off the morning air and the noise below. For a moment, he stood there in the quiet of his office, the echoes of Piper's broadcast still ringing in his head that not the words themselves, but the weight of them. Truth had a way of lingering longer than lies. It settled into cracks. It waited.
By the time the sun climbed higher, burning away the thin gray veil of dawn, the truth had already begun to spread.
By afternoon, Freemasons territory felt different.
Not louder. Not quieter.
Heavier.
Across Sanctuary and beyond that through outposts, trade routes, fortified settlements, and half-rebuilt towns as people talked. They leaned close over workbenches. They argued in market squares. They lowered their voices when children passed. Radios crackled endlessly, replaying Piper's words, dissecting them, reframing them, twisting them into something easier to swallow or harder to ignore.
In a workshop near the river, two mechanics paused mid-repair, grease-stained hands frozen above an open engine block.
"Preemptive strike," one muttered. "That's a fancy way of saying massacre."
The other shook his head slowly. "Or it's a fancy way of saying we're still alive tomorrow."
In a small schoolhouse, a teacher shut off the radio and faced a room full of wide eyes.
"No," she said gently. "You don't need to worry about today. Just focus on your lessons."
But her hand trembled as she turned back to the chalkboard.
At a guard post along the western perimeter, two sentries watched the road, rifles resting against their shoulders.
"You think they're right?" one asked quietly.
The other didn't answer at first. Then: "I think they're scared. Same as us."
Fear wasn't new to the Commonwealth.
But direction was.
And that made all the difference.
Back at Sanctuary, the convoy sat ready.
The sun hung high now, pale and unforgiving, glinting off reinforced plating and armored glass. Heat shimmered faintly above the concrete as engines idled, a low, constant growl that vibrated through the ground and up into the soles of boots.
Final checks were underway.
Preston stood at the front of the convoy, just ahead of the lead Humvee, speaking with the driver one last time. His hat was pulled low, shadowing his eyes, but his voice was steady as he went over routes, contingencies, fallback positions. He tapped the hood of the vehicle once, firm and grounding, before stepping back.
This was his responsibility now.
Not the decision, but the execution.
And Preston Garvey had never taken that lightly.
He climbed into the passenger seat of the lead Humvee, pausing with one boot on the step as he looked back over the assembled force. One hundred and fifty soldiers. Veterans, every one of them. Faces set, expressions hard, eyes forward.
He raised a hand.
The signal rippled down the line.
Engines revved higher.
At the rear of the convoy, Sarah swung herself into her Humvee with practiced ease, snapping her helmet into place as she settled behind the mounted weapon. Her vehicle would cover the rear, eyes always back, watching for pursuit, ambush, anything that might try to claw its way into their blind spots.
She keyed her radio.
"Rear unit ready," she said calmly.
There was no excitement in her voice.
Only focus.
A few vehicles ahead of her, Robert stood on the step of another Humvee, one hand gripping the frame as he surveyed the commandos loading up. His eyes flicked from face to face, committing them to memory that not because he expected to lose them, but because that was how he led. You didn't command ghosts. You commanded people.
"Check seals," he called out. "Once we're in the hot zone, you don't get a second chance."
MacCready hopped down from the back of a transport truck, helmet now secured, goggles resting against his forehead. He slapped the side of the vehicle twice.
"Mount up," he said. "You know the drill. In, out, clean."
A few of the commandos smirked faintly.
They all knew what that meant.
MacCready climbed into the Humvee beside Robert, the door slamming shut behind him. Another group of commandos took positions in the truck behind them, securing themselves among crates and gear, weapons resting across their knees.
They would cover the back of the convoy.
If anything followed, it would find teeth.
Above it all, from the balcony, Sico watched.
He hadn't gone back inside.
He stood there as the hours passed, as the heat rose, as the moment drew closer. He watched soldiers take last swigs of water. Watched hands linger briefly on dog tags, on photographs tucked into armor pockets. Watched Magnolia confer quietly with a quartermaster, ticking off supplies one last time.
Jenny stood a little apart.
She had finished her work hours ago, but she hadn't left.
She stood near the supply trucks, arms crossed loosely, gaze fixed on the convoy as if she could will it to stop moving, to freeze in this moment before consequence caught up.
She felt Sico's eyes on her before she saw him.
She looked up.
Their gazes met again, across distance and noise and everything unsaid.
This time, Jenny did nod.
Just once.
It wasn't approval.
It wasn't forgiveness.
It was acknowledgment.
Sico let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
The signal came.
Preston's voice crackled over the open channel.
"All units," he said. "Convoy departing in thirty seconds."
Movement snapped into place.
Drivers shifted gears. Gunners braced. Soldiers in the trucks tightened straps, checked magazines, leaned into one another's shoulders as the vehicles began to roll.
The lead Humvee lurched forward, tires crunching against gravel as it passed through the outer gate. One by one, the rest followed from Humvees, trucks, tanks with steel and purpose flowing out of Sanctuary like a river that could not be turned back.
People gathered along the road.
Some saluted.
Some stared.
Some turned away.
A woman clutched her son's hand tightly as the Sentinel tanks rumbled past, their massive forms blotting out the sky for a moment. The boy watched with wide eyes.
"Are they going to fight monsters?" he asked.
The woman swallowed. "Something like that."
As the last vehicle cleared the gate, Sarah's Humvee rolled through, her mounted weapon sweeping slowly, methodically, covering angles out of instinct rather than fear.
Behind her, Robert's Humvee and the commando truck followed, sealing the convoy's rear.
And then they were gone.
Dust hung in the air long after the sound of engines faded.
The road stretched out ahead of them, cracked and scarred, flanked by skeletal remains of old-world buildings and twisted trees that had grown around ruin rather than through it. The convoy moved at a steady pace that not rushed, not slow. Purposeful.
Inside the lead Humvee, Preston stared ahead, hands resting on his knees, listening to the hum of the engine and the occasional radio check-ins from the units behind him.
He thought of the arguments from the night before.
Of Jenny's voice.
Of Magnolia's eyes.
Of the people back home listening to radios, wondering what kind of Republic they lived in now.
He pushed the thoughts aside.
This wasn't the time for doubt.
This was the time for follow-through.
"Maintain spacing," he said into the radio. "Watch the tree line. No one breaks formation."
Acknowledgments came back in quick succession.
Behind him, in her own Humvee, Sarah scanned the rear, eyes sharp, finger resting lightly near the trigger. She trusted Preston. Trusted Robert. Trusted MacCready.
But trust didn't replace vigilance.
Nothing moved.
That worried her more than if something had.
Miles away, in settlements scattered across Freemasons territory, radios continued to buzz.
People argued in taverns.
They debated in council rooms.
Some praised Sico's decisiveness. Others cursed his name.
A trader in Bunker Hill slammed his mug down on the counter.
"Today it's a cult," he snapped. "Tomorrow it's anyone who doesn't agree."
Another shook his head. "You didn't hear what Piper said. One of ours opened fire. That's not nothing."
"And how many die because of this?" the trader shot back.
No one had an answer.
That uncertainty followed the convoy like a shadow.
As afternoon wore on, the sun began its slow descent, casting longer shadows across the road. The convoy pressed forward, engines steady, radios quiet except for necessary check-ins.
In the Humvee near the back, MacCready broke the silence.
"Hell of a broadcast," he muttered, adjusting his grip on his rifle.
Robert glanced at him. "You listen to it?"
"Yeah," MacCready said. "Didn't have much choice. Whole damn territory was tuned in."
Robert nodded slowly. "She didn't pull punches."
"No," MacCready agreed. "Guess that's why he picked her."
They fell quiet again.
After a moment, MacCready added, "You think we're the bad guys?"
Robert didn't answer right away.
Then: "I think history decides that. And history's written by who's left standing."
MacCready snorted softly. "Comforting."
"True, though," Robert replied.
The convoy continued on, steel rolling toward faith armed with rifles and certainty forged in desperation.
The road narrowed as they pushed farther south, the familiar scars of Freemasons territory giving way to something more unsettled. The land here hadn't just been abandoned by the old world; it had been claimed by something else.
Cracked asphalt gave way to dirt and ash. The trees thinned, their bark pale and blistered, leaves sparse and brittle as if they'd learned not to grow too boldly here. Geiger counters mounted inside the Humvees began to tick more insistently, not screaming, not yet but enough to make everyone aware of it.
Radiation.
Low-grade. Constant. Intentional.
Preston noticed the change immediately. He didn't comment, just lifted a hand and rotated it slowly, the signal to reduce speed and tighten formation. The convoy responded as one, spacing compressing, vehicles moving closer together like animals sensing a shift in the wind.
"This is it," he said quietly into the radio. "South perimeter. Eyes open."
Acknowledgments came back in murmured clicks and brief affirmatives.
Sarah felt it too, long before she saw anything. The back of her neck prickled beneath her armor, that instinctive warning that told her this wasn't just hostile ground, but ritual ground. Places like this didn't feel empty even when they were quiet.
She leaned forward slightly behind the mounted weapon, scanning the road behind them, then the flanks. Nothing followed. Nothing moved.
That was wrong.
Robert caught the same tension creeping through the commandos. They were quieter now, their usual casual murmurs gone, replaced by deliberate movements, fingers brushing safeties, eyes tracking shadows that didn't quite behave like shadows should.
MacCready tilted his head, listening.
"You hear that?" he muttered.
Robert frowned. "Hear what?"
MacCready didn't answer immediately. He waited.
Then it came again.
A sound, faint at first, carried on the dry air. Not mechanical. Not natural.
Rhythmic.
Thump… thump… thump.
Drums.
They rolled forward another few hundred meters before the landscape opened up.
And then they saw it.
The convoy crested a shallow rise, and the valley beyond revealed itself in full, unsettling clarity.
A settlement, but not like any they'd seen before.
Rusting pre-war structures had been repurposed into something almost ceremonial. Metal scaffolding rose in uneven spires, wrapped in tattered cloth and chains that clinked softly in the breeze. At the center of it all stood several large drums, improvised but deliberate in construction with barrels reinforced with copper wiring, glowing faintly from within.
They pulsed.
Each beat of the drum sent a visible ripple through the air, a shimmer that made the edges of the world blur for a fraction of a second. Geiger counters spiked sharply, then settled, then spiked again in time with the rhythm.
Radiation, released on purpose.
And around them, dozens of people stood in loose circles.
The Children of Atom.
They swayed as they worshipped, faces turned toward the drums, mouths moving in murmured prayers or chants that blended into a low, almost hypnotic hum. Some were gaunt, skin scarred and burned in ways no sane person would accept. Others looked almost peaceful, eyes half-lidded, arms raised as if welcoming the invisible poison washing over them.
At the center of the largest circle stood a man.
He was tall, robed in layered cloth that had once been military fatigues, now bleached and torn into something resembling vestments. A pendant hung from his neck, heavy and unmistakable with the atom symbol, crafted from scrap metal and polished until it gleamed.
His head was shaved clean. His skin bore the unmistakable marks of prolonged exposure, but he stood straight, unflinching, arms raised as he led the worship.
His voice carried.
"Atom is eternal," he intoned, voice rich and practiced, rising above the drums. "Through division, we are made whole. Through radiation, we are reborn."
The crowd echoed him.
"Reborn," they murmured.
Preston felt his jaw tighten.
This wasn't a hidden cell.
This wasn't a small gathering.
This was a congregation.
And they weren't unprotected.
At the edges of the settlement, half-hidden behind barricades of scrap and concrete, stood armed cultists. Rifles rested against shoulders, some old and battered, others disturbingly well-maintained. Their eyes weren't glazed like the worshippers'. These were guards. Watchful. Alert.
Waiting.
"Contact," Preston said quietly into the radio. "Visual confirmed."
Sarah's breath left her slowly as she took in the sight through her optics. "That's more than a camp," she said. "That's a damn church."
Robert's expression hardened. "And churches defend themselves."
MacCready let out a low whistle. "Yeah," he muttered. "And they brought guns to prayer."
The convoy rolled to a controlled stop just outside the valley, engines idling low. No one dismounted. Not yet.
Dust settled around them, hanging in the air like a held breath.
For a moment, the only sound was the drums.
Then one of the guards noticed them.
It happened subtly. A head turned. A hand lifted slightly. A murmur rippled along the perimeter.
The drums didn't stop.
The chanting didn't falter.
But eyes began to shift.
The leader at the center of the circle lowered his arms slowly. The worshippers' voices faded with him, obedience absolute. The drums continued for a few more beats before stopping entirely, the sudden silence almost deafening.
He turned.
His gaze locked onto the convoy.
And he smiled.
Preston felt a chill that had nothing to do with radiation.
"Easy," he said into the radio. "Hold positions. No one fires unless I say so."
Sarah adjusted her stance. "They're clocking us," she said. "Guards are spreading."
Indeed, the armed cultists were moving now, not aggressively, but deliberately. They repositioned behind cover, rifles angled not quite at the convoy, but close enough to make the message clear.
We see you.
We're ready.
Robert keyed his mic. "Commandos ready," he said. "Just say the word."
MacCready leaned forward slightly, peering through the windshield. "That guy in the middle," he said quietly. "He's enjoying this."
The leader stepped forward a few paces, boots crunching softly against irradiated soil. He stopped well short of the guards' line, hands spreading in a gesture that might have been welcoming.
Or mocking.
"Children of the false Republic," he called out, voice carrying easily across the distance. "You arrive at a sacred hour."
Preston opened the Humvee door and stepped out.
The heat hit him first. Then the radiation. His armor compensated, filters humming softly, but he could still feel it with an itch beneath the skin, a pressure behind the eyes.
He closed the door behind him and walked forward a few steps, stopping where the land dipped slightly between them.
"I'm Preston Garvey," he said, voice steady, amplified just enough to carry. "You're trespassing on Freemasons territory."
The man laughed softly.
"Trespassing?" he echoed. "This land was claimed by Atom long before your banners flew."
Some of the worshippers murmured agreement.
Preston didn't rise to it. "You've been recruiting inside our settlements," he said. "And yesterday, one of your followers opened fire on our people."
The leader's smile didn't fade.
"Division is painful," he said serenely. "But pain is how Atom teaches us."
Sarah's fingers tightened on the grip of the mounted weapon.
"That's him," she muttered over the private channel. "He's the one."
Robert's eyes narrowed. "Charismatic bastard."
Preston took another step forward. "We're here to shut this down," he said plainly. "Peacefully, if possible."
That finally drew a reaction.
The leader tilted his head, studying Preston as if he were an interesting specimen.
"Peace," he said thoughtfully. "Is stagnation. Atom does not stagnate."
He raised one hand.
The guards lifted their rifles a fraction higher.
MacCready swore under his breath. "There it is."
Preston didn't back away. "You're endangering people," he said. "Your worship, your radiation devices as this ends today."
The leader's eyes flicked briefly to the drums, then back to Preston.
"These drums," he said, "are instruments of revelation. They cleanse. They prepare."
"For what?" Preston asked.
"For division," the man replied, voice calm, reverent. "For the moment when Atom embraces us fully."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Preston said the words that had been weighing on him since Sanctuary.
"This is your last chance to stand down."
The leader's smile finally faded.
"You misunderstand," he said softly. "This is your chance."
He lifted both arms high.
The guards snapped their rifles up.
The worshippers began to chant again, faster now, louder, a rising tide of sound that pressed against the convoy like a physical force.
Geiger counters spiked wildly.
The drums flared brighter.
Sarah's voice cut through the radio, sharp and controlled. "Radiation levels increasing. Those drums are ramping up."
Robert didn't hesitate. "Commandos, prep to deploy."
MacCready rolled his shoulders, breath steady. "Guess that answers the peaceful option."
Preston held his ground for one final second, meeting the leader's gaze.
"This doesn't have to end like this," he said.
The man's eyes shone.
"Oh," he replied. "It always does."
The first shot hadn't been fired yet.
But everyone there knew.
The moment had passed.
And Atom's children were ready to bleed for their faith.
Then Robert didn't shout.
He didn't give a speech.
He didn't even curse.
He simply exhaled, settled the rifle into his shoulder, and squeezed the trigger.
The crack of the shot split the valley open.
One of the armed cultists at the perimeter jerked backward, surprise frozen on his face as the round punched through his chest and threw him against the scrap barricade behind him. His rifle clattered to the ground, echoing far louder than it should have in the sudden, stunned silence.
For a heartbeat, the world held still.
Then everything broke.
Gunfire erupted from the cultist lines, ragged but furious, bullets chewing into dirt, sparks snapping off armor plating, rounds pinging and whining against the reinforced hulls of the Humvees. The worshippers screamed, some scattering in blind panic, others dropping to their knees, hands raised toward the glowing drums as if begging Atom to notice them now.
Preston didn't flinch.
"Move!" he shouted, already turning, already running.
He vaulted forward, hand signaling sharply as he sprinted back toward the convoy. Soldiers poured out of vehicles in practiced waves, boots hitting the ground in unison, rifles snapping up as they moved to cover. There was no hesitation. No confusion. This was what they had been trained for.
"Alpha squads, left flank!" Preston barked. "Bravo, with me! Push through the center!"
The answering shouts came back sharp and immediate.
"Alpha moving!"
"Bravo copies!"
Sarah didn't wait for permission.
She didn't need it.
"Tanks, target the fortifications," she snapped into the command channel, voice ice-cold and absolute. "Full shells. Take them down."
The response came back in overlapping confirmations, deep and steady.
A second later, the Sentinel tanks spoke.
The thunder of their cannons rolled across the valley like a god slamming its fist into the earth. The first shell hit the scrap-built fortification on the eastern edge of the settlement, detonating in a bloom of fire and twisted metal. The barricade vanished in a violent eruption, cultists thrown like rag dolls through smoke and debris.
A second shell followed, then a third.
Each impact tore another chunk out of the Children of Atom's defenses, shredding cover, collapsing towers, turning carefully arranged faith into screaming chaos.
At the same time, the Humvees roared to life.
Mounted machine guns opened up, their heavy, sustained fire stitching across the perimeter where armed cultists tried to reposition. The sound was deafening, a relentless hammering that drowned out chants and prayers alike.
Sarah tracked targets smoothly, calmly, her weapon chewing through a cluster of cultists who had been trying to flank the convoy. They went down hard, bodies tumbling into irradiated dirt as the rest scattered for cover that no longer existed.
"Rear clear," she reported tersely. "They're breaking."
But she didn't ease up.
Not yet.
Robert was already moving.
He didn't stay where he'd fired the first shot. The moment the battle erupted, he was sprinting forward with the commandos at his back, weaving through incoming fire, boots splashing through ash and dirt. His voice cut through the chaos, steady and commanding.
"Two-man teams!" he shouted. "Clear those barricades! Don't let them regroup!"
The commandos moved like a living thing, splitting and reforming around obstacles, covering one another instinctively. They advanced hard, fast, rifles barking in disciplined bursts that cut down armed cultists before they could recover from the shock of the tanks' assault.
MacCready was right beside Robert, rifle up, eyes sharp behind his goggles.
"Well," he yelled over the gunfire, grinning fiercely, "guess we found the sermon!"
He leaned out from behind a slab of broken concrete and fired three quick shots, dropping a cultist who'd been trying to line up a shot on Preston's squad.
"Keep moving!" MacCready shouted. "They're loud, not smart!"
Preston led from the front.
Always.
He charged straight into the narrowing gap between the convoy and the settlement, soldiers surging after him. Bullets snapped past, kicking up dirt at his feet, sparking against armor, but he didn't slow.
He couldn't.
Every second mattered.
"Push through!" he shouted. "Don't let them fall back to the drums!"
Because that was what the cultists were doing.
Even as their defenses crumbled, even as tanks obliterated their barricades and machine gun fire tore into their ranks, some of them were retreating toward the glowing drums at the center of the settlement. They moved with desperate purpose, dragging wounded comrades, shouting prayers, eyes wild.
The leader was still there.
Standing at the heart of it all.
Smoke and fire swirled around him, but he didn't retreat. His robes were singed now, edges burning, but he stood firm, arms raised, voice carrying even over the roar of battle.
"Atom tests us!" he cried. "Do not flee from division! Embrace it!"
Some listened.
Too many.
Preston saw it and felt a cold knot tighten in his chest.
"Target the center!" he yelled. "We take him down, this ends!"
Robert heard him.
"So did MacCready.
"Commandos!" Robert snapped. "With me! We're cutting the head off this snake!"
They surged forward, breaking from the main line, pushing hard through collapsing resistance. A cultist lunged from behind a wrecked scaffold, firing wildly. MacCready dropped him with a single shot to the head without breaking stride.
"You'd think," MacCready muttered, breath steady despite the chaos, "that after the first tank shell, they'd reconsider."
"They're not here to live," Robert replied grimly. "They're here to prove something."
Another explosion rocked the ground as a tank shell obliterated a tower near the drums. Metal rained down. One of the radiation drums cracked, light flaring wildly as its containment failed. The Geiger counters spiked into angry shrieks.
Sarah swore softly.
"Radiation surge," she warned. "Those drums are destabilizing."
Preston grimaced but didn't slow. "Then we end this fast."
The soldiers pushed deeper into the settlement now, firefights breaking out at close range. Cultists fought with reckless abandon, some charging outright, screaming prayers, others firing from cover until machine gun fire tore that cover apart.
One soldier went down, hit in the leg. His squad dragged him back without hesitation, another stepping into his place seamlessly.
Training held.
Discipline held.
The cult was unraveling.
Robert and the commandos breached the inner ring just as the leader turned toward them.
For the first time, his calm cracked.
He saw the tanks. The soldiers. The commandos advancing through smoke and fire with unstoppable momentum.
But he didn't flee.
Instead, he screamed.
"ATOM!" he roared, voice raw now, desperate. "WITNESS US!"
He slammed his hand down onto a control panel embedded at the base of the largest drum.
The glow surged.
The air warped violently, radiation flaring outward in a visible wave that knocked several cultists off their feet and made soldiers stagger, armor filters screaming in protest.
"Shit!" MacCready yelled, raising an arm instinctively. "He's overloading it!"
"Sniper!" Preston shouted into the radio. "Take the shot!"
But there was no clear angle.
Smoke churned. Debris fell. The leader was half-shielded by the drum itself.
Robert didn't hesitate.
He broke from cover, sprinting straight toward the drum, commandos shouting after him. Bullets ripped through the space he'd just vacated, snapping past his shoulders, tearing into the dirt at his feet.
"Robert!" MacCready yelled. "You're insane!"
Robert didn't answer.
He ran harder.
A cultist stepped into his path, raising a pistol. Robert slammed into him shoulder-first, knocking him aside, then fired point-blank into another who lunged from the smoke.
He reached the drum.
The radiation heat was oppressive now, crawling across his skin even through his armor. His Geiger counter screamed in his ear.
The leader turned toward him, eyes wide, wild, triumphant.
"Atom embraces—"
Robert shot him.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The leader stumbled back, disbelief etched across his face. He looked down at his chest, at the blood spreading across his robes, then up at Robert.
For a fleeting moment, something like doubt flickered in his eyes.
Then he collapsed.
The chanting faltered.
Then stopped.
MacCready reached Robert seconds later, grabbing his shoulder and dragging him back behind cover as another drum detonated in a violent burst of light and heat.
"You're buying the drinks after this," MacCready panted. "If you glow in the dark, I'm not sitting next to you."
Robert managed a tight grin. "Fair."
With their leader dead, the cultists broke.
Some dropped their weapons outright, hands raised, screams of terror replacing prayers. Others fled blindly into the ruins, only to be cut down by disciplined fire or driven back by the tanks' relentless advance.
Preston pressed the advantage.
"Cease fire on surrendering targets!" he ordered. "Anyone still armed is hostile!"
The soldiers adjusted immediately, fire becoming precise, controlled. The battle shifted from chaotic violence to methodical cleanup.
Within minutes, it was over.
Smoke drifted lazily over the ruined settlement. The drums lay shattered or silent, their glow fading into nothing. The air still crackled faintly with residual radiation, but the worst of it was already dissipating.
Bodies lay scattered among the wreckage.
Some cultists knelt with hands raised, sobbing. Others lay still, faces turned toward a god that had not answered.
Preston stood amid it all, chest heaving, armor scarred and blackened. He looked around at his people, checking faces, counting heads.
They'd taken hits.
But they were standing.
Sarah dismounted from her Humvee and approached, helmet under her arm, eyes scanning the ruins with a soldier's practiced caution.
"It's done," she said quietly. "No organized resistance left."
Preston nodded slowly. "Get med teams in. Secure the site."
Robert limped over, MacCready supporting him.
"You alright?" Preston asked.
Robert nodded. "Radiation spike's rough, but I'll live."
MacCready snorted. "Barely."
Preston looked past them, at the fallen leader, at the broken drums, at the silence where chants had been.
He felt no triumph.
Only weight.
Far away, radios would be crackling again soon.
People would argue.
They would judge.
They would decide what this meant.
But here, now, the truth was simple.
The Children of Atom's church lay in ruins. And the Commonwealth had just crossed another line it could never uncross.
______________________________________________
• Name: Sico
• Stats :
S: 8,44
P: 7,44
E: 8,44
C: 8,44
I: 9,44
A: 7,45
L: 7
• Skills: advance Mechanic, Science, and Shooting skills, intermediate Medical, Hand to Hand Combat, Lockpicking, Hacking, Persuasion, and Drawing Skills
• Inventory: 53.280 caps, 10mm Pistol, 1500 10mm rounds, 22 mole rats meat, 17 mole rats teeth, 1 fragmentation grenade, 6 stimpak, 1 rad x, 6 fusion core, computer blueprint, modern TV blueprint, camera recorder blueprint, 1 set of combat armor, Automatic Assault Rifle, 1.500 5.56mm rounds, power armor T51 blueprint, Electric Motorcycle blueprint, T-45 power armor, Minigun, 1.000 5mm rounds, Cryolator, 200 cryo cell, Machine Gun Turret Mk1 blueprint, electric car blueprint, Kellogg gun, Righteous Authority, Ashmaker, Furious Power Fist, Full set combat armor blueprint, M240 7.62mm machine guns blueprint, Automatic Assault Rifle blueprint, and Humvee blueprint.
• Active Quest:-