If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And somewhere in the distance, help was coming. But until it arrive, They had to survive.
The world had narrowed into something raw and immediate.
Noise.
Heat.
Movement.
Every second stretched just enough to feel it, but never enough to rest inside it.
Preston didn't waste time thinking about what this ambush meant anymore.
He couldn't.
Not now.
Not while rounds were cracking past his position and kicking up dirt inches from his face.
Not while his people were bleeding behind him.
Not while the enemy kept pressing forward like they knew exactly how long it would take to break them.
He leaned out from behind the front of the Humvee again, sighting down his rifle with controlled precision.
A figure darted between rocks on the left flank.
Preston exhaled.
Squeezed.
The shot landed clean.
The attacker dropped.
"Left side, keep them honest!" Preston shouted, his voice cutting clean through the chaos.
Two soldiers shifted beside him, adjusting their positions, rifles snapping toward the same direction.
Controlled bursts followed.
Disciplined.
Measured.
Not panic.
Never panic.
But even discipline had its limits.
And the battlefield around them was working against them.
The road was too open.
Too exposed.
What little cover they had came from the convoy itself from metal frames, tires, the uneven dips in the broken terrain.
Not enough.
Not nearly enough.
A burst of incoming fire slammed into the hood of the Humvee, sparks jumping as bullets ricocheted off metal.
One of the soldiers flinched instinctively.
"Damn it—they've got angles on us!"
Preston didn't look back.
"I know."
His voice stayed steady, but his eyes kept moving.
Calculating.
Adjusting.
They were being squeezed.
Not rushed blindly.
Not scattered.
This was controlled pressure.
The attackers were tightening their perimeter, step by step, using suppressive fire to keep the Freemasons pinned while small units advanced between cover points.
Preston had seen tactics like this before.
Not from raiders.
Not from scattered wasteland gangs.
This was trained movement.
Coordinated.
Deliberate.
And that made it worse.
Behind him, another soldier called out.
"We're running thin on angles back here!"
"Then make your own!" Preston snapped back. "Shift right, use the truck, don't bunch up!"
They moved immediately.
No hesitation.
Even under fire, the structure held.
That was the only thing keeping them alive.
Nearby, a medic pressed hard against a wounded soldier's side, trying to stem the bleeding.
"Stay with me," the medic muttered, voice low but urgent. "You're not checking out here, you hear me?"
The soldier gritted his teeth, nodding faintly.
"I'm still here…"
"Yeah," the medic said, tightening the bandage. "You are."
Another explosion cracked in the distance that not as close as the first, but enough to shake the ground beneath them.
Dust rained down again.
Preston's jaw tightened.
"They're walking rounds closer," he muttered.
A soldier beside him glanced over.
"What?"
"They're adjusting their fire," Preston said. "They're trying to box us in."
And it was working.
Slowly.
Relentlessly.
Every movement the Freemasons made was being answered.
Every shift in position met with resistance.
Every attempt to push out met with heavier fire.
They weren't just ambushed.
They were being contained.
Preston wiped sweat and dust from his brow with the back of his glove, then leaned out again, firing another controlled pair of shots toward the ridge.
One attacker ducked.
Another returned fire immediately.
Too fast.
Too precise.
Preston dropped back behind cover.
"Damn it…"
For a split second, his thoughts flickered back to the Humvee that had been hit.
The explosion.
The fire.
The men inside.
He shut it down immediately.
Not now.
Later.
If there was a later.
"General!"
Preston turned slightly.
One of his squad leaders was crouched behind the transport truck, signaling him.
"They're pushing closer on the right, we're losing distance!"
Preston scanned quickly.
He saw it.
Movement between the rocks.
Closer than before.
Too close.
"Alright," Preston said, voice sharpening. "We push back."
The squad leader blinked.
"With what cover?"
"We make it," Preston replied.
There was no hesitation in his tone.
No room for doubt.
He pointed quickly.
"You take three men, suppress that ridge line. I'll shift left and draw fire."
"That's risky—"
"Everything right now is risky," Preston cut him off. "We don't push them back, they overrun us. Move!"
The squad leader didn't argue again.
"Alright! You heard him, on me!"
Three soldiers broke with him, moving low and fast toward a slightly raised patch of terrain.
The moment they moved, the enemy reacted.
Gunfire intensified instantly, rounds kicking up dirt around them.
Preston moved at the same time.
He broke from cover, sprinting low across the exposed stretch toward a chunk of shattered concrete half-buried in the ground.
Bullets snapped past him.
One struck the dirt just behind his heel.
Another clipped the edge of the concrete as he slid in behind it.
He didn't stop moving.
He turned immediately, raised his rifle, and fired toward the right flank.
"Now!" he shouted.
The suppression team opened up.
A burst of coordinated fire hammered the ridge, forcing the attackers to duck back.
For a moment.
Just a moment.
The pressure eased.
"Push them back!" Preston yelled.
"Don't let them settle!"
The soldiers answered with renewed fire, taking advantage of that brief opening.
One attacker tried to advance.
He didn't make it two steps.
Another pulled back.
Then another.
For the first time since the ambush started.
The line shifted.
Not much.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
Enough to breathe.
Enough to remind them they weren't just targets.
They were still in this fight.
Still dangerous.
Still standing.
Preston took a breath.
Short.
Controlled.
Then keyed his radio again.
"Sarah," he said, voice tight but steady. "Status on that support?"
Static.
Then her voice.
"Two minutes out."
Preston exhaled sharply.
"Make it one."
A faint pause.
Then, almost dry.
"We're pushing them as fast as they'll go."
That was the best he was going to get.
Preston lowered the radio again, glancing across the battlefield.
His people were holding.
Barely.
But holding.
And then, someone shouted.
"Listen!"
At first, it was hard to hear over the gunfire.
Over the explosions.
Over the chaos.
But then, there it was.
Low.
Distant.
But growing.
An engine.
Not one.
Multiple.
Preston's head snapped toward the sound.
From the far end of the road.
Through the dust and heat distortion, shapes began to form.
Vehicles.
Fast-moving.
Closing the distance.
"Convoy!" one of the soldiers shouted, disbelief cutting through his voice.
Three Humvees.
Two transport trucks behind them.
Engines roaring as they pushed hard across the wasteland terrain.
And they weren't slowing.
"They made it…" someone breathed.
Preston didn't waste a second.
"Signal them!" he shouted. "Mark our position!"
A soldier popped a flare, firing it upward.
A streak of red cut through the sky.
The incoming convoy adjusted slightly, angling directly toward them.
And then.
Above.
A different sound.
Louder.
Heavier.
A deep, unmistakable thrum that rolled across the battlefield.
Preston looked up.
And there they were.
Two Vertibirds.
Cutting through the sky at speed, their rotors slicing the air as they descended toward the combat zone.
Relief didn't come as a feeling.
It came as momentum.
As pressure shifting.
As something finally changing.
"Reinforcements!" a soldier shouted, this time with something close to energy behind it.
The attackers noticed too.
Preston saw it immediately.
Movement on the ridges.
A shift.
Not retreat.
Not yet.
But hesitation.
And that was enough.
"Now!" Preston roared. "Push them! Push them hard!"
The arriving Humvees didn't slow as they entered the fight.
Mounted guns opened up instantly, heavy rounds tearing into the enemy positions on both flanks.
The sound was deafening.
Controlled chaos.
But this time.
It was their chaos.
The two trucks skidded into position behind the main line, and before they even fully stopped, the back doors slammed open.
Thirty soldiers poured out.
Fresh.
Armed.
Ready.
"Move! Move! Move!" their squad leaders shouted as they deployed rapidly into formation.
They didn't hesitate.
Didn't pause.
They had been briefed on the way.
They knew exactly what they were driving into.
And they hit the battlefield at full force.
The pressure flipped.
Where the Freemasons had been pinned.
Now they surged.
Gunfire intensified but this time, it was overwhelming.
Focused.
Dominant.
The Vertibirds came in low, circling once before unleashing controlled bursts from their mounted weapons.
Rounds rained down onto the ridge lines, forcing the attackers completely out of their elevated positions.
Explosions followed.
Precise.
Devastating.
One of the enemy positions vanished in a burst of dirt and flame.
Another scattered completely.
"They're breaking!" someone shouted.
Preston didn't take his eyes off the field.
"Don't let them!" he barked.
"Keep the pressure on!"
Fresh soldiers moved past the original line, pushing outward, expanding their control of the area.
The attackers that so coordinated moments ago, began to fracture.
Some tried to regroup.
Others started pulling back.
Too late.
The advantage was gone.
The trap had collapsed.
And now.
They were the ones being hunted.
Preston stepped forward from his cover, rifle still raised, scanning for targets.
His voice carried again.
"Drive them out! No survivors if they keep firing!"
The combined force moved like a wave.
Disciplined.
Relentless.
And this time, nothing stood in front of it that didn't break.
Preston stepped forward from behind the shattered concrete, boots grinding against dirt and spent casings, rifle steady in his hands as he advanced with the line. Around him, the battlefield had shifted completely. What had once been a desperate hold was now a controlled push.
Not reckless.
Not scattered.
Purposeful.
Every step forward was covered.
Every movement answered.
"Keep spacing!" one of the squad leaders shouted as the newly arrived soldiers spread out, avoiding the fatal mistake of bunching up in open terrain.
Gunfire still cracked through the air, but it had changed.
Before, it had come from all directions, pressing in, suffocating.
Now, it was retreating.
Breaking apart.
Fragments of resistance instead of a unified assault.
Preston spotted a group of attackers pulling back toward the far ridge, trying to regroup behind a cluster of rusted debris.
"Contact, twelve o'clock, moving!" he called out.
Two soldiers dropped to one knee beside him, rifles already tracking the movement.
"On them."
"Take them."
Three controlled bursts cut across the distance.
One attacker fell immediately.
Another stumbled, tried to drag himself behind cover.
Didn't make it.
The third disappeared behind the ridge line, but even that didn't last long.
A thunderous roar split the air overhead.
The Vertibirds.
They came in fast and low, shadows sweeping across the broken ground as their mounted guns opened up again.
The sound of the miniguns was something else entirely.
Not sharp like rifles.
Not explosive like missiles.
It was continuous.
A grinding, mechanical roar that tore through the air and everything beneath it.
From the open side of one Vertibird, a gunner leaned into the mounted minigun, tracking the fleeing attackers with cold precision.
"Targeting runners!" someone shouted from below.
The gunner didn't hesitate.
The weapon spun.
And then, it unleashed.
A stream of fire rained down across the ridge as the fleeing attackers tried to scatter.
Dust erupted around them.
Then bodies dropped.
One after another.
No cover.
No escape.
The second Vertibird banked slightly, adjusting its angle, and joined the pursuit.
Another gunner opened fire, sweeping the terrain where a handful of attackers had broken off, sprinting across open ground in a desperate attempt to escape.
It didn't matter.
Out here.
There was nowhere to hide.
"They're running!" a soldier near Preston shouted, almost disbelieving.
Preston didn't slow.
"Then don't let them!" he fired back.
"Push forward!"
And they did.
The Freemasons surged.
Step by step.
Rifle by rifle.
Clearing the battlefield as they went.
Any resistance that remained was isolated, fragmented, and quickly overwhelmed.
One attacker popped up from behind a wrecked vehicle, firing wildly.
He got off three shots.
That was all.
A volley of return fire cut him down instantly.
Another tried to crawl away, weapon discarded, dragging himself through the dirt.
A soldier approached cautiously, rifle trained.
"Don't move!"
The attacker froze for half a second.
Then reached, wrong move.
A single shot ended it.
The battlefield grew quieter with every passing moment.
Not silent.
Not yet.
But the intensity was fading.
Gunfire became sporadic.
Then rare.
Then.
Gone.
The only sounds left were the crackling of flames from the destroyed Humvee, the distant hum of the Vertibirds still circling overhead, and the heavy, uneven breathing of the soldiers who were still standing.
Preston slowed his pace.
Stopped.
His rifle remained raised for a moment longer as his eyes scanned the terrain.
Left.
Right.
Ridge lines.
Debris.
Movement.
Anything.
Nothing.
The attackers were gone.
Not retreating anymore.
Not regrouping.
Gone.
The Vertibirds made one final pass, sweeping the far edge of the battlefield where the last few had tried to run. The miniguns roared again briefly, then fell silent.
A moment later, one of the pilots' voices crackled faintly over the radio.
"Area clear."
Preston exhaled.
It wasn't relief.
Not fully.
But it was something.
Something solid.
Something real.
He lowered his rifle slowly.
"All units," he called out, voice carrying across the field. "Hold positions. Stay sharp."
Even in victory, they didn't relax immediately.
That was how people died.
But the tension had shifted.
The edge was gone.
Replaced by something heavier.
Something that always came after.
Preston turned, looking back toward the convoy.
Toward what was left of it.
The destroyed Humvee still burned, flames licking up into the sky, black smoke twisting upward like a scar that refused to fade.
The trucks.
The other vehicles.
The wounded being tended to behind what cover remained.
And the bodies.
Too many.
Even from here, he could see them.
Still forms scattered across the ground.
Some near the wreckage.
Some where they had fallen holding the line.
Some further out, where they had tried to push.
He didn't move for a few seconds.
Didn't speak.
Then.
"Medics!" Preston called out, his voice firm again. "Get to the wounded! All of them!"
The response was immediate.
Medics moved fast, crossing the battlefield with urgency, kneeling beside the injured, checking pulses, applying bandages, doing everything they could with what they had.
"Over here!"
"I need help!"
"He's still breathing, get me a stim, now!"
The chaos returned.
But it was a different kind now.
Focused on saving, not surviving.
Preston walked back toward the main line, boots heavy against the ground, each step carrying more weight than the last.
A soldier passed him, blood smeared across his sleeve which not his own.
"General," the soldier said, nodding once before moving on.
Preston nodded back faintly.
Another sat on the ground nearby, helmet off, staring at nothing for a moment before forcing himself to stand again.
They were all feeling it.
The crash after the fight.
The realization.
The cost.
Preston reached the wreckage of the destroyed Humvee.
Up close, it was worse.
The metal frame was twisted, blackened.
What remained of the vehicle barely resembled what it had been minutes ago.
Flames still burned inside.
He didn't step closer.
He didn't need to.
He already knew.
Behind him, a squad leader approached, removing his helmet slowly.
"We pushed them out," the man said quietly.
Preston nodded.
"I see that."
A pause.
Then.
"We didn't lose anyone else during the push."
That mattered.
It mattered more than anything else right now.
Preston let out a slow breath.
"Good."
He turned slightly, scanning the area again, then called out to another nearby soldier.
"You," he said, pointing. "Start a count."
The soldier straightened immediately.
"Yes, General."
Preston's voice didn't waver.
"I want numbers. KIA. Wounded. Everyone accounted for."
The soldier nodded once.
"Understood."
He moved quickly, gathering two others as they began the grim task of moving across the battlefield.
Checking.
Confirming.
Counting.
Preston watched them go for a moment.
Then turned away.
There was always a moment like this.
After every fight.
Where everything slowed just enough for it to hit.
Not during.
Not in the middle of gunfire and adrenaline.
After.
When the noise faded.
When the dust settled.
When you could finally see clearly what it had cost.
He walked toward the lead Humvee.
The one that had survived.
The one Carver was still inside.
A soldier stood guard at the open door, rifle ready.
Carver sat where they had left him.
Still restrained.
Still calm.
Still watching.
His eyes met Preston's as he approached.
And for the first time since the ambush, there was something different there.
Not surprise.
Not fear.
Recognition.
As if this…
This outcome…
Was something he had already considered.
Preston stopped just short of the vehicle.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The sounds of medics working, soldiers moving, the crackle of fire in the background as it all faded slightly into something distant.
"You survived," Carver said quietly.
Preston didn't respond immediately.
Then.
"Yeah," he said.
Carver studied him for a second.
Then glanced briefly past him toward the battlefield, toward the wreckage, toward the bodies.
"Not all of you."
The words landed exactly where they were meant to.
Preston's jaw tightened.
But his voice stayed controlled.
"Say what you're trying to say."
Carver looked back at him.
"You already know," he said.
Preston stepped closer to the Humvee, one hand resting briefly against the door.
"This was your plan," he said. "Diamond City was just step one."
Carver didn't deny it.
Didn't confirm it either.
He just watched.
"You wanted us on the road," Preston continued. "Out here. Exposed."
A faint pause.
Then Carver spoke again.
"You adapted," he said. "Better than expected."
That wasn't praise.
It wasn't anything close.
Preston leaned in slightly, voice lower now.
"You still lost."
Carver's expression didn't change.
"Did I?"
Preston's eyes hardened.
Before he could respond.
"General!"
The voice cut through everything.
Preston turned.
The soldier he had sent earlier was jogging back toward him, helmet still on, face tense even from a distance.
Preston stepped away from the Humvee.
"Report."
The soldier slowed as he reached him.
For a moment, he didn't speak.
Like he needed half a second longer.
Then.
"We finished the count."
Preston held his gaze.
"How many?"
The soldier swallowed once.
"Twenty-three KIA."
The number didn't echo.
It didn't need to.
It just…
Stayed there.
Heavy.
Final.
Unmovable.
Preston didn't react outwardly.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't look away.
But something behind his eyes shifted.
Twenty-three.
Men and women who had been standing minutes ago.
Talking.
Fighting.
Holding the line.
Gone.
Just like that.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Wounded?"
"Seventeen," the soldier replied. "Some critical, but stable for now."
Preston nodded once.
"Alright."
His voice remained steady.
Because it had to.
"Get the wounded ready for transport. Prioritize the worst cases."
"Yes, General."
The soldier hesitated for just a second.
Then added quietly.
"We… we got them all, sir."
Preston looked at him.
"Every attacker."
A pause.
Then a firm nod from Preston.
"Good."
The soldier moved off again.
And just like that, the battlefield shifted one last time.
From combat.
To aftermath.
Preston stood there for a moment longer.
Then turned his head slightly.
Just enough to glance back at Carver.
The man hadn't moved.
Hadn't spoken.
But that faint, unreadable expression was still there.
Watching.
Always watching.
Preston's voice was quiet now.
But firm.
"This isn't over."
Carver didn't answer.
For a few seconds, the silence between them stretched longer than it should have.
Not tense.
Not explosive.
Just… quiet.
But it wasn't empty.
It carried something now.
Something that hadn't been there before.
Preston watched him carefully, eyes steady, searching that not for fear, not for anger, but for a crack. For anything that suggested the man sitting in front of him had finally lost control of the situation he had so carefully constructed.
Carver didn't give him that.
Not immediately.
But something had changed.
It was subtle.
Almost invisible.
A shift in the way his shoulders settled back against the metal frame of the Humvee.
A slight exhale that came slower than the others.
And then, finally his gaze drifted.
Not to Preston.
Not to the soldiers.
But past them.
Toward the battlefield.
Toward the wreckage.
Toward the bodies that still hadn't been moved.
Twenty-three.
The number hung in the air like something physical.
And for the first time since Preston had met him, Carver didn't look like a man in control of the board.
He looked like someone recalculating after the board had been flipped.
Not defeated in the way most people would be.
No panic.
No desperation.
But the certainty…
That quiet, unwavering certainty he carried before, it was gone.
Replaced with something colder.
Something more distant.
As if he had just accepted a result he didn't like, but couldn't change.
"You think this ends here," Carver said finally, voice quieter than before.
Not mocking.
Not sharp.
Just… flat.
Preston didn't respond right away.
He kept his eyes on him.
Studying.
Then
"No," Preston said.
Carver's eyes flicked back to him.
Preston's expression didn't change.
"But you do."
That landed.
Not like an insult.
Not like a threat.
Like a statement.
Carver held his gaze for a moment longer.
And then slowly, he leaned back.
The faintest trace of that old expression returned to his face.
But it wasn't the same.
It didn't carry confidence anymore.
Just recognition.
Acceptance.
A quiet, unspoken understanding of what this moment meant.
He had planned the ambush.
Set the trap.
Timed everything.
And still, he was sitting in the back of a Humvee.
Bound.
Surrounded.
Outplayed.
He didn't say anything else.
And this time, the silence stayed.
Preston didn't press him.
Didn't need to.
There would be time for questions.
Time for answers.
Time to break whatever was left of the network Carver had built.
But not here.
Not now.
Right now.
There were other things that mattered.
He stepped away from the Humvee, turning back toward the battlefield.
The work was already well underway.
Medics moved with purpose, finishing their treatments, securing bandages, checking vitals one last time before transport.
The wounded were being moved carefully now.
Lifted.
Carried.
Supported between soldiers as they were guided toward the trucks.
Some walked.
Barely.
Leaning heavily on others.
Some didn't.
Stretchers had been brought out, laid across the backs of the transport trucks, secured as gently as possible given the conditions.
"Easy… easy… watch his leg—"
"I got him, I got him—"
"Keep pressure there, don't let it bleed out!"
Voices overlapped.
Urgent.
Focused.
Alive.
Preston moved through them slowly, not rushing, not interfering and just watching.
Making sure it was happening.
Making sure no one was missed.
One of the medics glanced up as he passed.
"He'll make it," she said quickly, nodding toward a soldier lying on a stretcher, pale but breathing.
Preston gave a small nod back.
"Good."
Another soldier sat against the side of a truck, arm in a sling, face streaked with dirt and dried blood. He looked up as Preston approached.
"Still here, sir," the soldier said, managing a faint grin.
Preston stopped briefly.
"Yeah," he replied. "You are."
The soldier's grin faded just a little.
"Some aren't."
Preston didn't answer that.
Because there wasn't anything to say.
He placed a hand briefly on the man's shoulder.
Then moved on.
The battlefield was changing again.
From chaos.
To order.
From survival.
To recovery.
The fires were being put out where possible.
Weapons were being collected.
Positions checked one last time.
The Vertibirds circled once more overhead before slowly pulling away, their mission complete.
One of them dipped slightly as it passed over the convoy, almost like a silent acknowledgment.
Then they were gone.
Leaving behind only the fading echo of their engines.
Preston reached the center of the convoy again.
One of his officers approached him quickly.
"General, wounded are loaded," the officer reported. "Medics have done what they can out here."
Preston nodded.
"Good."
A pause.
Then.
"Any sign of additional hostiles?"
The officer shook his head.
"Negative. Area's clear."
Preston took a breath.
Finally.
"Alright," he said. "We move."
The officer turned immediately.
"You heard him!" he shouted. "Mount up! We're rolling out!"
The response came fast.
Soldiers moved toward the vehicles, climbing back into Humvees, securing positions in the trucks, checking weapons and gear as they went.
The energy had changed again.
No longer frantic.
No longer desperate.
But not relaxed either.
Heavy.
Quiet.
Everyone knew what had just happened.
Everyone felt it.
Preston turned back toward the lead Humvee one last time.
The guard was still in place.
Carver still inside.
Waiting.
Watching.
Preston climbed into the front passenger seat without a word.
Behind him, the door shut.
The engine rumbled to life again.
One by one, the rest of the convoy followed.
Slower this time.
More deliberate.
They left the battlefield behind.
The smoke.
The wreckage.
The bodies that would be recovered later.
The place where twenty-three lives had ended.
The road stretched ahead once more.
But it didn't feel the same.
Not anymore.
Inside the Humvee, no one spoke for a while.
The soldier beside Carver kept his rifle trained loosely, eyes forward but aware.
Carver himself remained silent.
No more comments.
No more observations.
Just… stillness.
Preston stared ahead.
Hands resting on his knees again.
But this time, they weren't as steady.
Not from fear.
From weight.
From everything that had just happened settling into place.
The convoy rolled on.
Miles passed.
The wasteland shifted around them.
And slowly, familiar ground began to appear.
The outskirts of Sanctuary.
Defensive positions.
Watch posts.
Figures in the distance recognizing the convoy as it approached.
The gates opened.
The vehicles rolled through.
And just like that, they were home.
But the silence didn't lift.
If anything, it deepened.
Preston stepped out of the Humvee as soon as it came to a stop.
The air felt different here.
Safer.
But it didn't erase anything.
Didn't undo anything.
Behind him, the trucks carrying the wounded came to a halt.
Medics were already moving again, opening doors, checking on the injured.
Preston didn't hesitate.
He turned toward them immediately.
"Take the wounded to the hospital," he ordered. "Now."
No delay.
No discussion.
"Yes, General!"
The drivers didn't waste a second.
Engines roared again as the trucks pulled away, heading straight toward the medical facility.
Every second mattered.
Preston watched them go for a brief moment.
Then turned back.
The rest of the convoy remained.
And Carver was still here.
Waiting.
Two soldiers pulled him from the Humvee, keeping a firm grip on his arms.
He didn't resist.
Didn't struggle.
Didn't even look around much.
Just walked.
Like he already knew where this ended.
Preston stepped forward.
"Take him to the prison," he said.
The soldiers nodded.
"Yes, sir."
They began moving immediately, escorting Carver through the settlement.
People noticed.
Of course they did.
They always did.
The sight of armed soldiers returning.
The damaged vehicles.
The missing faces.
The wounded not coming back with them.
And at the center of it, a man in restraints.
Escorted under guard.
Whispers started.
Quiet.
Uncertain.
But spreading.
Preston walked behind them, not rushing, not slowing.
Just watching.
Making sure it was done right.
The prison facility came into view.
Guards at the entrance straightened as they approached.
"Open it," Preston ordered.
The doors unlocked with a heavy metallic sound.
Carver was led inside.
Down the corridor.
Past reinforced cells.
Until they reached one.
Empty.
Waiting.
The door slid open.
The soldiers pushed him inside.
Carver stepped in without resistance.
Turned slightly.
Looked back once.
At Preston.
That same expression.
Different now.
Not victorious.
Not confident.
But not broken either.
Just… aware.
The door shut.
Locked.
Sealed.
And just like that, he was contained.
For now.
Preston stood there for a moment longer, staring at the cell.
Then finally turned away.
"Keep him under watch," he said to the guards. "No mistakes."
"Yes, General."
Preston nodded once.
Then walked out.
Back into Sanctuary.
Back into everything that was waiting, because this was far from over.
______________________________________________
• 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:-