The Castle's gates creaked open as the patrol returned.
DEFY moved in first, white-haired silhouettes precise and disciplined even after hours underground. MacCready followed, rifle slung loose, posture relaxed in that way that said job done, nobody important dead. Behind them came… something that didn't belong.
Small.
Thin.
Sarah looked up from the command table and froze.
"…MacCready," she said slowly, her one good eye narrowing. "Why is there a ghoul child following you."
MacCready scratched the back of his head. "Yeah. About that. Long story. Short version? We took a detour. found this kid in the fridge"
Billy shuffled forward, oversized jacket dragging on the stone floor, eyes darting around the massive fort. His voice cracked, thin but steady in the way only kids who've been scared too long manage.
"Please, lady… can you help me find my parents?"
The room went quiet.
Sarah knelt slightly so she wasn't towering over him. Her tone softened, but didn't lie.
"It's been over two hundred years, child," she said gently. "The world changed a lot."
Billy's lower lip trembled. "I—I know… but they gotta be somewhere, right? Mom and Dad wouldn't just leave."
Sarah inhaled slowly.
"The least I can do," she said, "is help you look. Tell me—where was your home?"
Billy frowned, thinking hard. "I… I don't really know. Everything looks different. But it was near Quincy. I remember the signs."
Sarah closed her eye for half a second.
"Quincy," she repeated.
She stood and exchanged a look with Nate across the room—one that carried weight. Quincy wasn't just a town anymore. It was an active warzone. Gunners, fortifications, blood still drying in the streets.
"Oh dear," Sarah muttered. "Quincy…"
She crouched again, resting one hand on her knee. "We're… conducting military operations there right now. It wouldn't be safe to take you through."
Billy's shoulders slumped. "So… I gotta wait?"
Before Sarah could answer, Nate stepped forward.
"Hey," he said, offering a small smile. "How about this? You hang out here for a bit."
Billy looked up.
"I've got a kid too," Nate continued. "Shaun. He could use someone to play with. Once my Minutemen finish clearing Quincy, we'll take you there together. Fair?"
Billy's eyes lit up, cautious hope flickering through two centuries of fear. "…Really?"
"Really," Nate said.
Billy nodded quickly. "Okay. I can wait."
Sarah exhaled—quiet, relieved, but still wary. She straightened and looked at MacCready again.
"…We're talking about how you found a two-hundred-year-old ghoul kid in a refrigerator later."
MacCready raised both hands. "Hey, I just opened the fridge."
Sarah leaned against the weathered stone wall of the Castle, her eyes narrowing as she studied the grainy holotape images MacCready had brought back from his scouting run. The Minutemen's fortress buzzed with activity around her—settlers repairing barricades, Preston barking orders—but her focus was locked on the projections flickering in the dim light of the command room. Nate stood nearby, arms crossed, while ISAC's orange holographic interface hummed softly from Sarah's wrist device, a relic from her pre-war days as a Division agent.
The first image showed a clunky, improvised quadruped mech, the kind the Gunners had been deploying lately. It was a Frankenstein's monster of scavenged parts: rusted metal legs jointed like an insect's, a bulky torso laden with olive-green ammo pouches, bedrolls, and what looked like a jury-rigged spotlight. It crouched on rocky terrain under a clear blue sky, looking more like a pack mule than a killer machine. "That's the first type the Gunners were using," Sarah muttered, her voice laced with disdain. "Bulky, slow, but tough as nails. Remember the one that ambushed our patrol near Quincy last year? Took entire focus fire with minigun from vertibird to take it down."
MacCready, lounging in a chair with his rifle propped against his knee, nodded grimly. "Yeah, but that detour I took scouting Quincy? That's where things got interesting. Found this new beast lurking in the ruins—sleek as hell, gun mounted right on top. Damn thing nearly spotted me, but I ducked into an old fridge for cover. That's how I stumbled on Billy, the kid trapped in there for who knows how long. Poor squirt was half-starved, babbling about raiders. We hightailed it back here, but not before I snapped this photo shot."
He gestured to the second image: a streamlined quadruped robot, all black composite armor and glowing blue accents, prowling an abandoned urban sprawl under artificial lights. Its legs were articulated for speed and agility, ending in clawed feet that could grip concrete or dash across debris. A heavy minigun turret sat atop its chassis, barrels gleaming menacingly, flanked by grenade launchers. It looked purpose-built for war, not pieced together from scrap like its Gunner counterpart.
Sarah's lips curled into a smirk, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. "The sleek quadruped—almost like a Dinergate, but scaled up to hound size. Faster, deadlier. Wait, ISAC, identify these photos that MacCready found."
The AI's voice chimed in, calm and analytical, as its scanner overlaid the images with data readouts. "Scanning initiated. Processing visual data... One item identified: WARHOUND. Pre-War advanced weaponry developed for the Private Military Company known as Black Tusk. Equipped with autonomous targeting systems, high-mobility chassis, integrated minigun, and explosive ordnance deployment capabilities. Threat level: High."
Sarah clicked her tongue in irritation, crossing her arms. "Tch. Possible that Athena left this as a parting gift to the Gunners. That scheming AI always had a knack for stirring the pot—probably trying to slow down the Commonwealth's progress, keep us bogged down fighting these mechanical mutts while she consolidates power elsewhere."
Nate stepped forward, his brow furrowed. As a vault dweller thrust into this chaotic world, he was still piecing together the web of factions and tech. "Is it the same level of danger as those Sangvis dolls or the Institute's synths? I've tangled with both—sneaky, relentless bastards."
Sarah let out a short, bitter laugh, her hand instinctively resting on the grip of her sidearm. "Worse in some ways. Imagine the speed these hounds can deploy at—zipping through ruins like wolves on the hunt, lobbing grenades into your flanks while their miniguns chew through power armor. Synths are infiltrators, Sangvis dolls are coordinated swarms, but these Warhounds? They're apex predators for urban warfare in group. One could turn a routine patrol into a bloodbath. We need to warn the outposts—double up on EMP grenades and anti-armor rounds. MacCready, you and Billy get some rest; we'll debrief the kid tomorrow. If the Gunners are upgrading their arsenal with Black Tusk tech, the Minutemen are going to need every edge we can get."
Preston folded his arms over the Castle map, eyes tracking the red clusters around Quincy. "We can use Castle artillery to soften them up. Suppressive fire first—keep the Gunners pinned while Minutemen push street by street."
Sarah nodded, but there was a crease of worry between her brows. "Artillery will work—against people. But those Warhounds won't break formation from shock alone. Most of my dolls are still in transit, crewing the fleet. I need time to pull whatever units I can spare back to the Commonwealth."
Nate didn't hesitate. "I'll talk to Ronnie. See if the armory has enough pulse grenades, armor-piercing rounds—anything with bite. If those things are as fast as you say, we'll need to stop them hard."
"Good," Sarah said. "EMP first, kinetic second. If we're lucky, the Gunners won't know what hit them."
Around them, the command room buzzed with quiet urgency—runners carrying ammo manifests, radio operators testing frequencies, Minutemen officers murmuring over maps. It was the sound of a militia becoming an army.
At the far end of the room, Billy tugged lightly at Shaun's sleeve, his ghoul eyes darting between the adults and the tactical holotable.
"Hey," Billy whispered, half-confused, half-awed. "Why's that police lady ordering the army around? Ain't your dad the one they call General?"
Shaun looked up from the workbench, where he'd been carefully fitting a tiny gear into a battered Protectron hand. He thought about it, brow furrowing in serious concentration.
"I don't really know what 'police' means," he admitted, then smiled a little. "But my dad trusts her."
Billy tilted his head. "Eh? That it?"
Shaun nodded, utterly sincere. "She knows how to beat bad guys. And if she says something's dangerous, people listen. Dad says that's how you keep places safe."
Billy mulled that over, glancing back at Sarah—at the empty sleeve, the eyepatch, the way even the grown-ups seemed to orbit around her decisions.
"Oh," he said softly. "Guess that makes sense."