The Gunners had seized an old Galaxy News Network broadcasting complex south of Boston and refashioned it into a fortress of concrete, sandbags, and jury-rigged turrets. The old tower still clawed at the sky, its transmitter repurposed and renamed Gunners Plaza—a symbol meant to tell the Commonwealth who now owned the airwaves.
From the operations floor, Captain Wes stood over a holo-map riddled with red and amber markers. The station's powerful transmitter pulsed steadily, relaying orders, threats, and status updates to Gunner squads scattered across the region. Quincy was supposed to be secure—an iron grip, reinforced by fear and one carefully placed traitor.
The radio crackled violently, cutting through the hum of generators.
Quincy Outpost:"Plaza—Plaza—this is Quincy! We're under attack! Heavy artillery bombardment—Minutemen colors! Request immediate reinforcement!"
Wes's jaw tightened. "Repeat that," he said coldly.
Quincy Outpost:"Artillery from the Castle, sir. Multiple batteries. They're advancing behind the barrage!"
Wes turned sharply to the radioman. "Didn't I station a Minutemen turncoat there? Power armor, insider knowledge. What was his name…?"A pause, then a sneer. "Ah. Lieutenant Clint. Where is he?"
The radioman swallowed."Sir… Clint was neutralized. Sniped at the exact moment the bombardment began."
The room went quiet.
Wes's eyes narrowed. "Sniped," he repeated. "By who?"
"Unknown shooter. Long range. Clean hit through the visor seam."
Wes slammed his fist against the console. "That's not Minutemen work. They don't have shooters like that." He paced once, then stopped."Is it the Division? Are their Dolls still backing them after everything we leaked? After the smear campaign?"
The radioman shook his head quickly."No, sir. No Division signatures. No Doll comm chatter."
Wes froze. "Then what is it?"
The reply came, strained and breathless, layered with distant explosions.
Quincy Outpost:"Sir… it's just the Minutemen. But not like before. It's—"gunfire erupts over the channel"—it's an entire army. Coordinated advances. Fire teams rotating, medics pulling wounded back under cover—like professionals!"
Wes looked back to the holo-map as multiple Gunner markers blinked from red to black.
"And the Warhounds?" he demanded.
Quincy Outpost:"Deployed and engaging. They're holding the main avenues for now—suppressing infantry, grenade launchers active—but the Minutemen are adapting. EMPs, traps, focused fire. I don't know how long the Hounds can keep them back!"
Static surged. The signal faltered.
Wes slowly straightened, expression hardening—not panicked, but calculating.
"So," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, "the farmers finally learned how to fight."
He turned to his officers."Scramble rapid-response teams. Fortify Plaza. And get me eyes on whoever's commanding them."
His gaze drifted to the tower windows, out toward the burning horizon where Quincy lay.
"Because this," Wes said quietly, "isn't a rabble anymore. This is a war."
Quincy – Street Level
The street was a canyon of broken brick and fire.
Minutemen artillery had torn the outer blocks apart, leaving craters where houses once stood. Smoke rolled low, mixing with dust and the stench of burning oil. Blue-coated Minutemen surged forward in disciplined bounds—one team advancing while another laid suppressive fire—nothing like the militia the Gunners remembered.
Then the Warhounds came alive.
The quadrupedal machines sprinted down the avenue with terrifying speed, steel claws hammering asphalt. One skidded sideways, turret snapping up as it vomited minigun fire, chewing through a Minuteman barricade. Another lobbed a grenade that detonated mid-street, flipping a rusted bus onto its side.
"Hold the line!" a Gunner shouted. "Let the Hounds work!"
Inside the half-collapsed municipal building overlooking the street, Bullet, Tessa, and Sergeant Baker watched through shattered windows and cracked optics.
Tessa reloaded with shaking hands. "They're not breaking," she hissed. "They keep coming—like they expect the Hounds."
Baker grimaced. "Reinforcements are en route from the northwest. Once they hit—"
The radio cut in, sharp and frantic.
Gunner Recon:"Convoy approaching from Route 38—wait—WAIT—"
A thunderclap split the sky.
Not artillery.
Not missiles.
Something faster.
A jet scream ripped overhead—high, clean, and wrong for the Commonwealth. A shape knifed through the clouds, sleek and predatory, its silhouette nothing like the ancient Vertibirds everyone knew.
A heartbeat later, the northwest road erupted.
The lead Gunner truck vanished in a pillar of flame, vaporized so completely it left only a smoking scar on the asphalt. The shockwave rolled through Quincy, knocking men off their feet and flipping debris end over end.
Bullet stared, wide-eyed."What the hell was that?"
The answer came as the sky filled.
Two Brotherhood of Steel Vertibirds roared in from the east, gunship doors open, miniguns already spinning. But behind them—flanking them—were three unfamiliar aircraft.
They were Vertibird-shaped, but wrong.
Their rotors were enclosed, segmented, humming with a deeper, predatory resonance. Hulls painted matte black, angular and clean, untouched by rust or scavenging. No Brotherhood markings. No Gunner tags.
One passed low enough for men on the street to see the faint emblem on its side—white, minimalist, almost corporate.
Baker felt his stomach drop."Those aren't Brotherhood…"
Tessa whispered, almost reverent, "Pre-War. Or something built like it."
The aircraft didn't slow for Quincy.
They didn't even look at the street fight.
All five gunships banked hard, engines howling as they accelerated south—straight toward the distant silhouette of Gunners Plaza.
The radio crackled again, weaker now.
Quincy Outpost:"Plaza… Plaza… reinforcements are gone. I repeat—northwest convoy is wiped out. We're cut off."
Bullet slammed a fist into the wall. "Dammit! We were supposed to hold until backup!"
Outside, Minutemen surged forward again, EMP grenades popping as Warhounds staggered and collapsed, legs locking mid-stride. One machine tried to rise—then a missile took it square in the torso, flipping it onto its back like a dying animal.
Baker looked toward the sky, watching the strange Vertibirds vanish toward the horizon.
"No backup," he said grimly. "No escape."
Tessa swallowed. "So that's it?"
Bullet raised his rifle, teeth bared in a feral grin as the Minutemen closed in.
"No," he said. "That's when you find out who dies standing."
Above Quincy, the last echoes of jet engines faded.
From that moment on, every Gunner still breathing knew the truth:
Quincy was already lost.
BOS Vertibird – En Route to Gunner Plaza
The Commonwealth slid past beneath the Vertibird's canopy—ruined rooftops, scarred highways, columns of smoke marking where battles were still burning. The formation held tight: two Brotherhood Vertibirds flanking three unfamiliar black gunships with enclosed rotors and clean, angular hulls.
BOS Pilot One keyed his mic, half-whistling as he watched the black birds move with effortless precision."Dang… ever since that fleet showed up, the Dolls have been rolling out toys. Feels like their real muscle finally arrived—shame it missed the Institute party."
Behind him, a Brotherhood Knight braced at the minigun, servo-assisted harness humming as he scanned the skyline."Could be worse. We play nice, follow orders, don't act like old-world conquerors—Commander Sarah might toss us a blueprint or two. Those birds? Pre-War quality. I'll take fair trade over strong-arming locals any day."
The pilot chuckled."Yeah. Last thing we need is turning the Commonwealth against us again."
A calm, clipped voice cut into the channel—clean signal, no static.
Doll Pilot (Super 1):"BOS escort, this is Super One. Approaching Gunner Plaza from vector south. LZ is hot—heavy resistance on rooftop and upper floors. Request suppression so we can deploy safely."
The Vertibird formation tightened instinctively.
BOS Pilot Four, flying rear guard, laughed as he armed his rockets."Hot LZ? Music to my ears. And yeah—I'm guessing that fighter you folks flew in could flatten the whole block, but something tells me Plaza's radio tower is why we're here."
The Doll pilot didn't deny it."Affirmative. Strategic asset."
As if on cue, another voice broke through—calm, controlled, unmistakably authoritative.
Sarah:"Brotherhood Gentlemen, this is Commander Sarah. After Gunners are evicted, GNN becomes a joint Minutemen–BOS outpost. Keep collateral damage minimal—especially the transmitter. I want that tower broadcasting by tonight."
The channel went quiet for half a second.
Then BOS Pilot One replied, professional and respectful."Copy that, Commander. Precision strikes only."
The Knight at the minigun grinned behind his visor."Heh. Hear that? Boys, We're not here to level the place. We're here to clean house."
The Vertibirds banked hard as Gunner Plaza came into view—a squat, brutalist structure bristling with sandbags, jury-rigged turrets, and muzzle flashes from every window.
"Targets marked," Pilot Four called out. "Rooftop gunners first."
"Engaging," Pilot One replied.
Miniguns spun up, their roar shaking the fuselage. Carefully controlled bursts stitched across rooftop positions—Gunner silhouettes thrown backward as turrets exploded in showers of sparks and concrete dust. Rockets followed, precise and restrained, punching into reinforced corners rather than collapsing the tower.
Below, the black gunships slowed, rotors humming as their side doors slid open.
"LZ clearing," the Doll pilot confirmed. "Deploying teams in five… four…"
The Brotherhood Knight leaned into his gun, eyes locked on the Plaza."Never thought I'd say this," he muttered, "but fighting alongside a SHD commander and her Dolls?"
The pilot smirked."Welcome to the new Commonwealth."
Rooftop Insertion – BOS POV
The Vertibird flared hard onto the rooftop, rotors chopping through the air amid a hail of Gunner tracer fire. The pilot wrestled the bird steady as the rear ramp slammed down with a hydraulic whine.
"GO! GO! MOVE!"
Eight Brotherhood Knights thundered out in a phalanx of gleaming T-60 steel, miniguns whirring to life and laser rifles barking precise bursts. Gunner heavy turrets swiveled desperately, their barrels glowing hot—but they were too slow against the onslaught. Missiles streaked in from the escort Vertibird, slamming into turret housings with thunderous explosions, sending shrapnel and flames skyward. The rooftop defenders—a squad of Gunners in combat armor—crumpled under the disciplined fire, their positions evaporating in seconds.
One Knight, his voice crackling over open comms with a metallic echo, let out a grim laugh. "Roof's clear. Guess they forgot we don't fit in elevators anyway."
Sarah, positioned nearby with her SHD HUD flickering data feeds, nodded approvingly from the shadows. The insertion was clean—now came the breach.
The Elevator Kill Box
The elevator doors yawned open, revealing a pitch-black shaft rigged for annihilation. Motion sensors spiked red on the Knights' visors.
"CONTACT—"
The shaft detonated in a symphony of destruction: grenades tumbling down, mines triggering in sequence, and pre-set heavy guns unleashing a storm of lead from hidden alcoves. It was a textbook kill box, designed to pulverize infantry into mist.
Smoke billowed upward, acrid and thick. When it cleared, the Knights stood unmoved—armor blackened, paint scorched and peeling, but integrity intact. One Knight staggered slightly, a dented pauldron sparking, but he steadied himself with a grunt.
"Damage nominal," the Paladin reported calmly, his voice steady over the comms. "Proceeding."
They advanced into the maw, power-armored boots clanging on the grated floor. Gunners waiting in the shaft's lower levels broke almost instantly—panic overriding their vaunted discipline as the walking tanks filled the confined space. Laser fire lanced out, vaporizing flesh and armor alike; miniguns chewed through barricades in roaring bursts. The descent became a one-sided slaughter.
But the elevator bypassed the second floor entirely, plunging straight to the basement sub-level.
"Dammit, Elevator rerouted, we been bypassed the main first level," the Paladin updated. "Basement insertion confirmed. Adjusting."
Dolls Insertion – Second Floor
From her overwatch on the roof, Sarah monitored the feeds through her SHD HUD, helmet tucked under her arm, wind whipping at her tactical gear. The BOS was committed below; now it was the dolls' turn.
"404. Go."
Ropes snapped taut from the roof's edge. The dolls—silent, ethereal figures with glowing eyes—flowed over the side like liquid shadows, rappelling down in perfect synchronization. They targeted the second-floor balcony, where a flimsy pre-war wooden door, reinforced with scrap metal, barred entry.
A breacher Doll slapped a shaped charge onto the frame. THUMP. The door disintegrated in a flash of fire and splinters.
UMP45 and UMP9 surged in first, muzzles flashing in the dim hallway as they cleared corners with lethal efficiency. HK416 held the breach point, stitching suppressive bursts down the corridor, while G11 dropped low, her rifle picking off Gunners scrambling for cover or retreat.
Alarms blared. WARHOUND units activated with mechanical snarls—metal paws hammering the hardwood floors, miniguns spinning up to lethal RPMs.
"Contacts—hound class!" UMP9's voice cut through the chatter, calm but urgent.
HK416 didn't flinch. "Target joints. Prioritize mobility kills."
Armor-piercing rounds hammered into knee servos, crippling one hound mid-stride. It collapsed, firing wildly as a breacher Doll vaulted over its twitching frame and jammed a frag grenade into an exposed chassis vent. BOOM. Shrapnel and circuitry sprayed the walls, embedding in Gunner armor like lethal confetti.
The dolls pressed on, room by room, their coordination a deadly ballet amid the chaos.
Basement Breakthrough – BOS vs WARHOUNDS
Deep in the basement, the Gunners unleashed their reserves—a desperate last line of defense. Three WARHOUNDS charged from shadowed alcoves, grenade launchers thumping rhythmic death, explosions blooming like fireflowers against the Knights' advance.
"FORM UP ON ME!" the Paladin roared, his voice booming through the confined space.
The Knights locked into a shoulder-to-shoulder wall, advancing inexorably through the barrage. Blasts that would have liquefied unarmored troops merely scorched paint and dented plating. One Knight went down hard—armor compromised by a point-blank grenade, fusion core flickering—but a comrade hauled him back while the field medic knelt, injecting stims and sealing breaches with foam.
Missiles streaked from the launcher-equipped Knights, answering grenades with precision strikes that gutted one hound's underbelly. Another leapt high, claws extended—
And met a power-fist uppercut midair. The impact tore its head clean off in a shower of sparks and hydraulic fluid.
"Basement secured," the Paladin reported grimly, wiping oil from his gauntlet. "Pushing up to link with Dolls elements."
In the recording studio on the upper level, Captain Wes barricaded himself behind overturned consoles, his voice raw and ragged as he screamed into the radio handset.
"This is Wes! All units fall back—FALL BACK TO THE PLAZA CORE! Hold them, damn you!"
The door exploded inward under combined breaching charges from both sides: 404 Team hitting from the hallway, Brotherhood Knights thundering up from the stairs below.
Wes fired wildly, his combat rifle bucking in desperation. Cruz, his second-in-command, caught the first burst center mass from HK416—folding like a ragdoll. Ryder tried to flank, slipping behind a console, but UMP45 anticipated, her SMG chattering a short, fatal stitch that dropped her instantly. one of gunner Sargeant snarled and primed a grenade—
Only for a Knight's laser to vaporize his arm mid-throw. The grenade rolled harmlessly, detonating against a wall.
Sarah's voice cut through the chaos like a blade, broadcasting from the roof via comms. "that's far enough."
She descended the fire escape swiftly, boots hitting the concrete with purpose as she stepped into the shattered control room, pistol drawn with only her right hand but steady and firm aim.
Wes whirled, gun shaking in his grip, sweat and blood streaking his face. "You… you're the one," he spat, recognition dawning. "All this—because of you."
Sarah leveled her pistol, not firing, her expression unyielding. "Because of you," she corrected coldly. "Quincy. The slavery rings. The mass graves. You don't get a martyr's death today."
Wes glanced around wildly: dead Gunners sprawled in pools of blood, smoking WARHOUND wreckage leaking coolant, unyielding walls of Brotherhood steel, and the impassive stares of the dolls.
His weapon clattered to the floor, defeated.
"I surrender."
A BOS Knight stepped forward, cuffs clinking as he secured the captain's wrists. Sarah didn't smile—she just turned away, her voice cold and final.
"Broadcast it," she ordered, nodding to the control panel. "Tell every Gunner in the Commonwealth what happens when you plant your flag on someone else's home."
The smoke over Quincy thinned as the last echoes of gunfire faded into the ruins. What had once been a graveyard of broken homes and broken promises now stood silent—scarred, but free.
Minutemen moved through the streets in disciplined lines, blue coats and battered armor catching the morning light. Sandbags were pulled aside. Gunner banners were torn down and burned in the street. One by one, lookout nests were cleared, and the final Warhound carcass lay twisted near the courthouse steps, its optics dark.
At the center of town, where the Gunners had once executed defectors and civilians alike, a tall flagpole was raised.
Nate stood beneath it, his coat torn and stained, hands steady despite the weight of everything Quincy represented. Preston Garvey stood beside him, expression solemn.
"This is where they broke us," Preston said quietly. "Where they tried to prove the Minutemen were truly finished."
Nate nodded. "Then this is where we prove them wrong."
The rope ran through the pulley.
The Minutemen flag rose—blue field, crossed laser musket and sword—snapping in the wind as cheers rippled through the assembled troops. Some Minutemen saluted. Others just stood, stunned, eyes wet.
From nearby rooftops, Diamond City guards, settlers, and a handful of Brotherhood observers watched in silence.
Quincy was no longer a warning.
It was a promise.
Radio Freedom carried the moment across the Commonwealth.
"This is Radio Freedom, broadcasting on all Minutemen frequencies. Quincy has been reclaimed. The Gunners are driven out. The Minutemen stand again."
Across the ruins, Gunner stragglers fled north toward Providence, abandoning equipment, wounded, and whatever pride they had left. Without Gunner Plaza, their coordination collapsed. Contracts went silent. Their patrol and extortions vanished.