The Command Center of the USS Eisenhower was a hive of tactical orchestration, its walls lined with flickering holoscreens displaying real-time feeds from the fleet's sensors. Radar blips danced across maps of the Atlantic coastline, while drone cams relayed crisp images of the surrounding vessels riding the gentle swells. Sarah sat in the elevated captain's chair, a relic of pre-war authority now augmented with Doll-engineered interfaces that responded to her neural implants. Her eyes tracked the aerial ballet unfolding outside the reinforced viewports: a squadron of Vertibirds, their rotors chopping the air with rhythmic thuds, ferried groups of Dolls between ships. Sleek Blackhawks—salvaged and retrofitted from Commonwealth ruins—hovered alongside, their side doors open as AR Team members leaped gracefully onto the decks of destroyers and cruisers. The distribution was methodical, ensuring each vessel had a balanced complement of tactical, engineering, and support Dolls for the impending voyage to New York Harbor.
It was a mesmerizing sight, this symphony of mechanical precision. No human errors, no fatigue—just the unyielding efficiency of her android forces. Sarah leaned back, her right hand absently tracing the seam of her combat armor, feeling the faint hum of the carrier's nuclear heart beneath her. The fleet was hers, a floating empire forged from salvage and loyalty, and with the Institute's shadows finally lifted, the path southward promised new horizons—ruined skyscrapers teeming with potential allies or threats.
The hatch hissed open behind her, admitting Springfield with her characteristic poise. The brown-haired Doll carried a sleek metallic case under one arm, her Springfield rifle slung over her shoulder like an old friend. She approached with measured steps, her amber eyes locking onto Sarah's. "Commander," she said, her voice warm yet formal. "Your new augmented left arm. Mayling forgot to inform you amid the chaos in Maintenance. She sends her apologies—something about chasing down Beluga for her pilfered whiskey."
Sarah glanced down at her left arm, flexing the fingers experimentally. It had felt... off since her last upgrade session, lighter and more responsive, but she'd chalked it up to fatigue. "Ah, thanks," she replied, a hint of amusement in her tone. She extended the limb, watching as hidden servos whirred softly. "What's new about it? Feels snappier."
Springfield set the case on a console and opened it, revealing diagnostic tools and a holographic schematic. "Enhanced neural linkage for faster reflex times—up to 30% improvement in combat scenarios. Integrated micro-missile launcher in the forearm, with five payloads of Institute-derived smart munitions. And a shielding emitter for close-quarters energy deflection. Mayling calibrated it to your biometrics; it should integrate seamlessly."
Before Sarah could respond, a blur of velvet hair and tactical gear burst into the room. WA2000—WaWa to her squad—darted from the side entrance, her sniper rifle bouncing lightly on her back. Without warning, she flung herself at Sarah's side, wrapping her arms around the commander's waist in a surprisingly fierce hug. "Commander! You're back! I missed you so much—the fleet was boring without you ordering us around!"
Sarah stiffened for a split second, then relaxed into a chuckle, patting the Doll's head. Wa2000's embrace was warm, her synthetic skin radiating a simulated body heat that always caught her off guard. "Easy there, Wa2000. Good to see you too."
Springfield's eyes widened in mild alarm, her posture straightening as she stepped forward. "WaWa, you shouldn't suddenly hug like that! You might injure the Commander—her augmentations are still settling, and your grip strength is calibrated for long-range suppression, not... affection."
WaWa pulled back slightly, her cheeks puffing out in a pout, but she didn't let go entirely. "Oh, come on, Springfield! She's tough—she took down a Glowing ghoul with a pipe once! A hug won't hurt." She glanced up at Sarah with wide, pleading eyes. "Right, Commander? Tell her I'm not too rough!"
Sarah laughed outright, the sound cutting through the Command Center's ambient hum. "She's fine, Springfield. Wa2000's enthusiasm is one of her best features. But maybe warn me next time—don't want to accidentally deploy that new missile launcher."
Two days had blurred into a whirlwind of relentless activity aboard the USS Eisenhower and her sister ships. Dolls swarmed the decks like tireless ants, their circuits alight with purpose: munitions lockers were stocked to bursting with salvaged rounds and Institute-fabricated energy cells; Vertibird engines roared through test flights, their blades slicing the salty air; engineering bays echoed with the whine of welders as final reinforcements were bolted into place on hulls scarred by centuries of neglect. Gaia had seamlessly integrated into the Vanguard's gunnery crew, her massive frame handling the recoil of practice salvos with ease, while Beluga—still nursing a synthetic hangover from her whiskey-fueled escapades—grumbled through light duties in the AR Team's hangar. Even the captured ringleaders in their virtual prison had quieted, perhaps sensing the shift in momentum, though Ouroboros's sly requests for "parole" lingered in Mayling's logs like unresolved bugs.
Now, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the Atlantic in hues of molten gold, the fleet stood poised. Anchors weighed, reactors thrummed at full readiness, and the formation tightened—destroyers fanning out in protective wedges, cruisers humming with charged railguns, the Vanguard looming astern like a armored sentinel. In the heart of the Eisenhower, the Combat Information Center (CIC) pulsed with holographic displays and data streams. Walls of screens showed fleet vitals: fuel levels at optimal, Doll complements synchronized, drone scouts already probing southward toward the ruins of New York. Sarah stood at the central command console, her augmented left arm interfacing seamlessly with the controls, a faint blue glow emanating from its embedded emitters.
Flanking her were the shadows of Squad 404: UMP45 with her ever-present smirk, leaning against a bulkhead as she monitored comms; UMP9 bouncing on her heels, eyes darting between screens; HK416, arms crossed and rifle at the ready, her tactical visor scanning for anomalies; and G11, half-asleep in a corner chair, her drowsy demeanor belying the razor-sharp calculations running in her core. They were Sarah's elite infiltrators, ghosts in the machine, and their presence here underscored the gravity of the moment—not just a departure, but a declaration.
Sarah tapped a panel, activating the fleet-wide broadcast. Her voice, steady and resonant, echoed through every speaker, every Doll's internal receiver, from the Arleigh Burke's bridge to the Virginia's submerged depths. "Attention, all ships of the Atlantic Fleet. Dolls... you have my utmost thanks for your contributions. The Institute is gone, its synth horrors dismantled, and the Commonwealth stands safe from their grasp. But our war is not over. The mastermind Athena has slipped westward, possibly to rendezvous with remnants of the Enclave and Vault-Tec's buried schemes. We will continue to face challenges in this wasteland of ruined America—raiders on the coasts, feral machines in the depths, and shadows that refuse to die."
She paused, her gaze sweeping the CIC, meeting the eyes of her 404 team. UMP45 nodded subtly, a glint of approval in her optics. "But we will press on, as per the SHD's original protocols: to preserve what remains of America, even though we're late by over two hundred years. We've reclaimed the seas; now we reclaim the land. All fleet—set course for New York."
A chorus of affirmatives rippled back through the comms—Dolls' voices crisp and unified: "Aye, Commander." Engines roared to life across the armada, propellers churning the water into frothy wakes. The Eisenhower surged forward, her massive hull cutting through the waves with authoritative grace, the rest of the fleet falling into precise formation. Vertibirds lifted off from the flight deck, circling overhead like vigilant hawks, while submarine periscopes dipped below the surface, scouting ahead.
In the CIC, tension eased into quiet resolve. HK416 straightened, her voice cutting through the hum. "New York's a mess—flooded subways, super mutant nests, who knows what else. But with the fleet's firepower..." She trailed off, a rare smile tugging at her lips.
Sarah nodded, deactivating the broadcast. "We'll handle it. One harbor at a time." As the coastline receded behind them, the Atlantic Fleet steamed southward, a beacon of rebuilt might in a fractured world.