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On the road, the trucks moved slower than they had the night before, their heavy loads groaning with every bump. Preston sat forward in his seat, rifle balanced once again across his lap, eyes scanning the horizon. The danger hadn't lessened just because the cargo had changed. If anything, it was worse now. Raiders would fight savagely for supplies like these.
The road stretched out ahead like an old scar across the Commonwealth — jagged, broken, but still carrying the faint memory of what it once was. Preston leaned forward slightly, one elbow braced against the window frame, his rifle steady across his lap. His eyes tracked every flicker of shadow, every half-fallen signpost, every gutted husk of a car that could be hiding something worse than rust.
The Humvee growled beneath him, its engine a steady, low rumble that seemed to sync with his own heartbeat. Matthews drove with both hands tight on the wheel, his knuckles pale, but his movements precise. He knew the weight behind them — the three trucks loaded heavy with supplies that could mean the difference between survival and collapse for the men and women holding the C.I.T. Ruins.
Behind them, the convoy lumbered forward, each truck creaking like it carried the bones of a giant. The sound of chains, of rattling metal, of wooden crates grinding against each other filled the air whenever the wheels dropped into a pothole. Inside the trucks, food, water, ammunition, tools, and medicine shifted like treasures smuggled through enemy lands.
Rodriguez manned the turret again, the silhouette of his body sharp against the sky. His weapon swept in patient arcs, the barrel never lingering too long on one spot. Haines sat beside him, binoculars pressed to his face, lips moving as he muttered bearings, shapes, possible contacts. Their rhythm hadn't changed from the night before — only the stakes.
They passed the husks of houses that had been gnawed down to foundations, chimneys standing like broken teeth. Once, children had played in yards here. Once, gardens had bloomed. Now only weeds and shadows remained. And yet, for Preston, every empty window was a place where the barrel of a rifle might glint.
"Left side, two hundred yards," Haines murmured suddenly, adjusting the lenses.
Rodriguez swung the gun smoothly, eyes narrowing. A pause. Then: "Dog. Just a stray."
Preston didn't relax. Dogs drew worse things behind them. Hunger had a way of following hunger.
Still, the animal bolted back into the brush, and the convoy kept moving.
The miles dragged. The sun had climbed to its harshest height, beating down through a thin layer of gray clouds, when they hit the outskirts of Cambridge again. The skeletons of buildings leaned toward the road, blackened by fire, hollow-eyed. Preston raised a fist, and the convoy slowed. The engines idled low, the sound of metal ticking as it cooled under the heat.
Matthews glanced at him. "Same path as before?"
Preston shook his head. "Too obvious. Raiders'll expect us to come through the straight run again. We'll swing wide through the east, come around by the river."
Matthews grunted his approval and turned the wheel. The convoy followed, wheels crunching over gravel, bouncing against the uneven ground.
They hadn't gone a mile before Rodriguez hissed over the comms: "Contact. High ground, right side. Can't get a clear view."
Preston's heart kicked. He raised his rifle, scanning the rooftops. Shapes flickered — the quick duck of a head, the faint glint of glass.
"Don't slow down," Preston ordered. His voice was even, but his jaw clenched tight. "Keep rolling. Eyes up."
For a moment, it was just the hum of engines and the prickle of sweat down every neck. Then — a shot cracked. A bullet sparked off the asphalt just ahead of the lead Humvee. Another whined past Rodriguez's turret.
"Ambush!" Haines barked.
Rodriguez opened up immediately, the heavy gun roaring, brass shells raining down like a storm. Dust and concrete exploded from the rooftop where the muzzle flashes had come from. Raiders scattered, some firing wildly as they bolted, others diving for cover.
The convoy roared through the choke point, engines pushed to their limits, wheels grinding over debris. Preston fired out the window in controlled bursts, his shots picking off one raider who'd been too slow to duck.
A rocket whooshed from the roof — but it struck short, blasting a crater into the road just behind the second truck. The driver swerved, barely keeping the load steady.
"Keep it moving!" Preston shouted, voice raw over the comms.
In less than a minute, it was over. The raiders had melted back into the ruins, unwilling to stand against the convoy's momentum and the fury of Rodriguez's gun. The last echoes of fire faded into silence, leaving only the growl of engines and the smell of smoke hanging heavy in the air.
"Status?" Preston barked.
"All trucks intact," came the reply from the rear. "No casualties. Some crates shifted, but they're secure."
Preston exhaled slowly. His hand tightened briefly on the rifle across his lap. That had been close. Too close. But they were still moving.
By the time the convoy reached the shadow of the C.I.T. Ruins, the sun was dipping westward, bleeding red light across the broken skyline. The ruins loomed ahead like a wounded beast — walls of stone and steel patched with scavenged sheet metal, guard towers bristling with rifles and watchful eyes. Smoke from cookfires curled lazily above, carrying the smell of boiled cornmeal and scorched wood.
As the convoy rumbled closer, a horn blared once from the towers. The gates creaked open, iron chains rattling as soldiers pulled them wide. A cheer went up before the first truck even cleared the threshold — rough, ragged, but real.
"Supplies!" someone shouted from the wall. "They've brought supplies!"
Men and women rushed forward as the convoy rolled into the courtyard. Their faces, pale with fatigue and hunger, lit with something brighter than relief. Hands slapped the sides of the trucks as if touching the wood could make the reality sink in.
When the engines finally cut, the silence that followed wasn't empty. It was charged, heavy with anticipation.
Preston swung down from the Humvee, boots crunching against the dirt. Soldiers and settlers alike surged toward him, not in panic, but in desperate gratitude.
"What've you got?" one man asked, voice hoarse.
"Food," another woman muttered, eyes locked on the crates. "Please tell me there's food."
Preston raised a hand, steadying them with the calm that seemed to radiate from him even when the world burned. "There's food. Water. Ammo. Medical stock. Building supplies. Enough to keep this place standing."
The cheer that followed shook the courtyard. It wasn't loud, not compared to a stadium or a battle cry, but it carried the weight of survival.
Work began immediately. Soldiers hauled crates off the trucks, lining them up in organized rows. Nails and steel plates were carried toward the half-collapsed section of wall. Barrels of water were rolled toward the filtration tents. Chems and bandages were rushed to the small field hospital.
Preston oversaw it all, moving between groups, lending his hands to a crate when arms faltered, his voice steady when order frayed. He felt the shift happening, saw it in their faces. The hollow-eyed fatigue gave way to something else — to the straightening of backs, to laughter bubbling up even in exhaustion, to the quiet fire in their gazes.
By the time the last crate was unloaded, torches had been lit against the growing dark. The courtyard was alive in a way it hadn't been in weeks. People shared water in tin cups, broke open crates of canned beans to pass around. Some soldiers leaned against the trucks, rifles resting across their laps, chewing with the ravenous hunger of those who hadn't had a full stomach in days.
Preston allowed himself a moment then. Just a breath. He stood at the edge of it all, watching as the ruins seemed less like a graveyard and more like a beginning.
But his duty wasn't done.
He turned, his boots carrying him toward the heart of the ruins — toward the makeshift command post set up in what had once been a lecture hall. The heavy doors creaked as he pushed them open, the air inside cooler, quieter.
And there, at the long table spread with maps and reports, stood Sico. His armor bore new scratches, his face was lined with fatigue, but his presence filled the room like a drawn blade.
Preston halted a step inside, then straightened. "Commander."
Sico looked up, his eyes sharp even in the dim lantern light. For a moment, neither man spoke. The silence between them carried everything — the risk of the road, the weight of the supplies, the sight of the people outside clinging to hope again.
Then Preston broke it, his voice firm, steady. "The supplies are here. Food, water, ammunition, medical stock, building materials. Everything you asked for. No losses. The convoy made it."
Sico's jaw shifted, just slightly, as if he were grinding the weight of those words into himself. He nodded once, slow and deliberate. "You did well, Preston. Better than well. You brought them more than supplies. You brought them proof."
Preston tilted his head. "Proof?"
"That we're not just holding," Sico said, his voice low but edged with iron. "That we can build. That we can move forward. Every crate out there is a message: we're not dying here. We're carving something out of this ruin. Something that'll last."
Preston's chest swelled, though his face remained the calm mask of a soldier. "They believe it. You should've seen them, Commander. When the first barrels came off the truck, it was like… like watching a starving man remember the taste of food. They believe again."
Sico studied him for a long moment, then nodded again. "Good. That's what we need. Hope is as much a weapon as any rifle."
Preston allowed himself a small smile. "And we've got both now."
For the first time that day, Sico's lips curved into something close to a smile. It wasn't wide, wasn't soft — but it was real.
"Rest up," he said finally, his tone shifting back to command. "You've done enough for today. Tomorrow, we plan. Tonight, you let them see you eat with them. Drink with them. Remind them that their leaders bleed and sweat the same as they do."
Preston inclined his head. "Aye, Commander."
The next morning came heavy with the smell of damp stone and smoke from dying campfires. The night had been restless — not because of alarms or sudden attacks, but because of the quiet. For men and women used to the constant tension of hunger, fear, and gunfire, peace felt alien, as though the world were holding its breath.
Sico had slept little. He had stayed up longer than he should, walking the walls of the C.I.T. Ruins, speaking briefly with sentries, testing their alertness with sharp questions, making sure fatigue hadn't dulled their instincts. When he did finally lay his head down, it wasn't for rest, but for calculation. His mind ticked over strategies, the next steps, the chain of choices that would turn the C.I.T. stronghold from a fragile redoubt into a cornerstone of the Freemasons' Republic.
By dawn, he was already moving again. His armor plates had been polished down with oil rags by some eager young soldier who wanted to make himself useful. Sico had thanked him with a nod, then gone out into the courtyard to find Sturges.
Sturges was already there, crouched beside a mess of cables that looked more like tangled intestines than anything fit for a power grid. His sleeves were rolled up, his hands black with grease, and his voice carried that familiar mix of irritation and optimism.
"See, Commander, the tricky part here ain't just getting the juice flowing. It's convincing all this pre-war junk to play nice together. Half these lines are older than my granddad, and the other half were jerry-rigged by settlers who thought duct tape was a substitute for actual wiring."
Sico stood beside him, arms crossed. His eyes flicked over the spread of equipment — cracked fusion batteries, coils scavenged from Protectron husks, a dented but intact power regulator. Sturges had already mapped out where the conduits ran along the walls, chalk marks cutting across stone like veins.
"And how long until we've got power to the searchlights?" Sico asked.
Sturges looked up at him, squinting through the sweat already streaking his brow. "If nobody bothers me and the parts hold up? Maybe by tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest. We'll have those towers shining brighter than the Prydwen's deck lights."
Sico grunted his approval. "The soldiers need them. Shadows are an enemy too. Raiders, mutants, hell, even a radstag will think twice if they're caught in a beam of light."
"Exactly my point," Sturges said, wiping his hands on a rag. "We get the grid up, those lights'll give your boys a fighting edge. And maybe," — he grinned — "they'll stop tripping over rubble every damn patrol."
Sico almost allowed himself a chuckle, but it didn't have time to surface.
Boots hammered against the courtyard stones. A soldier burst into view, face pale, chest heaving, words tumbling out before he'd even stopped running.
"Commander! Commander Sico!"
Sico turned sharply, eyes narrowing. He didn't need the panic in the young man's tone to know what was coming — only bad news arrived like that.
"What is it?" Sico demanded.
The soldier snapped into a quick salute, then blurted: "Deathclaws, sir. At least three of them. Sighted just beyond the eastern approach. Preston's already taken men to the walls. He's organizing a defense. Power Armor squad's been ordered to ready up, and the Sentinel Tanks are preparing to fire if they close in on the perimeter."
The words hit like a hammer. Deathclaws. Not raiders. Not ferals. Deathclaws. The apex predators of the wasteland. No matter how many rifles you had, no matter how strong your walls looked, when a Deathclaw came at you, it was a test of whether you truly deserved to live.
For a heartbeat, Sico stood still, the weight of the report pressing against him. Then he moved — fast.
"Sturges, get your men underground. Protect the regulators and wiring. If we lose the grid now, we're fighting blind tonight."
Sturges nodded, lips tight, no time for backtalk. He snapped his fingers at his crew, and they scattered like sparks, hauling tools and crates into the safety of the lower levels.
Sico was already striding toward the eastern wall, the soldier jogging at his side, rattling off positions: "Preston's got second and third platoon lined up along the barricades. He's got the snipers on the north tower and the heavy gunners covering the choke point by the collapsed overpass. Says he'll hold until reinforcements arrive."
"Good man," Sico muttered. His voice carried not relief, but steel. Preston had been bred for moments like this, and if anyone could keep raw recruits steady against monsters, it was him.
The sound hit them before the sight.
A roar, deep and primal, rolled over the ruins like thunder cracking against stone. It wasn't the sound of any beast meant to live in this world. It was something twisted by nuclear fire, a living weapon. The walls themselves seemed to shudder as the cry echoed through the ruins.
Soldiers were already braced along the battlements when Sico arrived, rifles angled out, fingers white-knuckled on their triggers. Preston stood at the center, rifle across his chest, voice carrying over the tension like a general born from the wasteland.
"Hold steady! Don't waste rounds! They're fast, they're tough, but they bleed. You hit one in the head, you keep hitting until it drops. Nobody fires till they're in range!"
Sico stepped up beside him, scanning the horizon. The broken ruins of Cambridge spread out like jagged teeth, and between them… movement. Three hulking shadows stalked forward, their massive frames slipping between wreckage and brush with terrifying speed for creatures so large.
Their claws, long as machetes, gleamed faintly in the morning sun. Their tails lashed, their reptilian hides catching the light in patterns of scarred scales. One reared back and let out another roar, its voice a promise of death.
The men along the wall shifted uneasily, breaths hitching.
"Power Armor squad?" Sico asked quickly.
Preston didn't look away from the monsters. "They're suiting up now. Two minutes, maybe three. Enough time to get them on the line."
"And the tanks?"
"Loaded and hot. Orders are to hold until the creatures are closer. Don't want to waste a shell on a bad shot."
Sico nodded once. His eyes tracked the Deathclaws, their deliberate, almost taunting pace. They weren't charging — not yet. They were testing. Smelling the air. Judging whether the prey before them was worth the effort.
"They'll come in hard," Sico muttered. "Straight at the walls. They'll try to rip through the gates, maybe climb the rubble."
"Then we hold the line," Preston said. His voice was low, but firm. "These people need to see that walls can stand against more than hunger."
Sico drew his rifle, checking the magazine, the weight in his hands. Around them, soldiers steadied their breaths. The air was thick with waiting.
And then, without warning, the lead Deathclaw surged forward — a blur of muscle and claw tearing across the cracked asphalt.
The Deathclaw moved like lightning wrapped in muscle and claws. One heartbeat it was stalking, its head jerking side to side, nostrils flaring; the next, it was pounding toward the ruins, the cracked asphalt shattering under each strike of its talons.
"Hold!" Preston's voice rang sharp and fierce, cutting through the soldiers' panic before it had a chance to bloom. "Hold your fire until they're in range! Don't waste lead on shadows!"
But the sound of that roar had already set hearts hammering, palms sweating against rifle grips. Sico could feel it, the invisible weight pressing down on everyone lining the battlements. Fear was a smell, a pulse, and it was spreading.
He stepped forward, boots hard against stone, his voice carried like iron. "You're not facing ghosts! You're soldiers of the Republic! This wall is your shield, this rifle your spear. Make them bleed for every inch they try to take!"
The effect was instant — backs straightened, jaws clenched, hands steadied. A dozen soldiers glanced at him, found their Commander standing unflinching before the monsters, and drew strength from it.
The lead Deathclaw let out another guttural bellow and leapt over the shell of an overturned bus, claws outstretched, tail lashing. Behind it, the other two broke into full charges, the earth trembling beneath their combined weight.
"Fire!" Preston roared.
The eastern wall erupted in flame and thunder. Dozens of rifles spat lead in disciplined bursts. Tracer fire streaked through the morning air. The heavy machine guns mounted on the towers hammered, their barrels glowing almost instantly, brass casings spilling in golden waterfalls.
The Deathclaws didn't falter. Bullets sparked off scales, tore bloody streaks into shoulders and thighs, but the beasts barreled forward undeterred, each impact only fueling their fury.
"Sentinels — now!" Preston barked into his comm.
From the courtyard below, the Sentinel Tanks answered with their guttural metallic roars. The first tank's cannon thundered, the recoil shaking the ground. The shell screamed through the air and struck the lead Deathclaw square in the chest. The explosion blossomed like fire against its scales, hurling the beast backward into the wreckage of a collapsed storefront.
Cheers erupted from the wall — too soon.
The Deathclaw rose again, its chest a mess of blood and scorched hide, but its eyes still burning with feral hatred. It shook itself free of debris and charged once more, faster now, angrier.
The second tank fired. Its shell missed by a fraction, detonating against rubble and showering the field in dust and concrete. The third tank corrected, its operator calm under pressure, and fired point-blank into the beast's leg. The explosion shredded its thigh, and this time the Deathclaw toppled with a roar that rattled windows, clawing at the dirt as it struggled to rise.
"First one's crippled!" Preston shouted. "Keep pouring into the others!"
The second Deathclaw reached the barricade of burned-out cars and sandbags, claws flashing. It slammed a massive talon into a makeshift wall, ripping steel apart like tin. Soldiers on the line opened fire in desperation, some falling back, others bracing their weapons against the rubble to keep their aim steady.
Then the sound of hydraulics filled the air.
The Power Armor squad stepped forward, five titans of steel moving with earthshaking weight. Miniguns spun up with a shriek, rockets locked into place, plasma rifles glowing. The sight alone pulled gasps of relief from the soldiers above.
"Knights!" came a booming voice from one of the suits. "Advance!"
The armored giants thundered into the open ground, drawing the Deathclaws' fury onto themselves. Miniguns spat a storm of lead, chewing deep gouges into hide and scale. One knight launched a shoulder-mounted missile; the warhead streaked and slammed into the second Deathclaw's side, bursting its ribs outward in a spray of gore.
The beast howled, spun, and lashed out with its tail. The blow caught one knight across the torso, hurling him like a ragdoll into a half-collapsed wall. The impact crumpled brick and sent dust billowing. He didn't rise.
"Knight down!" someone shouted.
The third Deathclaw had circled wide, faster and more cunning than its kin. It leapt up the side of the overpass, claws scrabbling for purchase, and within moments it was above the eastern wall, shadow looming over the defenders.
"Topside! It's climbing!"
Soldiers scrambled back, rifles snapping upward. But panic was stronger than accuracy, and most shots sparked harmlessly off concrete. The beast pulled itself up, roaring, saliva spraying from its jagged teeth as it prepared to drop directly into the courtyard.
Sico's hand shot out, grabbing the nearest soldier by the shoulder. "Rifle. Now."
The young man fumbled, but Sico ripped the sniper rifle free from his hands and swung it up in one smooth motion. He dropped to one knee, exhaled, and steadied his aim on the Deathclaw's skull.
The world narrowed. No noise, no chaos — just the scope, the reticle, and the beast's yellow, burning eye.
Sico squeezed the trigger.
The shot cracked like lightning. The bullet slammed into the Deathclaw's face, snapping its head back in a spray of blood and shattered bone. The creature roared, clawing blindly at its ruined eye, staggering.
"Reload!" Sico barked, already cycling the bolt. He fired again, this round punching through the roof of its mouth as it screamed. The beast reeled, its claws losing grip on the overpass. With a final guttural roar, it tumbled backward, crashing into the rubble below.
The wall shook from the impact. Dust and rock plumed upward. Soldiers along the battlements erupted in cheers, their fear breaking into fury.
"Keep firing! Don't let it rise!" Preston shouted, his voice like thunder.
Dozens of rifles turned downward, bullets riddling the fallen Deathclaw until its movements slowed, then ceased, blood pooling dark beneath its hulking body.
Sico rose slowly, smoke drifting from the barrel of the sniper rifle. His face was hard, but his chest rose with deep, steady breaths. He looked down at the men beside him — eyes wide, jaws slack — and spoke evenly: "That's how you kill a monster. Not with fear. With focus."
The courtyard still thundered with gunfire, but for one breath — one single breath — there was something like belief. The men along the walls had seen their commander drop a Deathclaw with calm precision, and the taste of that victory rolled through them like fresh blood on dry lips.
But battles don't pause for belief. They devour it.
The crippled Deathclaw — the first one, its leg shredded by tank fire — had dragged itself upright, leaning its colossal weight on one arm like some nightmarish gorilla. Its other claw tore chunks from the pavement as it pulled itself forward. It was limping, yes, but slower didn't mean weaker. Rage bled from every ragged breath, every guttural bellow that rattled windowpanes.
The Power Armor squad pivoted toward it, miniguns shrieking to life once more. Bullets hammered its chest and shoulders, sparks flashing where rounds bit into thick hide. Green plasma lanced out, hissing on contact, searing into flesh. The beast staggered but didn't stop. It came on, dragging its ruined leg, a living avalanche of fury.
"Close ranks!" one of the knights barked, his voice booming through his helmet's speakers.
The four remaining suits formed a line, steel titans bracing shoulder to shoulder. One carried a massive hydraulic hammer, another a pair of crackling electrified fists, the others with miniguns still spinning, barrels glowing red from the heat.
The Deathclaw crashed into them with a roar that made the air itself quake. The impact was like two trains colliding — armor screeched, hydraulics whined, claws tore against steel plating. One knight swung the hammer, its piston-driven head slamming into the beast's ribs. The sound was like thunder cracking bone, and the Deathclaw howled, staggering sideways.
But it wasn't done. Not even close.
It lashed out, claws scything. One caught a knight across the helmet, tearing the steel visor half-open, sparks flying as the man inside cried out. Another claw slammed into a minigun, crumpling the weapon like tin foil and hurling the knight backward. The beast roared again, froth flying from its bloody jaws, and shoved forward, sheer mass threatening to topple the armored line.
Inside the courtyard, soldiers cheered and screamed, some shouting orders, others prayers. From above, Sico tracked the chaos through the scope, teeth gritted. He wanted to fire again, but at this distance, with the Power Armor squad locked so close to the beast, one stray shot could take a knight's head off as easily as a Deathclaw's. He lowered the rifle, forcing himself to wait. Timing mattered more than impulse.
The knight with the electrified gauntlets surged forward, his suit's servos whining. He slammed both fists into the Deathclaw's chest. Blue arcs danced across its scarred hide, the smell of ozone mixing with burning flesh. The beast shrieked, a sound so piercing men clutched their ears — then it surged back, one claw ripping through the knight's chest plate. Blood sprayed across the inside of his visor as his suit's alarms screamed, and the man toppled with a hollow thud.
"Knight down!"
The remaining three rallied, fury fueling their strikes. The hammer came down again, cracking the Deathclaw's skull. Plasma bolts tore into its throat, sizzling through cartilage. The beast stumbled, roaring, then lunged one last time. Its claws raked across two suits at once, carving deep grooves into steel, sparks exploding.
But then the hammer struck a final time, shattering the side of its head with such force the creature collapsed in a heap. The ground shook as it fell, its massive body twitching, tail lashing weakly before going still.
The knights stood over it, breathing hard inside their helmets, armor dented, weapons sparking. Two had fallen, two were barely upright. The price of one crippled Deathclaw was blood and steel.
And the third beast hadn't even slowed.
It had broken wide around the eastern flank, using rubble and broken walls for cover. By the time the snipers caught sight of it again, it was too late — it was on Preston's line.
"Brace!" Preston roared, voice raw. "Form on me!"
The creature crashed into the barricades with the force of an earthquake. Sandbags burst, wooden frames shattered, men were thrown like ragdolls. One soldier barely had time to scream before a claw impaled him, lifting him clean off his feet and flinging him aside like broken meat.
Rifles flared point-blank, muzzles almost pressed into the monster's hide. Some rounds found flesh, tearing strips from its arms and chest, but the beast hardly flinched. Its tail whipped through the air and struck a gunner, snapping his spine like a twig against stone.
Preston stood at the center of it all, rifle braced, his shots aimed true. He fired three, four times into the creature's face, rounds tearing into its snout and jaw. Blood sprayed, black and hot. The Deathclaw snapped its head sideways, jaws wide, teeth closing around the muzzle of his rifle. With a wrench, it tore the weapon free, metal bending like paper in its jaws.
Preston didn't hesitate. He drew his sidearm and fired upward, each shot punching into the roof of its mouth. "Fall back! Keep your spacing! Don't bunch up!" he bellowed, his voice cracking through the chaos.
His men obeyed, staggering into cover, firing in controlled bursts. The Deathclaw spun, claws flashing, tail sweeping, but Preston was everywhere — dragging wounded to safety, shoving terrified recruits back into the fight, his pistol barking nonstop.
On the walls, soldiers tried to track the beast, but it moved too close to their own lines, too fast. "I can't get a clear shot!" one sniper cursed, sweat dripping from his brow.
Sico slammed the sniper rifle against the battlement in frustration. He could see the creature tearing into Preston's men, could hear their screams — but at that distance, one bad shot meant hitting one of his own. His hands itched for the trigger, but his discipline held.
Not yet. Not yet.
The tanks roared.
"Sentinels, target three!" Preston's voice barked through comms, strained but sharp.
The turrets swung, cannons adjusting. The courtyard trembled as the first shell fired, a thunderclap of steel and fire. The shot slammed into the Deathclaw's back, detonating in a burst of flame and shrapnel. The blast hurled men to the ground, ears ringing, dust clouding the air.
The beast roared, a sound of agony and fury, smoke curling from its ruined hide. It staggered, then spun toward the tanks, fury fixed on the armored hulks.
"Again!"
The second tank fired. This shell struck low, ripping one of the creature's legs into gore. It collapsed to one knee, clawing at the ground, roaring so loud the walls themselves seemed to shiver.
"Finish it!" Preston's voice was a whip-crack.
The third tank thundered. Its shell struck true, blasting the beast's chest apart in a red-black spray that coated the rubble. The Deathclaw lurched backward, swayed like a felled tree, and crashed to the ground with a final earthshaking thud.
Silence followed. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of exhaustion. The kind that pressed into bones and stole words before they could form.
Then the cheering began. It started small — a single voice on the wall, hoarse and cracking — then spread, building into a roar that rivaled the tanks themselves. Soldiers clapped each other's backs, some collapsing to their knees in relief, others firing their rifles into the air in raw triumph.
The Deathclaws were dead. Three monsters of the wasteland, cut down by steel, fire, and stubborn will.
Sico lowered the rifle at last, his jaw tight, his chest heaving. He looked down at the field of wreckage — smoking tank barrels, wounded knights dragging themselves upright, soldiers pulling bodies from rubble.
________________________________________________
• 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:-