-- Commonwealth - Malden Center --
Artyom trudged forward, the rusted chains digging into his wrists, the cold bite of the metal a cruel reminder of his captivity. Around him, the other prisoners shuffled in silent misery — gaunt faces, hollow eyes, and shoulders slumped under invisible weight. The dim, flickering light of old oil lamps cast long, unsteady shadows along the cracked, soot-stained walls of the station.
To Artyom, the markings on the old walls meant nothing — faded letters in an unfamiliar script, long English words he couldn't read. But the Reich's presence was unmistakable. Crude red and black banners hung like vultures, the heavy air thick with smoke, sweat, and the iron scent of blood.
Slave laborers worked relentlessly under the constant watch of Reich guards. At the far end of the station, a section of the tunnel had collapsed years ago, crushing a battered train cart beneath tons of concrete and twisted rebar. Now, chains clinked and laborers strained to clear the debris — moving rubble by hand, some with makeshift tools. A few broken bodies lay unmoving to the side, already discarded.
Guards, dressed in grimy uniforms of gray and black — their helmets marked with crude Reich insignia — paced the perimeter, some lazily smoking while others shouted orders or struck out with rifle butts at those who faltered. The occasional crack of a pistol punctuated the thick, sour air.
Pavel, chained nearby, leaned slightly toward Artyom as they were forced up a wide stairwell.
"Stay sharp, oppa ," Pavel muttered low in Russian. "Whatever hell this is… it's no place to die."
Artyom gave him a grim, wordless nod. The comfort of hearing his native tongue, even a single sentence, was a small anchor in this nightmare.
Artyom's group was forced up a wide stairwell, as they passed a side hallway, Artyom noticed several Reich technicians gathered around two enormous rusted doors. They worked to pry them open with metal bars and old tools, grunting and cursing. The faded, foreign words stenciled across the doors meant nothing to him, but the way the guards stood alert nearby made it clear whatever lay beyond was important.
At the top of the stairs lay a broken, dust-covered escalator, long since dead. Its once-shiny handrails hung loose like the tendons of a corpse, the metal steps caked in grime and debris. The prisoners were herded upward and toward a heavy, rusting metal door. A guard hammered on the door from the other side — and with a shriek of rusted hinges, it opened, revealing the pale, overcast light of the surface beyond.
The prisoners squinted, unaccustomed to the open sky, and were pushed outside walking up the concrete stairs and into the ruined streets of what had once been a proud city — now under Reich control.
Artyom and the other prisoners, driven forward by the Fourth Reich soldiers, stumbled out into the open. Fear gripped them — many believed they were being marched to the surface to die. But what awaited them was beyond anything they could have imagined.
A clear, endless blue sky stretched overhead, unmarred by the thick, choking smog of Moscow's dead surface. The air was crisp, clean, and carried the scent of earth and grass instead of ash and decay. There was no crackle of Geiger counters, no oppressive radiation. It was a different world entirely.
For a fleeting moment, the prisoners stood frozen in awe, their terror momentarily forgotten. Then came the sharp bark of orders, the crack of rifle butts striking backs and shoulders, snapping them from their trance.
Artyom's gaze swept across the area. The Fourth Reich had secured the surrounding area — makeshift barricades and jagged walls of scrap metal and timber ringed the surroundings, hastily erected by Reich engineers and enslaved labor. Soldiers patrolled methodically, their boots crunching on dirt and gravel.
Ahead loomed a hulking structure of rust-stained concrete and shattered windows . Its faded, pre-war signage was barely visible beneath a mess of tattered Reich banners and crude symbols scrawled across the walls. The hospital's grim silhouette spoke of both salvation and suffering in another age .
The prisoners were herded toward its entrance like cattle. As they passed a fortified checkpoint, Reich officers observed from a crude security shack, their cold, expressionless faces betraying no sympathy. Closer to the hospital's main doors, Artyom saw other enslaved men and women staggering out, burdened with horrific cargo — one group dragged a bloodied net filled with mangled human remains, while others hauled debris and broken equipment scavenged from inside.
Artyom and the others were shoved through the rusted doors of Medford Memorial Hospital. The air inside was thick with the stench of dried blood, rotting flesh, and burnt gunpowder. Overhead, flickering fluorescent lights buzzed and crackled, the building's ancient electrical systems miraculously still functional . The sharp, sterile glow did little to dispel the horrors that lingered within these walls.
The hospital had seen battle — signs of a recent, brutal fight marked every hallway. Bullet holes riddled the walls, scorch marks blackened entire sections, and piles of shattered debris cluttered the floors. The grotesque remnants of the super mutants who had once infested this place lay scattered throughout — massive, bloated corpses with greenish, decaying flesh and twisted, inhuman features. Some of them had been hacked apart, others lay where they'd fallen, their bulk too heavy for the slaves to easily move.
Chains clinked and dragged as enslaved people toiled under the Reich's cold gaze. Some were clearing heaps of rubble, others struggled to shift the grotesque super mutant carcasses, their faces contorted with effort and revulsion. Nets and torn tarps filled with severed limbs, bloodied meat bags, and unidentifiable chunks of flesh hung from overhead pipes or lay abandoned on the floor, leaving sticky trails of gore in their wake.
The walls bore streaks of old blood and grime. The Reich had secured the exterior of the hospital, leaving its gutted, battle-scarred interior open as a makeshift labor camp.
Reich soldiers stood at every hallway junction, rifles in hand, their expressions hard and merciless. They barked orders, watched every movement, and shot anyone who faltered. The lights above made every horror plain to see — there were no shadows left to hide in.
One of the guards who had marched them here, a scar-faced officer with a battered rifle slung over his shoulder, stepped forward and sneered at the new arrivals.
"You filth — get to work. The Commandant wants this place cleared . Rubble, corpses, everything. And don't even think about slowing down. Step out of line, and you'll join the freaks on the floor."
He spat at their feet and moved off, leaving them to the nightmare.
Artyom's stomach churned as he took in the grisly scene.
----------------------
Artyom and the others were put to work immediately. Because of their strength, both he and Pavel — were forced to drag the massive super mutant corpses out of the hospital and onto the cracked, weed-choked road in front of the building. Alongside four other prisoners, they struggled to haul the grotesque remains, their bloated, misshapen forms leaving bloody smears along the pavement.
The stench outside was unbearable — a mix of rotting mutant flesh, blood, and dust kicked up by the endless labor. The hot sun beat down through a sky too blue to belong to a world this cruel.
Hours passed in a haze of sweat and exhaustion. Every time Artyom's muscles threatened to give out, a rifle butt or harsh shout from a Reich soldier kept him moving. But in stolen moments, Pavel would lean in, voice low.
"Listen, Artyom," Pavel whispered through clenched teeth as they hauled a massive corpse together. "We're not getting out of this if we don't move soon. We stick together, we watch for an opening — and we run. Otherwise, we'll be in one of those meat bags before long."
Artyom nodded grimly. He still didn't fully trust Pavel, but right now, there was no one else.
Then, gunfire erupted from the direction of the station's entrance . The sharp cracks of rifles and desperate shouts echoed through the open air. From where they stood, Artyom and Pavel could see the source of the commotion — a small group of super mutants, five at most, had broken through the barricade's from the outskirts . Despite their numbers, it took several soldiers firing on them to bring even one of the brutes down.
The guards nearby — the ones meant to keep an eye on the slaves — turned toward the chaos, shouting orders and raising their weapons.
This was the chance.
Pavel shot Artyom a sharp look and gestured toward the distracted guards. Artyom nodded. Moving cautiously, hearts pounding, they crept toward the two soldiers stationed closest to them. One of the guards noticed Artyom at the last moment, eyes widening — but it was too late.
Pavel lunged, grabbing the man's arm and wrestling his pistol free. Artyom grabbed the second guard's rifle as the man turned, forcing it aside. The two struggled, stumbling over broken asphalt and scattered mutant remains. Artyom used the chains from his bonds to strangle the guard , while it struggled , trying to force Artyom off him by hitting him in the ribs .
Pavel finished his opponent with a clean shot, then went to help Artyom , aiming and shooting the guard in the head .
Blood splattered across the dusty road.
"Move, now!" Pavel hissed.
Artyom grabbed the fallen rifle, checked the magazine, and took two more from the dead guard before gave a sharp nod. The four other prisoners hesitated, torn between terror and hope — but one look at the dead guards and the chaos erupting at the barricades was enough. Stay, and be killed… or run, and maybe, just maybe, live.
"Let's go!" Artyom growled.
The small group slipped through a gap between abandoned cars and a half- finished wall, the soldiers too busy battling the mutants to notice. Gunfire and guttural howls echoed behind them as they ran.
None of them dared look back.
They ran.
The rusted chains around their wrists and ankles rattled with every step, slowing them down and threatening to trip them with each uneven stride. The shackles made it impossible to properly handle the rifle they'd stolen — too heavy, too awkward with their wrists bound. Pavel kept the pistol, the only weapon light enough to wield one-handed, while Artyom slung the rifle over his shoulder, praying they'd have a chance to break their bonds soon.
They stuck low, using the twisted husks of ancient vehicles and crumbling concrete dividers for cover as they fled the scene of the firefight. The Reich soldiers were still occupied with the mutants, but it was only a matter of time before someone noticed the missing prisoners. Every burst of gunfire behind them drove them faster.
As they moved, the world around them opened up.
Artyom felt his breath catch in his throat. It wasn't just the sky — it was everything. The towering skeletal remains of buildings in the distance, the rusting shells of strange cars, the cracked roads strangled by wild, untamed plant life. Even in ruin, the surface here seemed so… alive. No crumbling metro tunnels, no constant suffocating darkness. The wind carried the scent of water, earth, and something else — the clean, alien air of a dead world still stubbornly clinging to life.
"This isn't Moscow," one of the others muttered, voice thick with disbelief.
"No shit," Pavel grunted, keeping his head low as they skirted a rusted truck.
None of them knew where they were going. They just kept moving, slipping between the ruins, leaving the hospital and its nightmare behind. Every so often they'd glance back, expecting to see Reich soldiers giving chase, but the road remained clear — for now.
Ahead, past a collapsed remains of a rusted billboard, they spotted a patch of overgrown trees and what looked like a narrow, winding road leading down toward a glimmer of water in the distance.
"There," Artyom pointed towards a house in the distance, which looked in a better shape than other .
" We can rest there . If we're lucky we find something to remove the chains too ."
They moved cautiously, the chains slowing their progress but giving them enough cover in the growing tangle of dead leaves and crumbling structures. Birds — actual birds — flitted overhead, their calls sharp and unfamiliar.
Walking on , chains rattling softly, the weight of exhaustion and fear pressing down on them with every step. Artyom kept the stolen rifle awkwardly in his hands, its heft clumsy in the grip of his shackled wrists. Pavel stayed close, pistol held low but ready. The other four men followed behind, unarmed, glancing anxiously around at the alien landscape.
None of them said it aloud, but the truth hung in the air between them like a stormcloud — this wasn't Moscow. Wherever the Reich had dragged them through that corridor , it had taken them far from the familiar, into a world that felt dead and yet… alive in ways Moscow hadn't been in decades.
One of the four an old man in his mid-40s, a survivor with hard eyes and a worn face, spoke quietly in Russian. "This isn't Moscow . This isn't even Russia. Wherever we are… we're not home."
The others swallowed hard, nodding grimly.
As they neared the building, it quickly became clear this wasn't some abandoned ruin.
A tall, sturdy wall of metal plates, reinforced wood, and salvaged fencing surrounded the building and its grounds. From where they stood, Artyom couldn't see much beyond it. The settlement's perimeter was solid, clearly built by people who knew how to survive. Two guard towers stood at the corners of the front wall, their platforms manned by armed sentries keeping watch over the road. Electrical lamps hung from crossbeams and poles along the walls, powered by a steady, audible hum of a generator somewhere within.
And there, hanging beside the settlement's heavy, makeshift gate, was a flag.
A blue banner with three stylized white stars and a lightning bolt crossed with a musket as emblem.
They didn't recognized it.
When looking at Pavel , Artyom thought that he saw a look of recognition for a second , but couldn't be sure, so didn't give more thought.
Then came the shout from one of the towers.
"Hey! You there — drop your weapons! Identify yourselves!" The voice was firm, unmistakably American.
The group stiffened. Artyom's pulse quickened. Americans. Artyom once asked Sam out of curiosity to speak in english . He never thought that he would encounter other americans and surly not in this kind of situation.
Pavel cursed under his breath in Russian. " Blyat , that's english. Goddamn Americans."
Artyom and Pavel dove for cover, Pavel slipping behind a thick tree, Artyom dropping behind a weathered boulder. The others froze in place, wide-eyed. The man in his 40s, the only one among them able to speak english — though rusty — raised a hand to steady them.
Another sharp order rang out from the wall.
"Drop the weapons now!"
Artyom turned to the older man. "You understood that?"
The man nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes. English. They said to drop weapons and identify." His words stumbled a little, unused to the language after so long."
"Shit," Pavel hissed. "What now, Artyom?"
Artyom grimaced. "Could be worse. At least they aren't ashooting first and ask later."
Artyom turned to the man , and told him to explain to them that they don't want to fight .
The man nodded and turned to speak to the guard. "We… no enemy! Prisoners. Escape… no fight!"
A long, tense pause.
Then a response.
"Hands up! Slowly — step out!"
Artyom exchanged a look with Pavel. The two lowered their weapons to the dirt. Pavel sighed and muttered, " i hope you know what you are doing, Artyom ."
Artyom and Pavel emerged from cover. Artyom first, hands raised awkwardly above his shackles. Pavel followed, still watching the guards above warily.
The heavy gates of the settlement creaked open. Three guards emerged, weapons held at the ready as they approached the group cautiously. The one leading them was a broad-shouldered man in his early 40s, dressed in a battered combat vest and a faded blue bandana tied around his head. The two others flanked him, rifles aimed but not raised.
They stopped a short distance away, eyes flickering from the chained, ragged strangers to the weapons at their feet.
The lead guard spoke up.
"Alright . Who are you people? Where'd you crawl out of? And what's with the chains?"
Artyom and Pavel exchanged a confused glance, neither understanding a word. The guard frowned when they didn't respond, then tried again, slower, gesturing toward the chains and their faces.
Still nothing.
They both instinctively looked toward the older man with them — the one who could at least grasp the language.
His name was Mikhail Antonov . Mikhail took a half-step forward, his voice dry and rusty from disuse, but understandable.
"He… he asks who we are, where we come from… what is with chains," Mikhail translated for the others in Russian.
The guards tensed, hearing the unfamiliar language. One of them leaned toward the leader and muttered something. The lead guard's brow furrowed, his gaze dropping to the battered Kalashnikov on the ground — a weapon unlike anything found in the Commonwealth. His eyes flicked to the pistol , another oddity.
"Wait a sec… you guys… you Russians?" the guard asked, confused.
Mikhail hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Russian. We… not from here."
The lead guard exchanged a look with the others. "Holy shit," he muttered. "How the hell'd you end up here? I heard there's a couple of your kind way up in Sanctuary Hills… but that's halfway across the damn Commonwealth."
Artyom, Pavel, and the others frowned, glancing to Mikhail.
"What did he say?" Artyom asked.
"He says… we Russians. He knows of other Russians… far from here. Sanctuary Hills, he calls it," Mikhail explained, looking as bewildered as the rest of them.
"And… he wants to know how we got here."
Pavel snorted. "Tell him about those Nazi bastards and the slavery ."
Mikhail gave a brief nod, then turned back to the guards. He struggled for words in English, stringing together a rough explanation.
"We… prisoners. Bad men… Fourth Reich. Nazi. Take us… walked trough passage . We worked — slaves . We escaped. Now here ."
The guards shared a look.
The leader sighed, lowering his weapon slightly. "Shit… you poor bastards."
He looked to the others. "We ain't leaving 'em out here. We'll bring 'em in, let the folks inside decide what to do."
Mikhail relayed this, his voice cracking slightly. Artyom let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Pavel gave Mikhail a clap on the shoulder, grinning.
"Congratulations, comrade," Pavel muttered in Russian. "Your silver tongue saves us yet."
The lead guard gestured for two of his men to escort them. "Alright, inside. Slowly — no funny business. I'll hang onto these." He stooped down, gathering up the rifle and pistol before giving a final nod.
The group, still shackled but no longer at gunpoint, was led through the gate, past the tall walls and into the settlement.
The tall gates of the settlement creaked shut behind them, cutting off the outside world with a solid clang. Inside, the place was alive . Men and women worked repairing walls, tending small rows of stubborn crops, and maintaining makeshift fishing rigs along the lakeside. Children peeked cautiously from behind corners, eyes wide at the sight of the chained, ragged strangers.
A large generator hummed nearby, cables stretching across the settlement like a spider's web, feeding power to lamps , the building and other necessities .
The two guards flanked them closely, but their weapons were lowered now — wary but not hostile.
Ahead, a figure broke from a cluster of settlers and approached. A tall man in his late 30s, wearing a worn duster with the faded insignia of the Minutemen stitched onto the shoulder. A battered laser musket hung at his side. His expression was one of hardened experience, tempered by a glimmer of cautious compassion.
The lead guard who'd brought them in spoke first.
"Boss , we've got a situation. Found these guys creeping up outside the walls. Chains , carrying weapons like the ones from Sanctuary, and even speaking Russian. One of 'em talks a bit of English. Says they're escapees from some 'Fourth Reich'."
The officer's brow furrowed. He stepped forward, eyes scanning the group. He noticed the chains, the gaunt faces, the confusion.
"Name's Clint Maddox , the leader of this settlement," he said slowly, deliberately, addressing Mikhail.
Mikhail stepped forward, translating for the others.
"He is… Clint Maddox. The leader of this place."
Pavel grunted. " comrade, ask him if he can help us remove those chains "
Mikhail nodded . " alright . I will ."
Carter gestured toward one of the guards. "Get the locksmith. These people've seen enough shackles."
A young woman jogged over with a set of old keys and a lockpicking kit. She knelt by Artyom first, working quickly. The old Metro-forged shackles clattered to the ground. Artyom rubbed his raw wrists, flexing his hands. Pavel gave a satisfied sigh when his own chains came free a moment later.
The other four were unshackled in turn, relief and disbelief plain on their faces.
Clint Maddox spoke again.
"You're safe here. We'll get you food, water, a place to rest. Then… you can tell us your story."
Mikhail translated, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips.
Pavel chuckled, slapping Artyom's shoulder , and said to Mikhail . " tell them, that we won't be staying long , well be leaving after regaining some strength "
Artyom gave a weary look to Pavel.
Pavel turneu to Artyom and smiled " don't worry oppa , i know what i'm doing."
" Very well, we have no intention to force you to stay." Clint Maddox responded looking at Pavel , with Mikhail translating.
Then Clint turned to Mikhail and asked " what of you and the others, are you leaving as well?"
Mikhail responded " no ... we– stay ."
Clint Maddox nodded and gestured to the house " come inside , you'll get something to eat , and i want to hear more about this 'Fourth Reich' ."
With that, the group ,hungry and exhausted followed him inside.