Passing through several stations — most of them part of Hansa's trade ring — both Ward and Nick were quietly struck by what they saw. The Metro wasn't the half-dead ruin Ward had imagined. Every station was a living, breathing world of its own. Beneath the ancient, cracked concrete of the tunnels, these stations had grown into underground cities — homes cobbled together from salvaged train cars, reinforced walls, and decades of scavenged materials. Flickering string-lights and dim neon signs hung overhead, painting everything in pale oranges and blues.
Vendors lined narrow walkways, hawking food, ammunition, old-world relics, and medicines. The air was a mix of oil fumes, cooking fires, and the ever-present scent of damp stone. Children darted through narrow alleys between stalls while armed patrols kept a careful watch on every corner.
Yet beneath the bustle, signs of strain and sickness were visible everywhere.
Many of the citizens wore crude cloth masks, respirators cobbled together from old gas masks, or even thin scarves over their mouths. Hollow eyes, pale skin, and persistent coughs marked those most affected by the outbreak. In the poorer stations outside Hansa's control, entire areas had been cordoned off with yellowed tarps or repurposed cargo netting, isolating the visibly sick.
A man huddled in a corner coughed violently, a wet, rasping sound that sent nearby traders glancing nervously away. Others hurried their children past, avoiding contact.
Nick, clad in a sealed protective suit — its visor faintly polarized — took it all in with quiet concern. "These folks are running on fumes," he muttered. "Can't be easy holding out down here."
Ward, his voice muffled behind a gas mask, nodded grimly. "The virus might not have reached every place in the metro, but in tight places like these… it always finds a way .
Even Miller, seasoned as he was, looked uneasy. "We've been fighting sickness down here for generations. But this—this one's different. Hits the lungs first. High fever, muscle failure, hemorrhaging. If you don't get antivirals in time, you're dead within a week." He paused, gaze distant. "Hansa's got more meds and filters than anyone else. They're hurting less. The others… well, you can see it."
The group moved deeper through the Hansa stations, the difference between them and the independent or poorer stations becoming starkly clear. In Hansa territory, there were working lights, clean floors, armed guards in maintained gear, and functioning water pumps. The citizens wore proper filters or gas masks, and medics in makeshift clinics tended to the sick with actual supplies.
By contrast, the independent stations they'd passed earlier were dark, desperate places where disease had taken root. Whole families clung together in dark corners, the sound of coughing and crying never far behind.
"Polis better be worth it," Nick said quietly, his synthetic voice carrying a tinge of uncharacteristic weariness.
After a long tram ride through reinforced tunnels strung with flickering lights, they finally arrived at Polis — the heart of the Metro. Ward, Nick, and Miller emerged from the tram into a cavernous station unlike any they'd seen before. Even Nick, with his synthetic frame and practiced detachment, let out a quiet whistle behind the visor of his protective suit.
Polis was unlike any of the other stations they'd passed on their journey in the Metro. While many other settlements clung to life amidst makeshift barricades and patchwork lighting, Polis shone with an eerie, persistent glow. Lines of electric lamps lined the arched tunnels, their steady white light chasing away the shadows. The air, though still heavy with the scent of old stone and recycled air, was far cleaner than the other stations they'd passed through .
Marble pillars, cracked but standing proud, supported ceilings adorned with faded mosaics of a long-dead nation. A small market bustled quietly at the edges of the station square, traders selling clean water, pre-war ammunition, and salvaged relics to a crowd of weary survivors. Unlike other stations where desperation lingered in every glance, here the people walked with guarded dignity.
Children played under the watchful eyes of armed guards, who wore armor that looked well-maintained and functional — a rare sight in the metro . The soldiers of Polis were a disciplined force, their equipment better than anything Ward had seen in the Metro so far .
Nick adjusted the strap on his protective suit and leaned toward Ward.
"Not bad for a bunch of folks stuck underground," he remarked dryly.
Ward smirked beneath his mask. "It's cleaner than Diamond City on a good day."
Their arrival was met by a checkpoint of Polis guards clad in reinforced combat gear, gas masks, and heavy weapons. Recognizing Miller, the soldiers saluted and ushered them through to a decontamination chamber. A pressurized hiss filled the room as jets sprayed a fine, disinfectant mist over them, meant to ensure that there wouldn't be any trace of the virus plaguing the lower tunnels.
Once cleared, they were waved through into the heart of Polis.
As they made their way toward the Council Hall, they passed small groups of civilians — many wore respirators or improvised masks, others bore the pallid, hollow-eyed look of those haunted by illness or loss. The virus hadn't spared the Metro, but Polis, thanks to its superior infrastructure , had kept the worst at bay. Still, fear lingered in every conversation, in every nervous glance.
At last, they reached the heavy bulkhead doors leading to the Council chamber. A pair of veteran soldiers flanked the entrance. Miller exchanged a few curt words with them, and the doors creaked open, revealing the chamber beyond.
Ward, Nick, and Miller stepped into the imposing chamber deep within the fortified heart of Polis Station — the seat of what passed for central authority in the Metro.
The room was immense by underground standards , its old-world origins visible in its faded grandeur. Massive arched ceilings stretched overhead, disappearing into shadow, supported by thick, worn stone columns marked with deep cracks and faded Soviet reliefs. The distant hum of ventilation systems and the occasional metallic rattle from unseen pipes punctuated the heavy silence.
Dim, cold-white electric lights hung overhead, spaced out and dangling from frayed cables, illuminating the central area while leaving the high corners and balconies in murky gloom. Along the walls were balconies and rusting observation railings, from which guards and aides observed the proceedings in partial darkness, their weapons always within arm's reach.
At the far end of the hall sat the Polis Council:
Four podium stands were arranged in a semicircle, behind each of them a representative of one of the Polis Council members . Behind them, four worn but carefully maintained flags hung from tall poles, their faded colors still visible . The council members stood in quiet anticipation, the air thick with unspoken tension as the moment for negotiations drew near.
General Ward and Nick stepped forward, moving toward the center of the chamber, their boots echoing faintly against the stone floor. Miller peeled off to the side, taking his position among the attending officers and observers, his gaze steady as he watched the proceedings begin to unfold.
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Back at Sevastopolskaya Station, work on a cure was well underway. Guarded by vigilant Minutemen soldiers, the chamber they'd been given had been hastily converted into a makeshift laboratory. Tables were cluttered with medical supplies, portable terminals, and sterilized instruments. Doctors moved quickly, checking blood pressure, pupil responsiveness, and respiratory rate on a sick man lying pale on a nearby bed .
At a portable terminal, one of the doctors studied a series of data readouts and viral analysis results. Frowning, he muttered, "This is fascinating… the virus contains genetic fragments from multiple other pathogens. It's like someone spliced traits from known diseases into this thing."
Another doctor looked up from a microscope. "Would Curie's serum have any effect on it?"
The first doctor shook his head grimly. "No. According to these results, if we try using it as is, we risk triggering a mutation. This strain's unstable… it adapts too fast."
Curie, who had been standing nearby reviewing samples under a small handheld scanner, spoke up, her voice calm but concerned. "We cannot risk accelerating the virus' evolution. It must be isolated and its weaknesses identified first. I will begin synthesizing a tailored antiviral compound immediately — but it will take time."
The others exchanged uneasy glances. Time, they all knew, was the one thing they didn't have.
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Commonwealth - Boston airport
Days had passed since the attack , with the defenses repaired, the brotherhood was now focused on something else.
Walking down from the vertibird landing pad, Danes and Preston Garvey made their way into the former Boston Airport terminal, now a heavily fortified Brotherhood of Steel stronghold. The air was thick with the sound of welding torches and the rhythmic thud of construction equipment.
"I appreciate the help," Danes said, glancing over at Preston. "Your engineers will speed up construction considerably."
Preston nodded as they moved through the wide, reinforced hallways. "It's no problem. This'll help us end the war sooner. But I have to ask — how did you even get the blueprints for this thing?"
A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of Danes' mouth. "Before the Prydwen left, one of the scribes who chose to stay behind managed to make a copy."
They stepped out into the open compound yard, where workers swarmed over massive steel plates and hydraulic limbs. The colossal parts that would soon form the Brotherhood's war machine — dubbed Liberty Prime — lay scattered like the bones of some ancient, mechanical giant.
Preston took in the scene, then turned to Danes. "We'll supply whatever materials we can spare."
Danes nodded appreciatively. "Much appreciated. At this pace, we'll have him operational in no time."
He looked out across the yard, watching as technicians secured a segment of armored plating onto a towering leg assembly.
After a brief, thoughtful silence as they watched the workers move , Danes spoke up.
"How's the front against the Reich? Any sign of that damn tank?"
Preston shook his head, a grim expression settling on his face. "We've managed to hold the line — kept them from expanding any further. No sign of the tank so far." He let out a quiet sigh. "But they've started slipping saboteurs behind our lines. Causing trouble where they can . They're becoming a problem we'll need to deal with sooner rather than later."
Danes sighed. "Figures. This is war and the Reich will be changing tactics now that they're losing ground. We'll work something out."
Preston nodded, then asked, "What about the Reds? How's that front holding?"
Danes sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw as they walked past a line of supply crates. "Mostly skirmishes so far. The bastards are dug in tight. Advancing toward their base of operations has been tougher than we thought. They've set up anti-air unit's, so our vertibird runs are limited — have to fly low and fast, and even then it's a risk."
Preston frowned. "They've shown to be good in urban combat. I really don't like fighting them in the streets."
"Neither do we," Danes admitted. "But we don't have much choice. Right now, our main objective is to retake Goodneighbor and the Combat Zone. Clear them out, push them back, make them lose their foothold in the city."
Preston gave a short, approving nod. "Good. Those places were ours long before they crawled out of their tunnels."
Danes smirked faintly. "Exactly. And once Liberty Prime's operational . We're going straight for their base. End this mess for good."
Preston glanced up at the towering frame of Liberty Prime under construction, its massive armored plates catching the midday sun. "It'll be one hell of a day when that thing wakes up."
Danes chuckled dryly. "I'm counting on it."
They exchanged a look of quiet determination before continuing toward the command post.