Fallout: Wasteland Doll Commander

The late afternoon sun bathed Sanctuary Hills in gold, baking the fractured pavement and rusted rooftops. Makeshift farms rustled in the warm breeze. Near the edge of the cul-de-sac, a fortified tent stood beneath layers of camo netting and reinforced crates. Above it, the Division's banner fluttered—an orange circle over steel wings against a black field.

Nate and Preston followed Sarah down a gravel path flanked by silent T-doll sentries. One stood like a statue, an oversized rifle resting against her shoulder. The other sat on a sandbag pile, legs swinging idly, humming an off-key metallic tune.

Sarah gestured toward the tent.

Sarah: "Nate. Preston. Meet Mayling—Division logistics. She's be our quartermaster and inventory officer for now."

From beneath a crate-powered lift jack, a woman rolled out—Mayling, dressed in a reinforced mechanic's vest, her hair tied back in a tight twist. Grease streaked one cheek, and a ratchet clinked in her hand.

Mayling: "And this must be the new General. Sarah said you'd swing by eventually."

Preston's eyes drifted past her, drawn to the perfectly organized stacks—rifles, sidearms, medkits, and field packs all tagged with old SHD serial codes. Then his eyes caught on a different pile: vintage rifles, each polished and still deadly.

Preston: "Are those... World War II issue?"

Mayling smirked.

Mayling: "Garand, Thompson, BAR... even a Kar98 we pulled from a sealed Guard armory outside Worcester. They're old, but dependable. Hell of a step up from that crank-powered flashlight you've been calling a weapon."

She pointed at his laser musket.

Mayling: "which is THAT belongs in a museum."

Preston shrugged sheepishly.

Preston: "Can't argue with that."

Nate stepped forward, eyeing the racks.

Nate: "You take bottle caps? What happen with US dollar?"

Mayling leaned against a crate.

Mayling: "Caps, not dollars. Gold bars won't buy you a filter cartridge anymore, let alone ammo. After the collapse, barter became math. Caps are the only thing everyone agrees on now—lightweight, durable, hard to fake."

Nate nodded.

Nate: "Makes sense. Took me a bit to adjust."

He reached into his satchel, pulling out a cracked minigun and a full ammo belt. Mayling gave it a once-over—barrel warped, feed tray jammed, but the receiver still intact.

Mayling: "She's cooked, but salvageable. I can strip her down."

She motioned toward a weapons rack.

Mayling: "This gets you a real rifle. Scoped if you want. Mags'll cost extra, but you've got enough 5mm brass to cover it. I'll toss in body armor and a decent headset."

She turned to Preston.

Mayling: "For you? Something lighter. M1 Carbine, maybe an SMG. Good fire rate, won't slow you down."

Preston grinned.

Preston: "I'll take it. Laser musket's going on the wall."

Sarah crossed her arms, nodding.

Sarah: "You'll get scheduled supply runs—rotary wing, every few weeks. Airspace permitting. ISAC's got a few bunker routes mapped for us. Over time, you'll see better tech: recon drones, smart optics, synthetic mesh armor."

Nate: "What about the power armor of mine?"

Sarah tilted her head.

Sarah: "It's beat to hell. The chassis frame is intact tho, but the servos are torn. I'll have it moved to our machine bay. We'll tune it up as parts become available."

Mayling let out a low whistle.

Mayling: "Deathclaw, right?"

Nate: "You should've seen the other guy."

For a moment, they shared something rare in the Wasteland—a laugh.