Fallout: Wasteland Doll Commander

The broken sidewalks of Concord gave way to twisted alleys as Sarah and Team 404 advanced in tight formation. G11, still yawning, dragged her rifle like it was an extension of her half-dreaming body, while HK416 swept high ground and UMP45 cracked jokes to fill the silence. UMP9, her sister, kept close by—covering their six with quiet precision and a half-smirk whenever 45 teased G11.

The entrance to the underground was crude—a municipal access hatch torn open years ago, half-covered by a collapsed delivery truck. ISAC had marked the location with a faded digital ping: Thermal anomaly—active. Unknown biological traces.

HK416 dropped into a crouch, scanning the broken grate.

HK416: "Looks like someone pried it open recently. Scorch marks—non-standard. Too sophisticated for Raider."

Sarah: "We're going in. Signal's going to degrade fast. ISAC, drone stay topside. Sync and patrol to last known echo."

ISAC: "Acknowledged. Godspeed, Commander."

One by one, they dropped into the dark.

The sewer stank of rot and metallic decay. Water trickled through cracked concrete. Old bones—animal or human—were half-buried in slime. Lights flickered from mounted tac-beams, casting long shadows across the tunnels.

G11 (groggy): "I hate everything about this..."

UMP45: "That's the spirit. Sleep-fight, yeah?"

UMP9 (chuckling): "You'll thank us when you dream about it later."

A faint scratching echoed from the left corridor.

Sarah: "Hold. Visual—left side."

From the gloom emerged something fast—too fast. Not a Raider. Not even a average Feral Ghoul. It scrambled on four limbs, claws sharp, body covered in patchy armor plating.

HK416: "Target—unknown class. Engaging."

The thing shrieked and lunged. HK416's burst hit it center mass, but it didn't drop. G11 blinked, raised her rifle lazily—and blew off the creature's leg with a high-caliber round that echoed like thunder.

G11: "Still got it..."

Sarah: "That was probably just a scout. More from it's behind. Defensive wedge formation—now."

Shapes stirred in the black. Five... ten... a dozen skittering things—each part feral, part machine. Improvised augmentations, limbs replaced with jagged implements.

UMP45: "We've got synth-ghoul hybrids like monster. Who the hell's stitching these together?"

UMP9: "Doesn't it really matter. We just put them down—hard and fast."

They fought in brutal bursts. UMP45 danced between columns, SMG rattling. UMP9 mirrored her with eerie synchronicity—covering gaps in perfect tandem. Their combat chemistry as sisters was flawless, trading jokes and dry quips even mid-fire.

HK416 laid down methodical fire. G11, fully awake now, provided anchors—every shot a brutal punctuation.

Sarah's own rifle hummed with energy, rounds glowing faint blue—experimental ammo pulled from a pre-War tech cache.

Sarah: "Keep pushing—we're close to the signal source."

They breached a sealed door marked VAULT UTILITY ACCESS - C12, half-rusted and coded in old SHD encryption. Sarah swiped her wristband. The lock blinked green.

Sarah (grim): "They were using old Division with Sangvis Ferris Logo facilities down here... I didn't recall that we have this existed."

HK416: "You think it's rogue agents?"

Sarah: "Or worse."

Inside, the chamber pulsed with cold blue light. Cryo-chambers—broken. Operating tables—blood-stained. Logos long scratched off but faintly visible: a split eagle over a cog.

ISAC (faintly, from Sarah's HUD): "Signal reacquired. Bio-signs—dormant. Possible containment breach."

UMP45: "We're standing in a damn black site."

Sarah: "No. We're standing in what's left of one. Get samples. Document everything. Then we collapse the tunnel. No one else should find this."

As Team 404 moved to secure the site, Sarah noticed a faint vibration underfoot. Her HUD pinged a second anomaly—deeper and older.

ISAC: "Detecting secondary heat source—geothermal. Radiation signature matches Plutonium. Estimated source—Plutonium well beneath Concord's eastern grid."

HK416: "Can that still able to power the town?"

Sarah: "It was… decades ago. Sealed deep underground. But if the containment's broken—"

UMP9: "—then the waste is leaking. That explains the energy surge."

Sarah approached a rusted terminal fused into the wall. Static and warnings blinked red.

Sarah: "We just found Concord's heart. The well is decaying—but it's still hot. If we can reroute its output safely, we might restore partial grid power to the town."

UMP45: "So we blow the monsters, plug the leaks, and reboot the lights? That's a Tuesday."

G11 (yawning): "I just want a powered bed..."

After few Hours, Beneath the newly stabilized streets of Concord, in the forgotten guts of a pre-War power grid, the tunnel's air hung thick with heat and decay.

Heavy footsteps splashed through shallow runoff. Mayling stepped through the access bulkhead, her form concealed beneath a weathered hazmat suit—marked with a faded SHD insignia and reinforced plating over the joints. Her voice crackled through the helmet speaker.

Mayling: "This is insane. I'm walking into a 200-year-old leaking Plutonium well with duct tape and a glorified toolkit. Commander!!! You owes me lunch and BEER!!!"

Behind her, two T-Doll escorts followed in synchronized motion. MDR, precise and cold-eyed, scanned with a thermal lens, while SAT8, energetic and shotgun-wielding, twirled a spare filter between armored fingers. Both joined in from last vertibird shipment

SAT8 (muffled under her own respirator): "Wooow! It smells like barbecue coolant in here!"

MDR: "Adjusting filter cycle. Gamma levels approaching safety threshold. Recommend staying under thirty minutes."

Mayling (dry): "Perfect. Just enough time for a dance with Grim Reaper."

She approached the humming reactor core. The Plutonium well was half-shielded, warped with age but still pulsing with raw energy. Warning lights blinked erratically from the ancient console. The damage was worse up close—insulation foam degraded, coolant ducts crusted over.

Mayling (muted awe): "She's alive. How are you still alive and running?"

Crouching beside the unit, she pulled open a side panel with a magnetic wrench, revealing tangled copper and blinking ceramic. Steam hissed quietly as her tools clicked into place.

SAT8: "You're not gonna, like, blow us up, right?"

Mayling (deadpan): "Not unless you start chewing the reactor core like a candy."

The repairs began. Mayling used insulated polymer patch gel to seal cracked venting lines and rerouted the primary output through a scavenged transformer rig. Her gloved hands worked fast—each motion practiced, calculated.

MDR: "Radiation levels dropping. Output stabilizing. Thermal readings suggest containment integrity has improved."

Mayling (gritting her teeth): "Tell Commander that Concord's not going to melt. We'll need a proper coil from Red Rocket or Sanctuary Hill to push safe output long-term, but this'll hold for now."

She stood, wiping a fogged visor and stepping back to admire the subtle shift in hum. The generator wasn't just functional—it was recovering.

Mayling (quiet, almost reverent): "Two centuries… and yet she still hums."

SAT8: "Can we name her?"

Mayling: "No. But you can carry the spare coolant tank on the way out."

SAT8 (already picking it up): "Aww, I was gonna name her Sparky."