Fallout: Wasteland Doll Commander

Under the hazy afternoon sky, the training field behind Sanctuary Hills echoed with the sharp crack of rifle fire and the barked cadence of orders. Rows of makeshift targets—battered cans, hanging plates, and salvaged dummy torsos—lined the hill's slope. General Nate stood tall at the front, eyes scanning the fresh volunteers from nearby settlements.

Preston stood beside him, clipboard in hand, while Dogmeat trotted between the lines, tail wagging.

Nate called out:

"On my mark—line formation. Five-meter spacing. Shoulder your rifles!"

Ten recruits shuffled into position—two squads of five. Nervous hands gripped wooden stocks and steel barrels. Most carried refurbished WWII-era weapons: M1 Garands, M1 Carbines, and the occasional Thompson SMG. All tagged with SHD serial plates—courtesy of Mayling's makeshift Division armory tent just beyond the main road.

Mayling, leaning under her canvas awning, smirked as she watched through a set of binoculars.

"That's two squads outfitted and paid," she muttered, arms crossed. "Next batch of caps, I'll throw in cleaning kits."

Nate moved between the squads, correcting grips, adjusting stances. His voice was calm but firm—worn with the cadence of an old Army NCO.

"Breathe out when you squeeze. Don't slap the trigger. You've got to feel the weapon, not wrestle it."

Preston stepped up beside him.

"You think they're ready for Starlight?"

Nate replied, watching one young man nail his third target.

"They're green... but willing. Give me a week—I'll give you soldiers."

Nearby, Team 404 watched from a shaded bluff. UMP45 chuckled.

"Cute. Little army growing up already."

HK416 nodded.

"Undisciplined but eager. That's more dangerous than half the raider gangs out there."

As the sun dipped lower, Nate raised his hand, signaling rest.

"Good work today. Hydrate, check your gear. Tomorrow, we drill movement and cover fire."

The wind carried the smell of old dirt, sweat, and black powder. I stood at the edge of the field, boots dug into the earth, watching them move—ten recruits, green as spring sap, struggling through their first real drills.

Nate POV

"Cover!" I barked.

Three of them dropped too slow. One froze behind a rusted fridge we'd salvaged as cover.

"You think that thing's gonna grow armor?! Move!"

They scrambled. Good. Not fast—but good.

Preston jogged up beside me, musket finally slung in favor of an old M1 Carbine Mayling had tuned up.

"They're listening, at least."

I nodded, watching a teenager from Tenpines adjust his grip. His fingers were wrong—too tight.

I strode up.

"Kid—breathe. You're strangling the barrel. Relax the tension, or your shots'll pull left."

He blinked, adjusted, then fired.

Ding. Target dropped.

He smiled. I didn't.

"You hit one. Do it again."

We rotated to bounding drills. Preston and I split the squad in twos.

"Able team, you're moving! Bravo now lays suppressing fire!"

Dust kicked up as half of them sprinted for the next barricade—stacked tires and car doors. Echo lit up the targets, bullets snapping overhead.

A shot rang out too close. I spun.

"Friendly fire is not optional, Corporal!" I shouted at a wide-eyed girl from the Abernathy side.

She dropped her rifle in panic. I picked it up, handed it back, leveled my voice.

"You mess up, you own it. You get better, or someone dies. Do you understand?"

She nodded, eyes hard. That's what I wanted to see.

Later, we formed a ring for close-quarters movement. I stepped in myself, showing them how to clear a room.

"First man in leads with muzzle, not eyes. You blink, you die. Second covers flank. Third checks high."

They mimicked the steps behind me, stuttering through corners.

Preston chuckled low beside me.

"You're really turning into a general."

I shot him a look.

"I'm just a soldier. Always was. Now I'm just dragging others into shape."

By late afternoon, most of them were breathing heavy, shirts soaked, fingers raw from steel and recoil. I called a halt.

"That's enough for today."

A few collapsed to the ground with grins. One kid pumped his fist like he'd won a damn war.

I walked among them, slower now.

"You're not soldiers yet. But you're on your way. Tomorrow—more drills. Then team movement. Then live fire."

They groaned. I let it sit.

"This isn't about glory. It's about survival. You fight, you bleed, you hold the line. That's what being a Minuteman means."

Preston raised his canteen in salute.

"To the line."

The recruits echoed it. Not loud. But together.

And just like that, a militia truly began to take shape.