Fallout: Wasteland Doll Commander

Red Rocket Station – Interior Garage Bay

The wind howled outside, dust scraping against broken windows. Inside the dim garage, lit only by a flickering worklamp, Z11 crouched beside the gutted chassis of a pre-War military Hummer. The hood was lifted, revealing a mess of frayed cables, corroded relays, and oil-clogged systems. To anyone else, it looked like a bomb waiting to go off.

But not to her.

Her movements were precise—surgical. A wrench in one hand, a diagnostic reader in the other. Her Optic HUD displayed voltage readings in rapid scrolls, while her synthetic fingers guided makeshift wire replacements from a pile of salvaged vertebra components.

Z11 (muttering to herself):

"Governing coil degraded... hydraulic feeds choked... Previous owner clearly tried to turn this into a barbecue pit."

Sparks danced as she soldered a new power line from a Mister Handy's thorax core into the Hummer's fuse housing. She frowned, pausing only to tighten her grip when the feedback loop jumped.

Z11:

"Contain. Redirect. Breathe—wait, I don't breathe. hehe"

With a sharp flick, she adjusted the coolant pipe—recycling a stim dispenser into a makeshift reservoir. The engine gave a soft whump as systems began to cycle. The central drive belt, clunky and worn, jolted once… then hummed.

Z11 stood slowly. No explosion. No meltdown.

Just the quiet thrum of dormant power reawakening.

She pressed a hand against the hood.

Z11 (softly):

"Welcome back, old war dog."

Behind her, HK416 peeked through the doorway, unimpressed.

HK416:

"Let me guess—now you want to name it."

Z11 (without looking):

"Already did. Commander call it 'Ghost Mule.'."