Back at Covenant, the settlement was alive with activity. Minutemen medics tended to the wounded, settlers moved supplies, and officers gathered to assess their losses. The grim air of battle still hung heavy over the people, though relief came with news of those who'd made it back.
Colonel Miller stood surrounded by his remaining Spartans, speaking quietly in Russian, when General Ward approached. His expression was somber but resolute.
"Colonel," Ward called out, drawing Miller's attention. "Good news — the freed people made it out. Your men are safe too.They managed to reach one of our training facilities ."
Miller's expression eased, and he gave a short, firm nod. "That's a relief. Those two can be a handful, but they did good work."
Ward continued, "I've arranged for the vertibird to pick them up first, get them back here, and then it'll take the rest of your men along with me to Sanctuary. From there, you can coordinate your return to the Metro."
"Thank you, General," Miller replied, his gratitude clear. "I'll need to report to Polis about what's happening here. The Fourth Reich and the Red Line reaching the surface… it's bigger than any of us expected."
At that moment, Anna stepped closer, eyes tight with worry. She spoke quickly to her father in Russian.
" Father… Artyom. Did anyone see him?"
Miller turned to Ward, translating her question.
The general let out a slow breath. "From what the people we freed said — none of them had seen him. But they did mention a group of captives escaped a day before our attack. Headed out into the wasteland. It's possible he was with them."
Anna's expression tightened, a spark of hope mixed with anxiety as she replied in Russian to her father. Miller turned back to Ward.
"She says maybe your people will manage to find him if he's out there ."
Ward nodded, understanding the bond without needing the words. "Then give me a description of your man. I'll have my troops on the lookout. If he's out there, we'll find him."
Miller described Artyom — his build, hair, gear — enough for Ward to have his scouts and patrols keep watch.
"Thank you, General," Miller said with genuine appreciation.
"It's the least I can do," Ward replied. "This fight isn't over. Not by a long shot."
The two men exchanged a look of mutual respect.
--- With Artyom and Pavel ---
The ruins of Boston stretched out before them in a jagged, desolate sprawl of crumbling buildings and rusted skeletons of pre-war life.
Before they dared cross the mangled bridge, Artyom ducked back into the half-collapsed shell of the Science Center gift shop. Dust motes hung in the stale air, illuminated by the light filtering through the broken part's of the roof . His boots crunched over broken glass and cracked tiles as he swept the shelves for anything remotely useful. Among the faded postcards and melted plastic trinkets, something unexpected caught his eye — a slim, brightly colored comic book wedged beneath a fallen display stand. The cover, surprisingly intact, depicted a silver-suited hero battling grotesque alien creatures with a raygun. "Grognak in Space", the title read in bold, stylized letters. Artyom turned it over in his hands, a faint, wistful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth — a relic of a long-dead world that had once believed in heroes. Nearby, a small figurine caught his attention: a wide-eyed cartoonish man with a yellow jumpsuit and a thumbs-up gesture, standing atop a cracked display labeled Vault-Tec. The little statuette, bizarrely untouched by time, felt out of place in this graveyard of a city. He pocketed both before slipping back out into the open, tightening his grip on the AK as the wind picked up, carrying the distant, eerie echo of something moving through the ruins.
The bridge ahead was a jagged wreck, whole sections of it having collapsed into the murky waters below, leaving behind a treacherous path of unstable concrete slabs and twisted metal. Artyom and Pavel took it slow, testing each step, one covering while the other moved. At one point, a gap too wide to jump forced Pavel to boost Artyom up to a broken support beam, then scramble up himself with Artyom's help. They moved like the soldiers they were, but the uneasy tension between them never eased. Artyom stole wary glances at his companion, noting how Pavel's gaze kept flicking toward old street signs and building's like a man following a half-remembered map. "Why this way?" Artyom asked quietly, his voice gravelly from dust and disuse. "You're too sure of yourself for someone guessing."
Pavel gave a crooked grin, the one Artyom never trusted. "Call it instinct, comrade. I've got a nose for safe ground. You want to live, you stick with me."
But Artyom's gut twisted. The buildings here were unlike anything he'd ever seen — towering glass-and-steel husks, rusted streetcars half-buried in rubble, and strange statues of figures he didn't recognize. There were no Cyrillic signs, no familiar marks of Moscow's streets. Even the air was different — dry and heavy, yet breathable without a gas mask, a concept that felt strange after a lifetime beneath irradiated skies. A gnawing thought crawled back into his mind: he might not even be in Russia anymore. The idea chilled him more than the wind did. He didn't trust Pavel, but out here in this alien wasteland, trust was a luxury he couldn't afford to discard.
After the treacherous crossing, the two men took shelter behind the crumbling remains of a brick façade, the ancient mortar barely holding together beneath the weight of years and decay. Artyom scanned the ruined street ahead, his eyes darting between the darkened windows and alleyways, his AK held ready. The buildings here were different — damaged, yes, but taller than most anything left in Moscow, glass giants standing against the sky like long-dead titans. Now and then, his gaze would drift upward in silent awe at remains of skyscrapers looming over the rubble-strewn streets. As they crept forward, a sudden shout cut through the thick, dust-laden air — sharp, commanding, and unmistakably in Russian. "Stop! Drop your weapons! " Artyom didn't hesitate, dropping behind the rusted frame of an ancient, car, peering over its jagged edge with his weapon raised. But to his disbelief, Pavel stood motionless in the open, a smug grin playing at his lips like this was all part of some clever joke.
Before Artyom could hiss a warning, four figures emerged from a ruined storefront, clad in scout gear marked with the blood-red insignia of the Red Line. The truth hit Artyom like a lead weight to the gut. He cursed under his breath, realizing now why Pavel always seemed to know where to go. The Red Line was here . The soldiers approached quickly, exchanging words with Pavel in low, urgent voices. Artyom strained to listen, catching fragments. They spoke of a fortified location ahead, manned by locals, and how their orders were to gather information, keep out of sight. Pavel promised them valuable intelligence about the Fourth Reich's presence and plans. Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned toward Artyom with that infuriating grin, calling out, "It's safe now, comrade. Come on out."
But Artyom's gut screamed at him to stay put. He didn't trust this, not for a second. Then came the shrill, guttural cries of feral ghouls bursting from a nearby store, their twisted, half-rotted forms charging the Red Line soldiers in a frenzied mob. The scouts fired wildly, their shouts mixing with the inhuman wails. In the chaos, movement to his left caught Artyom's eye — a fifth soldier, creeping toward him with a pistol in hand. Without thinking, Artyom swung the butt of his AK hard, connecting with the man's skull and sending him sprawling into the dirt. Not wasting a second, Artyom bolted into the nearest alley.
He ran, ducking through the skeletal remains of pre-war structures, the gunfire of the fight fading behind him. In the dark interior of a gutted building, he found a corner, hunkered down, heart pounding in his ears. Moments later, heavy boots crunched over broken glass nearby. He didn't dare look. Pavel's voice called out, calm and cajoling. "Artyom… come on, you're making this harder than it needs to be. We'll get you home — to the Metro. Just come out, brother." Artyom's hands tightened around his weapon. Lies. He could hear it in the man's tone. They wanted to drag him back, silence him, or worse. He stayed still, invisible in the shadows.
After a tense silence, Pavel sighed. "Fine. Have it your way. " He turned to the other Red line soldiers " We've made too much noise. Time to report in." The footsteps receded. Artyom waited long after they were gone, unwilling to risk a trap. Only when he felt that it was safe did he finally emerge, making his way through the alleys, until he stumbled onto an open street.
Ahead, a group of armored figures stood guard outside a massive, partially repaired stadium. Their armor cobbled together from football pads, metal plates, and scavenged helmets. They shouted something at him, but the words meant nothing. English. Artyom raised a hand, trying to communicate, but their weapons remained trained on him. After a moment of tense confusion, one guard sprinted into the stadium. A few long minutes later, he returned with another man — unarmored, carrying no weapon. He looked foreign, yet familiar. The man stepped forward, offering a tentative smile and speaking Russian with a strange, local accent. "Easy, friend. No one's going to hurt you," he said. "My name is Vadim. These men just want you to lower your weapon."
Artyom glanced around, realizing there was no escape without being gunned down. Slowly, he lowered his rifle. Vadim's grin widened, a warm laugh escaping him. "There, see? Not so bad. What's your name ?"
Artyom hesitated, then gave it. "Artyom."
Vadim's eyes lit up. "Welcome Artyom , to Diamond City, the jewel of the Commonwealth."
--- With Pavel ---
The area around West Roxbury Station had become a fortress of rusted sheet metal, scavenged signs, and toppled car's . Between the ruined Milton General Hospital and the parking garage, makeshift defenses stretched, leaving a narrow entrance watched by ever-alert sentries. Crimson banners bearing the emblem of the Red Line fluttered in the wind, a bold declaration of the claimed territory in this foreign land. Patrols moved between makeshift guard towers fashioned from scaffolding , while sentries kept watch from hospital windows, rifles scanning the streets for movement.
Atop the remains of the parking garage, a lookout post had been constructed from scrap lumber and old steel beams, providing a clear view of the roads leading deeper into the Commonwealth.
The heart of their occupation was Fallon's Department Store, its shattered mannequins replaced by sandbags, supply crates, and radio equipment. Inside, the flicker of lightbulbs cast long shadows over maps and scattered weaponry. The air inside was thick with dust and stale air, carrying the dry scent of ancient plaster and sunbaked stone. Soldiers moved with disciplined efficiency, and the low murmur of radio chatter blended with the sound of hammering as fortifications were reinforced.
When Pavel entered with the returning scouts, there was a brief stir among the command staff — his presence clearly unexpected. The commanding officer, a hard-faced man , turned from the central table where a large, worn map of the Commonwealth was spread out, peppered with red markers, settlement names, and scrawled notes. His cold gaze settled on Pavel, brow furrowing.
"I wasn't informed of you being on the surface . Report " the Commandant said flatly.
Pavel stepped forward and saluted. " I was captured on the surface of Moscow during a mission to gather information on Reich operation, sir. I have been taken here with other prisoners. With help i managed to escape."
"I have confirmed Reich presence here. They've taken to using locals and prisoners as slave labor. I made contact with a ranger from the Spartan Order . We assisted each other in escaping. He knows nothing of our plans."
The Commandant grunted. "A ranger… useful, perhaps. Or dangerous. Keep that in mind." He motioned to the map. "You've been gone. Things have changed. The locals aren't as fractured as we believed. The so-called Minutemen have organized patrols, resupplied outposts, fortified key settlements. They have what they name The Castle, and it's proving to be well-armed and a thorn in our side." His gloved finger tapped the map where a heavy red circle surrounded the old fort.
" This Diamond City remains the largest civilian hub," he continued, indicating the settlement within the stadium walls, "And there are those Brotherhood of Steel that have entrenched themselves at the airport . Fortunately, they've kept to themselves for now."
The Commandant gestured toward a stack of papers beside the map — intelligence gathered by the scouts. "We're preparing operations against these settlements. Sabotage, subversion… eventual occupation. And," he added with a thin, humorless smile, "we're developing a countermeasure against their armored units. The Reich's presence complicates matters, but we'll deal with them soon enough."
He gave Pavel a long, appraising look. "Rest up. Debrief in full tomorrow. You've survived where others failed — don't waste that fortune."
With that, the Commandant turned back to his officers, issuing orders in a low, clipped voice, while Pavel lingered by the map, eyes tracing the new war taking shape .