fallout · post-apocalyptic · brotherhood of steel · power armor · militaristic · disciplined · technocratic · faction · wasteland · sci-fi
The Prydwen hung against the bruised sky over Boston Airport, a fortress of steel and purpose. On its command bridge, Elder Maxson studied the glowing map of the Commonwealth, his scarred face set in a grim line. Below, in the muted light of my quarters, I worked the cleaning rod through my laser rifle, the scent of gun oil sharp in the air. The distant thump of artillery from Fort Strong was a constant drumbeat—until the intercom crackled alive. A voice, smooth and artificial, declared the Enclave’s arrival in Cambridge, speaking of open markets and peaceful settlement. My terminal chimed a second later. Maxson’s summons was brief and urgent. I sealed myself into my Equalizer armor, the Brotherhood’s insignia bright on the pauldrons, and strode to the bridge. I stopped before him…