Fallout - Chapter 112: The Last Night at Old North Church (Patreon)

The crypt was silent for three seconds.

Glory was the first to lower her gun. Not because she recognized Josie, but because she saw the figures emerging from the darkness over Josie’s shoulder.

Behind Josie, a squad of Minutemen in olive drab Type 92 Powered Suits filed into the chamber. There were more than a dozen of them, all wearing full sets of standard-issue armor, weapons gripped firmly in their hands. Their steps were steady and synchronized, tactical boots striking the stone floor with a heavy, uniform thud.

The moment they entered the crypt, they spread out with the precision of a well-oiled machine, securing every key position, including the doorway, passageways, and elevated ground. Cold gun barrels gleamed dully in the faint light.

Desdemona remained silent for a moment before slowly lowering her weapon as well.

“I’m fine.”

Dr. Amari emerged from the medical room in the back, several dark stains marking her white lab coat. She looked at Josie, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“You got here faster than I expected.”

At that moment, Amari’s thoughts drifted back to the past. Even now, the way she had joined the Minutemen still felt strangely unreal.

Back then, she had been in her laboratory, fine-tuning the VR core training module for the Minutemen base.

Jace pushed open the door and walked in, the matte black Type 92 Powered Suit he wore still carrying the lingering smell of gunpowder.

He personally tested the entire virtual battlefield system, spending a full twenty minutes inside the simulated combat zone. When he finally stepped out of the training pod, his first question was remarkably direct.

“How long did it take you to make this system?”

“About three days.”

Jace nodded. Without any preamble, he made her an offer.

“Join the Minutemen.”

Amari froze.

She was one of The Railroad’s core technical specialists, yet he was trying to recruit her right to her face without even bothering to be subtle about it.

Jace offered no empty promises and didn’t bother discussing ordinary benefits. Instead, he gave her the two conditions that appealed to her most.

First, the Minutemen would not purge Synths. As long as Synths kept the peace and followed the rules, they would be allowed to live normal lives in territory controlled by the Minutemen.

Second, she could work for both sides. She would not have to leave The Railroad or cut ties with her former comrades, and she could continue handling responsibilities for both organizations.

Amari was silent for a long time before asking what she considered the most important question.

“General, aren’t you worried I might betray you?”

Jace didn’t get angry, nor did he offer some empty platitude like, “I trust you’re not that kind of person.”

Instead, he calmly recited a series of facts.

The Railroad’s current headquarters. Beneath Old North Church.

The password to the main entrance. Railroad.

The names of its core members. Desdemona, Carrington, Tom, Glory, and Deacon. Not a single one was missing.

Amari froze on the spot.

“As long as The Railroad doesn’t start any trouble,” Jace said calmly, “I’ll let you exist. We stay out of each other’s way.”

Amari stood there, her thoughts racing.

She considered The Railroad’s future. An organization that had spent more than a decade hiding underground, constantly hunted by the Institute, with its headquarters overrun more than once.

Then she considered the Minutemen’s future. A rising power with territory, factories, an army, stable logistics, and an ever-expanding sphere of control.

The Minutemen also had an excellent reputation across the Wasteland. They never robbed civilians, never forced settlements to pay tribute, and had never carried out purges or persecution.

At that moment, Amari made her decision. She knew which way the wind was blowing.

She held out a hand to Jace.

“All right. I’m in.”

“Welcome.”

...

The jumble of memories vanished as a voice pulled her back to the present.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Josie said. “But it’s still dangerous here. Let’s get back to the base first.”

She turned toward Desdemona and the other members of The Railroad, her gaze passing over each of them.

“You can come with us too. After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

The Railroad members exchanged looks. Some were wary, others hesitant, and all of them were still trying to process everything that had happened in the span of a few moments.

Then a figure stepped out of the shadows.

Deacon.

He took off his signature sunglasses, wearing his usual easygoing smile as he walked straight toward Josie and greeted her like an old friend.

“Josie, how have you and Emma been lately?”

Josie didn’t look surprised in the slightest, as though she had expected this.

“Deacon. I knew you’d still be here.”

“Of course. I’m The Railroad’s best agent, after all.”

Deacon shrugged as he stepped up to Josie, and the two exchanged an easy, practiced fist bump.

“I thought you’d have found yourself another way out by now.”

“I considered it, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave these people behind.” Deacon glanced back at Desdemona with a grin. “Not much to worry about anymore. Now the whole Railroad can go with the Minutemen.”

Desdemona’s expression tightened.

“You already knew about this?”

“I figured it out the day Amari came back,” Deacon admitted without hesitation. “She didn’t hide it from me, and I didn’t object. I just... traded a few infiltration techniques with the Minutemen reconnaissance unit assigned to protect her.”

He smiled.

“That’s why none of this has me worried.”

Desdemona stared at him for a long moment before slowly exhaling. It felt as though the heavy burden she had carried for years had finally begun to loosen.

She turned toward Carrington, Tom, and Glory, letting her gaze rest briefly on each of them.

No one spoke.

But no one shook their head either.

Desdemona turned back to Josie and gave her a solemn nod.

“We’ll go with you.”

Josie turned without hesitation.

“Stay close. We have people waiting outside.”

After being dragged from the brink of disaster and rescued so suddenly, no one in The Railroad felt the need to ask unnecessary questions.

They put away their weapons, helped support one another, and followed the Minutemen soldiers through the open iron door.

Desdemona glanced back at the crypt one last time.

The mottled stone walls. The ammunition crates stacked in the corner. The dim tactical lights still casting their weak glow.

Then she walked out without looking back again.

Outside Old North Church, the night was dark.

Heavy clouds covered the moon, leaving only a pale wash of light over the Wasteland.

Among the ruins, several Brotherhood of Steel Knights in T-60 power armor were dragging the remains of a Synth aside. Its metal skeleton gleamed coldly in the dim light, lubricant still dripping steadily from severed hydraulic lines.

A tall, imposing figure stood on the church steps.

Arthur Maxson held his helmet beneath one arm, the long scar across his left cheek especially prominent. He listened to a Knight’s battlefield report while surveying the surrounding ruins, until his gaze finally settled on the open entrance leading beneath the church.

Josie emerged first, followed closely by the surviving members of The Railroad.

The instant Desdemona stepped outside, her pupils contracted.

The Brotherhood of Steel.

Her hand instinctively moved toward the weapon at her waist, but she stopped herself from drawing it. The Brotherhood Knights around them merely glanced in their direction before returning to the cleanup operation, displaying neither hostility nor any intention of attacking.

Amari came out close behind them. She paused for half a second, then quickly composed herself.

Deacon emerged last. The moment he saw Maxson, his steps faltered before a resigned smile crossed his face.

Maxson’s gaze swept over the group like a scanner before settling on Josie.

“This is all that’s left?”

“Everyone who survived is here.”

Maxson asked no further questions. He turned to the Knight beside him.

“Clear the wreckage from the entrance. Prepare to withdraw.”

Only after giving the order did he turn back to Desdemona.

“Elder Maxson,” Desdemona said evenly, neither deferential nor confrontational. “Thank you...”

“I didn’t come here to save you.”

Maxson cut her off, his tone cold and matter-of-fact.

“The Minutemen informed us about the Institute’s operation. We happened to need these Synths for combat data testing.”

His answer was so blunt that everyone fell silent for a moment.

From behind them, Deacon muttered quietly, “So saving us was just a bonus.”

Maxson’s ear twitched. He had clearly heard him.

He ignored Deacon.

Desdemona said nothing either.

Maxson turned his attention to Amari.

“You’re Amari?”

“That’s me.”

“General Jace mentioned you.” Maxson looked her over. “He said you’re the Commonwealth’s best expert in neuroscience and memory technology. I heard you developed the Minutemen’s VR training system.”

“That system is quite good.”

Amari neither feigned modesty nor tried to boast.

“I did put a great deal of work into it.”

Maxson looked back toward Desdemona and fell silent for a moment, apparently considering his words.

The Minutemen had previously shared all of their research data on Synths with the Brotherhood of Steel.

Based on that information, the Brotherhood had formally classified Synths as “organic robots,” a unique creation that existed somewhere between humans and machines.

The greatest danger of the technology was its ability to upload a robot personality program into a Synth body, granting it genuine self-awareness and creativity.

That made the technology extremely dangerous. If allowed to spread unchecked, it could easily lead to a robot uprising. In theory, the technology itself had to be permanently sealed away.

Existing Synths, however, were a different matter.

At the Minutemen’s recommendation, the Brotherhood had agreed to a compromise.

Synth physiology was extremely similar to that of humans. They aged and died just as humans did, so there was no danger of them continuing indefinitely.

After repeated discussions between Maxson and the Proctors, they had reached a consensus. Some existing Synths could be allowed to live. As long as every memory they possessed of the Institute was completely erased, they would be no different from ordinary people, aside from being unable to reproduce.

But reaching a consensus did not mean Maxson liked Synths.

He might have wanted a robot friend when he was a child, but he despised robots that looked exactly like human beings.

“I really don’t like people like you,” Maxson said, making no effort to hide his disgust. His voice was blunt and cold. “You ignore living people who are suffering and devote yourselves entirely to freeing robots. You’re a pack of obsessive lunatics.”

Desdemona frowned slightly but resisted the urge to argue.

“But you still have some use.”

Maxson turned his back on them.

“So for now, I’ll allow you to live.”

He took two steps, then stopped and added coldly,

“Get out of here. Stop getting in the way.”

No pleasantries. No courtesy.

Deacon gave a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Fine... At least we’re still alive.”

Carrington’s voice was hoarse.

“He’s not entirely wrong. The Railroad... forgot what it originally stood for a long time ago.”

An organization that had once fought against slavery now cared about nothing but Synths.

Desdemona stood there silently for a long time, conflicting emotions churning inside her.

Then she spoke, so quietly it sounded almost as though she were talking to herself.

“...Let’s go.”

She started toward the Minutemen base, and the others followed in silence.

Not one of them looked back.

In the deep night, the spire of Old North Church cast a long, narrow shadow.

The open church doors shifted gently in the night wind, creaking with age.

No one went back to close them.

...

The Minutemen’s underground base was brightly lit, its air dry and cool.

As Desdemona followed the others deeper into the factory, she thought she had prepared herself for what she would see.

She had imagined that their base might be somewhat larger than Railroad HQ. Perhaps they would have decent workshops, stable production lines, and plenty of ammunition in storage.

But when the alloy doors slowly sealed behind her, she still stopped in her tracks.

This place was far more than merely “somewhat larger.”

The ceiling rose high overhead, strips of lights running along the metal panels and illuminating the entire space with a brightness almost reminiscent of the pre-War world. The floor was made from broad, smooth alloy plating, so clean that it was easy to forget the Wasteland lay just outside.

Automated production lines operated quietly on both sides of the main hall.

Mechanical arms hummed softly while conveyor belts moved at a steady pace. Other production lines stood idle, their indicator lights blinking rhythmically, as though they needed only a single command to awaken.

And between the production lines,

beneath the warehouse shelves,

around the corners of the corridors,

there were combat robots everywhere.

Not just a handful scattered around, but entire rows, columns, and formations.

Protectrons patrolled fixed routes with heavy, rhythmic steps. Tankbots were parked at the warehouse entrance, mud still damp on their tracks. They had clearly only just returned from a mission outside the perimeter.

As the members of The Railroad walked through the corridors, their eyes kept drifting toward the machines.

No one spoke.

The silence said enough.

Finally, one agent murmured,

“...No wonder they were willing to let us walk straight in.”

His voice was quiet, but everyone nearby heard him.

No one disagreed.

Desdemona, walking at the front, heard him as well.

She thought of the damp stone walls beneath Old North Church. The sleeping quarters beside piles of old bones. The worn-out generator that could barely keep the lights running.

And now she stood here, in the heart of a fortress forged from steel.

It seemed an iron will and steel with a will of its own were two very different things.

She didn’t dwell on the thought for long.

Someone was approaching.

It was an Assaultron, but unlike any Assaultron she had ever seen.

Its chassis had been extensively modified, its armor replaced with a higher-grade alloy, and an additional targeting system had been installed beside the sensors on its head.

It moved almost silently. Far too lightly for an Assaultron, as though every joint had been adjusted and refined countless times.

It was Ada.

Ada stopped in front of her, her synthetic voice carrying a subtle, carefully tuned feminine quality.

“The General is waiting for you in the workshop. Please follow me.”

Desdemona looked at her, then glanced back at the people behind her.

Liza had already stepped forward, her expression efficient and composed.

“Anyone injured, come with me. The infirmary is on the left. Everyone else can head to the rest area. There’s hot soup and bread. Once you’ve eaten, I’ll arrange beds for you.”

The Railroad members exchanged looks before quietly following her instructions.

Two militiamen helped an injured agent toward the infirmary.

Dr. Carrington hesitated, but Liza immediately addressed him.

“Doctor, the medical room is fully equipped. If you’re concerned, you’re welcome to come and see for yourself.”

Carrington nodded and quickly followed.

Tom remained where he was, staring intently at a nearby production line.

Sturges appeared from somewhere with a data pad in hand and gave him a glance.

“You work with tech too?”

Tom nodded vigorously.

“Your production lines... They’re incredible.”

The two immediately found themselves on the same wavelength, skipping the pleasantries altogether.

Glory stood off to one side with her arms folded, studying the entire base.

She said nothing, but the shoulders that had remained tense throughout the journey finally relaxed a little.

Desdemona noticed all of it and felt some of her unease fade.

She turned toward the Assaultron and nodded.

“Lead the way.”

Ada turned and moved ahead with precise, light steps.

Desdemona followed her down a corridor and into the workshop area.

The door was open.

What came from inside wasn’t the sound of tense orders or battlefield reports, but quiet discussion and debate, filled with excitement, concentration, and even a hint of childlike curiosity.

She stopped at the doorway and looked inside.

The workshop was smaller than the main hall but far more densely packed.

Workbenches were covered in parts. Weapons and armor plates hung neatly along the walls. Several engineering robots worked quietly in the corners.

And in the very center of the workshop, a group of people had gathered around a motorcycle.

Its frame had clean, sharp lines, with a matte black alloy body and a sleek design that looked like a concept vehicle from a pre-War magazine.

There was only one unusual thing about it.

It had no wheels.

No tires, no rims, no suspension.

It was a hoverbike.

Yet everyone gathered around it looked more serious than they did when examining heavy weaponry.

Jackson crouched beside the hoverbike, staring at the parameter charts on a data pad with a deep frown.

“If we increase the hover module’s power by another twelve percent, the lift should be enough to support power armor... but the stability threshold is going to be a problem.”

Preston stood against the wall with his arms crossed, listening without interrupting.

Zeke crouched on the other side, his work clothes covered in grease and his welding goggles pushed up onto his forehead.

He looked up at Jace, unable to hide the excitement in his voice.

“General, how did you even come up with this design? This thing is awesome.”

Jace stood in the middle of the group.

He wore a gray militia uniform with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A wrench was in his hand as he adjusted a connector near the front of the hoverbike’s frame.

Off to one side, slightly behind the others, another person stood out immediately.

Not because he was standing near the front or because he had said anything.

It was because he held a metal IV pole in his left hand, a transparent fluid bag hanging from the top, with the tube running down to an IV catheter inserted into the back of his right hand.

Nate.

His face was still somewhat pale, dark shadows lingering beneath his eyes, and his lips were cracked.

Yet he too was watching the hoverbike.

Preston looked back at him, concern evident in his voice.

“Nate, you really shouldn’t be out of bed. Dehydration from taking too much RadAway is no joke.”

Nate shook his head. The motion was slight, but firm.

“I’m fine.”

His voice was hoarse, but steady.

Desdemona stood in the doorway and quietly watched the scene.

There were no heavily armed guards standing at attention. No grim, oppressive atmosphere.

Just a General with his sleeves rolled up and a wrench in his hand, and an injured man hooked up to an IV who refused to stay in bed.

At that moment, she became certain.

She had made the right decision.

Then Jace looked up.

He saw Desdemona standing in the doorway, set down the wrench, and straightened. His voice was calm, as though he were greeting an old acquaintance.

“Ms. Desdemona.”

“Welcome to the Minutemen.”