Sluice Gate Control Room
Sewer Pump Station
6.5 kilometres from The Pitt
March 7th, 2280
0500
"It fucking stinks," Irish spat, his mouth and nose now adorned with a scarf, before clanging quietly back down the stairway. Everyone had made similar adjustments to their uniforms, yet the pervasive, foul odour still wormed its way into their noses and throats.
The office Yasmine, Shin, and Yearling occupied was dark and mouldy, and despite what she'd thought possible, it smelled worse than the workplace-cum-killing floor beneath the gantries. After entering the pump station, they'd crept to the first floor, wary of any Trogs lurking in the shadows, and found a way into the control room. It was uncontaminated by the Trogs' living state, as the door was jammed shut and a locker had been pushed against the open screen window.
Irish and Billy had pushed the locker back, grabbed Shin arm-in-arm, and hoisted her through the smashed opening, mindful of the glass shards jutting from the frame like crystalline shark teeth. Marnie had pried away the glass while Shin opened the door. It was a slow, meticulous task.
Lisa hooked up a fission battery to the main terminal, now lying on her back atop soggy cardboard, rummaging underneath the console's wiring harness. "So far so good," she muttered, face screwed in concentration. Or maybe against the smell.
Yasmine looked at Shin, who stood with her back to the pair of them, eyes fixed on the macabre floor below as seen through the observation windows. There were bodies, twisted and still, many unrecognisable, caught in the half stages of Trog form.
She appraised Yasmine, who had moved beside her. The scout was not looking at the floor below but at the dead man in the corner. He was slumped against the wall, neck angled uncomfortably, tins of dog food scattered from a satchel. The sordid-looking survivor had tried to save himself, or at least delay the inevitable, with a stimpak and Med-X combo. But it wasn't enough. And you didn't need much medical training to see that the large gut wound and slash to his thigh had needed more intensive treatment than pocket-variety stims.
"He must have sealed himself in here, poor bastard."
Yasmine could only nod slowly. "We might be doing the same if we don't get those sewer gates shut." Then she moved to face her directly, meeting her eye. "Shin, stay here. Keep Yearling safe. I'm going to organise a defence in case things go south."
"Yeah…" the scout adjusted her combat vest, "we should have brought more ammo."
The corridor outside was rusted and cold, a claustrophobic tangle of wires hung from the walls like black intestinal veins. Tiptoeing after the others, Yasmine arrived at the main floor of the sewer station. The history of chaos and violence was painted and stained across the large room, with its ageing brick, bloodstained stone flooring, and rusted metal walls.
Overhead, a series of corroded steel girders supported the ceiling, their once-sturdy frames now weakened and angled ominously, as if a strong gust of wind could bring the entire structure crashing down. The room was dimly lit by occasional shafts of daylight that filtered through cracks and holes in the walls, casting long, eerie shadows across the place.
Around the perimeter of the room, several windowless frames gaped like empty eye sockets, exposing the skeletal remains of the building's infrastructure. The floor was uneven, with patches of crumbling brickwork and slick, muddy puddles that gave off a rancid stench. The smell was overpowering - a nauseating mix of blood, rot, and waste that clung to the back of the throat and assaulted the senses.
Yasmine quickly scanned over the strewn remains of bones and bloodied rags, intermingled with the debris of long-abandoned equipment and tools, to find Marnie and Irish beside a large, open hatch. She moved quickly, trying not to focus on the piles of ripped meat and humanoid corpses in the darker corners.
"Boss," Marnie said as she got within talking distance.
"Yearling's getting the controls online now. In the meantime, I want us to prep for plan B. If we can't get the sluice gates shut, we'll be sitting ducks."
"Already on it," Billy said from below her. He was standing in ankle-deep slurry, no mask and brow furrowed. Yasmine offered a hand and hauled him up.
"What have you got?"
He turned and pointed at the other side of the room. A large double door sat open, revealing a smaller room beyond. Miniature specs of fluorescent light from the snapsticks didn't help brighten the place, but they did highlight two Y-shaped gates recessed into the floor.
"We've got four main entrances: this one here, we'll call that the Main Hall. Two through that door there, let's call that Gate A and B. And the one we climbed up, so I guess we'll call that Gate E, as in Escape."
"Fine," she said, "how are they looking?"
"Well, Gate A and B should close easily enough. They have some pretty thick steel hatches, mounted on hydraulic actuators. They'll slam right shut, I reckon, we just need to power them up.
"Unfortunately, the mechanism for this one and E gate don't work. They're rusted solid. So, my suggestion: use this one as a funnel and catch as many as we can, and we can collapse the other tunnel and worry about getting out later."
Yasmine considered this, then said, "what kind of numbers do you expect we'll see?"
The man shrugged. "Well, Gate E leads to the boulevard, so there could be anywhere between a few dozen to a hundred or so. On the other hand, I saw enough tracks below us for about seventy-five and change, if I had to guess. And no, before you ask, I only have enough charges for one, we can't blow both of them."
"Which way are we going once all's said and done?" She asked.
He pointed between his boots, "down this way."
"Easy choice then," Marnie said, "we seal the two in the back room and take our chances with these two before we move on those railway guns. If things get too crazy, we can bug out back the way we came, blow it, and trap those goblins in the sewer station. Then find another approach."
Yasmine hummed. "What's your take, Irish?"
The man just shrugged. "You're the boss, I just do what I'm told. But off the record, I agree with Marn."
She was nodding now. "Me too. Okay, Billy, give the demolition to Irish," and glanced at the bearded trooper, "place charges on E. If we need to leave, I want to block those pests here. Marnie, go with Billy and secure the basement. That's the main ingress point, so that's where they'll be coming from. Rig tripwires, normal drill. And double-time people, we'll have company any second."
Billy dropped down the hole immediately. Marnie stood nearby. "I saw some empty cans in the storage room back there, I'm gonna rig some rattlers. We'll hear them come a mile away."
She nodded. "Good plan."
"What are you going to be doing?" Irish asked.
"I'll work with Yearling, power gates A and B, seal them off, and see what I can do for any extras." She looked pointedly at the three of them. "Be back here ricky-tick. If you get caught in the tunnels, there's not much I can do for you. Stay locked and loaded and save one for yourself."
They all had grim expressions. Marnie disappeared into the depths after Billy, while Irish stalked back across the death-laden floorway.
"Paladin Oakley," her earpiece chirped.
"Speak of the devil," she said aloud. Then radioed back, "what is it, Yearling?"
"I've got the console online and I have a readout of the sluice gate network. Lots of red symbols on screen. Another issue is power. Can you take a look at the gates in the back room?" Yasmine started for the double doors, stepping carefully over bones and debris.
"Options?"
"The floor plan shows a maintenance block. I can open the doors for you... one second," Yearling said, her voice trailing off as she focused.
The back room was similar to the main floor but with fewer bodies and just as much grime and rust. One side of the ceiling had rotted away completely, revealing the harsh tangerine haze of the Pittsburgh morning sky. The Y-shaped gates were a pair of enormous, jutting maws with two truck-sized openings curving in opposite directions.
Under the intact portion of the roof was the maintenance block. It was a welded pre-fab, bolted haphazardly to the flagstones and tin walls, resembling a sturdy, well-designed locker—half armoured safe, half storage bunker, part jackpot. She hoped. The structure was large, covering the room front to back, perhaps twenty-five metres long, ten or fifteen wide, and as tall.
Yearling came back, "...and we're live!"
The maintenance block doors powered up with a thrum, their hinges groaning in protest. The thick steel hatches began to part, shuddering with flaking rust and an agonising, unoiled screech. The doors halted with a dense clunk. A thin strip of halogen lighting inside flickered on with a hum, and Yasmine took in the packed space with the enthusiasm of an alcoholic in an unattended liquor store.
The first thing she noted was a starch-white corpse wearing faded blue overalls, slumped in an office chair. Above it was a spatter of black ichor, and at its feet lay a snub-nosed .32 pistol. She figured there wasn't ventilation inside, so the body hadn't fully decomposed, but rather shriveled like an albino raisin. She stepped in, brushing the corpse and chair over unceremoniously.
Down one side were a dozen large pods, constructed of curved alloy with small glass windows. A terminal sat on a desk opposite, with several shelves covered in many pre-war prizes in like-new condition: sensor modules, conductors, circuit-relay boards, and more. A cache for the ages—this sort of stockpile was priority one for Brotherhood salvage. But what she was really drawn to were the contents of the pods.
Protectrons, and many of them. As she moved along the row, she noted two Mr. Handy bots as well. The word "jackpot" had been circulating in her prefrontal cortex for some time now, and she nearly jumped when her comm squeaked.
"Forgive my curtness, Paladin, but the clock is ticking," Yearling chimed. "Can you restore power to the gates?"
Yasmine thumbed her comm. "Standby."
She went to the terminal, activating the power supply and waiting several moments while it whirred to life. She was greeted with the ghostly green main boot-up display, which promptly shifted to a password-protected directory.
Glancing around, there weren't any drawers or filing cabinets to rummage through. She checked the body, a male, she figured. He wore a lanyard around his neck with a photo ID card. On the back in faded writing was PW Lame_Maintain_35. She typed the thick keys, meticulously copying the password. The directory vanished in a flurry of scrolling text, replaced by a list of data logs.
She opened the first log: October 15, 2077, Sewer Station Maintenance Technician 8182. Management has been up my ass about these new robots. The toasters are supposed to make my job easier, but I've done more work in the past 18 hours than all of last week combined. Still, once I get them up and running, it's only a matter of clicking a few buttons and putting my feet up. I just have to calibrate the goddamn patrol patterns.
The next log was a few days after the first: October 18, 2077, Sewer Station Maintenance Technician 8182. These goddamn toasters are gonna be the death of me, I swear on my ma. I thought I'd managed to program the main floor patrol route so they would avoid the grate. But no, the first time I activated one, they came online and rushed the tunnel. Luckily, the gantry's overhead crane was still online, so I managed to haul the thing out. I've hosed it off and put it back in its pod.
Her radio blipped. "Everything OK?" That was Shin. "You want me to come down and lend a hand?"
"Negative, just reading the logs. We've hit the motherlode—a dozen functional bots, lots of tech for us to recover later too."
"Bots?" Yearling interrupted. "I'll relay instructions and you can reroute access to my terminal."
Yasmine nodded, acknowledged, and under direction accessed the network configuration hidden in the directory. Next, Yearling had her transfer control to one of a few listed terminals. She watched the screen flicker and falter. Then the screen resumed its list of logs.
There was a moment's pause. Yasmine opened log 3: October 22, 2077, Sewer Station Maintenance Technician 8182. Management gave a surprise inspection today. They were highly critical of the state of the pump station and the construction. I told them the contractors they hired didn't do a good enough job. They told me it was all up to code and built at cost—some BS corporate excuse. I better not say too much, or I'll have the U.S. Secret Service here thinking I'm a commie sympathizer. Oh, the bots are working now, so that's a load off my mind. Tomorrow I can just relax and have a beer. I snuck a crate in today. Left it at the back.
The third log was set for the day the bombs fell. Yasmine swallowed thickly. This guy was a real person, with thoughts and feelings and aspirations. That hit home. Without the terminal logs, no one would even know he existed. She supposed the billions of others who'd died that day met equivalent ends, with no one to remember or record them either.
October 23, 2077, Sewer Station Maintenance Technician 8182. Well, this is it. Those bastards in Shanghai and Washington finally went and did it—pressed the big red button. Those selfish pricks are probably tucked up in a cozy government vault, all paid for by MY tax dollars! Power went out; I knew right away what it was. Then I counted five big tremors. I'm using the backup generator that came with the bots. The manual says it will last 300 years! Who gives a rat's ass? I'll be long dead, but at least the lights will stay on. I'll be honest, I didn't love my life. I was a good government drone. 35 years of service and what do I get? Any Pittsburgh waste management reading this, I'm tendering my resignation and retiring. Ha! Wanted to say that for a long time. Well, goodbye world. I'm going to drink those beers, and then go out on my own terms.
Yasmine closed the terminal. There was a thrumming sound, and then one by one, the pods unlocked and whisked open. The first of several robots stepped out, "loading personality: RobCo M04-V9 Maintenance Technician."
The Protectron stood at just over six feet tall, a robust humanoid robot with a bulky, angular frame. Its body was composed of reinforced steel and alloy plating, giving it a rugged and industrial appearance. The robot's legs were short but sturdy, designed for stability rather than speed, with wide, flat feet that provided a solid base.
Its arms were mechanically conical, ending in multi-purpose manipulators capable of both delicate tasks and heavy lifting. The Protectron's torso housed its central processing unit, covered by a chest plate emblazoned with the insignias of General Atomics International and RobCo Industries, the companies responsible for its creation.
The head of the Protectron was a distinct, domed unit with a single, glowing optical sensor that served as its "eye." This sensor could rotate within its housing, allowing the robot to survey its surroundings with a methodical, almost eerie precision. The head also featured a speaker grille, from which the Protectron issued its monotone, synthesised voice.
Designed primarily for security and maintenance roles, the Protectron was equipped with a variety of tools and sensors. It had built-in arc welders, diagnostic scanners, and a limited arsenal for self-defence, including a low-powered laser integrated into one of its arms.
Despite its somewhat clunky and slow-moving nature, the Protectron was a reliable and durable machine, capable of withstanding harsh conditions and performing a wide range of tasks. Its presence was both reassuring and slightly unsettling, a reminder of the pre-war world's reliance on automated labour and security.
Once the Protectrons had deployed, and began clanking towards her, Yasmine noted the pair of Mr. Handy bots behind them. They floated about five feet off the ground, their spherical bodies gleaming with polished metal. Three flexible, multi-jointed arms extended from their sides, each equipped with a different tool: a gripping claw, a circular saw, and a flamethrower. Above the body, three ball-shaped eyes on stalks moved independently, scanning the surroundings. The robot's pleasant, British-accented voice added an oddly comforting touch to its otherwise mechanical presence.
"Commencing diagnostic subroutines." The pair quickly floated past her.
"Good job, Scribe," she radioed. "Can you take it from here?"
"Standby." There was a lengthy pause. Meanwhile, Yasmine moved aside as the train of autonomous Protectrons clanked and bounced past. They split, spreading between the gates. The Mr. Handy bots moved out, circled the room, and began taking spare construction materials from the lockup, sealing the larger holes in the walls.
"Okay," Yearling said at last, "the bots are going to patch up some holes, repair the fuse boxes and transfer stations, and then I'll be able to access and shutter most of the underground network. It's quite big, you know… I estimate several miles of pipes. I can get us a clear route through to the rail yard, just—"
There was laser fire from below the main floor grate, the electronic whine echoed around the room. Marnie's voice burst onto the comm channel. "Contact! Trogs! In the pipes, we're coming up!"
"Shit," Yasmine muttered. "Marnie, how many?" As she doubled back into the main floor, the Protectrons funnelled in afterwards to repair the gates.
"Uh… all of them, I think!"
In the depths of the main floor grate, she could see slight flickers of light. They bounced and bobbed, and finally, she heard splashing and panting. Then the sound of quiet, surpressed shots from Marnie's R91 and electric whirs from Billy's AER 14.
There were rattling noises from the tin cans, and then an explosion that sent a gust of air up at her. She helped Marnie out, and together they pulled Billy up next.
Marnie had a pair of flat discs in one hand - proximity-based fragmentation mines. She tossed them down into the grate. There was a growing commotion that seemed to rise all around the sewer station, a cacophony of burbling growls, grunting yawps, and anguished barks.
She pulsed her comm. "Irish, the show's starting. Get back here on the double."
After a moment of nonresponse, she tried again. Nothing. A second explosion made the rancid water in the sewer tunnel ripple, as decayed air blasted out. She could hear pattering galloping and huffing breaths. Immediately, two Trogs appeared. One leapt clean up and over both the mines and their heads. The Brotherhood soldiers tracked it with aimed weapons, but it scaled one of the support pillars and vanished over the gantry before they could fire a shot. The second barreled into Marnie's legs and toppled her over.
The cadaverous monster writhed over the downed Brotherhood soldier, rising up and bringing both arms above its head for a deadly blow. Yasmine beat it to the punch, kicking it square in the chin. Its head snapped back, and the rebuff of pain that flared up her foot made her gasp. The creature landed backwards at Billy's boots. He bent over it, AER shouldered, and raked a line of laser fire across the creature's emaciated, leathery body. The wounds were deadly, melting its chest and head, fusing the flesh into a disgusting amalgamation of mutated tissue. It stilled.
Marnie was on her feet again quickly. She pulsed her comm while Yasmine tentatively put pressure on her kicking leg. "Shin, Yearling, you're about to have company! One got away from us!"
At that moment, a glass pane shattered, scattering crystals through grates in the gantry, which trickled to the main floor below. The three of them looked up. Through the observation windows, they saw crimson flashes, a commotion, quiet gunfire, and then stillness. Shin appeared at the window, wrestling the escaped Trog, locked in deadly combat with the mutant. They twisted and turned, then ducked. A movement from Yearling caught Yasmine's eye; the window blasted outwards in a wave of fire and glass. Chunks of Trog splashed to the floor.
"Fuck!" Marnie blurted out, sidestepping a big chunk of torso and ribcage.
"Lisa!" Billy yelled. "You okay? Respond, Scribe!"
There was a moment of silence, then a slight shift of broken glass. Something scraped, and then two heads appeared.
"We're still here," Yearling said shakily.
More scampering footfalls from behind made Yasmine, Billy, and Marnie spin. A trio of shapes rushed through the grate, caught the mines, and were vaporized in twin plumes of red mist, meat chunks, and putrid water. The three of them fell back, stunned.
She heard footfalls from Gate E and turned to face the next wave of beasts. Except it was Irish. The man looked unfazed. He reached her and helped her to stand. The others got up; no one was injured by the look of it.
"Everyone alright?" She got a round of affirmatives. "Good."
Irish was the first to comment as he watched the Protectrons shuffle into position. "These rust buckets better hold their own," he muttered, eyeing the robots with a mix of skepticism and cautious optimism.
Marnie, her voice tinged with a hint of relief, added, "At least we've got some extra firepower. Every little bit helps. Just hope they don't glitch out on us."
Billy nodded in agreement. "Yeah, they're not exactly top-of-the-line, but they'll do. Let's just make sure we back them up. We can't rely on them entirely."
Yasmine gave a curt nod, acknowledging their comments. "Alright, let's keep focused. Yearling, what's the status on the gates?"
Yearling's voice crackled over the comm, she took a deep breath, "still working on it. The bots are patching up the fuse boxes and trying to reroute power. It's going to take a bit longer."
"Understood," Yasmine replied. "We need to buy as much time as we can. Marnie, Billy, Irish—hold the line here. I'll check on the bots and see if we can speed things up.
The three soldiers took their positions, spread out around the main floor. The Protectrons moved with mechanical precision, plodding along like giant wind-up toys, their monotone voices issuing standard security protocols as they moved into position.
"Alrighty, people," Marnie called out, her voice steady. "Keep the Trogs from overrunning us. Use the mines and barricades wisely. We've got to hold out until Yearling gets those gates sealed."
Irish positioned himself behind a stack of rusty crates, his R91 trained on the sewer grate. "I've got this side covered. Just keep an eye out for any that slip through."
Billy crouched beside him, checking his AER. "I'll watch your six. Irish, let's show these monsters what the Brotherhood can do." The man held out his hand, and Irish slapped it with a determined grunt.
Yearling's voice filled her earpiece, "I'm ordering one of the bots to guard the control room door. Shin will provide fire from the observation window, so try not to get in her line of fire."
That sounded like a good strategy to Yasmine. She ran everyone's positions through her head, creating a mental checklist. Three on the ground level, covering E and Main Hall Gates, with a pair of squat Protectrons stationed by the corridor leading to E gate. Another guarding the room above, with the ever-vigilant Shin on overwatch.
As Yasmine moved toward the Y-shaped gates in the back room, she heard the distant growls and snarls of the approaching Trogs. She quickened her pace, hoping to expedite the process and seal the gates before they were overwhelmed.
The Mr. Handys had already welded scrap and spare sheet metal over the worst of the holes, easing her worry. Those bots worked fast. She'd imagined hordes of Trogs scaling the walls, pouring in from every crevice, and ripping into the beleaguered Brotherhood troops as they fended them off back-to-back. Now, it looked like they might have a chance.
Most of the Protectrons had manoeuvred into the room. Their blocky bodies and stumpy, rigid limbs clanked along. Two were busy repairing a line of cables on the far wall, while another pair moved behind the Y-shaped gates. Sparks spluttered as they cut and welded something. One of the Mr. Handy bots descended from the ceiling, dragging lengths of reclaimed wire from the lighting rigs like a giant metal jellyfish.
The room was largely featureless. The gantry that had spanned the perimeter of the upper level lay twisted and bent on the ground. The bots were cutting through sections of it, quickly ripping lengths of the walkway, before dragging them upright and welding or bolting them to the walls and upper sections. Wherever muted orange daylight shone through.
Yasmine's ears pricked at the sound of scampering and faint, dog-like panting. Two humanoid Trogs rushed through one of the gates, immediately barreling into a Protectron. One landed on top of the angular sensor unit, smacking it with its long, clawed hands, while the second darted for the robot's legs. The three of them collapsed with a loud clunk of steel and groaning shout from the Trogs.
Surrounding the commotion, two more Protectrons dropped salvaged metal and spare parts. Their arms flowered into dim red lights, and laser fire leapt out, cutting into the beasts. The Trogs writhed and twisted, twirling away. The downed bot stood awkwardly, raised its arms, and bashed the closest Trog to the floor.
The two Mr. Handy bots spun around and floated toward the fight with great speed. "Time for a spot of arse whooping," one of them declared in a posh, declamatory accent.
The three Protectrons formed a cordon around the prone Trog, focusing their fire and reducing the beast to ash in a fizzling, sparking blast.
The first Mr. Handy to close the distance on the surviving abomination used its circular saw arm, swiping the creature and gouging a large chunk of mutated flesh from bone. The beast turned to run, yelping all the while, straight into the waiting arms of the second Handy bot. It deftly floated up, over, and then pivoted to position itself behind the Trog. The creature skidded to a halt, whereupon the robot unleashed its flamethrower.
Yasmine's eyes widened at the ferocious and well-organised movement of the bots. They were mechanically methodical, which made sense in theory, but it was another thing to witness altogether. The Mr. Handy chased the flaming Trog as it barked and whined. The monster darted back down the tunnel, the dull orange glow dimming the deeper it ran, and the Mr. Handy halted at the threshold, its flamethrower diminishing to a mere spark.
Yasmine could hear more fighting from the main floor. The Protectrons discharged their laser weapons, and the suppressed whuffs from R91s were drowned out by anti-personnel mines. The blasts thudded through her boots.
She watched the Mr. Handy bot patrolling in front of the gates. "Come out, come out wherever you are!" Yasmine shuddered at the posh-accented taunt. Groans and barks followed. Then, running. Lots of it.
Yasmine activated her comm, "Yearling, do those butlers have a mute button or something? They're stirring up the Trogs with their insults!"
"I'll try, but we're preoccupied!" Laser fire whined down the comm line.
Three of the reddish, bloated creatures darted through one of the gates. The Mr. Handy turned, engulfing them in fire. They screeched and writhed. Yasmine crouched, aimed and fired. She caught two as they sprinted side-by-side, dropping them quickly. The third rebounded, kicked off a Protectron and charged straight at her. The Mr. Handy dived in between them, lancing the creature with its circular buzzsaw. Blood and flesh painted the bot.
Even in death, the Trog twitched and growled. The Mr. Handy was joined by its counterpart, and together they hauled the bodies into a pile, setting them alight. The stench was unbearable, making Yasmine consider leaving the room altogether.
The sounds of fighting from the main floor petered out. "Paladin," Yearling's voice broke over the comm, "those gates are showing green, but I can't close them from here. Look for a manual release—likely a breaker switch in a yellow metal box."
Yasmine scanned the room, seeing no yellow boxes. "Any hints, Scribe? Where am I looking?"
"Try behind the gate's mechanism. If not, I'll have to come down and rig something together."
Yasmine moved around the side wall, avoiding proximity to the dark openings. The Y-shaped sluice gates were mounted on large hydraulic actuators, rusted and caked in grime.
"They're trashed," Yasmine radioed, "it's all one big brown mess."
"Copy," Yearling said grudgingly, "I'm coming down. Stand by."
"Roger," Yasmine replied, moving back to her spot of relative safety, overseeing the gate openings.
She connected to the team-wide channel, "How's everyone doing? Ammo check?"
Staccato gunshots from a suppressed R91 assault rifle echoed. A large Trog skidded into view, its back and head riddled with bullets. The shots, fired from an elevated position, struck at a downward angle. Marnie and Shin were keeping busy.
"We're holding pos for now," Marnie shot down the line." Slightly breathless from the adrenaline, "down to three magazines of 5.56."
"I've got five," Shin added.
Irish and Billy reported adequate microfusion cells. Irish quipped, "The ladies are doing the heavy lifting, Paladin. Honestly, we're just standing by. Anyone got a beer?"
"So far," Billy interjected, "they've come in dribs and drabs. Why not rush us all at once?"
"Billy," Yearling cut in, "please, don't give them tactical advice." Then, "Oakley, I'm coming to you now."
Contact. E-gate…" Billy warned, "More from underneath! Marnie, adjust your fire!"
"Grenade!" Shin shouted.
Yasmine catapulted off the rusty floor, slamming shoulder-first into the doorframe. Yearling had joined Marnie in cover behind a bail of steel beams, when half a dozen dog-sized Trogs bounded over the cover and swirled around them.
More mutants were disgorged from the central grate when a fragmentation grenade landed snugly among them. The explosion and concussion wave made Yasmine drop to a knee and fire on the couple that had endured the blast. Their movements stilled, lifeless.
Meanwhile, with backs to the bundle of metal beams, Marnie and Yearling fired indiscriminately at the surviving Trogs. Some were cut down, but a couple managed to escape by scaling the support pillars, and headed for the control station above.
"Shin!" Yasmine radioed, "two coming your way! Left side, left side!"
From her vantage point, Yasmine saw crimson laser fire from the unseen Protectron illuminate the space. Shin, slight and stealthy, advanced toward the danger like a jungle cat. The Trog burst through the window frame and clashed with the scout. Shin fired her R91, peppering the back wall with bullet holes. Shin and the monster connected, and she misplaced her rifle. The nimble scout equipped her combat knife. The pair danced, parried, and exchanged blows.
The Trog launched off a desk, kicking it over in a spray of aged paper, only to land on Shin's waiting combat knife. It exclaimed a terrible wail. Shin recovered her R91, loaded it with a satisfying clack-clack, and finished the creature off. Dragging its body to the observation window, she tossed it to the floor below. It landed with a sickening crunch.
"Nice work, Paladin Boram!" Yearling congratulated. Shin flicked a two-finger salute and resumed her overwatch.
The Scribe, helped up by Marnie, bounded over to Yasmine, her hopeful expression souring.
"Another wave!" Billy alerted.
"Fuck, do they ever end!?" Irish griped.
As prophesied, more mutants moved in, dividing and splitting around the soldiers. One scaled a support pillar but fell from laser fire. Another leapt atop a Protectron. Irish kicked it in the ribs, aimed, and screamed in agony.
Yasmine and Yearling froze. A massive, dark orange Trog latched onto Irish's shoulder.
Billy moved to help but was intercepted by smaller Trogs. He wrestled one, the second slain by a Protectron. "You bastard!" he yelled, frustrated.
"Irish!" Shin shrieked, "Hold still!"
Irish turned, presenting a target. The creature rose to slash his neck, unwittingly presenting the sniper with a perfect shot. Shin put two bullets into its bloated cranium, chunks of skull and brain cascaded around the floor. The corpse slithered off, Irish's sleeve turning brown with blood.
"Quickly!" Marnie said, "I've got Stimpaks!"
Meanwhile, Billy tossed the final Trog to its back. It leapt again, undeterred, but fell to laser fire, dropping into a steaming heap. Silence fell, and the room filled with the sharp smell of ozone, mingling with the rotten stench of Trog bodies and acrid cordite.
Yasmine took a deep breath, steadying herself as she surveyed the aftermath. Her ears still rang from the fighting, and her nose twitched at the pungent mix of odours. She glanced at the others, seeing the same exhaustion mirrored on their faces.
Yearling moved quickly, locating the breaker switch and activating the Y-shaped gates. The heavy metal barriers groaned into place, sealing the back room and freeing up the robots for the defence of the main floor.
"Good work, Scribe," Yasmine commended, her voice carrying a note of relief.
Yearling nodded, "Let's hope this buys us some time."
As the Protectrons and Mr. Handys moved out to reinforce their positions, Yasmine's thoughts turned to the next wave of Trogs. They had held them off for now, but the battle was far from over. She adjusted her grip on her weapon, feeling a renewed sense of resolve.
"We're not done yet," she murmured, more to herself, than for the benefit of the others. Steeling her nerves for the fight to come.