Two years and five months after broken steel
Lawrence Gelber—known simply as Gelb to the handful who shared the isolation of his posting—had settled into the monotony of his assignment. His days were as still as the dry winds that swept over this northern border station, leaving dust clinging to everything, even dreams. Nearly six months before, he had enlisted in the military of the Capital Wasteland, imagining with the boundless confidence of a new recruit that he'd see action in the embattled streets of Baltimore or perhaps earn a post among the Steel ranks. Instead, after a gruelling half-year of training, he'd been sent to this remote, unspectacular checkpoint, far from the noise and flurry of the real fight.
The station itself was, at least, functional—a small comfort in the otherwise lifeless stretch of land. The engineers had put it up in two months, building it from the wreckage and junk that seemed to spring up wherever they dug. It wasn't much, but it served its purpose well enough: a modest armory, a radio shack, two barracks, an office, and a cantina—all clustered within a crude junk-fence perimeter. A watchtower, sturdy despite its recycled materials, rose above the compound, offering a vantage point over the unclaimed lands stretching southward. This outpost marked the furthest reach of the Wasteland's expanding borders, an unofficial line of demarcation a few days' journey south of the Citadel. Beyond it lay lands that even the Capital Wasteland's growing influence dared not tread.
Not that Gelb minded; after all, this station had its own brand of danger. They'd already dealt with raider bands, desperate gangs throwing themselves against the border in crude assaults that did little more than break the silence. Most were armed with nothing more threatening than rusted pipe pistols, barely able to dent the Capital Wasteland soldiers' armor. In one skirmish, six raiders had fallen in minutes, while two more had been captured, their fates sealed by interrogation teams waiting in the Wasteland proper. It had been short, intense, and over in less than two minutes. Still, Gelb was left with an unsettling thought: if life here was so unforgiving, what sort of desperation drove these people to attack, despite knowing they were outmatched?
Under the scorching sun, Gelb took a swig from his canteen, wiping the sweat from his brow. His marksman's rifle rested across his lap, and he kept his eyes pressed against the binoculars, which left damp rings around his skin. From this high vantage, he could see the ruins of Fredericksburg in the far distance—an expanse of rubble and twisted metal that looked no different from the scarred earth surrounding it. Off to the left, the sluggish, greenish waters of the Potomac snaked southward, a sickly reminder of the old world's toxic legacy. But upstream, in the Washington Basin, the river was clearer now, a testament to the Wasteland's gradual reclamation efforts. Within the year, Gelb knew, this cleaner water would push south past the Harry Be Nice Bridge—a survivor of the pre-war age that now hosted a vigilant guard detail of Steel soldiers.
It was at that moment, as he took in the desolate scene below, that he saw movement—a lone silhouette, barely a smudge on the horizon, moving slowly toward the station. Just one figure. But in the Wasteland, a single figure could mean trouble. Instinctively, Gelb hit the alarm. The harsh clang of the siren cut through the stifling heat, rousing the camp from its restless lull. In seconds, ten soldiers were on the ground, geared and ready, their commander at the forefront, barking orders with clipped precision. Gelb relayed the information—a single person, nothing more. The commander's face flickered with disappointment, a fleeting expression that hinted at the tedium they all felt. Gelb could sympathise. Out here, anything was better than nothing.
From his post, Gelb focused his binoculars on the advancing figure. The shape resolved slowly, until he could make out the details—a woman, moving with an unsteady, faltering gait. Something was wrong; her steps were uneven, hesitant, as if each one sapped her strength. She was unarmed, and from her appearance, seemed either severely injured or on the brink of collapse. As she drew closer to the perimeter fence, her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the ground. The soldiers rushed forward, and Gelb noted the glint of her undershirt—the standard garment worn beneath the Steel's power armour.
The woman was barely conscious as the soldiers brought her inside. She was laid carefully on one of the beds in the station's cramped medical room, and the medic, a tired but efficient figure, quickly diagnosed her with extreme fatigue and dehydration. Her injuries, though severe, weren't life-threatening. Within minutes, a message had been sent back to the Capital Wasteland, and a vertibird was dispatched. In just two hours, the woman had been whisked to the Citadel's hospital wing, her survival now in the hands of the Wasteland's more advanced facilities.
At the Citadel, Reilly paced the inner ring, her face hard as she scanned the hastily written report that had arrived. "Get me TLW and Harkness. Now," she snapped to a nearby scribe, who scurried away to relay the order. Within thirty minutes, the three of them were assembled in a secure conference room, sifting through the fragmented report the exhausted Steel soldier had managed to piece together under the scribe's careful questioning.
"If this information is correct, we're going to have to rethink our entire strategy," Harkness said, his voice as steady and unyielding as ever.
"Indeed," Reilly replied, her eyes not lifting from the report. "We've been working under the assumption that we're the only organised power on the Eastern Seaboard, perhaps even on the continent."
TLW, usually taciturn, looked up from the report with a grim expression. "So, who exactly is this group—the 'Horde'?"
Harkness took a deep breath. "The scout didn't gather much. The Horde is massive, a rough coalition of tribes, described as a cross between raiders and settlers. They're savage, but with a peculiar order. They pillage and kill, but they also set up wells, graze brahmin, protect traders. They've cleared out entire valleys of other raider gangs and even installed a semblance of control. And they're led by a man known as Fenix Diavolo. Beyond that, we don't know much. They don't seem interested in anyone else's territory, but they've amassed an army large enough to be a threat if they were to push outward."
"At least seven thousand strong," TLW murmured, his gaze distant as he absorbed the figure. "If they decide to cross into our territory, it'll be war. Pure and simple."
Reilly's expression hardened. "I'll elevate this to the Third Link. They'll activate their network and gather more intelligence. Our scout should also be able to provide additional details in the coming days."
"Agreed," Harkness replied. "But let's keep this from Elder Lyons for the moment. He's got enough on his hands with the preparations for tomorrow."
"The big day," TLW said, his voice almost a whisper as he gazed across the room.
Reilly's eyes remained sharp and resolute. "Yes. The big day."
And in the silence that followed, they each felt the weight of it—a day looming with more than just the usual challenges, shadowed now by a threat that felt far closer than they had ever anticipated.