A/N: I own nothing except the laptop I wrote this story on.

The one thing they never tell you is just how loud guns really sound.

You try to keep yourself busy, working away aimlessly on some small mechanical derring-do, but the guns sound like drums in the distance. It is an orchestra of violence, with the larger guns punctuating the staccato fire of smaller guns with their deep, thunderous bass. Every now and then, the room flashes white, as the gunpowder shot illuminates the room with a pallid glow. There are shouts in the distance, both above you and below you.

You know the drill. Every time the air raid siren begins to go off, you and the others deemed "non-essential" to the attack are ushered in the safety of the Castle catacombs or otherwise indoors. It is little more than a safety measure for a few; most everyone in the Castle is capable of fighting in some way or form. The truth is that this measure is designed to keep you out of the way. To keep you from distracting men and women as they partake in a very serious affair.

And for the longest time, you obeyed every word. You listened.

But you were always naturally curious. Both for the grotesque and for the bizarre and the things We Weren't Meant To Know. And because of that yearning, because of that curiosity, tonight you do something that you never thought you would ever do.

You disobey the General.

You walk to the door, taking a deep breath to compose yourself, and you fling it open. The shockwave from one of the fired guns nearly slams the door back in your face, instead catching you in the shoulder. Ignoring the smarting pain, you force the door back open and step out into the maelstrom.

It's worse than you imagined.

Men and women alike, dressed in what amounts to the Minutemen uniform, race from station to station carrying shells to be loaded into the artillery guns. They yell and shout to one another, both words of encouragement as well as impassioned pleas to pick up the pace. There is a roar, and you see the super mutant Strong heaving expended shell casings over the side of the Castle walls. The heat from the expended shots must be unbearable; the mutant barely seems to notice. He is roaring and laughing at the thought of the carnage that awaits those on the receiving end of the cannons.

You see Sheffield, the recently-promoted Quartermaster of the Castle, racing back and forth, furiously cursing about men and women stomping on his plants and the gardens that provide so much food and produce both to the Commonwealth citizens as well as the Minutemen and the Brotherhood of Steel soldiers that fight on the frontline. He is a noble man, but he is not a soldier. Part of his ravings about the tomatoes, you think, is a way for him to think about something other than the horrors of what is going around him. He does not see you as he runs past, howling about how a couple of Minutemen have stepped on some razorgrain saplings.

In the center of everything is the radio tower, and there is Jonathan. He's been there as long as you can remember, that rancher hat tilted awkwardly on his head. He's normally chewing on a sheave of razongrain, but right now the only thing he's using his mouth for is barking orders back and forth on the radio line. It was only right before the start of the war that the Minutemen managed to get radio lines established on a two-way basis: now he spends just about every waking hour coordinating attack plans for the defenders. You can't remember the last time that Jonathan just sat back with a beer in one hand and a cigar perched in his lips as he read off the "Weekend Update" for the amusement of any Commonwealth listener.

"FIRE!"

The titanic shout is enough to cut through the mania around you. You look up, and there is Danse. He looks nothing like the stern yet kind-hearted man whom you look up to as a sort of father figure: he is practically hanging over the edge of the battlements, his face twisted into a mask of rage and warrior spirit. Spittle flies from his mouth with each syllable, and he is pacing back and forth along the battlements above you like a caged Deathclaw. You knew that he had a commanding presence, but you never knew just how powerful his voice really was. He turns towards the line of cannons that dot the western wall, facing towards the interior of the Commonwealth, and lets loose a monumental roar.

"FIRE THE ROW!"

The Row. That line of fifteen cannons that honeycomb the edge of the western wall. Each cannon fires a single cannonball with nothing explosive inside it: instead, a near-perfect unison of fifteen 18 inch cannonballs are fired towards their target, with one purpose and one purpose only: to wreak havoc.

There is a reason that the guns have another nickname: The Murderer's Row.

On their lonesome, cannons within the Row are not that loud. They leave a ringing in the ears. But they do not have a profoundly teeth-rattling power to them the way that the legendary guns out to the west possess. But when fired together, it sounds like drums from the heavens announcing the Second Coming.

You stagger away, and nearly bump into that crazy fighter Cait. She's roaring in anger right now, a veritable impotence in her rage. Cait is no artillery woman: she howls that she is only useful during a close quarters fight, and with no other option she reduces herself to howling obscenities towards those that the cannons are firing at. The men and women in the Castle do not dread her presence; the sound of her voice invokes a sort of berserker rage, a coldness that makes it easier to load cannons that are designed to cause maximum damage and destruction. She doesn't see you, too busy cursing at Major Danse to get his sorry arse together and to set them bastards on fire.

He doesn't really listen to her. You notice that he never does, at least in a firefight.

You turn your eyes towards the western side of the Castle, where every bit of artillery is firing outwards. You notice that, in the midst of this hellish atmosphere, there hasn't been a shot fired towards the Castle. You know, deep in your soul, that you don't want to see what is visible if you were to climb up the battlements and look. You know this. You know this.

And yet you climb up anyway.

Far away in the distance, you see fire. Jamaica Plains is burning. It burns like a great bonfire in the night, and if you stare at it long enough you can practically feel the heat wash over you and scorch your skin. In the air above the city, tracer rounds dance across the sky like roman candles, spiraling out into lazy, glowing embers. Every now and then, the light from explosions illuminates the ground around the city, and you can make out little ant-like figures fighting and shooting and dying in the mud and the dreck that was once a city that had a future.

There is a boom, from somewhere deep in the distance, and you watch in awe and horror as one of the largest buildings in the city just…vanishes. One second it was there, and the next second it is a shower of debris, fire and concrete. All ripped apart by a direct hit. You try to convince yourself that there was no one inside that building, but you know that you're lying to yourself. You try to convince yourself that you didn't see little figures sent flying high into the air, like chess pieces send flying by a wrathful loser. But you're lying to yourself.

"Izzy."

The voice is quiet and calm, and yet it cuts through the mania like a hot knife. You feel a warm hand on your shoulder. You turn around, and flinch at the sight.

It's him.

He stands above you, dressed in the full regalia of what his position asks of him. His gloves are dark, and there is trace element of gunshot residue on them. He's been helping people load the rounds into the cannons. His outfit is caked with mud and his hair is ratty and sweaty. His cheeks are smudged, and there is a gentle sheen of gunpowder that rests on him like ashfall. It's probably all over you too, at this point. But you don't notice that. You only see his eyes.

Those haunted, sad, and tired eyes. The same eyes that let you know that your efforts to save the Commonwealth had resulted in a grave mistake, a mistake that you never had planned for. You cannot tear your gaze away from them, and you realize that your mouth is slightly agape in fear and shock. You wonder if he is going to yell at you.

But instead he shakes his head slowly, silently, and sighes. It is a deep and rolling sound, as if it is coming from somewhere deeper within him than just his flesh and blood. It seems to come from his soul. He looks you in the eye, and speaks only once.

"You need to go inside. Please."

You feel the tears start to well up in your eyes, and you wrap him up in a bearhug, as if the very act of hugging him will save you. There is a pause, and he returns the embrace for a moment. For a sweet moment, you are at peace.

But then he lets go. Someone calls for him, and he looks you in the eye one last time. The message is clear.

Go. Run.

You start bawling after the first sprinted step.

The tears stream down your face as you fumble with the door, only to realize that the doorknob is broken. You let out a cry of primal fear and anger, and you kick the door down. It was on a rusty hinge, and the door is knocked askew for you to run back inside. To safety. Whatever that even means. You race for your bedroom. You grab your battered Jangles doll, and you find yourself slumping in the corner. You start screaming. You keep crying.

You are alone.

You are Isabel Cruz. You were once the Mechanist. You were once an unwitting instigator of disaster in the Commonwealth, only to be rescued and granted a mercy you didn't think you deserved by the magnanimous leaders of the Minutemen. You were given a job to both work on mechanical devices in the Castle, as well as serve off a form of penance for the robots that nearly destroyed the Commonwealth you pledged to save. You worked off the debt rather quickly, but neither you nor the leaders of the Minutemen particularly cared that your "contract" has long expired. You remain at the Castle, at this point, because you simply cannot imagine yourself anywhere else in the world. You have a future.

And none of that matters.

As you huddle in the corner of your room, cuddling the small doll given to you by the man who spared your life, you scream and you cry and you plead to whatever almighty power that is out there to stop the noise. To stop the bombings. To stop this awful, frightening war that threatens to rip the Commonwealth asunder. Anything, anything to make it all be peaceful and quiet again.

No one answers.

Because you are Isabel Cruz, and you are still just a young and frightened girl trying to survive in a broken world that threatens once again to rend itself in a blaze of hellfire and Armageddon. You know this to be true.

And you know that, no matter your pleadings, no matter your desperate and frightened and pathetic crying, you cannot change anything.

Because this is war.

And war never changes.

A/N: And so it begins…