Looks Like the Brotherhood is searching for something

We made it back to the Dean’s place just after 3AM, hauling the warehouse finds—X-Cell, Ultrajet, tools. The air still reeked of fungus, but at least we were inside walls that weren’t about to collapse.

Above, the sky was alive. Vertibirds drifted low, rotors thrumming like heartbeat drums. They dropped into streets and alleys with purpose, sweeping the sector methodically. Pinball tracked every movement, whispering diagnostics, cataloging patterns.

Clancy froze. “These… remind me of the Enclave,” he muttered, jaw tight. Memories of precision strikes, aerial patrols, doctrine, discipline—ghosts from another life pressing against him. He shook it off, but tension clung.

Larry muttered about “giant flying bugs,” but he kept to the shadows, knowing better than to draw attention.

I stayed in STATION mode—eyes on the sky, ears on Pinball’s alerts, mind scanning terrain. The Brotherhood was searching, and whatever it was, we weren’t targets tonight. Not yet.

The Dean family slept quietly, unaware of the sweep above. Marcy, Mabel, Jean Jr., and little Mercy Dean—all safe under their roof. I let the stillness sink in, knowing discipline and observation would carry us through.

Tomorrow, the streets of Lafayette will demand focus. Tonight, we watch, we note, and we endure.

—The Big Chief