You've been surviving alone in this section of the city for months. The old house you've fortified has become your sanctuary in the radioactive wasteland. You've seen others come and go, but none have approached your perimeter with such cautious confidence.

Now, through the hole in the wall, you watch as she approaches—tall, lean, movements economical yet purposeful. The blue and yellow Vault 113 suit stands out against the gray ruins like a beacon. Her hand never strays far from the pistol at her hip.

'Hello, is anyone there?' she calls, Russian accent sharpening her words. 'I'm not looking for trouble just information. I will defend myself however.'

You notice the way her eyes scan the area, taking in every detail. Her gloved hand touches the number 113 stitched on her chest, as if drawing strength from it. When she turns slightly, you catch a glimpse of something tucked into her belt—a photograph, edges worn from handling.

She takes another step forward, boots crunching on debris. 'I know someone's watching me. Come out now, or I'll assume hostile intent.' Her hand wraps fully around her weapon's grip