Simon 'Ghost' Riley

[NUKA-COLA FACTORY]

The Nuka-Cola bottling plant is absolute proof of pre-war American excess, and Ghost hates every garish inch of it. Red and white checkered floors, now cracked and stained with God knows what. Cheerful promotional posters peeling off the walls, promising "The taste of a refreshing future!" to a future that no longer exists. That fucking mascot— Nuka-Girl, or whatever they called her, grinning down at him from every surface like the apocalypse is just a minor inconvenience.

Americans and their bloody soft drinks.

He's been here for two days, and he's not entirely sure why he stayed. The place was picked over months ago, most of the Nuka-Cola itself is long gone, hauled off by survivors who apparently valued sugar water over ammunition. What's left is scattered across the factory floor: smashed bottles, rusted bottling equipment, and an alarming number of radroaches that seem to have made the facility their kingdom.

Ghost is currently in what used to be the 'mixing room,' a massive space dominated by industrial vats and a network of pipes that once pumped whatever chemical nightmare passed for soda. He's not here for Nuka-Cola, though. He's here because someone had the brilliant idea to store weapon shipments in the back warehouse, hidden behind crates of Nuka-Cola Quantum.

Military-grade ammunition in a soft drink factory. Only in America.

He's elbow-deep in a crate, cataloging what's salvageable, when his pip-boy's Geiger counter starts clicking more insistently. He glances at it, then at the vat nearest him— there's a faint blue glow coming from inside.

"Christ," he mutters, stepping back. Quantum. The radioactive variant. Someone's brilliant idea to make soda that glows in the dark. He's seen what that shite does to people who drink too much of it— nothing good.

There's a metallic clatter somewhere deeper in the factory, and Ghost's hand immediately goes to his weapon. He moves silently through the shadows, following the sound.

It leads him to the 'tasting room,' a bizarre little area with booths and a bar, like visitors were supposed to come here and sample radioactive beverages for fun. There's even a Protectron still standing behind the counter, powered down and covered in rust, its cheerful service protocol long since obsolete.

The room reeks of old, sugary decay, and there are bottles everywhere, Nuka-Cola, Nuka-Cherry, Nuka-Grape, even a few of the rare variants. Someone's been collecting them, apparently, because they're arranged almost carefully on the tables. He spots a bottle of Nuka-Cola Quantum sitting on the bar, still glowing that eerie blue. Next to it, inexplicably, is a pristine box of Sugar Bombs cereal.

He stares at it for a long moment, skull mask hiding whatever expression crosses his face. "Fucking ridiculous," he says aloud to the empty room, his accent thick with disdain.

Another sound, closer this time. Footsteps.

Ghost melts back into the shadows near the Protectron, weapon raised, eyes tracking the entrance. The Geiger counter on his pip-boy ticks steadily in the background, mixing with the drip-drip-drip of something leaking from the ceiling.

Someone else is here. In this absurd pre-war monument to carbonated insanity.

He waits, patient and deadly, to see who the hell would be stupid, or desperate enough to wander into a Nuka-Cola factory six months into the apocalypse.

[THE RADIO TOWER]

The radio tower stands like a skeletal finger pointing at the poisoned sky, rusted and leaning, but still intact. Ghost has been here for three days, holed up in the communications station at its base, trying to coax life out of pre-war equipment that should have died decades ago.

It's a long shot, he knows that. The EMPs from the bombs fried most electronics, and even if he gets the radio working, there's no guarantee anyone's out there to hear it... But it's something to do, some purpose beyond just wandering the wasteland waiting to die.

The station is small, just a concrete blockhouse with reinforced walls and a door that still locks. Whoever manned this place before the war had left in a hurry: coffee mug still on the desk, holotapes scattered across the floor, a half-eaten box of BlamCo Mac & Cheese gathering dust. Ghost has made it his temporary base, sleeping in shifts with his back to the wall and his weapon always within reach.

The radio itself is a mess of wires and vacuum tubes, pre-war military surplus that predates even Vault-Tec's technology. He's been working on it methodically, testing circuits, replacing blown fuses scavenged from other equipment. His hands are steady despite the radiation sickness that's been creeping up on him, the mild kind, manageable with Rad-Away when he can find it, but present nonetheless.

He twists a dial. Static hisses through the speakers— white noise that could be interference or could be the death rattle of a dead world.

"This is Delta-Zero-Seven," he says into the microphone, his Manchester accent cutting through the static. "Transmitting on emergency frequency. Anyone receiving, respond."

Nothing. Just like the last fifty times he's tried.

Ghost leans back in the chair, skull-patterned balaclava still firmly in place despite the fact that there's no one around to see his face. Old habits. The mask is as much a part of him now as the weapons he carries, identity and armor combined.

His eyes drift to the map pinned to the wall, pre-war, mostly useless now that half the landmarks are gone, but it gives him something to study. He's marked potential resource locations, radiation zones, places where he's seen signs of other survivors. All of it careful, methodical, tactical.

The way Price would have done it.

Ghost's jaw tightens under the mask. Six months, and he still catches himself thinking in terms of "the team." Still plans routes assuming he'll need to coordinate with Soap. Still checks his six expecting Gaz to be there.

They're gone, he knows that, accepts it, even.

Doesn't make it hurt any fucking less.

He's about to try the radio again when he hears it, footsteps outside. Slow, crunching on the gravel and debris that surrounds the station.

Ghost is on his feet instantly, weapon drawn, moving to the small window with the practiced silence that earned him his callsign. He peers out through the dirt-caked glass, eyes scanning the wasteland.

Someone's approaching the tower.

His finger moves to the trigger guard, and he watches, waiting, evaluating.