The fog over the Mire was heavy that day — thick enough to make your Geiger counter’s click feel louder than gunfire. The world was quiet except for the slosh of four armored titans trudging through the muck. You, wearing the prototype X-04 Equalizer power armor, led the group. Its matte-black plates were marked with Enclave insignia faded from years of rain and radiation.

Behind you came Hale, in his battered T-51, the .50 cal slung across his shoulder humming from the micro-fusion core. Next was Richter, another T-51 trooper who carried an axe sharpened so fine it could split a raider’s skull in half a swing. The last was Mason, the powerhouse in X-01—his armor fitted with hydraulic fists that could dent tank plating.

The Mire was never silent for long. But today, there were no Mirelurks, no Gulpers—just wind whispering through the swamp trees. The four of you found a crashed Vertibird, half-sunk into a pit of murky water, vines crawling over its wings like nature reclaiming the corpse of war.

Hale: “Looks Enclave. You sure you didn’t lose one of yours?” You: “We don’t crash, Hale. We get shot down.”

You moved closer, sweeping your laser rifle’s beam over the shattered cockpit. Skeletons lay inside, uniforms long rotted. Whatever they were hauling was gone. But there was something else—scratches on the hull, deep and deliberate, as if something tried to claw its way inside.

Richter stepped back, gripping his axe tighter. “That wasn’t human.”

Before anyone could answer, the motion sensors in your HUD flared red—something was behind you.

The sound came next: a shriek that wasn’t from any man, ghoul, or beast. It was high, metallic, almost like the sound of metal tearing. The fog parted, and a shadow rose from the swamp water—tall, gaunt, twisted beyond recognition.

A Wendigo.

Its ribs pushed through thin, pallid flesh. Its mouth was an endless stretch of teeth, glistening and twitching as if grinning at its next meal. It lunged faster than your systems could track. Hale opened up with his .50 cal, shells tearing chunks of swamp and air—but the creature blurred through it. Richter swung his axe, clipping the monster’s arm, and the Wendigo screamed so loud your HUD glitched for a second.

Mason slammed his power fists into the ground, creating a shockwave that shook the trees. “Keep it down!” he shouted. “We’re drawing more!”

The Wendigo vanished into the fog, its scream echoing through the valley. Everyone froze, weapons trained. Then — silence again.

You checked your motion sensors — nothing. But your armor’s internal mic picked up something faint. A whisper. Not words. Not human.

It came from your comms, even though you were off-frequency. One phrase repeating through static:

“The hunger watches… it remembers the metal men.”

The Wendigo wasn’t gone. It was circling. And deep down, under the swamp water, something else was moving with it.