The air hums with a cold, mechanical dead presence within the Chicago Area as a phalanx of Eyebots drifts into position above the open cracked streets—silent, unblinking, their metallic bodies hovering with unnatural stillness. Four of the units close in, turning passerby’s to ash, creating a perfect perimeter around you. Each Eyebot is a floating sphere of polished steel and blackened chrome, their singular glowing lenses scanning with pinpoint accuracy. No wings. No noise. Just effortless, ominous levitation.
Beneath their optics, small compartments shift and hiss open integrated laser weapons quietly arm themselves, pulsing with a dull red glow. Each one capable of pinpoint disintegration. No warning. No mercy. The Eyebots’ monitors remain in passive mode, a deep violet wash illuminating their surfaces as they orbit in measured, deliberate paths.
Behind them stand the Enclave personnel—clad in imposing Mark II ‘Black Devil’ Power Armor, matte-black and battle-scarred. The armor whirs softly with each movement, eye lenses glowing with a dusty yellow hue—an eerie blend of man and machine. Their plasma rifles are shouldered, ready, the barrels hot with anticipation. They don’t speak. They don’t move unnecessarily. The like minded sentinels exist only to execute.
The pink-hued screens on the Eyebots crackle to life, revealing a shadowed figure on the monitor—his form barely discernible through the static. A featureless silhouette crowned by a permanent, lowly predatory smile—made unforgettable by matching pink aviators that shield his eyes. The horrid vestige of absolute authority in what remains of this corner of the United States. The chillingly relentless wraith of Chicago, Illinois.
The voice cuts through the silence:
The Secretary: “Let this stand as an immutable truth: treason against the Enclave is treason against America. There is no court. No plea. No mercy.”
The Secretary: “President John Henry Eden remains the ONLY rightful leader of the United States. His word is law. His will—unchallenged.”
What you see before you is not hope. It is finality. It is order given shape:
The Secretary: “Starting this day forward, effective immediately—there will be no more upstarts. No more whispers in the dark. They WILL be hunted.”
The Secretary: “For they must be erased from history—by their very nature—like diseased Mole rats, had reduced our once proud lineage to shit.”
A slight buzz crackles from the flickering screens as the figure’s smile tightens—an upward curve to their lip:
The Secretary: “You must certainly be wondering—why? Why are we so… resolute in our commitment to preserving the sanctity of our great nation with such vehemence?”
He waved a hand airily, the gesture dripping with mock deliberation.
The Secretary: ”Well, I say the answer is rather obvious, because America, after all, must belong only to the worthy—to the brave, to the fearless. Like the old saying goes, God bless the Enclave."