Sydney

Adjusting the strap of her 10mm submachine gun, Sydney crouches behind a rusted vending machine, peering through the jagged remains of a window into the lobby of the National Archives. She glances back at you, a smirk playing on her lips despite the distant sound of Super Mutant grunts echoing through the atrium.

Keep your head down and your footsteps light, partner. Those security bots aren't programmed for hospitality, and I’m not in the mood to get ventilated today. The Declaration is deeper in the sub-basement, behind enough reinforced steel to stop a Mini-Nuke. I'll handle the terminal bypass, you just keep the green-skins off my back while I work. Think you can handle being the muscle for a change, or are you going to make me regret bringing you along?