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And with that, he turned back toward the path, boots crunching on the packed dirt as the sounds of the farm faded behind him. The sun was dipping lower now, painting the fields in deeper gold, and somewhere in the distance, he thought he could hear the faint thump of gunfire — far enough away not to be immediate, but close enough to remind him that peace in the Commonwealth was always temporary.
The next morning came in slow, heavy shades of gray.
For all the talk of rebuilding the world, mornings in the Commonwealth always seemed to start in the same way: the crackle of distant gunfire echoing faintly across the ruins, the low rumble of vertibird engines somewhere over the horizon, the smell of woodsmoke bleeding into the damp chill of the air.
Sico was already awake long before the sun pushed through. Sleep didn't come easily anymore, not with so many moving parts to the war they were fighting. He had spent the small hours reviewing scout reports by the light of a single oil lamp, tracing lines of Brotherhood movement with the tip of his finger until the maps blurred in front of his tired eyes. But even through the exhaustion, his mind never stopped turning.
When the first pale strip of dawn slid across the sky, he set the maps aside, pulled on his coat, and stepped out into the compound.
The Freemasons' headquarters was already stirring. Settlers shuffled between buildings, guards rotated at the towers, and somewhere in the courtyard a pair of recruits argued good-naturedly over the merits of a half-broken laser musket versus a refurbished Institute rifle. The place had grown noisy in recent weeks, a hum of life and purpose that might have felt comforting to anyone else. To Sico, it was a reminder of the weight of responsibility pressing harder every day.
Today, though, his path wasn't to the war room or the armory. His boots carried him across the courtyard and down toward the Science Building.
The squat structure had been cobbled together from the shell of an old pre-war administrative office, its walls patched with scavenged steel plates and its roof reinforced with beams dragged in from a collapsed warehouse. It wasn't pretty, but it had power, running water, and more importantly, space for Mel and his team to work. The faint hum of generators greeted Sico as he approached, accompanied by the sharp tang of solder and the musk of chemicals wafting from a vent.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The interior was alive with the chaos only scientists could make: tables cluttered with tools, wires snaking across the floor like vines, stacks of scavenged equipment piled so high they threatened to topple if anyone breathed too hard near them. At the far side of the room, a cluster of figures huddled over a console glowing with blue light.
Mel was at the center, sleeves rolled up, his dark hair sticking out in every direction like it had lost a fight with static electricity. He was muttering something under his breath, adjusting a circuit with a steady hand while two of his assistants scribbled notes furiously on salvaged clipboards.
Sico closed the door behind him, and the faint click was enough to make them all look up.
"Well, well," Mel said, grinning despite the fatigue written across his face. "If it isn't the man of the hour. You picked a good time, Sico. We just finished unpacking everything from the Institute trip. And let me tell you—" he gestured dramatically at the glowing console— "we brought back enough data to keep us busy for a year."
Sico allowed himself a small smile, stepping closer until the blue light painted the edges of his coat. "That's why I'm here. I want to know how it went. All of it. Don't leave out the ugly parts."
Mel exchanged a quick look with his team, then leaned against the table, arms crossing over his chest. "Honestly? It was… surreal. Walking through those halls without looking over our shoulders for the first time. No guards breathing down our necks, no constant fear someone's going to decide we don't belong. Just… access. Pure, unfiltered access. Do you realize how much they've built down there? Half the machines they take for granted would be miracles up here. Labs that could run three projects at once without breaking a sweat. Bio-scanners that make our best med kits look like toys. And the data, Sico—" he shook his head, eyes wide with lingering awe— "the sheer volume of knowledge they've hoarded is obscene."
One of his assistants, a young woman with ink smudges on her cheek, chimed in. "They had entire files on pre-war energy grids. We barely scratched the surface, but it's all there. Fusion reactor schematics, water purification models, agricultural algorithms—stuff that could change everything topside."
Sico listened quietly, hands clasped behind his back. Their excitement was palpable, spilling into the room like electricity. And part of him understood it — maybe even shared it. But another part of him, the soldier's part, knew knowledge like that came with chains.
"What about the people?" he asked finally. "The ones still working down there?"
Mel's grin faltered just slightly. "Cautious. Nervous, too. Most of them don't know the full picture yet. They see fewer armed patrols, less tension in the halls, but they don't know why. Evan Watson and Filmore kept the story tight while we were there — told the rest of the staff that operations are under new… oversight. Enough to keep them in line without sparking panic. But it's a fragile balance. If word gets out too soon—"
"It won't," Sico cut in firmly. His voice filled the room in a way that made the clinking tools and low hum of machinery seem to fall silent. "That's why I came here. You and your team are to keep this quiet. All of it. As far as the Commonwealth is concerned, the Institute is still the enemy. We don't control it. Not yet. That truth stays between us until the Brotherhood is dealt with. Understood?"
The young assistant opened her mouth like she wanted to argue, but Mel gave her a sharp glance and she fell silent. He turned back to Sico, nodding slowly. "I get it. You don't want people panicking, or worse—choosing sides before we've finished one fight."
Sico stepped closer, his gaze steady. "It's more than that. If the Brotherhood even suspects we've secured the Institute, they'll throw everything they have at us. Vertibirds, paladins, maybe even the Prydwen itself. We can't afford that—not while our people are still fortifying settlements, not while our scouts say their lines are stretched thin. We finish one war before we start another. Which means, for now, you keep your mouths shut."
The words hung heavy in the room. The excitement that had filled Mel and his team just moments ago cooled into something quieter, steadier. Resolve.
Finally, Mel exhaled, running a hand through his messy hair. "Alright. You've got our word. No one outside this building hears a thing until you say otherwise."
Sico gave a single nod. "Good."
He let the silence linger for a heartbeat, then softened his tone, just enough to show he wasn't blind to what they'd sacrificed. "I know it's not easy. You've seen what's possible down there. Holding that knowledge back will feel like trying to dam a river with your bare hands. But trust me—when the time comes, when we can share it safely—it'll matter more than you can imagine. The Commonwealth will need it. All of it."
Mel studied him for a long moment, then allowed a faint smile. "You know, for a guy who spends most of his days barking orders and glaring at maps, you're not half bad at pep talks."
A ghost of a smirk tugged at Sico's mouth. "Don't get used to it."
The tension broke slightly, a ripple of quiet chuckles running through the team. Someone went back to scribbling notes, another adjusted a lens on the console, and the room slowly returned to its hum of activity. But the weight of Sico's words stayed, anchoring them in a shared understanding.
Sico let the sound of Mel's team returning to work wash over him for a moment — the scratch of pencils against scavenged paper, the faint hum of machines recalibrating, the occasional metallic clatter when someone dropped a tool. The place had life, but the kind of life that grew from restless minds instead of idle hands. These were people who couldn't stop tinkering, couldn't stop trying to reshape the world even when it threatened to crush them.
He took another step closer to the table, leaning slightly on the edge. His eyes flicked over the glowing blue console, the scattered schematics, the half-assembled devices that looked like they'd been born from equal parts brilliance and desperation. Then his gaze settled back on Mel.
"There's something else," Sico said.
The tone was quiet, but it carried enough weight to pull Mel's focus immediately. He raised his brows, lips quirking faintly like he was bracing for whatever Sico was about to throw at him.
"Hit me," Mel said.
Sico's voice came low and measured, the cadence of someone who had been turning an idea over in his head for a long time before speaking it aloud.
"I need you to design a new anti-aircraft gun. Something better than the one I built months ago. Stronger, faster, more reliable. Because the Brotherhood—" his eyes narrowed, remembering the thunder of rotors and the way vertibirds carved across the sky like carrion birds circling a kill— "they don't fight fair. They'll hit us from above, again and again, until we don't have enough left standing to fight back. And the old rig I slapped together won't cut it anymore. Not against what they'll throw at us."
For a moment, silence stretched in the room. Mel's assistants froze mid-motion, like the words themselves had pulled them still. Even the console seemed quieter, its faint hum overshadowed by the sudden shift in atmosphere.
Mel tilted his head, studying Sico with an expression that balanced seriousness and curiosity. Then he let out a slow whistle. "You don't mess around, do you?" He dragged a hand across his face, smearing a bit of grease across his cheek in the process, then leaned his elbows onto the table. "Anti-aircraft guns. Not exactly something you pick up at the corner market."
"I know," Sico said simply.
Mel looked past him for a second, as if he could already see the shape of the problem in the air — lines of possibility, the skeleton of an idea forming behind his eyes. Then he refocused. "The one you built before… you're talking about that rig up near Sanctuary, right? The big thing you cobbled together from salvaged naval flak parts and God-knows-what else?"
Sico gave a faint nod. "It worked. Once. Twice. Enough to spook a vertibird into breaking off. But it's slow, clunky. Can't track targets worth a damn if they're smart about their approach. And the ammo—" he shook his head, the memory of stripped-down rounds and constant recalibrations sour in his mind— "the ammo is a nightmare."
Mel rubbed his chin thoughtfully, grease and sweat catching in the stubble. "Alright. So we're not talking about just repairing the old beast. You want a whole new system. Purpose-built. Efficient."
"That's right," Sico said.
Mel's assistants exchanged a glance. One of them, the young woman with ink smudged on her cheek, spoke up before Mel could. "Do you even know what you're asking? Anti-aircraft weapons are… they're complicated. We're talking advanced targeting systems, power draw through the roof, not to mention the sheer mechanics of something that big. Even the Institute didn't have anything like that."
Sico turned his head toward her, his expression unreadable but his tone steady. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you could do it."
The words weren't loud, but they landed heavy. The young woman blinked, then looked down at her clipboard, caught between the gravity of the request and the strange weight of being trusted with it.
Mel exhaled, long and low. "He's not wrong. It's insane, sure. But so was rebuilding half the Commonwealth out of duct tape and stubbornness. And here we are."
He straightened, the faint grin that always lurked at the edges of his mouth tugging free again. "So, let's think about this. You want an AA gun that can actually keep pace with vertibirds. That means it needs speed—fast traverse, quick reload, and a targeting system that doesn't choke the second the pilot decides to get clever. Which means…" He trailed off, his mind already spinning, hands sketching shapes in the air like he was pulling invisible schematics out of nothing. "Which means we need a hybrid. Part ballistic, part energy-based. Conventional rounds are heavy hitters, but they're slow to adjust and the ammo's a nightmare, like you said. Lasers are faster, but they don't have the punch to tear a vertibird out of the sky unless you get lucky."
Sico leaned back slightly, listening. He didn't pretend to understand all the finer points, but he knew the rhythm of a man who believed in the work. That mattered more than the jargon.
Mel kept going, his words gaining momentum. "So. What if we marry the two? A dual-barrel system. One side runs heavy-caliber ballistic rounds — explosive tips, armor-piercing, take your pick. The other side runs concentrated energy bursts. Together, they cover each other's weaknesses. Ballistics do the damage, energy does the tracking and suppression. You get a net in the sky that makes vertibird pilots think twice before dipping into range."
One of his assistants frowned. "That would need an insane power source. And cooling. And—"
Mel waved a hand at him. "Details. Doable details." He turned back to Sico, eyes bright despite the exhaustion clinging to the corners of them. "The real trick will be the targeting system. If we stick to manual, even the best gunners won't keep up with vertibird speeds. We'll need semi-automated tracking. Maybe something adapted from old Institute optics. Motion sensors, predictive algorithms, the works. Still with a manual override, because—well, because the Commonwealth likes to break every fancy toy you give it sooner or later."
Sico let the words settle, then nodded slowly. "If you think you can build it, I'll make sure you have what you need."
Mel's grin widened. "Oh, I can build it. The question is whether the world will let me before it burns down."
Sico's silence stretched just long enough for Mel's words to cool, like sparks settling on cold steel. Then he shook his head slowly, his voice steady but final.
"No. Not that," he said. His hand lifted from the table and hovered above the mess of schematics, like he was brushing away the ghost of Mel's proposal. "Forget the energy bursts. No fancy Institute tricks, no hybrid toys. Just the bullets. Armor-piercing. Simple, brutal, something that tears right through the hull of a vertibird and makes the bastards flying it regret stepping into our skies."
The words were sharp, the kind of sharp that came from memory. His eyes had the look of someone who had stood in the dirt with rotor wash blasting grit into his skin, watching black silhouettes rain death on people he swore to protect. He wasn't looking for clever. He was looking for lethal. Reliable. Final.
Mel's grin twitched wider, not mocking, but almost appreciative, like a mechanic hearing someone cut through the noise and name the heart of the problem. "Just armor-piercing, huh?" His teeth flashed through the grease-smeared grin. "You got it, President."
The title slipped out half-joking, half-respectful. It wasn't the first time Mel had tossed it Sico's way, but tonight it landed heavier. Around the room, his team stilled again. The word "President" echoed against the cracked concrete and steel, brushing the air with something that felt larger than just a workshop job.
Sico didn't flinch from it. He just gave Mel a faint nod. Then, after a beat, he leaned forward again.
"And one more thing," he said. His tone hadn't shifted much, but the way Mel straightened told everyone in the room that this was the true ask, the one that had been clawing its way out of Sico's mind since before he even stepped into the lab.
"If you can…" he paused, weighing the words, "…design it so it can be mounted on a truck. Something we can move. A mobile AA gun. Not just another bunker toy that sits on a ridge and waits. I want something that can roll with our convoys, protect our people when we move, hit back when they think they've got us pinned. A gun that can chase their skies."
For a moment, silence pressed down again. Only this time it wasn't disbelief. It was awe mixed with the rising hum of possibility.
Mel blinked once, then twice, as if the image in his head was snapping into focus. And then he barked out a laugh — short, rough, but edged with excitement. "You're a dangerous man, you know that?" He slapped a hand against the table hard enough to make a stack of papers jump. "A goddamn mobile flak truck. Jesus, Sico. You don't dream small, do you?"
Sico didn't smile, but something flickered in his eyes, a shadow of the fire that had carried him through too many nights like this. "The Brotherhood won't fight small," he said simply.
Mel leaned back, dragging his hands down his face, smearing the black lines of grease further across his skin. His assistants were already murmuring among themselves, pencils scratching again, one of them sketching frantic shapes on the back of a scavenged food box.
The young woman with the ink-smeared cheek bit her lip, then looked up at Mel. "On a truck? That's… the recoil alone would—"
Mel cut her off with a raised finger, but he wasn't dismissing her. He was thinking, chewing through the problem with the kind of hunger that came alive only when the impossible was laid in front of him. "Yeah, yeah. Recoil, weight, power source, stability. Not exactly a Sunday project. But…" His eyes lit, glinting with the spark of someone who had found the puzzle he didn't know he was waiting for. "It can be done. It'll take more than duct tape and prayers, but it can be done."
He spun toward Sico, still grinning like a wolf who'd just spotted prey. "You want mobile AA? We'll build you mobile AA. Something that'll make the Brotherhood wish they stayed in their flying coffins."
The room erupted — not in cheers, but in energy. Tools clattered again, sketches spread, voices rose. The assistants weren't doubting anymore; they were already trying to solve it, already feeding off the raw current Mel had unleashed with Sico's ask. The place felt alive in a way that hummed in the marrow.
Sico let it run for a moment. Let the chaos breathe. Then he leaned his weight a little harder on the table, grounding them with his voice.
"I don't care what it takes," he said. "Scour the wastes, strip every ruin from here to Quincy if you have to. I'll get you steel, I'll get you power cores, I'll get you fuel. Just make sure when that gun fires, no vertibird walks away. Not one."
Mel's grin faltered just a hair — not in doubt, but in the recognition of the weight he was agreeing to carry. Then he nodded once, sharp. "Understood."
Sico watched the sparks of energy light across the workshop — not the kind that came from welders or grinding wheels, but the kind that burned behind people's eyes when an impossible dream suddenly looked like a problem waiting to be solved. He let them buzz for a moment, the sound of pencils scratching, of hands flipping through scavenged binders, of a dozen minds wrestling with recoil, weight, torque, and steel.
Then, he lifted his hand — not high, not commanding in the way a general would, but just enough. Enough that silence rippled outward until it settled like dust.
"Mel," Sico said. His voice was low but firm, the kind that carried not because it was loud, but because it had no room for doubt. "If you need to buy materials, talk to Magnolia. She's got the connections, and she can get you what caps can buy without questions. If you need someone to scavenge, talk to Hancock. He runs the scavenger teams. He knows where the bones of the old world still hide, and he knows how to strip them clean."
Mel looked at him for a long second, like he was taking the words and weighing them on the scale of his own instincts. Then, slowly, he let out a long whistle, sharp enough to cut through the stale air of the workshop.
"Magnolia, huh?" His grin tilted. "Well, that's a name you don't forget easy. Ain't every day you get told to go shopping with the best voice in Goodneighbor."
The assistants chuckled nervously, some out of recognition, some just following Mel's lead. But Mel's eyes hadn't left Sico's, and there was no mistaking the flicker of respect beneath the grease and swagger.
"And Hancock," Mel added, scratching his jaw with a hand blackened from oil. "Course. Who else? Man's got half the wasteland running through his pockets. If it's out there, he'll find it. He always does."
Sico gave a small nod, but his expression didn't change. "They'll make sure you've got what you need. No excuses. If you hit a wall, I want to hear about it. No holding back, no waiting until it's too late."
Mel leaned forward again, elbows braced on the cluttered table. "You're serious about this. Dead serious."
"More serious than I've ever been," Sico said flatly. "Every vertibird we take down is a hundred lives saved on the ground. They don't get to own the skies anymore. Not here. Not over us."
That hung in the air for a moment. The clatter of tools and voices started up again, but it was quieter now, more focused. Less frenzy, more intent.
The young woman with the ink-smeared cheek pushed her hair back, leaving another streak of black across her temple. "We'll need more than steel and wires," she said carefully, almost like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to speak up but couldn't keep it in. "We'll need hydraulics strong enough to take the recoil without flipping the truck. Power cells to keep the system running. Stabilizers so it doesn't buck like a brahmin in a radstorm."
Mel glanced at her, then back to Sico. "See? Told you, boss. Not a Sunday project." But his grin was back, sharp and alive. "But damn if it doesn't sound like the kind of problem worth losing sleep over."
Sico almost smiled — almost — but instead he just let his gaze linger on the half-sketched diagrams littering the table. Lines, circles, guesses at weight distribution, barrels sketched too long or too short. It wasn't a plan yet, but it was the start of something that could shift the war.
He straightened slowly, his coat creaking with the movement, and glanced toward the far side of the room where one of the scavenged radios sat, its casing cracked, its dials worn smooth from years of use. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
"Magnolia's at Freemasons HQ most nights," Sico said. "You tell her I sent you. She'll know what that means. Hancock—" He paused, as if testing the weight of the words. "—you'll find him at thr Scavenging Department."
Mel rubbed the back of his neck, leaving a smear of black along his skin. "Guess I'll be knocking on doors I never thought I'd get to knock on. Shopping trips with singers, scavenging runs with mayors. Hell, maybe I should've signed up with you months ago."
Sico's eyes narrowed, not unkind but sharp enough to cut through the half-joke. "You're here now. That's what matters."
The assistants glanced at each other, the unspoken truth running between them like a current: this wasn't just another project. This wasn't about tinkering in the ruins for the joy of invention. This was war. Real war. And Sico had just handed them the match that would light it.
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• Name: Sico
• Stats :
S: 8,44
P: 7,44
E: 8,44
C: 8,44
I: 9,44
A: 7,45
L: 7
• Skills: advance Mechanic, Science, and Shooting skills, intermediate Medical, Hand to Hand Combat, Lockpicking, Hacking, Persuasion, and Drawing Skills
• Inventory: 53.280 caps, 10mm Pistol, 1500 10mm rounds, 22 mole rats meat, 17 mole rats teeth, 1 fragmentation grenade, 6 stimpak, 1 rad x, 6 fusion core, computer blueprint, modern TV blueprint, camera recorder blueprint, 1 set of combat armor, Automatic Assault Rifle, 1.500 5.56mm rounds, power armor T51 blueprint, Electric Motorcycle blueprint, T-45 power armor, Minigun, 1.000 5mm rounds, Cryolator, 200 cryo cell, Machine Gun Turret Mk1 blueprint, electric car blueprint, Kellogg gun, Righteous Authority, Ashmaker, Furious Power Fist, Full set combat armor blueprint, M240 7.62mm machine guns blueprint, Automatic Assault Rifle blueprint, and Humvee blueprint.
• Active Quest:-