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Without another word, he turned, his boots carrying him toward the exit. The noise of the scavenging floor rose behind him again, swallowing the conversation as though it had never happened. But the air felt different now. Sharper. Like the room itself knew the stakes had just changed.
The scavenging department faded behind him like the echo of a half-remembered song. By the time Sico reached the stairwell, the noise of clanging steel and shouted orders had dissolved into the hollow quiet of the Institute's lower halls. He climbed steadily, step after step, the soles of his boots beating a slow rhythm against stone.
Up top, the Freemasons HQ waited.
It wasn't pretty. Sico had never cared for pretty. But it was solid. A converted section of the Institute reinforced with scavenged plating, patched walls, and lines of wiring that Mel swore would hold as long as no one started a fire. Function ruled here, not form. The corridors were narrow, the air thick with the smell of recycled filters and lamp oil. People moved with purpose—scribes balancing ledgers, guards in patched combat armor checking weapons, couriers darting between rooms with reports in hand. The HQ wasn't home, not in the way old pre-war neighborhoods had been, but it was the closest thing to one this new world could offer.
Sico pushed through the door to his office and shut it behind him.
The space was simple. A scarred wooden desk sat at the center, weighted down with maps of the Commonwealth, stacks of radio transcripts, and a few scattered notes scrawled in Sico's own blunt handwriting. A lantern burned low on the corner, its flame dancing shadows across the walls. Against the back stood a weapons rack: his rifle, a shotgun, a sidearm, all within easy reach. To the left, a battered metal filing cabinet leaned slightly to one side, its drawers refusing to close all the way.
The room carried the faint tang of old paper and oil. No flowers, no perfumes. Just the smell of work.
Sico dropped into the chair behind his desk, the wood creaking under his weight. He leaned forward, pulling the radio set closer. The device was ugly—wires twisted together, knobs salvaged from at least three different machines—but it worked, and that was all that mattered. He thumbed the switch, static crackling instantly to life.
His voice, when he spoke, was steady and even.
"Gage. This is Sico. Report."
For a moment, only the hiss of static answered. Then the line cleared with a sharp pop, and Porter Gage's voice rumbled through.
"About damn time I heard from you, boss." The drawl carried that familiar edge of sarcasm, but underneath it was loyalty, the kind a man like Sico knew how to cultivate. "Situation's under control out here. Every corner, every back alley, every damn gate—Freemasons flag's been raised in every place that matters."
Sico leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. The radio crackled as Gage went on.
"Shank and I been keepin' things tight. Settlers're pulling their weight, raiders are behaving more than I figured they could. But we made a call—and I think you'll back me on it. We put farming first. Grain, greens, vegetables, the stuff people actually need. Raiders don't like it, sure. They'd rather be chewing Brahmin jerky and stealing chems. But I told 'em straight: no farms, no food. No food, no army. Even they got that through their thick skulls."
There was a pause, then the sound of something clinking—probably Gage shifting a bottle or a piece of gear on his end. His voice came back sharper, more serious.
"So yeah, we got fields starting to sprout again. Ain't much yet—soil's still touchy, and half the irrigation needed rebuilding—but give it a few weeks and we'll have fresh stuff rolling in regular. Carrots, tatoes, mutfruit. The basics. Better than living off stale cans and promises."
Sico said nothing at first. He stared at the flame of the lantern, watching it bend and bow with each draft that slipped under the office door. Farming. It was the least glamorous part of conquest, but the most vital. Armies didn't march on speeches or dreams. They marched on food. And if Gage had seen that truth without being told, it meant the man was thinking ahead. That mattered.
"You did right," Sico said at last, his voice low but carrying that weight he always carried. "An army without food isn't an army. It's a mob waiting to starve. Farming first. Always."
The radio crackled again with Gage's laugh—short, dry, almost mocking, but not at Sico. "Knew you'd say that. Shank figured you'd tear my head off for not making the raiders happy first, but I told him you weren't that short-sighted. Course, he don't always think in the long game. That's why he ain't the one talkin' to you right now."
Sico allowed himself the faintest shadow of a smirk. "Shank keeps people moving. You keep them in line. That's balance. Don't lose it."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The line hummed with low static for a moment. Sico leaned forward, pressing the button again. "What about resistance? Any Brotherhood movement in your area?"
Silence, then Gage's tone hardened. "Not much. A couple of patrols sniffin' around the outskirts. Probably curious what the hell happened to all their friendly raider gangs. We clipped one group near Kiddie Kingdom. Four knights, two scribes. Left their power armor smoking in the dirt. Sent the rest running. Since then? Quiet. Too quiet, if you ask me. Means they're planning something. Or waitin'."
Sico grunted. It wasn't surprise. The Brotherhood didn't move sloppy. If they weren't pushing hard now, it meant they were consolidating. Waiting for a chance to strike where it hurt.
"Let them wait," Sico said, his tone colder now. "The longer they sit, the more roots we put down. Every day they hesitate, we grow stronger. And when they come…" He let the silence finish the thought.
"Yeah," Gage muttered. "When they come, we'll be ready."
Sico adjusted the maps on his desk, his eyes running over the markings—supply routes, settlement positions, Brotherhood patrol paths sketched in red ink. His mind was already shifting, calculating. Nuka-World secure. Farms sprouting. Scavenging prioritized for Mel's weapon. Magnolia backing the vault. The pieces were moving into place. But pieces weren't enough. Not yet.
He pressed the radio switch again. "Gage. Keep pushing the farms. Make sure the raiders understand this isn't a request. If they want to eat, they work. If they want to fight, they protect the fields. If they want to loot, they do it outside our territory. No exceptions."
Gage chuckled again, though there was less humor this time. "You sure know how to take the fun outta raiding. But yeah, I'll make it clear. Anybody don't like it, I'll put 'em in the dirt. Simple."
"Good."
Sico leaned back again, thumb brushing the edge of the radio, the static in his ear punctuating the silence between them. His gaze lingered on the maps, but his mind had already moved past the red lines and blue markers. Supply lines, troop counts, factories—those were the bones of the machine. But the marrow, the thing that kept it alive and moving? That was caps. Without caps, men grew restless, trade dried up, weapons stopped flowing, and alliances cracked.
His voice, when it came, was calm, almost casual, though there was steel under the words.
"How's the caps flow down there, Gage?"
There was a short pause, followed by a dry chuckle on the other end. "I was wonderin' when you'd get around to askin' that." A scrape of metal echoed faintly—maybe Gage shifting in his chair, maybe setting down a bottle. "Caps are movin'. Operators are keepin' it tight. Mags and William? They ain't lettin' a single coin slip past without countin' it twice. Every cap that comes in, every cap that goes out—they got eyes on it."
Sico didn't respond right away. He knew Gage well enough to recognize the undertone there. Respect, sure—but also a warning. Mags Black and her brother William weren't like the other crews that made up Nuka-World's fractured empire. They weren't in it for bloodlust like the Disciples, or for brute control like the Pack. They were in it for caps—cold, hard, shining caps. And people like that? They could be both the easiest and the hardest to deal with. Easy, because money gave you leverage. Hard, because their loyalty was always rented, never bought outright.
"Operators got their hands deep in the purse, then," Sico murmured, more to himself than to Gage. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, the faint scratch of stubble catching against his skin. "And you trust 'em not to skim?"
"Trust 'em?" Gage gave a snort that turned into a laugh, sharp and short. "Hell no. But they're smart enough not to get sloppy. They know you'd smell it the second they tried. Mags, especially—she's got that fox look about her, always calculatin', always watchin'. But she also knows who's keepin' the whole game runnin'. Without your blessing, her little kingdom of numbers don't mean shit. So she keeps it clean. Cleaner than I'd expect, honestly."
Sico tapped his finger slowly against the desk, each rhythm in time with the thoughts turning over in his head. He could picture Mags Black clearly—sharp eyes, sharp tongue, always dressed a little too fine for the wasteland around her. William was the quieter one, the shadow to her flame, but no less dangerous for it. Together, they were a two-headed serpent coiled around the Freemasons' treasury. Useful, yes. Necessary, even. But serpents were serpents, no matter how well-fed.
"I'll want a full report," Sico said finally, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Not just totals. Sources, routes, exchanges. Where it's coming from, where it's going. I want to know if a single cap lands in the dirt on its way across the Commonwealth."
"You'll get it," Gage replied. "Already told Mags as much. She don't like bein' second-guessed, but she'll live. Hell, she respects it, in her own way. Thinks it's a sign you're not stupid enough to let her run the whole show without oversight."
Sico allowed himself the ghost of a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Good. Let her stew on that. Power's a leash, Gage. Give too much slack, they start thinkin' they're the ones holdin' it. Keep it tight, they remember who's leadin' the dog."
There was silence for a moment on the line, broken only by the faint hum of the lantern and the static of the radio. Gage was the one to break it, his voice carrying a trace of admiration under the usual gruffness. "You really don't let nothin' slide, do you? Most folks woulda been happy just hearin' the coffers ain't dryin' up. But you gotta dig deeper, always scratchin' for what's underneath."
Sico's gaze drifted back to the map, to the jagged scrawls of ink and the neat, square stacks of reports piled around it. "That's the difference between a warlord and a leader, Gage. A warlord counts bodies. A leader counts everything."
But Sico didn't stop there.
He pressed further, asking about the trade routes the Operators had carved out—how many caravans were running, what kind of deals were being struck. Gage explained that the Operators had their claws in nearly every merchant trail from Bunker Hill to Goodneighbor. They were charging "protection fees" thinly disguised as tolls, smoothing things with bribes when needed, and making sure their cut of every shipment found its way back to the vaults in Nuka-Town.
"Merchants like 'em better than the Brotherhood, that's for sure," Gage said with a grunt. "Operators don't torch a caravan unless they gotta. They skim, but they keep the goods movin'. That buys goodwill—or the wasteland version of it, anyway. Better than facin' knights in steel who'd rather confiscate your haul for 'the good of the people.'"
Sico made a note in his head. Goodwill mattered almost as much as caps. Fear could keep people in line for a while, but trade—real trade—was what built empires. Rome hadn't been made out of swords alone; it was roads, markets, coinage that tied the whole beast together. If the Operators were building something like that in miniature, under his flag, then maybe—just maybe—the Freemasons could grow into more than just a force. They could grow into a state.
"Keep watchin' them," Sico said, his tone sharpening again. "Caps flow like rivers, and rivers cut deeper than swords if you don't control where they go. I don't want to wake up one day and find the Operators thinkin' they own the current."
"You got it," Gage said simply.
The conversation drifted then, but Sico kept circling back to the same knot in his mind: the balance of power. Soldiers, robots, factories, tanks—those were things he could point at, measure, control. But caps? Caps were slippery, changing hands a dozen times in a day, vanishing into pockets and reappearing in ways no scout could track.
It wasn't paranoia driving him—it was survival. He'd seen enough empires, both in the wasteland and in the old world's history books, crumble not because their armies failed, but because their coffers did. Armies fought for ideals for only so long. After that, they fought for pay. And hungry soldiers with empty pockets were more dangerous than any Brotherhood knight.
He leaned back in the chair once more, exhaling slowly, the lantern light catching in his eyes.
"Gage," he said, voice quieter now, more thoughtful. "We've got men. We've got machines. Soon we'll have tanks rollin' and guns spittin'. But none of it means a damn thing if the caps stop flowin'. Remember that."
There was a beat of silence, then Gage answered with a rare gravity in his tone. "I know. And I'll make sure they don't."
Sico let the silence stretch for a moment, listening to the faint crackle of static before he spoke again. His hand drummed lightly on the table, not in impatience, but in rhythm with a thought he'd already settled on.
"Gage," he said finally, voice steady, "I'm sendin' you three teams of commandos. Hand-picked. They'll answer to you directly. Consider 'em your special forces down there—your shield and your knife, both."
There was a pause on the other end, just long enough for Sico to picture Gage narrowing his eyes, leaning forward, probably with that half-grin of his that always hovered between respect and disbelief.
"Well, shit," Gage muttered, the words drawn out with a kind of grudging admiration. "You're serious."
"I don't waste words," Sico replied. He reached for the chipped mug on the corner of the desk, took a sip of water that had long since gone lukewarm, and set it back down. "You're sittin' on a powder keg down there, Gage. Operators and the raiders there… all of 'em playin' at bein' loyal so long as the caps are pourin' in. But loyalty bought with fear and coin don't hold when the storm really hits. These commandos—they're not for negotiations. They're for the things that need doin' in the dark. The things that keep you alive, and keep the whole damn circus from collapsin' when one of those crews gets too greedy or too brave."
A low whistle came through the radio. "Three teams," Gage repeated, like he was tasting the words. "That ain't no small gift. You sure you can spare 'em? Commonwealth's already spread thin, from what I hear."
Sico leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk, eyes on the map as though he could see the faces of the men he was sending. "I can spare 'em. Can't spare you."
For the first time in the conversation, Gage didn't answer right away. The silence on the line wasn't just static now—it was weight. When his voice came back, it carried something softer than usual, though Gage being Gage, it was buried under gravel.
"You puttin' a lot on my shoulders," he said. "More than most folks would. But I get it. You don't trust the snakes to guard their own damn pit. You're makin' sure there's always a boot ready to stomp a head if one pops up too high."
Sico's lips curved into the faintest trace of a smile. "You always did have a way with words, Gage." He tapped the map lightly. "One team stays close to you—your personal guard. Don't matter if you're takin' a piss or dealin' with Mags face-to-face, they'll be there. Second team, they handle external threats—caravan raids, Brotherhood scouts, whatever crawls out of the wasteland lookin' to make a name. Third team? That's your scalpel. Quiet jobs. Dirty jobs. The kind that can't leave fingerprints."
There was another pause. This one felt different—thoughtful, heavy, as though Gage was measuring the offer, weighing both the power it gave him and the leash it represented. Finally, he let out a chuckle, low and rough.
"Hell, Sico," he said. "You really don't play halfway, do ya? Most leaders I've seen, they either drown you in rules or throw you to the wolves to see if you can crawl back. You? You're handin' me wolves that bite for me."
Sico shrugged, even though Gage couldn't see it. "You've earned it. But don't mistake it for charity. Those wolves bite for me first, you second. That leash I talked about? Still in my hand."
"Wouldn't expect it any other way."
The static hissed again, filling the space where both men let the words settle. Sico leaned back in his chair, staring at the lantern flame as it flickered, casting shadows across the walls like shifting specters. He thought about the commandos he'd chosen—men and women hardened not just by battle, but by the kind of work that required silence, precision, and the ability to vanish after the deed was done. They weren't soldiers in the parade-ground sense. They were shadows given flesh, and shadows served best when they belonged to someone who knew how to wield them.
And Gage? Gage had survived long enough in a snake pit like Nuka-World to know how to use shadows without gettin' blinded by them.
"You'll meet 'em soon," Sico said, his tone firm but even. "They move out at dawn. Names'll be given face-to-face, not over this line. You'll see why when you meet 'em."
Gage gave a grunt of acknowledgment. "Damn right. Trust runs thin over radio. I'll be ready." Then, after a moment: "This means somethin', Sico. To me. You don't hand over trained killers like that unless you're either crazy or you actually believe the bastard you're handin' 'em to won't stab you in the back."
"I don't hand 'em over," Sico corrected. "I loan 'em. As long as you're standin' with me, they're yours. If you ever stand against me…" His voice dropped lower, colder. "…they'll be the ones to cut you down."
There was a bark of laughter, harsh but genuine. "Now that's the Sico I know. Always the edge under the handshake. You can relax—I ain't plannin' on standin' against you anytime soon. World's ugly enough without me paintin' a target on my own chest."
"Good," Sico said simply.
Sico let the last rumble of Gage's laughter fade into the radio static before he spoke again. His voice softened just a hair, though it still carried that gravelly weight it always did when he wanted someone to really listen.
"Be safe down there, Gage," he said. His fingers drummed lightly against the table again, slower now, like he was keeping time with the silence between them. "And keep reportin' to me regular. I don't care if it's good news, bad news, or just a whisper about somebody tradin' more chems than they should. I want to know it all. You hold that fort until me and the others finish what needs finishin' here in the Commonwealth. Once we've got it locked down…"
He leaned back, the chair creaking under him, eyes on the wavering flame of the lantern. "…we'll start sendin' supplies. Men. Machines. Whatever it takes to consolidate our grip there. 'Cause I'll be damned if I let those bastards who already bent the knee rise back up thinkin' they can pull us into another blood war inside Nuka-World."
There was a long breath over the line. Sico could picture Gage pulling the receiver closer to his mouth, shifting that scarred jaw as though he was chewing over the words.
"You're talkin' long game," Gage said finally. His tone wasn't skeptical—more like he was impressed, maybe even a little surprised. "Most folks who deal with raiders, they can't think past next week. Sometimes not past the next bottle. But you're sittin' there layin' out seasons, years even. Like you actually believe this whole damn thing can last."
Sico grunted. "Belief's what keeps me alive. That, and never assumptin' the ground under my boots ain't gonna give way the second I stop watchin' it." He leaned forward, voice hardening again. "And don't you forget, Gage—raiders surrenderin' don't mean they're loyal. It means they're waitin'. They're watchin'. Thinkin' about how to claw their way back when they smell weakness. Supplies, structure, hell, even a sense of order—that's what's gonna keep their asses in line. We give 'em a reason to keep the peace, and a reason to fear breakin' it."
"Fear and favors," Gage muttered, almost to himself. "That's the currency they understand."
"Damn right," Sico said. "You've lived in their skin long enough to know it better than me. But hear this: I won't let Nuka-World burn again. If it does, it's gonna be on our terms, not theirs. No more civil wars, no more warlords thinkin' they can grab the throne 'cause they got more chems in their pockets than the next bastard. You keep me informed, we'll keep that pit from eruptin' again."
For a long moment, there was only static. Then came a low chuckle from Gage, less sharp than before, almost weary. "You know somethin', Sico? Half the time I wonder what the hell I'm still doin' here. Raiders, they don't change. They dress it up, call it somethin' new, make banners or slogans or some shit, but in the end, it's always the same. Blood and loot. Only difference is who's standin' on the tallest pile."
"You ain't wrong," Sico admitted. "But maybe that's why you're here. You've seen the worst of 'em, you know the tricks. Makes you the bastard I need down there. 'Cause if anyone can smell a revolt before it happens, it's you."
Another pause. This time, Gage's voice came quieter, almost thoughtful. "You got more faith in me than I got in myself sometimes."
Sico gave a rough laugh. "That's 'cause I've seen you work. Don't play humble with me. You didn't keep yourself alive this long by accident."
There was a grunt, but nothing more. The weight of that silence told Sico enough. Gage wasn't a man who took compliments easy; they sat on him like armor that didn't quite fit. But beneath it, Sico knew, the man carried his respect like a hidden knife. He'd never say it outright, but it was there.
Sico leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk. "Now listen close. Once we lock down the Commonwealth, we'll start the shipments—ammo, food, medicine. Real medicine, not the chems those idiots fry their brains with. And engineers. Not just soldiers. I want power back in Nuka-World, I want clean water runnin' through those pipes, and I want a system that makes those raiders realize they ain't just livin' like animals anymore. You give 'em somethin' to lose, they'll think twice before tearin' it all apart."
"Power and water, huh?" Gage said, his tone carrying a note of disbelief. "You sound like you're tryin' to turn a snake pit into a damn town."
"That's exactly what I'm tryin'," Sico replied without hesitation. His voice dropped low, steady, the kind of tone that carried the weight of conviction. "World's full of ash and broken promises. But if we don't carve somethin' better out of it, then what the hell are we fightin' for?"
For a second, Gage didn't reply. Then, with a slow exhale, he said, "You really do believe it. Damn. Alright, boss. I'll keep the pit from boilin' over until your shipments come in. But you better not keep me waitin' too long. Every day out here's a roll of the dice, and the house always cheats."
Sico's mouth curved into the faintest smile. "I'll hold you to it, Gage. Just keep breathin' until we're ready."
"Ha. Easier said than done."
He drummed his fingers against the desk one last time. "Stay sharp, Gage. I'll be expectin' that next report soon."
The line clicked faintly as Gage answered, voice gruff but certain. "Count on it."
Then the radio went quiet. Sico let the silence settle, his eyes roaming the map sprawled out in front of him. The Commonwealth, Nuka-World, the endless wasteland in between—it all felt connected, threads pulling in directions only a madman would try to hold together. And here he was, with his hand on the strings, trying to make it all dance without snapping apart.
________________________________________________
• 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:-