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Sico turned and strode back toward the doors, the scavvers parting instinctively to clear his path. As the heavy steel swung shut behind him, the rain struck his face cold and sharp, washing away the dust and sweat of the day. He pulled his collar up and set his stride back toward the heart of Sanctuary.
The next day broke with a damp chill, the kind that seeped into boots and jackets no matter how thick the leather or how many layers you threw on. Sanctuary had been up long before sunrise — the thrum of preparation carried through the air like the heartbeat of something bigger than the settlement itself. It wasn't the kind of morning where people lingered over tea or checked on gardens. It was the kind where every set of hands, from the youngest scavver to the oldest vet, was turned toward one singular purpose: getting ready for war.
At the yards, the mud was already churned into thick brown soup beneath a hundred boots. The smell of oil and wet steel hung heavy, mixing with the acrid tang of cigarettes and the faint, sweet rot of leftover Brahmin hides stacked by the fence. A low murmur of activity rolled through the space — voices shouting for rope, the grunt of men heaving crates, the hollow clank of ammo cans against the sides of trucks.
Hancock stood at the center of it all like a conductor, his ruined features glinting in the early light, sharp and alive in spite of the rain that still slicked his tattered coat. His crew moved around him with the manic energy of people who'd lived their whole lives on the edge, half-swagger, half-survival. They carried sacks of dried meat, canteens, bundles of tools and gear. Every so often one of them would pause to bark a joke or spit into the mud, but they kept moving, always moving.
The soldiers were different — disciplined, efficient, quiet in their work. Preston's Minutemen had brought order to the chaos, forming lines as they passed crates of food and water up into the belly of one of the trucks that had been marked as supply-only. Each man checked the straps twice, each box stacked tight so nothing would roll when the wheels hit rubble. Their rifles leaned against the sides of the trucks, never far from reach.
Sico stood just off to the side, watching the rhythm unfold. His eyes moved from scavvers to soldiers, comparing them not with judgment but with a kind of cold calculation. One group was fire — wild, unpredictable, burning bright. The other was stone — solid, steady, reliable. And today, he needed both to survive.
He adjusted the strap of his rifle and stepped toward Hancock, who was currently chewing the end of a cigar that looked older than half the kids running supplies.
"You've got your people sorted?" Sico asked, voice low but carrying over the din.
Hancock exhaled smoke that curled through the drizzle like a ghost. "Sorted, packed, and itchin' to blow something up. We're just about done here." He tilted his head toward the supply truck, where one of his scavvers was trying — and failing — to balance a sack of potatoes on top of a crate of 5.56 rounds. "Give or take a few brains that still don't know food don't stack with bullets."
Sico's gaze flicked over the convoy. Four trucks lined in a staggered row, their paint worn, metal patched, but engines running strong thanks to Sturges' tinkering. The two Humvees loomed like beasts among them, gun turrets gleaming under the gray sky. Diesel fumes mingled with the rain, stinging the air.
"We leave as soon as everything's loaded," Sico said, tone brooking no argument. Then he fixed Hancock with a hard look. "I want you in the lead Humvee. Your people know the routes better than anyone — you clear the way, keep us quiet until we're at the station."
Hancock cocked an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the ruined corner of his mouth. "Front of the parade, huh? Always knew I had the face for leadin' floats." He tapped ash from his cigar and then nodded. "Fine by me. My crew'll get us there — quiet as shadows, unless you want loud."
"Quiet," Sico said firmly. "Noise comes later, if it comes at all. I'll ride in the rear Humvee. If anything hits us from behind, I want eyes on it."
Hancock studied him for a moment, the grin fading just enough to show he understood the weight behind those words. "Alright, boss. You get the tail, I'll get the teeth."
They clasped forearms, the brief squeeze carrying the kind of trust that wasn't spoken but earned in fire and blood. Then they broke apart, each moving to his post.
By now the soldiers had finished loading the last of the ammunition crates, the metallic scrape echoing as the tailgate slammed shut. A sergeant barked orders, and lines of men began climbing into the troop trucks — the ones not marked for supplies. Boots thudded against metal floors, rifles clattered against benches, voices dropped into low mutters as the men settled in. Hancock's crew followed suit, their movements less uniform but just as fast, tossing packs and weapons ahead of them as they clambered into the trucks, laughter and curses bouncing off the steel.
Engines roared to life, coughing black smoke into the damp morning air. The rain had eased, but the ground was slick, the mud thick enough to cling to every boot and tire. The convoy rumbled like a living thing, restless and coiled, waiting for the signal to move.
Sico stood a moment longer, scanning it all — the soldiers, the scavvers, the trucks heavy with food, water, and ammunition. Fifty men and women, two factions, one purpose. His jaw tightened. There was no turning back now.
He turned to the rear Humvee, pulled himself up onto the step, and settled into the passenger seat. The driver, a young soldier with sharp eyes and a tighter grip on the wheel than necessary, glanced his way with a mix of nerves and pride.
"All in, sir," the soldier said.
Sico gave a short nod, then keyed his radio. His voice crackled across every speaker in the convoy.
"Move out."
And just like that, the yard erupted in motion — engines growling, gears grinding, tires spinning against wet earth until they bit hard and rolled forward. The lead Humvee, Hancock's silhouette visible through the drizzle, nosed out of the yard, its gunner swiveling the turret lazily as if daring anyone to test them. The trucks followed, lumbering heavy with supplies and bodies, their exhaust choking the air. Sico's Humvee brought up the rear, its engine a steady rumble beneath his boots.
The convoy rolled slow but steady through the wasteland, wheels chewing at the wet dirt, engines humming with a kind of iron patience. For the first hour or so, it was almost too quiet — no gunfire, no screeches of feral ghouls, not even the usual echo of distant explosions that tended to pepper the Commonwealth's mornings like clockwork. Just rain still dripping from the skeletal trees and the low rumble of diesel across the flats.
It wasn't luck. Everyone knew that. It was the Freemasons.
Their patrols had been crisscrossing these routes for weeks now, ever since Sico first laid out the plan. Scouts on foot and in pairs of Growler kept the roads clean, sweeping raider nests before they could fester into something ugly, scattering chem-dealers and slavers before they got too bold. Sometimes "patrol" meant a full sweep with soldiers in armor clearing out a block house by house. Sometimes it was just a few sharpshooters watching from rooftops, rifles steady as they picked off a raider sentry before he even realized he was marked.
And the results showed. The roads ahead looked… safer. Not safe, never that, but safer than they had in years. Rusted-out husks of cars were still there, jagged steel skeletons sinking into the mud, but they were empty now. No trip wires stretched across the asphalt, no gutted corpses hung as warnings like the raiders used to leave behind.
Every so often, the convoy passed the remnants of what those patrols left behind — burned-out shacks where raider gangs once holed up, the charred wood still smoking faintly in the rain; a collapsed overpass where a Freemason demolition team had cut off a raider ambush point; the blackened scorch of a plasma strike across a patch of ground where, not long ago, a fight had gone down.
From his seat in the rear Humvee, Sico kept his eyes moving. Every corner of every ruined building, every swaying tree trunk, every abandoned car husk got its share of his attention. He didn't trust quiet, not even when it was earned. But still — as they rolled further, he could see the effect. People didn't walk with the same hunted posture they used to. Farmers pushing brahmin carts down the side of the road would stop to stare, not hide. Children peered out from doorways of settlements rebuilt from old Red Rocket stations, eyes wide but not terrified.
They were starting to believe.
The radio crackled once as Hancock's voice came through, his tone lazy but sharp beneath it.
"Smooth ridin', boss. Not a single shot yet. Either we're lucky today, or your boys've been busy makin' the Commonwealth a little less shitty."
Sico keyed his mic, eyes still scanning the tree line. "Not luck. The Freemasons cleared this stretch last week. Took out three different groups, burned 'em to ash. They won't be back."
A low chuckle came back. "Well, I'd drink to that if we weren't ridin' into hell. Guess I'll settle for breathin' easy for a mile or two."
The soldiers in the Humvee didn't laugh, but one cracked a small smile, the kind you see on someone who doesn't want to admit they're listening.
The convoy pressed on, wheels thumping over potholes and the broken ribs of cracked asphalt. Hours passed like that — smooth, steady, almost dull in a way that set nerves on edge. Because everyone knew what came next.
It wasn't a question of if. It was a question of when.
By midday, the rain had thinned into a mist, and the horizon opened wider. The convoy crested a ridge, and the ruined skeleton of an old rest stop came into view below. It used to be one of those places families stopped at on road trips — two gas pumps still stood like rusted teeth, the roof of the diner long since collapsed, the cracked sign barely clinging to the frame.
But more important than the ruin was what lay scattered across it: the remains of a raider gang.
The Freemasons had been there recently.
Bodies were still sprawled in the mud, rainwater pooling around them, weapons scattered in every direction. Some had clean shots through the head, precise and surgical. Others had been ripped apart, the telltale scorch of plasma leaving them half melted. A few looked burned from the inside out — laser rifles, Sico guessed.
The place stank of gunpowder and blood, but it was quiet now.
One of the soldiers muttered under his breath. "Patrol must've passed through here yesterday."
"Day before," Sico corrected, eyes narrowing at the still-smoking crater near the pumps. He remembered the report Sarah had sent in. The Freemasons had caught the raiders mid-ambush prep, readying a kill-zone with cars lined across the road. Instead, the raiders had been the ones slaughtered.
The convoy slowed, tires crunching through wet gravel as the lead Humvee paused. Hancock's voice came again through the radio.
"Pretty picture, huh? Guess we know where not to stop for lunch."
No one laughed this time. The trucks pressed on, engines low, the whole group quieter than before. Seeing the aftermath was different from hearing about it in a report. It drove the point home. This wasn't theory, wasn't planning. This was war — slow, grinding, ugly. And the only reason they were alive now was because someone else had already done the bleeding here.
Another hour passed, then two. The convoy's rhythm settled back in. Soldiers dozed against the rattling walls of their troop trucks, rifles laid across their laps. Hancock's scavvers kept busier, tossing dice on the floor of their truck, gambling over caps and chems as if the ride were just another day. The Humvees stayed sharp, turrets swiveling now and again when a shape in the distance caught the gunner's eye.
Sico didn't rest. He never did on convoys. His mind ticked through the plan, the route, the timing. Every mile closer meant less room for error. Every hour brought them closer to where things would go loud.
He thought about Nora, back in Sanctuary. About Shaun. About the Institute, the Brotherhood, all of it pressing down like weights stacked on his shoulders. Leading men to war was one thing. But keeping them alive long enough to see what came after? That was something else entirely.
By the time the sun started breaking through the mist — a dull, orange smear across the wreckage of the horizon — the convoy had covered more ground than most caravans managed in a week. And still, not a single shot fired.
It was almost unsettling.
The young soldier driving Sico's Humvee glanced his way after a long silence. "Sir… if you don't mind me asking… do you ever think maybe it's too quiet?"
Sico's eyes stayed on the road. "Always. That's why I'm still here."
The soldier swallowed and nodded, hands tightening on the wheel.
Up ahead, Hancock's Humvee crested another rise, the convoy snaking after him. Beyond lay another stretch of road, cracked but open. The Freemasons had been here too — you could see it in the burned-out watchtower toppled on its side, the raider graffiti half-buried under scorch marks.
Another group destroyed. Another road made safe.
At least for now.
And yet, even with the safety earned by blood and patrols, no one in the convoy relaxed fully. Hancock's crew kept their rifles close, their jokes quieter. Preston's Minutemen watched the tree lines with that disciplined, haunted calm soldiers get after they've survived more than their fair share of hell.
The sun had just begun to dip lower, casting long, fractured beams through the skeletal treeline when the convoy rolled to a slow, grinding halt. The engines coughed once, twice, before settling into a low idle. Dust and mist coiled around the tires, curling into the fading light like smoke. Ahead loomed the silhouette of the old West Roxbury power station, its towers rising like crooked teeth against the sky, blackened from years of weather and fire.
It had once powered half of Boston, back before the bombs. Now, it was nothing but another ruin, half-collapsed walls streaked with soot, broken windows staring out like blind eyes. The Freemason scouts had been right — this was no raider den, no Brotherhood checkpoint. Just a carcass of a building left to rot. And yet… if Mel's reports were worth a damn, what lay inside could be gold. Not caps — but survival. Reinforced alloys. Capacitor banks. Old-world coolant systems. The kind of things you couldn't just patch together in a workshop; the kind of things you either scavenged from the past or went without.
The Humvee shuddered as the brakes locked, and Sico leaned forward in his seat, scanning the station's wide, fenced-in lot. A chain-link barrier sagged in places, torn open by time and weather. The front gate hung loose on its hinges, twisted as if something massive had rammed through it decades ago.
No bodies. No fresh scorch marks. No signs of squatters or raiders. Still, Sico's gut told him to stay sharp. A building this size, this untouched, was never truly empty.
Hancock's Humvee door creaked open first. The ghoul mayor stepped out with his usual swagger, long coat flaring at his boots, but Sico caught the subtle flick of his eyes across the yard, the way his hand lingered near the butt of his pistol. He wasn't as careless as he pretended to be.
Sico swung his own door open and stepped down onto the gravel, boots crunching as he walked toward Hancock. The rest of the convoy followed suit in slow waves — soldiers climbing down, Minutemen stretching stiff arms, gunners swiveling their turrets to keep watch. The air smelled of rust and stagnant water, with the faint tang of oil drifting from the hulking corpse of the plant.
From inside his coat, Sico pulled out a folded piece of paper, creased and damp from travel. He handed it to Hancock.
"This is the list Mel put together," Sico said, voice low but carrying enough for the soldiers nearby to hear. "Reinforced alloys, capacitor banks, pre-war coolant systems. If there's even a chance this place still has 'em, it'll make the difference for what comes next."
Hancock unfolded the list, squinting at the faded ink. "Reinforced alloys, huh? Can't say I've ever seen those just sittin' on a shelf with a price tag." He smirked, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Capacitor banks too… damn. Your boy Mel don't aim small, does he?"
"He doesn't," Sico replied. His gaze lifted toward the yawning doorway of the plant, a black rectangle that seemed to swallow the last of the sunlight. "That's why I want you and your people inside. You'll have fifteen of my soldiers with you. Keep your scavvers sharp. Anything worth hauling, tag it and bring it out."
Hancock tucked the paper into his coat, nodding once. "So what're you and the rest of your merry band doin' while we're diggin' through cobwebs?"
Sico glanced over his shoulder at the waiting trucks, at the thirty-five soldiers shifting into loose formations, weapons at the ready. "We make camp here. Defend the vehicles. Secure the entrance. Set patrols around the perimeter. No one gets near this station without us knowing. If the Brotherhood's sniffing around, if raiders think they can circle back, we'll be ready."
The young driver from earlier — the one who'd asked if things were too quiet — was now standing at the Humvee's hood, listening in. His knuckles were white around his rifle, jaw tight. Sico caught his eye and gave the smallest nod, not reassurance so much as an order: Steady yourself. Don't let the quiet get to you.
Hancock stretched his arms wide, rolling his shoulders as if limbering up for a brawl. "Well, boss, sounds like a plan. My crew's hungry for work, and they ain't scared of a little dust. Just make sure you don't get too comfy out here. Last time I camped near a power station, I woke up to a pack of ferals makin' breakfast outta my best scavver."
A few of his men laughed, rough and short. The soldiers didn't. They were already spreading out, hauling crates down from the trucks, checking ammunition, setting up portable barricades. The clang of metal, the scrape of boots on gravel, the low murmur of orders passed along the line — it all blended into the rhythm of a force settling in for the long haul.
Sico took a step closer to Hancock, lowering his voice so only the ghoul could hear. "Be smart in there. If it looks like a trap, it probably is. I don't need bodies; I need supplies. You see something that feels wrong, pull back. No loot's worth your life."
Hancock's grin softened into something sharper, almost serious. "You got it. I'll keep my boys from bein' heroes. Can't say I like the smell of this place anyway. Too damn clean."
Sico turned, raising his hand to signal the nearest squad leader. "Fifteen with Hancock. You'll escort, keep the scavvers covered, and make sure whatever they find gets out in one piece. The rest of you — defensive perimeter, two patrol teams sweeping the east and south treelines. Rotate every hour. No gaps."
Boots stamped. Rifles slung. Orders moved through the ranks with the kind of efficiency that only came after weeks of drilling under fire. The soldiers didn't question him; they just moved. That was the thing about the Freemasons — they weren't the biggest force in the Commonwealth, but they were disciplined. And discipline kept men alive longer than bravado ever did.
The sun slid lower, bleeding orange into rust across the towers of the plant. The first torches were lit, sputtering fire against the growing dusk. The camp began to take shape: crates stacked into makeshift walls, sandbags hauled down and arranged in half-moons around the trucks, watch posts set at the corners of the lot.
Inside the gate, the scavvers gathered, weapons slung across their backs, sacks and tools ready for stripping the bones of the old world. Hancock lit a cigarette from the torch fire, the tip glowing bright in the shadows, before flicking the match away. He exhaled a long stream of smoke, then jerked his head toward the black doorway of the plant.
"Alright, freaks and fools. Time to earn our pay."
Fifteen soldiers fell in behind them, boots clicking against the cracked asphalt. Their rifles gleamed faintly in the torchlight as they disappeared into the darkness of the station, swallowed whole by the ruin.
Sico stayed where he was, arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed on that doorway long after they were gone. He could feel the weight of it, the risk coiled inside those walls like a waiting snake. He trusted Hancock to keep his people alive, but trust didn't make the waiting any easier.
The lot grew quieter once they were gone, just the scrape of shovels, the clatter of crates, the soft murmur of soldiers setting into their posts. Above them, the towers of the power station loomed silent, their rusted frames catching the last glow of the dying sun.
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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:-