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For a moment, Sico let it roll over him. The exhaustion still sat in his bones, heavy as stone, but it was tempered by the sight of his people alive, his camp still standing, and the supplies stacked safe.
Then Sico told Hancock to store the materials at the trucks, his voice cutting through the after-battle chatter.
"Get those crates loaded back on the trucks. Don't let 'em sit in the open. We fought too hard to have some stray bullet or stray bastard ruin what we hauled back."
Hancock gave a tired nod, rolling his shoulders like his coat weighed more than it should. "On it. Boys, you heard the man—move your asses!" His voice cracked but still carried enough swagger to kick his crew into gear. They shuffled, groaning and limping, but the sound of boots dragging supply crates over mud was sweeter than any hymn.
Sico turned on his heel, scanning for the medics. He caught sight of a pair crouched near the wounded, hands already moving fast—bandages wrapping, morphine jabs sliding in, words murmured soft and steady to men whose faces were pale with pain.
"Medic!" Sico barked, striding closer. The younger of the two snapped his head up, eyes wide.
"Yes, sir?"
"Prioritize the heavy wounded. I want 'em stabilized and moved under cover. No one bleeds out in the mud today."
"Yes, sir!" The kid nearly tripped over himself moving faster, dragging his kit bag closer.
Sico's eyes swept across the field again, measuring the faces, the bodies, the silence between ragged breaths. The living. The ones who'd carried the line. He spotted Corporal Hennings leaning against a Humvee, helmet lopsided, rifle still clutched like it was glued to his hand.
Sico strode over, his boots crunching broken branches and spent shells, and stopped in front of him.
"How many?" he asked, voice low but carrying weight.
Hennings blinked, coughed, and pulled himself straighter. His face was streaked with grime, a red smear near his jaw that wasn't his.
"No deaths, sir." His voice rasped, but there was pride in it. "Two with heavy injury—gut shot, one with a leg torn up bad. Three more with light injuries, nothing that'll keep 'em from standing guard once patched up."
For a long moment, Sico said nothing. Just stared at him, let the numbers settle in his chest. Then he nodded once.
"Good work holding the line, Corporal. Make sure the wounded know their fight mattered."
Hennings's mouth twitched into the smallest smile, and he gave a stiff nod.
Sico stood there for another beat, eyes sweeping the camp again, and the weight of it pressed hard against his ribs. No deaths. That was rare. That was fortune. Maybe luck, maybe skill, maybe the kind of steel that only comes when men know there's no ground left to give.
But two heavy wounded. Three light. Faces that would carry scars, bodies that might never move the same way again. He carried those, too, whether anyone said it or not.
He pulled in a deep breath and exhaled slow. His chest still felt like iron, but the air was lighter than it had been before the first bullet flew.
"Corporal," Sico said again, quieter now, "get your men water. Sit them down. They earned it."
"Yes, sir."
The words hung in the smoky dusk, the camp shifting around him like a living thing finding its heartbeat again. Soldiers unloading supplies, medics barking for clean bandages, Hancock's boys cursing as they shoved crates into the trucks—every piece moving in rhythm, stitched together by survival.
But Sico wasn't done. He never was, not while there was breath left in his body and men looking to him for the next command.
He turned back toward the heart of the camp, and his boots carried him into the thick of it.
The fire pits were still smoldering. The smell of burned powder and blood was sharp enough to sting the throat. Men moved around him, some laughing hollow, some quiet, some leaning on each other like they'd fall if they let go.
Sico let them have their noise, their exhaustion, their moment of release—but his mind was already turning over the next step. This fight had been one wave, but more would come. Raiders didn't break for long. Not when desperation was their lifeline.
He stopped near a crate half-loaded into a truck and rested a hand on its splintered wood. He felt the grain bite into his palm, grounding him.
Supplies. The lifeblood of their survival. They'd bled for it, killed for it, and now it sat heavy in their hands again.
But survival wasn't enough. Not for him. Not for his people.
They had to build. They had to grow. And they had to make sure no bastard ever thought about testing them again without remembering the smoke and fire of today.
Sico straightened, pulled his rifle tight against his shoulder, and raised his voice again.
"Once the wounded are inside and the supplies locked down, I want perimeter doubled for the night. Rotate in shifts—no one pulls more than two hours without rest, but no blind spots, no excuses. I don't care if you gotta piss, you do it with your rifle still in your hands."
A murmur of "Yes, sir" rolled back at him, carried by tired but steady voices.
Sico nodded once, the movement sharp. Then he turned back to Hancock, who was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, blood mixing with sweat.
"You and your crew—get food, get rest. But leave two of your best on the trucks till morning. Don't trust anyone not to get clever while we're catching breath."
Hancock grinned through the grime. "You got it, brother. I ain't about to lose what we just dragged through hell."
Sico allowed the faintest curl of a smile. Then he lifted his eyes to the sky, where smoke and twilight tangled together, and for the first time in hours, he let himself wonder how many more nights like this lay ahead.
Then Sico told Hancock. "We return tomorrow in the afternoon to Sanctuary and head straight to the science department to give Mel the materials he need to build the AA Gun prototype."
Hancock, still leaning against the truck with that devil-may-care grin that only half-covered the exhaustion in his eyes, gave a slow nod. "Figured you'd say that," he muttered, voice rasping with the kind of smoke and fatigue that only battles and chem withdrawals could brew. "Sanctuary's been running on borrowed time with them birds in the sky. Raiders, mutants, gunners—you can plan for those. But the Brotherhood? Whole different beast. If Mel's contraption does what he swears it will… hell, we might actually get to look up without wonderin' if today's the day some vertibird drops hellfire on our roofs."
Sico didn't answer right away. He was still looking over the field, where the outlines of battle were slowly softening into nightfall. Fires guttered low, throwing orange light over faces hardened by survival. He breathed in, let the night air bite at his lungs, and finally spoke.
"That's the point," he said, his voice calm but heavy, like stone laid on stone. "We can't rebuild a world worth a damn if every day we're waiting for fire from the skies. Mel's AA gun—it's not just steel and circuits. It's a message. To the Brotherhood, to raiders, to anyone who thinks Sanctuary's ripe for picking. They'll see we're not prey."
Hancock tilted his head, studied Sico with that lazy sharpness he was known for. "You ever notice you don't talk about 'winning'? You talk about surviving, building, making folks think twice. But not 'winning.' What's that about?"
Sico's jaw worked as he turned his gaze back toward the horizon. For a long moment he didn't answer, and Hancock didn't push. Finally, Sico exhaled slow, shoulders shifting like he carried more than his gear.
"Winning's an illusion out here," he said. "In the Wasteland, nobody wins. Not really. You hold the line, you build what you can, you keep people alive. That's the closest thing to victory you're gonna get. And for me?" His voice dropped lower, almost more to himself than to Hancock. "Keeping Sanctuary standing… that's my victory."
Hancock's grin faltered just a touch—just enough to show the man under the swagger. He nodded once, solemn, then turned back to holler at his boys again, his coat flaring as he moved.
"Get those crates tighter packed! We ain't draggin' them half-loose all the way back to the Commonwealth!"
Sico let him go, let the sound of voices fill the air again. But his mind was already in Sanctuary—already picturing the science wing, Mel hunched over a workbench with sparks flying, his hands dancing between wires and scrap, his mouth running a mile a minute about calibration and targeting optics. He pictured Curie nearby, fussing about the risk of radiation in the capacitors, Mel waving her off with grease-stained hands. He pictured Nora standing a little apart, quiet but steady, the weight of leadership in her posture even when she wasn't speaking.
The AA gun wasn't just a weapon. It was a turning point.
And Sico knew the Brotherhood wouldn't sit idle once they realized what they had building.
The night stretched long, the camp finally settling into its rhythm of exhaustion. Fires were banked low, guards rotated into their posts, and the wounded were carried into makeshift shelters beneath canvas and tarps. Sico stayed awake longer than most, circling the perimeter twice, making quiet notes of weak points and blind spots. By the time he finally let himself sit near the dying embers of a fire, the world around him had gone still—save for the occasional cough, or the creak of boots in mud as the guards shifted.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands laced together. The fire's heat licked faintly at his face, and his mind wandered to the road ahead.
Tomorrow afternoon they'd be back in Sanctuary. By then, the dust of this fight would have settled, but another storm would already be building. He could almost hear it—the Brotherhood's engines, the vertibirds cutting through the sky, the sound of orders barked in clipped military tones.
The Wasteland didn't forgive ambition. It punished it. And Sanctuary, with every step forward, was daring to dream bigger.
Sico didn't fear that punishment. But he damn well prepared for it.
He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the silence, before standing again and slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He didn't lie down that night—didn't sleep. He paced. He thought. He waited for dawn to cut the sky.
The next day broke harsh and cold, the kind of morning that chewed through armor and cloth alike. The convoy was sluggish in forming up, but Sico's voice—measured, sharp—cut through the haze. Trucks were checked and double-checked, supplies secured tight, wounded settled in with as much comfort as could be spared.
By noon, the engines growled to life, and the convoy began its slow crawl back toward Sanctuary.
The road was cruel as ever, pocked with the scars of old wars and new skirmishes. Raiders might have been broken in the last fight, but their shadows still lingered in the burned-out husks of cars and the rusted frames of buildings. The men rode with rifles across their laps, eyes sharp despite the fatigue.
Sico rode in the lead truck, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Hancock sat beside him, hat tilted low, boots propped up, though his hand never strayed far from the pistol on his thigh.
"Y'know," Hancock said after a while, breaking the silence, "I never thought I'd be ridin' shotgun for some big damn science project. Feels weird. Usually I'm haulin' chems or corpses, not the future of anti-air warfare."
Sico gave him a sidelong glance, but his voice was dry when he answered. "Get used to it. Future's built one crate at a time. Even in the mud."
Hancock chuckled, low and rough. "Spoken like a man who's already thinkin' ten miles ahead."
Sico didn't deny it. Because he was.
The rest of the journey passed in tense quiet, the convoy grinding along until the gates of Sanctuary finally came into view. Familiar walls. Familiar faces peering out from watchtowers. The sound of relief spread through the men as the gates creaked open, and for the first time since the fighting, shoulders seemed to loosen.
The convoy groaned to a halt just beyond the cobblestone path that curved around Sanctuary's science wing. The engines cut one by one, leaving behind the ringing silence of a world still cautious, still holding its breath. Tires hissed in the cold dirt, metal frames settling as if relieved to rest. Guards on the watchtower leaned forward at the sight, giving hand signals down to the men at the gate.
The science building wasn't the prettiest structure in Sanctuary, but it was the heart of something vital. Once, it had been a municipal hall—maybe a library, maybe even a schoolhouse before the bombs. Its bones still carried the weight of old purpose. Windows patched with metal shutters, walls reinforced with sheets of salvaged plating, the roof half-covered in tarps to keep out the weather. But the flag of the Freemasons Republic hung just above the entrance, a symbol that turned rust and ruin into something steadier, something that meant home.
Sico stepped down from the lead truck, boots crunching on gravel. His eyes scanned the familiar square of the compound—faces, movement, posture. Relief showed in the guards' stances as they saw their commander return, but also a curiosity, a hunger. They knew something big was coming in with those crates. Word traveled fast in Sanctuary. The Brotherhood loomed large in every whispered conversation these days, and any weapon that promised to bite back was hope made into steel.
Hancock swung out of the passenger side with his usual flair, his coat tails brushing the dirt. He stretched his arms over his head like a cat waking from slumber, then looked at Sico with that sly grin of his.
"Well, boss man," Hancock drawled, "guess it's time to let the nerds have their toys."
Sico didn't smile. He only gave a short nod toward the trucks heavy with scavenged materials. "Get your people moving. Every crate inside. Don't waste time."
Hancock raised two fingers in a lazy salute and turned on his heel, bellowing to his crew. "You heard the man! Don't stand there scratchin' your asses—move it! And if I see one of you drop somethin' breakable, you'll be eatin' brahmin dung for dinner!"
The ghoulish mayor's voice cracked across the courtyard, sharp enough to snap even the most exhausted men into action. Boots thudded. Hands grabbed at crates, tarps were pulled back, straps loosened. Bit by bit, the convoy was gutted of its precious cargo.
Sico left them to it. He pushed open the reinforced double doors of the science wing and stepped into a different world.
Inside, the air smelled of oil, ozone, and chalk dust. The hum of generators filled the space, steady and constant, competing with the occasional crackle of sparks from a welding torch. Long tables were cluttered with scrap metal, tools, half-finished schematics pinned down with wrenches. The building pulsed with a restless energy, like a heart ready to beat harder if only given the blood it needed.
And there, at the center of it all, was Mel.
The man was hunched over a wide drafting table, glasses sliding halfway down his nose, pencil flying across blue paper like it was chasing a ghost only he could see. His hair was a nest of grease and exhaustion, his shirt stained with soot and coffee, but his hands moved with the precision of an artist who knew every stroke mattered. Around him, three others hovered—a wiry woman named Kelly soldering something small and delicate, a young scavver called Trent sorting through piles of wiring, and a former Brotherhood scribe-turned-defector named Simon, scratching notes furiously into a ledger.
The moment Sico entered, Mel didn't even look up. His pencil scrawled faster, his mouth moving as though he was mumbling equations under his breath. But Simon noticed. The man straightened sharply, his scribe's instincts pulling him to something close to a salute.
"President Sico," Simon said, his voice clipped, still carrying the echo of Brotherhood discipline. "You've returned."
Mel finally looked up then, blinking as though dragged back from a world entirely his own. His eyes found Sico, and for a brief moment, all the frantic energy in him seemed to pause. Then it burst out twice as strong.
"You got it?" Mel demanded, stepping around the table so quickly he nearly knocked over a pile of notes. "The reinforced alloy, the pre-war coolant, the capacitor banks—tell me you didn't come back without the capacitor banks."
Sico's expression barely shifted, but his voice cut steady through Mel's storm. "Everything you asked for. Hancock's men are bringing it inside now."
The relief on Mel's face was almost comical, a mix of triumph and panic all at once. He shoved his glasses higher on his nose, rubbed his palms together like a gambler about to roll dice. "Good. Good. Perfect. We can finally start. We've been stuck on theory for the last two days, Simon here running numbers on energy distribution, Kelly screaming at me about stability ratios, and me—hah—I've been tearing my hair out because without the actual housings we couldn't even test the damn focusing coils. But now—"
He snapped his fingers. Sparks of energy lit his eyes.
"Now we can build the bastard."
Kelly groaned without looking up from her work. "God help us all, he's going to lose himself in the wiring again."
Trent chuckled nervously, pushing a crate of sorted wires toward the corner. "Better him than us."
Sico moved closer, boots echoing softly on the concrete floor. He studied the chaos around him, the nervous energy, the piles of sketches stacked like fortifications around Mel's workspace. His voice stayed calm, deliberate.
"How long until you can put together a working prototype?"
Mel froze for a half-second, then started pacing. His hands flailed in the air as he spoke, like the ideas were spilling faster than his body could keep up.
"Depends. If the capacitor banks are intact—and they better be intact—we're looking at maybe two days just to build a crude focusing array. Testing? Another day, if the coils don't fry themselves. Calibration—hah, that's where it gets messy. We're talking delicate adjustments, millimeter stuff. One slip and the whole thing either cooks itself or misses its target by a mile. But if—if—we pull it together?"
He stopped, spun on his heel, and pointed straight at Sico.
"Then Sanctuary has the first working anti-aircraft platform in the Commonwealth."
The room went quiet. Even Kelly paused her soldering long enough to look up, her expression caught between skepticism and awe.
Sico's face didn't betray emotion, but he gave a single nod. "Good. You'll have whatever you need. Work around the clock if you must. The Brotherhood won't wait politely for us to finish."
At that, the heavy doors creaked open again, and Hancock's crew stumbled in under the weight of the first crates. Metal clanged as they set them down, the sound echoing through the hall. Dust puffed up from the floor, mixing with the smell of oil.
Mel darted toward the crates like a scavver spotting gold. He yanked one open, his hands diving into the straw and packing cloth until he pulled out a gleaming copper cylinder. His laugh cracked out, sharp and wild.
"Yes! Intact, intact! Oh, you beautiful son of a gun, do you know what this means? Kelly, Simon—get the schematics, now! Trent, clear the bench—we're not sleeping tonight!"
Hancock, wiping sweat from his brow, smirked at the scene. "Guess we're heroes of the hour, eh, boss?" he said to Sico, jerking his thumb toward Mel's manic celebration.
But Sico's eyes lingered on the copper cylinder in Mel's grip. Not at the triumph, but at what it symbolized—the line being drawn deeper, the point of no return sharpening under fluorescent light.
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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