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Finally, satisfied, Sico turned toward the door. The night outside was waiting, heavy with the weight of wars not yet fought. But as he stepped into the cool air again, he felt something steadier in his chest.
The days that followed blurred together, though not from idleness. Sico discovered there were many kinds of battlefields in this new world, and not all of them were marked by gunfire or scorched earth. Some were marked by ink, signatures, and the patience it took to grind through page after page of decisions that would shape the future of the Freemasons Republic.
His office in the Freemasons HQ became both fortress and cage. The room itself wasn't grand—no marble pillars or golden trim like the Institute—but it carried weight in the way every corner hummed with work. Sturdy wooden shelves lined with ledgers and maps, a heavy desk scarred by years of use, and the ever-present stack of papers that seemed to multiply no matter how fast he signed his name.
Every morning, he sat at that desk with a cup of bitter coffee, the kind boiled strong enough to strip rust, and sifted through reports. Supply lines from the northern farms. Ammunition production quotas. Housing allocations for new settlers who kept trickling in—some desperate, some opportunistic, all needing roofs over their heads. Requests for medical supplies that Curie swore she couldn't conjure from thin air, no matter how many times people begged.
And in between, buried in the stacks, were always the letters. Some official, some personal. Settlers thanking him for protection, or cursing him for taxes. Families begging for a father's safe return from patrol. Old Freemason members asking for more say in the council meetings. He read every word, even when it burned his patience raw.
"Commander," scribbled on one scrap in a child's shaky hand, "thank you for keeping the monsters away from our farm. Mama says you scare them worse than anyone."
That one, he kept tucked in the corner of his desk. A reminder that not all the battles he fought were abstract.
But paperwork alone wasn't enough to keep the Republic steady. The Commonwealth was a beast with too many teeth to sit still. Which meant, when he wasn't buried under reports, he was walking the lines with Preston and Sarah.
Preston Garvey had become more than just a Minuteman figurehead in the Republic—he was Sico's right hand in the field, the calm balance to his sharper edges. Preston had the kind of presence settlers trusted instantly; his steady voice and clean uniform carried authority without needing to bark orders. He always brought a sense of calm to patrol discussions, but Sico knew better than anyone that beneath the calm ran a steel-hard core. Preston didn't bend. He endured.
Sarah, on the other hand, was fire where Preston was stone. Sharp-tongued, quick-footed, never shy about pointing out flaws in a plan or a man. She carried her rifle slung across her back like it was an extension of her body and always seemed to be half a step away from pacing when they stood still too long. Where Preston soothed the settlers, Sarah drove them. She wasn't cruel, but she didn't sugarcoat either. She had seen too much of the Commonwealth's rot to waste words.
The three of them often gathered in the council chamber, maps spread across the table, markers stabbed into locations that had become familiar enemies: raider camps, feral ghoul nests, suspected Brotherhood scout routes.
One morning, Preston leaned over the map, tapping at the northern edge of Republic territory. "We've had reports of a raider gang harassing caravans near the old quarry. They're not moving in close yet, but if they keep bleeding the trade routes, we'll feel it in shortages before the month's end."
Sarah snorted. "Bleeding trade routes? They're robbing us blind, Preston. Settlers are already nervous. One more raid, and we'll have people refusing to haul supplies at all. Then we've got hungry mouths and nothing to feed them."
Sico folded his arms, his eyes scanning the markers. "How many are we talking?"
"Dozen, maybe more," Preston said. "Armed with the usual mix—pipe rifles, a couple automatics. Nothing we haven't seen before."
"But they're organized," Sarah cut in. "Not your average junkie raiders. Someone's keeping them together. Makes them dangerous."
Sico considered that in silence. Raiders were always a threat, but disorganized ones were little more than pests—they broke quick under pressure. Organized gangs, though… those could fester into real problems if left alone.
"We'll send a patrol," Sico said finally, his voice carrying that weight that made the other two glance at him, waiting for the details. "Half a dozen, led by Sarah. Make contact, sweep the area, break their camp if you can. Preston—you stay with me. We need you here in case the settlers catch wind of movement and panic. One voice at HQ can calm a hundred whispers."
Sarah raised a brow. "What about you?"
Sico's gaze lingered on the map. "I'll stay put this time. Too many moving pieces right now. If something happens back here while I'm off chasing raiders, it sends the wrong message."
Preston nodded approvingly. "The Republic needs its Commander seen as steady. Sarah can handle the field. You'll handle the rest."
Sarah rolled her eyes, though there was no bite behind it. "Guess I'll take my squad and go get shot at while you two shuffle papers. Fine. Just don't cry if I come back with more scars."
"You'll come back breathing," Sico said simply.
And that was the rhythm of those days—paperwork in the mornings, patrol discussions at midday, evenings spent pacing the walls of Sanctuary and watching lanterns flicker against the dark. Always balancing between the ink and the iron, the people inside the walls and the dangers clawing at the edges outside them.
Still, the shadow of the Brotherhood loomed. Every distant roar of a vertibird overhead made settlers look up with fear. Every rumor of power armor sighted near the old highways sent whispers through the markets.
But Sico didn't let it show. Not in his office, not at the map tables, not when he stood at the gates watching the horizon. He carried himself the same way he always did—broad shoulders, measured voice, steady gaze. A commander who would not waver, even if inside he felt the weight of a hundred burdens grinding into his bones.
The next day, Sico's morning coffee had barely cooled when word reached his office that Mel and his team were ready for him.
He didn't hesitate. The papers on his desk—supply reports, militia rosters, settler petitions—could wait. For once, it wasn't about signatures or arguments. It was about steel, firepower, and the kind of weapon that might tilt the balance against the shadow pressing in from the skies.
The walk across Sanctuary wasn't long, but it carried weight. Settlers along the main street greeted him as he passed—some with nods, some with cautious half-smiles, others with the kind of quiet awe that made him uncomfortable. He never let it show, but being looked at like that—like some kind of pillar that couldn't crack—always sat heavy on his shoulders.
Near the old workshop yard, the smell of oil and scorched metal reached him before the sight did. Sparks flashed bright as welders' torches spat light against raw steel. Mel had taken over the yard weeks ago, turning it into a hive of noise and smoke.
Sico pushed the gate open, its hinges squealing, and stepped inside.
"Commander!" Mel's voice cut above the hammering, cheerful and rough. He was a broad-shouldered man, grease smeared across his forehead, his jumpsuit half-unzipped and tied at the waist. He waved an arm like a man greeting an old friend at a bar rather than his commander. "You're just in time. She's all done."
Sico's eyes followed Mel's gesture.
The weapon sat there like a beast leashed but eager to roar. The AA Gun prototype was no polished marvel like something the pre-war military would've rolled off an assembly line. It was ugly, bolted together from scavenged parts—tank barrels cut down, aircraft scrap welded into a base, heavy cabling running to a patched-together power core. But ugly didn't mean weak.
The thing looked mean.
Twin barrels sat mounted on a rotating base, the kind of steel that promised recoil enough to rattle bones. The gun's spine was supported by hydraulics clearly repurposed from some old construction rig, its elevation system powered by pistons that hissed faintly even at rest.
"You finished it," Sico said, his voice low, not out of disbelief but respect.
"Damn right we did." Mel wiped his hands on a rag, grinning wide. "Took longer than I wanted—scavenging parts, rewiring the power couplings—but she's ready for testing. We even got the targeting rig to behave. Mostly."
"Mostly?" Sico arched a brow.
One of Mel's assistants—young woman with her hair tied back under a welding cap—chimed in. "The auto-tracking works fine on drones. Bigger targets… still needs calibration. But manual fire? Solid as a rock."
Sico walked closer, his boots crunching over scattered metal shavings, and rested a hand on the cold steel of the mount. The barrels loomed over him, pointing skyward. In his mind, he could already see it: Brotherhood vertibirds circling like vultures, power armor glinting in the sun, and then this beast spitting fire into the sky, cutting their wings.
"How much range?" he asked.
"Effective up to two thousand feet," Mel said, patting the mount with the affection of a proud parent. "Maybe more, if you're lucky with wind and timing. Ammo's a bitch, though—custom shells, high-velocity. We've only got enough stockpiled for a few tests. Gonna need a steady supply line if you want more than a couple of these set up."
Sico nodded slowly. "We'll figure the logistics later. First, let's see if it can do what you built it for."
Mel's grin widened. "Now you're talking."
The testing grounds were set up on the far side of Sanctuary, away from the main settlement. An old stretch of pre-war road had been cleared, sandbags stacked, firing lanes marked with chalk and scrap-metal barricades. Settlers gathered at the edges, curious but wary, whispering to each other as they craned their necks to see.
Sico stood with Mel and the team near the control rig. Preston arrived not long after, rifle slung at his shoulder, Sarah trailing behind him with her usual restless energy.
"So this is it?" Sarah asked, giving the AA Gun a long, appraising look. "Looks like something you'd find bolted on the side of a raider's death truck."
"Don't let the looks fool you," Mel shot back. "This beauty will punch holes in the sky."
"Better hope so," Preston said quietly, his eyes on the barrels. "If the Brotherhood comes in numbers, we'll need every advantage."
Sico didn't answer. He just gestured. "Show us."
Mel barked orders, his team scrambling with cables and switches. The gun groaned as it came to life, hydraulics whining, lights flickering along the patched control board. The barrels tilted upward, adjusting with mechanical jerks until they locked on the sky.
A drone buzzed overhead—a battered pre-war model Mel's crew had refurbished for target practice. It weaved clumsily through the air, its wings patched with scrap metal.
"Target locked," one of the assistants called out.
"Fire."
The first shot cracked like thunder. The ground shook beneath their feet as the barrels spat fire and smoke. The drone exploded mid-air, shards scattering like black confetti. Settlers at the edge of the field gasped and cheered, some ducking at the sheer noise.
Mel whooped, clapping his hands. "Hell yes! Did you see that? Clean hit!"
Sarah smirked despite herself. "Ugly or not, that thing's got teeth."
Preston allowed himself a small nod. "Impressive. Very impressive."
But Sico didn't cheer. He stood with his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the smoking barrels. One drone was nothing. The Brotherhood wouldn't send toys—they'd send vertibirds armored to the teeth, flown by veterans who wouldn't give second chances.
"Run it again," he said.
They did. Another drone launched, weaving harder this time. The AA Gun tracked it, spat fire, and the second drone burst apart in a bloom of fire and smoke. The crowd cheered louder.
And again. And again. Until the ammo crates lay nearly empty and the air smelled of scorched powder.
Every single drone went down.
The last shell casing still smoked in the dirt, a golden cylinder gleaming under the pale morning light, when Sico stepped forward. The air stank of cordite and hot oil, the kind of smell that clung to clothes and skin long after the shooting stopped. Settlers still murmured, their cheers fading into hushed conversations. What they'd just witnessed wasn't some rifle volley or musket drill. It was power. Real, terrifying power.
Sico's boots crunched as he walked closer to the gun. Mel was still grinning ear to ear, wiping his hands with that filthy rag of his. The assistants hovered nearby, one jotting notes on a clipboard, another checking the hydraulics like they were touching up a newborn.
Sico rested his palm against the mount again, feeling the faint vibration in the steel, like the beast wasn't done breathing yet.
Then he turned to Mel.
"Can you mount it in the back of a truck?" Sico asked, his voice even, but carrying that unmistakable weight.
Mel blinked, caught off guard for half a second, then his grin snapped back like a man who'd just been handed permission to do something reckless. "Of course we can. Hell, Commander, we can do it right now if you want."
Sico nodded once. "Do it."
The words hung in the air like a spark before the fire.
Mel's grin widened until it was almost feral. "You heard him!" he shouted to his team, clapping his grease-stained hands together. "Let's get the rig and haul her up. Time to make this bird fly." His assistants scattered instantly, fetching tools, chains, and a battered old flatbed truck that had been half-buried in rust until Mel's crew resurrected it for hauling scrap.
Behind Sico, Sarah and Preston exchanged a glance. Sarah's expression was half-skeptical, half-curious. Preston's brow furrowed the way it always did when he was weighing duty against practicality.
Finally, Sarah stepped closer, planting her hands on her hips. "Why?" she asked flatly, her tone sharp as always. "Why in hell would you put a gun like that on wheels?"
Preston followed up more gently, though no less concerned. "Sico… this is already a game-changer if we station them around Sanctuary. You put it on a truck, and sure, it's mobile—but it's also exposed. Vulnerable. What are you planning?"
Sico turned slowly to face them, his dark eyes steady, voice measured.
"Think about it," he said, letting the words roll out slow, deliberate. "Right now, this gun can tear a drone out of the sky. A vertibird, too. But once it's bolted down, it's only useful here. What happens if the Brotherhood doesn't come straight to Sanctuary? What if they skirt us, hit our caravans, our patrols, our farms? What if they try to flank us?"
Sarah folded her arms, one eyebrow arching. She didn't interrupt—yet.
"With it mounted on a truck," Sico went on, "we'll have an AA Gun that's mobile. It can go anywhere we need it. Not just defense—offense. It'll keep the skies clear no matter where we are. And if it comes down to fighting ground troops…" He turned his head slightly, his gaze flicking back at the twin barrels gleaming in the sun. "…this thing will tear them to pieces."
The silence that followed was heavy. Settlers nearby had stopped whispering, listening instead. A mobile AA Gun. Some of them didn't even know such an idea was possible.
Sarah gave a short, humorless laugh, shaking her head. "You're talking about turning this into a damn war chariot."
"If that's what it takes," Sico said simply.
Preston rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn't smiling, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something like reluctant admiration. "You're not wrong," he admitted. "Mobile firepower like that… it's the kind of thing that makes even the Brotherhood hesitate."
Sico nodded once, but didn't say more. He didn't need to.
Behind them, Mel's crew was already swarming the gun, attaching chain hoists and clearing space around the truck bed. The flatbed itself was a monster of a vehicle—pre-war military issue, six wheels, frame thick enough to carry a small tank. Sanctuary mechanics had spent weeks just making the engine run without coughing smoke like a dying brahmin, and now it was about to be reborn again.
Mel jogged back toward Sico, rag flapping in his hand, grease smeared across his jaw. "Commander, you're gonna love this. Truck's sturdy enough to carry her, no question. Hydraulics'll be a bitch to stabilize, but we'll rig outriggers. Won't tip unless some idiot drives it off a cliff. Give us a few hours, she'll be bolted in tight."
"Good," Sico said, his gaze still on the weapon.
Sarah tilted her head, studying him. "You're serious about this. You're really thinking of taking that thing on the road."
Sico turned toward her. "I don't think you've noticed, Sarah, but the road's already coming to us. If we want to survive, we don't wait for the Brotherhood to bring the fight. We take it where it needs to go."
Sarah held his gaze for a long beat, then gave a sharp exhale through her nose, like a laugh she didn't want to admit. "Crazy bastard," she muttered.
The rest of the morning unfolded in fire and steel. Mel's team brought in winches and cranes, chains rattling as they lifted the monstrous gun off its mount. The AA barrels swung in the air like some massive pendulum as the flatbed truck was rolled beneath it. Settlers crowded at the fences, some cheering, some just staring in wide-eyed disbelief.
The clang of hammers, the grind of welding torches, the bark of orders—Sanctuary had heard all those before. But today, the work felt different. Today, they weren't just patching holes or rigging generators. They were building something that screamed defiance into the sky.
Sico stood off to the side, arms folded, watching. He didn't help with the bolts or the welding—not because he wouldn't, but because his presence was something else. The settlers needed to see him there, steady, watchful, approving. Not a laborer today, but the pillar they believed him to be.
Sarah lingered near him, arms crossed, still skeptical but watching too. Preston moved among the workers, lending hands where he could, offering steady words of encouragement.
By noon, the gun was bolted into place. Twin barrels jutted skyward from the truck bed, steel braces welded to the frame, stabilizers folded along the sides like folded wings. The truck looked less like a hauler and more like some beast of war torn from a general's fever dream.
Mel wiped his hands again, grinning like a man who'd just stolen fire from the gods. "Commander," he said proudly, "your mobile AA Gun. Ready for a test run."
The engine of the flatbed rumbled to life, coughing a plume of black smoke that rolled into the noon air. Settlers scrambled back instinctively as Mel, standing in the cab with his cap turned backward like a boy showing off, revved it once for effect. The sound wasn't just noise—it was promise. The promise of movement, of power untethered from foundations and walls.
"Alright!" Mel bellowed from the open window, his voice cracking through the chatter. "Clear the yard! Let's give this beast a stretch."
The assistants scrambled up onto the truck bed, one of them holding tight to the mounted AA gun as though it might leap free at any moment. Another steadied the welded braces, checking bolts with a hammer. Chains rattled, stabilizers squealed against the steel as they locked into place.
Sico stood with arms folded, his silhouette cutting sharp lines against the afternoon light. His eyes never left the weapon. He didn't blink when the truck groaned forward, didn't flinch when the suspension flexed under the extra ton of steel. His gaze was all calculation, cold and steady, as though he were already seeing it on a battlefield—already imagining the thunder.
Preston and Sarah stood a little behind him. Sarah muttered, "If this thing backfires, we'll be scraping Mel and his boys off the dirt for a week."
Preston smirked despite himself. "That's assuming we find all the pieces."
Sico didn't comment. His silence was as deliberate as his words earlier—it wasn't carelessness. It was trust. Trust that Mel would make it work.
The flatbed rolled to the far edge of Sanctuary's training field, where open ground stretched into a patch of dead earth scarred by months of tests, trenches, and half-collapsed barricades. A handful of settlers who'd come to watch spread out along the fenceline, some shielding their eyes, others with their kids perched on shoulders for a better view.
Mel climbed back out of the cab, grease smeared across his arms like war paint, and barked for his crew to prep. They swung the barrels skyward, ratcheting the gun into firing position. One assistant fed the belt, another checked the coolant system.
Sico finally moved, stepping closer. He rested a hand briefly on the steel side of the truck, feeling the vibration of the idling engine. Then his gaze shifted to Mel.
"You sure about this?" Sico asked.
Mel spat into the dirt, grinning. "Commander, I've been sure since I first saw that gun. Time to make it sing."
Sico gave a single nod. That was enough.
"Alright boys!" Mel shouted, his voice booming. "Let's wake up the wasteland!"
The assistant slammed the first belt into place. The metallic clack rang out sharp and final.
The barrels began to whir, their motor screaming into a hungry pitch. For a half-second, the world held its breath—settlers leaning forward, Sarah narrowing her eyes, Preston straightening his stance. Then, with a thunderclap that seemed to shake the ground itself, the AA gun roared.
Tracer fire ripped into the sky, red-hot lines searing arcs against the pale blue. The thunder rolled across Sanctuary like a storm given form. The flatbed shuddered under the recoil, its suspension creaking, tires digging into the dirt. But it held. By God, it held.
Kids squealed, half in terror, half in awe. Settlers clapped hands over ears but couldn't stop staring. Even Sarah, who had crossed her arms with a wall of skepticism, had her jaw slackened just slightly, her eyes following the fire as it chewed invisible lines into the heavens.
Mel's grin was feral, teeth flashing as he yelled over the cacophony: "She works! She goddamn works!"
The gun fell silent after a long burst, smoke hissing from the barrels, the acrid tang of burned powder washing over the crowd.
Cheers broke out, ragged but loud. Some settlers whooped and hollered, others slapped each other on the back. For them, this wasn't just a test. This was hope made real.
Sico's gaze was steady, but the faintest ghost of a smile traced his lips. He didn't cheer—he didn't need to. The fire in his eyes was enough.
Mel scrambled down from the truck bed, wiping sweat with the back of his arm. He trotted over to Sico, still grinning like a man who'd pulled a miracle out of thin air.
"Commander, I'll say it plain—she's a beast. Truck held better than I thought, stabilizers worked, no blowouts, no split welds." He paused, exhaling hard. His grin softened into something closer to calculation. "But…"
Sarah raised an eyebrow immediately. "There it is."
Mel chuckled, scratching at his stubble. "But the caliber's a little too much for long-term use. You fire her too long, you'll rattle the frame loose, maybe even pop an axle. Don't get me wrong—she'll tear a vertibird clean outta the sky. But if we want her rolling from fight to fight, I'd recommend we down the caliber a notch. Keep her mean, but not suicidal."
The murmurs around them picked up again. Settlers weren't engineers, but they understood enough to know what that meant: safer, but maybe less terrifying.
Sico finally spoke, his voice low but carrying through the field. "Will it still kill a vertibird?"
Mel nodded without hesitation. "Oh yeah. Won't be chewing through them like paper, but it'll bring 'em down. Just means we won't shake the truck apart in the process."
Sico thought on that for a moment, his eyes drifting back to the smoking barrels. The pause was deliberate, heavy. Every settler watching could feel that weight—the weight of command, of a man balancing risk against necessity.
Finally, Sico gave a single, sharp nod. "Do it. Down the caliber. Make it reliable."
Mel's grin returned instantly. He slapped his hands together with a loud clap. "You got it, Commander! Give us a couple days, and she'll be battle-ready. Won't be pretty, but she'll be ours."
Sarah let out a short laugh through her nose, shaking her head. "Battle-ready. God help us all, you really are building a damn war chariot."
Preston stepped forward, resting his hand briefly on the truck's steel side. "No, Sarah. He's building something the Brotherhood's never seen before." He glanced at Sico, a small smile flickering on his lips. "And I think they're going to hate it."
The rest of the day was swallowed in motion. Settlers went back to their tasks with new energy, their chatter buzzing with excitement. Children reenacted the test by making machine-gun noises and running around the yard, pretending to drive the "war truck." Sarah retreated to the command post, muttering about needing stronger walls "if we're going to keep firing cannons in the yard." Preston stayed in the field, helping Mel's crew haul fresh parts from the workshop.
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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:-