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Sico gave a small nod, then turned back toward the radio. Static hummed, steady and patient. Somewhere out there, Hancock was threading his way through the bones of the old world, chasing the pieces Mel swore they needed.
The afternoon came in slow, filtered through a lid of gray cloud that refused to break. The mist had lifted, leaving the treeline sharp and black against the pale sky, but the air still carried the heavy quiet that always felt like a held breath before something bad. The camp was restless. Men checked their rifles more often than they needed to, boots scuffed against dirt, eyes kept sliding back to the trees as if they expected them to start walking closer.
Sico hadn't moved far from the table since morning. He'd checked patrol routes himself, made sure the sentries on the towers had a clear line of sight, had barked a few corrections where rifles slouched too lazily against shoulders. But now he was back at his spot, tin cup gone cold, radio receiver within arm's reach. He'd been waiting for that thing to crackle, half dreading it, half needing it.
It came midafternoon, a hiss of static and then Hancock's voice, lazy but taut at the edges, like a man trying to play it cool with a knife against his ribs.
"Hey, soldier boy," Hancock drawled, though there was no smile behind it this time. "Update for ya. We found it—Mel's damn list. Reinforced alloys stacked up in crates like they were waitin' for Christmas. Capacitor banks, too. Pre-war coolant—hell, we even found an intact vat sittin' pretty. Jackpot, right?"
Sico leaned forward, hand braced on the table. "But?"
Hancock snorted. "Yeah, you heard the 'but.' Place is crawlin'. Not with raiders, though—worse. Feral ghouls. Must've been nestin' here since the bombs dropped. Whole families of 'em, packin' the hallways, wanderin' like drunks lookin' for a fight. We can't just stroll in, grab the goodies, and saunter out. Gonna take time. Quiet work. Careful work. Otherwise, we stir the hive, and we're neck-deep in teeth and claws."
Sico's jaw flexed, his knuckles whitening against the edge of the table. He hated ferals more than raiders. Raiders you could predict. Raiders wanted your gun, your food, your boots, your blood—they still had a logic to them, even if it was the logic of cruelty. Ferals had nothing but hunger. They didn't break. They didn't scare. They just kept coming until you shot them down, and even then half of them didn't seem to notice.
"Okay," Sico said finally, his voice low, steady. "You take the time you need. No mistakes. You get those supplies and get back breathing. Keep in touch with progress. Every few hours, I want your voice on this line."
"Roger that," Hancock replied, quick and short this time. No grin, no lazy commentary. Just the words. Then the line went quiet again, static humming.
Sico set the receiver down and exhaled through his nose, rubbing at the bridge of it with two fingers. He didn't get to sit long before a voice called out from one of the towers.
"Sir!"
Sico turned. A soldier was waving him over, rifle slung tight, binoculars pressed to his chest. Young face again—maybe not the freckled boy from earlier, but another one of the fresh recruits whose nerves had been wound tight all day.
Sico moved fast, boots crunching in the dirt, and climbed the ladder up to the watch platform. The soldier handed him the binoculars, pointing toward the tree line. "Couple of 'em. Raiders. They're not pushin' close, just… watchin'. Right out there."
Sico raised the glass. The lenses sharpened the shadowed edge of the forest until he saw them. Two figures. Bare arms painted with streaks of grime and blood, leather strapped across chests, rifles hanging loose but not careless. They weren't moving. Just standing. Watching. One of them cupped a hand over his eyes like he was taking in the scenery, like they were tourists instead of vultures.
Sico lowered the binoculars slowly, handing them back. His face stayed blank, but inside, the old knot in his gut pulled tighter. Raiders watching wasn't the problem. Raiders watching meant raiders planning. And raiders planning meant raiders coming—sooner, harder, uglier.
He turned to the soldier, who was trying hard to look calm, jaw clenched tight. "Keep eyes on 'em," Sico said. "But don't shoot unless they cross that dirt and start movin' in. Last thing we need is to spook 'em early."
The soldier nodded, swallowing. "Yes, sir."
Sico gave him one last look, then climbed down the ladder, boots hitting the ground harder than before. His men were already watching him, sensing the shift in his stride, the change in the air. He didn't bother hiding it. They'd find out soon enough anyway.
He walked back to the center of camp, gathered the nearest squad leaders with a tilt of his head, and laid it out flat:
"We've got eyes on us. Couple of raiders perched out there in the trees, takin' in the view. They ain't alone—you know they ain't. This is recon. They'll be back with a pack. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe when they think we're tired. But they're comin'."
A murmur moved through the men, quiet but tight, like a rope pulled taut. Sico let it settle, then cut it off with a single glance.
"So here's what we do. Patrols stay doubled. No one takes a piss without a buddy standin' nearby. Sentries don't blink, don't slack, don't drift. When those raiders come—and they will—we hit hard, we hit fast, and we make damn sure they remember why they shouldn't have come lookin'."
He could see it in their faces, the mix of fear and steel. The young ones were scared. The older ones—the ones who'd seen enough to know what raiders really were—were angry. That was good. Anger kept a man's finger steady on the trigger.
Time passed, slow as wet sand slipping through an hourglass. The camp moved, but it moved quieter than usual, each sound sharper against the hush that seemed to press down over them. A cough from the mess line felt like it carried across the whole clearing. A boot scuff against stone might as well have been a shot. The weight of waiting hung heavy, pulling shoulders down, making men glance at the tree line even when they tried not to.
Sico was back at his table, though he hadn't touched the cold cup in hours. His eyes kept flicking between the radio and the treeline, like he was torn which threat deserved his attention more. Raiders outside. Ghouls inside. Either one could bleed them before nightfall.
And then it came — the first sharp crack of gunfire through the receiver. Not close, not from the trees, but from deep inside the old power station where Hancock and Mel had gone with their detail. One shot, then three more, then the telltale roar of automatic fire kicking loose against concrete walls.
Sico's head lifted immediately. His hand was on the receiver before he realized it, but no voice came through. Just more gunfire in the background, faint and distorted, bleeding through the radio waves like ghosts.
He stood, the chair scraping back across dirt, drawing every eye around the camp. The men froze, listening too, because they all knew what it meant.
Hancock's team had engaged.
Inside that crumbling concrete husk, where light barely cut through dust-choked windows, Hancock and his people were in it — knee deep in the kind of fight you couldn't half-ass.
Sico closed his eyes for a moment, listening. He knew the rhythm of a battle. He could hear the way it shifted, how the first bursts were clean, aimed, almost hopeful — men still trying to keep it contained, still thinking they could cut through fast and neat. Then it rolled into the second stage — the jagged panic bursts, weapons firing longer, faster, as shapes moved in too quick, too close. He knew those ferals. You could put a hole in their chest and they'd still keep clawing. You had to take the head or take the legs, or you'd just be buying yourself half a second more breathing space.
The camp was watching him, waiting for some order, some explanation. But there was nothing he could give them right now. He couldn't march fifty men into that building — not unless he wanted to choke the hallways with friendly fire and give the ghouls even more bodies to tear into. Hancock had known that going in. That's why he'd taken a smaller squad. That's why he'd promised quiet work.
But quiet was gone now.
Sico grabbed the binoculars again and climbed halfway up the nearest tower, his boots slamming metal rungs. From there he could just make out the power station through the mist and trees. A squat block of gray concrete, its windows black holes. Nothing showed on the outside. No muzzle flashes, no shadows. Just that sound, echoing through the radio — shots, yelling, the guttural screech of ferals cut short.
The young sentry beside him shifted nervously. "Sir? Should we—"
"No," Sico cut in, voice clipped but calm. "Not yet. That's close work in there. We go charging, we're more trouble than help."
The kid swallowed, nodded, and turned back to his post, though his hands twitched against his rifle stock.
Sico climbed back down, but he didn't sit. He paced the center of camp, each step grounding him. His men tracked him with their eyes, drawing steadiness from his movements. That was part of command — not just giving orders, but being the calm when everyone else felt the storm.
Another burst of gunfire crackled through the radio. Then Hancock's voice, ragged but alive, shoved through the static.
"Got a little lively in here, soldier boy!" he shouted, breathless laughter breaking between words. "Ferals didn't like us movin' their furniture, I guess. But we're pushin' 'em back. Just—hell, keep your ears on. Might get messier before it gets cleaner."
The line snapped back to gunfire and screams.
Sico felt the muscles in his jaw lock tight. He wanted to say something back, to bark advice, to order Hancock to fall back — but he didn't. Hancock wasn't a green recruit. He knew the stakes. Telling him what he already knew wouldn't save anyone.
Instead, Sico turned back to his men. "They're in it, but they're holding. We hold too. Eyes sharp. Don't let those raiders out there think we're distracted."
It was the truth. The raiders hadn't left. He could still feel them out there in the trees, just beyond sight, waiting. Maybe they'd heard the gunfire too, and were licking their lips, thinking both camps would bleed each other and leave scraps for them.
Sico's boots carried him back to the tower again. He scanned the treeline, slow, methodical. For a long while, nothing. Then — movement. A glint of metal, a head ducking behind bark. They were still there, still watching.
He muttered under his breath, almost a growl. "Come on then. Show me your hand."
But the raiders didn't move. Not yet.
The radio spat again. Hancock's voice this time was lower, rushed. "We cleared one hall. Lost Jenkins. Damn fool tried to go knife to teeth with one of 'em and it dragged him down before we could pull it off. We got the alloys secured, but more are pourin' in from the basement. Big bastards. They don't stop comin', Sico. We'll hold, but if this keeps up…" His voice cracked under a scream in the background, cut off by a rifle blast. "If this keeps up, we're burnin' ammo fast."
Sico pressed the receiver to his mouth. "Hancock. You hold the line. Supplies don't matter if you're dead. Get what you can, then fall back. I'll send a squad to cover the exit if it comes to that."
Silence. Then Hancock's voice, thin but defiant: "Ain't leavin' without the coolant. Mel says that's the prize. Says with it, your engineers can made the AA Gun smoothly. That's worth a little blood."
Sico swore softly under his breath. Mel was right, damn it. Pre-war coolant in intact vats was rarer than gold. It meant stable power, no jury-rigged fixes, no praying every week that the grid wouldn't fry itself. But it wasn't worth Hancock's neck.
He set the receiver down hard, breathing through his teeth. Around him, the camp was buzzing quieter now, men whispering, shifting, straining to hear the echoes from the radio.
Another burst of fire rattled through. Another scream. Another feral screech that raised the hairs on every neck.
Sico forced himself to stillness. He couldn't panic. Couldn't let them see him falter. Hancock was in the dark, but out here, Sico was the light they had to see by.
He finally turned to his lieutenants, voices clipped but steady. "Two squads on standby. If Hancock calls for retreat, you move. Until then, we hold. Raiders come first if they try to push in. Understood?"
They nodded, tight and grim.
The radio crackled again, softer this time, but steady. Hancock's voice came through like a ghost wrung dry, breath hissing between words.
"Sico… we got it. Got plenty. Mel will be hugging them vats like they're his firstborn. We're pulling back now, through the south wing. Hall's a graveyard, but we carved it enough to move. Lost two more. Shit's ugly. We're running."
The relief hit Sico like a gust of cold air, sharp enough to sting. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until that moment. His fist tightened around the receiver, thumb pressing the button before hesitation could creep in.
"Copy that, Hancock. South wing. I'm sending cover your way."
He snapped his head toward his lieutenants, voice already hardened into steel. "Two squads. Ten men. Move. South wing approach. Lay down fire if they're chased. Get our people out alive."
The squads didn't hesitate. Boots thudded in unison as rifles were slung and magazines checked mid-run. Ten men peeled off from the camp, breaking into two clean groups, weaving through brush as they headed to their intercept point.
Sico stayed by the radio, pulse hammering, eyes fixed on the treeline. Hancock was coming back, but there was still the other threat — the one that had been waiting all along, patient and hungry. Raiders.
He didn't even get a full minute before the shot came.
A sharp crack split the camp's fragile calm, snapping through the air like the snap of bone. It wasn't from Hancock's fight. It was closer. Too close.
Sico's head snapped toward the tree line. Movement. Shadows breaking loose from the green. The faint gleam of metal. A dozen, maybe more, slipping between trunks like wolves closing on sheep.
"Contact!" someone shouted from a tower.
Sico's voice thundered out before the echo faded:
"DEFENSIVE FORMATION!"
Every soldier in the camp jerked to life. Boots scraped dirt. Rifles came up. The line formed fast, drilled and tight, men dropping into positions behind crates, vehicles, makeshift sandbags. The camp transformed in seconds from a resting place into a bristling fortress.
Sico raised his arm high, then dropped it forward like a hammer.
"Counterattack! Put them back in the dirt they crawled out of!"
The first volley roared. A wall of gunfire erupted from the camp, tearing into the trees. Muzzle flashes lit the air, sharp bursts against the mist. The raiders staggered but didn't break. They howled, answering with their own ragged storm of bullets.
Sparks sprayed off metal. Dirt kicked into the air as rounds punched the ground. Men ducked low, teeth gritted.
"Covering fire!" Sico barked, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. He jabbed a finger toward the Humvees parked along the edge of the clearing. "Two men on those guns! Now!"
Private Garrison and Corporal Hennings sprinted without hesitation. Their bodies bent low as bullets whipped past, snapping twigs, carving through the thin morning mist. They clambered onto the Humvees, hands already on the grips of the mounted M2 machine guns.
The sound when those beasts roared to life was like thunder splitting the earth.
"BRRRT-BRRT-BRRT!"
The heavy caliber rounds tore into the treeline, shredding bark, ripping apart anything unfortunate enough to be behind it. Whole branches snapped loose, raining down in jagged splinters. The raiders' charge faltered under the sheer violence of it. Men were thrown back, torn in half, screams rising and falling beneath the relentless chug of fire.
The soldiers in the line cheered between gritted teeth, their own rifles keeping the pressure steady.
But the raiders weren't just charging headlong. These were no drunk wasters picking fights in alleys. These were hardened, scarred marauders who knew how to bleed a camp. Some broke left, sliding low through brush. Others darted between cover, loosing wild but dangerous bursts. A grenade arced high, tumbling end over end.
"GRENADE!" someone roared.
The camp hit the dirt as it clattered down. The blast ripped the ground, shaking the air with a shockwave that punched the breath from lungs and sent debris raining.
Sico rolled back to his feet, coughing through smoke, ears ringing. He spat grit, eyes narrowing.
"Hold the line! Push them back!"
He turned, pointing hard at the machine guns again. "Sweep the flank! Don't let them circle!"
The gunners adjusted, barrels swinging. Another storm of those heavy cal tore the ground where raiders tried to crawl wide, cutting them down before they could dig in.
But still they came.
Sico's men fired disciplined bursts, but the raiders thrived on chaos. They screamed curses, whooped like madmen, some charging right into the storm, trusting shock and rage to break the line. One, big as a mutant, swung a jury-rigged axe as he rushed. It took three rifles hammering at once to drop him, his body tumbling just short of the sandbags.
The camp was alive with fire, smoke, screams. The metallic stench of gun oil and blood blended into the damp morning air.
Sico's voice never wavered. He moved the line like a conductor, sharp gestures, bellowed orders, shifting men where the pressure hit hardest. He was everywhere at once — behind the line, in the line, dragging one soldier back when a bullet carved through his arm, shoving another forward when panic made him falter.
"Steady! Keep it tight! Don't waste your shots — MAKE THEM COUNT!"
Above it all, the Humvee guns thundered, laying down sheets of death. Every time the raiders pressed, they were answered with fire so heavy it tore holes in their will.
Still, Sico's mind burned with two fronts — the line here, and Hancock's squad out there. Every second stretched thin, pulled taut as wire. His men were fighting like demons, but Hancock was still running through that husk of a station.
The raiders kept coming like the tide. For every one that dropped screaming into the dirt, two more seemed to stumble out from the trees, rifles sputtering, machetes glinting in the thin light. Their numbers weren't endless—Sico knew that—but desperation gave them a kind of madness that could stretch a fight out longer than any sane man would believe.
The gun line shook, bucked under fire, then steadied again. Every time he thought the camp might splinter, one of his men rose up louder, fiercer, filling the air with defiance that echoed against the chaos.
The raiders tried flanking again, this time under the cover of smoke bombs—cheap, sputtering canisters that belched acrid white clouds across the clearing. For a moment, the camp felt blind. Shouts rose, weapons swung into the haze.
Sico didn't hesitate. He strode right into the mist, close enough that the glowing tips of burning canisters seared against his boots. His voice boomed:
"Hold steady! Listen for their boots, don't chase shadows! Tighten up, dammit!"
A shadow lunged through the smoke, teeth bared, blade raised. Sico's rifle bucked once, twice. The figure crumpled before its scream finished leaving its throat. Another followed, wild-eyed, swinging a bat with nails hammered through the head. This one made it closer, so close Sico felt the wind of the swing brush his cheek—but then a shot cracked from behind him, one of his men dropping the bastard mid-swing.
The smoke thinned, shredded by wind and by the heavy gunfire of the Humvees. When it cleared, the ground looked like the aftermath of a butcher's work—bodies sprawled, broken weapons littering the mud, and blood soaking through the grass in ugly patches.
Still, a handful of raiders clung to life and rage, crouching behind what little cover the forest edge allowed. They fired back, sporadic, but it was clear even from the way their shots wavered—they were losing heart.
Sico raised his arm, sweeping it forward. "One last push! End this!"
The line surged. His soldiers advanced in controlled bursts, firing, ducking, then firing again, each step deliberate. The Humvee guns raked the tree line, chewing apart the last stubborn knots of resistance.
And finally—finally—the raiders broke.
One dropped his rifle and bolted, legs pumping as if hell itself had clamped its jaws on his heels. Another followed, then another. The rest scattered like roaches into the undergrowth, shouts fading into the distance. A few wounded stragglers crawled, leaving red trails, until mercy or silence claimed them.
The clearing went quiet except for the hiss of dying smoke and the ragged pull of lungs. The silence wasn't peace—it was aftermath.
Sico stood in the middle of it all, chest rising and falling like a piston, the metal taste of powder thick in his mouth. His men were alive. Not all of them, he knew—he could already see the still shapes lying where bullets had found them—but the line had held. The camp was theirs.
And then—like the world knew he needed to hear it—the brush to the south rustled with heavy movement.
Rifles came up instantly, soldiers snapping into position, ready for a second wave. But before anyone fired, a voice broke out through the mist:
"Don't shoot, you bastards! It's us!"
Hancock.
And then they saw him.
He emerged first, coat torn, face smeared with soot and grime, teeth flashing in a grin that was equal parts relief and exhaustion. Two more of Hancock's crew followed, bloodied but upright. And behind them—the ten men Sico had sent, forming a protective shell around the precious cargo.
Supplies. Food. Water. Medicine. All of it dragged through hell and back, and now finally here.
The line of soldiers erupted into cheers—ragged, hoarse, but fierce. Some slammed rifle butts into the dirt, others clapped each other on the back. Even the wounded managed weak grins.
Sico didn't cheer. Not yet. He stepped forward, closing the distance between him and Hancock's battered group. His eyes swept over them like a field surgeon assessing wounds.
Two missing from Hancock's count. Two gone. He felt the weight of it, sharp and cold, but he pushed it down. Later. There would be time for mourning later.
"You made it," Sico said, voice low, steady, but carrying the kind of gravity that made men listen.
Hancock spat blood into the dirt and gave a lopsided grin. "Told you I would. Just… didn't say how pretty we'd look doin' it."
Sico's gaze softened, just a fraction. His eyes flicked to the squad he'd sent. They were bruised, scraped, one man limping on a makeshift bandage around his thigh—but they were alive. And they'd brought his people home.
For the first time that day, Sico allowed himself to exhale.
"Get the supplies inside," he ordered, voice cutting clean through the din. "Medics, tend the wounded. Garrison, Hennings—keep those guns hot and scanning. If those bastards come back, I want 'em torn apart before they take a second step."
Orders moved like blood through veins. Men snapped back into motion, shoulders squaring despite exhaustion. The camp lived again, steadied by the rhythm of discipline and survival.
Hancock staggered closer, lowering his voice as Sico met him halfway.
"We lost good ones, brother. Two of mine, one of yours on the way back. They… they fought like hell, but—"
Sico put a hand on his shoulder, firm enough to halt the apology before it started.
"They'll be remembered," he said, flat but carrying the kind of certainty Hancock needed to hear. "We held. We got the supplies. That's what they died for. That's what we live for."
Hancock met his eyes, and for a long moment, the grin fell away. Underneath, there was just the tired man, the scarred survivor who'd carried too many ghosts already. He nodded once, sharp.
Sico squeezed his shoulder once more, then turned back to the camp.
"Listen up!" His voice boomed again, louder this time, cutting through the murmurs and the shuffle of feet. Every head turned. Even the wounded lifted their eyes.
"We stood against them today, and we did not break. They came for blood, and we gave them steel. They thought they could starve us out, strip us bare. Instead—" He gestured at the crates and containers now being hauled into the camp. "—we took back what we need to survive. To thrive."
A rumble of voices answered—cheers, shouts, fists raised into the smoky air.
"They'll be back," Sico continued, voice never softening. "You know it, I know it. But every time they come, we'll stand like this. Shoulder to shoulder. Because this—" he swept his arm wide, across soldiers, scavengers, Freemasons alike "—this is what they can never take from us. Not while we breathe."
The roar that answered him shook the clearing harder than any gunfire.
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.
________________________________________________
• 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:-