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Sico turned back to the crates, to the smell of fresh insulation and machine oil, to the sound of Sturges arguing with himself about load weights. He could already feel it coming—the next wave of motion, the next set of problems.
The next morning arrived with the kind of clarity that only came after a storm—the kind of morning where the sky felt too wide and too blue, like the world was trying to remind you there was still beauty left in it, even after the smoke had cleared.
Sico stepped out from the command barracks before sunrise, the air crisp and edged with the scent of old pine and fresh lumber. His boots sank slightly into the still-damp soil of the common yard, the dew catching on the hem of his coat as he made his way down the central path. Above him, a handful of early birds wheeled silently through the sky, their wings stretched wide as the wind caught their flight.
Sanctuary was already stirring. He could hear the muted clang of tools, the hum of a generator catching, and the bark of orders as crews assembled near the scaffold lines. It was a rhythm now—daily, relentless, necessary.
Today wasn't about rallying defenses.
Today was about building.
The wall and gate reinforcement had begun in earnest.
Sturges and his team were already moving, stripped to their undershirts, muscles taut as they lifted heavy beams and rolled barrels of mixed cement across rough wooden ramps. A makeshift cart, pulled by two brahmin, creaked its way up the southern incline, loaded with rebar and plating marked "GATE BASE" in Sturges' bold white paint.
Sico found the foreman near the new gate frame, clipboard in one hand, grease smeared across his brow like war paint. He was halfway through a sentence when he spotted Sico, waving him over with a nod.
"Morning," Sturges called. "You're just in time for the fun part."
Sico raised an eyebrow. "You mean the part where we lift three tons of steel and hope no one loses a finger?"
Sturges grinned. "Exactly."
The two men walked together down the scaffold path, ducking under hanging cables and stepping around neatly sorted piles of hardware. The rebuilt eastern gate stood ahead like a promise half-whispered—massive vertical beams bolted into a new steel foundation, the frame reinforced with ceramic-wrapped rods and armored siding that still bore the scorch marks from the last attack. It wasn't finished, but it had shape now. And weight.
Sturges pointed to a stack of lumber set beside the scaffolding. "We're using those for the gate platform—salvaged hardwood from the Bren shipment. Most of it's oak. Stuff's older than half this town but solid as hell."
"Good," Sico said. "I want this one to hold."
"Oh, it'll hold," Sturges replied. "This gate's gonna be the envy of every settlement west of the river. You'll see."
Sico paused beside one of the partially disassembled Mark V turrets, the internal components laid out like a mechanical autopsy on a nearby table. "And the southern tower? Still part of the plan?"
Sturges gave a short nod. "Crews'll start framing the base tomorrow. As soon as we finish setting the second turret mount."
Sico looked out toward the western rise, where the old watchtower had stood—until the Institute barrage had taken it down in one brutal salvo. Now there was only a heap of twisted steel and broken railing, fenced off by caution tape and two old barrels filled with sand.
He turned back to Sturges, his voice level. "I want the new watchtower up. Don't let it get buried behind the wall work."
Sturges gave him a longer look. "You think they'll come back?"
Sico didn't answer at first. He let the silence fill the space between them—heavy, honest.
"I don't know," he finally said. "But if they do, I want eyes up high and rifles ready before they get close."
The engineer nodded. "Then it's done. I'll shift a team to it. Foundation's already half-dug."
Sico gave a brief nod, then stepped up onto the temporary scaffold, watching as the first slab of reinforced plating was guided into position by four workers and a pulley system held together with sweat and prayer. The plate groaned as it moved, the cable pulling taut, and then with a satisfying thunk, it slotted into place against the steel frame.
Applause broke out from below—light, ragged, but real.
"Looks like it fits," one of the workers shouted down.
Sturges shaded his eyes, squinting. "Barely. But I'll take barely over busted."
"Clamp it," Sico said. "And check the weld integrity after first set."
He stepped down as the crew got back to work, wiping his hands on his coat. The morning had barely begun, but his brain was already running hot—calculating the days ahead, the supplies they'd burn through, the food they'd need to keep the crews running, and the caps that would bleed out if they didn't get another caravan within a week.
He turned back toward the path, mind already moving toward the next task, when a familiar voice called out from a distance.
"General!"
Sico turned to see Preston jogging up the incline, coat flapping behind him, a folded sheet of paper in one hand.
"Got a response," Preston said, breathing hard as he handed it over.
Sico unfolded the page, reading quickly.
It was from Hancock.
Short. Written in bold, jagged strokes.
"Heard the ask. Curie's got us deep in the ruins for another 36 hours, tops. After that, I'll send two scavenger teams north—check Malden and the dockside storage fields. Expect crates in three days if we don't get shot or swallowed. Tell Magnolia she still owes me whiskey. —H."
Sico let the note fall to his side, relief threading through his chest like a slow-moving tide.
"They're in," he said.
Preston exhaled. "Good. I'll update the materials board. Magnolia's gonna start adjusting prices once we get their stock figured in."
Sico gave a tired smile. "Tell her to wait until we actually have the crates."
Preston nodded and jogged off.
Sico stood alone for a moment longer, watching the wall rise inch by inch, turret cables snaking into position, workers barking to one another in rough camaraderie. In the distance, a dog barked—probably Atom chasing some poor wasteland bird off the food crates again. And beyond that, the wind carried the low hum of Piper's latest broadcast, barely audible from the hilltop radio tower:
"—Sanctuary continues its rebuilding efforts. The Freemasons Republic is still buying construction-grade supplies. Traders are welcome, and your safety is guaranteed within the walls. Bring what you can. Hope is here. Hope is building…"
Hope is building.
Sico turned back toward the site, rolling up his sleeves.
The day settled into the long orange arms of twilight.
By the time the sun began to dip behind the ragged silhouette of Sanctuary's northern treeline, the clang of hammers and the hiss of welding torches had mellowed into the hum of conversation and clatter of evening clean-up. The crews were finishing their final tasks for the day—stacking planks, locking toolboxes, and wiping grime from their faces with the same rags they used to mop sweat from their brows.
Sico stood at the edge of the gate scaffold, fingers stained from the afternoon's work, watching the horizon deepen from amber to plum. His coat hung loosely from his shoulders, unbuttoned and dusted with sawdust. He wasn't ready to head back to the command barracks yet. Not while his mind still pulsed with half-finished to-do lists and calculations that didn't add up neatly in his head.
He turned, scanning the wall's length—ten meters taller than just three days ago. A new patch of armor plating gleamed near the southern seam where the sun caught its clean welds. In the quiet, there was something close to pride in his chest… tempered by exhaustion, but real.
Then, from the west, just beyond the bend near the old collapsed drainage line, he heard it:
The distinct sound of wheels crunching gravel.
Then a low, familiar groan of a brahmin yoke straining under weight.
Then voices—two or three, arguing about something in that way traders always did when they were both tired and half-lost.
A caravan.
Sico straightened. His ears sharpened for a moment—yes, definitely wagons. More than one. A large one from the sound of it. They must've heard Piper's broadcast. That was fast. Maybe too fast.
He moved quickly down the scaffold steps, dust rising around his boots as he hit the path and made for the central square. A pair of workers waved at him, one still holding a hammer. He nodded back, didn't stop. His long strides carried him past the tool depot, past the command yard's fire pit—still smoldering with midday ash—and straight toward the courtyard where Magnolia usually tallied trade exchanges in the evenings.
He found her in her usual spot: perched on a crate with one knee drawn up, pencil between her teeth, ledger open on her lap. A lantern burned beside her, casting soft golden light across her face and the neat rows of columns in the book. Sarah was beside her, arms crossed, nodding occasionally as they talked softly about something—probably prices.
"Magnolia. Sarah," Sico called.
They both turned immediately. Sarah stood straighter. Magnolia cocked her head.
"We've got movement. Caravan from the west," he said. "Could be a response to the broadcast."
Magnolia snapped the ledger shut, pencil tucked into her hair in one smooth motion. "How many?"
"Sounds like at least two wagons," Sico replied, already turning back. "Could be more. I want both of you with me. If it's what I think, they'll be looking to trade heavy."
"Then let's not keep them waiting," Magnolia said, already hopping off the crate. "Sarah, grab the small lockbox—the one with the pre-counted caps. Just in case."
Sarah nodded and jogged off toward her quarters without needing further explanation.
By the time they reached the front path leading to the outer checkpoint—just beyond the freshly reinforced gate—dusk had settled into that in-between hue, where it was hard to tell whether it was still day or already night. The lanterns strung along the post lines flickered on with a buzz of converted energy. Their soft light pooled along the path in golden circles, catching in the dust and making every shadow look like a crouching figure.
As they approached the checkpoint, the guards there—two young men from the Central Creek detachment—stood ready, rifles low but at ease. One of them, a freckled teen named Eli, lifted a hand in signal.
"They just crested the ridge," he called down. "One big cart, pulled by three brahmin, and two smaller wagons behind it. Four travelers, I think. Couldn't see weapons, but they're flying white cloth."
Sico nodded. "White cloth" was the wasteland version of knocking politely—usually meant peaceful intentions, and an invitation to trade.
They waited.
The sound of the caravan grew louder, wheels creaking with fatigue, harnesses jingling, the occasional grunt of a brahmin pulling against slope and weight. Then, through the dust and dimming light, the first shape resolved into view: a tall cart loaded high with long crates, covered in oiled canvas and tied down with cargo netting.
The lead traveler walked beside it, hand on the yoke, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over a weather-beaten face. He had a sidearm holstered, but his hand never went near it. His coat—patchworked and heavy—swung slightly with his gait. A woman followed close behind, shotgun slung but not drawn. The two rear wagons trailed behind, each with one more trader guiding it forward.
The lead man raised a hand in greeting.
Sico stepped forward.
"Evening," the man called out, voice carrying across the open yard. "Heard there was a Republic in need of goods."
Magnolia stepped up beside Sico, smiling with professional warmth. "If you've got what we need, then we've got the caps to make it worth your while."
The man chuckled. "That's what they all say. But your radio gal was persuasive. We changed our route for this."
Sico gestured to the cleared landing space beside the western scaffold. "Bring them in. We'll offload and inspect. You'll get water, food, and guards while you're here."
The trader motioned to his group, and the wagons rolled in. The brahmin moaned as they finally slowed to a stop on level ground, steam rising from their flanks in the cooling air.
The man extended a hand. "Name's Cray. This here's my crew—Wella, Daz, and Myke. We're from the Clearway Loop. Normally supply the southern townships, but figured we'd try our luck further north this run."
"Sico," he replied, shaking his hand. "You came at the right time."
Sarah arrived just in time with the lockbox, handing it to Magnolia without a word. Magnolia flipped it open, checked the count, and gave a subtle nod.
"All right," she said, setting the box on a nearby table. "Let's see what you've brought us."
Cray climbed onto the side of his wagon and peeled back the canvas. Even in the dim light, the shape and organization of the cargo made Sarah's eyebrows rise.
"Ceramic insulation, industrial adhesive, hardwood planks, segmented steel pipe. We've got half a dozen crates of fusion-grade cable coils, and one full of pre-fab sheet siding. Couple of jars of lubricant too, if that's your thing."
Sarah whistled low. "That's not random salvage. That's targeted."
Cray smirked. "You don't rebuild with scraps. We caught word two towns down about your damage. We figured you'd be looking for real materials, not mole rat meat and rusty forks."
Magnolia stepped forward, her tone calm but serious. "And what're you asking?"
"Thirty-two hundred caps for the lot. No bartering on the cables. We hauled those outta a basement full of ferals."
Sico exchanged a look with Magnolia. She did some math in her head, nodding slowly. "We can cover it. But we'll want to inspect everything."
"Fair. Go on."
Sarah and two guards began opening crates under lantern light, inspecting quality and verifying the numbers. Sico stayed back with Cray, watching him as he leaned on the cart rail, eyes scanning the yard.
"You've done this before," Sico said.
"Too many times," Cray replied. "Been around since before the Minutemen got quiet. Seen a dozen places rise and fall."
He looked back at Sico.
"But you… this place's got something different. You're not just building walls. You're building something bigger. I can feel it."
Sico didn't reply immediately.
Then he said, "We don't have the luxury of falling. Not anymore."
Cray nodded once. "Then I'll bring more next time."
Magnolia approached, clapping the ledger shut. "It checks out. We'll take the lot."
She handed Cray the pouch of caps, and he weighed it in his hand with a satisfied grunt.
"Then let's unload."
The work resumed with new energy. Guards and traders worked side-by-side, unloading the wagons and moving materials into the secure storage yard. The guards cracked jokes, and one even offered Cray a bottle of weak beer from the mess. The traders relaxed visibly. Even the brahmin were led to the livestock pen and given water and feed.
By the time the last crate was stacked and catalogued, the stars had fully emerged above, peeking between clouds like curious onlookers.
Sico stood at the edge of the scene, watching the interaction—the Republic wasn't just surviving anymore. It was trading. It was moving forward.
"General," Sarah said softly, approaching with a worn canvas notepad. "We'll need to update the material board tonight. This fills out our hardwood shortfall, and we've got more than enough cable to finish turret routing. Magnolia's already planning a price adjustment for the next run."
"Good," he murmured. "Really good."
She hesitated, then smiled. "This was a good day."
Sico looked at her. And for a long moment, he allowed himself to believe that—completely.
"It was," he said.
They stood in silence as Cray and his crew settled in for the night, laughing near the fires, telling stories in accents picked up from five different corners of the Wasteland.
Magnolia came over, arms crossed, eyes scanning the yard.
"Think this pace can keep up?" she asked.
Sico exhaled. "If it doesn't, we'll make it. But yeah… I think it can."
A gust of wind blew through the yard, lifting dust and the faintest scent of pine and brahmin feed.
And in the distance, from the radio tower on the hill, Piper's voice came faint and soft, like a lullaby:
"Hope is here. Hope is building."
As the traders began to settle in near the mess tents—some of them unrolling bedrolls, others nursing steaming mugs passed down from Sanctuary's cookhouse—Sico felt the tension in the air begin to melt. Not disappear, no, not completely. But loosen. Like a knot that had been cinched too tight for too long finally relaxing one thread at a time.
Magnolia had wandered off with Sarah toward the main ledger tent, murmuring about tomorrow's spending estimates and how much ceramic insulation they'd really need once the north barracks roofing began. Sico gave them space. His boots crunched lightly along the inner perimeter path, away from the glow of the lanterns and the smoky warmth of the firepits.
Night had claimed the land now. A wide, quiet darkness stretched over the fields, broken only by the flicker of firelight and the occasional glint of steel on patrol gear. The stars looked close tonight—close enough to touch if you stood on the scaffold and reached just high enough. Maybe that was foolish thinking, but Sico didn't care. It was the kind of foolishness that felt honest.
He pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and made for the outer rim of Sanctuary's east side, past the watch zone and between two fence lines that had only recently been reinforced with new steel wire. The ground here was firm—drained well after the recent rain—and patrolled hourly by rotating squads from the Freemasons Militia. It had once been nothing but scrub and bramble, but now it was part of the outer defense circuit. That mattered.
A faint voice echoed from beyond the slope. Quiet. Steady. Confident.
"Watch that blind angle by the hollow tree. Sightlines are clean but the bark gives off bad echoes. Don't get caught with your ears full of ghosts."
Sico smiled faintly and followed the voice.
He found Preston Garvey crouched behind a low stone wall, his laser musket resting against the bricks as he gestured toward two patrolmen. They nodded, one adjusting the strap on his shoulder-mounted light, the other flicking a small switch on his sidearm to set it from stun to burst.
"Steady line," Preston continued. "No heroics. Don't chase shadows. You hear anything out of the ordinary—anything—report it up. Got it?"
"Yes, sir," they replied in unison.
Preston stood, dusted his knees, and turned to find Sico watching him from the edge of the brush. His eyes widened a little, but the surprise was quickly replaced with a warm, professional nod.
"President."
Sico crossed the distance with a short stride, his breath steaming slightly in the cooling air. "Didn't mean to sneak up. I figured you'd be on rotation somewhere out here."
"You figured right," Preston said, tapping the stone wall once with his gloved fingers. "We're sweeping the eastern woods and the southern perimeter trail. No contact, no movement, not even a radstag tonight. It's been… quiet."
Sico tilted his head. "Too quiet?"
Preston hesitated, his hand falling to the grip of his musket, not as a threat—more like habit.
"Hard to say," he said eventually. "The kind of quiet that feels planned. Like something's watching back. You know the feeling."
Sico did. Intimately.
"It's not paranoia if the Institute taught you to expect the knife before the knock," he murmured.
Preston nodded grimly. "Exactly."
A moment passed between them—old soldiers' silence. Not awkward. Just full.
"How far did you sweep tonight?" Sico asked.
"South trail to the water pump station, doubled back through the hollow to the ridge," Preston replied. "Spotted one collapsed shack about half a klick out. Looked like it had been combed through already. Nothing fresh. No tracks leading toward us, no signs of synth boots. But…" He narrowed his eyes. "I did see a glint of glass in the treeline at one point. Could've been nothing. Could've been a scope."
Sico frowned. "Sniper?"
"Maybe. But they didn't take a shot. Could've been a settler with binoculars, or just a shard of bottle caught in the brush."
"But you don't think it was."
"No," Preston said, shaking his head slowly. "I don't."
Sico exhaled through his nose, his eyes moving to the line of trees just beyond the hill. Their shadows were long now, black and swaying gently in the wind, like arms of a sleeping god.
"Have the scouts reported anything from Concord or Ridgeway?" he asked.
"Nothing from Concord," Preston said. "Still too burnt out to house more than rats. But Ridgeway's moving. They've tripled patrols. Commander Hastings sent word they've seen increased flare activity west of the Bury ruins. Could be raiders, could be worse."
Sico folded his arms. "If the Institute's still moving resources, they're doing it low and wide. Not just marching up the road."
"They're adapting," Preston said. "Maybe even retreating… but only to breathe. And you know what happens after they breathe."
"They strike," Sico finished.
The wind kicked up suddenly, scattering dust across the wall and setting the low shrubs rustling like whispers. Both men instinctively looked east, scanning the treeline, eyes narrowed.
It passed.
Sico let out a slow breath and stepped closer to Preston.
"We're making progress, Preston," he said quietly. "The wall's stronger. We've got turret mounts in place. New tower framework starts tomorrow. And the caravans… they're coming."
"I saw," Preston replied, a small smile returning. "That Clearway Loop crew was a surprise. But a good one."
"We keep building," Sico said. "And we stay ready."
Preston gave a tight nod. "My men are on six-hour shifts tonight. Nobody sleeps without backup. If anyone breathes wrong outside that wire, we'll hear it."
Sico placed a hand briefly on Preston's shoulder. "I don't say it enough, but… thank you. For everything."
Preston gave a soft chuckle. "Don't get all sentimental on me now, President. You'll make me blush."
Sico smirked. "Wouldn't want to ruin your reputation."
They both stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching the patrol continue along the far trail, their headlamps bobbing in a gentle rhythm like fireflies along the fence line.
Then Sico's eyes turned upward, toward the stars.
"You ever wonder," he said quietly, "what the sky looked like before the bombs?"
Preston followed his gaze. "Sometimes. But I figure it looked a lot like this. Maybe fewer scars on the horizon. But the stars? They were probably always out there. Just waiting."
Sico nodded slowly. "Maybe. Or maybe they're just watching to see if we're worth trying again."
Preston laughed under his breath. "Damn, Sico. That's dark."
"Maybe. Or hopeful."
"Well," Preston said, adjusting his coat, "I'm betting on hopeful. We've earned that much."
Sico looked back at him, then over the wall, then at the moving silhouettes of soldiers checking their sectors and calling out clear signals.
For the first time in a while, he felt something settle in his chest.
Not peace. Not yet.
But maybe the shape of it.
He looked at Preston one last time. "Keep them safe tonight. I'll have a runner bring hot broth from the mess tent in an hour. You've all earned that."
Preston grinned. "You spoil us, President."
"No," Sico said. "You keep us alive."
He turned back toward the heart of Sanctuary, boots crunching softly over the gravel path, the wind curling around him like a familiar old coat. Back toward the lanterns, back toward the hammering and the welding that would start again in the morning.
________________________________________________
• 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:-