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Danse closed his eyes for a moment, letting the cold metallic weight of the armor ground him. The work was far from over. The threat from Kells, from Maxson's suspicion, and from the potential spy within their ranks was real. But for tonight, they had taken the first step toward control—toward invisibility, toward survival.
The soft click of the secure channel ending left a ringing silence in Sico's office, a silence that felt heavier than any gunshot, sharper than any battlefield noise. He leaned back in his chair for a moment, rubbing his fingertips against his forehead, as though trying to massage away the weight that had settled behind his eyes.
Danse's report wasn't just troubling.
It was a warning that the thin veil between secrecy and catastrophe had begun to tear.
Three hundred Brotherhood personnel missing.
Maxson personally hunting for the traitor.
Kells designing a trap.
Brandis quietly confirming the scale.
And all of it with every disappearing soldier, every missing set of T‑60 armor, had begun because of him.
His plan.
His persuasion.
His network.
His defectors.
The Freemasons Republic had grown stronger, yes. Their army was no longer a rag‑tag collection of survivors, Minutemen, and former Railroad operatives. Now they had engineers, pilots, scribes, knights, technicians and now Brotherhood-trained and Brotherhood-hardened. People who had walked away from Maxson's iron fist to build something freer, saner, more humane.
But now Maxson was tightening the net.
If he discovered even one thread that pointed to the Freemasons, all of Sanctuary, all of the Republic, all of their progress would burn.
Sico stood, the chair creaking behind him. He grabbed his long coat from the hook, shrugged it over his shoulders, and stepped out of the office. The warm lights of the Freemasons HQ washed over him with lights that flickered slightly from the power grid being pushed past safe limits. Down the hall, the faint echo of drills, technicians arguing quietly over wiring, and the distant murmur of patrol reports formed a familiar tapestry of activity.
He walked with purpose.
But even then, his mind churned.
Maxson suspects internal involvement.
Of course he does, Maxson wasn't a fool.
They're auditing logs, reviewing access, cross-checking schedules.
That was bad enough.
Someone crafted to be recruited… will be traced back to me.
That was worse.
Danse had said it in that quiet, tightly controlled voice—one that told Sico just how close the man stood to the edge. Danse was strong, disciplined, steady but even he couldn't survive Kells' scrutiny forever if the Brotherhood pushed hard enough.
Sico descended the metal stairs, boots echoing sharply with each step. The corridor opened into the central atrium of the HQ, a repurposed federal building that the Freemasons had transformed into a nerve center. Rusted pillars had been scrubbed down to bare metal, flags of the Republic hung from the balconies, and the floor thrummed with the footsteps of soldiers and workers.
Near the map table, he spotted them which is Preston and Sarah.
Preston was bent over a chart of Commonwealth sectors, his hat tipped back slightly as he reviewed supply routes with two Minutemen officers. Sarah was on the opposite side, flipping through synthetically bound paper reports, her expression tight and focused. Even from a distance, Sico could see the tension in her shoulders.
He approached without hesitation.
Preston was the first to notice, straightening up immediately. "General," he greeted, the title slipping out of old habit, but Sico never flinched at it. Some habits in Preston were carved in bone.
Sarah glanced up next, eyes scanning Sico's face, reading the severity there. She closed the folder. "What's wrong?"
Sico didn't answer immediately. He looked between the two of them, ensuring their officers were out of earshot. When he finally spoke, it was in a low voice, tight with urgency.
"Danse just transmitted an update."
That alone made Preston nod through clenched teeth and made Sarah subtly shift her stance—ready, alert, bracing.
"It's bad, isn't it?" Preston asked, though his tone already held the answer.
Sico exhaled slowly. "Worse than we projected."
Both leaned in.
"Maxson convened the command circle," Sico continued. "They're aware of the disappearances. Personnel. T‑60 suits. Supplies. Everything. Over three hundred Brotherhood people are missing."
Preston's eyes widened. Sarah inhaled sharply, jaw locking.
Sico went on. "Kells and Brandis confirmed it. And Maxson suspects it's someone inside the chain of command, someone high‑ranking."
"Danse," Sarah whispered.
Sico nodded grimly. "Not directly. Maxson doesn't know it's him. But Kells is planning a trap. They're designing a fake dissident, someone they intend for the defectors to recruit. And if that person is approached… it leads back to Danse."
The air around the table seemed to thicken.
Preston swore under his breath.
Sarah's fingers flexed over the folder she held, knuckles turning pale. "We knew they'd react eventually. But this level of escalation…"
"It gets worse," Sico said. "Madison Li believes Kells is preparing something more elaborate. Using audit logs, movement patterns, command codes. They're tightening surveillance. Anything predictable will get flagged."
Preston leaned forward. "So what do you need from us?"
Sico looked them both in the eye, the weight of it grounding him like steel anchors sinking into mud.
"I need you to ensure," he said steadily, "that every single defector in Sanctuary as every former Brotherhood soldier, every engineer, every scribe to adapts. Completely. Immediately. No sign of Brotherhood training. No behavior patterns, no jargon, no posture, no habits. I don't want Maxson or Kells to recognize even a shadow of where they came from."
Sarah blinked, once. "All of them?"
Sico answered. "They are at risk. They still walk like knights. Still polish their boots like they're waiting for an inspection. They grip weapons like they're standing on the Prydwen flight deck. All it takes is one Brotherhood scout, one vertibird spotting a too‑straight patrol line, and everything collapses."
Preston nodded, serious. "You want them to fully blend into Freemasons structure. Learn our movements, our command flow, our habits."
"I want them to forget the Brotherhood ever existed," Sico said quietly. "At least on the surface. The Brotherhood cannot know they're with us. If Maxson connects the disappearances to the Republic… then we're not facing a war. We're facing extermination."
Sarah's throat bobbed as she swallowed. "We'll speak to them. Immediately."
Preston placed a hand on the edge of the map table, grounding himself. "And Danse? He'll be okay?"
Sico hesitated, for the first time in the conversation. "He's holding up. But the Brotherhood is closing the walls around him. We have one week, a one week of frozen recruitment, of zero movement to throw Kells off our trail."
Sarah nodded sharply. "Then the defectors must become invisible tonight."
"Good," Sico said. "I trust you both. Now go."
Preston and Sarah didn't need to be told twice.
They exchanged a determined look as one part understanding, one part silent battle plan forming and then moved with purpose. Preston grabbed his coat from a nearby hook, tipping his hat lower over his brow as he strode toward the exit that led to the vertibird pads. Sarah jogged beside him, already pulling a secure holotape from her pocket to load into her handheld transmitter.
As they disappeared through the hallway, Sico stood alone at the map table, the ambient hum of the HQ swelling around him once more.
He told himself that this was good. Necessary. The defectors were loyal, disciplined, and motivated, but they were also dangerously recognizable. Sanctuary couldn't house people who moved like Brotherhood soldiers when the Brotherhood itself was actively hunting phantoms.
But even as he told himself that, a quiet knot twisted in his stomach.
Because he knew the truth:
These people trusted him.
And now he needed them to discard everything they used to be.
For their own survival.
And for the survival of the Republic he'd promised to protect.
The corridor outside the main atrium of the Freemasons HQ was quieter than usual, the hum of machinery and distant voices muted against the stone walls. Preston and Sarah moved briskly, their boots echoing against the reinforced flooring. The winter air that swept through the sanctuary's open walkways carried a faint, metallic chill, a reminder of the old world they had inherited and the new one they were forging.
Preston's coat flared slightly behind him with each stride, his hand brushing the brim of his hat as he navigated through the winding paths between repurposed buildings. Sarah moved with a practiced urgency beside him, her holotape clutched tightly against her chest like a shield. Each step they took toward the defectors' quarters was measured, controlled, yet beneath the surface lay the undeniable tension of urgency. They were not just delivering orders; they were about to enforce a transformation, a shedding of old skins that would determine survival.
"It's not just about hiding," Sarah muttered, glancing at Preston as they rounded a corner. "It's about erasing every habit, every reflex, every tick that screams Brotherhood."
Preston nodded without replying immediately, his eyes scanning the courtyard where patrols moved in precise, yet intentionally irregular formations. "And it has to be quick. Kells is already tightening the noose. If they sense anything off, even for a single day as we risk to exposure."
They walked in silence for a moment, listening to the faint rustling of leaves and the occasional distant whir of vertibird rotors hovering in the nearby landing zones. Even the faint hum of electrical lines above seemed charged with tension, as if the entire sanctuary held its breath in anticipation.
Preston spoke first again, voice low but resolute. "I've been thinking about the defectors. Some of them… they've been with the Brotherhood for years. Their training, their reflexes… it's ingrained. How do we make them… invisible?"
Sarah's eyes narrowed, calculating. "We start by stripping the environment. No Brotherhood insignia, no T‑60 plating left lying around, no holotapes with old orders, nothing that could suggest who they were. And we work on behavior. Posture, speech, the way they handle weapons—everything must look like Freemasons, not Paladins, not Knights."
Preston exhaled sharply, a long, tense breath. "And Danse? He's still out there, running reports, feeding Sico information. Every move he makes is a risk."
Sarah gave him a glance, her expression softening briefly before hardening again. "He knows what he's doing. He always has. But we don't have the luxury of thinking he'll always cover the trace. That's why we act tonight. All defectors, now. Every trace of Brotherhood gone."
The walk became steeper as they ascended to the upper terraces overlooking the Sanctuary settlement. The buildings there had been retrofitted into living quarters and training areas for the defectors with a patchwork of old houses, repurposed warehouses, and bunkers stitched together with steel and reinforced concrete. Lights glowed softly from inside, casting long shadows across the snow-dusted paths and revealing small clusters of figures moving through the compound.
Preston's gaze swept over the settlement. He saw former Knights drilling in the yard, their movements tight and crisp, unnatural to the Freemasons' looser, decentralized routines. He saw scribes bent over data holotables, their fingers moving in meticulous patterns reminiscent of Brotherhood protocol, and engineers walking with the rigid confidence of soldiers trained to follow orders without question.
"All of them," he whispered, more to himself than Sarah, "look like they belong on the Prydwen."
Sarah's hand tightened around the holotape. "And that won't do. Not if we want them to survive. We need them to look human. Free. Freemasons."
The two of them descended into the heart of the defectors' area, their boots crunching lightly on the thin layer of frost that covered the courtyards and walkways. The first group they encountered was a pair of former Paladins, still wearing heavily modified combat armor that had been stripped of insignias but retained the sharp, commanding cut of Brotherhood gear.
Preston raised his hand, calling out. "Rhea! Tomas! A word, if you don't mind."
The two defectors turned, a flicker of surprise crossing their faces. Rhea's eyes, still sharp and calculating, met Preston's gaze, while Tomas's posture straightened immediately—a reflex born of years in formation.
"Something urgent has come up," Preston said, keeping his tone calm but firm. "Sico has sent instructions. All defectors are to adapt immediately. Effective tonight. Every trace of Brotherhood training, every habit, every reflex, must be shed."
Rhea's brow furrowed. "Every… habit? Sir, that's—"
"Not sir," Preston interrupted gently, with a tight smile. "Preston. And yes. Every habit."
Sarah stepped forward, her voice steady and authoritative. "Think of it this way. The Brotherhood is hunting for you. They are watching, looking for patterns. They know your reflexes, your drills, the way you move, the way you speak. If they see even the smallest trace, everything collapses. Sico doesn't want to erase who you are—just hide it until it's safe."
Tomas shifted uncomfortably, the tension radiating from his shoulders. "And how do we do that? How do we forget what we've learned? What we've been trained to be?"
Preston nodded, acknowledging the weight of the question. "You don't forget," he said. "You adapt. We'll train you to move differently, to think differently, to act as though you were never part of the Brotherhood. Your skill remains, but your form changes. You're still effective, still powerful, but you're invisible to those hunting you."
Sarah added, "We'll start by removing any physical indicators. Armor pieces, insignias, personal items, any old documentation. Everything that could connect you to the Brotherhood to be gone. Then we adjust behaviors. Posture, drills, even casual gestures. It all has to look natural, like Freemasons, not soldiers trained to serve an authoritarian command structure."
The defectors exchanged glances, anxiety and resolve mixing on their faces. Rhea's jaw tightened. "And Danse?" she asked quietly. "He's still out there. Reporting back?"
"Yes," Preston replied, voice steady. "And he's careful. But this isn't just about him. This is about all of you. About the Republic. You have a choice tonight, to survive and adapt, or risk everything by moving like a soldier who's already being hunted."
A silence fell over the small group, heavy but not empty. They understood the weight of the moment. Every movement in the coming days would be under scrutiny. Every habit they carried could be the one that betrays them.
Sarah looked at each of them in turn, her gaze softening slightly. "We're here to help you. None of you are alone in this. But you need to act immediately. Training starts tonight. Every patrol, every task, every interaction will be adjusted. You'll follow new routines. You'll adopt Freemasons' behavior. And you'll do it quickly."
Rhea finally spoke, determination burning in her eyes. "Then we do it. Tonight. No hesitation."
Tomas nodded, swallowing hard. "Agreed."
Preston allowed himself a small, relieved smile. "Good. That's what I wanted to hear. Start with removing any armor or gear that screams Brotherhood. Any holotapes, manuals, or insignias, dispose of them safely. Then move to behavior. I'll work with you directly on patrol patterns, weapon handling, and reactions. Sarah will focus on integrating your daily routines and interactions. By dawn, you should look and feel like Freemasons—not Brotherhood."
Sarah gestured toward the various groups scattered across the compound. "Spread the word. Everyone gets this briefing tonight. No one misses it. Sico made it clear, this is urgent. Any trace, any hesitation, any slip, and the Brotherhood could trace it back. We cannot allow that."
As the defectors moved to comply, tossing insignias and manuals into sealed containers, Preston and Sarah began walking among the groups, giving hands-on instruction. Preston adjusted the stance of a former Knight who habitually kept his back perfectly straight, demonstrating a more relaxed, civilian posture. Sarah helped a pair of engineers carry equipment naturally, rather than with the mechanical precision of Brotherhood procedure.
Hours passed quickly as they moved from group to group, corner to corner, room to room. Each defector learned to walk differently, speak differently, interact differently. Every gesture, every glance, every reaction was scrutinized and corrected. The compound began to feel less like a Brotherhood outpost and more like a cohesive, human settlement.
By the time dawn approached, frost glinting off the rooftops and the first weak sunlight washing over the Sanctuary fields, the transformation was nearly complete. Defectors moved freely, unselfconscious. Speech was softened, body language relaxed. Even their eyes, once tense and vigilant, now held the calm of people who had been given the chance to breathe without fear of immediate detection.
Preston and Sarah stepped back to survey the compound from the central courtyard. The quiet hum of activity was different now as it was lighter, freer. The air carried no echoes of rigid drills or mechanical movements. It was subtle, but it was there.
Sarah exhaled slowly, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "They're adapting. Faster than I expected."
Preston nodded. "Good. That's exactly what Sico wanted. Now, the next step is ensuring this becomes permanent. Every patrol, every exercise, every interaction, reinforcement must continue. They can't slip back into old habits."
Sarah's gaze swept over the transformed defectors. "And Danse? He's still out there, reporting every movement back to Sico. He'll be counting on this."
Preston's jaw tightened. "Then we give him what he needs. Invisible defectors, untraceable movements, nothing that Maxson or Kells could use to find us. We've bought Danse a week, maybe more. But this is just the beginning."
The next day, morning sun hung low over Sanctuary, casting a pale light over the sprawling industrial complex that housed the Freemasons' armament and vehicle production facilities. Smoke and steam rose from the chimneys, carrying the acrid tang of smelted metal and heated machinery into the brisk air. The faint scent of lubricants, coal, and scorched steel lingered like a memory of a world that had once been entirely mechanical, entirely brutal.
Sico's boots clanged against the reinforced metal walkways as he moved with deliberate purpose through the factory's main entrance. Every detail of the building, from the massive conveyor belts carrying heavy armor plating, to the hissing welders and grinding machinery that was alive with motion. Workers hustled between stations, their faces streaked with soot and sweat, their bodies moving in rhythms dictated by both the machines and the urgent orders of supervisors.
Sturges, bounded alongside him, eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. "I didn't think we'd get all this running so fast," he said, glancing around at the assembly lines that churned out weapons, armor components, and other critical supplies for the Freemasons. "I mean, the Brotherhood, if they saw this place, they'd… I don't know. They'd probably try to take it apart, piece by piece."
Sico's eyes didn't leave the rows of T‑60 power armor lined up along the conveyor belt, glinting under the fluorescent lights. "That's precisely why we have to ensure nothing here ties back to them," he said, voice low but firm. His gaze was sharp, scanning each set of armor like a predator assessing potential weaknesses. "Every insignia, every mark, every etched glyph that signifies the Brotherhood—gone. Completely. Not just hidden. Gone. We can't have the Brotherhood recognizing a single pattern, a single emblem."
Sturges swallowed, his usual energy replaced by a sudden seriousness. "You want me to… get rid of the markings?"
"Yes," Sico said without hesitation. "Every eagle, every shield, every serial number that identifies these suits as Brotherhood property. If a vertibird flies over, if a scout comes near, nothing can point back to who made these suits, who wears them, or where they came from."
They moved along the factory floor, the sound of welding sparks clanging against steel echoing around them. Workers paused briefly at the sight of Sico, nodding respectfully before returning to their tasks. Sico didn't acknowledge them; his focus was entirely on the assembly lines, on the armor, and on the risks that lurked behind every detail.
Sturges trailed slightly behind, scratching the back of his neck. "I mean… some of these marks go deep. Etched into the plating. That's not just paint we can scrape off. It's… well, part of the armor."
Sico's gaze didn't waver. "Then it must be ground away. Refinished. Polished. Any hint of the old markings must disappear. I don't want someone looking at this armor and thinking, 'That belongs to the Brotherhood.' Understand?"
Sturges nodded, his fingers tightening around the strap of his tool belt. "Got it. Everything clean, everything anonymous."
They reached a section where a row of completed T‑60 suits stood like silent sentinels, the hulking forms still gleaming from their final welds. Each bore the unmistakable insignia of the Brotherhood—a raised, steel eagle clutching a gear in one talon and a lightning bolt in the other.
Sico stopped in front of the first suit, crouching slightly to inspect the emblem. He traced a finger lightly across the surface, not touching the metal itself but sensing the raised contours beneath the rough glove. "This," he said, his voice quiet but carrying weight, "cannot exist. Not here. Not ever. I don't care how long it takes, or what it costs. Each suit has to be… free of it."
Sturges peered at the armor nervously. "We've got grinders, sanders, polishing tools… we can get it done. But, sir… it's going to take a long time. The workers will need instructions. This isn't just surface work; some of these emblems are part of the mold."
Sico straightened, his gaze sweeping over the entire line. "Then adjust the process. Rework the molds if you must. Refinish the plates. I don't want shortcuts. Every suit that leaves this factory must be untraceable to the Brotherhood, no matter how thorough anyone thinks they are."
Sturges exhaled, letting a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding escape in a small cloud of steam. "Understood. I can… coordinate the workshops. Get a team on this right away."
Sico nodded. "Do it. And Sturges… supervise personally. I want to know, at the end of the day, that every worker understands the importance. This isn't just about aesthetics, it's survival. One overlooked insignia, one etched line left visible, and Maxson or Kells could identify our patterns."
The younger man's eyes widened. "Yeah… yeah, I get it. This is more serious than anything we've done. And… it's for all the defectors, isn't it?"
Sico's jaw tightened briefly. "Yes. For them, for their safety, and for the Republic. We've spent too long recruiting, training, and protecting these people to let a single careless mark undo everything."
The two walked along the conveyor belts, moving from suit to suit, assessing each for vulnerabilities. Sparks from welding arcs danced across the factory floor like fireflies, illuminating the raised, metallic eagles in harsh flashes.
Sico crouched again in front of a particularly large insignia etched into a shoulder plate, running a gloved hand along the edge. "Do you see this?" he asked, almost rhetorically. "It's not just an emblem. It's a symbol, a signal. If the Brotherhood scouts notice this… they will know who made it, and who wears it. We cannot afford that knowledge falling into the wrong hands."
Sturges nodded, frowning. "We'll grind it off. Smooth it out. Refinish the plate. Nothing will be left."
Sico allowed himself a slow exhale. "Good. Once the emblems are removed, inspect every weld, every seam, every marking that might have been overlooked. Then run it through the final polish. Every suit leaving this factory must be indistinguishable from a freshly manufactured Freemasons model."
The two of them moved along the line, and Sico stopped again, pointing to a cluster of shoulder guards. "And these," he said, voice low but sharp, "check for stamped serial numbers. Brotherhood issue. If they're there, remove them. Re-engrave with generic identifiers. Nothing, nothing must suggest origin. This is not just equipment, it's a message: the defectors are hidden, their origin unknown, and the Brotherhood cannot trace them."
Sturges ran a hand over his chin thoughtfully. "It's a lot to change. The workers will need guidance. It's meticulous work. And some of these plates are… stubborn. Deeply engraved."
Sico's eyes were like steel. "Then we work with what we have. Adjust procedures. Assign teams. Rework molds. Anything to eliminate the risk. Precision matters more than speed. Every minute spent here is a minute keeping defectors alive. You understand?"
"Yes, sir," Sturges said, his voice firm, carrying a hint of awe at the intensity in Sico's presence.
Sico continued down the line, inspecting each T‑60 suit in turn. Sparks from welding stations briefly lit the factory like fireflies caught in a jar, illuminating the sheer scale of the work that lay ahead. Rows of helmets bore the Brotherhood crest, gauntlets glimmered with etched symbols, and chest plates revealed the unmistakable eagle motif—all of it a map that the Brotherhood could use to trace the defectors if left unaltered.
Stopping in front of a chest plate with the emblem raised in sharp relief, Sico crouched again, eyes scanning every ridge and groove. He pressed a gloved finger lightly against the surface. "Look at this. It's a map, a fingerprint, a signature. Every scout, every reconnaissance mission, every vertibird passing overhead, if they see this, they know exactly where it came from. We cannot allow it. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Sturges said immediately. "Completely."
"Then begin immediately," Sico said, standing. "Organize teams. Prioritize armor scheduled for the defectors. Track every suit leaving this line. Report back to me when initial removals are complete." He stepped back, arms crossed, surveying the vast expanse of machines, workers, and armor. The scale of the operation was immense, but he remained unflinching, focused entirely on the task at hand.
Sturges nodded, already pulling a tablet from his belt to send instructions to the floor supervisors. Sparks flew, grinders hummed, and the first plates began to lose the emblems that had once tied them unmistakably to the Brotherhood. Workers moved with deliberate precision under Sturges' guidance, their faces set with concentration and determination.
Sico walked a few steps further down the line, glancing at the armor, then up at the complex machinery overhead. Every movement, every decision in this factory mattered now. One overlooked detail could undo weeks of careful planning, jeopardize the safety of the defectors, and expose the Freemasons network.
The rhythmic clang of grinders and the sharp hiss of welders faded slightly as Sico stepped back from the line, letting Sturges' commanding energy take over. The younger man moved among the workers like a conductor, signaling adjustments, correcting angles, and giving quiet encouragement where frustration flickered across the faces of welders and machinists. Sico watched for a moment, allowing the hum of the factory to settle into the background. Every movement on the floor, every polished plate, every removed insignia was a line in the invisible armor shielding their people.
Sico's mind, however, had already shifted. The T‑60 armor was one battlefield, but the real danger or the real fragile thread was lay with the defectors themselves. How they moved, how they spoke, what they carried, the habits ingrained in them over years of Brotherhood discipline: those were the marks that could undo everything in a heartbeat. He pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders, the cold of the industrial floor brushing against the warmth of his determination.
"Sturges," Sico said, voice carrying over the hiss of machinery, "keep at it. Prioritize every suit bound for defectors. Ensure the markings are gone and that each weld is polished to conceal any evidence of its origin. I don't want excuses. I don't want shortcuts. You understand the stakes."
Sturges gave a brisk nod, eyes alight with focus and the slight tremor of responsibility. "I understand. Every plate, every emblem gone. I'll coordinate teams and keep the pace. We'll have these cleaned up before the day is out."
Sico didn't linger. He allowed himself one more glance at the lines of T‑60 suits, their hulking shapes now stripped of identification, now almost unrecognizable as machines of war, and then he pivoted toward the exit, boots echoing against the metal walkway as he made his way toward the central command area.
The corridors of the Freemasons HQ were quieter in the late morning, the hum of the factory fading behind him and replaced by the muted conversations of officers and defectors in training exercises. Sico's pace was deliberate, almost meditative, though his mind churned with calculations, contingencies, and worst-case scenarios. Every step took him closer to Preston and Sarah, the two people who had been charged with the human side of the operation, ensuring the defectors themselves were truly untraceable.
As he approached the courtyard where Preston often held briefings, he saw the familiar figures of Preston and Sarah standing together, papers and holotapes scattered across a temporary planning table. Their movements were precise yet fluid, hands gesturing occasionally to illustrate points to small clusters of defectors nearby. They were teaching, correcting, integrating. Sico's presence didn't go unnoticed; both immediately turned as he stepped into the courtyard.
"General," Preston greeted, tipping his hat slightly, a flicker of old habit betraying the formality of the moment. "Sico."
Sarah gave a subtle nod, her eyes scanning Sico with a mixture of concern and urgency. "We were just going over the patrol adjustments," she said. "Some of the defectors are still clinging to old formations. It's subtle, but it's there."
Sico approached, folding his arms behind his back as he surveyed the courtyard. "How far along are they? Have you begun the erasure?" His voice was steady, but underneath was the weight of unspoken stakes. Every second mattered, every slip could echo in Maxson's ears.
Preston exchanged a glance with Sarah, then answered. "We started last night. We've gone through half of them at least, running drills, adjusting movements, modifying speech patterns, and removing any personal items that connect them to the Brotherhood. Helmets, holotapes, armor tags, anything that could give us away."
Sico nodded slowly. "Good. And the others?"
"They're being briefed now," Sarah said, her tone tight. "We're staggering the sessions so no one gets overwhelmed. The goal is to have every defector stripped of recognizable traits within seventy-two hours. Not just externally, but internally with habits, reflexes, posture. By the end, they should be indistinguishable from any Freemason soldier."
Sico's eyes swept over the defectors milling around the courtyard. Even now, a few still carried themselves with the precision of Knights or Paladins, the faintest trace of the rigid, disciplined training that had defined their previous lives. "Are they compliant?" he asked. "Are they responding? Fully?"
Preston gave a grim nod. "They are. But compliance doesn't mean it's easy. They're still human. Old habits die hard. Some are hesitant, defensive even, Rhea and Tomas, for example. They have the skill, but the reflexes… those are ingrained. We're retraining them, yes, but it's like erasing part of themselves."
Sico exhaled, pressing a gloved hand to his chin for a moment. "I know," he said quietly. "I don't ask this lightly. They're not machines. They're people who trusted us, who left everything behind to survive and now they must unlearn the very instincts that once kept them alive. That's why you're here. You guide them. You shield them. You help them disappear without losing their effectiveness."
Sarah's gaze softened, though her posture remained authoritative. "We understand, Sico. Every exercise is designed to reinforce Freemasons' behavior without breaking them. We're making them fluid, adaptable, not erased."
Sico's eyes narrowed slightly, the intensity of his mind sharp as ever. "Good. Ensure it stays that way. The Brotherhood is meticulous. Kells will look for patterns, for small mistakes. Every insignia removed from armor helps, but if a defector's gait, a habitual gesture, or even a glance gives them away… it could all collapse."
Preston stepped closer, lowering his voice. "What about Danse? He's still feeding you intel. Every action we take here buys him time, but he's vulnerable out there. How much longer can we rely on him?"
Sico's jaw tightened for a heartbeat, then he relaxed it just enough to speak. "Danse is careful. He has to be. But we cannot assume that care is infinite. Every action we take from armor, routines, movements has strengthens the veil around him. That is the goal. We give him time, we give the defectors invisibility, and we make the Republic untouchable. But it requires absolute diligence. There's no room for error."
Sarah nodded, understanding the gravity. "Then we continue. No delays. Every defector, every habit, every connection severed. We make them ghosts before the Brotherhood notices they were ever here."
Sico's gaze swept over the courtyard again, observing the defectors as they practiced walking, speaking, interacting, and adjusting equipment under Preston and Sarah's close supervision. Every minor correction, every word of guidance, every redirected gesture built the invisible wall between the Freemasons and the Brotherhood. The subtle changes were almost imperceptible, but Sico's eyes caught them all, the rounded shoulders, the relaxed grip on rifles, the casual rhythm in walking lines.
He allowed himself a small, measured breath. "Report back to me at intervals," he instructed. "I want updates on progress, compliance, and any resistance. Every defector must be accounted for. Every trace of their past existence that gone or hidden. And Sturges, he's handling the factory, correct?"
Preston nodded. "Yes. He's overseeing the removal of all insignia on the T‑60 suits. The first batch is already under work, and he's coordinating teams to ensure every plate is unrecognizable."
"Good," Sico said, the edge in his voice softening just slightly. "Then I leave the armor in his hands. You keep your eyes on the people. They are more fragile than any machine. But also, more resilient. I trust you two. Keep them alive, and keep them invisible. That is your mission now."
Sarah and Preston exchanged a brief, resolute glance. There was unspoken understanding between them, the weight of responsibility, the subtle terror that every moment of oversight carried. But there was also determination. This was their people. Their responsibility. And failure was not an option.
Sico turned, walking toward the exit that led back to his private quarters and the strategic planning room. As he moved, he glanced over his shoulder one last time, watching Preston and Sarah integrate the defectors into new routines, observing the careful dismantling of old habits, the subtle correction of gestures, the soft retraining of eyes and expressions.
The sunlight caught the frost along the walkways, glinting like shards of glass, and for a moment, Sico allowed himself a silent acknowledgment: survival depended on every detail, every hand, every correction. The T‑60s would be anonymous, their forms cleansed of Brotherhood insignia. The defectors would be invisible, their lives rewritten in gestures, in speech, in movement.
________________________________________________
• 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:-