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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.
The frost-white morning light filtered through the tall, reinforced windows of Sico's office, turning the stacks of paperwork on his desk into uneven slabs of pale gold and shadow. The Freemasons HQ was quieter than usual, at least in this wing with the distant clang of training exercises sounding like a gentle heartbeat behind the walls. The scent of old holotapes, soldered metal, and a faint trace of machine oil hung in the air, a strangely comforting cocktail of responsibility and routine.
Sico sat hunched slightly over his desk, one arm propping up the side of his head as he read through yet another intelligence report regarding Brotherhood patrol shifts. The crisp paper crackled beneath his fingers. He could feel the weight of every signature required, every directive written out in measured pen strokes. Being a leader wasn't glamorous; it was meticulous work as it's often quiet, often solitary, often carried by the unseen threads of decisions no one else would ever know he made.
His coffee sat untouched on the desk, steam long faded.
Another form. Another report on defector integration progress. Another request from one of the scouts for thermal cloaks. Another inventory revision. Another structural blueprint. Everything felt necessary, yet everything also felt like the mere surface layer of something far deeper and far more fragile.
He leaned back, rubbing the space between his eyes with two fingers.
This is the price of safety, he reminded himself.
Then the door slammed open.
Not pushed, not nudged, but slammed, hard enough to rattle the frame. The vibration ran up the steel and echoed across the room like a bolt of lightning.
Preston burst through the doorway, hat nearly falling off, chest heaving, sweat slicking the sides of his temples despite the cold air. His voice came out half-strained, half-shouted, and filled with that unmistakable tightness of adrenaline and looming catastrophe.
"Sico! General, we've got a problem!"
Sico was already on his feet before Preston finished the sentence. "What happened?"
"They're coming," Preston said, breathing fast. "The Brotherhood. They're coming, right now."
A cold, sharp spike pierced Sico's lungs—not panic, but something far more focused, instantaneous, and bladed. Every internal alarm he possessed roared into life.
"How many?" Sico demanded.
"Five, five vertibirds. Already in sight."
Sico moved swiftly, passing Preston in two long strides. He reached the windows overlooking the northern courtyard, pressed his palms to the cool surface of the glass, and looked upward.
And there they were.
Black silhouettes against the morning sky as five hulking forms, unmistakable even from a distance. Their rotors cut the air in violent circles, turning the calm winter sunlight into shimmering waves as they approached in formation.
Vertibirds.
Brotherhood vertibirds.
Not scouting. Not passing.
Approaching directly for them.
A quiet, terrible stillness spread through Sico's chest, like the moment before a mine detonates.
Preston swallowed, voice trembling at the edges. "They're heading for the landing zone in the training yard. They'll be here in less than a minute."
Sico's mind snapped into precise, practiced clarity.
"Preston," he said, turning sharply.
"Y-yes?"
"Find the defectors. All of them. Every single one."
Preston straightened, instinct taking over.
"Yes, sir."
"Tell them to hide in their homes. Barricade doors if they have to, but make sure they're out of sight and silent until the Brotherhood is gone."
Preston nodded rapidly. "I'll make sure of it."
"And Preston—"
He turned back again.
"No mistakes. No one wandering. No one panicking. They must disappear. Now."
Preston's jaw tightened. "Understood."
He bolted out through the doorway, his boots hammering down the hall as he shouted names and orders, his voice echoing like a warning bell through the HQ corridors.
Sico exhaled once, slow and measured, letting the pressure settle into his muscles as he gathered himself. This was the scenario he had dreaded. Planned for. Predicted. But prediction was never the same as reality, and reality never arrived politely.
He grabbed his coat from its hook near the desk and shrugged it on with a swift, practiced motion. By the time he stepped into the hallway, the HQ had already transformed. Officers moved with sharpened urgency. Voices carried in hushed tones. Someone closed a steel door quietly but firmly. The air thickened with tension.
Sico didn't run.
Running showed panic.
Running made others panic.
He walked briskly toward the training yard, his mind running calculations faster than any computer ever built.
Five vertibirds meant a small strike force at minimum. But they weren't flying aggressively. Their formation wasn't attack-ready. No rockets armed. No heavy movement patterns. If they were coming for war, the sky would already be burning.
So why?
"We come in peace," was a phrase the Brotherhood rarely used unless their motives were more tangled than their intentions.
He descended the stairs leading to the yard, the sound of rotor blades growing louder, deeper, vibrating through the railings and into his bones. Each step felt heavier, each breath colder.
When he pushed open the heavy door to the outside, the wind hit him immediately as harsh, slicing, full of grit kicked up by the downdraft. Several Freemason soldiers stood in formation nearby, rifles held low but not raised, awaiting his command, their faces pale in the violent breeze.
The vertibirds circled once.
Twice.
Then the lead craft dipped lower, angling toward the only large enough flat surface on the grounds of the training yard.
The harsh, mechanical growl of the landing sequence echoed off the surrounding metal structures. The ground shook. Dust scattered. The rotors slowed, though their scream still cut the air like a serrated knife.
A moment later, the side door of the lead vertibird hissed open.
Brotherhood soldiers stepped out in full power armor with it's massive, towering figures of steel and authority, their visors glinting with sharp, reflective menace.
And at their head—
Paladin Brandis.
Sico's posture wavered only within himself, never externally. Brandis was the kind of man whose presence could crack a steel beam. His armor wasn't decorated, wasn't flamboyant as it was worn, scarred, and deadly. The red stripes marking his rank burned against the silver body like fresh wounds.
Brandis stepped forward, helmet tucked under one arm, face lined with the kind of experience that never softened anyone, only hardened them to the core.
Sico approached, his strides steady, measured, authoritative.
"Paladin Brandis," Sico called out, voice carrying through the wind and residual rotor noise. "To what do we owe this… unexpected arrival?"
Brandis stopped a few paces away, his squad fanning out behind him in a semi-circle but keeping weapons holstered.
Brandis inclined his head with respectful, but not submissive. "President Sico."
Sico didn't respond to the title. He only watched him with eyes sharp enough to see every flicker in Brandis' expression.
"Why is the Brotherhood here?" Sico asked directly, tone firm but not aggressive. "Your presence wasn't announced. And flying five vertibirds uninvited is hardly the gesture of friendship."
Brandis glanced briefly at the surrounding soldiers of the Republic, then at the towers, then back to Sico.
"We've come in peace," Brandis said.
The words sounded almost foreign coming from a Paladin of the Brotherhood.
"And?" Sico pressed.
Brandis shifted slightly, the metal of his armor groaning under the movement. "We're not here for conflict. We simply need to talk. To ask you some questions. But…" his eyes sharpened, "…those questions should be discussed in private."
Sico's brows lowered, a storm gathering beneath his calm exterior.
"Private?"
"Yes," Brandis said. "Inside. Preferably your office."
The wind cut between them, cold enough to sting exposed skin. The yard was silent except for the fading whine of cooling engines and the distant shouts of soldiers practicing drills in another wing of the base.
Sico let a long moment pass with a calculated, heavy silence carved with intention. He studied Brandis: his stance, his eyes, the rhythm of his breathing, the readiness in the soldiers behind him.
No one raised a weapon.
No one shifted nervously.
They weren't here for a fight.
Not yet.
Finally, Sico nodded once. "Very well," he said. "You'll talk in my office."
Brandis exhaled, something almost like relief softening the hard lines around his mouth.
"Lead the way," he said.
Sico turned, signaling for a pair of Freemason soldiers to remain stationed at the yard while silently ordering a shadow detail to relocate discreetly.
The walk back to Sico's office felt nothing like the one he'd taken earlier that morning. Then, it had been quiet, routine, wrapped in the soft hum of HQ operations and the gentle discipline of a leader beginning his day. Now every step carried a new heaviness, a shift in gravity that seemed to rest squarely upon his shoulders and follow him like a shadow across the steel floor.
Brandis walked half a step behind him, armor clanking with each stride, the weight of it echoing through the corridors. The sound wasn't loud, but it was unmistakable, an ever-present reminder of who he was, what organization he represented, and how suddenly precarious the situation had become.
A Paladin of the Brotherhood did not show up with five vertibirds because of curiosity.
He came only for matters that teetered between catastrophe and declaration.
As they passed a group of Freemason scouts in the hall, the soldiers stiffened instinctively, their eyes locking onto Brandis with a mix of suspicion and silent challenge. They didn't raise weapons, didn't break protocol, but the tension in the air thickened like condensation on cold glass.
Sico gave a subtle motion with his hand to stand down, stay calm, but stay sharp.
The scouts relaxed only slightly.
Brandis noticed their reactions. He said nothing.
He didn't need to.
When they reached the upper staircase, the building trembled faintly with the distant whir of cooling vertibird engines still settling outside. Sico opened the door to his office and stepped inside first, the familiar smell of paper, metal, and half-cold coffee greeting him like a reminder of the world before the interruption.
Brandis entered behind him.
Sico closed the door.
Silence fell, heavy as a wet tarp thrown over both of them.
Sico gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.
"Take a seat."
Brandis did, leaning forward slightly as if the massive frame of his armor still echoed through his muscles even after removing the helmet. His expression, carved by years of discipline and hardship, remained inscrutable, but his eyes like they carried something sharper. Something hunting.
Sico walked around the desk and took his own seat, but he didn't lean back. He sat forward, elbows resting lightly on the surface, gaze fixed directly on the Paladin.
"What does the Brotherhood need," Sico asked, tone measured and steady, "that you arrived without any notice? Five vertibirds landing in our yard isn't a formality. You didn't come here on a diplomatic whim."
Brandis didn't answer immediately.
He let the silence stretch, his jaw tightening slightly as though he were choosing not only the words but the weight behind them.
Finally, he said, "I need to ask you something directly. Something I hope you will answer honestly."
Sico's gaze sharpened. "Then ask."
Brandis inhaled slowly, bracing himself.
"Did you recently accept three hundred people or more as an addition to your population?"
The question hit Sico like a blunt force strike to the sternum.
He didn't flinch outwardly.
But internally, his lungs seized for half a second, his pulse tightening, a cold ripple spreading beneath his skin. He knew what Brandis was really asking. He knew exactly which people the Paladin meant. The Brotherhood defectors. The refugees. The families who escaped the Brotherhood's dogmatic grasp and fled under cover of night, clutching only what they could carry and whatever hope Sico had promised them.
He had hidden them.
He had sheltered them.
He had vowed to protect them from the very organization whose soldier now sat in his office.
But his expression remained unreadable.
He let three long seconds pass before answering.
Then he said, softly but firmly:
"No. We haven't."
Brandis's eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of disappointment? Suspicion? Passing over his face before it settled into something more grim.
"Are you sure," Brandis asked, voice dropping lower.
"Yes," Sico replied, tone even. "Why?"
Brandis leaned back in his chair, metal plates shifting across his torso with a slow scrape. He placed his helmet on his lap and rested both hands on it.
"Because," he said, "we recently discovered that over three hundred of our people have betrayed the Brotherhood. They've abandoned their posts. Vanished. And based on our inventory logs…" His stare sharpened into something knife-like. "…they took quite a supply with them."
Sico's breath tightened but he didn't let it show.
Brandis wasn't done.
"They also stole over twenty-five suits of T-60 power armor."
The room seemed to pulse faintly.
The hum of the filtration vents suddenly felt louder, as though the metal walls themselves were drawing breath.
Sico kept his posture steady, eyes pinned on Brandis with an unwavering calm that took everything inside him to maintain. But beneath the surface, behind the mask of authority he wore so well, his thoughts were turning like gears in a clock tower.
Three hundred defectors.
Twenty-five T-60 suits.
Supplies.
Resources.
Families.
People the Brotherhood would never willingly let go.
And Brandis… Brandis was here asking questions, but his presence with five vertibirds, a Paladin leading the charge that meant this wasn't casual inquiry.
It was investigation.
It was the first step toward accusation.
It was the last step before action.
Sico let out a slow, calculated breath. "Twenty-five suits?" he repeated, as though absorbing the magnitude. "That's a significant amount of stolen hardware. And three hundred people? How did they leave without your patrols noticing?"
Brandis scowled. "That's what we're trying to figure out. Someone coordinated it. Someone organized it. They moved in silence, under our systems, using our own routes. This wasn't a scattered desertion, it was orchestrated."
Sico didn't respond.
Brandis's gaze sharpened. "And you deny any of them came here?"
"Yes," Sico said simply.
Brandis studied him.
Long, measured, inspecting every muscle in Sico's face for cracks, every blink for lies, every tone shift for hidden truth. He was a man trained to interrogate without violence, to read people like schematics.
But Sico was unreadable.
A statue forged from experience, loss, and leadership.
Brandis exhaled through his nose. His voice came out lower, edged with something darker, maybe frustration, maybe suspicion already evolving into something more dangerous.
"We have reason to believe someone helped them. Whoever organized their escape knew our schedules, our blind spots, our supply caches. They knew exactly where to hit us and how to disappear."
He leaned slightly forward.
"And we know they didn't go north. They didn't cross into raider territory. They didn't join any settlements we monitor. That leaves very few places they could have run to, Sico."
Sico didn't blink.
Brandis's eyes never left him. "Which is why I'm here."
Sico felt the ground beneath this conversation shift by the second, like stepping across a frozen lake listening for cracks. He needed to move deliberately. He needed to choose every word with surgical precision.
"Brandis," Sico said calmly, "if you believe these defectors fled to us, then you misunderstand us. Our Republic is not a shelter for deserters. We don't welcome Brotherhood members with open arms. We've had no influx of people matching your numbers."
Brandis held the stare.
Sico held it right back.
Brandis's jaw clenched. "We're not accusing you, yet. But we need answers. And if those defectors are hiding among your people, knowingly or unknowingly, then the Brotherhood must reclaim them. They've committed treason. And anyone sheltering them would be considered equally guilty."
The threat wasn't spoken.
It didn't need to be.
It hung between them like a loaded gun resting on the table.
Sico took a breath, slow, quiet, every muscle in his body coiled with discipline as he kept his voice even.
"Brandis… I already answered you. No one has come here. No defectors. No stolen supplies. No power armor. If they had, we would know."
Brandis watched him with the focus of a sniper aligning a shot.
Tension rippled across his shoulders.
He sat back again, but the stiffness in his movements betrayed the storm he was holding in check.
"So you're saying," Brandis said slowly, "that a caravan of three hundred people simply vanished into thin air."
"Yes," Sico said. "If that's what your trackers found—or failed to find—then that's your mystery, not ours."
Brandis's eyes narrowed. "Our trackers traced some faint energy signatures heading in this direction."
Sico didn't react.
Brandis continued, "And they stopped abruptly just outside your borders."
Sico leaned slightly forward. "Energy signatures from what?"
"From heavy machinery," Brandis answered. "Power armor. Possibly vertibird engines. Maybe even heavy carts."
Sico shrugged faintly. "We've had increased patrol movement recently. That may be what your sensors picked up."
Brandis didn't look convinced.
He looked like a man building a case.
Piece by piece.
Clue by clue.
Step by step.
And Sico knew, if Brandis pushed far enough, if the Brotherhood dug deep enough, the truth would eventually surface.
Three hundred extra people didn't simply blend into a population unnoticed.
Not forever.
Sico needed to redirect Brandis. Contain his suspicion. Steer him into uncertainty. Delay him long enough for the Republic to secure every last defector, every home, every false trail, every created cover identity.
So Sico asked, "What else did your investigators find?"
Brandis hesitated a moment, then answered with a gravelly undertone, "Some of the defectors left coded messages behind. They spoke of a place where the Brotherhood's control couldn't reach. A place where families could live normally. A place with 'freedom.'" He practically spat the last word. "Your Republic is one of the only groups that even claims such a thing."
Sico tilted his head. "Brandis, half the wasteland claims freedom. Raiders claim freedom. Settlements claim freedom. The Institute claimed a form of freedom before we dealt with them—"
Brandis cut in sharply. "But none of them have the structure to hide three hundred people. Only you do."
The air tightened like a rope drawn taut.
Sico's voice remained calm, but colder now. "I am telling you the truth."
Brandis breathed in through his nose, his expression shadowing with a weariness that almost passed for frustration.
"Sico," he said quietly, "if you're lying to me, it won't stay hidden long. The Brotherhood will find them. And when we do… things will escalate."
Meaning:
War.
A war neither side wanted.
A war that could burn the Commonwealth to ash.
Sico let the weight of those unspoken consequences settle naturally into the conversation. Then he leaned back, folding his hands.
"And I'm telling you, Paladin Brandis as there is nothing here for you to find."
Brandis didn't move.
Brandis's eyes didn't waver, though his posture shifted subtly, a hint of caution edging into the steel-like resolve he carried. His armored fingers tapped lightly against the smooth surface of his helmet, a rhythm almost imperceptible, but deliberate.
"Sico," he said carefully, almost quietly, "may we… search your territory?"
The words landed like a hammer against stone. The air in the office thickened, and Sico's hands, which had been resting lightly folded on the desk, clenched imperceptibly into fists. He leaned back in his chair for a brief second, letting the question settle like smoke into corners.
He had been expecting confrontation, interrogation, suspicion, but a request to search Sanctuary? That was another level entirely. Sanctuary wasn't just territory. It was more than a settlement, more than walls and shacks reinforced with salvaged metal. It was a symbol. It was life. It was fragile. And most of all, it was populated by the people he had sworn to protect: the defectors, their families, the innocents whose trust he had earned, whose safety depended on discretion.
And the Brotherhood had no right. Not here. Not ever.
Sico's eyes narrowed, the cold gray of his gaze sharpening like knives honed against steel. "No," he said slowly, deliberately, letting each word fall like measured iron onto the floor between them. "You cannot. Sanctuary is under the protection of the Freemasons. It is outside Brotherhood jurisdiction. I don't know what you hope to find here, but unless you intend to start another war…" He let the threat linger, unspoken, between them. "…then the answer is no."
Brandis's jaw tightened, a mechanical and human fusion of tension. He shifted slightly in his chair, the metal groaning softly under the weight of a man trained to never hesitate, yet now forced to wrestle with limits he could not overstep. "We are aware, Sico," he said carefully. "We are aware of your Republic's sovereignty. But the facts are… troubling."
Sico leaned forward, hands pressing against the desk now, the veins in his forearms taut beneath the sleeves. "Troubling facts do not grant you authority here, Paladin. Sanctuary is my responsibility. Its people are under my protection. Your Brotherhood may have eyes across the Commonwealth, but they are not eyes over my settlement. Not unless you intend to draw blood."
Brandis exhaled, a long, measured sound, armor plates shifting faintly as he adjusted in his seat. "I do not wish for blood, Sico," he said, voice low, almost hesitant. "I am here because we need answers. Three hundred defectors, missing supplies, stolen power armor as one of our investigation leads us toward Sanctuary. I ask only to look, to confirm what we fear. To understand."
Sico's fingers tapped once against the surface of the desk, a subtle rhythm to mask the storm behind his eyes. Understanding? He had no doubt Brandis would understand eventually. But not yet. Not while the Republic's people remained vulnerable. "You will not search Sanctuary," he said, tone hardening. "Unless you want to turn this inquiry into an open battlefield while your war with the Institute is still ongoing."
Brandis's shoulders stiffened. There was a flicker that almost imperceptible of irritation, maybe frustration, in the slight narrowing of his eyes. But he did not press further. He understood the weight behind Sico's words. The Republic wasn't an empty frontier. The Freemasons were organized, disciplined, and most importantly, they had something no raider, no wandering militia, and certainly no rogue faction of the Brotherhood could ignore: they had lives to protect.
And Brandis knew that to provoke them here would risk far more than just confrontation. It could spark a conflict too large to contain, especially with the Institute still at war, its tendrils reaching across the Commonwealth like invisible fingers, ready to exploit any misstep.
Sico noticed the hesitation and pressed his advantage, voice calm but edged with authority. "Paladin, let me make this simple. Sanctuary is under Freemason control. Your Brotherhood may claim loyalty, order, and law, but here, none of that applies. We cannot risk lives for your investigation. Not now. Not when every resource, every person, every hidden corner matters to survival."
Brandis remained seated, silent, his visor catching the faint light that filtered through the reinforced office windows. The silence stretched, but it was a different kind of silence—less the weight of confrontation now, and more the tension of negotiation, of two disciplined forces measuring the limits of the other's patience.
Finally, Brandis spoke, softer this time, almost resigned. "Very well, Sico. I understand. Sanctuary is off-limits. But…" He paused, the words lingering, weighted with implications. "…we will not stop looking for the truth. Not for long. You should know that. The Brotherhood does not forgive deserters, and it does not forget missing resources. Wherever those defectors are hiding… we will find them eventually."
The words carried no anger, no threats shouted into the air. They were quieter, colder, sharper—the kind of words that linger long after spoken because their meaning is absolute. Brandis was not bluffing. He never bluffed.
Sico exhaled slowly, his jaw tense but his posture unwavering. He knew Brandis spoke truth, and he knew the danger that now hovered over the Republic. He also knew he had time just enough to secure every person, every supply, every hidden corner of Sanctuary before the Brotherhood's inevitable search reached the boundaries of the settlement.
"And when you do," Sico said slowly, letting each syllable land carefully, deliberately, "you will find nothing. Nothing but a community of people living in peace, under protection. That is all. There is no conspiracy. No betrayal. Only survival. And if you violate that, Paladin… I will respond. Do you understand?"
Brandis lifted his eyes, locking onto Sico's with a look that conveyed something more than acknowledgment. Respect, yes. Hesitation, perhaps. And a tacit understanding that lines had been drawn. "I understand, Sico. But understand this as well: this situation is not yours alone to control. We are the Brotherhood. We act when we must. And if survival conflicts with loyalty…"
He trailed off, leaving the implication hanging like smoke curling in a winter morning. Sico didn't flinch. He simply nodded, his mind already calculating, strategizing, anticipating the moves he would need to make to protect Sanctuary, its people, and the fragile balance that existed now between the Freemasons and the Brotherhood.
Brandis stood, armor shifting with the weight of his movement. He collected his helmet and tucked it beneath his arm once more, taking a moment to glance around Sico's office from the books, the papers, the maps strewn across the walls, the symbols of a leader organizing not just territory but lives. "Very well, Sico. I will trust your word… for now. But we will be watching. And when we learn more… we will act."
He leaned back, closing his eyes briefly, letting the rare silence envelop him. Sanctuary, three hundred defectors, twenty-five T-60 suits, stolen supplies as every calculation, every contingency, every person's safety had now been measured against the full might of the Brotherhood. The stakes had never been higher.
Sico knew that Brandis' visit had not ended anything. It had only begun the first step in a dangerous, delicate dance that one that would require precision, patience, and an almost impossible level of foresight.
________________________________________________
• 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:-