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He left the HQ with the afternoon sun slipping behind the edge of the western gate towers. The wind was colder now, more bitter—but still moving in the same direction.
The next morning broke with a stubborn, silver light. It wasn't cold yet, not properly—not the kind of gnawing chill that forced folks to layer up in stitched furs and battered canvas—but the wind had teeth. It bit at the skin, dragged loose fabric like it was trying to taste you, and turned every breath into fog.
Sico stood with one gloved hand resting on the steel post of the outer fence, his coat flaring gently in the breeze. From this slight rise overlooking the farm staging yard, he could see almost everything. Not just the land, but the people. The movement. The machinery and muscles at work.
Below him, Jenny and her team were already deep into it—loading crates onto a trio of retrofitted flatbed trucks that had once been rusting corpses on the outskirts of Medford. They'd been salvaged, retooled, fitted with extra axles and thick-treaded tires sturdy enough to tackle the uneven road to Boston Airport. Their bodies were still pockmarked with the remnants of bullet holes and scorch marks, but they ran. And this morning, that was enough.
The wooden crates were stacked two high, each stamped with the Freemasons Republic seal and sealed with iron bands. A smaller glyph had been burned into the corner of each box: "FREEMASONS REPUBLIC CROP DIVISION." Some still smelled faintly of earth and hay; others of smoke and brine.
Sico adjusted the scarf around his neck and made his way down the slope.
The gravel underfoot crunched as he descended the slope, passing by a row of fuel barrels and a crate of spare wagon wheels. A few of the workers glanced up as he passed. One of them—an older woman named Ramira, who'd lost her left eye during the Talbot skirmish—gave him a curt nod and then went back to strapping down a pallet of dried razorgrain.
Jenny was at the center of the chaos, naturally.
She moved like a battlefield commander in a farmer's coat—clipboard in one hand, finger jabbing in all directions as she directed the placement of each crate with millimeter precision.
"Hey, hey—no! You put that molerat sausage next to the tarberries again and I swear to God you'll be scrubbing latrines 'til spring!"
She caught sight of Sico just as she was uncapping her pen to sign off on the final loadout manifest.
"Morning," she called out, stepping off the back of the truck's lift gate.
"Busy one," Sico said, glancing over the operation.
Jenny's breath puffed into the cold air. "It's always busy when you're feeding an army you don't trust."
He offered a half-smile. "Fair."
They stood together near the front of the first truck, watching as two younger workers hoisted another crate of dried carrots and bundled bay herbs into position.
"Minutemen Plaza's shipment arrive?" Sico asked.
Jenny nodded. "They got here before sunrise. Packed tight and labeled better than I've ever seen 'em do. Fresh batch of smoked radstag, too."
"Is it…?"
"Clean. Curie checked it herself. No parasites, no rads. Damn things really were raised on kelp and freshwater marsh feed. Turns out weird science actually works."
Sico let out a low breath, crossing his arms as he watched another crate being ratcheted down with a cargo strap.
"How many boxes total?"
"Fifty-three full crates. Eight fallback boxes on the secondary truck. Seven sacks of grain meal we're calling 'bonus goodwill' because one of the Castle's hydro beds overproduced. Not bad, considering last year half these fields were on fire or under snow."
Sico gave a slow nod.
"You know," Jenny added, pulling her gloves tighter, "I never thought I'd see the day we'd be shipping food to the Brotherhood."
"You and me both."
"Feels weird. Like giving a deathclaw a bottle of wine and hoping it learns table manners."
He chuckled, but didn't answer right away. She had a point. This wasn't just barter. It was risk. Real, tangible, historical risk.
Jenny studied him for a moment.
"You still good with this?" she asked. "Even after sleeping on it?"
"I didn't sleep much," Sico admitted. "But yeah. I am. Desperation drove them to ask. And maybe necessity will drive them to keep their word. If not…"
He let the rest hang.
Jenny didn't press.
They moved around the trucks together, watching the last of the crates being secured. A few of the workers were adjusting cargo netting and reinforcing the wheel hubs with fresh rivets. One of the Brahmin handlers led a pair of beasts up to the rear vehicle, attaching harness clips to the side yoke points for redundancy in case the engine failed mid-journey.
Sico watched one young boy—couldn't have been more than sixteen—test the corner straps on a stack of preserved tarberry crates. He was careful. Focused. Not sloppy like some of the newer recruits had been. His name was Cal. His parents had died during the Institute raid. Jenny had taken him in as a farmhand.
The kid had found purpose in work. In growing. In building.
Sico pointed toward him.
"How's he holding up?"
Jenny followed his gaze and smiled. "Cal? Solid. Sleeps in the barn most nights now. Keeps an eye on the tools, keeps the Brahmin fed. Doesn't say much, but when he does, it's worth listening to."
"Good kid."
"Good soil makes good roots," she said softly.
The first truck's engine chugged to life with a sputter and a belch of exhaust. It rumbled and vibrated as it warmed up. The second truck followed suit a moment later, both idling like slow giants preparing for pilgrimage.
Sico walked forward and placed one hand on the side panel of the lead vehicle, feeling the hum beneath his glove. It felt more real now. Less like politics and more like motion. Trade wasn't just theory anymore. It was steel, diesel, and dirt beneath fingernails.
"What's the escort detail?" he asked.
"Ten soldiers—four from Sanctuary, three from the Castle, and three from Minutemen Plaza. Split across both trucks. Leather carapace, pulse pistols, and scoped pipe rifles for range. No heavy arms. No Brotherhood gear. We want this to look like a civilian trade run with teeth, not a forward assault."
He nodded. "Smart."
"They'll cut east through Saugus, then take the route down past the Forge ruins. From there it's a straight shot to the airport. Should hit the Brotherhood drop point before sundown if they don't run into any heat."
"And if they do?"
Jenny raised her eyebrows. "Then you'll hear it in about thirty seconds."
Sico gave a tight smile. It wasn't a joke. It was just the truth.
He glanced at the trucks again. The drivers were climbing up into the cabs, adjusting their mirrors and checking the nav maps folded beside them. Brahmin were snorting, their breath steaming in clouds that drifted like small ghosts between the crates.
Jenny stepped up beside him again, quiet for a long beat.
"You think they'll keep their word?" she asked finally.
"I think they'll try," Sico said. "And if they don't, we're not without teeth of our own."
Jenny gave a small, approving nod.
The convoy foreman—a stocky man named Dell with a scar like a lightning bolt down the side of his neck—walked up and saluted casually.
"We're ready to roll on your word, President."
Sico turned to him. "Then roll."
Dell gave a sharp whistle and waved to the drivers.
The trucks lurched into motion—first with the groaning creak of age, then with the steady churn of engines built to outlast the apocalypse. The first truck eased forward, followed closely by the second. The Brahmin clomped behind, heads bobbing, flanks rippling beneath their harnesses.
The convoy rolled east, toward Boston. Toward the unknown.
Jenny and Sico watched them go until they disappeared beyond the tree line.
And still they stood there, alone in the silence that followed.
It wasn't relief they felt.
It was something closer to hope. Something forged in effort, sharpened by compromise, and carried on four wheels and trust.
"You hungry?" Jenny asked, brushing her hair back from her face.
"I could eat."
"Come on, then. The rad-oats are hot. And Curie made that syrup again—something about 'fermented sugar byproduct enzymatic processes.' Tastes like heaven. Smells like rust."
Sico let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
The sound of the convoy faded with each second, a distant murmur swallowed by the wind and the skeletal fingers of trees that lined the road out east. Sico stood there a moment longer after the trucks had vanished, his hands in the pockets of his coat, eyes trained on the space they'd disappeared into.
Jenny didn't say anything more until she heard the second sigh leave him—long, low, and nearly silent. Then she clapped him on the back, light but firm, and jerked her head toward the southern path.
"C'mon," she said. "We've earned a meal that isn't field rations or five-minute boiled razorgrain."
Sico didn't argue. His stomach, as if reminded of its existence, gave a quiet groan.
The path to the cafeteria wasn't long, but it passed through the core of the Sanctuary farm district—the cluster of buildings that had once been tool sheds, garages, and collapsed suburban homes. Now, they'd been rebuilt into a communal center: mess hall, medical bay, barracks annex, and Curie's lab all circled the plaza like siblings watching each other for mischief.
The cafeteria itself was a low-slung building framed in rusted rebar and old diner panels. The original pre-war sign, half-melted, still hung above the entrance: "Sunny Smiles: All-Day Breakfast & Comfort Meals"—now repainted with a Freemasons banner underneath and two crossed spoons added for flavor.
Jenny led the way, boots kicking up dust from the frost-dried ground. She pushed through the swinging doors and let the heat of the cafeteria hit her like a slap.
Sico followed, shrugging off his coat's collar as the warmth settled into his shoulders. The scent of cooked oats, fresh bread, something faintly spiced, and woodsmoke hung thick in the air. The room was half-full—workers, guards, a few scavengers grabbing food before their assignments. Most sat in clusters, shoulders hunched from the cold, laughing or eating quietly.
In the far corner, a phonograph played something soft—an old swing tune that warbled slightly between notes.
"God, that smell," Jenny muttered as she stepped up to the tray line.
Behind the counter stood Marta, a stocky woman with half-gray braids and arms like rebar. She ran the kitchen like a general ran a field op. No one questioned her. Even Sico kept a healthy distance when she was behind the ladle.
"President," she said with a respectful nod as he reached for a tray. "Morning, Jenny."
"Smells like breakfast and mild regret," Jenny said with a grin.
Marta smirked. "That'd be the syrup."
"Oh, it's ready?" Sico asked, stepping forward as she scooped a steaming heap of cooked rad-oats into his tin bowl.
"Ready's one word for it," Marta said. "Curie dropped it off last night. Said it's fermented properly this time. No gas explosions in the jar."
Jenny raised her eyebrows. "Progress."
Sico took the tray and eyed the thick brown syrup in a small ceramic bowl placed next to the oats. It shimmered slightly, like motor oil mixed with honey. He leaned down and sniffed.
"…Huh."
"What?" Jenny asked, grabbing her own tray.
"It smells like… sugar. Burnt sugar. And… is that cinnamon?"
"More like bark with ambition," Marta said. "Go on. Try it."
Sico raised an eyebrow but dipped a spoon into the syrup and drizzled it over his oats. The viscous liquid spread slowly, like syrup poured on a cold plate. He gave it a tentative stir, then took a small bite.
The texture was dense. Sticky. But the flavor—
"Whoa."
Jenny blinked. "Whoa good, or whoa I need to prep a stomach pump?"
"No—it's actually good," he said, surprised. "Really good. There's… heat in it. Like a spice kick. But also a kind of floral sweetness."
Jenny dipped her own spoon in with less ceremony and took a bite.
She blinked. Then took another.
"Shit," she muttered. "That's actually incredible."
"Told you," Marta said, already ladling another scoop for someone down the line. "Curie's a freak of nature, but when she makes something edible, it's like biting into a science experiment designed by angels."
Jenny and Sico took their trays and found an open table near the large bay window, where the rising sun cast golden light across the floor. The warmth of the food and the radiators made it easy to relax for a moment—something that didn't happen much anymore.
Sico leaned back slightly, bowl cradled in one hand. "I wonder what Curie used as a base."
Jenny sipped from her tin cup of boiled coffee and shrugged. "Last I checked, she was experimenting with sugar mold cultures from old Nuka-Cola syrup. Said she 'accidentally created a stable enzyme blend with flavor profile enhancements.'"
Sico chuckled. "That sounds like her."
"She also called it 'chemically righteous,' which makes me nervous."
He shook his head, grinning into his spoon.
For a few minutes, they just ate. The conversation slowed. The noise around them faded into a kind of comfortable hum. This was rare—no fires to put out, no urgent reports, no blood on the floor.
Just food. Good food. And the sound of chairs scraping and boots thudding and the low burble of people trying to be normal.
Jenny eventually broke the silence, voice lower.
"You ever think we'd get here?" she asked, spoon stirring her oats absentmindedly.
Sico tilted his head. "You mean breakfast?"
"I mean all of it," she said. "The farms. The convoys. Trading with the goddamn Brotherhood. The Freemasons flag flying from towers that used to be ruins."
He was quiet a long moment before answering.
"Some days I thought we'd never get out of the rubble," he said. "Some days I didn't think we'd survive after Institute attack on Sanctuary, or Drenner's problem. But other days… yeah. I did."
Jenny nodded slowly. "It's strange, isn't it? The world we're rebuilding doesn't look like the old one. But it feels like something new is growing."
"Something worth defending."
She glanced at him. "You think they'll ever try to take it from us?"
He looked down at his half-finished bowl, then back out the window where the smoke from the convoy still curled faintly in the sky.
"Someone will," he said. "Not just the Brotherhood. Raiders. Remnants. Hell, maybe even other settlements who don't like what we're building. But we've got the will to hold it."
Jenny leaned forward slightly, hands clasped around her cup.
"Then we hold it."
Another silence settled between them, but this one wasn't heavy. It was grounding. Rooted in shared grit and thousands of hard choices.
The kind of silence that only grows between people who've walked through fire together and come out burned but standing.
After a few minutes, Jenny stood.
"I gotta check the compost beds before noon. If that kelp feed's fermenting too fast, we'll lose a whole cycle."
Sico stood too, lifting his tray. "I've got to check with Sturges. Make sure our next recon post near Revere's actually got that beacon Preston mentioned."
They walked to the tray return together. Marta raised an eyebrow as they passed.
"Back for seconds?" she asked.
Jenny glanced at Sico.
"…Later," he said. "Definitely later."
They stepped back out into the cold.
The wind met them head-on the moment the cafeteria doors swung shut.
It carried a different kind of cold now—not just temperature, but purpose. The sky overhead had dulled into that pale, steel-gray that warned of winter coming in earnest, though no snow had fallen yet. The land didn't sleep, not in the Commonwealth, but it was beginning to settle—slowing, tightening, storing what it could before the real frost arrived.
Sico pulled his coat tight, nodded to Jenny, and said, "Thanks for breakfast."
"Tell Curie she's a madwoman," Jenny said, grinning. "And if she makes more of that syrup, I want a jar with my name on it."
"You and half the Republic," he replied. "Stay warm."
Jenny tipped two fingers to her temple in a mock salute and turned back toward the farmyard, already calling out instructions to a young worker carrying a crate of composting worm casings. Sico smiled to himself, then turned toward the north yard—toward the sound of distant shouting, of boots on dirt and barked orders rolling like distant thunder over the compound wall.
Drills.
He knew that sound like he knew his own breath.
He moved briskly, cutting across the courtyard where the rusted chassis of an old Sentry Bot had been turned into a flower planter—Sarah's idea, back when they still thought symbolic acts might be more than just symbolic. The flowers had died in the last frost, but the sentiment lingered.
Beyond the planter, past the fortified watchtower and the radio uplink post, was the training ground—a long stretch of churned earth where militia recruits and Freemasons soldiers drilled daily. But today, the usual ranks and formations had been broken up.
Instead of marching, they were building fires.
Sico slowed as he reached the top of the embankment overlooking the drill yard. Below, a dozen soldiers moved in pairs and trios, hauling canvas, stretching tarp over collapsed tent poles, digging trenches beside their sleeping rolls. Others huddled near brahmin-skin lean-tos, rubbing their hands or testing the tension on rope-bound branches meant to hold their makeshift roofs in place.
This wasn't combat training.
This was survival.
Cold-weather training.
And at the center of it all—barking instructions, correcting posture, demonstrating how to knot wind-blocking wraps around the collar of a trench coat—was Preston Garvey.
He wore no hat today. Just a thick wool scarf, a long survival coat with reinforced shoulders, and gloves that had clearly seen better years. His breath fogged with every shout, but he never once paused to warm himself.
Sico made his way down the slope and passed a pair of younger soldiers struggling with a frozen canteen strap. One looked up at him and nearly stumbled over her feet in surprise.
"President on the yard!" she blurted, starting to salute.
"At ease," Sico said, gesturing her down. "Pretend I'm not here."
She nodded quickly, face flushed—not just from the cold.
Preston saw him coming but didn't break stride. He ducked under a canvas ridge line, lifted one corner of a tarp, and barked, "No gaps! Wind'll strip heat from this faster than a Deathclaw strips bone. Tighter. Double-line the bottom with salvaged cloth if you have to."
A grunt of acknowledgment came from the recruit inside.
Then Preston turned and walked over.
"Morning," he said, wiping his hands on his coat.
"You really know how to motivate people before lunch," Sico said.
"They're freezing now," Preston replied. "Better here, with me watching, than out there with no backup and a broken firestarter."
Sico nodded slowly. "You planning full drills all week?"
"At least through the next two nights. Curie says temps could drop below zero with the wind chill. The real freeze is coming earlier than expected. If they're not ready, they'll die. And I'm tired of writing eulogy logs."
He turned, scanning the field.
A team of three had just managed to get a fire going using flint, steel, and shreds of scorched denim. They cheered briefly, then threw on a small bundle of kindling with clumsy enthusiasm.
"Good," Preston shouted to them. "Now keep it low and tight. Big flames are for folks with fuel to waste. You want heat, not a goddamn lighthouse."
They scrambled to correct their fire structure.
Sico stepped beside him. "You think they're ready?"
"Some," Preston said. "Not all. But they're learning. We've got nine more teams coming in from surrounding zones tomorrow. Everyone who's on active patrol for the next three weeks has to go through this."
"You ever think," Sico asked quietly, "that we'd be teaching our people how to survive cold wind and raider fire and frostbite and political fallout—all in the same week?"
Preston looked at him for a long second.
Then he said, "Yeah."
Sico blinked. "Really?"
"Yeah. Because we made something worth fighting for. And things like that always draw heat. Or cold." He gestured to the field. "This is the price of a real republic. Not the speeches. Not the flags. This."
He nodded toward a recruit struggling to get her gloves back on after tying a tarp to a steel stake.
"Sacrifice?"
"Preparation."
Sico exhaled through his nose.
Preston turned to face him fully. "How'd the food convoy go?"
"Smooth," Sico said. "Trucks rolled out at dawn. Jenny oversaw the load herself. Escorts from all three hubs. If they hit trouble, we'll know."
Preston nodded. "And the syrup?"
Sico actually chuckled. "You would've loved it. Tastes like a bonfire got drunk and rolled in molasses. Curie's calling it an enzymatic miracle."
"God help us all," Preston muttered, but there was a smile under it.
They walked slowly down the line, checking tents, correcting posture, offering occasional notes or encouragement.
Some soldiers glanced up nervously as they passed. Others looked relieved.
One recruit—an older woman with weathered skin and sharp eyes—actually stood and saluted properly. "President. General."
"At ease," Sico said, nodding.
Preston looked to Sico. "You up for giving them a few words?"
Sico hesitated.
Then he climbed onto the nearest rock and raised his voice, just enough to carry over the space.
"Listen up."
Movement stilled. Heads turned. A few latecomers stumbled into a semi-formation.
"You've probably heard me on the radio. Maybe you think I just sit in warm rooms making deals and signing orders. But I was there when the Institute hit this place. I bled on these walls. I've lost friends in every direction on the compass."
He paused, letting his breath fog in the silence.
"This world doesn't give second chances. And it sure as hell doesn't reward comfort. But the people standing next to you? They do. The Republic does. So this training—this cold, this pain, this exhaustion—it's not punishment. It's protection. Not just for you, but for everyone who sleeps behind our walls."
He stepped down.
"Carry that with you. And carry each other."
A silence followed. Then someone clapped. A few more joined. It spread—not wild or frenzied, but solid, steady.
Respectful.
Earned.
Sico nodded once to Preston and turned away. "I've got to check in with Sturges next. Revere scout teams might have found something. Keep this going."
"I will," Preston said. "And Sico?"
He turned.
"Good speech."
Sico smirked. "Don't get used to it."
The wind kicked up again as he climbed the slope, heading back toward the command ridge, toward more reports and more responsibility. But behind him, the fires kept burning—and the people, his people, kept moving.
________________________________________________
• 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:-