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Sico's eyes remained fixed on the horizon, but his hand came down briefly on Sturges's shoulder—solid, approving, wordless trust. And then, without another word, he turned back toward the heart of Sanctuary, the hammering and laughter of the wall crews echoing behind him like the pulse of a living, breathing shield.
The next day, Sico went to the weapon factory to see the progress of the AA Gun production. When he arrived, he saw that the workers were now assembling four AA guns, their massive frames rising like skeletal beasts under the high roof of the factory. The space rang with the grind of gears, the echo of hammers against steel, and the sharp smell of oil and heated metal. Sparks burst in quick flashes where welders bent their shoulders into their work, their masks glowing faintly in the dim light.
The head of the factory, a wiry man with soot streaked across his cheeks and goggles perched high on his forehead, spotted him at once. He hurried over, tugging off one thick glove to wipe the sweat from his brow. His name was Calder—once just a tinkerer in Diamond City, now the chief overseer of one of the Republic's most vital projects.
"Commander," Calder greeted, his voice hoarse from shouting over machines all morning. "You came at a good time. Thought you'd want to see this for yourself." He gestured toward the four hulking machines being pieced together. "They'll be finished by tomorrow. All four."
Sico's gaze swept slowly across the factory floor. The guns were monstrous compared to the crude turrets that once lined Sanctuary's walls. Even in their half-assembled state, they carried an aura of raw power: long barrels extended outward like the jaws of some predator, bases bolted into heavy platforms, swivels designed to sweep the skies. The thought of them unleashed—the deafening roar of shells tearing into the air against Vertibirds—was enough to stir something grimly satisfying in his chest.
He didn't smile, not outwardly, but there was a weight in his voice as he spoke. "Four by tomorrow. That's no small feat."
Calder's grin was tired but proud. "We've been running shifts 'round the clock. These folks know what's at stake. Every time they hear the Brotherhood engines humming in the distance, it puts fuel in their veins. They work harder."
Sico stepped closer to the nearest AA gun. Workers were securing the barrel to its mount, straining as they guided the massive piece into place with the help of a pulley rig. His eyes followed every motion—the way one man braced the chains, another guided the steel pin into the joint, a third shouted timing for the drop. Each role mattered, each pair of hands part of the machine that would soon shield them from the skies.
He crouched slightly, running a gloved hand across the cool metal of the base. "Where's the steel coming from?"
Calder answered instantly. "Half from the old overpass wreck—tore down what was left of it last month. The rest's scavenged plating from that derelict train yard north of here. Heavy, but it holds. Strong enough to eat whatever recoil these beauties spit out."
"And the shells?" Sico's eyes lifted sharply.
Calder didn't flinch. "Workshop two's been cranking 'em out. Modified the molds from tank-buster rounds. Each one's filled with a punch strong enough to tear wings off a bird mid-flight. We've stockpiled two crates already. Not near enough for a war, but it'll do to start."
Sico straightened, folding his arms as his gaze returned to the towering frames. The factory smelled of effort—sweat, grease, smoke, and resolve. He could feel the undercurrent of anticipation humming through every worker there. They weren't just building weapons; they were laying bricks in the wall of their survival.
One of the welders pulled up his mask, wiping grime from his face with the back of his sleeve. He looked barely twenty, his hair matted with sweat, eyes bloodshot from hours in the glow of sparks. When he noticed Sico watching, he froze for half a second before snapping into a stiff nod. "Commander," he rasped.
Sico walked over, his boots echoing on the concrete. "What's your name?"
"Eli, sir."
"You from here?"
"Goodneighbor. Before… before this," the boy said, gesturing vaguely at the half-built AA gun, "I didn't know a bolt from a barrel. Calder taught me. Everyone here taught me. Now…" He trailed off, glancing up at the machine with a mixture of exhaustion and awe. "Now I get to say I helped build somethin' that'll protect all of us."
Sico regarded him for a moment, then reached out, clapping a hand against his shoulder. "Remember that feeling. Weapons rust. Machines break. But what you've learned—no one can take that from you. You'll carry it the rest of your life. Use it well."
Eli's face flushed under the grime, and though he nodded quickly, his chest swelled with something more than fatigue.
Sico moved on, speaking with others, listening to Calder explain the modifications they'd made to the gun's swivels to allow quicker tracking, how they'd scavenged a set of hydraulics from an old junkyard crane to reinforce the firing mechanism. Every piece of scrap had a story, every bolt and plate a past life repurposed into survival.
The noise of the factory became a rhythm around him—the pounding, the grinding, the hiss of welders—like the heartbeat of a living organism. And yet beneath it, Sico could sense the quieter truth: people were tired. Their hands blistered, their eyes hollow, but none complained. They worked because they believed in the cause—or because they couldn't imagine the alternative of doing nothing.
By the time Calder led him up the iron stairs to the catwalk overlooking the whole factory floor, the picture was clear. The guns stood tall now, three of them nearly complete, the fourth still a skeleton but filling in fast. Below, workers swarmed like ants, each one driving a rivet, tightening a bolt, hauling a length of steel.
Sico leaned his arms against the rail, looking down. The clang of labor rose around him, and for a moment his mind carried him back to other forges, other factories. Places where war machines were built not for survival but for conquest. He had seen too many men and women ground down to gears in someone else's engine. This was different. This wasn't slavery to warlords or orders barked by generals in ivory towers. This was necessity, born from the will to protect what was theirs.
"By tomorrow," Calder repeated beside him, his voice tinged with both promise and fatigue. "Four guns. Ready to mount. Ready to fire."
Sico's eyes narrowed, fixed on the dark horizon beyond the walls. Somewhere out there, the Brotherhood still lurked—planning, watching, waiting. He could almost hear the whir of their Vertibird rotors cutting through the mist, the armored boots pounding into dirt.
Sico's eyes stayed on the horizon for a long while, the silence between him and Calder filled only by the clamor of hammers below. The skeletal outlines of the AA guns gleamed in the dull light as if hungry for the fight ahead. Finally, he drew a steady breath, his voice low but carrying with that weight people had come to recognize as both command and reassurance.
"Good," Sico said at last, turning his gaze back down toward Calder. "And if you need more materials, don't be shy. Ask Hancock to send his scavenging team to dig deeper, or get Magnolia to buy it through the caravan. Whatever you need. Don't wait until it's too late."
Calder blinked, as though surprised by the openness of the offer, then nodded with a force that was half gratitude, half determination. "Aye, Commander. We've stretched every plate and bolt we've scrounged up so far. But if you're offering Hancock's crew and Magnolia's coin…" His voice trailed, and a small, weary smile crossed his soot-streaked face. "Then these beauties'll be singing sooner than we thought."
Sico studied him for a beat, noticing the fine tremor in Calder's hands—fatigue, not fear. "You've been at this day and night."
Calder gave a short, almost embarrassed laugh. "Haven't seen my cot in two days. Feels like the factory floor knows my boots better than I do."
"Then get some sleep when you can," Sico said firmly. "These machines won't matter if the men building them fall apart before they're done."
Calder dipped his head, but there was a stubborn light in his eyes. "After tomorrow, Commander. When they're standing tall and ready, I'll rest."
Sico let it be. He'd seen that look before—men and women who refused to slow down because they knew their time mattered more than their comfort. It was dangerous, but it was also the fire that kept this Republic alive.
They descended the catwalk together, boots ringing against the iron steps. Below, the hum of work seemed to intensify. Workers noticed their presence and pushed harder, welding sparks flaring brighter, hammers striking quicker, shoulders straightening against fatigue. Sico didn't miss it—the way morale shifted when their leader's shadow fell across the floor. They weren't just building weapons. They were showing him that they wouldn't fail.
Eli, the young welder Sico had spoken to earlier, glanced up from where he was fitting a thick steel plate against the base of the gun. He gave a small nod, sweat dripping into his eyes, but his arms moved steady and strong. Calder noticed too, his mouth quirking.
"That boy," Calder muttered under his breath, "he's got more stubbornness than skill, but stubbornness'll keep him alive longer than most."
Sico grunted in agreement. "Skill comes with time. Resolve—" he nodded toward Eli— "that can't be taught."
They walked the length of the factory floor, and everywhere Sico looked he saw the marks of desperation turned into industry. A group of three women hammered rivets into place with rhythmic precision, their forearms corded with muscle. An older man hunched over a blueprint spread across a workbench, his spectacles cracked but serviceable, his lips moving as he muttered calculations. A pair of teenagers struggled to haul a crate of bolts, laughing at each other's stumbles despite the sweat soaking through their shirts.
Sico stopped near the workbench. "How stable will the mounts be?"
The older man startled, then straightened, clutching the edge of the table. "Commander—ah, solid. The recoil's the beast to tame, see? That's why Calder had us reinforce with hydraulics from that crane." He jabbed a finger at the blue lines of the diagram. "Anchor 'em deep in concrete, brace the swivels with the hydraulic arms—we're talkin' enough give to absorb the blast, enough stiffness to swing fast at anything overhead."
Sico traced the diagram with his eyes, then gave a small nod. "You've thought it through."
The man's cracked lips twitched upward, pride shining through his exhaustion. "We don't get to build toys, Commander. Only things that keep people breathing."
As the day stretched on, Sico let Calder guide him from one corner of the factory to the next. Each introduction, each small conversation, gave the machines more weight in his mind. They weren't just weapons—they were the sum of every blister, every sleepless night, every scrap of metal dragged out of a ruin and hammered into purpose.
At one point, a deep whistle cut through the air. The machinery slowed, welders pulling back, workers leaning against whatever surface was closest. Calder clapped his hands, shouting above the sudden lull. "Break time! Fifteen minutes, people. Drink, eat, and don't keel over on me."
The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Someone dragged out a battered kettle and poured steaming liquid into dented tin mugs. Others cracked open small parcels wrapped in cloth—bread, brahmin jerky, the occasional sweet salvaged from caravan trade. The air filled with chatter, laughter, groans of relief.
Sico stood among them, not above them. He took a mug when one was offered, nodding his thanks, though the bitter liquid tasted like boiled rust. Workers stole glances at him, some hesitant, some curious, but no one avoided him. In fact, one of the women hammering rivets earlier lifted her chin and called out.
"Commander! You ever fire one of these monsters before?"
The question sparked chuckles around her. Sico met her gaze evenly. "Not these. But I've put plenty of steel through the sky in my time. Enough to know these will do the job—if you build them right."
That earned a ripple of approval, shoulders straightening, tired grins spreading.
Then Eli piped up, his voice cracking slightly with youth. "Think we'll get to see one of these tear a bird outta the sky, Commander?"
A hush fell for a second, not out of disrespect, but because everyone knew the answer carried weight.
Sico let the silence linger, then spoke slowly. "If the Brotherhood comes, you'll see. But more than that—you'll hear. And when you do, I want you to remember that sound. It'll mean your work mattered. That you took their sky from them."
A murmur swept through the workers. Some nodded grimly, others exchanged glances filled with a mix of fear and pride.
Calder broke the moment by slapping Eli lightly on the back. "Careful what you wish for, boy. It ain't as pretty as it sounds."
The break ended soon after, but the mood was changed. The workers returned to their stations with renewed focus, chatter dying back into the rhythm of hammers and sparks.
Hours passed. Sico remained in the factory, not as a foreman, not as a supervisor, but as a presence. He asked questions, listened to answers, gave small words of encouragement that carried further than he realized. When someone's tool broke, he handed them another. When a young man cut his palm on a shard of steel, Sico wrapped the wound himself with a strip of cloth, tying it firm.
Calder noticed and leaned close when they crossed paths again. "You know, Commander, most leaders I've worked under—hell, most bosses too—they bark from the rafters and never set foot in the muck. But you…" He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "You stand with 'em. Makes a difference."
Sico didn't respond with a smile. He just said, "These guns won't work without them. Neither will the Republic. They deserve more than orders."
As evening crept closer, the factory grew dim, the glow of welding torches painting the walls in sharp bursts of light. Outside, the sky was bruising into shades of purple and black, and the faint hum of distant Vertibird engines pricked the air like a warning. Workers froze for half a second at the sound, eyes darting upward instinctively. But the noise faded, drifting into the distance, and the rhythm resumed—faster now, as if the reminder of danger fueled their urgency.
The night had settled deep by the time Sico stepped away from the factory. The clang of hammers still echoed behind him, muffled now by thick walls and distance, but it clung to his ears like a ghostly drumbeat. The air outside was cold, sharper than it had been earlier, and every breath seemed to cut into his lungs with a metallic tang. The lamps strung along the main road of the settlement buzzed faintly, their light painting thin pools of gold across the cracked pavement.
He walked with steady strides toward the edge of the grounds where the testing field had been carved out. Beyond the hum of industry and the smell of molten metal, the field stretched wide and scarred, an expanse where earth had been turned over and blasted again and again to make room for the experiments that Mel and his team ran like a pack of restless wolves.
Even from a distance, Sico could hear them. The occasional bark of laughter, the clatter of tools, the low, excited murmur of voices that carried over the night air. A spotlight swept lazily across the field, illuminating the skeletal frame of a truck that stood parked in the dirt like some stubborn mule waiting for a burden too heavy for its back. And beside it—gleaming under half-welded plates, improvised braces, and lines of cabling—the smaller prototype of the AA gun loomed.
Mel was there, of course. Sico could see the broad-shouldered man crouched low, his hair wild and his sleeves rolled back, hands blackened with grease as he tightened something against the base of the weapon. Two of his engineers held lanterns at awkward angles while another scrawled frantic notes across a ledger. The air smelled of oil, steel, and sweat—an alchemy of necessity.
Sico slowed his pace as he reached them, boots crunching softly on gravel. Mel glanced up at the sound, his face breaking into a grin that made his teeth gleam in the dark.
"Commander," Mel greeted, straightening up and wiping his hands on a rag that looked more black than cloth now. "Didn't think you'd sneak away from Calder's temple of sparks this soon."
Sico allowed himself the smallest twitch of amusement. "I've seen enough iron flying in the air today. Thought I'd see how you're shaping the fight out here." He let his gaze sweep across the prototype. The weapon, even reduced in size, still looked mean enough to tear the sky apart. But what caught his eye most was the way it was mounted to the truck, like an armored parasite fused to its host.
"How is it?" Sico asked, his voice low, carrying the quiet authority that made the night itself seem to lean closer.
Mel slapped a hand against the gun's barrel affectionately. "We've downed the caliber—she's leaner now. Dropped it enough to keep the recoil from tearing the axle clean off. It's not the beast Calder's cooking in there, but she'll ride on the truck without snapping it in half. And—" he gestured toward the team behind him— "we're ready to test her again. See if she barks instead of coughs this time."
Sico stepped closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the mountings. The welds glistened fresh under the lamp light, and the hydraulic braces bolted along the truck bed looked sturdy, though he could see where corners had been cut—where necessity had forced compromise.
"You trust it?" Sico asked simply.
Mel let out a breath that was half chuckle, half sigh. "Trust? Hah. I trust my team. I trust the steel we've managed to scrape together. And I trust that the Brotherhood's not going to wait for us to feel ready. So, yeah, I trust it enough."
One of his engineers—a wiry woman with her hair tied back in a filthy scarf—spoke up from behind the ledger. "We tightened the recoil dampeners this time. Last run nearly ripped the chassis apart. But the new anchors should hold. Should."
Mel shot her a look that was equal parts warning and affection. "Easy, Mae. Don't scare the Commander with your 'shoulds.' He already knows everything here comes with a gamble."
Sico's eyes lingered on her for a moment, then back to Mel. "Run it."
There was no hesitation after that. Mel barked a few sharp orders, and his team scattered into motion, lanterns swinging, boots stomping across the dirt as they took their places. The truck engine coughed and roared to life, rattling as if it, too, was unsure it could handle the burden strapped to its back.
Sico stood a few paces back, arms folded across his chest, watching with a soldier's patience. His gaze tracked every motion—the way Mae adjusted the feed belt, the way another man primed the hydraulic brace, the way Mel himself climbed up into the truck bed and laid his hands on the weapon like a priest at an altar.
The gun's barrel lifted, angling toward the night sky. The hum of hydraulics whispered through the field, and for a moment, there was only the breathless anticipation of men and women who knew the next sound could mean triumph—or a crater where they stood.
"Ready!" Mel shouted, his voice carrying sharp against the night.
"Ready!" echoed Mae, her hands braced on the feed.
"Do it," Sico called, his tone like iron drawn from the earth.
The gun fired.
The roar split the night open, thunder cracking from the barrel with a force that rattled the earth beneath their boots. The truck jolted violently, its tires groaning under the recoil, the braces shuddering as though they might give way. A streak of fire tore into the darkness above, vanishing somewhere into the void of stars.
For a moment, silence followed—just the engine rattling, the groan of metal settling. Then a cheer went up from the team. Mae whooped, the man with the ledger slammed it shut with a victorious laugh, and Mel threw his head back, cackling like a madman.
"She held!" Mel roared, leaping down from the truck bed. He landed heavily in the dirt, spinning to face Sico, his grin wide enough to split his face. "Did you see that? She bloody well held!"
Sico didn't cheer. But the faintest curve touched his mouth, a shadow of a smile that, for him, meant more than a shout. He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the gravel until he stood near the truck's trembling frame. He pressed a hand against the side, feeling the warmth of the steel, the faint tremor still humming through it like a living pulse.
"You've done well," Sico said quietly, but the words carried, the team's cheers softening as they heard him. "This… this can move with us. Strike where we need it. You've given us teeth to bite back when they think they own the sky."
Mel's grin softened into something steadier, more serious. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his rag, glancing toward his team. They were watching him, waiting for his lead. He nodded, then looked back to Sico.
"It's a start," Mel said. "We'll need more tests. More steel. More… everything. But this? This is proof. Proof we're not just patching holes—we're building something that'll make them bleed."
Sico's eyes lifted toward the horizon, where the faint hum of Vertibird engines still haunted the air, distant but real. He thought of Calder's factory, of Eli's sweat-soaked face, of the rivet-hammering women, of the older man muttering equations over blueprints. And now, here—Mel's mad brilliance, his team's devotion, the thunder of the prototype's bark into the night.
It was all threads of the same tapestry. And for the first time in a long while, Sico felt the fabric tightening into something strong enough to withstand the storm.
"Keep at it," Sico said at last, his voice low, steady, immovable. "Because when the storm comes, it won't wait for us to be ready. It'll come all the same. And when it does—" he looked back at the smoking barrel, at Mel, at the team now standing a little taller— "we'll meet it head-on."
The team nodded as one. Mel's smile faded into something fiercer, sharper, his eyes gleaming under the harsh lamp light. "Then we'll keep pushing, Commander. Until these bastards learn the sky ain't theirs anymore."
The night held them there for a long moment—the team, the weapon, the quiet hum of the truck engine still idling like a heartbeat. And Sico stood among them, the weight of the Republic pressing on his shoulders, but for once, not crushing him. Because in this moment, he wasn't carrying it alone.
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• 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:-