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The group broke, each moving with purpose now, the weight of orders propelling them into motion. The office emptied one by one, until only Sico remained, the map spread before him like the battlefield it was.
The office door had just creaked open when Sico's voice stopped Piper in her tracks.
"Piper," he said, firm but not unkind.
She froze mid-step, hand still hovering over her notepad as though she'd been caught with something illicit. Her head turned back toward him, strands of her hair catching the lamplight. "Yeah?"
Sico pushed himself up from the desk. The report, folded and pinned under his hand, felt heavier than paper ought to. He let it go and crossed toward her with slow, measured steps.
"There's something else I need from you," he said, his tone quiet enough that the words didn't chase the others out into the hall.
Piper tilted her head, curiosity pricking through her fatigue. "You just told me to keep it quiet, remember? Which, for the record, isn't exactly my strong suit, but I get it—no panic in the streets."
"I'm not asking you to write it up," Sico said, stopping a step away from her. His eyes, shadowed by the lantern's uneven flame, held hers with a calm weight. "I'm asking you to broadcast."
Piper blinked. "Broadcast?"
"Through the Radio of Freedom," Sico clarified. "You know the people trust your voice. They'll listen to you."
Piper's hand slipped down to her hip, fingers brushing her notebook's cover. "Alright… and what exactly do you want me to tell them?"
"That for the next few days, no one goes near the C.I.T. Ruins," Sico said bluntly. "I don't care if it's scavengers looking for scrap or traders taking a shortcut. They steer clear. They even think about heading that way, they turn back." His jaw set tight. "I don't want anyone else stumbling into what's waiting out there."
Piper let out a low whistle, shoulders leaning against the doorframe. "Copy that. Simple, direct. 'Stay the hell away from C.I.T.' I can do that." She paused, her lips quirking into a half-grin that didn't quite reach her eyes. "But don't you worry the Super Mutants will hear it too? I mean… I love the sound of my own voice as much as the next reporter, but if you blast that message over the airwaves, it's not just farmers and caravaners tuning in. They've got ears too."
For the first time in hours, the ghost of a smile tugged at the edge of Sico's mouth. He shook his head slowly.
"No," he said, voice dipping with a confidence that surprised even her. "Maybe they've got a leader, maybe he's clever enough to bark orders and stack rubble into walls—but at the end of the day? They're still morons. Big, green, screaming morons who want to smash and kill. You think they're sitting around fiddling with a radio dial, sipping coffee, debating broadcast frequencies?" He leaned back slightly, his tone half serious, half sardonic. "The only thing they'd do with a radio is beat someone to death with it."
Piper snorted before she could stop herself, covering her laugh with the back of her hand. The tension that had been strangling the room loosened a fraction. "Okay, fair point. Not exactly MENSA candidates, huh?"
"Exactly." Sico's smile faded back into resolve, his eyes hardening again. "The people need a warning. That's more important than worrying about whether a Super Mutant knows how to twist a dial."
Piper studied him for a moment, tapping her pen against the cover of her notebook. Beneath the sarcasm, she saw what he was really saying—that every life lost to ignorance, to bad timing, was one life too many. And if her voice could stop some poor farmer from wandering into the wrong part of Boston, then maybe… just maybe… they'd get through this.
"Alright," she said at last, her voice softer now, stripped of the bravado. "I'll do it. Tonight. People trust my words more than static and orders. They'll listen."
"Good." Sico gave a firm nod, something like gratitude glinting in his eyes though he didn't voice it. "Keep it clean. No details about what we're doing, no numbers. Just enough to keep people safe."
Piper pushed off the frame and tipped him a salute with her pen. "Message received, boss. I'll keep them in the dark and out of the ruins."
Sico's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, then he exhaled and turned back toward the map. "Go on then. The sooner it's done, the better."
She slipped out the door, her boots echoing against the wooden hall. For a heartbeat, the office felt hollow without the scrape of her pen or the weight of her questions. Then the sounds of the headquarters seeped back in—the clank of armor, the muffled bark of orders, the rhythmic clang of the forge outside.
Piper didn't head straight for her quarters. She cut across the yard, weaving between crates and lanterns, her coat snapping at her ankles in the wind. Sanctuary was buzzing now, though most of its people didn't know why. She could feel it in the air—an undercurrent of tension. Soldiers moved in pairs instead of alone. Families pulled their children closer when they passed the courtyard. Whispers chased her wherever she went, questions half-formed but never voiced.
The Radio of Freedom cabin stood at the far end of the settlement, tucked near the old water tower. Once it had been a half-collapsed shack, but the Freemasons had rebuilt it with salvaged planks and steel sheets. Inside, the battered console hummed with life, its dials glowing faintly in the lanternlight.
Piper slid into the chair, pulling the microphone closer. Her reflection in the cracked glass panel looked tired, sharper around the edges than she remembered. But that was alright. Tired voices carried truth, and truth was what people believed.
She clicked the switch, waited for the low buzz to steady, and leaned in.
"This is Piper Wright, broadcasting from Sanctuary. Listen up, folks, because this is important." Her voice was steady, professional, but with just enough warmth to soften the edges. "For the next few days, nobody—and I mean nobody—goes anywhere near the C.I.T. Ruins. I don't care if you're a scavver looking for copper wire or a caravan trying to shave an hour off your route. Stay clear. Find another way. It's not safe."
She paused, let the silence hang just long enough to drive it home.
"Repeat: stay clear of the C.I.T. Ruins until further notice. Pass it on to your neighbors, your trading partners, anyone you cross paths with. Save yourselves the trouble, and maybe your lives."
Another beat of silence, then she clicked the switch off. The console hummed on, carrying her words out into the Commonwealth night.
Piper leaned back, exhaling slowly. For a second, she imagined the message flying out across the wasteland, bouncing from rooftop antennas and makeshift receivers, slipping into farmhouses and trader camps, into the ears of wanderers huddled around fires. Maybe some would grumble, maybe some would ignore it—but enough would listen. Enough would live.
And if the big green bastards did somehow pick up her broadcast? She thought back to Sico's words and smirked faintly. They'd probably just smash the radio and go back to shouting at each other.
Meanwhile, across the settlement, preparations were already taking shape.
Sarah Lyons stalked the courtyard like a storm given legs, barking orders with the precision of someone who'd led squads through hellfire before. Soldiers snapped to attention when she passed, rifles checked, armor adjusted. She had them running drills by lanternlight, formations shifting in crisp, practiced motions.
Preston was everywhere at once—checking stockpiles, ordering carts to haul ammunition crates, ensuring water was rationed, even speaking quietly with the medics to confirm their supplies. He worked with the calm intensity of a man who knew panic was contagious. His voice never rose, but every word carried authority, and people listened.
Robert's Commandos gathered in the shadows near the northern gate, their gear stripped down for silence. He spoke low, clipped sentences, pointing out weaknesses on a hand-drawn sketch of the ruins. MacCready leaned against a crate nearby, tossing out cynical jokes between instructions, earning a few grim chuckles from the younger soldiers.
The courtyard smelled of gun oil and dust, the night wind carrying the faint tang of sweat and steel. Lanterns swung from posts, throwing long, restless shadows across the settlement walls. The Freemasons' headquarters had transformed into a hive of motion—boots stamping, crates thudding, voices rising and falling in urgency. It was the kind of rhythm that settled over a place when everyone knew war was coming, even if no one said the word out loud.
Robert crouched over a spread map on a crate, his finger dragging across rough sketches of the C.I.T. ruins. His voice was low, deliberate, and every man and woman of the Commandos leaned in close to hear. Beside him, MacCready smirked and flicked a spent cartridge in his hand like a coin, his sharp tongue cutting into Robert's clipped precision with jokes that didn't erase the tension, but dulled its edge just enough to keep the younger ones from shaking.
"…so that's our entry," Robert muttered, tapping at a street that curled around the ruins. "Broken buildings for cover. Good vantage points. We'll set up observation posts in threes. No one moves without backup. If you see something strange, you don't play hero—you signal, and you wait."
"Yeah, listen up, rookies," MacCready chimed in, his drawl sly but his eyes sharp. "If you start thinking you're some kind of lone-wolf action hero, you'll be green goo on the sidewalk before you can say, 'Oops.' Super Mutants don't give participation awards. They just eat you."
A few of the younger Commandos gave nervous chuckles. Robert ignored the sarcasm but let it breathe in the air a moment—it helped. Then his tone hardened again. "Thirty of us. We move as one, we come back as one. No exceptions."
Sico watched them from the edge of the courtyard. The sight of those men and women gathering under Robert and MacCready's command pulled a knot tight in his chest. Thirty souls walking into the shadow of the ruins, thirty souls he might not get back. But if there was one thing Sico trusted Robert with, it was precision. If there was one thing he trusted MacCready with, it was keeping people alive when things went bad. Together, they were the right choice.
When Robert glanced up, Sico gave him a silent nod. Robert straightened, eyes narrowing in acknowledgment. Orders didn't need repeating between them anymore.
"Commandos, move out," Robert barked.
Boots shuffled, rifles were slung, gear was checked one last time. Thirty men and women formed up, the night catching the shine of their weapons and helmets. MacCready swung his rifle onto his shoulder, muttering as he fell into step beside Robert.
"Thirty against fifty mutants and twenty mutt-hounds," he said with mock cheer. "Hell of a scouting mission, huh?"
Robert didn't smile. "It's not a fight unless we make it one. Eyes open, trigger fingers steady."
The squad marched through the north gate, lanterns fading behind them until the night swallowed their silhouettes whole. For a long moment, the settlement held its breath, the silence heavy as stone. Then the rhythm of work returned.
Sico turned away. His war wasn't out there yet. His war was here, in the courtyard, in the preparations that would decide whether Sanctuary stood or burned.
Sarah was already in the thick of it, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade. Soldiers scrambled at her command, lining up, checking armor, securing rifles. She had that look about her again—the one that made men and women straighten their backs and forget fear.
"Sarah," Sico called as he approached.
She pivoted, her steel-blue eyes locking on him. "What do you need?"
"I want two hundred soldiers prepped," Sico said, his tone crisp, leaving no room for question. "Every one of them armed, armored, and drilled for formation."
Sarah gave a sharp nod. "Done."
"And," Sico added, stepping closer, his voice low but urgent, "I want ten of the Power Armor men ready. Fully armed. Each one carrying a minigun."
For a second, Sarah's eyes flickered—half surprise, half approval. Power Armor was rare, expensive to maintain, and their operators were the elite of the Freemasons' forces. Deploying ten was no small ask. It was a declaration: this was no mere defense skirmish.
"You're expecting a real fight," she said flatly.
Sico didn't flinch. "If those mutants move on us, it won't be a raid—it'll be a siege. I want overwhelming force at our back. We hold nothing in reserve."
Sarah studied him for a heartbeat longer, then her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. "Alright. Ten Power Armor operators with miniguns. They'll be ready."
As she turned to bark new orders, Sico pivoted across the courtyard to where Preston was already overseeing a line of quartermasters. Crates of ammo, medical supplies, fuel cans—all being sorted, loaded, checked off against ledgers. Preston's coat flapped in the wind as he pointed, directed, and corrected with the ease of a man who had lived logistics for too long.
"Preston," Sico called.
The man looked up, his hat shadowing his tired eyes. "Yeah?"
"I need a convoy prepared," Sico said. "Ten trucks for the soldiers, two supply trucks. Three Humvees for support. And…" He hesitated just a fraction before the next order, but his tone didn't falter. "Two Sentinel Tanks."
Preston's brow furrowed. "Both tanks?"
"Both," Sico confirmed. His voice was iron. "I want them fueled, loaded, and ready to roll. If we go to war, I don't want half measures. I want to end it before it begins."
Preston exhaled slowly, his jaw working as he processed the order. Sentinel Tanks were beasts—mechanized juggernauts that could turn the tide of a battlefield. Using them was no small gamble, but Sico wasn't bluffing.
"You're planning to roll heavy," Preston said, not quite a question.
"I'm planning to make sure our people live," Sico shot back, softer but sharper. "I don't care if it looks like overkill. If those mutants push, we'll crush them before they reach Sanctuary's walls."
For a moment, Preston studied him—the man he'd seen take charge time and again, the man who'd carried more weight than most could imagine. Finally, Preston nodded. "Alright. Ten trucks, two supply, three Humvees, and two Sentinels. I'll have the crews working through the night."
"Good," Sico said. His gaze flicked over the courtyard—the soldiers drilling under Sarah's orders, the quartermasters stacking supplies under Preston's supervision, the dark road where Robert and MacCready had led their team into the unknown.
The night was black and heavy by the time Robert, MacCready, and the Commandos ghosted their way through the skeleton streets that circled C.I.T. The ruins rose ahead of them like broken teeth biting at the moonlight. Half-buried lecture halls and collapsed libraries, once the proud veins of pre-war knowledge, now sagged under vines, rust, and ash.
But what drew the Commandos' breath tight wasn't the decay of the old world. It was the trophies.
They came into view like warnings carved into the bones of the earth.
A bus stop pole wrapped in barbed wire, hung with helmets and smashed rifles—the spoils of fallen scavvers. A rusted signpost with human skulls lined neatly along its edge. The skeleton of a brahmin, stripped clean, lashed up like some grotesque offering to a god no one prayed to. And higher up, draped from the remains of a C.I.T. banner, a cluster of human torsos, bloated and reeking, swaying in the faint breeze.
The younger Commandos gagged into their hands, eyes wide, grips tightening on rifles until knuckles went pale. MacCready muttered a curse, his voice low and biting.
"Jesus… They've been busy." He glanced sidelong at Robert. "This isn't just a camp. This is a damn shrine."
Robert's jaw was set so tight it looked carved from stone. His eyes scanned the shadows, reading the shapes of movement where Super Mutants stalked the perimeter. Big bastards—eight feet tall at least—carrying crude, jagged weapons that looked like they'd been built out of rebar and concrete. Their guttural growls rolled through the night like drums. Behind them, a pack of Hounds slinked low to the ground, their red eyes gleaming like coals.
The ruins weren't just occupied. They were claimed.
Robert raised a clenched fist, and the squad froze as one, dropping into cover behind a row of overturned cars. Silence fell except for the far-off howls of the Mutant Hounds.
"Stay low. Stay sharp," Robert whispered. "This isn't recon anymore—it's confirmation."
MacCready crouched beside him, rifle braced against the hood of a rusted sedan. "So what's the call? We counting heads, or are we backing off before one of those brutes sniffs us out?"
Robert's gaze swept the ruins. Fires burned in oil drums, casting warped shadows across crude barricades. He counted shapes, tallied patrol routes, marked weapons. Every detail mattered. Finally, he slipped his radio from his belt, the faint click loud in the silence. He pressed the receiver to his lips.
"HQ, this is Bravo Team," Robert whispered, his voice low but steady. "Come in."
Static hissed for a moment, then Sico's voice crackled through, calm but edged with steel. "Bravo, this is HQ. Go ahead."
Robert leaned back, eyes never leaving the patrols. "We've reached the perimeter of the C.I.T. ruins. Situation is worse than expected. Place is crawling with Super Mutants—heavy patrols, organized positions. We're looking at numbers closer to seventy, maybe more. Twenty Hounds confirmed. They've fortified the area with barricades, and…" He hesitated, his lips tightening. "And they've set up trophies. Human remains. Gear from past fights. It's a display, Commander. They're marking territory."
There was silence on the other end for a beat, heavy and deliberate. Then Sico's voice returned, quiet but sharper. "Trophies mean leadership. Someone's calling the shots, keeping them together. You see him?"
Robert shook his head, though Sico couldn't see it. "Negative. Haven't spotted a leader yet. But their movements are coordinated. This isn't a rabble—this is a warband."
MacCready leaned toward the radio, his voice cutting in with that sharp-edged sarcasm he used to cover nerves. "Yeah, and let me tell you, boss, they didn't come here to roast marshmallows. They've got missile launchers, miniguns, the whole buffet of bad news. If they march, it's gonna be a bloodbath."
The radio crackled faintly as Sico's voice came back. Calm. Controlled. "Copy that. Stay put. Observe. Do not engage. I need confirmation on their numbers and armaments before we make our move. We can't afford mistakes."
Robert's eyes swept the patrol lines again. "Understood. We'll hold position, gather intel, and report back."
Sico's tone dipped quieter, heavy with the weight of command. "Robert, MacCready—get your people home alive. I need you back here when this breaks."
Robert's jaw tightened, but his reply came steady. "We'll get it done. Bravo out."
The radio clicked off, leaving only the distant growls of Hounds and the guttural laughter of mutants carried on the night wind. Robert slid the radio back into place, then turned to his squad, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Alright. Split into teams of three. Set up observation posts on the rooftops and alleys. No noise, no movement unless you're shadowed. Eyes on the patrols, weapons quiet. We map their rotations, we count every bastard that breathes, and then we vanish. Clear?"
A ripple of nods answered him. Fear lived in their eyes, but so did discipline.
MacCready's smirk was thin, but his rifle was steady as he glanced over the squad. "You heard the man. Stay low, stay smart, and maybe we'll all live long enough to drink after this."
The Commandos ghosted into the shadows, splitting into threes, disappearing among the husks of old-world cars and shattered buildings. Robert and MacCready stayed near the heart of the line, watching the patrols, counting the enemy one shape at a time.
⸻
Back in Sanctuary, the radio transmission crackled into silence, leaving the command room heavy with the weight of Robert's words. Sico stood over the map, his hand pressed flat against it as though holding the whole Commonwealth still by force. Sarah stood at his side, arms crossed, her face set like stone. Preston leaned over the logistics table, his ledger forgotten, eyes narrowed.
"Seventy," Sarah said flatly, her voice cutting the silence. "Seventy mutants and twenty hounds. That's not a warband, that's an army."
Preston's jaw clenched. "With missile launchers and miniguns, no less. They could tear through a settlement in minutes."
Sico didn't look up from the map. His finger traced from the ruins outward, along the roads that led north, west, toward Sanctuary. He didn't need to say what they were all thinking—if that army moved, it would march right into their people.
Finally, he straightened, his eyes hard as steel. "Then we'll be ready for them."
The ruins breathed like a living thing—low growls, the crackle of fires, the stomp of mutant feet echoing through the broken avenues of the C.I.T. campus. Robert crouched behind the jagged remains of a collapsed wall, his team fanned out in shadows at his flanks. Every sense screamed caution. Even breathing felt like it might draw eyes their way.
The Commandos had spent the last hour mapping patrols. They had positions scrawled into their minds—three mutants crossing a courtyard every ten minutes, two more circling the north barricade, hounds drifting like shadows near the broken fountain. Every move mattered, every mistake was death.
Robert raised two fingers, motioning his team forward. They slipped along the edge of the ruins, one boot at a time, rifles close, eyes darting for movement. He was leading a trio tonight: Ellis, a wiry scout with eyes sharp enough to catch a glint of glass in the dark, and Vickers, steady and broad-shouldered, the kind of man you wanted anchoring a fireteam.
They eased past a burned-out husk of a classroom. Faded chalk still ghosted across one wall, formulas written by hands long since turned to dust. Ellis' eyes flicked to it, but Robert didn't break stride. Whatever ghosts lingered here, they were silent ones.
Then the ground trembled.
It wasn't much at first—just a faint vibration that tickled the soles of their boots. But it grew heavier, like the air itself was bracing. Robert froze, his fist shooting up in warning. The team dropped low, pressed flat against the shadows.
The footsteps came closer. Heavy, deliberate, each one crunching gravel and rust like bones snapping. Robert held his breath. Ellis' hand crept toward his rifle grip, but Robert brushed it down with a sharp shake of his head. Not yet.
Two hulking silhouettes lumbered into view between the shattered pillars of the courtyard. The lantern fire caught on their skin—green and coarse, mottled with scars. Their crude armor clinked, jagged plates bolted onto belts of scrap. One dragged a spiked club along the ground, sparks flaring where it scraped concrete. The other carried a rusted pipe strapped with barbed wire.
They stopped not twenty feet away.
Robert could hear the guttural rumble of their voices. At first it was just noise, thick and ugly. But then the words came clear.
"The Boss want us to quickly gather more Super Mutants," the first one growled, swinging its club lazily through the air. "Before we attack the big settlement."
The second mutant snorted, its teeth glinting in the firelight. "Okay. But beware of the humans who patrolling the area. Kill them if you see them."
Robert's blood chilled. He glanced to Ellis and Vickers, both pressed low, eyes wide. The words echoed between them, heavy as a death sentence. The mutants weren't just squatting here. They were planning a strike—and not against some backwater scav camp. A "big settlement."
Sanctuary.
Robert's hand made a slow chopping motion—retreat. The three of them slipped back, one careful step at a time, until the shadows swallowed them whole. Every muscle screamed to move faster, but Robert kept their pace agonizingly slow, steady. The mutants' voices still rumbled faintly behind them, then drifted off as the heavy footsteps lumbered deeper into the ruins.
Only when they were a safe distance away did Robert let them breathe again. Ellis exhaled hard, his whisper sharp with nerves. "Boss? Did they mean us? 'Big settlement'—that has to be Sanctuary."
"Keep it down," Robert hissed. His face was hard, but inside, the thought was already clawing at him. He yanked the radio from his belt, thumb brushing the worn button. He pressed it to his lips, his whisper tight, urgent.
"HQ, this is Bravo Team. Commander, come in."
The line crackled. A moment later, Sico's voice bled through the static—low, steady, but with an edge of tension. "Bravo, this is HQ. Go ahead."
Robert crouched lower, his team huddled close to catch his words. "Commander, we overheard two mutants. They mentioned gathering more forces before they attack a 'big settlement.' They also warned each other about humans patrolling the area. They're aware we've got people in the field."
The silence that followed was heavier than gunfire. Then Sico's voice came back, steel wrapped in thought. "Copy that. They know about our patrols… How?"
Robert glanced back toward the fires glowing faintly in the ruins. "They didn't sound like they'd seen us yet. But if they're this alert, they're watching more than we thought."
On the other end, Sico exhaled slowly. His voice dropped quiet, as though he were speaking more to himself than the radio. "Maybe we need to build more patrol teams. They're already clocking our movements. If we spread wider, watch harder, maybe we catch them before they catch us."
Ellis swallowed hard, whispering under his breath. "They're planning something big. We can't wait for them to move."
Robert clicked his radio again. "Commander, you heard it yourself. They're not just sitting on C.I.T.—they're building up. This is bigger than a warband. If they march, they march on Sanctuary."
The radio hissed with Sico's silence. Then his voice returned, low and ironclad. "Get your people back alive, Robert. Every one of them. You've done your part. I'll do mine."
Robert let the radio click off. His eyes scanned the shadows, the grotesque trophies swinging faintly in the night breeze. He could feel the weight of the mutants' words like chains dragging behind him.
________________________________________________
• 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:-