If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
The work inside the courtyard surged on. Beams were hoisted into place, ropes creaking under the strain. Crates cracked open to reveal nails, hinges, and half-rusted tools that suddenly seemed priceless. Someone started singing under their breath — a low, rough tune — and others picked it up, weaving the rhythm into the clang of hammers.
The next morning crept in slow, dragging its pale light across the ruined skyline of Boston. Smoke still drifted in lazy plumes above the courtyard where the fires had burned through the night, warding off the cold and keeping the workers moving. The rhythm of hammers and saws picked up again with the sunrise, as though fatigue had no dominion here.
The C.I.T. Ruins looked different already. What yesterday had seemed like a tombstone for a forgotten age now bristled with scaffolds, timber frames, and the outlines of walls beginning to rise again. Settlers carried planks on their shoulders, soldiers dug out trenches for water runoff. It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't smooth, but it was happening.
Sico moved through it all with quiet gravity, his presence part anchor, part reminder. Men and women alike straightened a little when they caught his eye, as though his approval alone was worth an extra breath of strength. He gave nods here, a word there, sometimes a sharp correction if he saw carelessness, but mostly he let them move. They needed to feel that this place belonged to them — not just to him.
By midday, with the sun high enough to cast sharp shadows against the gutted skeletons of old university halls, Sico turned toward a quieter corner of the ruins. There, beneath the half-collapsed dome of what had once been a lecture building, the medical tents had been set up. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and smoke, bandages drying on lines strung between cracked marble pillars.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted. The noise of construction faded to a muffled hum, replaced by the rustle of canvas and the low groans of the wounded. Settlers and soldiers lay on cots lined in uneven rows, some dozing, some staring hollow-eyed at the ceiling, others whispering to one another in voices brittle as dry leaves.
Sico paused at the entrance, letting his eyes adjust, letting himself feel the weight of the place. Victory — if you could call it that — always looked different in the infirmary. Out there, men cheered and built walls. In here, men counted losses.
A doctor approached, a woman in her late forties with streaks of gray tangled into her brown hair. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, her apron stained with the day's work already. She wiped her hands on a rag before speaking, though it did little to hide the exhaustion in her eyes.
"General," she said, giving a small nod. "I wasn't expecting you so soon."
"I make it a point," Sico replied. His voice softened here, stripped of command. "How are they?"
The doctor hesitated. Her gaze flicked to the rows of cots, then back to him, and she sighed. "We've stabilized most. Infection's under control for now, thanks to the antibiotics we scrounged. But the critical ones…" She let the words trail off, as though unsure if she wanted to hand them over.
Sico's eyes narrowed, not in anger but in expectation. He needed the truth, unvarnished.
Finally, she gave it. "There are only three left in that state. Three who survived the night." Her lips pressed together, thin and hard. "But they won't walk again. Not in the way that matters for the field. One lost both legs below the knee. Another's arm is gone clean up to the shoulder, and the third — spinal injury. He'll never rise from that cot again."
The words sank into the space between them like stones into deep water. The sounds of the tent — a cough, a groan, the distant hammering from outside — seemed sharper in the silence that followed.
Sico's jaw tightened. He didn't look away, didn't let himself flinch. He had seen this before, too many times. But each face, each name, each wound carved itself into him all the same.
"Can I see them?" he asked finally.
The doctor hesitated again, then nodded. "If you're prepared for it."
Sico didn't answer. He just moved, his boots heavy against the packed dirt floor.
The first man lay near the far corner, propped up on thin pillows. His legs — or what was left of them — were bundled in clean white wrappings that ended just below the knees. His skin was pale, sweat shining against his brow, but his eyes flicked up when he noticed Sico. They were sharp, still alive.
"General," the man rasped, voice rough from pain and thirst. "Guess I won't be marching with the boys no more."
Sico moved closer, lowering himself onto the edge of the cot so he wasn't standing over him like a judge. "No," he said, quietly honest. "But you're still here. That matters."
The man gave a bitter chuckle that turned quickly into a wince. "Here, sure. But half a man. What good's that?"
"You've got hands. You've got a mind. I've seen men win wars without ever touching a rifle," Sico said, his tone steady. He reached out, resting a firm hand on the man's shoulder. "You'll find your place in this. I'll make sure of it."
The soldier's eyes glossed, though he tried to blink it away. Finally, he gave a small nod. "Aye, sir."
Sico rose and moved on.
The second man was younger, no more than twenty. His right arm ended in bandages above the shoulder, the fabric stained through despite the doctor's best efforts. He stared at the ceiling as if it might give him answers, lips moving without sound until Sico's shadow fell across him. His eyes darted, unfocused, then fixed on the general.
"I can't even hold a damn cup," he whispered. The words trembled, more confession than statement. "What use am I now?"
Sico crouched low beside him. "You're alive. That's the first thing. The rest…" He searched the boy's face, seeing the fear that sat deeper than the pain. "The rest we'll figure out together. You're not abandoned. You're not forgotten. Understand me?"
Tears welled, spilling down the boy's temples into his hair. He nodded weakly, clutching at the thin blanket with his remaining hand.
The third man lay motionless on his cot. His eyes were open, bright with clarity, but his body did not move below the neck. The doctor had spoken true — his spine was gone, shattered beyond repair.
Sico sat beside him without speaking, letting the silence stretch. Finally, the man spoke, his voice calm in its resignation. "Feels strange," he murmured. "To be trapped like this. Mind sharp as ever, body useless as stone."
Sico met his gaze. "Your body's not all you are. Your voice still carries. Your thoughts still matter."
The man gave a faint smile. "Then maybe I'll be your ghost in the halls. Whisper strategies when no one else listens."
Sico leaned forward slightly, the edge of a smile tugging at his own lips despite the heaviness in his chest. "I'll listen. Every word."
For a long moment, the two men held each other's eyes — one bound to a cot, the other bound to leadership neither had asked for, both caught in the same war.
When Sico finally rose to leave, he carried the weight of all three with him. Their faces, their words, their futures — stolen yet still burning.
Outside, the sun blazed brighter, casting sharp lines against the half-rebuilt walls. The workers labored on, sweat glistening on their brows, dust coating their arms. Sturges was already barking orders again, his voice cutting across the courtyard like a whip made of encouragement. Preston's patrols marched the perimeter, rifles slung, eyes sharp.
The air outside the medical tent was harsher, brighter, almost abrasive after the dim hush of the infirmary. Dust swirled in the courtyard, kicked up by boots and dragged on the wind that threaded through the broken spires of C.I.T. Sico stood there for a moment, grounding himself again in the present — in the work, in the movement, in the sound of hammers ringing against old metal.
Every nail driven into place was a reminder of why those three broken men in the infirmary still mattered. The living needed purpose. The dead demanded meaning. And leadership, Sico knew, meant carrying both on his shoulders without letting either crush him.
His gaze swept the courtyard until it landed on Preston Garvey. The young officer stood by the east gate, where a pair of sagging archways framed the street beyond. Preston's hat brim shadowed his eyes, but his posture carried the same energy he always did — alert, steady, the kind of man who made others stand taller just by being nearby.
At the moment, Preston was barking quiet but sharp orders to a group of his officers. They were gathered around a crude map spread across the hood of an old rusted car, marking routes with bits of chalk and broken glass. Their voices rose and fell, crisp and clipped, all business.
Sico walked toward them, his boots crunching over gravel. As he approached, a few of the officers noticed him and instinctively straightened, their conversations faltering into silence. Preston looked up last, his eyes narrowing in the sunlight, then softened when he recognized who it was.
"General," Preston greeted, offering a short, respectful nod. "We're organizing today's patrol routes. I've got two squads sweeping north and west, two more holding a perimeter rotation here and here." He tapped the map with a gloved finger, dust scattering off the hood. "Scouts came back saying there's Raider movement near Cambridge, but nothing close yet. Still, we're staying sharp."
Sico leaned over the map, studying it without speaking at first. His shadow stretched across the officers, the weight of his presence settling over the group. He traced the chalk lines with his eyes, imagining the boots that would walk them, the rifles carried along them, the dangers waiting in the cracks between the lines.
Finally, he nodded once. "Good. Keep them sharp, keep them moving. But there's something else."
Preston's brows furrowed slightly, attentive.
Sico looked up, his gaze sweeping the gathered officers before returning to Preston. His voice carried not just the weight of command but the gravity of foresight. "I don't just want patrols walking the perimeter like ghosts. I want every man and woman on those squads to remember every inch of this place. Every alley. Every collapsed wall. Every sightline from the rooftops. I want them to know this ground better than they know their own hands."
One of the younger officers shifted slightly, as if unsure whether he'd heard correctly. Preston, though, absorbed it immediately, his face hardening with understanding. "You mean…"
"Yes." Sico's tone cut sharp through the dust and clamor. "This isn't a camp. It's not a waypoint. This will be their post. Their station. Their home. The day will come when we won't just be passing through these ruins — we'll be holding them. Defending them. Living in them. And when that day comes, I want every soldier to move through these streets like the bones in their own body."
The silence that followed was heavy but not empty. The officers exchanged glances, some with dawning realization, others with the sober acceptance of men who knew exactly what that meant.
Preston broke the silence, his voice low but certain. "I'll see to it. Every patrol. Every shift. They won't just march — they'll learn."
Sico placed a hand on the hood of the car, his gloved fingers pressing against the rough map as if to pin it to the future. "Good. Because this place will test us. When the Brotherhood comes — and they will come — they won't waste time. They'll come in strength, and they'll come with steel. If we falter, if we hesitate, this will all turn back to rubble in a heartbeat. But if we know this ground — if it becomes part of us — then every alley is an ambush, every wall is a shield, every rooftop a rifle nest. We don't just survive here. We own it."
Preston's eyes locked on his, and for a moment the noise of the courtyard fell away. Between the two men stretched an understanding deeper than orders, deeper than rank — the shared recognition of what lay ahead.
Finally, Preston gave a single, firm nod. "I'll make sure they understand that, General. Not just in words. In practice."
Sico allowed the faintest flicker of approval to cross his features. Then he pushed off from the car and straightened, his presence looming over the group of officers. "Then get to it. I want patrols out in ten minutes. No gaps. No delays."
"Yes, sir," Preston said, his voice carrying enough weight to move the officers into action before the general even turned to leave.
The officers broke, scattering to their squads, barking orders of their own. Boots clattered on stone, rifles were slung, and the buzz of readiness cut a new edge into the courtyard's rhythm. Within minutes, the soldiers who had seemed like just another piece of the background work now moved with sharper purpose.
Sico stood a few paces away, watching as the first patrols formed up. Their steps were quick, their gear clinking faintly, their eyes set forward. But there was something new beneath it now — the awareness that this wasn't just another march. This was the first step into claiming ground.
Preston remained at the gate, watching his squads pass out into the streets of Boston. His posture was calm, but his eyes tracked every detail, cataloguing, weighing, already memorizing what Sico had asked of them.
As the patrols disappeared into the ruins, their voices fading into the urban canyon, the courtyard seemed to settle into a new rhythm. Work continued, yes, but beneath it beat a different drum — the heartbeat of soldiers learning the bones of a city that would soon be theirs to defend.
The courtyard was alive in a way it hadn't been weeks ago. Sico could hear it as much as he could see it — the pounding of hammers on beams, the rasp of saws against scavenged planks, the barked orders of foremen echoing across the square. But underneath all of it was a rhythm, a cadence, not unlike a heartbeat. It wasn't chaos anymore. It was work. Focus. Intent.
Sico drew in a lungful of that dust-laden air and let it sit heavy in his chest for a moment before turning away from the gates. Preston had his patrols well in hand. What came next would determine whether those patrols had walls worth coming back to.
He moved through the wide arch toward the northern side of the yard where the skeleton of a scaffolding rose against the bones of the old C.I.T. structures. It was there he found Sturges.
The man was perched halfway up a ladder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a cigarette bobbing at the corner of his mouth. Sparks cascaded down from his welding torch in bright, hungry bursts, showering onto the metal bracing below. Every few seconds he paused, lifted his goggles, and shouted down instructions to the pair of younger settlers hauling planks to the base.
Sico stopped a few feet back, arms folding loosely across his chest, watching. There was something oddly grounding about Sturges in moments like this. The man wasn't polished, wasn't a soldier, wasn't the kind of figure that looked like he belonged in the stories history wrote. But he was steady. He was loud and clumsy and half-reckless sometimes, but when his hands were on steel, everything seemed to make sense.
"Sturges," Sico called up, voice cutting through the grind of metal.
The cigarette twitched, the welding torch snapped off, and the man turned, goggles pushed up onto his forehead. A grin spread across his face like it had been waiting for the chance.
"Well, look who it is," Sturges said, his words puffing a trail of smoke into the dusty air. "General himself, checking up on the hired help?"
Sico's expression didn't shift, but there was no steel in his voice when he answered. "Checking on progress. How's it coming?"
"Slow," Sturges admitted, tugging the goggles the rest of the way off and slinging them around his neck. "But steady. Real steady. We got the north wall half braced, south side's cleared enough we can start laying the first proper barricade. Couple of the young ones are learning fast — give 'em a week and I'll trust 'em not to saw their own damn fingers off." He clambered down the ladder, boots thudding on each rung until he hit the ground. "Point is, it's shaping up. You give me time, I'll give you a fortress. Not the kind the Brotherhood rolls over. The kind that bites back."
Sico studied him a moment, eyes narrowing slightly against the sun. "And what do you need to make it happen?"
That grin faltered. Not much, but enough. Sturges looked past him, toward the scattered piles of salvaged lumber and rust-bitten steel beams stacked against the crumbled walls. His hand went up, scratching at the back of his neck.
"Well," he said slowly, "what we got's enough to make do. But make do ain't what you're askin' me for, is it? You want a stronghold. That means more steel, more concrete, a hell of a lot more nails than I've scrounged up here. Could use some proper tools too — half my wrenches look like they been chewed by a Deathclaw."
He hesitated, glancing back at Sico. "Don't wanna sound like I'm complainin', Commander. Just callin' it straight. You want this place to stand against vertibirds and power armor, we need to build it like it's meant to last."
Sico stepped closer, his boots crunching on the gravel until he stood within arm's reach. His voice was low, steady, but there was no mistaking the iron beneath it. "Then don't hesitate. If you need more material, more men, more hands — you ask. You don't patch walls with scraps and hope they hold. You tell me, and I'll see to it you get what you need. Understood?"
For a moment, Sturges just looked at him — cigarette burning low, smoke curling around his grinless face. Then he exhaled a sharp laugh, not mocking, just surprised.
"Understood," he said finally, nodding once. "Damn, Commander, you don't mess around, do ya?"
"No," Sico said simply. "Not when it comes to this."
The hammering nearby filled the silence that followed. Sturges took one last drag off the cigarette, flicked the butt to the dirt, and ground it under his heel. Then that grin found its way back, crooked and half-wild, but steadier this time.
"Well then," he said, slapping his gloves against his thighs, "guess I better make you a shopping list."
Sturges stuffed his gloves back on, gave his neck a crack, and jerked his chin toward the skeleton of the northern scaffolding.
"Well, c'mon then," he said. "Ain't no sense me tellin' you about it if you can't see what I'm jawin' about."
Sico gave a short nod. He liked that. No wasted talk, just motion. He fell in step beside the mechanic as they started down the uneven path between stacks of salvaged material. Around them, the courtyard rang with work — saws whining, hammers slamming, the occasional curse when someone banged a thumb instead of a nail.
The pair walked slow, deliberate, their boots crunching grit as they threaded through the bones of the old campus. Once, this place had been an institute of knowledge. Now, it was a skeleton. But bones could be reforged into armor — if you had someone who knew how.
"See that there?" Sturges jabbed a finger toward the north wall where a thick slab of old concrete leaned precariously against the remains of a lecture hall. Cracks spiderwebbed the face, wide enough that you could wedge a hand in them. "Looks solid from the front, don't it? But that thing's rotten through. Raider with half a brain and some homemade powder could bring it down. When it goes, it'll take the whole corner with it. My plan? We brace it from the inside, put steel ribs along the back, then tie it into the scaffolding we're buildin'. Won't matter how old the bones are if we give it a new spine."
Sico ran a hand along the pitted surface of the wall, his glove catching flakes of old cement. "Good eye. We can't afford collapses in a fight. A wall that falls is a gate waiting to open."
"Exactly!" Sturges clapped his hands once, hard enough to echo. "Now, over here."
He led them around a collapsed stairwell, ducking under a sagging I-beam until they reached the south side. Here the ruins opened into a wide stretch where the ground sloped gently down toward a tangle of busted streets. The barricades were only half-laid, little more than a ragged line of scavenged cars and sheet metal welded into a jagged line. Settlers worked there now, dragging up doors and axles to patch holes.
Sturges stopped, shoved his hands on his hips, and exhaled through his nose. "This here's where we're naked. Open ground, long sightlines. Brotherhood gets their fat birds in the air and they'll rake us like fish in a barrel. That's why I want terraces. Layered walls, one behind the other. First wall's a kill box, second's the choke point. Third? That's the line we don't let 'em cross. If they break the first wall, fine, we fall back and bleed 'em. Break the second, we rain hell from above. But the third? They won't. They just won't."
Sico looked out over the slope, eyes narrowing against the light. He could picture it as Sturges spoke: the layered walls rising like ribs, each line a set of teeth waiting to tear into an enemy advance. "And the high ground?"
Sturges pointed to the husk of a library still standing to the east, its windows blown out, roof collapsed inward. "That's our eagle's nest. Reinforce the roof, get platforms up there. Put long rifles, maybe even one of them machine guns we got stashed. They'll see for half a mile. Anyone comes at us, they'll be chewing lead before they even hit the first barricade."
Sico gave a single nod, the kind that carried weight. He didn't waste praise often, but the corner of his mouth shifted just slightly. "You're thinking like a soldier."
"Nah," Sturges said, grinning wide, "I'm thinkin' like a guy who's had his ass shot at more times than he cares to count. But I'll take the compliment."
They moved on. Sturges talked as they walked, his hands painting pictures in the air. He pointed out weak spots — a collapsed archway that could be tunneled under, a brittle rooftop that looked sturdy but would snap like twigs under weight, a water main that could be turned into a flooding hazard if raiders ever got clever. For each flaw, he had a fix: steel plates welded into braces, sandbags stacked into bulwarks, pits dug into choke points and hidden with planks.
"This ain't just about stoppin' bullets," Sturges said, voice rough but alive. "It's about makin' every inch of this place a fight. You want a fortress? You don't build pretty walls. You build traps. You build headaches. You make every bastard that comes at you wish they'd stayed in bed that day."
Sico's silence was not disapproval but absorption. He walked the ground like he was already waging the battle, seeing the lines of fire, the paths of retreat, the places where men would live and die. He could almost hear the thunder of vertibirds above, the hiss of laser fire sparking against the walls. In his mind, he tested Sturges' designs against it all. And the more they walked, the more he found himself nodding.
"So there it is," he said finally, planting his hands on his hips. "C.I.T. ain't pretty, and she never will be. But I can make her mean. Layered walls, reinforced bones, kill zones where we want 'em. Give me the steel and the time, and we'll have ourselves a fortress even the Brotherhood'll think twice about knockin' on."
Sico stood silent for a moment, scanning the rising skeleton of scaffolds and half-built barricades. The air smelled of metal and sweat and hot dust. His jaw tightened, and when he finally spoke, his words carried the weight of iron.
"Do it," he said. "Make this place bite. And if you need more steel, more hands, more blood to drive nails into these bones, you tell me. I'll see you get it. No excuses. No delays."
Sturges grinned wide, exhaustion and fire mixing in his eyes. "Now that's what I like to hear."
By the time they circled back toward the center, the noise of hammers had faded into a steady rhythm in the background of their thoughts. Sturges wiped sweat from his brow with a dirty sleeve, looking both worn and alight at the same time.
________________________________________________
• 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:-