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Sturges dreamed out loud, his words half-blueprint, half-wild invention. Sico cut through each idea with a blade of pragmatism, honing them down to what could be done. Together, they shaped not just a plan, but a vision: a fortress of the new world, rising from the bones of the old.
The lantern glow of the C.I.T. ruins faded into memory like the aftertaste of smoke. The hammering and chatter of settlers gave way to a deep hum — not of voices, but of turbines and engines, the metallic growl of steel hanging in the air.
The Prydwen loomed over the Commonwealth like a steel cathedral, her decks buzzing with the rhythmic stomp of armored boots and the clang of tools on plating. From a distance, she was a promise of order in a world of chaos. Up close, she was a fortress with wings. And inside, her heart beat in council.
The strategy chamber was lit by harsh lamps that reflected off polished steel and cast long shadows across the room. Maps of the Commonwealth spread across the table, dotted with pins, notes, and thin strings marking flight routes and patrol sectors.
Elder Arthur Maxson stood at the head of the table, hands planted firmly on either side of the map. The young Elder's jaw was set, his eyes sharp, carrying the weight of steel and blood in equal measure. Around him gathered his lieutenants, each a pillar of the Brotherhood's machine.
Paladin Danse stood stiff as a rifle, his armor polished, his eyes locked forward. Ever the soldier, his loyalty radiated like heat off steel.
Proctor Ingram sat in her chair, exoskeleton hissing faintly as she adjusted, her sharp gaze darting between schematics and the Elder. She was half mechanic, half iron will, a woman who had learned to live inside the machine.
Beside her, Madison Li lingered, her lab coat an odd softness in the room of steel. She'd once been an outsider, a scientist drawn back into the Brotherhood's gravity, her voice tempered with pragmatism and unease.
Knight-Captain Kells stood with his arms folded, his face weathered, carrying the stormcloud frown of a man who had fought too many wars and expected too many more. His eyes were hard, but his mouth was thin with thought.
And finally, Proctor Quinlan, scholar of war and memory, shuffled his reports in careful stacks. His spectacles glinted under the lamp light as he adjusted them, clearing his throat as though his voice alone could pin words to steel.
Maxson's voice broke the silence first. Firm. Resonant. The voice of an Elder who expected no argument.
"Reports have come in from the C.I.T. ruins," he began, his eyes sweeping across the table. "The Freemasons are entrenching. What began as scavenger activity has become construction. They are raising walls. Fortifications. They are turning the Institute's carcass into their fortress."
He jabbed a gloved finger against the map, the pin planted in the center of Cambridge. "That makes it their fourth stronghold in the Commonwealth. First Sanctuary. Then the Castle, which they took from the Minutemen. Then Plaza. And now this. One bastion might be overlooked. Two might be tolerated. Four?" His eyes hardened, voice sharp as a blade. "Four is a threat."
Kells leaned forward, his voice gravel rough. "They spread like rot, Elder. Sanctuary is defensible enough, but the Castle gave them artillery. Plaza gave them a foothold near the heart of Boston."
Danse spoke next, voice steady, controlled. "The Freemasons claim to fight for order, but their actions show otherwise. They build as if preparing for siege. Their armories grow. Their numbers swell with settlers and scavvers. The people flock to them because they promise safety. That is power, Elder. Power that rivals our own."
Ingram let out a snort, leaning back in her chair. "And don't forget, they're not just patching huts together. Sanctuary's walls were poured concrete. I've seen them. Solid. Reinforced. Whoever's leading them has brains, not just muscle. They're building with foresight. Redundancy. Hell, half my scribes couldn't plan logistics that tight."
Maxson's jaw flexed. "Their leader, Sico is one of the most briliant people we ever meet. He's no common scavver. He's trained. Disciplined. A commander who knows how to forge loyalty."
Quinlan cleared his throat softly, pushing a sheaf of papers forward. "If I may, Elder. My scribes have compiled records from the ruins and whispers from traders. It seems Sico is not only a tactician but also… persuasive. He has taken settlers, outcasts, even remnants of other factions, and bound them into his Freemasons order. Sanctuary thrives under him. The Castle, once abandoned, is alive again. Plaza is fortified. Now, with C.I.T., they stand in our shadow. This cannot be ignored."
Maxson's eyes narrowed. "It will not be."
A silence fell for a beat, broken only by the hum of the ship. Then Kells shifted, his voice grimmer still. "The reports also spoke of the battle at the C.I.T. ruins. The Freemasons faced Super Mutants. Not a rabble — a warband."
Maxson's gaze sharpened. "Explain."
Quinlan adjusted his spectacles. "According to our scouts, there was… a Mutant among them, larger, more commanding. He rallied the others. Gave them cohesion. They fought as a group rather than scattered beasts. The Freemasons engaged them in direct combat. The battle was fierce, but the creature was slain, and the warband scattered."
The room went still, heavy. Even hardened soldiers felt the weight of those words.
Danse's voice came like iron striking stone. "Super Mutants are abominations. They are never to be underestimated. If one among them had the capacity to lead — to command others — then it is a greater threat than even we have faced. And if more like him exist…" His jaw clenched, armor plates shifting with the motion. "They must be exterminated. Without hesitation."
Maxson's hand curled into a fist on the map. "The Super Mutant threat is constant. We've purged them wherever we find them, and we will continue to do so. But if there are Mutants capable of uniting others into warbands, the danger escalates. The Commonwealth cannot suffer a horde of organized abominations."
Ingram's voice was sharp, practical. "But let's not forget — the Freemasons killed it, not us. If this Sico and his people hadn't held that line, we'd be staring down a pack of Mutants massing on our doorstep. That's worth noting."
Kells scoffed. "Do not glorify them, Proctor. They may have done the Commonwealth a service, but it was for their survival, not ours. Make no mistake — they are not allies. They build fortresses, raise banners, and gather arms. They will become as dangerous as the abominations they fight."
Maxson's gaze swept across his commanders, his voice rising with conviction. "The Freemasons are not Brotherhood. They lack our code, our discipline, our purity of purpose. They build in ignorance, blind to the dangers of technology they do not understand. And while they may slay a Mutant today, tomorrow they may turn their walls and weapons against us."
Li spoke at last, her voice measured, carrying the scientist's edge. "Still… Elder, if I may… ignoring their engineering would be foolish. Whoever designed those walls has skill. If we could… acquire their knowledge, bend it to our purposes, the Brotherhood's strongholds would become unassailable. Perhaps we should consider infiltration, not only confrontation."
Maxson turned his gaze to her, eyes cold but not dismissive. "Knowledge without loyalty is corruption. We will not bend the Brotherhood to their ways. If anything, we bend them to ours. Or we break them."
The silence after his words was sharp as a blade.
At last, Quinlan cleared his throat again. "What of the Mutant threat, Elder? Do we establish new protocols? If such commanding abominations exist…"
Maxson straightened, his voice cutting through the chamber like steel. "Hear me well. If another Mutant rises, if another abomination gathers its kind into more than a rabble, we will eliminate it. We will hunt them. We will burn them from the ruins, from the swamps, from the very earth they foul. The Brotherhood's doctrine remains unyielding: all abominations must be destroyed. That includes the Super Mutants. That includes the synths. And if the Freemasons stand in our way…" His eyes burned, fierce, unwavering. "Then they too will be judged."
The chamber seemed to shrink around the silence that followed Maxson's declaration. The hard glow of the overhead lamps cut sharp lines into the faces around the table — lines of weariness, conviction, and doubt all mixed together. The Prydwen's engines thrummed beneath their boots, steady, constant, as though the airship itself listened in.
Maxson let the pause stretch long enough to drive his point home, then lifted his chin, eyes finding Danse.
"Paladin," he said, voice firm but not without weight, "report to me on the Institute front. Is there progress?"
Danse straightened, his posture already ramrod-stiff but somehow growing even tighter under the Elder's gaze. His voice carried the same timbre it always did — a soldier's clarity, every word precise, stripped of excess.
"The front remains locked in stalemate, Elder," he began. "Our patrols advance, their synths counter. At times, they press us back — sometimes with overwhelming numbers, sometimes with new tactics we haven't accounted for. When we rally, we push them in turn. But neither side has gained ground we can hold. The Institute has adjusted its deployments."
Maxson's brow furrowed. "Explain."
Danse's jaw tightened, the faint scrape of his teeth audible as he clenched before continuing. "Previously, their synths were sent out in disorganized waves — deployed in numbers but without coordination. We exploited that. Their losses were heavy, their attacks predictable. But in recent weeks…" He paused, as if considering the weight of the words. "They've changed. The synths now fight with intent. They move in squads. They flank. They retreat to lure us into kill zones. They aren't being thrown away anymore — they're being used tactically."
That earned a ripple across the table. Quinlan's brow lifted, the gleam of thought in his eyes sharp as a scalpel. Kells' lips pressed into a harder line, the kind of frown that came from decades of knowing exactly what that shift meant. Even Ingram shifted in her chair, her exoskeleton hissing faintly as she leaned forward.
Maxson's gaze bore into Danse. "And what do you make of this change, Paladin?"
Danse didn't flinch. "It means someone in the Institute is adjusting their strategy. Either a new commander, or a change in leadership priorities. Whichever the case, they've stopped wasting resources. They're testing us. Learning from each skirmish." His voice dipped lower, graver. "If this continues, they will adapt faster than we can bleed them."
The Elder's gloved hand curled into a slow fist on the table. The metal map pins trembled faintly under the pressure. "The Institute is a nest of cowards and abominations. They hide underground while we bear the burden of open war. But if they have turned their machines into a true fighting force, then the danger grows." His eyes swept the table. "We cannot allow them to master war."
Before anyone else could answer, Ingram's voice cut through the hum of tension. "With respect, Elder, there's more at play than just their tactics." She tapped the arm of her chair, and the faint metallic whirr punctuated her words. "We've got our own bottlenecks. You ask us to keep the lines supplied with Power Armor, Vertibirds, munitions — and we're working our asses off to do it. But every battle you order, every push and counterpush, costs us." She gestured with a short, clipped motion toward the steel walls around them. "The suits coming back from the front aren't just dented — they're wrecked. Torn plates, scorched servos, fusion cores drained to husks. My team is running full shifts and we still can't keep up."
She let out a breath, not frustrated at Maxson, but at the reality grinding her down. "And it's not just the suits. The Prydwen herself needs tending. She's our fortress, our spearhead. Every time she lingers over the Commonwealth, every time her engines burn, her systems strain. If we don't give her downtime soon, we'll be flying a cripple instead of a flagship."
Kells gave a short grunt, sharp as a bark. "We cannot afford to ground her. The Prydwen is the symbol of our presence here. Take her out of the sky and we hand the Institute the upper hand."
Ingram shot him a look that could cut steel. "And if she falls from the sky because we've run her into the ground? Then the Institute won't even need to lift a finger. I'm telling you what the numbers say, Kells. Machines don't care about symbols. They break. And right now, we're damn close to breaking her."
The words hung in the air, heavier than the steel girders above them.
Maxson's jaw worked once, twice, before he exhaled through his nose, steady but grim. His voice came low, measured. "Then what do you propose, Proctor? Withdraw? Retreat? Leave the Commonwealth to its doom while we polish our armor and pamper our flagship?"
Ingram didn't blink, didn't flinch. "I propose we buy time. Slow the tempo of the engagements. Pick battles we can win without draining ourselves to the marrow. My people can work miracles, Elder, but not if you bleed us dry on every front at once. We patch, we rebuild, we reinforce — but we need breathing room."
For a long moment, the chamber felt like a pressure cooker. Danse's eyes flicked briefly toward Ingram, then back to Maxson, as if silently acknowledging the truth in her words but unwilling to voice it himself. Quinlan's fingers worried at the edges of his reports, as though the answer might be written in some forgotten page. Kells bristled like a wolf denied its hunt. And Li — ever the outsider among them — watched with a scientist's cool detachment, though the faint twitch in her brow betrayed her own unease.
Maxson's silence was heavier than his words. He stood there, looming over the map, every inch the Elder — steel carved into flesh. The hum of the Prydwen filled the gap, a reminder of both their strength and their fragility.
Finally, he spoke, voice low but resolute. "The Brotherhood does not falter. We do not slow. We do not yield ground to abominations. The Institute will be purged. The Commonwealth will be cleansed. That is our oath, our duty, our purpose." His eyes flicked to Ingram, sharp as a drawn blade. "But… I will not ignore the truth of your counsel. Buy your time, Proctor. Take what you need to keep our steel unbroken. But know this — the war does not wait. Every day we pause is a day the Institute sharpens its knife."
Ingram gave a short nod, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. "Understood, Elder. You'll have your steel. Just give me the men and the hours."
Maxson's gaze returned to Danse, unyielding. "And you, Paladin. Hold the line. If the Institute wants a war of attrition, then they shall find the Brotherhood unyielding. But if they shift their tactics again, if they reveal their hand, I want it in this chamber before the ink on your report is dry. Do you understand me?"
Danse's answer was as crisp as the snap of a rifle bolt. "Yes, Elder. I will not fail the Brotherhood."
Maxson's gaze lingered on Danse for a beat longer, holding the Paladin in that iron silence that seemed to weigh more than the words themselves. Then, almost as if he was drawing the room back into motion, he turned. His eyes found Madison Li at the far end of the table, her posture as measured as ever, shoulders square but not stiff, her hands folded in front of her on the steel surface.
"Doctor Li," Maxson said, his tone edged but deliberate, "report to me on Liberty Prime."
The shift of focus was palpable. Even Kells' stern expression slackened slightly, as though the mere mention of the project carried its own gravity. The room seemed to pivot on that single name — Liberty Prime — a weapon not just of war but of legend.
Li drew in a slow breath before speaking. Her voice was calm, unhurried, though not without weight. She had the cadence of someone accustomed to speaking to generals, to men who demanded the impossible and expected nothing less.
"Elder, Liberty Prime remains in reconstruction. We've made significant progress. The power systems, which were our greatest hurdle at the onset, have been fully rebuilt. The fusion lattice and capacitors are operational. We ran preliminary tests last week — short, carefully measured activations — and the results were stable. That alone puts us ahead of schedule compared to our projections three months ago."
She paused, letting the words sink in, before her tone shifted, carrying the gravity of the truth she could not conceal.
"But," she continued, "the rest of the reconstruction is hampered by shortages. The war on the front has drained our access to the materials we need. Reinforced alloy plating, specialized wiring, even certain microprocessors — all of these are being diverted to the Prydwen, to Power Armor units, to the Vertibird fleet. We're working with what we can salvage and recycle, but it slows the process. Every battle fought costs us more than men and munitions; it strips us of the very components that could complete Prime."
A quiet murmur rippled around the table, subdued but impossible to ignore. Even Quinlan's usually detached demeanor faltered, his fingers stilling on the papers before him.
Maxson's eyes narrowed. "Are you telling me," he said, each word deliberate, "that the Brotherhood's greatest weapon lies unfinished because of scraps and shortages?"
Li did not flinch. "I'm telling you the reality, Elder. Liberty Prime is not a suit of armor you can patch with steel plates and a welder's torch. He is a war machine of unparalleled complexity. Every circuit, every joint, every piece of armor has to be not only built but integrated with precision. If I rush it, if I cut corners to meet deadlines at the cost of design, we'll bring Prime online only to have him fail the moment you deploy him."
Her voice was firmer now, her eyes meeting Maxson's with the resolve of someone who knew the stakes but also the limits of science and engineering. "You asked me to build a titan. Titans are not made from haste. They are made from perfection."
For a heartbeat, silence followed. Maxson's stare was sharp enough to slice iron, his jaw working as though he was restraining the urge to lash out. Yet when he spoke, his voice carried not anger but something heavier, like a weight pressing down on his chest.
"Very well," he said finally. "You will have more time. But hear me, Doctor — and hear me clearly. When Liberty Prime rises, he must rise unbroken. He must march with the full weight of our will. There can be no weakness in him. No fault. No flaw. If he stumbles, if he fails, the Brotherhood falters with him."
Li inclined her head, the smallest nod of acknowledgment. "Understood, Elder. I will not compromise his integrity. Prime will stand as he was meant to stand. But I need assurance — assurance that my team will have priority access to the resources we require. Otherwise, every day you fight this war without him is another day he sits dormant."
That last word — dormant — seemed to hang in the chamber like smoke.
Maxson exhaled, long and controlled, then looked to Kells and Ingram in turn. His voice was a blade. "Then we will make it so. Kells, Proctor — I want allocation schedules revised. Doctor Li's team will have priority access to the materials she deems essential. Power Armor can be patched. Weapons can be cleaned and fired again. But Liberty Prime is singular. There is no substitute for him."
Kells bristled, clearly swallowing words that fought to rise. His sense of duty, his obsession with symbols and fleets, warred visibly with the Elder's command. But after a long, taut moment, he gave a stiff nod. "As you command, Elder. The allocations will be revised."
Ingram, for her part, let out a quiet grunt — not disagreement, but the kind of sound an engineer makes when they know the cost of what's being asked. "I'll make it happen," she said. "But don't expect miracles overnight. Every plate I send Li's way is a plate I can't weld back onto a soldier's chest. That's the math."
Maxson's eyes cut back to Li. "Then build him, Doctor. Build him perfectly. The Brotherhood's future depends on it."
Li's reply was simple, steady, and without hesitation. "I will."
Maxson's stare lingered on Doctor Li a moment longer, gauging her words, her resolve. Then, with the air of a man putting one stone atop another in an ever-growing wall, he straightened. His voice, when it came, was deliberate, heavy with the kind of command that carried through steel bulkheads and into the marrow of every man and woman present.
"Then hear me all," he said. "The Institute is not our only enemy. We battle them fiercely, yes — their machines harry our lines, their tactics sharpen with every engagement. But while we spend our steel and blood holding them at bay, another force gathers in the shadows."
He paused, letting the hum of the Prydwen fill the silence, the faint vibration beneath their boots a reminder of both strength and fragility. His eyes moved from Danse to Kells, from Quinlan to Ingram, finally resting again on Li before sweeping across them all.
"The Freemasons," he said, the word rolling from his tongue like an accusation.
The shift in the room was immediate. Danse's brow furrowed, his jaw tightening, though his eyes betrayed only the faintest flicker of surprise. Kells' frown deepened into something harsher, as though the very mention of another enemy was a personal affront. Quinlan stilled completely, as though calculating possibilities and outcomes in silence. Ingram muttered something under her breath, mechanical fingers twitching faintly against her chair.
Maxson pressed on. "Do not think I am blind to the rumblings in the Commonwealth. The Freemasons are preparing their force, gathering their men, their ammunition. They are watching us fight. Watching us bleed. And they are sharpening their knives, waiting for the moment when both we and the Institute are too worn to resist."
His fist came down against the steel table, not a violent slam but a controlled impact, enough to send the map pins trembling. "I will not allow it. This war with the Institute must end — and it must end soon. We cannot afford to be locked in stalemate while another enemy arms itself at our doorstep."
For a long beat, no one spoke. The only sound was the steady thrum of the Prydwen's engines and the faint hiss of Ingram's exoskeleton.
It was Quinlan who finally broke the silence. His voice was even, thoughtful, though not without unease. "Elder, with respect, our intelligence on the Freemasons is limited. We've intercepted whispers, scattered reports, the occasional survivor's tale. They are elusive, perhaps deliberately so. But if what you say is true — if they are mobilizing — then they pose a threat unlike the Institute. Not hidden, not mechanical, but human. Organized."
He leaned forward, fingers steepled, his eyes sharp behind the lenses of his spectacles. "An enemy with flesh and will can be more dangerous than any synth. They adapt faster. They improvise. They hold grudges."
Danse's voice came next, low and steady, his tone as crisp as ever. "If the Freemasons are preparing for war, then our position is even more precarious than I believed. We are fighting on one front already stretched thin. To split our attention further could be catastrophic." He hesitated, then added, "But the Elder is right. If we ignore them until they strike, we may find ourselves surrounded."
Kells gave a sharp grunt, his voice bristling like iron dragged across stone. "Another enemy? Another war? The Commonwealth is a pit of vipers. First the Institute, now these Freemasons. What's next — raiders declaring themselves an army?"
Ingram cut him a look. "Don't dismiss it so easily, Kells. The Elder's not wrong. I've seen the signs too — caravans stripped clean, supply caches disappearing before our scouts can reach them. That doesn't happen by accident. Someone's organizing, moving pieces on the board while we're too busy watching the Institute's machines dance in the shadows."
Li, who had been silent through the shift in conversation, finally spoke, her tone careful but edged with the bluntness of someone who valued facts over rhetoric. "If the Freemasons are preparing as you say, Elder, then we face a problem of mathematics. The Brotherhood has finite resources. Every plate of steel, every fusion core, every hour of labor has to be weighed. We cannot fight two wars of attrition simultaneously. Something will break — whether it's the front lines, the Prydwen, or Liberty Prime before he is ready."
Maxson turned toward her, his gaze unyielding. "That is why the Institute must be broken swiftly. We cannot allow them to drain us further. If Liberty Prime is our hammer, then he must fall soon — not months from now. I will not hand the Freemasons a battlefield littered with the Brotherhood's exhausted dead."
Li met his eyes, her own voice firm but not defiant. "Then give me what I need, Elder. And understand — perfection takes time, but I will work without pause to bring Prime online as soon as humanly possible. Just do not expect him tomorrow. A titan rushed is a titan doomed."
The room simmered with tension, each officer and advisor weighing the impossible balance between present survival and future victory.
Quinlan cleared his throat softly, his eyes flicking between the Elder and the rest of the table. "If I may, Elder, perhaps there is another path. The Institute fights us openly now, yes, but their greatest weapon has always been secrecy. They strike from shadows, they vanish underground. If we can gather intelligence, if we can expose their vulnerabilities before Liberty Prime is fully operational, we may not need to grind them down piece by piece. A surgical strike could destabilize them faster than a dozen drawn-out battles."
Maxson regarded him for a long moment, then gave a single sharp nod. "Prepare your operatives, Quinlan. If the Institute shows weakness, I want it exploited without hesitation. But make no mistake — their destruction will be total. We do not wound the beast and leave it to heal. We end it."
Kells leaned forward, voice heavy with frustration. "And what of the Freemasons, Elder? If they are indeed mustering, do we strike them preemptively? Or do we wait until they bare their teeth?"
Maxson's eyes hardened. "We finish the Institute first. One enemy at a time. But we watch the Freemasons. If they move before we are ready, we will meet them with fire and steel."
The words fell like judgment, final and immovable, yet the unease in the room did not fade.
Danse sat rigid, his thoughts turning behind his eyes, the soldier's mask unbroken. Ingram's fingers drummed faintly on the arm of her chair, already calculating the engineering nightmare of stretching steel across two fronts. Quinlan's gaze was distant, his mind racing through reports, maps, probabilities. Kells' jaw clenched tight, the look of a man who would rather charge headlong into every enemy at once than concede the necessity of restraint. And Li… Li simply folded her hands again, her eyes heavy with the knowledge that the weight of their hope rested on circuits, alloys, and the hands of men and women already working to exhaustion.
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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:-