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Sico stayed where he was, watching as the Stronghold shifted again before his eyes. The wall had made them safe. The lights had made them proud. But this — the farmers, the supplies, the convoy — this would make them last.
The next morning came slow.
Sico had been up before the sun again, standing on the overlook as the faint glow crept over the eastern horizon. The convoy from Sanctuary still sat in the yard below like sleeping beasts, engines cooled, their cargo mostly unloaded. Soldiers were back on patrol, and settlers had returned to their tasks, but the square still carried that trace of energy from the day before. For the first time in months, there had been laughter that wasn't forced. For the first time, people had clapped each other on the shoulder without suspicion.
But Sico wasn't one to linger on moments. He saw them, stored them away, and then moved forward. And today, he knew, wasn't about crates or rifles. It was about roots.
He made his way down the steel steps, boots steady against the rungs, and crossed the yard. The early air was cool, still damp with the kind of dew that managed to cling even in a broken city. He found Sturges right where he expected him — crouched by a half-disassembled generator housing, wrench in one hand, a rag stuffed in the pocket of his overalls. Sparks hissed from a welding torch not far off, where two of his workers hammered away at a frame.
"Morning, boss," Sturges muttered without looking up, his Texan drawl rolling easy despite the bags under his eyes. "If you're here to tell me the damn alternator's gone again, I already know. And no, before you ask, I can't pull a rabbit outta my hat to fix it quicker."
Sico stopped a few feet away, arms folded. "Not here about the alternator."
That got Sturges' attention. He looked up, squinting against the light. "Well, color me surprised. You don't usually come down here unless something's on fire or you want it built yesterday."
Sico's gaze flicked past him, toward the southern wall. Already, Jenny and her crew of farmers were there, marking off squares of ground with rope and stakes, dragging away rubble, testing the dirt with small pouches of powder and water. Their movements were efficient, practiced. But even from here, Sico could see how much work it would take. The soil was choked with centuries of ash and ruin.
"I want your men," Sico said finally, his voice clipped.
Sturges arched a brow. "My men? You mean the ones keepin' your lights on and your walls from fallin' over?"
"The ones who've finished their shifts. The ones waiting for the next task. Any who can be spared."
Sturges leaned back on his heels, wiping his hands on the rag. "For what?"
Sico nodded toward Jenny. "The farms."
That word settled in the air heavier than steel. Sturges followed his gaze, watching the farmers for a long moment before letting out a low whistle. "So it's true, then. You're really settin' down."
Sico didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Sturges stood, dusting off his hands. "Boss, you know I'll put a hammer in any man's hand you want. But I gotta say — these are machinists, welders, builders. They know concrete, steel, gears. Dirt? Not so much."
"They don't need to know dirt," Sico replied, voice steady. "Jenny knows dirt. What she needs is hands. Strong backs. People who can move rubble, lay irrigation lines, dig trenches. Doesn't matter if they don't understand the rest."
Sturges considered that, then grinned crookedly. "Hell, can't argue with that logic. Half the time I don't know what the hell I'm buildin' either, and somehow it stands up straight in the end." He slapped the rag against his thigh. "Alright. I'll pull a rotation. Anyone not on critical duty, we'll funnel 'em to Jenny once they clock out. Can't promise they'll like it, but—"
"They'll like eating," Sico cut in.
Sturges barked a laugh. "Ain't that the damn truth."
By mid-morning, the shift had begun. Where Jenny's farmers had started with only a handful of settlers curious enough to help, now lines of workers trudged over from the workshops, sleeves rolled up, boots still smelling of machine oil. They came with shovels, pickaxes, even crowbars repurposed as digging tools. Jenny met them with a sharp nod, no fuss, no speeches. She simply pointed to the ground and started giving orders.
"Clear this rubble. Dig out the roots here. Line these trenches toward the cistern. Keep the stone separate from the soil — we'll use the stone for drainage."
The work began in earnest. Metal clanged as pipes were dragged into place. Shovels bit into the hardened earth. Sweat slicked brows even before the sun had fully risen. At first, the workers grumbled — mechanics cursing about being turned into ditch-diggers, welders muttering about how dirt wasn't their trade. But Jenny's farmers worked alongside them, hands just as calloused, backs bent under the same weight. And slowly, the grumbling gave way to something else. Rhythm.
Sico watched it unfold from the edge of the yard. He saw how quickly the Stronghold adapted when given purpose. Yesterday they had been soldiers and machinists. Today, they were farmers' assistants, laying the foundations of fields that didn't yet exist. Tomorrow? Who knew. But what mattered was that they were moving in the same direction.
At one point, Jenny approached him, dirt streaking her cheek, her braid loose against her shoulder. "They're not bad," she admitted grudgingly, jerking her chin toward the workers. "Clumsy as calves on ice, but they listen. And they don't quit easy. That's worth more than knowing the difference between topsoil and clay."
"They'll learn," Sico said.
Jenny studied him for a long moment, then asked quietly, "You really believe this place can feed itself?"
He didn't hesitate. "It has to."
The day stretched on, the sound of shovels and picks mingling with the hammering from the workshops, the shouts of soldiers drilling on the northern yard, the laughter of children chasing each other between the rows of crates. Life, messy and loud, was taking root inside the Stronghold's walls.
By evening, the first rough plots were marked — not much to look at yet, just cleared ground and shallow trenches, but to Sico, it was more than dirt. It was proof. Proof that the Stronghold wasn't just a fortress anymore. It was a home being carved out of ruin, one shovel of earth at a time.
As the workers packed up, Sturges wandered over, wiping his forehead with a greasy sleeve. "Well, boss, you got your wish. Half my boys are out there playin' farmer. Never thought I'd see the day."
Sico's gaze lingered on the cleared fields, on Jenny still walking the rows, muttering to herself about soil pH and irrigation pumps. "This isn't about wishes."
Sturges smirked. "Nah. It's about tomorrow."
The sun rose the next day on a Stronghold that felt different.
The southern yard, once only a stretch of rubble and poisoned soil, now looked transformed. The outlines of fields were visible — rough but ordered, squares of earth turned over, trenches dug, stone hauled aside into neat piles. And in those plots, fresh rows of seeds had been laid into the ground. Jenny's farmers, with the help of Sturges' men, had spent the entire previous day planting, hands moving with a rhythm born of hope as much as necessity. By morning, the first soft shoots of order had been sown into chaos.
Sico stood at the edge of the plots, his boots planted firm in the dirt. He didn't kneel, didn't touch the soil, but his gaze lingered on it the way a man might look at a weapon before battle — with respect, with gravity, with something like belief. Around him, the farmers moved quietly, gathering their tools, brushing sweat and dirt from their arms. Their job here, for now, was done.
Jenny approached him, a smear of soil still across her brow, her gloves dangling from one hand. She looked tired but steady.
"It's in," she said simply. "Corn, mutfruit, tatos, gourds. Enough variety to keep bellies full if it takes. We'll need to rotate the crops after the first season, but it's a start. A real one."
Sico nodded once. "How long before we see results?"
Jenny shrugged. "Weeks before anything worth noticing. Months before a harvest. Longer if the soil fights us harder than expected." Her eyes hardened. "But it's in. And once it's in, all you can do is wait and work."
He let that sit between them for a moment. Then he asked, "Will it be enough?"
Jenny studied the fields, her expression softening just a little. "It'll be enough to keep them alive. Maybe not comfortable. But alive. And if you keep at it, if these people keep working the way they have, one day it'll be more than survival. It'll be life."
Sico's eyes swept across the Stronghold, where soldiers drilled, where children laughed faintly in the distance, where settlers moved between workshops and barracks. He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod. "That's all I needed to hear."
Later that morning, he found Sturges near the machine yard, standing with a group of his men who were wiping grease from their hands and packing tools into crates. The air smelled of oil and hot steel.
"Sturges," Sico called, his voice cutting clean through the noise.
The mechanic turned, one eyebrow lifting. "Boss. Don't tell me you got another bright idea before I even had my coffee."
"Not today." Sico's tone was steady. "The farms are planted. Jenny's people can handle it from here. I want you to start preparing your workers to return to Sanctuary."
Sturges stared at him for a moment, then let out a long whistle. "Back already, huh? Guess I should've known you wouldn't keep us around once the heavy liftin's done." He glanced at his men, then back at Sico. "Alright, boss. Roger that. We'll get our gear together, patch up anything we broke while we were here, and start rollin' home tomorrow."
"Good."
Sturges gave him a little salute with the rag in his hand, smirking. "You ever miss our ugly mugs, you know where to find us."
Sico didn't smile, but he gave a curt nod, then turned and walked on. He had another task waiting — one that weighed heavier than logistics or supplies.
He found Preston in the command hall, bent over a table scattered with maps and reports. The sunlight coming through the cracked windows painted the papers in gold, the dust motes floating in the air like drifting ash. Preston looked up as Sico entered, straightening immediately.
"Sico," he said, his tone formal but warmer than most used with the man. "You here about the farms?"
"They're done," Sico replied. "Jenny's people handled it. Now we need to think about what comes next."
Preston tilted his head. "Next?"
Sico stepped closer to the table, his shadow falling across the maps. "This Stronghold can't stand without a leader. I won't be here every day. Neither will you. We need someone to stay. Someone the soldiers will follow. Someone who can keep order when the walls are tested."
Preston's brows furrowed slightly. "You're saying… you want me to pick?"
"Yes," Sico said simply. "You know these men better than I do. You've trained them, marched with them, bled with them. You know who can hold this place steady when I'm not here. Choose one."
For a long moment, Preston didn't speak. His eyes flicked down to the maps, then out the cracked window toward the yard where soldiers drilled. Finally, he drew a breath.
"I already have someone in mind," he said slowly. "James Hart. He's been my assistant for the last three months. Handles logistics, keeps the men organized, never backs down when things get rough. He's green in some ways, sure, but he's steady. And more important, the men trust him. They follow him without question. That matters more than stripes on a shoulder."
Sico regarded Preston in silence, his eyes sharp. Then he asked, "You trust him?"
Preston nodded once, firm. "With my life."
The answer came quick, without hesitation, and that was enough.
"Then James Hart it is," Sico said at last. His tone carried the weight of finality, as though the decision had already been carved into stone.
The rest of the day moved around that choice, the Stronghold alive with motion. Jenny's farmers finished securing their plots. Sturges' men prepared their tools and vehicles. Soldiers carried out drills with sharper precision, already aware change was coming.
The morning after Preston's decision, the Stronghold woke to the sound of boots on stone and the scrape of tools against crates. The air carried the hum of quiet change — the kind that wasn't shouted but felt in the way people moved, in the way they spoke to each other. The kind that marked a turning point.
Sico walked the yard with Preston beside him, their steps heavy, their eyes taking in everything — the drills on the northern side, the glint of sunlight on the two Sentinel tanks parked like sleeping giants by the wall, the new fields lying dark with freshly turned soil. The Stronghold looked alive in a way it hadn't just days before. But now came the moment where all that potential had to be given shape.
James Hart was easy to find. He stood near the barracks, clipboard in one hand, voice carrying as he rattled off the morning assignments to a knot of soldiers. He was younger than most of them — late twenties, maybe — but there was a steadiness in the way he held himself, the kind Preston had described. Not stiff, not overbearing. Just calm, clear, direct. The men listened. They didn't need him to shout.
When James dismissed them, Sico and Preston stepped forward. James spotted them instantly, snapping into a salute, his clipboard tucked under his arm.
"Sir. General." His tone was formal, but his eyes flicked between the two of them with a touch of curiosity.
"At ease," Preston said, lowering his hand. His voice carried a note of pride.
Sico studied the man for a long breath before speaking. His words were simple, but they carried the weight of command. "You've been chosen."
James blinked, taken off guard. "Chosen, sir?"
Sico's gaze didn't waver. "To lead. This Stronghold needs a commander. Someone who can keep the soldiers steady, keep the walls strong, keep the people alive. Preston tells me you're that man. From this day forward, you are the leader of the Freedom Stronghold."
For a moment, James didn't move. His mouth opened slightly, then shut again. He glanced at Preston, who gave him a firm nod, as though to say it was no joke, no test. It was real.
James swallowed, his voice rough when it finally came. "Sir… I don't know what to say."
"Say yes," Preston said quietly, his lips twitching at the edge of a smile.
James straightened, his chest rising with a deep breath. He looked Sico in the eye and nodded hard. "Yes. I'll take it. I'll serve. I'll keep this place strong."
Sico gave a single nod of approval, as though he'd expected nothing less. "Good. Then hear this, and remember it. These walls aren't just stone and steel. They're the last line for everyone who comes here. You're not just leading soldiers — you're guarding families, farmers, machinists, children. Their lives are in your hands now. Lead them like you'd lead your own blood."
James's voice was steadier now, almost fierce. "I will, sir. You have my word."
Satisfied, Sico shifted his attention to Preston. "Notify all soldiers. They will remain here. This place is no longer an outpost — it is their home. They'll drill, they'll guard, they'll live inside these walls. Tell them we're leaving behind the trucks and Humvees, all but a few for the trip back to Sanctuary. They don't need engines to defend this place. They need roots."
Preston gave a sharp nod. "Understood. I'll have them gathered by midday."
Sico's eyes flicked toward the Sentinel tanks, their steel hides glinting in the sun. "And the tanks stay too. Both of them. This Stronghold will not fall. Not with steel like that guarding its heart."
James's eyes widened slightly at that, awe mingling with responsibility. "Two Sentinels… with those, sir, this place could hold off a battalion."
"That's the point," Sico said. "They're yours now. Guard them well."
James straightened again, the weight of the role settling on his shoulders. He didn't shrink from it.
Then Sico turned back to Preston, his tone shifting to another matter. "Notify Jenny. Her farmers have done their work. By afternoon, they'll return with us to Sanctuary. The fields here are planted. Now the soldiers will guard them."
Preston gave another nod. "I'll see to it."
The afternoon sun sat heavy over the Stronghold, painting the sky in a wash of pale gold and muted gray. Heat shimmered off the stone walls, though the air inside the yard carried a cooler current, born of the shadow cast by the tall structures that had been repurposed into barracks and workshops.
It was a different kind of day than the one before. The energy in the Stronghold had shifted from building and planting to sorting and preparing. Wooden crates were stacked neatly at the side of the yard, some already loaded into the backs of the four trucks that would make the return trip. Soldiers moved with an efficiency that came from routine, but their eyes carried something else — the knowledge that their commanders, the settlers, and the builders who had brought this place to life were leaving.
Sico stood near the gate with Preston, watching the final loads being secured. Jenny was already with her farmers, checking the ropes that bound their tools and satchels into place. Sturges' men bustled nearby, hauling the last of their gear up into the flatbeds. There was a quiet murmur of voices, punctuated by the occasional clang of metal against steel, but beneath it all was a stillness. Everyone knew this was a farewell of sorts, even if only temporary.
James Hart stood a few paces away, speaking with two lieutenants. His clipboard was gone now, replaced by the weight of a sidearm on his belt and the authority of a leader settling across his shoulders. When he caught sight of Sico approaching, he straightened instantly.
Sico closed the distance, boots crunching against gravel. Preston lingered just behind him, silent, but his eyes stayed fixed on James, as though measuring every move of the man who would now carry responsibility here.
Sico stopped just in front of him, folding his arms across his chest. His voice carried the even weight of command, but there was a thread of gravity beneath it.
"We leave this afternoon," Sico said. "You'll stay. From this moment, this Stronghold is yours to hold. Keep it in order. Keep it alive."
James gave a firm nod, his jaw set. "Yes, sir. I'll see to it."
Sico leaned in slightly, his tone sharper. "Understand something, Hart. The people here will look to you — not just the soldiers, but the settlers, the farmers when they return to tend the fields, the children who run these yards. You're not holding ground. You're holding lives. You let this place slip, it won't just be the walls that fall."
The younger man's throat worked as he swallowed, but his gaze didn't falter. "I won't fail them. Or you."
Sico studied him for a long moment, then gave a single, satisfied nod. He reached into the pouch at his side and pulled out a small, black radio — the kind modified with Sturges' careful wiring, its range extended beyond what the old pre-war models had been designed for. He pressed it into James's hands.
"If there's anything you need to report," Sico said, "you contact me through this. Direct line. Doesn't matter the hour. Supplies, trouble, attacks — you call. You hold until I come."
James closed his fingers around the radio as though it were something heavier than its size. His voice was steady when he answered. "Understood. I'll keep you updated."
Sico let the silence stretch a moment, then laid a heavy hand on James's shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding. "This Stronghold is your post now. Guard it like your own blood sleeps behind these walls."
James nodded once, sharp and certain. "I will, sir."
With that, Sico stepped back, his parting words finished. Preston gave James a nod of approval, his expression caught somewhere between sternness and pride. Then both men turned toward the waiting convoy.
By the time the last crate was loaded, the yard was crowded with those preparing to leave. Jenny stood near the second truck, her braid pulled tight, her clothes still streaked faintly with soil. Around her, her farmers carried themselves with the quiet satisfaction of work completed. They looked at the new fields one last time, their eyes carrying something unspoken — hope, worry, maybe pride.
Sturges leaned against the side of the third truck, a rag hanging from his back pocket, his men milling around him. He caught sight of Sico approaching and gave a crooked grin.
"Well, boss," he said, "didn't think I'd say this, but I'll almost miss this place. Ugly as sin when we got here, but damned if it ain't startin' to feel like somethin'."
Sico didn't return the grin, but his eyes swept the Stronghold once more, lingering on the walls, the tanks, the freshly turned fields. "It'll hold," he said simply.
"Yeah," Sturges agreed, pushing himself upright. "It'll hold."
The four trucks stood lined up near the gate, engines idling low. Dust curled from beneath their tires, carried by the afternoon breeze. Soldiers who weren't boarding the vehicles stood to the side, watching silently. Some exchanged quiet words with the farmers or workers they'd labored alongside for days. Others simply stood at attention, their gazes fixed forward.
Sico climbed into the lead truck, Preston taking the seat beside him. Behind them, Jenny and her farmers filled the second, their tools and satchels packed tight at their feet. Sturges and his workers took the third, their chatter and laughter spilling faintly from the open windows. The last truck was loaded with supplies and a handful of drivers who would return the vehicles to Sanctuary.
Before the convoy rolled out, Sico stepped back down from the truck. He crossed the yard once more to James Hart, who had followed him to the gate. The younger man stood tall, the weight of command already visible in the way he carried himself.
Sico stopped in front of him, their eyes meeting. "This is your charge now," he said, his voice low but firm. "Keep the place in order. Don't let it slip. If anything changes, if there's even a shadow of threat — you call me on that radio."
"Yes, sir," James said, his tone clipped but steady. "I'll keep it steady. You have my word."
Sico studied him for a heartbeat longer, then gave a single nod. "Then we'll see each other again, Hart. Stronghold'll be standing when I return."
James's lips tightened in something close to a smile. "It'll be stronger than when you left it."
Satisfied, Sico turned on his heel and climbed back into the truck. Preston closed the door after him. Engines rumbled louder now, the trucks lined in formation. The gate creaked open, sunlight spilling onto the road beyond.
As the convoy began to roll, dust rising in thick clouds beneath their wheels, James Hart stood at the edge of the yard, watching them go. His hand rose in a silent salute, held steady until the last truck disappeared beyond the curve of the broken road.
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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:-