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Outside the walls, Sturges' voice still rang, mingled now with the thud of hammers, the scrape of stone, the grunt of labor. The sound of rebuilding. Inside, the murmurs of medics and the groans of the wounded filled the air. Survival and progress, side by side.
Sico drifted awake the way a man surfaces from deep water — slow, heavy, every sound muffled at first until it sharpened against his ears. His eyelids fought him, sticky with exhaustion, but he forced them open to a room that wasn't quite dark, wasn't quite light. A lantern burned low on the table near the cot, its flame jittering every time a draft crept through the cracks of Sanctuary's patched walls.
The first thing he noticed was the ache in his body. Not sharp, not new — just the deep soreness that seeps into a man who has carried weight longer than he should've. His shoulders felt as if they still bore the recoil of his rifle, his legs stiff from hours of standing.
The second thing he noticed was the noise.
Sturges' voice still carried through the courtyard like rolling thunder, unrelenting, relentless.
"Line that beam up, dammit — I ain't gonna watch it fall on your fool heads when the wind blows! Hold it steady, now, steady! Preston, tell 'em quit standin' around like fenceposts, we got walls to raise!"
Sico lay there for a moment, eyes on the ceiling, letting the cadence of it wash over him. The man had been shouting since dawn, maybe earlier, yet his voice hadn't lost an ounce of fire. Sturges was a furnace, and everyone near him got caught in the heat.
But under that rumble, Sico caught another sound — one quieter, tighter, with a different weight to it. Preston.
His tone wasn't booming like Sturges', but it carried that crisp edge only soldiers could manage. The sound of orders being given, men being moved into their lines.
"You three — north wall. Watch the tree line. If it moves, you see it first. Roberts, you take second watch rotation, no complaints. We're not leaving gaps tonight. I want eyes on every approach. No excuses."
The shuffle of boots followed, steel and leather striking dirt. The sound was steady, methodical. Discipline.
Sico let his eyes close again for just a breath, listening. It was strange, in its own way, to hear the two voices side by side. Sturges with his fire, Preston with his order. Different, but together they held the settlement upright. One voice building the bones, the other keeping blades from finding the heart.
When he finally pushed himself upright, the cot creaked beneath him. His muscles protested, his back tight, but he swung his legs down anyway, planting his boots firm on the wooden floor. For a moment, he sat there, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
He could have stayed there longer — hell, he wanted to — but the weight of the settlement pressed too heavy. He wasn't a man built for lying down while others worked.
So he stood, straightened his coat, and stepped back out into the night.
The air outside was cool, carrying with it the faint tang of ash. Fires from the battle still lingered in the distance, smoldering piles that hadn't been fully stamped out yet. The stars above were sharp tonight, scattered across the black sky, the kind of sight only wasteland nights could truly offer — clear, vast, endless.
Sanctuary itself was alive with motion. Lanterns swung from hastily-driven poles, throwing long shadows across the ground. Settlers carried beams, stone, tools, their faces pinched with fatigue but driven still. Hammers cracked against nails, shovels scraped earth, voices rose and fell in the rhythm of labor.
And in the middle of it all, there was Sturges.
He stood on a half-stable foundation like a preacher at his pulpit, arms waving, voice booming:
"No, no, no — I said brace it! Don't just lean it there like it's takin' a nap! You think raiders gonna wait politely for you to finish hammerin'? Put some damn weight behind it! Gus, if you drop one more board I swear I'm tyin' it to your back so you can't lose it again!"
Despite the words, there was no malice in his tone. Rough edges, yes, but underneath it ran that same note Sico had heard before — hope. The kind that kept people from laying down when their muscles begged for rest.
A little further off, Preston was a different sight altogether. No yelling, no wild gestures. He moved like a soldier among soldiers, calm, steady, commanding with his presence more than his volume.
"North group, tighten your spacing. You're spread too thin. South team, I want a full sweep before you settle in. Don't trust the quiet. We lost too much today to get sloppy now."
Sico walked toward him first, boots crunching softly on gravel. Preston turned as he approached, saluting sharp, though his face carried the same fatigue etched on every man's.
"Commander," Preston said. "Didn't expect you up so soon."
"Sleep doesn't build walls," Sico replied, his voice even.
Preston allowed himself the faintest smile. "Fair enough. We've got about twenty unhurt soldiers I've pulled into rotations. The rest are either wounded or working with Sturges. Patrols will run all night, two-hour shifts. I want fresh eyes at every turn."
Sico nodded, scanning the soldiers nearby as they moved into their lines. Some carried rifles still smudged with blood, others had armor patched hastily with tape and scrap, but all of them held their heads upright. Still standing.
"You're doing good work," Sico said.
"Not good enough yet," Preston replied, his jaw tight. "We held today, but if the Brotherhood comes back tomorrow, or the next… We can't fight every battle like this. We'll break."
Sico met his gaze, steady. "Then we make sure today buys us tomorrow. One day at a time. That's how we win."
Preston held his eyes for a long moment, then nodded once, sharp. "Yes, Commander."
By the time Sico moved back toward the heart of the settlement, the night had deepened. The lanterns burned brighter now against the dark, throwing light across the haggard faces of settlers still working. He passed Sturges again, who was now halfway through lecturing a pair of men struggling with a roof beam.
"Don't tell me it's heavy — course it's heavy, it's a roof beam! You want a feather holdin' back the rain? Lift it like your lives depend on it — 'cause they damn well do!"
Two months passed.
Not in silence, not in peace — but in the steady grind of work. Days bled into nights, nights into days, the rhythm of Sanctuary's rebirth giving way to something larger, something bolder.
By now, the landscape around the C.I.T. Ruins was almost unrecognizable. Where once there had been broken towers and crumbling streets, there were walls — high, broad, strong, carved from scavenged stone, steel, and stubborn human will. One month back, the final slab of concrete had been laid into place, the last steel beam bolted and welded, and the cheers of soldiers and settlers alike had rolled across the ruins like thunder. They had a wall now. A real wall.
And walls meant permanence.
Within that wall, the ruins had begun to change shape. Streets that had once been rivers of debris were cleared, paved with scavenged brick and laid planks. What had been collapsed buildings were stripped, gutted, rebuilt into barracks, mess halls, and storage depots. Work crews swarmed like ants, lifting, hammering, welding, day after day.
And above it all, for the first time in over two centuries, the lights came on.
The electricity had been the great turning point. Sturges had worked himself damn near ragged, grease up to his elbows, snapping orders at apprentices who could barely tell a capacitor from a coffee can. Generators were dragged in, lines were run through the bones of the old ruins, breakers hammered into place. It hadn't been pretty, but one night, after weeks of cursing and sparks, the hum of power crawled through the stronghold.
The moment the first searchlight flickered on at the northern watchtower, jaws dropped. Soldiers squinted into the glare, shading their eyes like children seeing the sun for the first time. Some laughed, some clapped each other on the back, and more than a few simply stared, eyes wet, as if the light itself was proof that maybe — just maybe — they could carve order out of this broken world.
Now, those searchlights swept across the night, cutting arcs across the wasteland beyond the wall. Shadows fled from their beams. Raiders, ghouls, scavengers — all thought twice before stepping near. The soldiers stationed in the towers walked their rotations with rifles slung and heads held higher than they had weeks ago. Guard duty under the flood of electric light wasn't just safer — it felt like victory.
And presiding over it all was Sico.
The Commander stood atop the central platform, a wide overlook built into the reclaimed skeleton of the old C.I.T. building. From here he could see the full breadth of the stronghold: the walls, the towers, the clusters of structures within. At night, the place glowed — not bright, not like the cities of the old world, but alive. Lanterns still flickered in windows, but they mingled now with the steady, unwavering glow of electric bulbs. It was enough to banish the ghosts of ruin.
It had been Sico himself who made it official. One evening, after the lights came on, after the walls had proven their worth against a probing raid, he had gathered the soldiers and settlers in the courtyard. Preston had stood on one side, Sturges on the other, both bearing the marks of months of toil. Curie and her medics, grime still smudged across their coats, watched from the front rows.
Sico had raised his voice, clear and unyielding:
"No more ruins. No more rubble. This is not a memory of what was lost. This is the first stone of what we're building. From this day forward, this place is the Freedom Stronghold."
The name had rolled across the crowd like a spark across dry tinder. Cheers rose, fists pumped, voices shouted the words back at him until they echoed off the walls. Freedom Stronghold. A name to carry, a banner to raise. Something larger than broken ground and patched walls.
And so it was.
The name spread quickly, stamped onto patrol rosters, painted in white letters across the gates, murmured in reverence by settlers who'd once been too beaten down to believe in anything more permanent than their next meal. Now, they had something to call home. Something worth defending.
Sico never let himself smile too wide at it, never let himself relax. But there were nights when he would walk the perimeter alone, boots crunching against the stone, searchlights painting the wasteland silver. And in those moments, when he heard laughter drifting from the barracks or saw a soldier on watch stand a little taller, he allowed himself a breath of pride.
Not for himself. But for them. For what they'd built together.
But walls and light did not mean safety. The Brotherhood had not vanished, only retreated. Raiders still prowled the highways, mutants still lurked in ruins, and the shadows beyond the stronghold's lights were as dangerous as ever.
Preston kept the patrols constant. Squads rotated through night and day, their routes sweeping further out as the walls gave them confidence. Every man and woman knew their post, knew their watch. There were no gaps, no excuses.
Sturges, for his part, never slowed. With the wall finished and power running, he turned his fury toward efficiency — reinforcing roofs, perfecting plumbing, building workshops that could churn out bullets and tools with equal measure.
The hum of the generator was a constant undercurrent now, steady and reassuring, like the heartbeat of the Stronghold itself. Sico leaned against the railing of the overlook, his hands gripping the cool metal as he scanned the view.
From up here, the lights of Freedom Stronghold looked almost… domestic. Not in the old-world sense of comfort and leisure — no one was sipping wine by chandeliers or listening to radios crackle with old songs — but in the sense of life, of persistence. Soldiers in uniform ate in the mess hall under lanterns that no longer flickered out. Settlers dragged crates into storage sheds without tripping over rubble. Patrols moved with a confidence they hadn't had two months ago.
But Sico knew what lay beneath the glow. He had seen the ration lists, the dwindling barrels of purified water, the way Curie's medical stock had to be stretched thinner every week. They had built something solid, something that could stand. But it couldn't live on pride and walls alone.
It needed roots.
He reached for the battered field radio that rested on the table beside him. Its casing was dented, the paint scratched, but Sturges had wired it into the generator and tuned the signal range until it sang clear across the miles. Sico clicked it on, the hiss of static filling the room for a moment before he pressed the receiver button.
"This is Sico at Freedom Stronghold," he said, voice low but firm. "Sanctuary, come in. Sarah, are you there?"
The response wasn't immediate. Static crackled, then a faint voice broke through, fuzzy at first before sharpening into Sarah's tone — steady, practiced, but edged with that natural warmth she never lost.
"Freedom Stronghold, this is Sanctuary. Reading you loud and clear, Commander. This is Sarah. Go ahead."
Sico allowed himself the faintest exhale. Even now, her voice carried a grounding effect, like the sound of a campfire in the dark.
"Sarah," he began, glancing again at the settlement below him, "we've built the wall. We've got light. The soldiers are proud, the settlers are hopeful. But hope doesn't fill bellies." His thumb tapped the side of the receiver once, unconsciously. "I want you to find Jenny. Tell her it's time. I need a group of farmers here — men and women who can do more than plant a few rows. We're starting a farm inside the Stronghold. We need to feed ourselves, not just survive on convoys."
There was a pause on the line, long enough that Sico imagined Sarah exchanging a glance with someone nearby, maybe pressing her lips together as she weighed her words.
Finally, her voice came back, softer this time. "You're right. If you want this place to last, it can't just be a fortress. It has to grow. I'll tell Jenny. She'll know who to send."
"Good," Sico said, though the tightness in his jaw didn't relax. He shifted his grip on the receiver, his voice deepening with the gravity of the next order. "And I want a convoy prepared. Trucks, as many as we can spare. Fill them with supplies — food, clean water, ammunition, weapons, seeds, and medical stock. Enough to not only start the farms but to keep us fed until they're producing. This place needs to stand on its own legs, Sarah. I won't have it begging Sanctuary for scraps six months from now."
Another silence, but this one heavier. When Sarah spoke again, her tone carried that mix of concern and command only she could balance.
"You're asking a lot, Sico. Sanctuary can manage, but it'll thin our reserves. Every rifle we send you is one fewer here. Every crate of food is one fewer meal in the mess. Are you certain this is the time?"
Sico turned his gaze outward, past the wall, to the dark expanse of the wasteland stretching away like an ocean of ruin. Somewhere beyond, the Brotherhood regrouped.
"There won't be a better time," he said, steady and grim. "The Brotherhood isn't beaten."
For a moment, only the soft hiss of static answered. Then Sarah's voice returned, clear and decisive.
"Alright. You'll have your farmers. You'll have your convoy. I'll put Jenny in charge of organizing the agricultural team — she knows who's strong, who can work soil and scrap together into something living. And I'll oversee the convoy myself. If we're sending this much, I won't risk it getting cut apart by raiders or worse."
Sico felt a faint flicker of something deep in his chest — not quite relief, not quite gratitude, but the subtle ease of knowing the message had been heard.
"Thank you, Sarah," he said quietly. Then his voice hardened, the Commander's edge returning. "Move quickly. The Stronghold's ready to build, but time isn't on our side."
"Understood, Commander," she replied. "I'll have word back to you within forty-eight hours. Sanctuary out."
The line went dead with a crackle, leaving the hum of the generator to fill the silence again.
Sico set the receiver down and straightened, his hands braced on the table. For a long moment, he stood there in the half-light of the overlook, listening to the pulse of the Stronghold beneath him — the shouts of soldiers at drill, the clatter of hammers, the low rumble of laughter from a mess hall.
The night after the call passed in uneasy rest.
Sico didn't sleep much these days — truthfully, he hadn't since before the Stronghold's walls were even more than chalk lines scratched into cracked pavement. Sleep, when it came, was shallow and brittle. The kind that didn't hold you, just kept you alive. He spent most of the hours between dusk and dawn walking the perimeter, his boots crunching gravel, the beams of the new searchlights sweeping across his path like giant pendulums. Every now and then, a soldier on watch would straighten as he passed, a few murmuring a stiff "Commander." Sico never corrected them. He only nodded.
But that night, with the conversation with Sarah still fresh in his ears, the Stronghold felt different. The walls no longer seemed like the end of a fight. They felt like the beginning of a clock. A clock that had just started ticking down.
By dawn, when the pale morning light spilled across the eastern horizon, Sico was already on the overlook again. The cityscape was washed in that strange, grey glow — not night anymore, but not yet day. The hum of the generator carried across the grounds, mixing with the clatter of morning drills and the distant sound of pots in the mess.
And then came the noise.
Not the usual rhythm of hammers or shouted orders — this was a low, grinding rumble. Tires. Heavy ones. Engines pushing hard against the broken asphalt roads that led toward the gates.
The convoy.
Sico straightened, his hands curling into fists at the railing. For a moment, he let himself watch, his eyes narrowing against the distance. Dust plumes rose first, faint against the morning light, then shapes — hulking, lumbering, rolling forward like a caravan of armored beasts.
The trucks came into view one after the other, six in total, each battered from decades of wear, but patched, reinforced, and roaring with a stubborn kind of life. Their frames were armored with scrap steel, rust welded over with newer plates. The lead truck bore Sanctuary's insignia painted in white across its hood: a simple outline of a house with rays stretching outward — Jenny's idea, Sico remembered, years back when Sanctuary was just a collection of half-repaired homes.
On the gate tower, the guards spotted them first. One soldier raised his rifle instinctively, then another lowered it, calling out, "It's them! Sanctuary convoy incoming!" The words carried across the yard, rippling through the workers and patrols below.
Hammers stilled. Heads lifted. Settlers leaned out from windows and doorways, squinting into the dawn. And then the cheer began — small at first, then louder. Soldiers clapped hands against each other's shoulders, a few even raising their rifles skyward in salute.
Sico felt something loosen in his chest, though he didn't smile. Not yet. He watched as the convoy slowed at the gate, the massive iron doors creaking open with the groan of strained hinges.
The first truck rolled through, its grill scarred, headlights dim but functional. In the cab, Sarah sat beside the driver, her hair tied back, her expression sharp as always but softened at the corners by the sight of what she was driving into.
Behind her, the rest of the convoy rumbled through — flatbeds piled high with crates, barrels strapped down with chains, a canvas-covered truck that carried silhouettes of long tools and machinery. At the rear, two jury-rigged technicals bristled with mounted machine guns, the gunners scanning the horizon even now.
Sico pushed off the railing and made his way down from the overlook, his boots ringing against the steel steps. By the time he reached the yard, the convoy had pulled into the open square, engines idling, dust still hanging in the air like fog. Soldiers and settlers gathered around, eyes wide, hands already itching to unload.
The driver's door on the lead truck swung open with a metallic squeal, and Sarah stepped down. She wore her long coat, patched and reinforced at the shoulders, a sidearm at her hip. The dust of the road clung to her boots and the hem of her coat, but she carried herself like she always did — steady, deliberate, and unshaken.
"Commander," she greeted, her voice carrying easily over the rumble of the idling trucks.
"Sarah," Sico returned, his tone as clipped as ever, though something in his eyes softened just a fraction. "You made good time."
She allowed herself the smallest smile. "Didn't have much choice. You sounded like a man who'd wait at the gate with a rifle if we were late."
Sico didn't answer that, only shifted his gaze past her, toward the convoy. "You brought what I asked for?"
Sarah nodded once, crisp. "Everything and more. Food, clean water, ammunition, rifles, pistols, spare parts, crates of seeds, medical stock, even some livestock — Jenny insisted. And speaking of Jenny—" She turned, gesturing to the second truck.
The passenger door opened, and Jenny climbed down. Her frame was lean, hardened by years of work in fields that weren't kind, but her face carried that open, easy determination that had always made people listen when she spoke. Behind her, a handful of farmers followed, men and women both, their clothes practical, their hands rough with the kind of labor the Stronghold had yet to know.
Jenny spotted Sico almost immediately and walked straight toward him. No hesitation, no formality, just that simple, grounded presence she always carried.
"You finally decided you're ready for dirt under your nails?" she asked, her voice loud enough that the nearby soldiers chuckled.
Sico's mouth twitched — not a smile, not quite. "Ready to eat without asking Sanctuary for handouts."
Jenny's grin widened, though her eyes were serious. "Then let's get started. We'll need plots cleared, irrigation lines laid, soil treated — this ground's been poisoned for centuries. But we can make it grow. Just don't expect miracles overnight."
"Don't need miracles," Sico said, his gaze steady. "Just need roots."
The farmers nodded among themselves, already sizing up the land inside the walls, pointing out where sunlight fell longest, where rubble could be cleared for fields.
Sarah, meanwhile, had turned to the gathered soldiers and settlers, her voice rising with command. "Alright, you heard him! Convoy's here, and every set of hands is needed. Start unloading! Crates go to the supply depot, medical stock to Curie, seeds and farming tools to Jenny's team. Let's move!"
The yard erupted into motion. Soldiers rushed forward, hauling crates off flatbeds, passing them hand to hand toward storage. Settlers rolled barrels on their edges, grunting with effort. Sturges appeared from one of the workshops, grease still smeared across his cheek, shouting directions about where to stack the heavier machinery. Curie hurried toward the covered truck, her medics in tow, their faces lit with relief at the sight of fresh supplies.
Sico stood at the center of it all, his arms folded, his eyes scanning every corner of the operation. He didn't join the rush, didn't grab a crate — his job wasn't to carry. His job was to see. To make sure no piece was lost, no movement wasted, no threat overlooked.
As he watched, Jenny came up beside him, her voice lower now. "You know this means you're tied to this place for real, right? Farms aren't like walls or guns. You can't move them when the wind shifts. Once we plant, this Stronghold becomes permanent."
Sico's jaw tightened. He knew it already, had known it the moment he asked Sarah to send the farmers. But hearing Jenny say it, plain and unvarnished, made the truth settle heavier.
"That's the point," he said quietly. "We're done running."
Jenny studied him for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. "Good. Then let's make this soil bleed green again."
And with that, she walked off toward her team, her voice already barking orders about tilling and testing ground near the southern wall.
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.
________________________________________________
• 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:-