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Sico listened, his jaw tight, his eyes narrowing at the mention of Brotherhood victories, softening only when she spoke of the human toll. He shared what the Freemasons were building—training camps near the Charles, outposts fortified with walls of steel and old-world concrete, the forging of weapons in hidden workshops. He told her of Sarah's scouts pushing farther afield, carving quiet routes of supply and whispers of alliances.
The candlelight on the table had burned low by the time their conversation began to wind toward silence. The night pressed in around Sanctuary, deep and still, broken only by the rustle of wind through the ruined hedges and the occasional bark of a dog from some neighbor's porch.
Nora sat back in her chair, her body weary but her eyes still sharp, listening as Sico described the work Sarah's scouts had done in securing lines of travel along the northern highways. It was meticulous, practical, the kind of detail only a commander who had walked through the fire himself could speak of without notes. And Nora—though she knew the Institute's war from the shadows—found herself taking comfort in his blunt clarity.
When at last his words tapered off, Sico glanced toward the window. The darkness beyond was absolute. He reached for his mug, found it empty, and set it down with the quiet finality of a man who knew his time in this house was nearly done.
But there was one last weight on his chest, something he hadn't said yet. Something that had lingered like a shadow behind all the talk of battles and strategy. He leaned forward once more, lowering his voice in that way he did when he wanted his words to cut deeper.
"Nora," he said quietly, "before I go, there's something else I need you to keep an eye on."
She tilted her head, watching him carefully. The exhaustion in her face did nothing to dim the intensity of her gaze. "What is it?"
Sico's jaw worked, the faintest grinding of teeth betraying his unease. "The Institute itself."
At that, Nora frowned. She shifted in her chair, the leather creaking beneath her. "What about it?"
He didn't flinch. "You've got power down there. Real power. You're turning the place around—giving them new tactics, new ways to fight, new reasons to survive. But power, Nora…" he shook his head slightly, "…power always draws cracks. Not everyone's going to like being told where to march. Not everyone's going to like being ruled, no matter how just you try to be. Some of them will push back. Some of them will rebel."
Nora's mouth tightened into a line. For a long moment she said nothing, only stared at him, her fingers drumming faintly against the arm of her chair.
Finally, she exhaled slowly. "You think they'll turn on me."
"I think they might try," Sico answered evenly. "The Institute was built on secrets, on divisions. You've got the Directorate—each one with their own loyalties, their own agendas. Watson with his robotics and advanced system, Filmore with her facilities, Holdren with his sciences. Those people weren't raised to follow someone else's banner. They were raised to defend their fiefdoms."
His voice hardened. "And you—by putting yourself at the center—you're upsetting the balance. Some will bend. But some will look at you and see not a leader, but a threat to their little empires."
The words sat heavy in the air, undeniable in their truth.
Nora's eyes dropped for a moment, to her hands folded in her lap. She thought of Watson's calculating glances, of Ayo's sneers, of the whispering she sometimes caught in corridors when she passed. She thought, too, of the young technicians who had rallied to her side, who had begun to see her not as a dictator but as a mother protecting them. The Institute was a hive—productive, brilliant, but humming always with the danger of its own divisions.
When she raised her gaze again, it was with that same steady calm she'd carried through every impossible choice. "You're not wrong. I've seen it in their eyes. Some of them follow me because they believe. Others because they don't yet know how not to. But the day will come when one of them tests me."
Sico gave a small nod. "And when it does, you need to be ready. Not just with words, not just with reason—but with force if it comes to that. If the Institute fractures, the Brotherhood won't need to break through your walls. You'll already be burning from the inside."
Her throat tightened at the bluntness of it, though she didn't deny it. She leaned back, crossing her arms, her voice low and edged. "You're telling me to watch my own people as if they're enemies."
"I'm telling you to protect what you've built," Sico countered. "Don't let sentiment blind you. You can care for them, lead them, give them hope—but don't forget that desperation makes traitors out of good men, and ambition makes enemies out of allies. If someone moves against you down there, if they stir rebellion, it won't just be your fight. It'll undo everything. And it'll spill out into the Commonwealth like poison."
The words echoed, stark and brutal.
For a moment Nora looked away, her gaze falling on Shaun again—sleepy-eyed now, curled up against Codsworth's polished chassis as though the metal frame were the safest thing in the world. Her son, synthetic and yet hers in every way that mattered. He deserved a world without these shadows.
When she looked back at Sico, her voice was softer, but no less firm. "I'll watch them. Closely. And if it comes to rebellion, I won't hesitate."
Sico studied her a long moment, then gave a single, grave nod. His shoulders eased just slightly, as though the admission had lifted a weight he hadn't wanted to carry away with him.
"Good," he said. "Because the war outside won't matter if the rot comes from inside. Keep your people close, Nora. Trust the ones who've earned it. And for the rest—never forget they could turn if you give them the chance."
Nora's lips curved into something between a smile and a grimace. "You sound like a man who's had to put down his fair share of mutinies."
Sico chuckled once, though there was no mirth in it. "Let's just say I've seen what happens when leaders think loyalty is permanent."
The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the silence that followed. It was a silence of understanding, of two commanders who bore the same weight in different worlds.
At last, Sico rose, the chair groaning against the floorboards. He pulled on his coat, the heavy leather settling across his shoulders, and adjusted the strap of his sidearm. Nora stood as well, following him to the door.
Outside, the night air cut cold against their skin. The stars overhead were faint, blurred by the lingering haze of distant fires. Sanctuary itself lay quiet, its rebuilt houses glowing softly with lantern-light, its people asleep in the fragile peace he and Nora fought daily to preserve.
At the threshold, Sico paused. He looked back at her, his voice dropping to that rare, almost vulnerable register. "You've got a harder road than most, Nora. Fighting the enemy outside and guarding against the enemy within. Don't let it break you."
She held his gaze, steady as stone. "I won't. Not while Shaun's still here to fight for."
Something flickered in Sico's expression then—not quite a smile, not quite sorrow, but a recognition of the burden she carried. He gave her one last nod before stepping into the dark.
The door closed behind him with a soft thud, leaving Nora standing in the quiet, her hand resting against the frame. She lingered there for a long while, staring into the night as though she could still see his shadow moving among the trees.
At last she turned back inside, her steps soft as she crossed to where Shaun lay half-asleep. She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, her lips pressing into a thin line.
The road to the factory was quiet that night.
Sico's boots struck the dirt with that measured rhythm of a man who carried more weight in his thoughts than on his back. The air was cold and sharp, and each exhale left a pale cloud that hung a heartbeat before dissolving into the dark. Behind him, Sanctuary was still alive in its own muted way—lanterns burning, guards on the wall turning at their posts, the occasional echo of voices carried by the wind. But out here, further from the homes and nearer the old industrial skeletons, the silence pressed heavier.
The factory itself loomed ahead, its silhouette jagged against the faint starlight. Once a ruin of rust and weeds, it now bore the unmistakable mark of Mel's touch. Windows that had once been shattered were patched over with welded steel. Doors reinforced. A faint glow spilled from within, not the warm glow of lanterns but the steady pulse of generators and floodlamps. The hum of machines carried faintly into the night air.
Sico slowed his pace as he approached the gates. A pair of guards in patched-up combat armor lifted their rifles, only to lower them at once when they recognized him. "General," one of them murmured with a respectful nod.
Sico gave a brief nod in return. No wasted words. The men stepped aside, and he pushed the gate open, stepping into the compound.
Inside, the place was alive. It wasn't loud—not the cacophony of daytime industry—but it was busy all the same. Sparks flickered from a corner where someone welded a piece of plating. The rhythmic clank of a hammer on steel echoed faintly. And at the heart of it all, dominating the open floor, stood the hulking frame of Mel's newest obsession.
The Anti-Aircraft Gun.
Even in partial shadow, it looked monstrous—thick, angular plating braced on a rotating base, its long twin barrels pointing toward the sky like accusing fingers. A crew of settlers and engineers clustered around it, checking cables, running diagnostics, scribbling notes on scrap-paper clipboards.
And there was Mel, perched like a king in his workshop domain. His grease-stained coat hung open, revealing a threadbare shirt beneath. His goggles rested on his forehead, pushing his messy hair into even stranger directions. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, the smoke curling upward in thin, stubborn trails.
He didn't notice Sico right away, too busy muttering to himself as he crouched near the base of the gun, running a hand along the polished metal. His other hand tapped the casing in short bursts, like a man keeping time with thoughts too fast for words.
"Mel," Sico's voice cut across the hum.
The engineer jolted, nearly dropping his cigarette. He spun around, squinting into the light. Then a grin spread wide across his grease-marked face. "Well, I'll be damned. Thought you'd gone off to sip whiskey and plan wars with the fancy folks at HQ. What brings you down to my corner of the world?"
Sico stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over the AA Gun with the precision of a soldier sizing up a weapon. "Wanted to see how it's coming. Last I heard, you had the prototype tested. Said you were moving into full production."
Mel let out a laugh, sharp and proud. "Oh, it's coming, alright. Faster than I thought, honestly. Settlers are clumsy, sure, but once you get them in a rhythm, they can crank out parts like nobody's business. We've got five of these beauties ready to mount and another three nearly done. Thought I'd give this one a little shake-down test before we haul it outside and wake the whole Commonwealth."
He slapped the side of the gun affectionately, and the machine let out a hollow metallic thump. "Sound solid to you, boss?"
Sico didn't smile, though his eyes narrowed in something close to approval. He reached out, ran his hand along the barrel, then the rotating mechanism. The steel was cold, smooth in places, but he caught the faint imperfections where welds met plates. The work wasn't sloppy—not by any means—but he could tell it wasn't Mel's own hand that had crafted these pieces.
"Not the prototype," Sico said quietly. "Different weight. Different balance."
Mel's grin faltered for half a second before snapping back in place. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Sharp bastard, aren't you? Yeah. You're not wrong. The prototype—that one was my baby. Every bolt, every joint, I cut and set myself. This here?" He gestured broadly at the gun. "This is what happens when you've got half-trained mechanics following my schematics and doing their damnedest to keep up."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Ain't bad, though. I checked the recoil dampeners myself. Smooth as butter. And the targeting array? I finally got the optics calibrated right—those Brotherhood tin cans won't know what hit 'em."
Sico circled the machine slowly, his boots echoing on the concrete floor. He crouched once, ran a gloved hand across the base where the rotation gear met the platform. He straightened again, his expression unreadable. "Will it hold against a real fight?"
The question hung heavy. The crew nearby stilled, watching Mel like their lives depended on his answer.
Mel puffed out a breath, exhaling smoke. His grin softened into something more honest, more tired. "Truth? Yeah. It'll hold. Maybe not as pretty as the prototype, maybe not as smooth. But when those Vertibirds come screeching in, this baby'll tear 'em out of the sky. Might rattle your bones while it does, but it'll do the job."
Sico's gaze lingered on him, searching for any crack in his confidence. Finding none, he gave a short nod. "Good. We'll need them. More than you know."
Mel barked a laugh again, though it didn't carry quite the same easy bravado. "You're always talking like the world's two steps away from burning down. Makes a man lose sleep, you know that?"
Sico finally allowed the faintest curve of his mouth, though it was gone as quickly as it came. "Better to lose sleep now than lives later."
Mel raised his cigarette in a mock salute. "Can't argue with that."
Sico let his hand drop from the cold steel of the gun and took a slow step back, the heavy silence between him and Mel broken only by the distant hiss of a welding torch. His eyes lingered on the AA Gun one last time before shifting back to the engineer.
"And the ones for the trucks?" he asked, his voice low, steady. "How are they coming? Are they under production yet?"
The question pulled the grin right off Mel's face. For once, his usual swagger dimmed, replaced with the look of a man who had too many calculations spinning behind his eyes. He took a long drag from his cigarette, held it, and then exhaled in a sharp stream before answering.
"Yeah," Mel said, voice rough around the edges. "They're underway. But they're a hell of a beast, let me tell you. Regular AA Guns, they're stubborn enough, but at least they sit pretty on their bases. Solid ground, no surprises. Mounting 'em on trucks though…" He shook his head, laughing humorlessly. "That's a whole new nightmare. Stability's the killer. One wrong calculation, one bad weld, and the recoil will flip a two-ton truck like it's a tin toy."
Sico's gaze hardened, as though he could already see the disaster in his mind's eye—vehicles overturned in the middle of a firefight, soldiers scattered, lives lost not to enemy fire but to their own weapons.
Mel caught that look and held up a hand, as if to cut off the unspoken doubt. "But listen—don't go thinking I haven't accounted for it. The prototype I built? That thing runs like a dream. I had her out back on the yard last week. Fired three bursts with live rounds. Not a single buck or tilt. Hell, she handled smoother than I expected. All I did was follow the schematics—balanced the base with reinforced stabilizers, redistributed the weight load across the axles. Add in hydraulic dampeners and—bam—she holds. If the boys here follow those same plans to the letter, we'll have a fleet of mobile AA platforms before the Brotherhood knows what hit 'em."
Sico crossed his arms, his expression still unreadable but his voice carrying that quiet weight that made every ear in the factory tune in. "Schematics are one thing. Execution's another. You trust your crew to get it right?"
The workers nearby shifted, glancing nervously at one another. Mel flicked ash off his cigarette, his jaw tightening as he glanced toward them too. His tone softened, but there was no hiding the edge in it.
"I trust 'em as much as I can, given they've only had a year of learning what I've been doing my whole damn life. They're green, but they're not stupid. Some of these kids were farmers, scavvers, even raiders once—but they listen. They learn. And they want to fight back. You give 'em a blueprint, give 'em a purpose, and they'll bleed themselves dry making it work."
He dragged his hand across the side of the AA Gun again, like he was grounding himself in the steel. "Still. Complex ain't the half of it. The truck mounts need precision. We're talking reinforced suspension, modified chassis, counterweight plating. Not to mention cutting space inside the truck bed so the damn thing doesn't snap the frame. It's slow going. Pain in my ass, really. But if we get it right?"
His grin returned, faint but burning with that manic spark Sico knew well. "We'll have rolling fortresses. Brotherhood flies low to strafe a convoy, they'll get a sky full of lead before they even line up their sights. Hell, we could drive right up to the Airport and make Maxson choke on his own pride."
For a moment, Sico didn't respond. His eyes traveled past Mel, over the half-assembled truck chassis parked at the far end of the factory floor. The skeleton of it gleamed under the floodlights, its frame braced with extra beams, heavy tires propped beside it. Welding sparks flickered where two settlers crouched, sweat dripping down their brows as they tried to bring Mel's vision into reality.
Finally, Sico spoke, his voice as flat and certain as steel. "It better hold. Out there, one mistake means men die. I don't want schematics. I want weapons that work. Every time."
Mel met his gaze, his cigarette burning down to the filter. He flicked it away, the ember skittering across the concrete. For once, he didn't try to grin his way through it. He just gave a sharp nod. "Then that's what you'll get. Perfection. Or as close as human hands can make it."
Sico walked toward the half-built truck. The clang of his boots on the concrete floor made the two workers pause their welding, unsure if they should stand at attention or keep working. He gave them a curt nod, and they immediately bent back to their task.
He crouched beside the frame, running his gloved hand over the newly reinforced beams. The steel was raw, unpainted, but solid. He could see where Mel's touch guided the design—angled welds, stabilizer brackets, hydraulic mounts waiting for their pistons. It wasn't pretty, but it was functional.
Mel came up beside him, pulling his goggles back down over his eyes as though the weight of leadership burned brighter when Sico stood too close. "Prototype's parked out back," he muttered. "Want to see it? Give her a spin?"
Sico stood, dusting his gloves off on his coat. His face gave nothing away, but his words were sharp, decisive. "Show me."
The factory crew followed as Mel led Sico through a side door, out into the yard behind the main building. The night air was colder here, the wind carrying the faint smell of oil and gunpowder.
And there it was—the prototype.
A gutted old military truck, its frame rebuilt from the ground up. The bed had been cut open and reinforced with steel plating, the AA Gun mounted snugly at its center. Thick stabilizers jutted out like legs, hydraulics gleaming faintly under the floodlamps. It looked both monstrous and ingenious—a machine born of desperation and brilliance welded together.
Mel slapped the side of it with his usual affection. "Ain't she a beauty?"
Sico climbed up onto the bed without hesitation. His boots thudded on the steel as he tested the platform's give. It didn't budge. He grabbed the railing, leaned his weight against it. Solid.
Mel clambered up after him, hands moving with the ease of a man who knew every bolt by heart. He motioned to one of the settlers nearby. "Fire her up!"
The truck's engine roared to life, sputtering at first before settling into a heavy rumble. The AA Gun whirred, rotating smoothly as Mel worked the controls. He swung the barrels skyward, then back down, the stabilizers adjusting automatically to balance the frame.
"No tilt," Mel muttered, half to himself, half to Sico. "No drag. Watch."
He hit the trigger.
The night exploded.
The twin barrels spat fire and thunder, the recoil slamming through the truck's frame. But the stabilizers held. The platform shuddered, but it didn't buck, didn't twist. Shell casings clattered across the steel bed, smoking faintly as they bounced off into the dirt.
Sico's coat whipped in the blast of hot air, but his stance didn't falter. His eyes tracked every movement, every vibration, every sound. When the smoke cleared, he turned his gaze on Mel.
"It'll hold," he said simply.
Mel's grin widened into something wild, triumphant. "Damn right it will."
The crew around them cheered, clapping each other on the backs, their faces lit with that rare mix of relief and pride.
But Sico didn't join in the noise. He stood still, his gaze locked on the smoking barrels of the AA Gun. In his mind, he didn't see cheering settlers. He saw Vertibirds falling from the sky. He saw fire and wreckage. He saw war.
"Build more," he said, voice low but cutting through the noise like a blade. "As many as you can. Trucks, stationary guns, doesn't matter. Every one of these we make puts us one step closer to winning. Or surviving."
The cheering slowly ebbed, settling into the usual hum of voices and clattering tools as the crew began breaking down the spent casings and powering down the truck. The night air still smelled of gunpowder and hot oil, sharp and metallic, the kind of scent that seemed to cling to the skin no matter how many times you washed.
Sico lingered at the edge of the truck bed a moment longer, his eyes narrowing as the steel frame ticked faintly with the heat it had absorbed from the barrage. Then he stepped down in one fluid motion, his boots crunching against the gravel. Mel hopped down after him, more clumsy than graceful, but with the easy confidence of someone who always landed on his feet.
Sico's gaze followed the crew dispersing back into the factory yard, some chattering excitedly, others already scribbling notes or passing tools to one another. He let the sight sit in silence for a beat before turning back to Mel. His voice came low, the way it always did when he cut past the noise of the world and straight into the marrow of things.
"You got anything new in the works?" Sico asked. "Another project?"
The question seemed simple enough, but it hit Mel square in the chest. For once, the engineer didn't fire back with a grin or some boast. He just stared at the dirt under his boots, cigarette already fishing between his fingers again. He struck a match against the side of the truck, the tiny flame catching in the wind before settling into a faint glow at the end of his smoke.
He inhaled, deep and slow, then let the smoke drift out in a long sigh. "Truth? Not really. I've been thinkin' about it, sure—I'm always thinkin' about it—but right now? I just… I need a damn break."
He barked out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Feels like ever since I signed up with the Minutemen—hell, back before we even started calling ourselves the Freemasons Republic—I've been running on fumes. One job to the next. Fixing, building, patching, inventing. It's been non-stop. I get maybe two hours' sleep some nights, if that. And when I close my eyes, all I see are blueprints and schematics burning themselves into the back of my eyelids."
He tapped ash off the cigarette, his tone softer now, quieter than the night air itself. "I just want to breathe for a while, boss. Sit down, maybe have a drink without someone shoving a parts list in my hand. Ain't that too much to ask?"
Sico didn't answer right away. His expression was hard to read—his eyes fixed on Mel, but with that distance to them, as though he were measuring more than just words. The silence stretched, heavy, but not cruel. Sico's silences were never wasted; they were pauses where the weight of the world seemed to rearrange itself.
Finally, he spoke, voice low and steady. "No. It's not too much to ask."
Mel glanced up, half-expecting to catch judgment in those eyes. Instead, he found something different: understanding.
Sico stepped closer, boots crunching against gravel, his shadow cutting across the glow of the floodlamps. "You've carried more than most since you joined us. You built what we needed when we needed it most. Without you, we wouldn't have half the weapons we do now. You earned your break."
Mel blinked at him, caught between relief and suspicion. "You mean that?"
Sico's face didn't move, but the quiet steel in his voice carried the truth of it. "If you burn yourself out, we lose more than just an engineer. We lose the edge that's kept us alive. Rest. Because when the time comes for your next project, I need you sharp. Not running on scraps."
The words sat with Mel, heavier than any order. He rubbed at the back of his neck, cigarette dangling between two fingers. "Damn. Didn't think I'd hear that from you. You're usually the type that keeps pushing till the bones give out."
Sico allowed the faintest flicker of something like a smirk, though it vanished as quickly as it came. "Bones break. Men don't last forever. You learn to use your strength where it matters most."
Mel studied him, head cocked slightly. For a moment, he looked less like the grease-stained mechanic and more like someone trying to decode a man carved out of stone. Then he snorted, shaking his head. "You know, you talk like that and half these kids think you're some kind of prophet. But me? I just think you're a bastard who doesn't sleep either."
That earned him a quiet exhale from Sico—not quite a laugh, but something close enough.
Mel dragged one last pull from his cigarette, then crushed the butt beneath his boot. He stared at the glowing tip as it died out. "Look. Don't worry. I'm not quitting, if that's what you're thinking. I'll get back to the drawing board soon enough. Hell, you know me—I can't sit still for long. But tonight? Tonight I just want to sit on my ass and not think about steel, or recoil dampeners, or weight distribution. Maybe drink something strong enough to knock me flat."
Sico nodded once, sharp, as though sealing the words into fact. "Take the time. But don't get too comfortable. The war doesn't wait."
"Yeah, yeah," Mel muttered, though there was no real bite in it. He turned back toward the factory, raising his voice so the lingering crew could hear. "Alright, you lot! Shut her down for the night. We'll pick it up tomorrow. And no, I don't care if you're two bolts away from finishing that stabilizer—tomorrow!"
A few groans rose up, but the workers obeyed. Tools clattered back into boxes, machines powered down, and one by one, the lights inside the factory dimmed. The night swallowed the compound again, leaving only the hum of the generator and the cold gleam of the stars above.
Sico lingered a moment longer, watching as the men and women filtered out in small groups, tired but smiling. They carried themselves differently now—not just workers, but people who'd seen their labor spit fire into the night sky and hold its ground. Hope clung to them in ways no speech could conjure.
________________________________________________
• 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:-