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The wind kicked up again as he climbed the slope, heading back toward the command ridge, toward more reports and more responsibility. But behind him, the fires kept burning—and the people, his people, kept moving.
The next morning started like a promise broken.
The sky was darker than usual, not from cloud cover but from something heavier. Winter hadn't arrived yet—not fully—but it was clawing at the windows now, testing the seams in every roof and coat, every boot sole and heart. And the cold that had been a sharp whisper yesterday was a sullen growl now, deeper, more insistent.
Sico woke before dawn, his breath misting in the air of his own quarters despite the small oil burner humming away in the corner. It wasn't enough anymore. The draft coming in through the northwest wall was like a needle, invisible but unmistakable. If he felt it here—inside the old war room, the most fortified building in Sanctuary—he could only imagine what it felt like in the hospital annex, or the settler houses lining the southern edge of town.
The heater wasn't a luxury. It was a need.
By the time the first light touched the sky—barely more than a gray bleeding into black—Sico had donned his coat and gloves, scarf wrapped snug across his collar, and stepped out into the brittle morning. His breath came in thick clouds. Every surface around him wore a crust of frost—glinting like glass on the railings, the rooftops, even the flagpoles, where the fabric of the Freemasons Republic hung stiff and unmoving in the dead air.
He made for the Science Division building with long, purposeful strides.
The building was a curious structure, unlike anything else in Sanctuary. It had once been a former high school gymnasium, its roof patched with salvaged ship plating and inner walls retrofitted with insulation made from compressed cloth, mylar, and scavenged Vault-Tec lining. A great steel door—newly installed, finely welded—marked the entrance, flanked by two vertical wind turbines that creaked faintly in the breeze.
Sico stepped inside, and immediately the chill relented, though not by much.
The Science Division smelled of solder, ozone, coffee gone cold, and pencil shavings. There were desks everywhere, most of them repurposed drafting tables or old diner counters, cluttered with schematics, broken electronics, rebar samples, batteries, glass tubing, and food wrappers. A chalkboard had been rolled up near the rear stairwell with the words "TELL CURIE NO MORE PLASMA IN THE COFFEE POT" scribbled in bold capital letters.
And in the corner, welding goggles propped on his forehead, sleeves rolled up over grease-streaked arms, stood Mel.
Mel was tall and lean, with the weathered face of someone who had spent most of his life around fire and electricity and who had an uncanny ability to take broken things and make them sing again. His beard was uneven, a few gray streaks scattered throughout, and he had a habit of muttering to himself when working—usually numbers, formulas, or swearing at whatever tool he was currently wrangling.
This morning, he was hunched over what looked like the gutted remains of a Mr. Handy thermal core, wires spilling like intestines over a repurposed workbench.
"Mel," Sico said, voice clear but not sharp.
Mel didn't look up at first. He just raised one hand, index finger pointed skyward—his universal sign for give me five seconds before I fry myself.
A few sparks burst, a hiss of gas vented, and then he stepped back with a grunt, pulling off his gloves and wiping his hands on a rag.
"'Bout time you came to visit," he said. "Was starting to think the President of the Republic forgot about the guy making sure your fusion relay doesn't explode every time you flush."
Sico smiled faintly. "I never forget my miracle workers. I just save you for the emergencies."
Mel tossed the rag onto the bench. "Don't tell me Curie found a way to weaponize syrup."
"No," Sico said. "Worse. I need a heater."
Mel blinked. "A heater?"
"For the entire settlement," Sico clarified. "Starting with the hospital, then the settler homes. Clinic. Schoolhouse. Everywhere."
Mel whistled, long and low.
"That's a tall ask, boss. You want central heating, or individual units?"
"Whatever's more efficient and faster to deploy," Sico said. "We've got about a week before this place turns into a meat locker. People are already doubling up in housing, and the hospital's losing patients to hypothermia, not infections."
Mel stepped back, crossed his arms, and nodded slowly as he chewed on the idea.
"I've been working on something," he admitted. "Kind of a side project. Built from Mr. Gutsy heat coils and parts of an old Poseidon Energy regulator. Small unit. Puts out enough heat for a two-room structure, runs off microfusion or converted brahmin methane."
"Brahmin methane?"
"Turns out if you compress and channel it properly, it burns hotter than pre-war kerosene and doesn't explode unless you're a moron. Plus, it's renewable. Those beasts crap like clockwork."
Sico raised an eyebrow. "And how many of these units can you make?"
"If I strip out the lab's auxiliary power cells and raid every broken bot between here and Lexington?" Mel tilted his head, calculating. "Maybe a dozen in three days. More if I can get a team to help solder. And if Sturges stops hoarding ceramic insulators like he's building a damn moon base."
"We'll make sure he shares," Sico said. "Can I see it?"
Mel grinned.
He led Sico through a side door into a narrow hall lined with storage lockers and crates marked "CAUTION: REACTOR PARTS." The floor here was slightly warmer. A low hum came from behind the third door on the right, which Mel unlocked with a keycard made from an old Vault Boy figurine.
Inside was a smaller workshop, clean and carefully wired. And in the corner—set atop a thick concrete pad—was the heater.
It was squat, cylindrical, about waist-high and shaped like a barrel cut in half and mounted to the floor. Vents ringed the top, and a thin glass slit along one side showed a steady, pulsing orange light.
Mel flicked a switch on the side. The light intensified, and after a few seconds, warm air began to roll out in waves.
Sico stepped close, held out a hand.
"…That's hot."
"Damn right it is," Mel said proudly. "Stable output. Doesn't smell like burning plastic. Emits only trace rad levels if you keep the shielding intact. I've tested it for twenty hours straight, and it didn't even flicker. Plus, no open flame."
"You're a goddamn genius," Sico murmured.
"I accept payment in compliments, booze, and old-world peanut butter."
Sico laughed, the first full one in days. Then he sobered.
"I need a plan. I need you to write out the material list, every component, every tool. I'll pull logistics off watch duty and get them scouring for what you need. Can you train others to build these?"
"Give me a few hours to break down the schematics into idiot-proof diagrams," Mel said. "But yeah. Get me a crew with steady hands and at least two brain cells to rub together, and we'll be swimming in heaters by next week."
"We don't have that long," Sico said quietly. "Start with the hospital. If you can build even one unit and get it running by tonight, we might save three lives."
Mel didn't argue. He simply nodded and grabbed his clipboard.
"You'll have it."
Sico put a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you, Mel."
"Hey," the engineer said, tapping the heater with the back of his knuckles. "Just doing my part to keep this Republic warm."
Sico lingered in the soft hum of the heater room, still holding his hands near the warm air spilling from the vent. His fingers tingled—not just from the rush of thawing skin, but from something else: momentum. Hope, maybe. The knowledge that, despite the creeping cold, they were going to fight back against winter not just with scarves and boiled broth, but with real tools. With fire of their own.
Mel had already hunched over his bench again, sketching diagrams on yellowed drafting paper with a charcoal pencil worn down to a stub. The heater's glow flickered in the reflection of the engineer's goggles where they hung around his neck, and his right hand moved with the restless energy of a man already leaping three problems ahead of the current one.
Sico watched him work for a moment longer before speaking again.
"You've always got something cooking," he said. "Besides life-saving heaters… got anything else new up your sleeve?"
Mel's pencil paused.
A slow grin started to creep across his face—the kind of grin that always meant yes, followed immediately by it's probably insane, and then you're going to love it anyway.
"Well," Mel said slowly, eyes still on his paper. "Now that you mention it…"
He turned back toward Sico, planted both hands on the workbench, and leaned in like a man about to share a very good secret.
"You remember that busted Chryslus chassis we pulled outta the rot yard by Route 2?"
"The Highwayman?"
Mel nodded. "Yeah. Well, it wasn't a Highwayman, not really. Closer to a pre-fusion era Crusader Scout bike. Totally wrecked. Frame half-eaten by time, fusion battery long gone, wiring chewed to hell. But the engine block?"
Sico raised an eyebrow. "Still good?"
Mel tapped the side of his temple. "Solid as an bunker. Once I stripped it down, I realized it was perfect for a different kind of project I've been thinking about since the Lexington skirmishes."
Sico crossed his arms, curious now. "What kind of project?"
Mel stepped past the heater and grabbed a rolled-up blueprint from a crate near the corner. He slapped it down on the bench and spread it open with a dramatic flourish.
"A motorcycle," he said.
Sico squinted at the schematic. It was crude, hand-drawn with a mix of charcoal and scavenged ink, but clear enough. The vehicle sketched across the paper was compact, low-profile, with rugged tires that looked like they could eat gravel for breakfast. On its right side, attached to the frame, was something larger—something unmistakably shaped like a turret housing.
"With a sidecar," Mel continued, his grin widening, "that mounts a belt-fed machine gun. Single operator control, pressure-triggered. Passenger-controlled targeting. Engine runs on a modified dual-burner system—brahmin biofuel and converted fusion cells. Basically runs on cow shit and old tech. Max speed: about fifty-five if you don't mind losing a few teeth on potholes."
Sico stared.
"Mel…"
"Don't say it's crazy."
"I wasn't going to."
"Yes, you were."
Sico laughed softly. "Maybe a little."
"But useful, right?" Mel said, eyes gleaming. "Think about it. High-speed scout unit. Mobile enough to cut across tight terrain. Fast enough to evade raiders. Machine gun covers the flank. Imagine one of these screaming up beside a convoy under attack—gun roaring, engine howling, driver leaning into the wind like a damned cowboy in a pre-war western."
"You built this?"
"I built the frame," Mel clarified. "Haven't mounted the weapon yet. Still tweaking the suspension. Had to strip two Protectrons just to get the right shock absorbers. But she's alive, Sico. Real enough to ride, if you don't mind a bit of a bumpy trip."
Sico walked closer to the schematic, fingertips brushing the edge of the paper. There was detail in every stroke—Mel's usual meticulous madness: fuel efficiency calculations, heat output vents, recoil dampening on the gun mount. It wasn't just a vehicle.
It was a weapon with a soul.
"How's it handle?"
"Haven't tested full throttle yet," Mel said. "But the brakes are solid. Steering's a little stiff, but I can swap out the controls once I find a working servo belt that isn't rusted into oblivion. Hell, you want to take it for a spin?"
Sico chuckled. "You offering me the first test ride?"
Mel shrugged. "Who better to crash it than the guy who pays for the repairs?"
They both laughed, and for a moment the weight of winter didn't feel quite so heavy.
"Seriously though," Sico said, turning back toward him. "How long until it's combat ready?"
"Depends," Mel said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "If I get Sturges to stop hogging all the scrap coils and Hancock scavenger crew can get me a stabilized mount for the .308, maybe a week. Less if I skip sleep."
Sico shook his head, but his smile remained. "You always skip sleep."
"Not always. Sometimes I take naps standing up while the soldering iron heats."
He stepped back, arms crossed, eyes on his blueprints with a craftsman's pride.
"This thing? It's more than a bike, Sico. It's mobile freedom. Defense on wheels. A statement. Raiders, super mutants, even the Brotherhood—they've got their vertibirds and their mechs. We need something fast. Something unpredictable. Something ours."
Sico nodded slowly, and in his mind, he could already see it—the roar of the engine down Commonwealth roads, wind-blasted scouts weaving through rubble, turning the chaos of the Wastes into their battlefield.
"Once you finish the prototype," he said, "I want to show it to the Congress. And if it works—if it performs—we'll fund a fleet."
Mel's eyebrows rose. "Fleet?"
"Three for every patrol region. One per recon team. Five for the elite guard."
"Holy shit," Mel breathed. "You serious?"
"As the cold creeping into our walls," Sico replied.
Mel gave a low whistle, then clapped his hands together. "Then I better get back to it. And I'll need parts. A lot of parts. Bike chains, fusion dampeners, a steady supply of ammo belts…"
"I'll have Logistics draw up a scav list," Sico said. "And I'll tell Preston to prioritize transport routes near military surplus zones. If you need bots, take them. If you need people, tell me who."
Mel saluted with the grease rag. "Yes, Mr. President."
Sico turned to go, then paused at the door, the heat from the prototype heater still lingering in his coat.
"And Mel?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For the heater. For this. For everything."
Mel didn't smile this time. He just nodded, serious and sure.
"Anything for the Republic," he said.
Then he turned back to his blueprints, already murmuring to himself about torque ratios and barrel stabilizers. Sico stepped back out into the cold, his face already tightening against the bite of the wind.
The cold met him again like a slap to the chest.
Stepping out from the relative warmth of Mel's lab, Sico felt the full force of the morning wind hit his face—colder now, somehow sharper, as if the air had learned how to cut. He tugged his coat tighter and moved with purpose, boots crunching over the frost-stiff ground as he crossed Sanctuary's central plaza. The heater blueprints, now tucked under his arm, fluttered slightly in their folder like something alive trying to escape the chill.
The settlement was already humming with life, despite the cold. Scavengers hauled broken metal to the depot. Two settlers were unloading crates from a cargo wagon near the clinic—old terminals, power cells, and something that looked suspiciously like the nose cone of a crashed Vertibird. A trio of Minutemen cadets jogged past him, steam rising from their mouths, headed for the training grounds.
That's where Sico was going too.
He knew where Preston would be at this hour—drills didn't pause for weather. Especially not now. Especially with the new wave of Commonwealth unrest reported from the Quincy Ridge. And where Preston was, Sarah usually wasn't far behind. She'd been leading the advanced tactics units since the Battle of Sudbury, and more recently, helping integrate veterans from the Castle and Minutemen Plaza into the Freemasons officer corps.
Sico's boots carried him past the hospital—the windows now fogged with warmth, thanks to the first prototype heater Mel had delivered late last night. The nurses inside were moving more freely now, patients looked less like huddled ghosts, and there was no longer frost forming on the inside of the glass. He paused for a second, hand resting on the outer railing, just to take it in.
One building heated. A hundred more to go.
He kept moving.
The training yard unfolded like a living sculpture as he crested the rise just past the outer barracks. Rows of soldiers—new recruits and hardened fighters alike—moved through formations with bayonet-fixed pipe rifles, others practiced cold-start fire pit setups, and a handful ran bundled in thermal cloaks, carrying logs on their shoulders for strength conditioning.
And in the center of it all stood Preston Garvey, arms crossed, eyes scanning like a hawk.
Sarah was beside him—tall, sharp-featured, wrapped in a gray longcoat patched at the seams. Her dark hair was tied back in a thick braid, a standard-issue sidearm holstered at her hip, her boots caked with frost and training ground dust.
Sico approached, slowing as he neared them.
Preston saw him first and gave a nod, his voice still sharp as he barked out to a line of recruits: "Pull tighter on that cover! Wind gets in, it's not shelter—it's a coffin!"
Then he turned. "Morning."
"Is it?" Sico asked, his breath steaming. "Because it feels like I just walked into a cryo chamber."
Sarah smirked. "We call it a motivational environment."
"Effective," Sico said, then held up the folder in his hand. "You two got a second?"
Preston glanced at the formations, gave a short whistle, and one of the officers jogged over. He handed off temporary command with a brief exchange, then turned back.
"Walk with us," Sarah said.
They moved toward the northern side of the training yard, where a raised platform overlooked the drills below—a command ledge of sorts, flanked by sandbags and old World War I-style observation posts. It had once been a bus stop. Now, it was the nerve center of every exercise held in Sanctuary.
Sico set the folder down on a crate and opened it.
"Mel's working on heaters," he said first. "Viable, efficient, safe. The prototype's already installed in the hospital. We're pulling together a crew to mass-produce them."
Preston's face broke into something like real relief. "Thank God. The frostbite cases were starting to get grim."
"He's got a scalable blueprint," Sico continued. "And we'll be pushing a scavenger list through Logistics by tonight."
"Good," Sarah said, arms crossed. "We'll pass it to the rapid retrieval teams."
Then Sico flipped the next sheet in the folder.
The blueprint for the motorcycle.
"Now this," he said, "is something else."
Preston and Sarah both leaned in.
Mel's charcoal and ink schematics were still rough, but the outlines were clear—low-slung chassis, wide tires, reinforced axles, a modified combustion/fusion hybrid engine, and a sidecar that mounted a belt-fed machine gun with shock absorption.
"What am I looking at?" Sarah said first.
"Mel's new invention," Sico said. "He's building a motorcycle. Fully functional. Runs on fuel or converted microfusion. And it's not just for transport. The sidecar carries a mounted weapon. Compact. Maneuverable. And, according to Mel, capable of field repair in less than an hour with the right tools."
Preston gave a slow, impressed whistle. "How fast?"
"Fifty-five miles an hour, give or take. Faster on smoother terrain. But it's not about speed. It's about mobility, adaptability. Fast response. Raider harassment. Perimeter scouting."
Sarah frowned thoughtfully. "Armor?"
"Light shielding," Sico said. "But the idea isn't to absorb hits—it's to avoid them. Surprise, strike, withdraw. A Republic-caliber tactical cavalry."
Preston was already nodding. "Hit-and-run recon. Convoy flanks. Emergency supply transport during siege conditions."
Sarah reached down and traced a line on the blueprint with her gloved finger. "That mount… 7.62?"
".308," Sico replied. "But Mel's building modular support into the platform. We could swap in energy weapons. Shotgun rigs. Hell, even non-lethal gas dispensers if we're clearing caves or Vault ruins."
She stood up again. "He's brilliant. And insane."
Sico grinned. "That's Mel."
"What's the range?" Preston asked.
"About two hundred miles on a full tank of methane or a paired cell. That's enough to get from here to Quincy and back without a refuel."
Preston looked back at the yard, as if already picturing the vehicles tearing across the frostbitten Commonwealth.
"Has he tested it yet?"
"Tested the frame. Suspension's holding. Weapon mount's not attached yet, but he says he's a week away. Less if we support him."
Sarah arched a brow. "You're thinking of submitting this to Congress?"
Sico nodded. "Not just for approval. For funding. I want to build a legion of them. Start with scout units. Assign to recon teams. Eventually deploy them with every major garrison."
"Logistics nightmare," Sarah murmured. "Parts, fuel, weapon resupply, repair rotation…"
"But doable," Preston said. "We've got workshops. We've got the talent. If Mel can train others to build the rigs, it's just about throughput."
"And the field advantage?" Sico said. "Unmatched."
Sarah paced once, then twice.
She looked back at the blueprint.
"I can already see how we'd use them," she said. "Sweep raids. Pinch flanks. Even escort supply runs along dangerous corridors. They'd change how we move. How we think about territory."
Preston was silent for a moment. Then he said, "You really think Congress will approve it?"
"They will if you both back me," Sico said. "And if we can demonstrate the prototype works before the vote."
Sarah met his eyes. "You want a live-fire demo?"
"I want to field-test it," he said. "Fully armed. In terrain. Against moving targets. With a rider and gunner."
Preston folded his arms, thoughtful. "When?"
"End of the week. Mel's nearly ready. I'll talk to Congress, get it added to the Defense docket. But I want you both there."
Sarah nodded. "You'll have us."
"And if it works," Preston added, "we'll push for more than just approval. We'll push for doctrine change."
Sico looked out over the yard again.
The soldiers training below were trying—hard. But they were working with what they had: grit, old rifles, scavenged boots, and field ingenuity. They deserved more.
________________________________________________
• 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:-