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Sico let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He looked over at Mel, whose hands were trembling slightly—relief spilling through his nerves like a flood.
The sound of applause still echoed against the frost-brushed hills, mingling with the hum of the engine as Adams brought the Growler to a smooth stop just beyond the last marked pylon. The cold air carried the energy like a drumbeat—subdued but resonant. It wasn't just noise. It was recognition. A moment earned.
Mel's shoulders sagged slightly, just a hair, the kind of exhale a man lets out when the dam finally breaks—not in disaster, but in quiet, earned relief. His hands still trembled, barely perceptible now, but enough that he tucked them into his coat pockets so they wouldn't betray him. He didn't need praise. Didn't want the spotlight. But this—this silence filled with cautious hope and warming pride? This he could live with.
Sico gave him a nod. It wasn't the congratulatory kind, not quite. It was the kind you gave someone who'd done what needed doing—who had walked through the fire and emerged with something to show for it.
He clapped once—just once—but it was enough. A few more joined in, boots crunching across the salted field, engineers offering grins, even the medical staff offering relieved smiles. The machine held. The system worked. Adams—still alive, unharmed, grinning through his goggles—swung a leg off the seat and gave the sidecar a good-natured pat.
"She rides like a dream now," he called over the low whirr of the cooling engine. "If you'd built this version the first time, I might've asked for one as a retirement gift."
Mel barked out a small, breathy laugh. "This is the first version. The last one was a draft we never should've sent to print."
Adams winked and stepped back to let the engineers descend on the prototype, already beginning a secondary diagnostic sweep.
Sico, hands now behind his back, turned to one of the nearby soldiers. A young Private—Kent, if Sico remembered correctly—still new enough that he stood stiff as a board when the commander addressed him.
"Private Kent," Sico said.
"Sir!"
"I need you to find four people for me. Tell Preston, Sarah, Magnolia, and Piper to get down here as soon as possible. Tell them the prototype's fixed, the test ride was clean, and Mel's ready to show them how it works."
"Yes, sir!"
Kent took off without hesitation, boots throwing up a faint spray of frost-dusted soil as he sprinted toward the east corridor path back toward the central compound. The sky above had begun to brighten further now—cloudless and pale blue, the kind that only came after nights cold enough to bite through bone. The sun offered little warmth, but it glinted across the steel of the Growler like approval.
Sico stayed where he was, folding his arms and turning to watch the engineers poke and prod and recheck everything. Mel hovered nearby, no longer in command but still protective—like a father watching over a child's first day at school, nervous it might stumble, desperate for it to succeed.
The minutes stretched but not uncomfortably. No one rushed, but neither did they loiter. This was sacred work now. The prototype wasn't just a weapon platform anymore. It was a symbol—of risk, redemption, and the kind of damn stubborn resilience that Sanctuary had built its new soul on.
Twenty minutes passed before the sound of boots signaled the arrival of the others. They came from different directions, converging on the test field like pieces of a puzzle reassembling.
Preston was first—coat open, scarf flapping behind him, a look of wary curiosity in his eyes. His face always carried that same storm-tested calm, but this time, there was a flicker of something else beneath it. Not doubt. Not quite. Just… history. He'd seen the first test. He'd been there when the call went out that Nash had been thrown. He'd visited the man in the clinic more than once since.
Sarah came next, moving at a clipped pace, arms swinging like she hadn't slowed down in weeks. Her long brown hair was tied back in a tight braid, and her expression was focused—already scanning the field, the barriers, the engineers, even the slight scorch marks in the gravel where the sidecar had landed.
Magnolia arrived a moment after, fur-lined coat wrapped tightly around her slim frame, voice low as she hummed the tail end of some familiar old tune, maybe to settle her nerves. Her eyes—sharp, watchful—flicked over to Sico first, then Mel, then the bike.
And finally Piper, red scarf wrapped snug around her neck, trench coat half-buttoned, camera slung lazily over one shoulder. She was already pulling out a small notepad before she'd even made it to the others, her pen tapping thoughtfully against her lip.
"Alright," she said, skipping any preamble, "who wants to tell me what went boom and what went right this time?"
Sico stepped forward, boots crunching gently as he approached them. "No boom," he said simply. "That's the point."
Piper raised an eyebrow. "You say that like you're proud. Or surprised."
"Both," Mel said, stepping beside Sico. He didn't smile, not really, but his voice held more steadiness than before. "It worked. All three phases. Clean run. Emergency eject completed without fault. Every sensor read green across the board."
Preston looked over the machine, frowning slightly—not in skepticism, but in thought. "That the same frame?"
"New frame," Mel said. "Started fresh. Ground the old one down, reforged every bolt. Cold-rated. Fail-safes layered into the hydraulic lines. Thermal regulators on the ejection system. Manual overrides on both the weapon mount and the sidecar coupling."
Sarah took a few slow steps toward it, crouching down beside the new stabilizer strut. She didn't touch it—just eyed the welds, the polish, the way the new alloy flared ever so slightly where it absorbed tension.
"And this time," she said, "you tested before you invited an audience."
Mel's jaw tensed, but he gave a short nod. "We did. Adams just finished a full demo. No failures. No surprises."
Magnolia tilted her head slightly, eyes on Mel. "You alright?"
The question didn't come from judgment or pity—it was quieter, more personal. Mel paused, then nodded again. "Better than I've been in days. I've got a lot to make right. This… was step one."
Piper had already started snapping photos, the lens of her salvaged-but-modified camera clicking softly as she circled the Growler. She didn't ask permission. She rarely did.
Sico then said. "Congress needs to approve mass production first. But this isn't just for them. This is for us. For any patrol in harsh terrain. Any recon mission that needs speed and bite. It's a Freemasons Republic project at heart. Built here. By us."
Preston stepped closer to the sidecar and ran his fingers along the newly etched serial number beneath the matte plating. "I still remember the first sketches. Back when Mel told me in his lab."
Mel chuckled. "It was never just a plan. It was always possible. I just… tried to jump the gun."
"Guns do that," Sarah muttered. "Especially when they've got wheels."
Sico turned to the group now, hands clasped behind his back. "You're all here for a reason. Because if this thing gets greenlit, it's going to change how we patrol. How we respond to threats. How we support isolated settlements when the weather turns and the roads vanish. But I'm not sending it forward without all of your buy-in."
He looked at each of them in turn—Preston, Sarah, Magnolia, Piper.
"You've all seen what we've done with scraps. You've seen what we've rebuilt with hope. This isn't just a prototype. It's a line in the sand."
Sarah stood. "I say if it runs, if it holds, and it doesn't throw anyone through a wall—then we bring it to Congress. Let them see what Sanctuary's capable of."
"I second that," Preston said. "We've been too cautious for too long. This kind of gear could save lives out there."
Magnolia said nothing at first, just walked around the machine, slow and thoughtful. She eventually stopped by the sidecar, brushing a hand along its smooth edge.
"When I first got here," she said softly, "there were still scorch marks on the floors. Bullet holes in half the walls. And we made music anyway. If we can turn this into something that helps—not hurts—I'll back it."
Piper gave a lazy salute with her pen. "And I'll write the hell out of it."
Mel almost smiled.
Sico nodded once. The decision had been made. Not just by him—but by the people who mattered. The ones who'd fought for this place, who had bled and lost and still kept showing up with grit in their teeth and fire in their chests.
Two days later, the bells rang just past dawn.
Not church bells—Sanctuary didn't have a church—but the old firehouse klaxon they'd salvaged from a wreck in Concord. Tuned now to a lower tone, less piercing. Still urgent. Still unmistakable.
Three slow tolls.
It was time.
The cold hadn't broken much in two days, but the sky was clear, brightening with that high winter sun that gave everything a golden edge and none of the warmth to match. The walkways had been salted again at dawn, and steam still drifted from the vents running beneath the sidewalks—one of Mel's earliest infrastructure wins.
Sico stood on the balcony of the admin tower just above the square, coat zipped high and gloves tight around the hot tin mug in his hands. From here, he could see them coming. Settlements big and small, rising from the bones of the old world, had sent someone. Some had traveled for a day. Others had been on the road for a week.
And they came walking.
Some with Brahmin carts. Others on foot. A few—rare and proudly so—riding pre-war bikes rebuilt from the ground up. The Freemasons Republic didn't traffic in spectacle. They didn't posture. Every delegate here had earned their place with sweat, barter, or bullets.
They came with flags stitched from salvage tarps, coats patched with the colors of their homesteads, weapons strapped to backs out of habit more than fear. Some looked cautious. Some looked hardened. But none looked weak.
Below, Sanctuary's outer courtyard was a slowly building mosaic of people, animals, and carts. The security checkpoint—run this time by a mixed crew of Minutemen and ex-Brotherhood volunteers—had moved with methodical precision. No delays. No drama. Even in this post-war world, the people of the Republic understood that politics didn't stop for confusion.
Sturges's new building stood at the southern edge of the square—tall by wasteland standards, three stories, sandbag reinforced, solar-paneled roof and all. It wasn't beautiful. Not yet. But it was strong. Wide steps led up to thick steel doors now held open, and the fresh seams of welds and paneling still gave off that warm scent of solder and ambition.
"Can't believe we finished it in time," came a voice behind Sico.
He didn't need to turn. Sturges's tone was unmistakable—half exhausted, half proud, entirely grounded in the work. The man looked like he hadn't slept much in the last forty-eight hours, his jumpsuit stained with grease and paint, hair messily combed to one side.
"Neither can I," Sico said, taking a sip from his mug. "But you did."
Sturges grunted. "Barely. My boys are still putting in the backup heat lines downstairs. Don't be surprised if it's warm on one side and freezing on the other."
"As long as it holds."
"It'll hold." He paused. "Even while we've got broken roofs, busted pipework, and generator swaps going on in half the homes down east."
Sico gave him a look. "You sure you didn't stretch the team too thin?"
"I know I did," Sturges replied, deadpan. "But we had to. Sanctuary needs to show she can host something like this. People don't trust new governments. They trust what they can see. And today, they'll see this building."
They stood there a moment longer, watching the delegates gather. Sico scanned the crowd, spotting familiar faces.
The tall woman in patchwork leather and fur was Cassidy, from Ten Pines Bluff. She walked like someone used to leading without asking. Just behind her came Marius, the wiry old caravan chief from Finch Farm, his coat heavy with travel, his left leg wrapped in some kind of reinforced splint.
Then there was the team from Oberland—five of them in matching gray dusters, well-fed and sharp-eyed, the lot of them moving with quiet coordination. They were traders, fighters, medics—everything their outpost needed to stay self-sufficient.
Sanctuary hadn't hosted a gathering like this before. No one had. Not since the bombs. But now, the Freemasons Republic was more than just a dream on a radio signal.
It was here.
And Sico—though he didn't admit it out loud—felt the weight of it like a rifle across his back.
"Alright," he said to Sturges. "Time to go."
They descended the stairs together and crossed the square at a steady pace. People parted to let them pass—nodding, some saluting, others simply stepping aside with that quiet reverence earned by war and leadership.
Piper was already at the steps of the Congress Hall, notepad tucked into one pocket, camera slung across her chest. She caught Sico's eye and gave a small wave, her breath clouding in the cold.
Inside, the Congress Hall was filling fast.
The main floor was wide—a semicircle of benches and seats, all handmade or reclaimed. No throne. No dais. Just a speaking platform at the front and rows of stations equipped with terminals and light panels.
Every delegate had a slot. Every slot had a purpose.
Mel was off to one side, overseeing the final setup of the Growler, which had been brought into the back annex as part of today's demonstration. It wasn't just for show. It was a case study. Proof that technology could be adapted, refined, and used—without the blood cost the old world had accepted so casually.
As more people filed in, conversations sparked like flint against steel.
"We got a decent harvest, but no tools left—soil compactor broke again."
"I heard you traded with Covenant? How bad were the terms?"
"No worse than last time. But if we don't get medical rations soon…"
"I'll bring it up. Let's push it into priority support."
Sico moved toward the speaking platform, and the murmur died down. The room didn't fall silent all at once, but like a tide withdrawing, it faded until only the slight creak of boots and the low hiss of the heaters remained.
He took a breath.
Then spoke.
"Friends," he said, voice steady but clear. "Citizens. Leaders. Wanderers and farmers and fighters alike. Welcome."
There was no fanfare. No long speech. Just a grounding presence.
"You've come a long way, and I won't waste your time with promises. This is the first official Congress of the Freemasons Republic. The first of many, if we get this right. We're not here to lecture. We're not here to vote on who wears what coat. We're here to report. To barter. To ask for help—and offer it."
A few nods. A few grunts of agreement.
Sico continued.
"Each of you will have five minutes to speak. Longer if the floor permits. You'll report on your outpost. What's working. What's breaking. What you need. What you can offer. No shame. No pride. Just truth. And when it's done—we build from there."
He stepped back, letting the moment breathe.
"Cassidy," he said, turning slightly. "You're first."
The woman from Ten Pines stood, adjusting the knife on her belt as she walked down the central aisle. She wasn't one for politics. Her words were clipped, sharp, but honest.
"Defenses held. Raiders haven't been a problem since last patrol cycle. But our well collapsed in December. We're hauling water from a quarter-day out. It's not sustainable. We can trade surplus corn and a few crates of rubber tubing. We need a pump rebuild team. Maybe two."
She stepped back. No more, no less.
Sico made a note.
"Marius," he said.
The old caravan chief stood with help from a cane. His voice was thinner than it once was, but his memory hadn't dulled.
"Finch Farm's recovered from last spring's blight. Wheat's strong. We've got enough for barter. But the northern fence line's gone. We can't hold the far field, and we can't patrol it. We'll trade food for turrets or metal. Or bodies, if someone's got the manpower."
And so it went.
Each delegate stepped forward. Told their truth. What they had. What they lacked.
Oberland offered fuel cells. Graygarden asked for irrigation repair.
Somerville Place sent apologies—too far south, too little transport. But their written statement was read aloud. They needed parts for a windmill. They could send herbs in exchange—chems, too, though not all entirely legal.
By late afternoon, the light filtering through the narrow upper windows of the Congress Hall had dimmed into a deep amber, the kind of winter gold that felt almost like an apology for the cold. The air inside had warmed slightly, thanks to the active vents humming in the ceiling beams, but breath still clouded in the corners, and many delegates hadn't taken off their coats.
It had been a long day.
The benches creaked as bodies shifted, tired and stiff from hours of sitting. Sico had stood through nearly the entire session, scribbling names and requests, promises and offers, into the thick ledger at his side. Not everything would be solved today—he'd known that going in—but for the first time since the war ended, it felt like real government was being done.
Not powerplays. Not fear. Not someone declaring themselves "General" or "Director" and expecting obedience.
Just people. Trying.
The reports had covered everything from dying livestock to advances in hydroponic farming. One settlement claimed to have domesticated radstags—half the room had laughed, but not cruelly. There were grievances aired, too: road security complaints, accusations of trade hoarding, even a heated debate over a new settler town that had sprung up between two older ones, raising questions of jurisdiction and resources.
But no one walked out. No one pulled a gun. No one stormed the podium.
Progress.
By now, the Congress floor had the air of a weary tavern. Voices were quieter, more casual. Delegates leaned in toward each other, comparing notes, murmuring side deals. Coffee mugs had reappeared, some strong enough to melt rust. A few had started passing a battered tin flask discreetly around.
Sico stood near the speaking platform, rubbing his gloved hands together, both from cold and from anticipation. His eyes scanned the chamber. They'd done good work today. He could feel it in the air, behind the fatigue.
But they weren't done.
He stepped forward again, the familiar squeak of the floor under his boots pulling the room's attention slowly back toward him.
"Alright," he began, his voice carrying a different tone now—not the solemn cadence of a moderator, but the charged timbre of someone about to shift gears. "Before we wrap things up, there's one final agenda on our docket."
Heads lifted. Conversations tapered off.
Sico looked toward the eastern wing of the chamber, where a side annex led toward the equipment staging area. He raised his hand and gestured.
"Mel," he called. "Let's show them."
There was a low shuffle of movement from behind the reinforced double doors. A few groans of exertion. Then the sound of something heavy being wheeled across concrete—metal wheels on rubber grips, softly clattering over the stone tiles.
Mel appeared a moment later, flanked by two science techs and one ex Brotherhood volunteer in a repurposed engineer's coat. The look on Mel's face was one of half-pride, half-terror, like a father bringing his rowdy child to a school play and praying they didn't start swearing in front of the teacher.
Together, they wheeled the Growler into full view of the Congress.
It wasn't sleek. It wasn't pretty. But it didn't need to be.
The Growler was a cold-rated patrol motorcycle, black and gunmetal, its surface patched with repurposed armor plates and tubing. The front wheel bore a wide, high-traction snow tread, perfect for the frozen highways and backroads of the Commonwealth. The sidecar was reinforced, with its own independent axle and a mounted swivel gun—presently retracted and locked, but unmistakable. Its front end was domed, plated, and riveted, offering both cover and functionality. Small solar panels were built into the sidecar's outer hull, charging internal systems.
The whole unit looked like it could chew through a snowdrift and come out the other side spitting flame.
Sico rested one gloved hand on the seat and looked out at the room.
"This," he said clearly, "is the Growler. Sidecar unit. Cold-rated. Combat-tested. Designed by Mel and the Freemasons Science Division with help from salvaged tech and a whole lot of stubborn trial and error."
He let that sit for a second. There were murmurs already—curious, impressed, skeptical.
"We've run it through patrol simulations. It held on ice. On mud. Through shallow water. We even ran it through a firebombed junk alley near Cambridge. No major failures."
He turned slightly, motioning to the sidecar. "The gun mount is optional. We can kit it out with other mods—radios, searchlights, cargo stowage. The engine runs on multi-fuel, including low-grade ethanol and hybrid cell packs. That means it can run long, dirty, and in the cold."
Then he looked back to the assembled delegates. "Today, you all told us your problems. What your towns face. Broken walls. Distant wells. Hard-to-patrol roads. People going missing between outposts. This is part of the answer."
He ran his hand along the cold metal of the handlebar. "If we can get approval, and get the resources to do it, Sanctuary's willing to lead the first wave of mass production. We've got the schematics, the assembly team, the factory, and the fabrication hardware. But we need scrap. Power cells. Steel. Labor."
He paused—eyes moving across the faces in the room. Some were nodding already. Others had their arms crossed, weighing the cost.
"We want to show it to you. In motion. In the field. Then, if you agree—if we agree—we begin. Not tomorrow. Not next year. This winter."
There was a beat of silence. Then Mel stepped forward, pulling on a heavy helmet with a cracked blue stripe down the center.
"Test drive's already set up," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the chamber. "Built a snow track out back of the old school building. Four turns, two elevation shifts, and a couple bumps to simulate rockfall. Nothing fancy."
Some delegates exchanged glances.
"You gonna drive it?" one called out.
"Damn right I am," Mel said, swinging a leg over the seat with the grace of a man who'd done this fifty times and only crashed thirty.
Sico smiled faintly, then turned back to the chamber. "Anyone who wants to come watch, we'll step outside in five. Bring your coats. And your questions."
The snow track had been carved out of a long-frozen lot between the Congress building and the east farming fields, where old asphalt met newer salvage cement. Lights had been strung up across temporary poles, creating a haloed arena effect as dusk began to gather across the sky.
More than thirty delegates came outside, wrapped in furs, leathers, and quilted layers, steam trailing from mouths and mugs alike. Some climbed onto the scaffolds that lined the northern ridge of the track. Others stood behind the small rope barrier manned by militia.
Preston was already there when Sico arrived, leaning against a crate with Sarah next to him, arms folded. Both nodded when they saw him.
"He gonna roll it over again?" Sarah asked, squinting at the machine.
"Hopefully not," Sico replied.
"Five caps says he takes that third bend too hot."
"No bet," Preston grinned. "I know Mel too well."
Then the Growler's engine growled to life—a low, hungry rumble that cut through the wind and made several delegates visibly perk up. No whine of high-tech energy cells. No delicate hum of institute chrome.
This was a machine. You could feel it in your chest.
Mel gave a thumbs-up and gunned the throttle. The Growler jerked forward, wheels spinning briefly before catching hard ice. Then it surged, sliding cleanly into the first bend, tires gripping through salted snow as the crowd leaned in.
The sidecar swayed, perfectly balanced, the reinforced frame taking the curve like a sled on rails. Mel ducked under a strung-up beam and leaned into the second turn, snow spraying like smoke behind him.
Third bend came—tight and dipping—and for a second, it looked like Sarah was going to win that bet.
But Mel corrected with a burst of throttle and counter-turn, the back wheel fishtailing slightly before biting down. The crowd murmured with appreciation.
He hit the elevation ramp next—a piled-up hill of crushed cars and concrete slabs. The Growler climbed, sputtered slightly at the peak, then descended clean and slow.
When Mel pulled it back around and stopped in front of the gathered crowd, a few claps broke out. One loud whistle came from Oberland's team. Someone from Nordhagen yelled, "Put a damn plow on that thing and you can clean the whole trade road!"
Mel pulled off his helmet, hair slicked with sweat and triumph.
"That," he said, panting slightly, "was fun."
Sico stepped forward again, voice louder now.
"We don't expect every settlement to want these. Some might prefer quiet roads and hidden fences. But for the rest of us—those of us rebuilding trade routes, defending water lines, running medical relays—these bikes could change everything."
He let the statement settle.
"We're proposing an initial rollout of fifty units. All locally assembled. All community-tested. If you want in—if your settlement can offer raw materials, labor, or something else—we'll work with you. We're not asking for charity. We're offering partnership."
There was no vote that night. Not officially.
But as the delegates gathered back inside—talking low, eyes gleaming, some already running numbers on supply and salvage—it was clear. The Growler was more than a prototype, but it was a symbol. That even now, in the frozen dark of the post-war Commonwealth, people could build something new.
________________________________________________
• 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:-