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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.
The glow from the track lights still spilled across the eastern snow when the delegates filed back into the Congress Hall—boots wet, cheeks flushed, breath steaming in the cold. But the mood had shifted. What had been cautious diplomacy a few hours ago now buzzed with something else entirely.
Momentum.
The kind you could feel under your fingertips, like static before a storm.
The doors creaked shut behind the last stragglers, sealing the warmth in and the wind out. Mel had stayed outside with a few gearheads and techs, already field-stripping the Growler for inspection, grease on his gloves and snow on his knees. He didn't want to influence the vote. Said so himself—told Sico, "If they want it, I want it to be because it works. Not because I pitched it loud enough."
And Sico had respected that.
Back inside, the Congress Hall had regained its shape. The benches were mostly full again, though some people now stood along the back wall, arms crossed, faces thoughtful. A couple of the southern delegates had pulled off their outer layers, sweating slightly despite the lingering chill. The conversations had grown quiet again—but not out of tension this time. Out of calculation.
Sico returned to the speaking platform. He didn't need to clear his throat. The room was already listening.
He laid both gloved hands on the rim of the old oak podium and leaned in slightly.
"All right," he said, voice steady. "We've seen the prototype. We've seen it move. Now comes the part no one ever likes."
There were a few chuckles. He waited for them to pass.
"This Congress was founded not just to share resources or make trade deals—but to decide how we invest in our future. The Growler is a proposal, not a decree. It's on the table. And we're going to treat it the way we agreed we would treat all such questions. With a vote."
He lifted the thick, leather-bound ledger and laid it flat before him.
"One delegate, one vote. You say yes—we begin resource coordination for an initial batch of one hundred Growlers. You say no—we shelve the project and put those materials somewhere else. Simple."
A few nods. Someone coughed into a scarf.
Sico didn't wait long. He wasn't one for ceremony.
"We'll go in order of seniority. You know the drill. When I call your name, you say your vote. Then I'll record it, and we move to the next."
He flipped to the correct page and lifted his pencil.
"Cassidy of Ten Pines Bluff."
The tall woman stood slowly. Her leather coat let out a quiet squeak as she moved.
"Aye," she said. "We've got road stretch we can't watch. That thing changes the equation."
Sico marked it down.
"Marius of Finch Farm."
The old caravan chief barely stood, his leg braced against the bench in front of him.
"Aye," he rasped. "I remember what it used to be like. That Growler… it gets us close."
He sat back down, exhaling through his nose.
One by one, the delegates spoke.
Oberland—aye. They wanted to retrofit two units as medical relays.
Nordhagen—aye. With the idea of mounting snow plows and salvage hooks.
Covenant—reluctantly, aye. They requested tight controls and pilot certifications.
Graygarden—aye. They offered to trade scrap and wiring bundles from an old auto-factory site if Mel's team would help retool their hydroponics sensors.
One abstention came from a remote delegate—Greentop Nursery—citing distance and logistical limitations. "We'll need more info," their young rep said plainly. "But we're not against it."
The rest followed quickly. By the time it reached the last three voices, Sico already knew the outcome. Still, he let the process play out in full. That mattered. Rituals mattered.
Even if they came from the ruins.
The final tally: 22 in favor. 1 abstention. 0 against.
When the last pencil mark was made, Sico closed the ledger with a soft thump. He let the moment sit there, weighty and real.
"Motion passed," he said. "The Freemasons Republic will support mass production of the Growler patrol vehicle, beginning this winter. Allocation team will meet tomorrow morning to begin priority routing. If you want your settlement included in the first rollout, stay after session and talk to Mel's logistics lead."
A light wave of applause broke out. Not loud. Not jubilant.
But proud.
Earned.
Sico gave a slow nod, then leaned forward once more.
"Some of you will ride these," he said. "Some of you will build them. Some of you will never see one up close. But all of us—every one of us—will live a little safer because of them. That's what this place is for."
He stepped back. Not because he was done, but because there was nothing else to say.
The delegates didn't scatter like they had before. Many stayed seated. Talking in pairs or clusters. A few began breaking off to approach Mel's assistant—a stocky woman in green mechanics' fatigues with two missing fingers and a clipboard twice her size.
Preston joined Sico at the podium, arms folded, nodding.
"Didn't think we'd get full consensus," he admitted quietly.
"We didn't," Sico said. "But we got something better. Direction."
"Mel's gonna be up all night building intake forms."
"He already is. Probably tearing apart the Growler right now looking for what went wrong."
Preston chuckled. "I don't think anything went wrong."
"Exactly," Sico murmured. "That's what'll drive him crazy."
They both laughed, then fell into a comfortable silence.
Sico stood for a long while at the edge of the dais, watching the delegates filter through conversation like eddies in a thawing river. The warmth in the room now came less from the coal-fed vents hidden beneath the floors and more from the quiet energy of people who had done something—decided something. That kind of momentum didn't come easy out here. Especially not after two centuries of betrayals, silences, and the long shadows of pre-war failure.
He exhaled, slow and steady, the way he'd learned to when aiming down iron sights with frozen fingers.
Preston stood beside him, arms still crossed, eyes scanning the room like a man watching the wind shift.
Sico turned to him.
"Can you grab Mel?" he asked.
Preston gave a slight nod and pushed away from the podium without a word, boots clicking on the old wooden floor as he headed for the side door near the rear vestibule. It led back into the entry corridor, which, as of this month, connected to the reinforced garage bay that had been retrofitted for the prototype test. He moved fast—but not with urgency. More like the kind of walk a man has when he's done his part and is passing the torch along.
Sico remained still for a moment, eyes on the floor, fingertips resting on the leather of the now-closed ledger.
He'd heard that phrase once in a pre-war book someone had scavenged from an old military library: Operational Clarity. It wasn't just about tactics or gear—it meant you knew what needed doing and you had the will, the tools, and the agreement to get it done. Sanctuary hadn't felt this sharp, this cohesive, in months. Maybe years.
And now Mel would get his answer.
A few minutes later, the side door creaked open again, and Preston stepped in with Mel trailing behind him.
Mel looked like he'd just come out of a fistfight with an engine block.
His sleeves were stained black and copper with oil and graphite. His right glove was gone, stuffed in the back pocket of his coveralls. His hair, already unruly on the best of days, stuck out like tufts of hay, and the lenses of his goggles were pushed up high on his forehead, leaving pale rings around his eyes from long hours squinting through frost and grime.
But his steps were solid. Sure. No limping. No hesitance.
That was new.
Sico didn't smile, but his shoulders relaxed half an inch.
As Mel approached the podium, Sico stepped down from it, walking forward to meet him halfway. The room hadn't gone fully quiet, but the buzz dimmed just enough to mark that something was about to be said again.
Mel stopped a few feet away, wiping his hand on a rag that looked like it had once been a t-shirt. His voice was as dry and gravelly as usual, but there was a flicker of something behind it now. Not hope—Mel didn't do hope—but focus. That stubborn, flame-tight kind of purpose.
"You wanted me?" he asked, eyes flicking between Sico and Preston.
Sico didn't bother with a wind-up.
"The Congress agreed," he said plainly. "Twenty-two to zero. One abstention."
Mel blinked once.
Then twice.
"…Seriously?"
Sico nodded. "Seriously. They want the Growler."
There was a pause.
Not long. But enough.
Mel slowly tucked the rag into his back pocket and let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
"…Shit," he muttered, then glanced off to the side, as if the words were something he had to bounce against a wall before accepting.
Then: "Okay. Then we've got work."
"We do," Sico said, stepping a little closer, lowering his voice so only Mel and Preston could hear. "I want you to get the schematics and component layouts delivered to the Humvee and Truck factory by tonight. They'll be in charge of the initial batch."
Mel gave a single nod—sharp, almost a flinch of muscle memory from a life spent too long in workshops where every answer had to be quick, decisive, and born of action rather than theory. His fingers flexed once as if gripping an invisible wrench, then he exhaled and said simply, "Got it. I'll send it right away."
There wasn't any fanfare in the words, no swelling of pride or clamor for recognition. Just a man who understood what had to be done and who, maybe for the first time in years, knew he had the resources to do it. Mel turned and walked off, back toward the rear of the Congress building where the wind sometimes whistled faintly through the cracks in the century-old mortar, and then through the corridor that would lead him out toward the north side—toward the factory beside the Science Division.
Sico watched him go for a moment. Not out of doubt. Not even concern. Just… acknowledgment. Like watching a gear slot into place.
He turned to Preston then, the buzz of the delegates behind them beginning to swell again, conversations resuming now that the vote was done. But this wasn't the end of anything—it was just the hinge point. The kind you remember later when someone asks where it all began.
Sico leaned in, keeping his voice low. "I want you to prepare a team," he said. "A unit. Specialized. They'll be the first ones to operate the Growlers once they're out of the factory line."
Preston's arms uncrossed slowly, his expression steady, eyes narrowing with focus. "What kind of team?"
"Mixed unit," Sico said. "Five soldiers per vehicle. Driver. Gunner. Scout. Tech. Commander."
"Commanding officer picked from within?"
Sico shook his head. "Not this time. I want someone selected and trained in parallel. I want them thinking about Growler tactics before the machines are even ready."
Preston nodded. "You want doctrine development."
"Exactly. I want these Growlers to be more than just mobile guns. I want them running patrols, sweeping frozen trade roads, reinforcing outposts fast. Which means we need people who know how to think with speed, adapt under pressure, and communicate with the larger grid. I'm not talking just muscle—I'm talking people who can read a battlefield like a mechanic reads a faulty relay."
Preston tilted his head, considering. "I've got a few names in mind already. People who don't get rattled. People who've been through some shit and didn't let it turn them brittle."
Sico gave a small nod. "Good. Pull them in. Give them a week to get familiar with the theory. Then two weeks at the proving grounds."
"You want me to command them myself?"
Sico paused.
Then: "I want you to supervise. But not command. The Growler team needs someone younger. Someone who sees a battlefield the way Mel sees an engine. And someone who's not a symbol. No offense, Preston—but you walk into a room, people see the Minutemen. I want someone who can walk into a dark alley in Quincy."
Preston's smile was faint, but real. "So not a legend. Just a killer."
Sico chuckled. "Something like that."
The two men stood there a while longer, watching as the hall slowly emptied. Delegates filtered out through the double doors at the front, heavy coats thrown over shoulders, datapads tucked into belt holsters, conversations ebbing into the open air beyond the building. The muffled sounds of carts rolling across the slush-covered concrete of the plaza reached their ears—the usual traffic of Sanctuary's heart.
A new phase had begun.
And the hum in the air—beneath the cold, beneath the fading firelight—was the sound of possibility.
The next day came with steel-gray skies and a wind that bit harder than it had in weeks. The late January cold was settling in deep, curling under doorframes and creeping through seams in the insulation of even the sturdiest homes. But the Congress building was warmer than usual. Not just in temperature—though the coal-fed floor vents hummed steadily—but in movement. In momentum.
Sico stepped through the front doors with his coat buttoned high, gloves tucked in his belt, and a folded notepad under his arm. He didn't need a retinue. Not today. This wasn't a parade. It was a checkpoint on a long road.
Preston was already inside, seated at a long repurposed vault steel table near the rear, scanning personnel records projected onto a salvaged terminal screen. He looked up as Sico approached.
"I've got five candidates," Preston said before Sico could even speak. "Six if you count Nora from Greenview. She's young, but she's got the eyes. You know the kind."
"I do," Sico said. "Show me."
Preston tapped a key, and one by one, faces and dossiers flicked across the screen.
Candidate One: Lt. Rafe Dominguez. Late thirties. Former Brotherhood recon, discharged after the Maxson Purge. Tactical mind, desert survival expert, now head of patrol coordination out of Quincy South. Scarred both physically and mentally, but stable. Loyal to the Freemasons, not just the flag.
Candidate Two: Lt. Melinda Ko. Sharp, fast-thinking, with a background in software systems and drone recon. She'd been stationed at the Castle for the last eight months, but most of her work had been remote coordination with Skywatch teams across the Commonwealth.
Candidate Three: Sgt. Arturo "Hawk" Medina. Former Raider, now one of the Freemasons' most reliable forward scouts. Took a bullet for a settler caravan during the Ghoul Wind ambush last fall. Still walks with a limp. But sees threats before most people even smell smoke.
Candidate Four: Lt. Leona Price. Vault 81 born, trained under Sarah Lyons in the Capital Wasteland when she was barely fifteen. Came to the Commonwealth looking for something more than the ruins of old ideals. Found purpose in the Freemasons and never looked back.
Candidate Five: Jared Cole. No rank. No uniform. But his name was known—especially in the settlements west of Worcester. A folk hero, some said. A ghost, others. He was said to have led seven families out of a cannibal camp using nothing but stealth, stolen knives, and a mind for shadows.
Sico scrolled through the notes, then leaned back.
"Leona," he said finally. "She's got the training and the legacy. But more than that… she's used to the cold. Both the kind outside and the kind in people's hearts."
Preston nodded slowly. "You're thinking morale."
"I'm thinking longevity. These Growler teams aren't just for one campaign. We're building a new arm of defense. I want someone who sees beyond the next fight."
"I'll send for her," Preston said. "She's stationed at Fort Gabriel right now. Should be here in two days."
Meanwhile, at the factory across from the Science Division, Mel's world had narrowed to the clatter of steel and the low, constant drone of heavy motors running under strain.
He stood by the prototype Growler, flanked by two of his engineers—Nash, a wiry man with eyes too big for his face, and Tanya, a former tunnel rat from the old subway lines who now ran wiring like she was braiding thread.
"I want the turret mount rebalanced," Mel barked. "The recoil strain from the last test was five percent too high. We're going to warp the axle housing if we keep that up."
"Already working on it," Tanya said, sliding under the chassis with a wrench clutched between her teeth.
"And the heat shielding?"
Nash held up a scorched panel. "We need to swap alloys. The current plating's melting at 1900. I've got some salvaged Enclave composite we can—"
"Do it," Mel cut in.
The factory smelled of hot metal, motor oil, and snow-melted leather. Every surface was half-slick with condensation, and sparks flew intermittently from welding rigs positioned at key joints along the vehicle line. The hum of motion was relentless. Saws, rivet guns, hydraulic presses—all synchronized like some industrial symphony.
________________________________________________
• 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:-