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He glanced again at the map lit with patrol beacons across the Commonwealth. Six Wise Wolves, rounding the ridge with wounded caravan—and their presence echoing promise.
The snow had thickened by the time the first Growler rolled back into the yard—its wide tires caked with slush, headlights dimmed under a crust of frozen grime. The command tent's canvas flaps stirred in the cold wind as Sico stepped out, collar up, breath misting faintly in the early twilight.
They were back.
Ramirez hopped down first, his usual bark softened by exhaustion. Behind him, Jennings slid off the driver's saddle and shook his arms loose, like trying to cast off the long chill that clung to his shoulders.
The machine itself hissed softly, heat vents sighing steam into the frozen air. The gun barrel gleamed faintly in the glow of the courtyard lanterns, still warm.
Mel was already waiting.
He approached with a slow, thoughtful gait—blue jumpsuit unzipped halfway down to his thermal shirt, tool belt swinging lightly at his hip. He didn't say anything at first. Just circled the Growler like a wolf sniffing for blood. His gloved hand passed over the rear tire well, then along the sidecar's frame.
"No fractures," he murmured, almost to himself.
Ramirez stepped closer. "Gun handled fine," he said. "Didn't jam, no overheating. Turret rotation's still got a slight hitch at 45 degrees though—clockwise only."
Mel nodded. "Right. That's the belt tensioner. I knew I'd need a stiffer coil."
Jennings spoke up, "Engine's good. No misfires. But the exhaust spat a bit when we hit that incline near Drumlin. Like… just a little choke."
Mel squinted. "Altitude choke pressure sensor's probably dirty. I'll install a mesh over the intake." He crouched and made a note on his clipboard, the paper already wrinkled from the cold. "You gents go warm up. I'll handle her from here."
He didn't look up as he said it, but Ramirez clapped him lightly on the shoulder anyway—a gesture full of meaning. Respect. Trust. And no small amount of fatigue.
"Thanks, Mel."
The two troopers trudged off toward the barracks, their boots leaving dark trails in the fresh snow. Mel remained, his breath slow and even as he opened a panel beneath the Growler's main frame and began his diagnostics.
By the time Squad Two pulled in—three Growlers in staggered line—the yard was humming again. Lanterns flickered against the wind, and snow danced like ash in the cold glow. One machine bore scorch marks along the left sidecar, its gun mount slightly twisted from a low detonation.
Mel frowned the second he saw it.
Cpl. Mathers climbed down first, tugging his gloves off with his teeth. "Hey Mel," he greeted. "She held, but we took a hit from a fragger. Knocked out the aim stabilizer. Gun still works, but it jerks sideways now."
Mel exhaled. "Okay. That's the dampener rod shearing. Can fix it. Might swap the whole turret housing if the twist's too severe."
He turned to inspect it—squinting at the faint black soot that had trailed up from the impact site. His fingers brushed the housing gently, like a surgeon touching bruised skin.
"Frame held," he muttered. "That's good."
Another Growler had a different issue. Pvt. Lang, a wiry kid with jittery fingers, waved Mel over.
"Rear axle rattled like a deathclaw tapdancing in a wheelhouse," he said. "Felt like it was gonna fall off every time we hit a bump."
Mel chuckled dryly. "You checked the mount bolts?"
"Twice. Tight. I think the spring assembly's just shot."
"Fine. I'll pull the tension mount and see if the spring cracked. If it did, I'll reinforce the next batch with vault steel."
Lang blinked. "Wait, you still have vault-grade steel?"
"Enough for what matters," Mel replied simply.
And he did. Over the week, he'd salvaged everything he could from the . Not a single screw was wasted.
As the second squad peeled off toward the mess hall, Mel tagged their machines with red markers—temporary designators for priority repairs. His clipboard now bore dozens of penciled notes, each scribble a symptom, a cure, a tweak. A growing testament to a machine not yet perfect, but undeniably alive.
Then came Leona's unit—Squad Six—rolling in like they'd never left.
Their Growlers glided in smooth arcs, engines still healthy, snow melting off the heated radiators in steady drips. Ramirez had rejoined them after transferring the civilians to checkpoint Delta, and now he dismounted again, shaking snow off his coat.
Leona met Mel halfway.
"Ramirez says the gun didn't jam once," she reported. "Tibbs said the side sensors caught the flankers early, which let us intercept."
Mel raised an eyebrow. "No failures?"
She hesitated. "Minor things. One of the battery lines flickered when the cold set in, and the steering column felt tight on the ridge incline."
"Noted." Mel made the marks. "The cold's messing with the gaskets. Gonna have to build insulated sheaths."
She watched him, a little longer than usual.
"Mel," she said, voice low, "these things… they changed the fight. Changed us."
He didn't say anything, not right away. Just looked at her, long and steady.
Then finally: "They'll get better."
He turned and crouched beside the lead Growler again. His hand swept down to the lower housing, then into a junction box near the coolant lines.
She stayed a moment longer. Then quietly walked off.
As the other soldiers wandered to warmth and rest, Mel remained at his post. Another squad came in. Then another. One had a cracked windshield from a ricochet, another had its right fender half-sheathed in ice. One unit's comms panel was dead altogether—Yates brought it in himself, dragging a toolkit in one hand and holding the wiring harness in the other like a severed nerve.
"Lost the uplink relay on the third mile," he said. "Couldn't hear shit. I rerouted audio through my own headset, but it's a mess."
Mel just nodded. "We'll isolate it. Might be the solder points cracked in the cold. I'll reflow it tonight."
Yates handed him the parts without a word, and the two of them worked side by side under the yard's outer floodlamp. No talking. Just the shared rhythm of tired men with something that still needed fixing.
By midnight, eight Growlers had returned. Three more were on route, slowed by terrain or escort duty. Each came back bearing not just survivors—but knowledge. Data. The fine scars of combat etched into metal and oil and steel.
And Mel knew what that meant.
Improvement.
Evolution.
He sat down briefly on an upturned ammo crate, fingers stiff and aching from the cold. He pulled off his gloves and rubbed his hands together, staring at the clipboard. A dozen repairs, six upgrades, four fabrication requests, and a new idea he hadn't even written down yet.
Behind him, Sico approached.
He didn't say anything at first. Just looked over Mel's shoulder at the pile of notes, tools, and salvaged wiring.
"Hard night," he said finally.
Mel nodded, slow. "Hard… but good."
Sico watched the mechanic's eyes flicker over the columns of wear and tear. Each number wasn't just failure—it was refinement. A living system breathing in data, exhaling evolution.
"They're working," Sico said. "And the Growlers are saving lives."
Mel exhaled, slow. "They will save more. Once I reinforce the steering brace and swap the battery caps, we can cold-proof the next batch. Maybe even lighten the armor without sacrificing integrity."
"You'll need a bigger team," Sico said.
"I know."
"You'll get one."
That meant something.
Mel didn't look up. He didn't need to. The promise was already there, sealed in the quiet certainty of the man's voice.
At dawn, the last Growler returned.
Its left tire was nearly flat. Its gun mount was half-frozen. But its driver—Pvt. Celeste—was smiling.
"No casualties," she said. "Convoy's safe. Gunner's already asleep in the truck bed."
Mel gave her a nod. Then crouched to inspect the tire as the sky turned pale orange over Sanctuary's rooftops.
Sico waited a moment before speaking. Not because he didn't have anything to say, but because the silence felt earned—sacred, even. The breath of a long night still clinging to the bones of the yard. Melted snow dripped in slow intervals from the Growlers' fenders, hissing softly where it touched hot metal. Somewhere behind the mess hall, a generator coughed to life. A tired bird called once in the brittle cold. It was morning, but not quite alive yet.
He shifted his stance and looked at Mel, who was still crouched by the last Growler's tire. The mechanic's breath came out steady but deep, like someone who'd been holding it in too long. Oil streaked the back of his hand. His collar was soaked with snowmelt. And his eyes, red-rimmed from wind and work, never left the tire rim he was turning slowly with one gloved hand.
Finally, Sico asked, quiet but deliberate:
"How's the inspection report? Each Growler carry out their task alright?"
Mel didn't answer immediately. He ran his thumb along the seam between rubber and rim, then flicked a small chunk of embedded gravel loose. It bounced once, skittered away into the frost.
"They did good," he said at last, voice low and hoarse from the cold. "Each one gave me something to fix—but that's expected. These things are still cutting their teeth."
He stood slowly, groaning slightly as his knees popped. Then he brushed off his hands on a rag hanging from his belt and turned to face Sico fully.
"I'm proud of 'em," Mel continued. "Not just the bikes. The people riding 'em. They pushed the Growlers to the edge last night. Didn't break. Not really. What did give, we can reinforce. Most of it's stuff I already had a plan for—just hadn't had a chance to fabricate it yet."
Sico tilted his head. "Anything critical?"
Mel thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No. No critical systems failed. But there's still room for improvement. One thing I'm zeroing in on now is the sidecar. Specifically, its stability under sustained recoil."
He pointed a grease-blackened finger toward the closest Growler, its side-mounted machine gun still faintly steaming from last night's last burst.
"The sidecar's decent, but the current stabilizers aren't absorbing enough of the kick when the gun goes full burst. You can feel it—like a micro-whiplash. Gunner gets thrown off alignment, and the frame jitters."
He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes squinting into the rising sun.
"If someone's laying down suppressing fire, it starts walking off-target after a few seconds. I think it's the midframe torsion. I used repurposed truck springs. Should've been strong enough, but under repeat fire… it flexes."
He paused, then nodded, more to himself than to Sico.
"I can fix it. I will fix it. Swap the stabilizers for a thicker torsion bar, maybe repurpose some of the suspension housing from that old vertibird we pulled from Bedford Crater. That frame was aerospace-rated. Add some counterweight in the footwell and improve the seat bracket dampeners. Let the gunner brace better under load."
Sico watched him speak—not just hearing the words, but seeing the mind behind them work. Mel didn't just make machines. He understood them. Felt them. Like some people could feel music, or wind, or instinct.
Mel caught his gaze and added, "Give me four days, I'll build a prototype mount that can handle a 300-round burst without bucking."
Sico gave a short breath of a laugh. "Make it three."
That drew a grin from the mechanic, weary but solid. "You really don't like sleep, do you?"
"Not when our people are dying out there."
Mel's grin faded, and he gave a short nod, sobered again. "Right."
They stood there a moment longer, just two men in the cold, watching the steam rise from the still-warm Growlers. Around them, Sanctuary stirred slowly to life—soft footfalls in the snow, the clink of pots from the mess tent, a distant bark of orders from the training yard.
Mel finally moved toward the workbench he'd set up beside the tent—really just an old vault door propped on concrete blocks, but it held what mattered: tools, diagrams, spare parts scavenged from five decades of ruin. He flipped open his notebook again, scanning the already sprawling list of field notes.
Sico followed, arms crossed loosely.
Sico said after a moment. "Twenty Growlers was the initial batch. Now I want the remaining eighty. Maybe more. One per patrol squad, and reserves for convoy protection."
Mel put the pencil down.
"You got plans for gunnery upgrades?" Sico asked. "I saw one of the mounts was fitted with a sighting assist. Not standard."
"Experimental," Mel replied. "Just a jury-rigged periscope from an old securitron and a bike mirror. But it worked. Lang hit a raider square between the eyes at fifty yards last night, mid-turn. Said it 'felt like the bike wanted him to hit the shot.'"
He grinned faintly.
"I'm working on stabilizing optics next. Maybe even thermal targeting. Got some old Institute scraps I've been dissecting. Could mount it as a toggle module—flip it on for night patrols."
Sico raised his eyebrows. "Thermals on a sidecar machine gun."
"Why not?" Mel said. "If we can see the enemy first, we don't need to fire as long."
He turned the notebook so Sico could see the rough sketch—basic outlines of a targeting array mounted just above the weapon's barrel. Wires fed to a battery behind the gunner's seat. A small scope linked by fiber optic tube.
"I could probably field-test it by end of week," Mel added. "Assuming I get that extra help you mentioned."
"You'll have it," Sico said again. "I'll put out the call today. Engineering, salvage, even a couple of old vault maintenance crew from the North Point ruins. And you'll get access to the robotics bay."
Mel looked up sharply at that. "You serious?"
"You earned it."
Mel whistled low. "Then I will make the best damn bike this wasteland has ever seen."
A few paces away, the radio crackled.
"Command, this is Alpha Nine, returning from grid patrol. No contact. Growlers holding stable. ETA fifteen minutes. Over."
Sico and Mel both turned toward the sound, listening to the hum of the speaker, the calm certainty in the patrol's voice. A week ago, that patrol would've walked the miles. Vulnerable. Exposed. Maybe never come back.
Now they were armored. Mobile. Protected.
"You know," Mel said, quieter now, "when we started this… I thought it'd just be a proof of concept. A machine. A shell with wheels and guns."
He looked out over the row of returned Growlers—battered, burnished, but upright. Engines quiet now. Guns cold. But present. Here.
"I didn't know they'd mean something," he murmured.
Sico put a hand on his shoulder, firm and warm despite the cold.
"They do."
Sico lingered a moment longer after the radio went quiet, letting his palm rest on Mel's shoulder before giving it a brief squeeze. The gesture didn't need words, and Mel didn't offer any in return—just a silent nod, eyes already returning to the sketches in his notebook and the bits of scavenged metal strewn across the vault-door workbench.
"Keep pushing," Sico said quietly. "You've started something real here."
Mel glanced up, meeting his eyes. "I won't stop."
Sico gave a faint smile, the kind that lived somewhere between pride and pressure. "Good. Because neither will they."
He turned without another word and started walking. His boots crunched softly in the half-melted snow, steam rising in tendrils from the warm earth beneath the vehicles. The yard was coming alive now—technicians moving between stalls, patrols forming up, someone barking for spare ammo crates over by the logistics tent.
But Sico wasn't heading for the barracks, or the mess, or even back to Central Command.
He was heading for the Radio of Freedom tower.
It stood out like a sentry on the edge of Sanctuary—half pre-war satellite dish, half post-war scaffolding. The building beneath it had once been a general store, maybe a diner. Now, its windows glowed soft orange behind sandbag walls, and the topmost antenna blinked slowly against the morning sky. Every transmission that came in or went out from the Freemasons Republic passed through that room now.
And lately, a new kind of message had been broadcasting from it.
Sico's boots tapped up the wooden steps—each one still crooked, still scarred by frost and rot, but holding steady. He reached the door and didn't knock. He didn't have to.
The inside smelled like warm wires and instant coffee. The scent of radiation-treated paper and soldered circuitry lingered under it all. Someone had patched the broken ceiling with an old Vault-Tec banner, and string lights looped lazily around the shelves of vacuum tubes and vinyl. A handful of settlers sat off to one side on threadbare chairs, listening to a tinny speaker as soft music played under a gravel-voiced announcer reading the news from Quincy Post Two.
In the middle of it all—headphones askew, one boot resting on the back of a defunct eyebot, her fingers dancing over knobs like a concert pianist—was Piper Wright.
She didn't look up at first. Her whole body moved in small rhythms with the audio feed, gently nudging gain levels, flipping frequency switches, switching out reels. Her coat was half-zipped, her scarf slung over the chair like she'd meant to hang it up but got distracted by a deadline. One lens of her goggles was cracked, but she wore them anyway, perched above her forehead like a badge of persistence.
Sico stepped in and waited, arms folded.
Then, finally, without even looking, she said, "You missed the intro. Again."
He smirked. "Good morning to you too."
Piper leaned back, stretched, and cracked her neck to one side, then the other. "I've been on since four. My coffee's gone cold. And the entire southern repeater chain tried to blow a fuse when I said 'Growler' too many times too fast on a hot mic."
Sico's brow lifted slightly. "That bad?"
"That good, actually," Piper said, grinning as she turned toward him. "People are eating it up."
She reached behind her and flipped a switch, cutting the relay line to the open feed and routing the room to local speakers. In the corner, the vinyl softened into background static, then silence.
Piper stood, rolling her shoulders.
"You want the summary?" she asked.
Sico nodded.
She walked over to the desk and grabbed a worn clipboard covered in scribbles. Her handwriting was barely legible, but it danced across the page like someone who thought faster than the pen could keep up.
"Broadcast went out in four pulses," she said, reading aloud. "One: introduction and narration on the Growler's role. We used that field recording from the demo run—good engine roars, gunfire clips, all that glorious metal mayhem. Two: testimonies. Preston gave a short but sharp statement. Leona too. Even got that hotshot gunner Lang to give us a line about how the Growler 'rides like it's angry and shoots like it's blind with purpose.' Whatever the hell that means."
Sico chuckled.
Piper flipped the page.
"Three: I did a segment from my desk. Editorial style. Spoke direct to the settlements. Talked about what the Growler represents—not just machinery, but progress. Patrols that can move faster than threats. Convoy escorts that can outgun ambushes. Symbolism, y'know?"
Sico nodded. "You're good at that."
"Damn right I am," she said, then added, "Fourth segment was raw audio from last night's raid near Quincy Fringe. We cleaned up the radio chatter, pulled out names and callsigns to protect the squads, but the rest? Pure. Uncut. The people heard it, Sico. Heard the roar, the crack of that .50 cal, the way the patrol leader called in secure after they cleared the last of the ambushers."
She looked up, eyes sharper now.
"That hit home, boss. People were crying in Graygarden. One of the elders in Littleton broadcast a reply—said it gave her chills. She lost a son to raiders last year. Said if the Growler had been around then…"
Her voice trailed off.
Sico's jaw tightened.
Piper let the moment hang, then took a breath and continued.
"Settlement feedback's pouring in. Most of them are asking the same thing: how many, how soon, and how do we get assigned one."
Sico exhaled slowly. "That's going to depend on Mel."
"I figured," Piper said. "He listening to feedback yet?"
"Always is," Sico replied. "He already flagged recoil dampening in the sidecar as a fix priority. Said he'll prototype a reinforced mount by end of week. Might add targeting optics too—he's got Institute scraps and some vertibird torsion rigs he's repurposing."
Piper gave a low whistle. "Damn. Thermal optics?"
"Maybe."
"Holy shit."
"Yeah."
She grinned, despite the weight of it all. "You know what I told folks? I said the Growler wasn't just a ride—it was a message. A loud one."
Sico stepped closer to the board beside the transmitter, where old pre-War maps had been pinned over newer parchment with updated zone markings. Patrol routes were drawn in string. Tiny flags marked settler outposts, militia camps, farms, and defense towers.
He traced a finger down the routes near the southern edge.
"They're going to start hitting us harder soon," he said quietly. "Raiders. They'll see the Growlers and think we're overextending."
"They'll be wrong," Piper said firmly.
"They'll try to prove us wrong," Sico replied. "So we keep proving otherwise."
He looked at her. "Any chatter from the Wren outposts?"
Piper flipped to a second sheet, this one stained with ink blotches. "Minimal. Mostly radio silence. They're still in shock after the last retaliation sweep. But there's movement near Framingham. Spotters say someone's hauling salvaged tanks into the old industrial park. Could be Raiders. No flags yet."
Sico frowned.
"We'll need to send scouts."
"I already pinged Sarah," Piper said. "She's pulling three recon pairs from the 5th. You'll get the brief by evening."
She paused. "You want me to run another Growler feature tomorrow?"
Sico considered.
"Not the same tone," he said. "Shift it. Move from what the Growler is to who is riding it. Humanize the squads. Names, faces, interviews. Let the people know it's not just some steel beast. It's our kids riding them. Our fighters."
Piper nodded, scribbling something.
"And," Sico added, "if any settlements send requests for manufacturing support—scrap, labor, logistics—I want those routed to my desk. We're not just giving them machines. We're teaching them how to maintain them."
Piper grinned. "So the Growler becomes not just a weapon, but a culture."
"Exactly."
She chuckled. "You know, I used to think war never changed. But maybe it does. A little. When you build it like this."
Sico didn't smile—but his silence was agreement.
A moment later, the static on the auxiliary speaker flickered again. The voice was scratchy but clear enough.
"Radio of Freedom, this is Jacobstown Tower. Reporting in. Repeat: reporting in. Heard the Growler broadcast. Confirm morale spike among patrol units. Transmitting thanks. Over."
Piper smiled.
Sico turned to go, already pulling his coat tighter.
"I'll check back at sundown," he said. "Make sure Mel hasn't welded himself to something."
Piper lifted a hand in mock salute. "I'll keep the signal warm."
As he stepped out into the thin sunlight, the door shutting behind him, Sico paused on the steps of the tower and looked out over the town.
________________________________________________
• 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:-