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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.
Five days later, the air still bit with that deep midwinter sharpness, the kind that carved itself into your lungs and lingered behind your teeth. But the sky had opened up, bleeding in a little sunlight through a lattice of pale gray clouds. Sanctuary's training yard—set just east of the garrison wall, where the old scrapyard had been flattened and rebuilt with gravel tracks and reinforced concrete—buzzed with kinetic energy.
Snow had been plowed off the main circuit track, leaving behind wet ruts and patches of ice that caught in the grooves of boots and tires alike. But that didn't stop the Growlers.
Twenty of them, gleaming in their matte-black, frostbitten armor, growled low in staggered formation, engines purring with the distinctive throb of modified pre-war motorcycle blocks. Each machine was a beast in its own right—a motorcycle with a sidecar widened and reinforced with a low-slung gun mount, armored shielding, and collapsible traction treads that could be deployed in rough terrain. There was something brutal and elegant about them.
Sico stood on the edge of the overlook that had been repurposed from the scaffolding of an old water tower. Beside him were Preston, Sarah Garcia—the new logistics overseer for the Growler program—and Mel, who looked about three parts exhausted and two parts proud, his grease-stained hands tucked into a repurposed pilot's jacket, still zipped up to his chin despite the warming sun.
Below, the first Growler unit thundered through an obstacle drill—tight turns, sudden stops, suppressive fire maneuvers. Each team of five worked with a rhythm that was still raw, but promising. The drivers leaned into turns hard, skimming gravel. Gunners pivoted fast on the mounted machine guns, tracking painted targets that popped up from behind rusted barricades and faux trees. The scouts dropped off the back of the sidecars mid-roll, skimming across icy terrain with recon pads, relaying "enemy" positions via radio bursts.
Leona Price, the newly-appointed CO of the Growler squads, stood in the middle of it all—helmet on, mic relaying commands directly to the teams. Her voice carried sharp through the radio frequencies, calm and clipped. She had the bearing of someone who knew exactly how much chaos a human brain could hold and still perform under fire.
"She's shaping up," Preston muttered beside Sico, watching as one of the Growlers banked hard, drifted into a spin, and then corrected—just in time for the gunner to unload a tight burst that shredded the target a split-second later.
"Like she was born to it," Sarah added. She had a clipboard tucked under one arm, but hadn't looked at it in ten minutes. She didn't need to. She was tracking with her eyes now—calculating loadouts, refit cycles, fuel use by engine tone. She had the mind of a mechanic but the posture of a quartermaster.
Mel didn't speak for a while.
He was staring at the sidecar mount on Unit 07—his favorite. The gunner's swivel had been a sticking point during testing. The mount would sometimes jam on frost-heavy mornings, refusing to track smoothly at full range. But today, it pivoted with grace, fluid and fast.
"I didn't think we'd get here this quick," he finally said.
Sico glanced at him, half a smile tugging at his mouth. "I did."
Mel snorted, but it wasn't dismissive. Just tired. "You always say that. But I remember the first version. No side armor. Gunners getting frostbite just from sitting too long. I had to scrap half the first batch."
"You scrapped 'em because you wanted the second batch better," Sico said. "And you got it."
Mel didn't reply, but his hand brushed the railing absently. His eyes tracked Unit 07 again as it looped around, gunning hard toward the east run.
A sudden bang erupted from the range—one of the gun mounts misfired, a heavy echo punching through the yard. A shout followed. Not pain. Just surprise.
Leona's voice crackled through the comms: "Hold fire. Unit 12, weapons safety check. All teams, status report."
The squad pulled into a holding pattern, engines idling, while one of the techs jogged in with a toolkit, waving to the gunner who raised both hands in frustration.
"Overloaded the belt feed again," Sarah muttered, glancing at her notes now. "That's the third time today. We're pushing the ammo motor too fast."
Mel grunted. "Gonna need a tighter limiter on the driver's intake coils. I'll write up a retrofit note."
Sico nodded. "Good. Keep the tempo, but let's not blow up our own squads during drills."
Leona gave the all-clear a few minutes later, and the teams snapped back into formation like muscle memory was already taking root. That was what impressed Sico the most. Not the speed. Not even the firepower. But the cohesion. These were men and women who hadn't ridden together two weeks ago. Now they flowed like blood in a single system.
The Growlers weren't just machines. They were pulse points.
He turned to Preston. "Next week we start integration with the outer settlements. Road patrols, border escorts, rapid evac drills. Pick five locations. Keep them spread out. I want to see how fast these things can scale."
Preston nodded, already taking mental notes. "Hilltown Pass, Drumlin Ridge, West Harwich, Quincy Fringe, and Backshore. Those routes are half-frozen but they've got the most traffic."
"Good. Let Leona pick who leads each."
Preston raised an eyebrow. "All right. That's new."
"She's gotta get used to thinking at scale. A Growler CO won't just be leading five-man units forever. This will grow. We build the muscle memory now."
Sarah looked over. "You want to start talking refueling infrastructure? They're fast, but they drink fuel like addicts."
"Let's set up dual-source tanks at every satellite relay," Sico said. "Gasoline and ethanol blends. The Science Division's got that distillery rig they tested on the Brahmin carts, right?"
Mel nodded. "Can scale it. I'll pull a team."
"And mobile garages," Sico added. "Modular, on skids. If we get a Growler stranded out there in a storm or ambush, I want us fixing it on the run."
The plan was taking shape so fast it felt less like building and more like uncovering something that had always been there—like they were brushing dirt off an old map etched in steel.
A radio buzzed on Sarah's belt. She answered, listened for a second, then turned. "Unit 07 says their rear suspension's pulling left under torque. Mel?"
Mel was already moving. "Tell 'em to bring it in. I'll take the mount apart myself."
Sico watched him go again, same as he had five days earlier. But this time there was no hesitation in Mel's step. No questioning of the vote. No uncertainty. He was moving with the confidence of someone who knew the Republic now moved with him—not behind or around him.
Preston stepped closer. "You really think these things change the game?"
"I think they already have," Sico said.
He looked down at the yard—Growlers idling, soldiers shifting between drills, the distant thump of the forge echoing from the factory, and above it all the steel bones of Sanctuary's congress tower catching the sunlight like a sentinel.
Then Sico turned slightly, his coat catching the wind. He glanced down again at the activity in the yard—the gleam of the matte-black machines, the soldiers moving like gears in an engine that hadn't existed a month ago. His jaw tightened slightly, thoughts shifting.
"We should send them out," he said quietly, as if testing the words.
Preston looked over, brows furrowed. "Today?"
Sico nodded. "Yeah. Let's see what they can really do. Drills are one thing. But I want them on actual patrol routes now. Out in the snow, through real terrain. Let 'em feel it."
Preston exhaled, watching a Growler unit line up near the southern end of the track. "They're not at full sync yet."
"They're close enough." Sico's voice was firm, but not reckless. "We're not sending them into a firefight. Just patrol duty. Presence. Territory recognition. Radio test pings with the outposts. I want them to feel the Republic beneath their wheels. You know what that does to morale? What it says to the settlers when they see these teams rolling through their snow-choked streets?"
Preston gave a small nod. "It says they're not alone anymore."
"Exactly."
Sico's breath fogged the air as he turned to Sarah. "Three Growlers per team. That gives us six squads total. Use the full twenty. But the last team'll only have two Growlers, so make sure they're the most experienced. Tightest unit. If anything goes wrong, I want the veterans on the deepest stretch."
Sarah already had her clipboard up, flipping through her handwritten logs. "Leona's got a few pairings she's flagged as especially tight on comms and maneuvering. I'll confirm with her."
Preston rubbed the back of his glove over his jaw. "We'll need route assignments, check-in protocols, fallback options if any team goes dark."
"I'll draw the maps," Sico replied. "We'll start with ring patrols—spokes leading out of Sanctuary, sweeping along the outer perimeter. Let the terrain test them. Let the people see them."
Sarah jotted something down, then paused. "You want them armed for engagement?"
Sico shook his head. "Standard loadouts. Nothing excessive. Full ammo belts, sure, but keep the heavier payloads locked at base. This isn't a show of force—it's a show of unity."
Mel returned just then, his sleeves rolled up now, a socket wrench tucked under one arm, looking like he'd already crawled halfway inside Unit 07's undercarriage. He glanced between the group and raised an eyebrow. "What'd I miss?"
"Growlers go live today," Preston said.
Mel blinked. "Patrols?"
Sico nodded. "Three per team. Six squads. We'll break the yard down now, reassign formation groupings, and dispatch by high noon. You good to sign off on them?"
Mel hesitated for only a second—less than a breath. Then he nodded. "Yeah. They're ready."
The yard shifted from drill rhythm to deployment mode in under fifteen minutes. Like throwing a switch in the spine of a well-oiled machine.
Leona took the news without even a raised eyebrow. "Finally," was all she said, as she adjusted her helmet and turned back to her COs.
Her voice snapped over the radio with sharp precision. "Squad leads report to the command tower. Final route briefings in fifteen."
Sico worked fast, sketching routes on the tabletop map inside the small tactical tent they'd set up beside the yard. Preston stood opposite him, watching as Sico marked out six patrol paths with a thick red pencil.
"Squad One," Sico said, tapping the northwest line. "Out toward West Harwich. Hilltown Pass. High elevation, snowdrifts expected. Good stress test."
Preston nodded.
"Squad Two—east to Drumlin Ridge. Touch base with the relay station. Their radio's been wonky."
Another nod.
"Squad Three down the Backshore route. They'll hit at least two outer settlements and pass by those new fields the Agri team set up."
"Four?" Preston asked.
"Quincy Fringe." Sico looked up. "It's close enough for support if things go bad, but remote enough to stretch their fuel limits."
"Five?"
"South. The new routes down by Edgewood. Light traffic. Let's test their long-term movement over frozen terrain."
"And Six?" Preston asked.
Sico paused. Then he marked a thin line arcing to the far northeast.
"Lynn Woods. Ruins, open stretches, dangerous terrain. Small, scattered settler huts. It's mostly wilderness, but it touches the border of Minutemen territory. The team we send there—only two Growlers—has to be tight. I want reports every hour."
Sarah stepped in with her clipboard, already translating the route assignments into digital radio codes and distribution lists for supply caches.
"I've loaded the fuel stops on their nav systems," she said. "Ammo limits are green across the board. Mel's doing a final compression test on Unit 09. After that, we're good."
Outside, the Growler teams were forming. Soldiers checked ammo belts, tested radios, tightened straps. There was an energy now—half nerves, half adrenaline, but mostly pride. This was history, and they knew it.
Unit commanders huddled around Leona near the armory truck, listening as she assigned routes and cautioned them on weather, signal strength, and fallback coordinates. She wasn't barking. Just speaking plain, direct, like they all had skin in this.
Sico stepped out to meet her just as she dismissed them. "You pick Squad Six yet?" he asked.
Leona nodded. "Yeah. Taking it myself."
Sico tilted his head. "Risky. You sure?"
"They're my machines," she said simply. "If someone's going into the woods with the fewest support units, it's gonna be me."
He watched her for a moment—stoic, calm, eyes already on the horizon. Then he extended his hand. "Be smart out there."
Leona shook it. "Always."
The six Growler squads rolled out of Sanctuary just past noon, engines thrumming through the open gates. Snow churned beneath their wheels, the sun catching on their armored shells. People lined the roadside—traders, settlers, kids in patchwork jackets waving with wide eyes. Some clapped. Some saluted.
Others just watched with that haunted, cautious hope that still hadn't left the Wasteland. But even they stood taller when the Growlers passed.
Inside the command tent, Sico stood with Sarah and Preston, watching the map table light up with movement. Each Growler team's nav beacon pinged green. Radio checks came in crisp and clear.
"All teams en route," Sarah confirmed.
Sico nodded and turned toward the tent flap, stepping outside. The yard had gone quiet now, save for the hum of the power generators and the soft rustle of wind moving through steel supports.
He looked down the road where the Growlers had vanished, the faint trail of churned snow still visible.
"Now we wait," Preston said beside him.
"Not for long," Sico replied.
Because something had shifted.
The machines were out there now—black wolves in formation. And the Republic had teeth.
Two hours later, the first check-in came from Squad Three. Clean passage. Good roads. Locals had cheered. One old woman had even tried to give them a basket of knitted socks.
By sundown, Squad One reported a minor ice drift detour but nothing critical. Squad Five had helped a stuck Brahmin trader in Edgewood—towed her cart out of a snow pit and shared hot tea.
Squad Six checked in every hour on the dot. No contact. No hostiles. Just wind, snow, and the creak of branches deep in the Lynn Woods.
But Sico could hear it in Leona's voice—an alertness. Like she was waiting for something.
And maybe she wasn't wrong to.
Because near midnight, the call came in.
Squad Four, Quincy Fringe—ambushed near the old overpass.
"Hostile contact. Raiders. Improvised traps along the road. No injuries—Growlers absorbed the brunt—but Unit 14's gun mount took a hit. Gunner's fine. Returning fire. Local backup requested."
The radio room exploded into motion. Preston was already on the line to Leona's Squad Six. "You're the closest. Ten minutes east. Can you intercept?"
"Already turning," she said.
Sarah tapped into the backup comms, flipping the defense grid to alert and sending a runner to wake the med teams.
Sico leaned in over the map. "Get the Forge awake. If we need to send out mobile repairs, we'll need a truck warmed up in ten."
"On it," Sarah said.
Leona's voice buzzed in again twelve minutes later. "Visual contact with Squad Four. Raiders retreating. No friendly injuries. Minimal damage. Situation under control."
There was a moment of silence in the command tent. Then Sico let out a slow breath.
Preston clapped a hand against the table. "Damn."
Sarah smiled faintly. "Growler armor held."
"Course it did," Mel muttered from the doorway. "I built the damn things."
The command tent was quiet—charged, but quiet. Sico watched Sarah's fingers hover over the radio frequency board, the glow from the map casting long shadows across their faces. Preston leaned in, waiting, listening. Even Mel had paused, hands folded in his jacket, breath slow.
Then the radio crackled again.
"—Growler trailing hostiles at caravan route—"
Sarah caught the frequency switch. A new voice came through, low and urgent:
"Base, this is Squad Two. We've intercepted an ambush on the Fianna caravan near Drumlin Ridge. Raiders—about six—coming in hot. Armor's been hit but holding, gunner's locked in. We're engaging now."
The map flickered, illuminating the ridge's contours. Two red blips flanked a larger green dot—representing the caravan. Anna-something? Sargent, pre-war records. They'd run the same route last season.
Sico's hand tightened around his coat. No hesitation this time.
"Squad Six," he barked. "Report in."
Leona's calm voice crackled back instantly. "I'm on my way. ETA five."
Sico looked around the tent, meeting every pair of eyes in turn.
"Let's go."
Outside, the snow had grown heavier—small pellets, chilled by the early evening chill, dusting the yard structures in pale flakes. But inside the vehicles, the machinery hummed like living things, engines warm and ready.
Leona climbed into the command Growler—a specially outfitted machine with heavier armor plating and reinforced chassis. Her squad followed swiftly:
• Driver Pvt. Jennings—fifteen years old, but steady behind the wheel.
• Gunner Sgt. Ramirez—steady hands, quick reflexes.
• Scout Cpl. "Tibs" Tibbs—camera eyes and radio instincts honed through battles.
• Tech PFC. Yates—wiring savant, always two steps ahead of frozen systems.
• Leona Price, herself, mid-stance as CO.
The convoy roared out of the yard, Growlers raising grumble through the snow-laden roads. Darkness was pressing in, but headlights cut through, illuminating the path through frozen pines and hushed plains.
They reached the caravan path in under two hours. The ridge was visible—a frozen crest behind them, dark shapes hugging its edge.
Squad Two's lead bike pulled ahead, weaving in front of a battered armored caravan bristling with pack crates and exhausted yet resilient civilians.
Leona dismounted and strode forward under Squad Two's light. Three survivors stood near a Brahmin, bloodied flank, staring at the skid marks.
"They came from the north," said one, voice trembling. "Jumped out from those boulders."
Leona's lights scanned upward. Shallow crater, fresh footprints, track marks. She flicked her radio.
"Six," she said. "Hold position. Ramirez, calm the civilians. Teach them how to stay out of sight. Jennings, keep the lights bright. Tibbs, sensor sweep—we'll feed reports as we clear."
Dark shapes sighed—a tense moment. Then rifle fire cracked out. One raider stepped forward, face painted with tribal symbols. His rifle shook.
"Contact at 12 o'clock!" came Jennings' calm voice. The Growlers sprang into position. The vehicles closed ranks around the caravan, engines low in idling protest.
Ramirez's gun roared. Fast, controlled bursts from the sidecar turret sprayed the ridge-line. The raiders fell back—two took rounds in the light, one dropped among the rocks.
Meanwhile, Tibbs crouched low behind the caravan side, radio chirping as new blips appeared on the dashboard sensors. Another pair of raiders flanked from the east—coming around the winding path.
"Shit," Leona muttered. "Two more than reported."
Yates dashed between the slush and the Growler's side, resetting a hot-melt seal on the comms line.
Leona grabbed the handheld mic.
"Deep cheats at 40 degrees," she instructed. "Ramirez, join with Squad Two. Jennings—max light. Tibbs—tracking East flank. We'll hold here."
Sand and grit flew underfoot. Twilight approached. Snow hit the windshield, slowing visibility to ten paces.
Then the raiders, masked and desperate, launched again—grenades thrown ahead; the explosion threw up snow and ice. Leona called for silence, then launched into American-voiced directives:
"Hold fire! Not until they crouch!"
They dropped, and the turret opened fire—two quick shots, enough. The others surrendered.
Ramirez hopped off, rope tying ragged hands.
Leona locked eyes with the survivors—numbers shaken, but breathing. She stepped forward.
"You're safe," she said. "But we're escorting you out."
She signaled Jennings, "Lead convoy back. Full escort."
As Growlers formed around the caravan, they started their turn back—pulsing lights, engines throbbing.
And haunting silence, broken only by the rasp of wind.
By the time Squad Two radioed:
"Hostiles neutralized. One gunner scraped. Caravan secured. Route clear," the command tent erupted in relief—
Sarah clapped her hands. "Solid. No casualties. Big win."
Preston exhaled loud. "That's what I needed to hear."
Sico remained calm. Just slow, measured breath.
"Good work," he said. "Now—get them to a checkpoint, swap units. Strengthen the convoy route."
He turned to Sarah. "Make sure units straps up the skids when cold sets in. We'll get the blast skirts on the next batch."
She nodded. "Noted."
Mel stepped forward, wrench at the ready. Exhausted eyes but alive.
"All tests succeeded. Roads are good. We'll replicate this on maintenance modules."
Sico nodded. "That's tomorrow. Today… we ride."
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.
________________________________________________
• 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:-