If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
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.
By the time the next morning clawed its way out of the cold night, the winds had calmed. The frost lingered, clinging to rooftops and windshields and the jagged skeletons of pre-war cars that dotted the streets like memorials. But the sky had cleared, streaked now with soft gold and pale blue, and Sanctuary's air—though sharp—smelled like the promise of thaw.
Sico stood at the edge of the plaza just outside Central Command, watching two settlers argue over a brahmin cart stuck in a patch of semi-frozen mud. A pair of militia patrols passed behind him, hoisting laser rifles over their backs and laughing about something—probably last night's poker game in the rec shack.
He let himself breathe it in. This place. This life. It wasn't perfect—not even close. But it was theirs. Earned, bled for, slowly stitched together from wreckage and dust. And today, there were more roofs than ruins, more laughter than screams.
He adjusted the collar of his coat and began walking toward the administrative row.
Magnolia's office wasn't far—just three doors down from the rebuilt town hall, past the still-cracked statue of some long-forgotten Revolutionary War hero. The building itself had been a schoolhouse once, if the peeling mural of alphabet letters over faded bricks was anything to go by. Now, it served as the Republic's treasury and trade nerve center—small, reinforced, and always a little too warm inside from the salvaged reactor core humming in the sub-basement.
Sico opened the door without knocking. Inside, it smelled of pencil shavings, hot wires, and coffee that had been reheated one too many times.
Magnolia looked up from her desk, red curls pulled back into a loose bun, eyes framed by smudged reading glasses. Her brow arched slightly.
"Well, well," she said, setting down a clipboard. "If it isn't Mr. Frontlines, gracing us paper-pushers with his presence."
Sico smirked and closed the door behind him. "You busy?"
"Always," she said, motioning to the chair across from her. "But for you? I can spare five minutes of exaggerated sighs and economic exposition."
Sico sat, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. "I'll take it."
Magnolia slid her glasses off and let them dangle by their string as she straightened a few scattered sheets on the desk. "So. What's the fire this time? You need caps for another Growler factory? Want to weaponize the weather? Build a floating base?"
"Just a check-in," he said. "How's the treasury?"
She blinked, then leaned back in her creaky chair and gave a long, theatrical sigh.
"Well, Captain Serious," she said, "as of this morning's audit, we've got a little over two hundred thousand caps in the central reserve."
Sico's brow rose.
"Most of it's from Brotherhood trade," she continued. "Some from tax contributions—mostly optional right now, since we're still in stabilization mode—but the real meat? Purified water. Trade volume's up. Demand's steady. Albert's got the rigs running in shifts, and we've tightened up the delivery routes."
"Profits?"
"Eighty thousand in the last quarter," she said, tapping a finger on a yellow notepad. "Caps, I mean. Not counting material trades."
"Eighty?" he repeated, impressed.
"Yeah," she nodded, reaching for a mug. "They love that clean water. Especially the Brotherhood. They've been funneling us tech scraps, ceramic armor plating, microfusion cells—hell, last week they sent a damn surgical robot in exchange for four months of drinking water."
Sico chuckled. "Still surprised they're not calling us sinners for turning a profit."
"Oh, they are," Magnolia replied, sipping the coffee. "But we're useful sinners. That makes all the difference."
She stood and walked to a metal cabinet in the corner, pulling out a folder thick with papers and hand-scribbled ledgers. "Albert's the one you should thank, though. Man's a machine. Doesn't sleep, doesn't complain. Just checks valves, adjusts filters, and makes sure the shipping logs are tighter than a Mirelurk's sphincter."
"Not the imagery I needed," Sico muttered.
Magnolia laughed and tossed the folder onto the desk. "Point is, we're good. Better than we've ever been. And if things keep scaling like they are, we'll be able to increase the basic income payments for settlers by next month. That means less barter, more trust, more stability. You know… civilization."
Sico leaned back, thoughtful.
"Any issues on the Brotherhood's end?"
"Not yet," she said. "They're punctual, precise, and overly formal—so nothing new there. They still keep their boots on our welcome mats, but I don't think they're planning anything shady. Too busy holding their own border near Cambridge."
"Still…" he mused. "Keep eyes on them. Just in case."
"Already do," she said, gesturing to a shortwave receiver in the corner. "And I've got word-runners embedded in the trade caravans. Quiet types. Loyal."
She paused, then looked at him.
"You worried?"
Sico took a moment before answering. His gaze drifted to the window, where the morning sun had just cleared the roofline. A brahmin cart rolled by, steam rising from its breath. Kids ran past with a tin can ball, laughing.
"Not worried," he said finally. "Just… vigilant."
Magnolia studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"You're seeing the pieces," she said quietly. "The way they're shifting."
"Some of them."
"The Growlers are more than machines," she went on. "They're momentum. People feel it. Settlements are waking up. Raiders are rethinking. Even the weather feels different."
Sico didn't answer. He just sat there a moment longer, the warmth of the office sinking into his coat and his bones.
After a while, Magnolia reached into her desk and pulled out a metal canister—a rare thing. Carefully preserved.
"Coffee?" she asked. "Fresh. Just came in from a trade route through the Daughters of Steel."
Sico raised an eyebrow. "How the hell did you manage that?"
She grinned. "Gave 'em a Growler test drive."
He laughed and held out his cup.
The bitter edge of the wind had faded by the time Sico left Magnolia's office, though the chill still clung stubbornly to the shadows. His boots clicked softly over the packed dirt path that led down toward the southern ridge, past the outer clinics and the militiamen's rest quarters, and then finally to the largest stone-and-steel structure in all of Sanctuary: the Army Headquarters.
Originally a repurposed pre-War high school gymnasium, the building had been gutted and rebuilt from the inside out. Thickened walls. Reinforced roofing. A control tower made from the skeleton of a crashed Vertibird stood atop the left wing like a sentinel, its antenna dish rotating with eerie precision. The massive double doors out front were now painted deep olive green, the Freemasons Republic's insignia embossed in rusted bronze above them: a compass and flame, crossed by a sword, all framed by the rising sun.
It wasn't just symbolic anymore.
It was real.
Inside, the place still smelled like oil, rust, old canvas, and the burnt aroma of laser capacitors—comforting, in its way. The soft hum of terminals filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clack of boots or bark of orders as militia troops passed back and forth. Maps lined the walls, layered with strings and pins and notes, updated hourly. Radios chattered constantly from the side room.
Sico moved through it like part of the building itself. No one stopped him. He didn't need to announce himself. This was his house too.
He found Preston and Sarah not far from the war map table, standing shoulder to shoulder near the tactical board. The two of them were deep in conversation—quiet, low-toned, but animated. Preston had his arms folded across his chest, face tense with thought, while Sarah gestured lightly with one hand, as if outlining a maneuver or tracing some imagined shape across the air.
They didn't notice him at first. He paused at the edge of the room, just watching for a moment.
There was something reassuring about the way they stood there. Different people. Different histories. But united now. Preston—once the heart and conscience of a broken militia. Sarah—once a soldier of a fallen brotherhood, and now the battle-tested commander of one of the most advanced tactical divisions in the Republic.
Sico cleared his throat gently.
They both looked over at once.
Preston's face split into a brief smile, warm but tired. "Sico."
Sarah gave a small wave, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Didn't expect you this early."
"I figured it was time we talked," Sico said, stepping forward. "About the next move."
Preston exhaled slowly and glanced toward Sarah, then back to Sico. "We were just talking about that."
Sico nodded. "Good. I want both your takes. Where do we go from here?"
The silence stretched for a moment as Preston leaned against the edge of the map table, the old leather strap of his laser musket creaking under his coat. Sarah crossed her arms and looked at the display.
Then Preston spoke, voice calm, measured.
"My opinion? We stay quiet. Just for a little while."
Sico raised an eyebrow. "Quiet?"
"Yeah," Preston said. "Let the Growlers do their job. Let the settlements see stability, routine. We need to gather our strength. Replenish munitions, build up logistics, reinforce training. A war now—even a small one—could bleed us dry before we're truly ready. And the people need a moment to breathe. To believe this peace isn't just a pause between gunfire."
Sarah nodded. "He's not wrong."
But there was a glint in her eyes as she turned toward Sico.
"That said…" she began slowly, "We both know the war's coming. Whether we start it or not. And there's one target we all know we can't ignore forever."
Sico didn't need to ask.
He just said it aloud.
"The Institute."
Sarah gave a grim nod. "They're still out there. Still watching. Still snatching people when they think no one's looking. And while they haven't made a direct move against us yet, it's only a matter of time."
Preston frowned. "And going after them could set the whole map on fire."
"Unless," Sarah said, glancing at both of them, "we don't do it alone."
The room fell silent for a long beat. Sico crossed his arms, watching her carefully.
"You're talking about the Brotherhood."
Sarah nodded. "They hate the Institute more than we ever could. To them, the Institute's an existential threat. Abominations. Synthetics. Heresy against humanity. They'd commit a fleet if they thought they had a reliable ally on the ground."
Preston looked unsure. "And when the Institute's gone?"
Sarah looked him square in the eye. "Then we betray them."
Sico's brow furrowed. "Say that again."
She didn't hesitate. "We use them. Leverage their technology, their air power. Let them commit their Power Armors, their Vertibirds, their fire teams. We draw up a joint campaign and crush the Institute before they can make another synth army."
"And then?" Preston asked quietly, though the look in his eyes showed he already knew.
Sarah's voice was like steel. "Then we cut their legs out. Take the Prydwen. Take the armor, the weapons, the aircraft. Strip them bare. They'll never see it coming. Not from us."
Sico leaned against the table, staring at the map. The Institute was buried deep beneath MIT. An invisible fortress of teleporters, lasers, artificial humans, and mad science. It was the last great boogeyman of the Commonwealth. And Nora…
"Nora's our inside man," Sarah added, like she could read his thoughts. "She's close to Shaun. Still embedded in the Institute. They think she's loyal. But she's been feeding us scraps of intel for months now."
"She thinks the Institute Council is getting nervous," Preston said quietly. "They've seen the Growler deployments. They know something's changing."
"Good," Sarah said. "Let them stew. Let them fear. Because once we move—once we and the Brotherhood hit them at the same time—they won't stand a chance."
Sico's eyes didn't leave the map.
He saw it—play out in his mind like a war simulation. Vertibirds screeching over the skyline. Growlers roaring down through the tunnels beneath Boston. Freemasons and Brotherhood, side by side, just long enough to breach the white walls of that cold, sterile nightmare. Then Nora, guiding the knife from within.
He saw it ending in two ways.
Victory.
Or fire.
"And when the Brotherhood realizes what we've done?" he asked.
Sarah smiled faintly. "They'll be too busy bleeding to fight back."
Preston didn't smile. "You really think we can take the Prydwen?"
"We don't need to fight her," Sarah said. "We disable her. Boarding parties. Sabotage. Nora already marked the fuel lines. Once the Institute's out, we strike while they're celebrating. They'll never expect betrayal from their new war heroes."
Sico let the thought simmer in his mind. The Prydwen—flagship of the Brotherhood's eastern operations. A symbol of fear and fire. To take it would be more than a tactical gain. It would be a message to the entire Commonwealth: we are no one's junior.
The silence hung heavy again.
Then Sico spoke, voice low.
"We'd need to prepare. Quietly. Keep the Growlers on border patrol. Expand our intelligence. Start mapping troop movements. We can't afford any mistakes."
Preston nodded slowly. "I still don't like the idea of betrayal. But the Institute has to go. If the Brotherhood helps us make that happen… I'll back the plan."
Sarah stepped forward, her voice low. "We do this smart, Sico… we take out both our enemies. We end the fear. The disappearances. The flying war machines. We win this… and there's nothing left in the Commonwealth that can stop us."
He didn't reply right away.
Just stared at the map—Boston, Lexington, Cambridge, and the shining circle of danger beneath them.
Then Sico spoke again, his voice quieter this time—not from uncertainty, but from the weight of calculation behind each word.
"What if," he said slowly, "we ask the Brotherhood not to help us strike the Institute directly… but to contain their synth army throughout the Commonwealth instead?"
Sarah and Preston both turned their eyes to him. He didn't stop.
"What if we convince them that the bigger threat is the spread—the sleeper synths hidden in settlements, the kidnappings, the infiltration units scattered like cancer across the land? We ask them to commit their resources to neutralizing that. Let them think they're doing what they've always wanted—cleansing the rot. Meanwhile…"
He tapped a finger gently on the map—right over the MIT ruins.
"…we strike the heart. The base. The real power."
Sarah's lips parted just slightly, something behind her eyes catching fire with the idea. Preston, more cautious, looked from Sico to the map again, as if trying to imagine the pieces falling into place.
Sico continued, slowly, the thoughts taking form in real time.
"If we can get Nora to open the Institute's teleportation system for us—let us in from within—then we bypass their defenses completely. No long march. No tunnel siege. No sensor arrays. We appear in their sanctum. Fast. Precise. Devastating."
Sarah gave a single, short nod. "Hit the brain before the body even knows it's dying."
Sico's voice darkened slightly. "We don't wipe them out. Not all of them. Not if we can help it."
Preston straightened at that, brows furrowed.
"You want to capture them?"
"Not just capture," Sico said, meeting his eyes. "Convert. We take their scientists, their engineers, their thinkers. Offer them something the Institute never could—freedom. Real community. Not just a sterile lab buried under concrete. We show them they don't have to keep running, hiding, isolating. That their talents could actually help the world."
Sarah raised a brow. "And if they refuse?"
"Then we lock them down," Sico said bluntly. "But most of them, they're not zealots. They're scientists. People who signed up for research and ended up part of a machine they couldn't control. We offer them a way out. A place in our future."
Preston stepped forward, arms still crossed, brow tight. "And the synths? You think these people will be willing to create more?"
"Not for the Institute," Sico said. "But for us? For the Freemasons Republic? If we give them purpose—not slavery, not recon duty, not assassination orders—but actual roles in rebuilding the world… why not?"
He looked between them.
"Imagine it. A synth labor force to build roads, power stations, farms. A defensive army that doesn't need food or sleep, trained to protect the borders, to keep raiders out and trade routes safe. Not tools of war. Guardians of peace."
Preston's frown deepened. "That's a dangerous road, Sico."
"It is," Sico admitted. "But we're already walking it. The Brotherhood has Power Armor, Vertibirds, a command structure that sees itself as holy. If we let them win the future, there won't be a future left for anyone else. Just conquest under a different banner."
Sarah's eyes were still on the map, but her mind was far beyond it.
"It could work," she said quietly. "Let them chase the synths across the Commonwealth. They'll love that. Marching into settlements, scanning people, purging suspected infiltrators. It's what they live for. We leak just enough intel to keep them busy—locations of known Institute agents, safehouses, transmission logs."
"We keep their attention turned outward," Sico said. "While Nora opens the door."
"And then," Sarah said, her voice a low breath, "we teleport in. Right into the heart of the Institute."
A long pause.
Then she looked up.
"You said we don't wipe them out. That we convert them. Use them. That's going to take more than just a promise. We'll need control."
"Agreed," Sico said. "Once we're in, we move fast. Lock down the labs, the AI cores, the research vaults. Take Shaun if we can—he's the figurehead. We hold him, we hold legitimacy. And if Nora can reroute their command systems before we move, we might be able to shut down their defensive programs before they even activate."
"Hell of a lot of 'ifs,'" Preston murmured.
"Yeah," Sico said. "It is."
But his voice didn't waver.
Preston pushed off the table, pacing slowly. "Alright. Let's say we pull this off. The Brotherhood's off chasing ghosts. Nora gives us access. We take the Institute's brain and spine, shut it down, and put a leash on what's left. Then what?"
Sico met his eyes. "Then we do what we've always done. We build."
He took a breath.
"We don't use the synths like they did. We give them rights. Autonomy. Jobs with purpose. If they want to fight, they fight. If they want to farm, they farm. But they're part of us now. Citizens. Members of the Republic. And we make that known."
Sarah was still thinking like a tactician. "We'll need propaganda. Carefully worded messaging. We frame this as liberation. Not conquest. We show the world that the Freemasons Republic took down a nightmare and offered something better."
Sico nodded. "And the Brotherhood?"
"We let them bleed themselves dry trying to hunt synths," Sarah said. "They'll stretch too thin. As their forces are already limited. If we time it right, when the dust settles at the Institute, the Prydwen will be vulnerable."
Preston exhaled slowly. "And then we betray them."
His voice wasn't judgmental. Just… tired.
Sico didn't speak right away. Just looked down at the map again.
"We don't do it because we want to," he said at last. "We do it because we have to. The Brotherhood won't share power. They won't compromise. They believe they are humanity's last hope, and that makes them dangerous. We can't let them dictate the future of the Commonwealth. Not after everything we've done to rebuild it."
Sarah straightened. "Then we begin phase one. I'll start drafting communications—anonymous tipoffs about synth sightings. We'll make it look like local intel. Enough to stir their interest, but not enough to look like we're playing them."
"I'll contact Nora," Sico said. "See if she can find the schematics for the teleportation system. And a list of Institute personnel we might be able to sway."
Preston nodded reluctantly. "I'll brief the squads. Quietly. Just the officers we trust. If we're going to do this… no one can know until it's time."
Sico looked at them both, one hand still resting on the table, his voice low and certain.
"If we pull this off," he said, "we'll reshape the future of the Wasteland. No more ghosts under the ground. No more Vertibirds patrolling our skies. Just people. Free people. Building something real."
Sarah held his gaze. "Then let's make sure we don't miss."
The following days were a blur of motion, whispered orders, sealed communiqués, and long nights staring at terminal screens. The gears of something immense and dangerous had begun to turn—but only the three of them knew what the machine would become.
Sarah's team in Army Intelligence crafted their deception with precision. Dossiers planted in Brotherhood courier routes, intercepted radio snippets about synth saboteurs, even forged survivor testimonies claiming "silver-eyed strangers" were stealing children in the night. It didn't take much. The Brotherhood had always been eager to believe.
By the end of the week, a patrol squadron of Brotherhood knights was seen sweeping through Quincy. Another diverted west toward the old Uxbridge ruins. Vertibirds passed overhead more frequently now, black silhouettes against the sky.
________________________________________________
• 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:-