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No one spoke for a long moment. The weight of it filled the room, heavy but not crushing — the kind of weight you chose to carry, because the alternative was letting someone else break your back.
The next morning dawned gray, a thick blanket of clouds hanging low enough to smother the Commonwealth in a kind of muted half-light. The smell of wet earth clung to the air — it had rained sometime before dawn, leaving puddles along the dirt roads and dark streaks on the walls where water had trickled down.
Sico sat in his office, the lamp on his desk buzzing faintly as it fought against the gloomy morning light seeping in past the tarp curtains. A cold cup of coffee sat forgotten at his elbow, a dark ring staining the corner of a Lexington map. He hadn't slept much — maybe an hour or two at most — and it showed in the faint shadows under his eyes. But fatigue had long ago become a familiar companion. He ignored it the way a soldier ignores the weight of his gear: you just carry it, because there's no other choice.
The radio on the crate in the corner crackled to life, static scratching across the room. Sico leaned forward, dragging it closer across the desk until the wire pulled taut. His hand hovered over the dial, waiting.
The first voice came through, deep and gravelly, laced with that familiar drawl that always sounded like someone who'd seen too much of the wrong kind of world and decided to laugh at it anyway.
"Boss, this is Gage. You hear me?"
Sico adjusted the volume. "Loud and clear, Gage. Report."
On the other end, Porter Gage chuckled, the sound dry as sandpaper. "Nuka-World's still standin', in case you were worried. Raiders been stirrin', same as always. Some don't like that I'm keepin' things… let's just say more 'civilized' than they're used to. But they ain't stupid. They know what happens if they step too far outta line."
There was a pause, filled with the faint murmur of voices and the clang of metal in the background. Gage continued. "Got a shipment of weapons comin' through from the Dry Rock Gulch side. Scraps, mostly, but enough to arm a squad or two. Might be worth sendin' a caravan down the line if you want 'em. As for fusion cores? No dice yet. Place is bled dry on that front. But…" His tone shifted, sly, like a man who'd found something shiny in the dirt. "Found an old maintenance wing near the bottling plant. Tech's busted to hell, but I figure your boy Sturges might drool over what's left. Guts of a generator, some half-dead terminals, stuff like that. Could be worth pokin' at."
Sico let that settle for a moment, fingers drumming lightly against the desk. "Hold it steady, Gage. Keep the raiders in line. I'll send word if I want that scrap moved."
"Copy that, boss. And hey—don't wait too long. Raiders get restless when they got nothin' to break." The line clicked with static, then went quiet.
Sico exhaled through his nose, already shifting the dial. The next voice that cut through was sharper, brisk, and wrapped in the unmistakable rasp of someone who'd smoked for fifty years and didn't care what it did to her.
"This is Shaw. Castle's reportin' in."
"Go ahead, Ronnie," Sico said, leaning back in his chair.
"The walls are holdin'. The artillery's ready — been testin' the guns every other day just to keep the powder dry. Settlers are trainin', too. Not soldiers yet, but they'll shoot straight enough when the time comes."
There was the clatter of boots against stone in the background, voices shouting orders, the faint echo that could only come from the Castle's weathered walls. Ronnie's voice cut back in, harder now. "But the Brotherhood ain't sittin' on their asses. Spotted 'em pokin' south of Quincy yesterday. Recon, maybe, or just flexin'. Either way, they're close enough I can smell their steel. If they're testin' our lines, we're gonna need more boots on the walls here sooner rather than later."
Sico rubbed at his jaw, the stubble rasping under his fingertips. "How's morale?"
Ronnie snorted, a sound equal parts amusement and derision. "They're nervous, sure. But nerves ain't a bad thing — keeps folks sharp. And they've seen what our artillery can do. Ain't nobody forgettin' the last time we lobbed shells into a raider camp. Just keep sendin' us powder and shot, and we'll hold the Castle 'til the sea itself dries up."
"Good," Sico said. "Keep your eyes sharp. If the Brotherhood pushes further, I want to know the second it happens."
"You'll know," Ronnie said simply, then the line went quiet.
Sico adjusted the dial again. The next voice came through rough, accented with that thick Irish lilt that still carried the weight of a hundred backroom brawls.
"This is Cait. Plaza's in one piece, more or less. But we've got problems."
"Go ahead," Sico said, already bracing himself. Cait never sugarcoated anything.
"Supply lines are stretchin' thin out here. Settlers keep pourin' in — more mouths to feed, more bodies to arm. But food shipments are comin' late, and half the weapons we got are held together with duct tape and curses. I can keep the Plaza standin', but if we don't get more in the way of supplies, we'll be runnin' on fumes."
There was a clatter, like someone dropping a rifle in the background, followed by Cait's sharp bark of anger. "Pick that up before I make you eat it, ya feckin' idiot!" A beat later, she was back on the radio, muttering. "Jesus, some of these greenhorns couldn't fight their way outta a wet paper bag. We're drillin' 'em hard, but it's slow goin'."
Sico's tone softened, just a hair. "You're doing good work, Cait. I'll make sure the caravans prioritize the Plaza. You won't be left hanging."
"Better not," Cait muttered, though there was something like gratitude under the bite of her words. "I didn't crawl through all the shite of my life to watch this place starve. We'll hold. Just get us what we need."
The line clicked off.
Sico let the silence linger for a moment, the faint buzz of the lamp filling the room. Then he turned the dial again.
The last voice came through calmer than the rest, steady, with the practiced cadence of a man who'd learned to lead without shouting. James Hart. Freedom Stronghold.
"This is Hart. Reporting from C.I.T."
Sico straightened slightly, listening.
"The Stronghold is shaping up. We've secured three of the old lab wings, cleared them of rubble, and begun turning them into storage and housing. Morale's decent. People know they're building something bigger than themselves."
There was a pause, then James's tone shifted, a shade heavier. "But we've had eyes on the Brotherhood. They've been moving along the Cambridge line. Not close enough to strike, but close enough to remind us they're there. And the settlers feel it. Some are nervous, others angry. We've had to break up more than one shouting match over whether we're inviting danger by staying here."
Sico frowned. "And your take?"
Hart's voice didn't waver. "We're where we need to be. Stronghold's the key to holding the eastern side. If we back off now, the Brotherhood takes Cambridge and cuts us in half. We hold. No question."
"Good," Sico said quietly. "Keep pushing. I'll send Sturges and his team soon. We'll get those labs running again. Stronghold's not just a wall — it's our spearhead."
"Understood," Hart replied. "We'll be ready."
The line went dead, leaving only static.
Sico sat back, exhaling slowly, his eyes sweeping the maps spread across the desk. Four voices, four strongholds, four burdens balanced on his shoulders. Each of them pulling, each of them needing, each of them holding a piece of the future.
He reached for his cold coffee, took a swallow despite the bitter taste, and set it down again. His gaze hardened as he leaned forward, resting both hands flat on the map of the Commonwealth.
The radio static had gone quiet, but the weight of the voices still hung in the air. Gage with his raiders, Ronnie at her guns, Cait pushing greenhorns into fighters, Hart holding the Stronghold like it was the lynchpin of the whole damn Commonwealth. Each of them doing their part, each of them waiting for him to keep the balance steady.
Sico lingered there for a long moment, fingers pressed into the old map, eyes tracing routes and patrols until the lines blurred. The coffee sat untouched again, bitter as the thoughts circling in his head.
At last, he pushed himself up from the chair. The floorboards creaked under his weight. He needed air. No—he needed answers. And there was only one man in Sanctuary who might have a chance at giving him something more than a battlefield report.
Virgil.
The science building wasn't far, but walking through the main hall reminded Sico how much Sanctuary had changed. Settlers bustled in the corridors with clipboards, not just rifles. Papers tacked to walls mapped out construction schedules. A few guards leaned near the doorways, chatting low but watchful. When he first set foot here, this had been a half-ruined collection of houses and hope. Now, it was humming — not safe, never that, but alive with purpose.
As he stepped outside, the morning light broke faintly through the clouds, turning puddles into dull silver mirrors. The settlement noises rose around him — hammering, shouted orders, the bray of Brahmin, children's laughter carried on the damp air. He walked past it all with a steady stride, nodding when someone greeted him, answering in kind, but his mind was elsewhere.
The science building stood apart from the cluster of houses, a squat two-story structure patched together from salvaged Institute panels and old-world concrete. It still smelled faintly of sterilizers and ozone, a sharp tang that cut against the earthy scent of wet dirt outside.
Inside, the air was cooler, filtered through humming vents rigged together from scavenged parts. Tables were stacked with microscopes, chemical flasks, terminals scavenged from across the Commonwealth. A chalkboard near the wall was scrawled with looping notes in Virgil's heavy hand — chemical chains, percentages, question marks, and angry slashes where something hadn't worked.
Virgil was there, hunched over a workbench. He was human again — not the hulking green brute Sico had first met in the glowing sea. His shoulders were broad but hunched from long hours bent over notes. His skin, pale and scarred, bore reminders of what he'd been. Thick glasses perched on his nose, sliding down as he peered into a vial held to the light. His hair, what little had grown back, was short and rough.
Sico paused in the doorway for a beat, watching him work. Virgil hadn't asked to be pulled into this — but once the cure had taken hold, once he was no longer a mutant cursed to wander the glowing wastes, he'd taken to this lab like a man possessed. Maybe guilt. Maybe redemption. Maybe just a scientist chasing the one puzzle that had consumed him for years.
"Virgil," Sico said finally, his voice steady.
Virgil looked up, blinking once before recognition lit his face. "Sico. You're early. I thought you'd still be buried in reports."
"I was," Sico said, stepping further inside. His boots rang against the concrete. "Now I need more than reports."
Virgil set the vial back carefully, like a man putting down something that might explode. He wiped his hands on a rag, then leaned back against the workbench, arms folded. "I take it this is about the project."
Sico nodded, his eyes flicking toward the chalkboard, then back. "I want to know where we stand. You've been working on it for weeks now. Turning super mutants back into people. And…" He paused, the words heavy even on his tongue. "The other side. Using the strain to turn regular men into something stronger."
Virgil's jaw tightened, a faint flicker of unease in his eyes. "You don't waste time, do you?"
Sico shrugged slightly. "Time's the one thing we don't have."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint hum of equipment. Then Virgil sighed, his voice quieter when he spoke. "It's not ready. Not even close."
Sico's brow furrowed. "Explain."
Virgil pushed off the bench and moved to the chalkboard, snatching up a piece of chalk. He began sketching rough strands of DNA, circles, lines, arrows connecting them. "The FEV — Forced Evolutionary Virus — is not a single strain. It mutates. It adapts. That's why the results are so unpredictable. You've seen it yourself: one subject becomes a towering brute with almost no intelligence. Another keeps some semblance of thought but suffers in other ways. That's the instability we're fighting."
He tapped the board, chalk dust smearing. "The cure that brought me back? It was targeted. Specific. But it only worked because I knew my strain. I had samples, I had data, I had myself as a template. Reverse-engineering that into something stable, something that can be applied broadly? That's an entirely different beast."
Sico listened, silent, his arms crossed.
Virgil's voice grew heavier, tinged with something like guilt. "And then there's your second request. Using FEV not to cure, but to enhance. To make men stronger, faster… 'super humans,' as you called it. That's even more dangerous. You can't just tinker with evolution and expect clean results. The margin of error isn't inches, Sico — it's entire lives. Get it wrong, and you don't get soldiers. You get monsters."
The word hung in the air. Monsters.
Sico let it sit for a long moment before answering, his voice low. "And if we get it right?"
Virgil turned to face him fully, his eyes sharp behind the glasses. "If we get it right, then yes. You'd have men who could fight without tiring. Who could heal faster. Who could take on a squad of Brotherhood knights and come out breathing. But that's a long way off. Right now, what I have is data. Notes. Failed trials on paper. I need time. And—" He hesitated. "I need a subject."
Sico's eyes narrowed slightly. "A super mutant."
Virgil nodded grimly. "I can only run so many simulations. At some point, we need to see how the strain reacts in real conditions. That means capturing one alive. Dangerous, yes. But without it, we're stalled."
The room fell quiet again, the weight of that request filling the air. Sico paced once, twice, his boots echoing. He knew what it meant — sending men to bring down a mutant alive, not kill it. Risking lives for one creature that might just as easily tear them apart as yield anything useful.
But he also knew the stakes. He thought of Sarah's hard words about the Brotherhood pressing. Of Cait's desperate call for supplies. Of Hart holding the Stronghold with settlers who argued about whether they'd survive the week. And beyond all of that, the Brotherhood itself, waiting, watching, their steel giants casting long shadows across the Commonwealth.
Sico stopped pacing, turning back to Virgil. His voice was steady, carved from stone.
"You'll have your subject."
Virgil studied him for a long moment, something like conflict flickering in his expression. "You know what you're asking your people to do, don't you?"
Sico's jaw tightened. "I'm asking them to fight for a future where we're not always outgunned. Where the Brotherhood doesn't just roll over us because they've got better tech. You say it's dangerous. You say it's not ready. Fine. But I've been in this world long enough to know one thing: waiting gets you killed. If there's a chance — any chance — that what you're building here can shift the balance, then I'll take it."
Virgil looked away, running a hand through his short hair. "You sound just like the Institute."
Sico stepped closer, his voice quieter but sharper. "No. The Institute wanted control. I want survival. That's the difference."
The two men held each other's gaze for a long, heavy beat. Then Virgil exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Fine. I'll keep working. But don't expect miracles overnight."
"Miracles aren't what I'm after," Sico said, turning toward the door. "I just need something real."
The air outside the science building hit Sico like a slap — cool, damp, and carrying the metallic tang of rain-soaked steel. For a moment, he stood on the steps, dragging in a lungful of it, as though he could breathe out the conversation he'd just had with Virgil. But it clung to him, stubborn as smoke.
Super mutants. Test subjects. The idea sat in his gut like a lead weight. He didn't doubt Virgil's brilliance or his intent — the man had clawed his way back from damnation itself, after all — but asking his people to wrestle a mutant alive? That wasn't a favor. That was a death sentence if handled wrong.
And yet, he knew it had to be done.
The Brotherhood wouldn't wait. Neither would the raiders, or the wasteland itself. If Virgil's project even had a sliver of a chance at giving them a weapon that could turn the tide, Sico had to push it forward.
He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, started walking. The mud sucked faintly at his boots, pulling him back with each step, but he pressed on. Sanctuary's streets were busier now — guards making their rounds, settlers shouldering packs of scrap, a pair of children splashing in a puddle before a weary mother pulled them away. They all looked to him when he passed. Some nodded respectfully, some saluted, some just watched. Sico gave them what he could — a nod here, a quick word there — but his mind was already pulling ahead.
Army HQ wasn't far. A once-ordinary home, gutted and rebuilt until it bore the stamp of military order. The porch sagged under the weight of sandbags, rifles rested in racks along the walls, and a flag — weathered, patched, but unmistakably the banner of the Freemasons Republic — hung just above the doorway.
Inside, the air was taut with energy. Maps covered the walls, pushpins marking patrols and supply routes. The smell of gun oil lingered, sharp and clean. A radio hummed faintly in the background.
And there they were.
Sarah Lyons, armor plates gleaming despite the wear, her posture stiff but not unfriendly, stood with her arms crossed. Preston Garvey, ever steady, his hat tipped low, leaned against the edge of a desk with his arms braced wide. Across from them, Robert — that sharp mind always wrapped in the air of a man thinking two steps ahead — stood with his hands clasped behind his back. MacCready was perched on a chair backward, chin resting on the top rail, rifle leaned against his knee like it was an extension of his body.
They were mid-conversation, voices low but intent, when Sico stepped through the doorway. The shift was immediate. Four sets of eyes turned toward him, the air tightening with unspoken expectation.
"Boss," Preston said first, straightening.
"Sico," Sarah added, giving him the kind of nod that carried both respect and the weight of unasked questions.
Robert adjusted his stance, his brow furrowing. MacCready just tipped his chin up, one corner of his mouth twitching into that half-grin he used whenever he knew something serious was about to be dropped.
Sico closed the door behind him, the sound final, and stepped into the center of the room. He didn't bother with pleasantries. There wasn't time for that.
"I just came from Virgil."
The name alone was enough to draw attention tighter. Sarah's eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. Preston tilted his head, already bracing himself. Robert's lips pressed into a thin line. MacCready muttered something under his breath, but his gaze stayed locked.
"He's making progress," Sico continued, his voice low but steady. "On the FEV project."
Robert shifted, a faint exhale escaping him. "Progress how?"
Sico's gaze swept across the room, meeting each of theirs in turn before he answered. "He believes it's possible to reverse the mutation. To turn super mutants back into people. And he believes it's possible to use the strain — modified — to make regular men stronger. Faster. More durable. Super human."
Silence.
It stretched for a long, heavy moment, thick as the storm clouds still rolling outside. Then Sarah broke it, her tone clipped, soldier-sharp.
"Super human? You mean building your own army of… what? Enhanced soldiers?"
Sico didn't flinch. "I mean survival. The Brotherhood has tech we can't match. Armor that shrugs off bullets. Weapons that cut through lines like paper. If Virgil can do what he says — if he can give us men who can hold that line without breaking — then we have a fighting chance."
Preston pushed off the desk, his voice calm but edged. "And what's the cost? We've all seen what FEV does. You're talking about turning our people into experiments. You sure you want to walk that road?"
"I don't want to," Sico said quietly. "But I might have to."
MacCready gave a low whistle, shaking his head. "Christ. You really don't think small, do you?" He leaned forward on the chair back. "Alright, so let's say Virgil's not completely out of his damn mind. What's the catch?"
Sico's jaw tightened. "He needs a subject."
That was enough to snap Robert into words. "A subject?" His voice cut sharper now. "You mean a mutant."
Sico nodded once. "Alive."
MacCready let out a bark of laughter, bitter and disbelieving. "Alive? You've seen those bastards up close. I've lost squads to a single one of them, and you want us to tie one up and drag it back here like a Brahmin for slaughter?"
Sarah's lips pulled into a thin, grim line. "You'd be asking soldiers to risk everything, just to bring back a monster. That's not a mission. That's a gamble."
Preston, though, didn't speak right away. His gaze stayed fixed on Sico, studying him the way he always did — not the words, but the weight behind them. Finally, he said, "You really believe this is worth it."
It wasn't a question.
Sico stepped closer, into the circle of lamplight cast over the maps. His voice dropped, steady and cold.
"I believe we're running out of time. The Brotherhood is pushing south. Ronnie's already seen them near Quincy. Hart's holding Stronghold by sheer willpower. Cait's people are starving at the Plaza. We can keep patching holes, keep fighting skirmishes, but when the full weight of the Brotherhood falls? We won't win it by being what we are now. We'll need something more."
Sarah's eyes bored into him. "And you think this is the answer."
"I think it's a chance," Sico said. "And I'll take that over waiting to die."
The room fell quiet again. The sound of the rain tapping against the window filled the gap.
Robert broke it this time, his voice measured, almost reluctant. "If Virgil needs a subject, then we'll have to plan this with precision. We can't just march into a mutant nest and hope for the best. We'll need a trap. Containment. The right team." His gaze flicked toward MacCready. "Sharps. Men who can hit joints, slow it down without killing it."
MacCready snorted, though the edge of seriousness had returned to his tone. "Yeah, and pray the damn thing doesn't rip someone in half before we get the ropes on. Still… if you're really hell-bent on this, I know a few tricks. Tranq darts might not do much, but enough of them, in the right spots? Might buy us seconds. And that's all we'll get."
Preston's voice cut in, steady as always. "We'll also need volunteers who know what they're walking into. I won't order settlers into something like this. If we do it, it has to be soldiers who choose it."
Sico gave a single nod. "Agreed."
Sarah uncrossed her arms, stepping forward into the circle of maps. Her voice was cool, but there was a hard edge of respect buried beneath. "Then we do it like a military op. Recon first. Identify a lone mutant or a small group. Isolate one. Ambush, contain, extract. No improvisation, no half-measures. If this goes wrong, we pull out. Understood?"
Sico met her gaze. "Understood."
For the first time, the weight in the room shifted. Not lighter, not easier, but clearer. The plan wasn't finished — hell, it wasn't even fully born yet — but the shape of it was there.
Sico let his gaze sweep over them one last time. Sarah, steel in her stance. Preston, steady as bedrock. Robert, sharp-eyed and calculating. MacCready, half-grinning but already turning the gears in his head.
________________________________________________
• 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:-