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The hall outside Magnolia's office stretched wide, banners of the Republic hanging proudly along its walls. People moved through it with the kind of ease that came from routine — couriers with messages tucked under their arms, soldiers exchanging brief nods, clerks carrying stacks of papers. They all glanced briefly at Sico as he passed, some with respect, some with awe, a few with wariness. He was a man who carried decisions on his shoulders like others carried rifles, and everyone knew it.
The morning had barely crept in when Sico arrived at his office in the Freemasons HQ. The air still carried that cool edge before the sun burned it off, and through the wide-open shutters the faint hum of life in Sanctuary was already beginning: the calls of traders setting up their stalls, the clang of hammers in the smithy, the bark of orders from the watchtower as the changing of the guard wrapped up.
Sico sat at his desk, the thick oak scarred by maps, reports, and the occasional blade nick. He was halfway through reviewing Magnolia's updated trade projection — her neat handwriting curling across the paper like vines — when a knock struck at the door. It was not hurried, but firm, the kind that carried weight.
"Enter," Sico said, his voice low, steady.
The door opened, and Preston stepped through. His uniform was crisp despite the hour, and there was no wasted movement as he came in. But Sico saw it immediately: the tension in Preston's jaw, the tight coil behind his eyes.
"We've got company," Preston said without preamble. He laid a folded paper down on the desk, but his words mattered more than whatever was scribbled there. "Brotherhood. Three Vertibirds. Coming straight for Sanctuary."
For a moment, the room itself seemed to narrow. Sico didn't move, didn't speak, but a quiet heat built behind his eyes, the kind that always rose when threat approached what he'd sworn to protect.
"How far?" he asked.
"Ten minutes, maybe less," Preston replied. "Scouts spotted them cutting low over the river. They're in formation — tight. Doesn't look like a random patrol."
Sico rose from his chair, the wood groaning faintly under his weight as though it, too, felt the gravity of the moment. He tugged his coat into place, the leather catching the light, then fixed Preston with a look that was both order and trust.
"Keep the men on the walls sharp. No one breaks rank, no one panics. If the Brotherhood's here to rattle us, we won't give them the satisfaction. Send word to Sarah — double the rotation at the towers."
Preston nodded, already moving to turn on his heel, but Sico's voice cut across the air again.
"And Preston—"
He stopped.
Sico's gaze was steady as stone. "If they mean trouble, we'll answer it. But until then, we keep our guns down. This is our home, not a battlefield."
Preston's jaw shifted, then he gave a short, respectful nod. "Understood."
Together, they left the office, boots striking the wooden floor in rhythm. The HQ was alive with motion now, word spreading like wildfire through the corridors. Scribes gathered up papers, runners darted down hallways, guards moved to position with crisp efficiency. Every man and woman who caught sight of Sico straightened just a little, their eyes flicking to him like iron to a lodestone. He didn't need to bark orders in the hall; his presence was command enough.
When they stepped out into the courtyard, the morning light struck bright against the banners of the Republic. The training yard stretched wide beyond the main walls, its packed dirt ringed with wooden posts, straw dummies, and the blackened marks of old firing drills. It had become more than just a place for soldiers to hone their edge — it doubled as their landing ground, their mustering point, the open heart of their defenses.
And it was here the Brotherhood would come down.
The sound reached them before the sight: a low, throbbing growl in the sky that vibrated through the ground itself. The townsfolk felt it, too. Sanctuary slowed to a crawl as people stepped out of doorways, shading their eyes, their voices hushed. Children clutched at their mothers' skirts. The clang of hammers in the smithy went silent. Even the dogs fell quiet, their ears perked, their instincts whispering that something unnatural prowled overhead.
Then the shadows swept across the settlement — long, cutting, and unmistakable. Three Vertibirds, wings slicing the air, roared into view. Their black bellies glinted with steel and weapon mounts, and their tight formation spoke of discipline, of intent.
Preston swore softly under his breath.
Sico didn't blink.
He stepped forward, out into the open stretch of the training yard, his coat flaring slightly in the downdraft. Soldiers were already lining the edges, rifles slung but hands steady, eyes locked on their leader.
The Vertibirds circled once, dust billowing in their wake, before one by one they angled down. Their rotors chewed the air into chaos, kicking dirt and grit across the yard. The roar was deafening, pressing against the chest, rattling the bones. Then — with a metallic shriek — the first landed, then the second, then the third, forming a neat triangle of steel beasts at the heart of Sanctuary's defenses.
The dust was still whipping through the air when the hatches groaned open. Hydraulic arms hissed, and then the heavy clang of armored boots struck the ramps.
Out came the first squad — Brotherhood Knights, hulking in their Power Armor. The dull silver and black plates gleamed in the morning light, shoulders squared, heads swiveling in practiced unison as their servos whined with each step. Miniguns hung idle at their sides, not raised but not exactly at ease either. The ground itself seemed to quiver under their weight.
Behind them came the Initiates, younger, leaner, but no less disciplined. They moved in crisp lines, rifles slung with textbook precision. Their eyes darted over Sanctuary, drinking in the watchtowers, the walls, the organized patrols. Some of them looked wary, others curious, one or two trying too hard not to gape at the sheer life and industry of the settlement they'd marched into.
Then came the Scribes. Robes swayed in the grit-heavy wind, and their satchels clinked faintly with tools, recorders, and tomes. A few pressed cloths over their mouths against the dust, but their eyes — sharp and calculating — missed nothing. They were cataloging, even here: the quality of construction, the placement of defenses, the sheer audacity of a Republic built from the bones of ruin.
Finally, from the last Vertibird came two figures who drew every eye.
Paladin Danse, tall and broad even out of his armor, walked with the stride of a soldier who belonged in any battlefield. His expression was carved from granite, his gaze flicking between Sico, Preston, and the gathered Freemasons with the cool assessment of a man measuring strength.
At his shoulder was Paladin Brandis. His armor was more weathered, his face etched with deeper lines, and yet there was a sharpness there — a man who had seen too much, endured too much, and carried it all like an unspoken weapon. Where Danse radiated discipline, Brandis radiated history, and both together made the air heavier.
The yard was silent save for the hiss of cooling engines.
Sico took a single step forward. His coat flared in the downdraft, his shadow cutting long against the churned dirt. Around him, Freemasons soldiers held their lines, rifles steady but barrels angled low, eyes unblinking. The settlers watched from the edges, breaths held, every face turned toward the man who stood as their anchor.
His voice, when it came, cut clean through the hum of rotors.
"You come uninvited," Sico said, his tone steady, not raised yet carrying to every ear. His eyes locked on Danse first, then flicked briefly to Brandis before sweeping the squads behind them. "You barge into our territory. Into our capital settlement, no less. That's a bold move, Paladins. So tell me—" His head tilted ever so slightly. "Why?"
Danse stepped forward. Dust crunched under his boots. His own voice, deep and even, carried with the cadence of a soldier used to issuing orders, not explanations.
"We're here to talk," he said. "Not to invade. There's information our scouts brought to us. Information we felt warranted discussion with the leaders of the Freemasons Republic."
At that, a flicker of something crossed Sico's eyes. He kept his face unreadable, his posture steady, but inside there was a coil of unease. Information. His mind went, unbidden, to the recent battle at the C.I.T. ruins, to the capture of super mutants, to the hard decisions that had turned ruin into stronghold. If the Brotherhood had caught wind of that…
Silence stretched. Long enough that dust drifted down, catching the light like ash. Sico let it linger. Let them feel the weight of entering his domain unasked.
Then he inclined his head, just slightly.
"Very well," he said. "You want a conversation, you'll have it. But not here, not in the open." He gestured toward the banners of the HQ rising beyond the yard. "We'll go inside. To the meeting hall."
Danse gave a curt nod, as if to say that was acceptable. But before the man could take another step, Sico raised a hand.
"Understand this, Paladin," Sico said, his voice cutting sharp enough that the words seemed to bite into the dust-thick air. "You'll not march an army through my doors. You'll bring five. No more. The rest will wait here." His gaze swept the ranks of Knights, Initiates, and Scribes. "They'll be given food and drink, a warm welcome. But this is my home, my people, my walls. Five men through that door, no more."
There was no threat in his tone, but there was no give, either. It was iron wrapped in calm.
The yard held its breath.
Brandis' eyes narrowed faintly, a crease deepening in his weathered face. One of the Initiates shifted on his feet, his jaw tightening. Even a Scribe muttered something too soft to catch.
But it was Danse who answered, his expression unchanged, his tone as measured as Sico's.
"Five will suffice," he said.
Sico's chin dipped in the faintest nod, the barest acknowledgement of respect between men who understood lines drawn and held.
"Then let's talk," Sico said.
He turned, coat snapping in the downdraft, and began the walk toward the HQ. Preston fell into step at his side, his hand brushing the butt of his rifle out of habit, eyes flicking constantly between the Paladins and the soldiers. Behind them, the chosen five would follow — Danse, Brandis, and three others from their retinue, their boots ringing heavy against the packed dirt as the rest of their force held back.
Around them, Sanctuary exhaled again. The settlers murmured in low voices, soldiers tightened their grips, the banners of the Republic snapped sharp in the wind.
The echo of boots followed Sico into the meeting hall, the air still thick with dust and the faint tang of engine exhaust clinging to the stone walls. The hall wasn't built to impress outsiders; it was built to function. Long wooden tables stretched down the room, their surfaces scarred by years of use, maps pinned to the walls, and banners of the Republic hanging in proud contrast against the utilitarian space. A faint murmur filled the air as soldiers, Freemason officials, and scouts lining the sides of the hall straightened, their attention snapping to the group as it entered.
Sarah was already there, her dark braid tucked neatly over one shoulder, the rifle across her back gleaming dully under the lantern light. Robert sat near the far end of the table, arms folded across his chest, his expression somewhere between suspicion and a grim sort of amusement. And MacCready leaned against a post near the corner, hat tilted back just far enough to show his sharp, watchful eyes — the posture of a man who looked casual but was already calculating angles, exits, and possible shots.
Sico stopped near the center table and turned back toward the Brotherhood contingent. His gaze was unreadable, but there was steel beneath it, a quiet challenge that never left his bearing.
"Paladin Danse. Paladin Brandis," he said evenly, gesturing with a sweep of his hand toward the chairs opposite. "Take a seat."
The two Paladins exchanged a brief glance. Danse gave the faintest of nods, then reached for the clamps at his chest. With a hiss of hydraulics, the plating of his Power Armor split open, unfolding like the petals of a massive steel flower. He stepped out with the practiced ease of a man who had done this countless times, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple the only concession to the heat.
Brandis followed, his armor older, its plates scuffed and dulled with wear, but the man within it no less commanding. He moved slower, heavier somehow, as though shedding the machine cost him a fragment of strength each time. But once free, he straightened with a quiet dignity, the scars on his face catching the lantern light.
They both took their seats at the table, the wood creaking faintly beneath their weight. Their chosen escorts remained standing behind them, silent, armored shadows.
Sico lowered himself into his chair, coat settling around him like a mantle. Sarah came to stand just behind his shoulder, her hands clasped lightly but her eyes sharp, as though daring the Brotherhood to so much as breathe wrong. Robert leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. MacCready hadn't moved from his post, but his hand was resting casually on the butt of his pistol.
Sico folded his hands in front of him, his voice calm but carrying an edge of authority.
"So," he said, his gaze cutting between the two Paladins. "You've asked for this meeting. You've stepped into my home with soldiers at your back. What is it you want to talk about?"
Danse didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned slightly, his head inclining toward one of the figures who had followed him in. A woman in Brotherhood robes stepped forward, her satchel slung across one shoulder, her features composed but alert. Her eyes, bright and intelligent, shifted between Sico and Sarah with the careful precision of someone trained to observe.
"This is Scribe Haylen," Danse said, his voice as even as steel. "She will explain."
Haylen took a breath, her hands clasped lightly in front of her as though steadying herself. Then she spoke, her tone measured, almost diplomatic.
"We've received reports," she began. "Reports that the Freemasons Republic has recently captured super mutants. Not killed — captured. That fact alone raised concern within the Brotherhood. Super mutants are a plague, a threat to every settlement and every human being in the Commonwealth. To take them alive, to keep them…" Her brow furrowed slightly. "It suggests purpose. And purpose suggests experimentation."
She let the weight of her words settle into the silence, her gaze steady but not hostile.
"The Brotherhood fears," she continued, "that your Republic may be undertaking dangerous research. The kind of work that, if mishandled, could doom not just your people but the entire region. We came not to accuse, but to ask. To give you the chance to explain before assumptions harden into conflict."
For a moment, the hall was quiet but for the faint pop of a lantern flame.
Sarah stepped forward, her boots ringing sharply against the floorboards. Her voice came firm, clipped, and cool as ice.
"That," she said, "is a matter of the Freemasons Republic. A secret of our people. The Brotherhood has no right to demand explanations of us. Not here. Not anywhere."
The words cracked across the hall like a whip, and though Haylen's expression didn't waver, Danse's jaw tightened. Brandis' weathered eyes narrowed faintly, watching the exchange with the patience of a man who had seen too many negotiations turn to blood.
Sico raised a hand, a gesture of restraint, but his voice carried no less weight than Sarah's.
"What my comrade says is true," he said, leaning forward slightly. His gaze locked onto Danse, then Haylen, unflinching. "We don't owe you our secrets. But I'll give you something. Enough, perhaps, to quiet your fears."
He paused, letting the silence stretch, measuring each word before it left his lips.
"We're not building weapons. We're not trying to create a new breed of monster. What we are doing is learning how they fall. How they die. How we can strike them in ways that keep casualties among our soldiers to a minimum. That is all."
His tone never broke, his eyes never flinched, but behind that calm mask, his thoughts were racing. He knew what hung in the balance. He knew the Brotherhood's fear was not unfounded — because the truth was far darker, far more dangerous, and far more vital. Virgil's research. The hope, slim and tenuous, of reversing the curse of FEV. The dream of restoring super mutants to humanity — or perhaps something more. Something beyond. Superhuman.
And he knew this truth could never be spoken aloud. Not here. Not now.
So he held the bluff like a shield and prayed the Brotherhood would take it at face value.
The silence in the hall deepened, every eye fixed on the table where words were being weighed like blades.
The silence stretched, taut as wire. Every lantern flicker, every faint creak of the hall seemed to press against it, amplifying the tension that hung in the air like smoke.
Brandis leaned forward slowly, his scarred hands lacing together on the table's edge. His voice came low and gravelly, but there was no mistaking the skepticism woven into it.
"You expect us to believe that?" he said, his sharp eyes never leaving Sico's. "That you risked lives to drag those monsters back alive just so you could take notes on how best to kill them? That doesn't wash. Not with me."
His words landed with the force of a hammer, heavy and blunt, and the murmur of boots and shifting armor rippled faintly through the Brotherhood escorts behind him.
Before Sico could reply, the tension snapped.
Knight Rhys — a hard-faced man standing just behind Danse — suddenly raised his laser rifle, the barrel snapping up in one fluid motion to aim squarely at Sico. His voice rang through the chamber, sharp and hot with anger.
"We want the truth!" Rhys barked, his finger taut against the trigger. "No more riddles, no more dancing around it. What the hell are you doing with those mutants?"
The sound of metal on wood followed instantly as Robert's rifle came up, aimed directly at Rhys with steady, practiced hands. In the same heartbeat, MacCready's pistol cleared its holster, the brim of his hat tilted just enough for the steel in his eyes to glint. His aim was true, unshaken, the muzzle leveled on the Brotherhood soldiers.
The hall exploded with tension. Soldiers on both sides shifted, grips tightening on weapons, eyes hardening into the cold readiness of men and women who knew they were one twitch away from violence.
"Enough!" Danse's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding, the kind of tone that came from years of battlefield authority. He rose partway from his chair, hand thrust toward Rhys. "Knight Rhys, stand down! Lower your weapon — now!"
"Robert. MacCready." Sico's tone mirrored Danse's, iron bound in calm. He didn't raise his voice, but it cut with precision. His hand lifted, palm out. "Lower them."
For a moment, neither side moved. It was as though the entire room was holding its breath, caught between fire and restraint.
Then, grudgingly, Rhys lowered his rifle, his jaw clenched tight with barely contained fury. Robert followed a half-second later, easing his rifle back but keeping his eyes locked on the Brotherhood Knight. MacCready twirled his pistol once with a kind of practiced disdain before holstering it again, though the twitch of his lip said plainly he wasn't done watching.
Danse exhaled through his nose, controlled but clearly seething beneath the surface. He sat back down, squaring himself across from Sico, his voice steady once more though heavy with warning.
"I hope for your people's sake that what you've told us is true," he said. "Because if we discover it's a lie… if we learn the Freemasons Republic is tampering with something that could endanger the Commonwealth, I can ensure there will be consequences. Real ones. Possibly even war between our factions."
The hall seemed to contract around his words, the weight of them pressing into every corner.
Sico leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, slowly, a sharp edge of a smile tugged at his mouth, more mocking than warm. His voice, when it came, carried a quiet bite.
"War, is it?" he said. "If you're so eager for a fight, Paladin, perhaps you should focus on the one you already have. Word travels, even out here in the dust. And word is that your war with the Institute isn't going so well. A stalemate, isn't it? You bleed men and fuel in the skies while they burrow deeper in their holes. That's your fight. Not us."
The words hung like blades, mocking and deliberate.
Brandis' eyes narrowed further, though he stayed silent. Danse's jaw tightened, the muscle twitching at the edge, but he didn't lash out — not yet. Haylen shifted her weight, glancing at her commander as though trying to measure how far this conversation was from breaking.
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• 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:-