Fallout 4: Rebirth At Vault 81

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Sico stood on the eastern rampart now, coat buttoned to the collar, staring out into the dark where the horizon used to be. Somewhere out there, the enemy still stirred.

Sico circled back toward the courtyard, wind brushing low and cool off the sea, the air carrying just a hint of salt and weld-smoke. He could hear the clatter of gear being stacked near the motor pool and the rhythmic thud of boots on gravel in the training yard. But more than that, he could feel something—an invisible thread winding through the Castle's stone and steel. A sense of peace. Of readiness. Of closure.

He found Ronnie still near the central steps, sipping from a dented steel mug that probably held coffee, or something pretending to be it. Her coat was open now, and the fatigue in her stance had softened—not gone, but no longer clenching her joints the way it used to. She watched him approach, eyes narrowed against the sun as it broke over the eastern towers.

Sico stopped a few paces from her, hands at his sides.

"She's ready," he said.

Ronnie gave a soft grunt that might have been agreement. "Aye."

There was a long pause between them, not awkward, but quiet—like the kind of silence shared between two people who had nothing left to prove to each other.

"I think it's time I headed back to Sanctuary," Sico said, and his voice was low, steady. "The Castle's fixed. You've got this."

Ronnie blinked at him. Not in surprise—just absorbing it. "You sure?"

He nodded. "Yeah. For the first time since we started this… I feel like she can stand on her own again. And I've got a Republic to run, not just a fortress to guard."

Ronnie took another sip from her mug, then exhaled through her nose. "We'll hold her, Sico. You know that, right? I won't let anything take this place again."

"I know you won't."

His hand reached out briefly and clasped her shoulder—not a politician's gesture, not a general's. Just two old soldiers acknowledging the road they'd walked. She didn't shrug it off.

"Mind getting a Humvee ready for me?" he asked as he stepped back. "I want to leave within the hour."

Ronnie raised an eyebrow, then gave a dry, lopsided smirk. "You asking or ordering, President?"

He chuckled. "Asking. But I'm also the guy who signed your last requisition form."

That got a laugh from her—gravelly, real. "Alright, alright. I'll have Mac ready one of the new ones. Fresh oil, working shocks, no blood on the seats—just how you like it."

"Much appreciated."

As she turned toward the garage bay, Sico cast one last glance back at the walls. The new paint. The solid lines. The quiet hum of something reborn. He let the view burn into his mind like a photograph, something to carry with him in the long days ahead.

But before the Humvee was even ready, he found himself drifting—not wandering aimlessly, but moving with a strange pull in his chest. As if there were pieces of himself still scattered in the mortar and mesh of this place.

He stopped by the war room first, taking the stairs slow, the echo of each footfall on stone a kind of meditation. Inside, the map table still bore the detailed overlays Ronnie and Preston had used during the Mirelurk siege—red markers where breaches had opened, blue ones where reinforcements had held. Now, most of the board was clear. Just a few green pins left.

Sico stared at it for a moment, then reached out and removed the final two pins. No flourish. No speech. Just the quiet motion of a man who understood the meaning of endings.

He passed through the mess hall next, catching the scent of hot stew and baked mutfruit. A couple of the young recruits were finishing breakfast, their laughter easy and unguarded. They nodded respectfully when they noticed him, but he waved it off, letting them return to their meal. They didn't need to see him as a monument today. Let them have their peace.

Then he ducked down the corridor that led to the lower levels, past the armory where Robert had once held a line against Gunners three-to-one, and past the sealed hatch that led to the old tunnels they'd collapsed during the assault.

When he finally returned to the courtyard, Ronnie was waiting beside the Humvee. The vehicle was an older pre-War model—restored by Sanctuary's engineers, but modified with reinforced armor panels, an upgraded fuel cell, and a mounted minigun on the roof for deterrence. Clean. Efficient. Republic colors stenciled in matte black on the passenger door.

"Mac says she'll purr all the way home," Ronnie said, tossing him the keys.

Sico caught them, fingers closing around the familiar weight. He opened the door, then paused, glancing back at her one more time.

"You've got full command here," he said. "I'll check in via radio once I'm back. But if there's any trouble, anything at all…"

"You'll be the first to know." Her face was unreadable for a beat, then softened. "And if you're wondering whether I'll keep pushing repairs, expanding the inner perimeter, setting up that second generator tower like we talked about—yeah. Already halfway through planning that. You trained me well, boss."

He smiled faintly. "You trained yourself."

She didn't argue.

He climbed into the Humvee, the interior warm from the morning sun. The engine fired on the first attempt—clean, deep rumble. Ronnie stepped back, shielding her eyes as he rolled down the window.

"Drive safe," she called out.

"I always do," he lied, and then pressed the accelerator.

The Castle shrank in the side mirror as the Humvee rumbled past the outer gate, its massive wheels crunching gravel, then kicking up dirt as it took the winding road down the coastline. The Sentinels at the gate pivoted slightly, tracking but not threatening. Sico gave a lazy salute to the guards stationed there, and one of them—a kid who looked barely old enough to remember pre-War music—returned it like it meant the world.

The road from the Castle to Sanctuary wasn't just a physical path. It was a transition. A shedding of armor. A descent from high command into the quieter, more nuanced struggles of leadership.

Out here, the world changed.

He passed small villages flying the Republic banner—shacks fortified with sandbags, tiny wind turbines, fields where settlers toiled under rising sunlight. People waved. Some didn't. That was fine.

The road bent gently through a stand of rust-bitten pine trees, the hum of the Humvee's engine soothing beneath Sico's hand on the wheel. He'd rolled the window halfway down, letting the wind thread through his hair and jacket, the salt of the coast giving way to the softer smells of earth and dust and cracked pavement. It was peaceful, the kind of peace rare in the wasteland—not just the absence of gunfire, but the presence of something quieter. Purpose. Completion.

He was still turning over the moment with Ronnie in his mind—her laugh, the feel of the keys in his palm, that last glance at the Castle's parapets catching the sun—when everything changed.

There was a scream of wind before the sound. A shriek cutting through the air like an angry god's roar.

And then—

BOOM.

The missile struck the road ten yards ahead of the Humvee, erupting in a geyser of fire, shrapnel, and pulverized rock. The blast wave hit like a hammer. Sico barely had time to curse as the vehicle jolted sideways, the wheels lifting from the ground. The Humvee flipped violently, a deafening crunch of metal and glass snapping around him. His shoulder slammed into the frame, ribs catching the seat harness just hard enough to bruise. The world spun—sky, earth, sky again—and then the Humvee came to rest on its roof, steam hissing from the twisted hood, one wheel still spinning idly in the air.

His ears rang like church bells.

For a second, he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just blinked through blood and smoke, the world a cracked blur of flickering warning lights and burning rubber.

Then instinct took over.

Sico unclipped the seat harness, fell hard against the warped roof, and gritted his teeth as he crawled through the shattered remains of the driver's side window. His knees dragged through glass, his palms caught on jagged metal, but he didn't stop until he was clear of the wreckage.

The Humvee lay on its back like a wounded beetle, frame bent, doors flared open. The minigun mount was torn loose, hanging off by a cable. Fuel hissed somewhere beneath. And in the rising cloud of dust, he saw shadows—figures moving through the smoke, rifles raised, voices echoing with cruel laughter.

He rolled behind a boulder and yanked the radio from his belt, flicking the switch with a blood-slicked thumb.

"Sanctuary—this is Sico," he said, voice low but urgent. "I've been hit. Missile strike on Route 17, north ridge past the pine gulch. Humvee's down—repeat, Humvee is down. I'm alive but compromised. Hostiles inbound. Repeat, hostiles inbound. Over."

A burst of static.

Then Sarah's voice crackled through, tight and strained. "Copy that. We're dispatching a rapid response team. ETA twenty-five minutes. Can you confirm status? Are you mobile?"

Sico ducked his head, wiping blood from his brow. "Minor injuries. Nothing broken. No heavy arms. Situation's hot. Repeat, situation's hot."

"Understood. Hold position. Help is on the way."

But help was still miles off—and the enemy was already here.

Boots crunched over the road gravel, casual and unhurried, like they knew they had the upper hand. Sico peered from behind the rock, muscles coiled tight. Five of them. Maybe six. Raiders by the look—scarred armor pieces, dirty fatigues, jury-rigged rifles slung across their backs. Their leader stood out: a tall man in a leather coat stripped from an old NCR officer, his beard flecked with gray and a shotgun resting over his shoulder like a scepter.

He stopped a few feet from the overturned Humvee, grinning at the wreckage.

"Well, well, well…" the man drawled, voice like gravel soaked in whiskey. "Looks like we caught ourselves a prize, boys."

Sico's hand found the sidearm holstered at his thigh—a standard-issue 10mm, scratched but well-maintained. He didn't move yet. Let them come closer. Let them think he was injured or unconscious. He counted seconds with his breath.

"You recognize this rig?" one of the other raiders asked, poking at the Humvee's fender with the barrel of a pipe rifle. "That's Republic standard, ain't it?"

"Oh, it's more than that," the leader replied. He walked around the wreck, squinting at the interior. "I recognize the plates. That's the President's runabout. Our little fish just turned into a fuckin' shark, boys."

The raiders muttered among themselves, elated, energized.

"We take him alive," the leader barked, lifting a hand. "That ransom's gonna make us kings."

And then he raised his voice, calling out toward the wreckage.

"You still breathing in there, big man? Don't bother hiding. We've got you surrounded. You step out now, maybe I don't break your legs before we sell you to the highest bidder."

Sico exhaled once, steady and low.

Then he moved.

He rose from cover and squeezed off two shots in one motion—crisp, controlled. The first bullet caught the nearest raider in the thigh, spinning him into the dust with a howl. The second clipped the shoulder of another, throwing him off balance. Chaos erupted instantly—yells, gunfire, a scream as the wounded raider flailed against the roadside dirt.

Sico ducked back behind the boulder as rounds peppered the stone, sparks and dust flying in all directions. He sprinted to the next bit of cover, flanking left toward the low ridge that bordered the gulch. His boots pounded the loose soil. His ribs ached, but his mind was sharp, every movement honed from years of command and survival.

"Fan out!" the raider leader shouted. "Don't let him get away!"

They were fast—but not trained.

Two came charging up the ridge, rifles raised. Sico dropped low behind a fallen log and fired again, a quick three-round burst. One went down with a shot through the hip. The other dove for cover, firing blind. Bullets tore bark beside Sico's ear.

His clip was running dry.

Click.

He ejected the mag, slammed in a fresh one, and darted further uphill, leading them away from the Humvee. If they followed, if they got sloppy, he could work them down one at a time. But there were more of them now—he could hear more feet pounding gravel behind the others. Reinforcements. Or a second wave.

He needed extraction—fast.

He hit the radio again, whispering harsh. "Sanctuary, this is Sico. I've got hostiles in pursuit—minimum eight now. Flanking north by the ridge trail. I'm moving to higher ground. Request for support as soon as possible. Over."

"Copy that, President," Sarah's voice came through, thinned by static but steady as stone. "We'll get there as soon as possible. Hold on."

Sico didn't reply. He couldn't waste the seconds. The moment she signed off, he broke into a sprint, boots cutting across the cracked slope of the ridge. His breath rasped in his throat, sweat mixing with the sting of blood just above his temple. Every movement tugged at the bruises blooming along his ribs and shoulder, but adrenaline kept him upright, kept him sharp.

A rusted fence line cut through the brush ahead—beyond it, the broken silhouette of an old pre-War house, half-eaten by vines and time. The roof sagged in the middle, and one wall had caved inward, exposing old furniture and cracked wallpaper like a gutted dollhouse. But the other side still stood, walls intact, windows shadowed. Shelter. Cover.

Sico vaulted the fence in two steps, staggered into the house's sunken porch, and slipped inside through the warped frame of the door. The air inside was thick with mildew and dust, the floorboards groaning under his weight. A smashed table lay crooked against one wall, and broken kitchen cabinets stood like skeletal ribs around a crumbling stove.

He crouched beside a support beam and took stock. Pulled his gear belt tighter, checked his sidearm, then ran fingers across the spare mags strapped along his chest rig. He counted each one by touch, voice low under his breath.

"One… two… three… four…" He tapped the last one with a bloodied knuckle. "Eight. Eight full mags."

Not perfect, but enough to make them bleed. If he chose his ground. If he didn't waste a single round.

He stood and moved to the nearest window, peeking past the dusty drape of an old curtain. Outside, the forest rustled and shifted. Movement. Shapes. Raiders were fanning out, creeping toward the house with weapons at the ready. One of them sprinted the opposite way—back toward the blast site, toward the Humvee. Probably to call for backup. Or to retrieve something bigger. A launcher. Or worse.

Sico muttered under his breath. "Shit."

He scanned the treeline. Four raiders visible now. At least two more behind them. They were being cautious, spreading out like wolves around a campfire, trying to flush him. They didn't know how many were inside. That was his advantage—he could still control the tempo. Use the shadows. Make them think twice.

His fingers curled around the edge of the window frame. The breeze was stronger here, carrying the scent of old leaves, gunpowder, and something almost sweet—blood maybe. Or decay. Somewhere deeper in the forest, a crow cried out, sharp and lonely.

He backed away from the window and ducked behind a splintered shelf. He needed to think like a soldier. No, more than that. Like a commander. The house had a bottleneck at the front, a side door near the back that opened toward a tangle of collapsed fencing, and a half-broken staircase leading to the remnants of an attic. If he held the inside long enough, the terrain outside would funnel them in. He could break them in waves.

But only for so long.

The first shot shattered the window behind him.

Glass rained down like sharp rain, and Sico hit the floor instinctively. A bullet thunked into the wall behind where he'd been standing. Another cracked into the ceiling.

They were testing him. Feeling for his position.

He rolled behind the counter that separated what used to be the kitchen from the living room and braced his arm over the counter edge. He waited until he saw the faintest glint of a muzzle flash outside—and then fired.

One shot. Two.

A scream erupted outside. Hit confirmed.

He ducked down as return fire lit up the window frame. Dust exploded from the wooden walls, plumes rising like ghosts. A loose pipe fell from the ceiling and clanged against the floor, echoing too loud.

Sico crawled to the hallway and shifted his position toward the rear. He had to stay moving. If they pinned him in one room, it was over.

The side door rattled. A boot kicked at it once, twice.

He crouched low, steadying his breath, and waited for the silhouette.

The third kick snapped the door inward, and a raider stepped through, raising his shotgun.

Sico fired first.

Two rounds. One caught the raider in the chest—armor caught most of it, but the force drove him backward. The second shot found the throat, and he collapsed in a gurgle.

Sico darted to the door and yanked it shut again, wedging a busted chair beneath the handle. It wouldn't hold long. Maybe not even a minute. But it might buy him time.

Another volley of gunfire crashed through the front windows. A molotov soared through the shattered frame, smashing against the floor with a whoosh of fire and gasoline. Flames licked across the old wooden boards, eating toward the rug like a hungry tide.

Sico grabbed a cracked jug from beneath the sink—still half-full of rainwater—and doused the flame before it could spread. Smoke curled up in thin, gray tendrils.

Then came the voices. Closer now. Circling.

"He's boxed in," one shouted.

"He's got nowhere to go!"

"Flush him out!"

Sico didn't respond. He moved to the stairs and climbed halfway up. The second floor was barely there, the floor weak and half-collapsed, but the height gave him a better vantage. He knelt low behind the broken banister and scanned through the gaping holes in the roof.

He could see them now—two raiders creeping around the back, another pressing toward the front door. A fourth lay bleeding in the gravel path, crawling slowly, one leg twisted beneath him.

And just beyond the trees—more shadows. A second group. He counted at least three. One of them held something heavy slung over his shoulder. A rocket launcher. Shoulder-mounted. Probably salvaged Brotherhood tech.

Sico's jaw tightened.

He switched his radio back on. "Sarah, situation's escalating. They've got reinforcements inbound. At least three more. One has a rocket launcher. I'm holed up in a ruined farmhouse east of the ridge trail. If they bring that launcher to bear, this place won't hold."

Static.

Then: "Understood. We're less than fifteen minutes out. Hold, Mr. President. Whatever it takes. Preston's with us. He's bringing a Sentinel."

Sico allowed himself one sharp breath. "Copy."

Then he turned off the radio again. Couldn't risk the noise.

Footsteps on the porch now. Wood groaning.

A voice called out. Different than the leader's—younger, eager.

"Hey, boss says we can have some fun if he's still breathing."

Laughter.

Another molotov. This one hit the upstairs window and exploded against the wall. Heat rolled across the attic like a wave, and the flames caught the tattered curtains. Sico backed away, coughing, and fired a warning shot downward. They scattered.

But the fire was growing.

He moved again, hopping back down to the first floor, landing hard on one knee. Pain shot through his side, but he grit his teeth and pushed through it. He ducked behind the far couch—more of a skeleton now, springs and fabric long rotted—and reloaded.

Five mags left.

Then the front door exploded inward.

They charged through the smoke—two at first, yelling. Sico brought both down with clean, practiced shots. One hit in the chest, the other in the head. Their bodies crumpled just feet from him.

But the others weren't far behind.

Gunfire roared.

Sico dove sideways, shoulder slamming into the corner of the wall. The remaining raiders poured in, covering each other in tandem. They were reckless but bold now—he'd hurt them, but they still thought they could overwhelm him.

He rolled behind the stairwell and flanked right, taking the long path toward the broken pantry. The floor creaked, and one of them heard it.

"He's moving! Back corner!"

More rounds. Wood splintered. A cabinet exploded beside his head. He ducked low, popped up, and fired again—two more shots, one grazing a raider's leg, the other embedding in the doorframe.

He was bleeding now. Arm nicked. Nothing deep—but his strength was fading. His vision swam slightly at the edges.

He needed to end this soon.

And then—the sound he'd been waiting for.

A roar.

A deep, metallic thunder that rose from the valley below, like the growl of some ancient god. Then came the unmistakable whump of heavy treads tearing across earth.

The Sentinel had arrived.

Outside, the woods erupted.

A minigun opened fire, its scream like hell given voice. Trees shattered. Raiders screamed. One missile hissed through the treetops and detonated in the distance, sending a plume of fire into the sky.

Sico staggered to the doorway, just in time to see the raider with the launcher turning to aim.

Too slow.

The Sentinel's cannon fired. The explosion swallowed him whole.

The surviving raiders broke. Some tried to flee, but Preston's squad had already cut off the road. Gunfire lit up the ridge trail like a festival of bullets. One by one, the would-be ransomers fell—cut down, scattered, screaming.

And then… silence.

Real silence.

The kind you didn't question. The kind that wrapped around your bones and reminded you that you were still breathing.

Sico leaned against the doorframe, panting. Blood trickled down his side, staining his shirt. His hands trembled—but not from fear. From the crash, the strain, the fire of adrenaline slowly fading.

A shadow moved through the smoke.

Then Preston appeared, his rifle raised, helmet tucked beneath one arm.

He saw Sico and grinned.

"Goddamn, sir," he said, voice hoarse. "You look like hell."

Sico managed a breathless laugh. "You should see the other guys."

Preston stepped forward, looking around at the carnage inside. "You held this place alone?"

"Long enough," Sico said. "They wanted ransom."

Preston's smile faded. "They picked the wrong target."

Behind him, Sarah approached, breath short, face pale beneath her helmet.

"You all right?" she asked, concern threading every syllable.

Sico nodded. "Took a beating. But I'm standing."

She gave a tight smile, then turned to the Sentinel, now kneeling like some ancient war beast beside the ruins of the house.

"Let's get you patched up," she said.

As they led him out of the wreckage, the morning sun broke through the clouds above, casting long shadows across the burned trees, the shattered road, the overturned Humvee still smoking on its roof.

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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:-