Fallout 4: Rebirth At Vault 81

If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!

Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12

___________________________

Every echo of the broadcast that rolled through the vents like a warning. Every murmur of guards outside. Every rumor carried in low voices—about how the Republic was rallying behind Sico, about how Sanctuary's population was swelling with refugees again. About how a new unity was forming… not from power, but from truth.

The morning after the broadcast broke over the Commonwealth was deceptively calm.

Sico sat at the far end of a long, battered desk inside his office at Freemasons Republic headquarters. The room had once been a pre-War community meeting room—linoleum floors stripped to concrete, flaking wallpaper replaced with fiberboard and steel panels. Now, it bore the weight of command: a pinned map of the region etched with patrol grids, a locked weapons cabinet behind the desk, and a terminal humming with encrypted reports.

Sunlight streamed through reinforced slats over the window, streaking across the top of the desk where a mound of paperwork waited for his review—mission debriefs, ammo requisitions, refugee housing updates. The Republic had grown fast in the past year, too fast. Bureaucracy had chased them like a shadow. Sico preferred field work, but peace—even shaky peace—demanded ink and signatures.

He'd just begun reviewing a post-action report from a border squad near Greentop Nursery when the door burst open.

Preston Garvey entered without knocking, his steps hard and urgent.

Sico looked up. The tension in Preston's jaw told him everything.

"They're coming," Preston said.

Sico set the papers down. "Who?"

"Brotherhood. Five Vertibirds. I just got word from Tower Post Two—they crossed the northeast perimeter. Flight vector has 'show of force' written all over it."

Sico was already on his feet.

"Let's go."

He didn't need to grab his coat. It was always on the back of his chair, ready. He slid it on, buttoned the front, and followed Preston into the corridor.

As they moved through headquarters, officers stepped aside, saluting briskly. Runners and guards peeled off to mobilize perimeter troops, and radio techs in the comms room were already relaying updates through secure frequencies. The Freemasons weren't caught off-guard. Not completely. Not ever.

They exited the building and headed down toward the open training field just south of the compound—an open stretch of flattened earth where the Republic's recruits drilled with rifles and Power Fist simulations. It was also, by design, the best place in Sanctuary to land a Vertibird. And Brotherhood optics would know that.

By the time they arrived, several squads had already formed up—snipers in the high watchposts, scouts kneeling behind stacked barriers, heavy troopers armed with Tesla hammers and tri-beam rifles. Their weapons weren't raised, but their hands were ready. The whole field was a coiled muscle.

In the sky, the five Vertibirds roared in staggered formation, their engines low and predatory. Wind from the rotors blasted dust across the field, and the heavy chop of their descent beat against the air like war drums.

They landed one by one, metal feet slamming into the dirt, turbines whining as they powered down. Brotherhood knights disembarked in precise, armor-clad rows, weapons holstered but unmistakable in threat. The Brotherhood didn't come to talk. They came to claim.

And from the second Vertibird, Paladin Danse emerged.

His Power Armor was matte black, shined and scorched from battle. The unmistakable lionhead crest of the Maxson order gleamed on the shoulder plate. His helmet was off, cradled under one arm. He approached the center of the field with the deliberate pace of a man not looking for permission.

Sico stepped forward.

Preston was a step behind him. Around them, the ranks of Freemasons soldiers tightened, silent but unyielding.

Danse stopped a few paces from Sico. His face, always weathered but once warm, now bore a harder edge—less comrade, more emissary.

"President Lee," he said.

"Paladin Danse," Sico replied evenly. "This is an unexpected visit."

Danse nodded. "I'm here on orders from Elder Maxson. Direct."

"And what orders are those?"

"To retrieve a prisoner. One you currently hold in your custody."

Sico didn't blink.

"Talbot."

Danse inclined his head once. "That's correct."

A thick silence fell over the field.

The air, only moments ago filled with the hum of engines and stomping boots, now felt carved from ice. Freemasons guards gripped their weapons tighter. Some took half-steps forward before catching themselves.

Sico didn't move.

"Paladin," he said carefully, "Talbot is under our jurisdiction. He committed crimes inside Freemasons territory—attempted subversion of our government, conspiracy to assassinate a sitting president. He's not a guest. He's a traitor. And he stays here."

Danse exhaled slowly, not breaking eye contact.

"With respect, those crimes pale next to what he's done to the Brotherhood. He was one of us. And he turned."

Sico's eyes narrowed. "You mean he embarrassed you. You buried his name, called him MIA, and now that the truth's out, you want to erase it. Neat. Clean. No witnesses."

Danse's expression didn't change. But the subtle movement of his jaw, the twitch of his gauntlet fingers—it said plenty.

"This isn't personal," Danse said. "It's protocol."

"You showing up with five Vertibirds and no warning says otherwise."

Now Preston stepped up beside Sico. "You're not taking him."

Danse turned toward him. "We have no desire for bloodshed, Garvey. But make no mistake—this isn't a negotiation."

That did it.

In the rows behind them, several Freemasons snapped their safeties off. The mechanical clicks rang sharp across the field.

And still—Sico didn't blink.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and Danse to just a few feet.

"Let me make my position clear," he said, voice low. "Talbot is ours. He operated on our soil. He targeted our people. He's our prisoner. You want to interrogate him? File a request. Submit evidence. We're not raiders. We follow law here. But if you think you can land five birds in our yard, flash some Power Armor, and drag him out in chains—then you're not here for justice. You're here for optics."

Danse's jaw tightened. "This is your last chance, Sico."

"And you're making your first mistake."

For a long, taut moment, the two men stood in silence, eyes locked. The training field was still, but the tension was a hair's breadth from boiling over.

The pause that followed Sico's final words was not silence—it was a kind of thunder. A storm held still in the sky. The wind caught the edge of his coat, flapping it faintly around his boots, and Danse stood opposite him like a statue carved from blackened steel.

The Brotherhood Paladin's jaw flexed. His eyes—gray, calculating—searched Sico's for something. Doubt. Fear. Wavering.

He found none.

Sico was solid. Firm. A man whose words had already been weighed in the furnace of conviction before they ever left his lips.

"Are you saying," Danse said slowly, clearly, "that you're prepared to start a war with the Brotherhood of Steel?"

The question hit like a dropped gauntlet.

A shudder ran through the ranks—both Freemasons and Brotherhood. Fingers twitched near triggers. Palms tightened around weapon grips. On a rooftop nearby, a young Freemasons marksman adjusted his scope instinctively, his heartbeat thudding like a drumline against the rubber of his cheek rest.

But Sico didn't blink.

His voice was calm, almost quiet, but it carried across the field with the gravity of a decree.

"If defending the integrity of our Republic—our freedom, our people—means war… then yes."

He took one step forward. No weapon. Just truth.

"I will meet it. I will lead it. And I will not back down."

Danse didn't respond right away. His helmet—still cradled under one arm—seemed heavier now. He looked not at Sico, but past him, at the lines of Freemasons behind their leader. Young. Old. Some dressed in scavenged combat armor, others in dusty patrol fatigues. Not a uniform force by Brotherhood standards.

But they all stood behind Sico.

Every last one of them.

And that mattered.

Danse exhaled through his nose.

"Then we're at an impasse."

"You brought five Vertibirds," Sico said, "not five battalions. That means Maxson didn't want escalation—he wanted a message."

"He got one," Danse said.

Preston took a half step forward, chin tilted. "You gonna send one back?"

Danse looked from Preston to Sico again, then slowly slipped his helmet into place.

The hiss of the seal locking was sharp in the tense quiet.

"I'll return to the Prydwen," he said, voice now filtered through the audio modulator, colder and more distant. "Elder Maxson will be informed that the Freemasons Republic has denied lawful reclamation of a Brotherhood operative. That you have chosen to withhold a traitor… and a threat."

Sico said nothing.

Danse turned and walked back toward the Vertibirds. He didn't draw a weapon. Didn't raise a hand.

But not one Brotherhood knight moved until he was inside.

The ramp hissed closed behind him with a mechanical sigh, and the Vertibird's engines spun to life once more—dust churning into the air as the craft lifted off in a storm of deafening rotors.

One by one, the others followed.

A full retreat. No shots. No demands.

But no handshake either.

The Freemasons didn't move until the final Vertibird disappeared behind the low ridge to the east, its echo fading into the clouds.

Only then did Sico speak again.

"Stand down," he said, loud and clear.

The soldiers around him relaxed slightly. Not all at once—but enough. Safeties were re-engaged. Bolts eased. Shoulders sagged under released tension.

Preston exhaled, then looked at Sico with an expression halfway between relief and concern. "You know this doesn't end here."

"I know."

"They'll be back."

Sico nodded. "And we'll be ready."

He turned his gaze to the horizon where the Brotherhood had vanished.

"But next time," he added, "we won't meet them on a field."

He turned back toward the headquarters.

"Next time," he said, more to himself than anyone, "we'll meet them in history."

Far above, aboard the Prydwen, the engines still roared from Danse's return flight. He stood in the central command lift, removing his helmet in silence, jaw clenched, eyes tired. The quiet buzz of the ceiling lights did little to soften the tension that now simmered deep in the ship's steel bones.

Aboard the bridge, Elder Maxson stood waiting with crossed arms.

Danse stepped out of the lift and met his commanding officer's eyes directly.

"You saw the feed?" he asked.

Maxson's expression was unreadable. "Every second."

"I followed protocol. Gave them a chance to comply."

"And?"

Danse's voice didn't waver.

"Sico refused."

Maxson's hands curled into fists.

"He said," Danse added, "if defending the integrity of his nation meant war… he would accept it."

A beat passed.

Maxson turned to the window, looking down over the ruined skyline of the Commonwealth.

Then, quietly:

"Prepare the war council."

And deep underground, far removed from the wind and politics of the surface world, Shaun stood in silence as news filtered through the Institute's data relays.

A Brotherhood scout drone had caught audio fragments of Sico's standoff. It wasn't a perfect transmission. Too much interference. But enough.

Enough to know that Talbot remained at the center of it.

Enough to know that the Brotherhood had failed to retrieve him.

And enough to know that the man they'd tried to replace—the one they'd nearly killed—was now rallying militias, scavver towns, rogue synth sympathizers, and even former Brotherhood defectors under a single, dangerous idea.

Hope.

Shaun stared at the monitor in front of him—an image of the Sico prototype, half-rendered, glitching. The synthetic face frozen in the middle of a smile.

He touched the screen, as if considering what might have been.

Then his voice, calm but venomous, echoed through the chamber:

"Kill Talbot."

He turned to Justin Ayo.

"Kill him before he says another word."

Then he looked at Alana Secord.

"And find me another vault."

The wind was still curling in the air where the last Brotherhood Vertibird had vanished, a high whisper of rotors now fading to silence above the open training field. Dust still clung to the folds of Sico's coat as he turned back toward headquarters, his boots crunching on gravel, Preston matching his stride a pace behind. The mood was heavy, like a storm just missed—but not forgotten.

Neither of them spoke on the short walk back.

But just as the HQ came into view, a shout rang out—panicked, sharp, from one of the forward sentries.

"CONTACT—NORTH WALL! SYNTHS! MULTIPLE HOSTILES—WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"

The words pierced the relative calm like a blade through glass.

Sico froze. For a fraction of a second, only the wind moved.

Then his voice boomed over the field, already halfway into a run.

"TO THE GATE! MOVE!"

Preston was right behind him, calling out into his radio: "Red Team, get to the perimeter! Alpha squads, fall back to rally point two—full engagement protocol! We're under siege!"

Sico didn't break stride as he reached the ladders built into the scaffolding of the northeast watchtower. He climbed two rungs at a time, boots slamming against metal, reaching the top platform just as the horizon came into full view—and his breath caught.

The wasteland beyond Sanctuary was teeming.

At least three dozen synths marched across the gravel and broken roadway toward the main gate—white polymer plating, glowing eyes, weapons drawn. But what caught his eye weren't the Gen-1s or even the Gen-2s in their black-and-silver reinforced armor.

It was the ten coursers.

They strode like wolves at the front of the formation—each one tall, built like a machine sculpted into a man. Their coats flapped behind them in the wind, all bearing the distinctive glowing green cores embedded into their chests, humming with unnatural power.

No cover. No warning. A direct charge. It was brazen.

One of the coursers stepped forward from the pack. His face was expressionless—synthetic calm wrapped in human skin. He held no rifle, only a plasma blade pulsing at his hip.

Sico's voice rang out from the watchtower.

"What in god's name is the meaning of this?"

The lead courser looked up.

"Deliver Talbot," he said. His voice was flat, emotionless. "This is your only warning. The Institute demands his return."

Sico's brow furrowed. "You want to explain the part where you send a kill squad to the front gates of a sovereign settlement instead of opening a channel?"

Another courser raised his rifle slightly. "No more negotiations. Give us Talbot, or we come through you."

Sico spat over the side of the tower. "Not in this lifetime."

The lead courser's eyes narrowed.

"Then you've made your choice."

Sico turned instantly, ducking back from the parapet and sliding down the ladder like a man lit by fire. The second his boots hit the ground, he barked into his radio.

"Preston! Hold the line! Do not let a single synth through those gates! Use everything. Mortars, traps, heavy guns—I don't care if it leaves a crater. No passage."

Preston's voice crackled back over the frequency, steady but fierce: "Copy. We're on it. Alpha to Charlie squads engaging now. Wall defenses live."

Sico spun toward a second comms runner, standing with wide eyes near the base of the tower.

"Get Sarah. Now. I want the Freemason Commandos on double alert. Vault prison is now high-risk. If the Institute sent those coursers, this whole thing was a feint—Talbot is their real objective."

The runner saluted shakily and sprinted toward HQ.

Sico paused only for a second—long enough to glance up at the smoldering sky, then back toward the gate where the first synth shots were starting to fly. Green bolts hissed and sparked against concrete. A soldier on the wall screamed as he was clipped in the shoulder and dragged back behind the parapet.

The war had begun.

He turned and bolted for the central field, barking orders as he went, each word flaring like gunfire in the chaos:

"ALL FIGHTING UNITS TO THE GATE!"

"MEDICS—SET UP TRIAGE BY THE MARKET!"

"NO ONE FALLS BACK UNLESS I SAY—WE HOLD!"

The wind whipped harder now, filled with the stench of ozone and scorched metal. The Freemasons' automated turrets spun into life, clacking and tracking targets with shrill electronic whines. Bolts of plasma and laser fire collided midair as the opening clash hit the walls.

Preston, already atop the barricade line, was firing from a mounted laser cannon, his hat blown clear off by wind, his face grim.

Below him, the synths advanced with terrifying calm. One went down to a frag mine near the gate—legs blown clear off in a mist of smoke and polymer. Another was peppered with .308 rounds, jerking violently before collapsing. But the coursers didn't flinch. They kept moving.

Sico reached the rear platform where command drones were being deployed. He paused, catching his breath only long enough to shove a stimpack into the neck of a wounded scout being pulled off the field.

A second later, Sarah charged into view—combat armor halfway donned, shotgun on her back, sidearm drawn.

"You called?"

Sico nodded, teeth clenched. "Ten coursers. Dozens of synths. This is a full assault. I want the Commandos on the prison. Right now. Layer it in twos—no one gets within fifty meters of Talbot's cell."

"Understood," she snapped. "I'll take First Squad myself."

"And, Sarah…"

She stopped, looking back.

"Shoot to kill. No second chances. Not with these bastards."

A grim smile tugged at her lips.

"With pleasure."

She vanished into the chaos, rallying her squad with practiced efficiency.

Sico turned back toward the gate, where the wall was now pulsing with weapons fire. Rockets streaked overhead. A Tesla mine crackled to life, frying two synths as they reached for the main breach.

But even as the Freemasons held their line, Sico knew this was only the beginning. The Institute was finished playing games, they were coming for Talbot. And Sico was going to make damn sure they regretted it.

________________________________________________

• 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:-