Fallout 4: Rebirth At Vault 81

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Later that afternoon, as the sun broke through fully and dappled the cracked pavement with a soft golden wash, Sico stood again outside the purifier building. He looked out over Sanctuary—the scaffolds, the barracks, the repaired solar grid panels, the laughter of children echoing near the community kitchens. In the far distance, a new guard tower was rising, its steel bones backlit by the fading mist.

The next morning opened wide with sky—clear, hard blue stretching across the wasteland horizon, unbroken by clouds but speckled with the movement of distant birds. The frost that had clung to the rooftops at dawn was already melting into thin rivulets, dripping down the aluminum siding of the mess hall and soaking the ramp wood at the Purifier yard.

Sico stepped out onto the high walk above the station's loading bay, a steaming cup of chicory tea in one hand and his coat flaring slightly in the breeze. The air smelled of dust and dried pine and metal—industrial and familiar. He took a deep breath as he scanned the operation below.

The yard was alive.

Soldiers in field uniforms moved in pairs, gloved hands hauling crates toward two parked cargo trucks stationed just inside the outer gate. Each truck bore the dark green Freemasons Republic insignia on the side—white hammer, black sunburst—freshly painted and still glossy from yesterday's touch-up. The engines were quiet for now, but the tension in the space hummed like they were already idling.

Albert stood near the rear lift of the first truck, barking quick logistical notes to a young private who looked slightly overwhelmed trying to balance a clipboard, a pen, and a combat rifle slung over his shoulder. He was doing his best, and Albert—while efficient—wasn't being unkind. Just fast.

A few yards away, Magnolia paced beside a row of sealed crates stacked and tagged for shipment. She was checking every label herself, flipping the wax-stamped seals to ensure they hadn't been tampered with. Her sleeves were rolled as always, and her expression was the kind of tight focus that made people walk straighter when they saw her coming.

Sico smiled a little. Then he walked down the stairs.

"Morning, you two," he called.

Albert turned, shading his eyes. "Hey, Sico."

"Back for more punishment?" Magnolia asked without looking up from her crate.

He reached the bottom step and stepped onto the gravel, crunching faintly beneath his boots. "I wouldn't call it punishment," he said, then motioned to the soldiers moving crates. "Looks like things are going smooth."

Magnolia finally looked up. "Smooth-ish. We've had two miscounts and a broken latch so far. Private Brigg tripped over a rope and nearly split open case twelve, but we caught it before any bottles rolled."

"Good catch."

"Barely," she muttered. "But we're fine now."

Sico walked with her a few paces, glancing down at the freshly loaded crates. "So, how much are we sending this time?"

Magnolia exhaled and adjusted her grip on the clipboard. "Five thousand bottles."

Sico whistled, low. "Double the first shipment."

"Exactly double," Albert said, approaching from the truck. "We've already got buyer commitments from Oberland, Greentop again, and even a new contact out of Somerville Place. Caravan leads have been verified. It's clean."

"Five thousand bottles…" Sico repeated, nodding to himself. "At ten caps each, that's… fifty thousand caps."

Magnolia gave him a thin grin. "You're catching on fast."

"And the cost to make them?"

"Same as last time," she said. "Four caps a bottle. Production total comes to twenty thousand caps."

"And shipping?" Sico asked, already watching for the follow-up.

"That's where it gets better," Albert said, cracking a small, proud grin. "Mercenary costs are off the books. Entire escort's ours—twelve soldiers, two NCOs, full gear, and two trucks. Total shipping expenditure this round is 7,500 caps."

Sico did the math in his head. "So, 50,000 gross minus 20,000 for production, minus 7,500 for shipping…"

"Leaves us with a profit of 22,500 caps," Magnolia finished.

Sico blinked. "Wait—wasn't the profit margin even higher? I thought you said…?"

Albert held up a finger. "That's if you're counting only net return after costs. But if you're looking at it in terms of per-unit profit, it's cleaner. Each bottle costs us four to make, and we sell for ten. That's six caps profit per unit—sixty percent, like before."

Magnolia stepped in. "What's different now is the shipping savings. Mercs were two and a half grand last run. We eliminated that."

"So our shipping cost dropped from ten thousand to seventy-five hundred," Sico said, nodding. "Which gives us an extra twenty-five hundred in the pocket."

"Exactly," Albert said. "Not to mention, our own soldiers learn the routes. Build discipline. Visibility. Reputation."

"Word's already getting around," Magnolia added. "Oberland's courier dropped a note this morning. Said their last crate was 'the best damned water in the Commonwealth.' Their words, not mine."

"Good," Sico said softly. "Good."

A pair of young troopers passed behind them with a final crate between them, struggling slightly under the weight. Sico paused long enough to nod toward them. "Watch your grip, boys."

"Yessir," one of them grunted, sweating through his collar.

Sico turned back to Magnolia and Albert. "I want to set a precedent. No mercs. Not unless absolutely necessary. We've got the manpower. Let's use it."

"Already locked into policy," Magnolia said, handing over the newest copy of the logistics sheet. "Sarah approved it last night."

Sico took the paper, eyes skimming the handwritten lines—shipment tags, crate weights, soldier assignments, backup routes, fallback locations. Everything tracked.

"This feels different," he murmured.

Albert tilted his head. "Different how?"

Sico folded the paper and slid it into his coat. "This isn't scavenging. This isn't rebuilding the walls or fending off a course of attackers. This is what the world used to run on. Production. Distribution. Trade. We're not just surviving anymore."

Magnolia gave a short nod. "We're living. Maybe for the first time in twenty years."

They all stood quiet for a second, letting the moment breathe.

Then a horn blew twice near the gate—low and steady. The driver of the first truck was signaling readiness.

"That's us," Magnolia said. "You want to give the word, President?"

Sico nodded once. Then he stepped up onto the crate ramp, pulling his coat tighter against a rising wind.

"All right!" he called, voice rising across the yard. "That's all of it. Two trucks, five thousand bottles. Routes are locked. Guards on rotation. This is the second wave—and I want it to be smoother than the first."

He paused.

"Drive careful. Stay in radio contact. And remember—you're carrying more than just water. You're carrying Freemasons Republic name."

A chorus of "Yes sir!" echoed back, loud and full.

The engine of the first truck gave a low rumble, coughed, then steadied into a clean, diesel growl. The second followed a breath later. Smoke curled in thin, gray-blue wisps from the exhaust stacks as the drivers revved lightly, keeping the timing synced. The soldiers loading the final crate stepped back, brushing dirt from their sleeves and gloves, watching the machines come alive like beasts ready to move.

Sico stepped down from the ramp, his coat flapping once before settling against his sides. His eyes lingered on the second truck's flank—on the way the sun struck the white hammer of the Republic insignia, the fresh paint gleaming like a promise that hadn't yet been broken.

He let the moment settle. The yard was mostly quiet now, save for idle chatter and the growl of engines. The tension that always came before a big move—this heavy, invisible pulse that threaded through the air like static—had returned. This wasn't the same as scavenging runs or patrol logistics. This was about visibility. About projection. About being seen and counted in a region where chaos was the default.

He turned back to Albert and Magnolia, lowering his voice slightly. "Listen… I've been thinking."

Albert raised an eyebrow. "That's never good."

Magnolia didn't smile this time. She was still watching the trucks, eyes narrowed. She already felt it—whatever Sico was about to say, she was likely already there mentally.

Sico didn't pace, didn't gesture. He just stood with them, shoulders squared but not tense. "The first wave went smooth. Real smooth. No ambushes, no sabotage, no scav hits. We were lucky. But that kind of luck doesn't last twice in a row."

Magnolia nodded slowly. "They'll be watching."

Albert folded his arms. "Raiders especially. We sent word to three major hubs. That's twenty-two days of chatter that could've been intercepted at any point."

"Exactly," Sico said. "And I don't want to gamble that they're still asleep."

He shifted his weight and glanced past the yard, toward the wide dirt trail that led out of Sanctuary, between the rebuilt concrete fencing and past the sandbag perimeter. Two guards at the gate tower were already scanning with binoculars, rifles resting across their laps. It wasn't enough—not for what was at stake.

"If either truck goes down," Sico said, "we don't just lose caps. We lose reputation. Reliability. Word gets around fast when your name can't keep its promises."

He paused. "So… I was thinking."

Albert and Magnolia waited.

"What if we have the Commandos shadow the shipment?" he asked. "Not in the main convoy. I mean behind. Quiet. Distant but close enough to respond. Like insurance."

Magnolia blinked once, then slowly turned to face him fully. "You want the elite unit following a cargo run?"

"Not just cargo," Sico said. "Freemasons Republic trade. Five thousand units of clean water in the middle of a lawless region. That's not just a bottle run, it's a target."

Albert frowned, but not in disagreement. He was turning over the logistics in his mind—counting personnel, projecting range, calculating delay between point of contact and response time.

"Who leads?" Magnolia asked.

"MacCready," Sico replied immediately. "He's already familiar with both trade routes. I trust his eyes and his gut. If something smells wrong, he'll know it before it hits."

"MacCready…" Albert repeated, almost to himself. "He's good."

"He's ruthless," Magnolia said. "Which is what we'll need if this goes sideways."

Sico nodded. "That's what I was thinking too. It's not just about protecting the trucks. It's about making sure no one even sees them as a soft mark. If there's a trap set, I want us to spring it on our terms, not theirs."

Albert ran a gloved hand over his chin. "I'd say… keep them maybe one hour behind. Use radios sparingly. If it gets too hot, they pivot around and flank."

Magnolia was already nodding. "We have the spare men. We don't have another shipment this week. And if it stops a hundred raiders from trying something stupid, it's worth every cap."

Sico let out a slow breath through his nose, shoulders relaxing slightly. "So we're agreed."

"We are," Albert said.

"Do it," Magnolia added. "Call MacCready."

Sico gave them a short nod, then turned and stepped off toward the comms shack tucked behind the yard's tool shed. It was a simple wooden prefab structure with reinforced metal siding and a half-rusted satellite dish on the roof. A young woman in a patched flannel shirt and armored vest was just stepping out with a coil of wiring in her arms, but she paused and opened the door for Sico as he approached.

"Need the channel?" she asked.

"I do. Thanks."

He stepped inside.

The inside of the shack was cramped but functional—two radio stations, three sets of headphones, and a small desk with a working terminal stacked with outbound transmission logs. A kettle hissed softly on a back burner stove, and the scent of mint tea hung in the air.

Sico grabbed the field receiver and clicked the headset into place. "This is Outpost Sanctuary, call sign 'Iron Nest.' Requesting direct relay to Sergeant MacCready, Commandos division. Immediate relay. Priority One-Alpha."

A short pause. Then crackle.

"Iron Nest, this is Black Lantern. Go ahead."

Sico leaned into the mic. "MacCready, I want a shadow team dispatched. Twelve kilometers behind outbound water shipment, route delta. You lead. Full discretion on route deviation if things smell off. Rules of engagement: Confirmed threat only. Copy?"

MacCready's voice came through, dry and slightly amused. "Copy all, Sico. Thought you might pull me in on this. I've already got two of my team watching the road near Lexington. Rumor says some of the Red Vultures have been moving back west."

Sico frowned slightly. "You think they're behind the chatter?"

"Wouldn't be shocked. First shipment put a shine on your water. That kind of shine gets attention—and not the good kind."

Sico's jaw tightened. "Confirm readiness."

"Eight Commandos prepped and loaded in twenty. We'll keep distance and radio silence unless hit or flagged. Any fallback?"

"Black trail through Medford. If it gets loud, take them off the highway and ghost them."

MacCready gave a low whistle. "Haven't run Medford in months."

"Exactly. No one's watching it."

Another pause. "Copy that. See you on the other side, boss."

Sico clicked the line closed.

Outside, the trucks had begun to move, rolling in low gear out through the compound gate. Dust kicked up in loose brown clouds behind their tires as the first rotation of guards marched alongside them for the first quarter-mile.

When Sico stepped back out into the yard, Magnolia and Albert were still in the same spot, eyes on the trail.

"They're moving," Magnolia said quietly.

Sico gave a single nod. "MacCready's in. Eight Commandos. Ghosting behind them."

Albert exhaled through his nose. "It's good you thought of it. Better to move with an edge than without one."

Sico's gaze lingered on the trucks, now dipping into the first hill beyond the northern ridge. "I want this Republic to stand for more than just words," he murmured. "I want it to be something people don't dare cross."

"They'll learn," Magnolia said.

"They already are," Albert added. "This kind of move? This is what changes power in the Commonwealth. Not bullets. Not speeches. But showing people that someone can actually run things right."

Sico didn't reply, but he stood with them long enough to watch the last tailgate vanish behind the treeline. A fresh gust of wind caught the yard again, rustling the canvas tarp that had once been used for triage tents and now hung like a forgotten flag above the mess hall stairs.

"I'll check in with the northern relay in six hours," Magnolia said, pulling out her pip-boy. "If we don't hear anything, that's good."

"I'll prep a backup signal team here," Albert said. "Just in case."

Sico finally turned toward the command walkway. "Let me know the second anything smells wrong. Anything at all."

They both nodded.

The wheels cut through the dust, steady and deliberate, as the convoy crept north along the cracked, sun-bleached highway. The two Republic trucks looked oddly clean against the desolate landscape—painted metal glinting in the mid-morning sun, the fresh Freemasons Republic insignia stark and crisp against weathered concrete and rusted ruins.

Inside the lead vehicle, the driver kept a white-knuckled grip on the wheel while his co-driver watched the treeline through mirrored shades, a combat rifle resting muzzle-down between his knees. Every few seconds, he'd glance at the rear-view mirror—not for what was behind them, but for what wasn't supposed to be there.

The soldiers escorting the trucks, six split between the two, rode with weapons slung and nerves taut, watching ridges, overpasses, broken buildings. They were young but trained. Green enough to sweat. Old enough to listen to that little voice in the gut.

A mile and a half behind them, hidden by the slope of a hill and the natural folds of the land, eight figures in dark-stitched tactical gear moved in silence across a separate trail carved by old Commonwealth service routes.

MacCready crouched behind a withered stump, lifting binoculars to his scarred face.

"They're holding formation," he muttered, watching the convoy as it trundled around a bend and back into view for a few precious seconds.

To his left, a tall Commando with a recon scope nodded. "Still on pace. Lead truck clocked at twenty-two klicks an hour. No deviation yet."

"Good," MacCready said. "Stay ghosted."

They were an hour behind. Close enough to see movement, far enough to be unseen. The Commandos moved without speaking—every gesture, every shift of weight, every glance had a meaning. These weren't just grunts. They were specialists. Chosen for their ability to survive the worst parts of the Wasteland and still hit their target.

The sun was higher now, casting hard shadows against the old Route 111 curve, where rusted street signs still pointed nowhere. Birds scattered from a half-collapsed tower as something shifted—movement in the hills.

MacCready froze.

He lowered the binoculars, slowly pulled the scope from his pack, and slid it over his rifle with a click. Then he scanned west.

There. Twenty degrees off the main road, coming down through the rocks.

Figures.

At least a dozen. Maybe fifteen. Moving fast.

He squinted through the scope and caught the shimmer of body armor beneath tattered leather. Spike pauldrons. Red paint on one of the gas masks.

Red Vultures.

"Shit," he whispered.

He clicked on the radio but kept his voice just above a breath. "Eyes on hostiles. Fifteen—maybe more. Raiders. Red Vultures confirmed. Coming from western ridge."

A female voice crackled through. "Do they see the trucks?"

"They will soon. They're angling to cut across the route and hit them at the choke."

The "choke" was a narrow bottleneck about three clicks ahead—a collapsed overpass where the road dipped between two sloped rises, like a miniature canyon. A perfect kill zone. No room to turn, little room to fight.

MacCready's stomach tightened. "They're setting an ambush."

"Command?" the voice replied.

He flicked to a different frequency—one synced with the forward convoy. It was a risk, but protocol allowed brief contact in emergencies.

"Convoy lead, this is Black Lantern. Break formation. Repeat: break formation. Do not enter the choke."

There was static. Then the convoy sergeant's voice, hoarse with tension.

"Copy, Black Lantern. We—wait—shit. We've already entered the gap."

MacCready swore under his breath.

"Stay alert. Raiders inbound from west. I repeat—Red Vultures inbound. ETA: two minutes. Hold defensive posture and dig in."

He cut the line.

"Commandos," he said without raising his voice. "On me."

They moved instantly, rifles ready, feet pounding earth without wasting motion. MacCready took the lead, his long strides eating up the terrain. They banked hard east and then north, cutting through the woods, down a dry ravine, and up a slope that brought them parallel to the road and slightly elevated.

Below, the two trucks had halted just short of a rust-warped guardrail, boxing themselves in between fallen debris and natural rock formations. The soldiers had dismounted, weapons drawn, forming a perimeter. But they were outnumbered, and everyone knew it.

A single raider howl split the air. Then the storm came.

Gunfire erupted from the ridge—suppressing fire from the Red Vultures, meant to keep the guards pinned. Bullets hit the road and the chassis of the lead truck, sparking metal. The young driver ducked low, screaming something to his partner.

MacCready raised his rifle.

"Bravo and Delta, flank west. Cut the tail. Alpha on me—drop the lead."

Shots rang out, but these were not the chaotic blasts of raiders. These were measured. Lethal. Precise.

A Red Vulture with a tire-iron and a mohawk took a round between the eyes before his boot hit the ground. Another fell backward clutching his ribs as a bullet sliced through his side.

MacCready moved like a ghost. One second kneeling, next second firing. He saw movement on the upper slope—a sniper settling in—and squeezed off two rounds. The raider's head jerked, body limp before it even slumped.

Below, the convoy's soldiers found their courage and returned fire. One lobbed a smoke grenade, providing hazy cover around the trucks. The co-driver of the rear vehicle dragged out a light machine gun from the cabin and began laying down a sweeping arc that forced the raiders to scatter.

"Black Lantern," came a voice in MacCready's ear. "We've got contact close—two breaking toward the lead truck."

"I see them," MacCready replied.

He jumped down the ridge, rolled once to absorb the impact, and came up with his knife drawn. One of the Red Vultures had reached the cab, yanking the driver out by his collar. The raider raised a machete, grinning—

MacCready slammed into him shoulder-first, knocked him off balance, and buried the blade in his side.

"Don't touch my goddamn trucks," he growled.

The second attacker turned, firing wildly. A bullet clipped MacCready's left shoulder plate. He winced, dove behind the hood, popped up, and fired twice.

The raider folded over the tire, bleeding out.

From above, his Commandos were winning the ridge. The Vultures hadn't expected a counterattack—not from professionals.

"Status!" MacCready called.

"Four down. Two wounded. Hostiles retreating."

He glanced toward the road. One of the Republic soldiers—Private Brigg, if MacCready remembered right—was slumped against a wheel well, blood on his leg. But he was alive. The rest were still standing.

Then, silence.

The smoke cleared. The last of the Vultures limped into the trees, blood trailing behind. A final shot echoed—MacCready's rifle—ending the retreat.

He exhaled and lowered his weapon.

"All clear," came the call from above.

"Check your wounded," he said into the radio. "Tend the convoy. Alpha team, spread perimeter. I want eyes up until those wheels are rolling again."

MacCready stood over the fallen Red Vulture he'd knifed. The raider was still breathing—barely. Blood pooled under him.

MacCready knelt beside the man. "You picked the wrong Republic to mess with."

The raider choked on a laugh. "Ain't… over. Commonwealth's got teeth…"

MacCready gave a tight, mirthless smile. "So do we."

He stood, stepped back, and let the Commando medic tend to the wounded.

A few minutes later, the radio crackled again. This time it was Sico's voice.

"Lantern, this is Iron Nest. What's the word?"

MacCready clicked the mic. "Ambush at the choke. Red Vultures. Two KIA, five wounded on their side. We're intact. Convoy's shaken but mobile."

There was a pause.

Then: "Copy. You saved them."

"That's the job."

"Any civilian exposure?"

"None. No witnesses, no leaks. We'll clear the bodies. Water's safe."

Sico's voice was lower now, but calm. "Get them home, MacCready."

"Roger that."

He turned to the convoy sergeant, who was helping Brigg onto the tailgate.

"We moving?" MacCready asked.

The sergeant nodded. "Soon as the tires are checked."

MacCready gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Good work. You held."

The young soldier looked at him with wide eyes. "We didn't hold. You saved us."

MacCready's face didn't change. But he held the gaze. "Next time, you hold."

And then, without waiting for a response, he moved on—back up the ridge, back into the shadow, the way he came. Because that was the job, and the job wasn't done yet.

________________________________________________

• 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:-