Fallout 4: Rebirth At Vault 81

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Later that night, as the sun slipped behind the wreckage of the old radio tower, Sico stood on the rooftop of the HQ, looking out over Sanctuary. The lights flickered on one by one—yellow glows in old homes, spotlights on walkways, sensor rigs humming to life. From up here, it looked almost like a real town.

The third morning broke with iron skies and a bitter wind rolling down from the northwest, whispering of snow not far off. Winter still hadn't sunk its teeth into the Commonwealth yet, but it circled like a patient predator, waiting for its moment.

Sico stood on the upper platform of the western gate tower, his hands tucked into the pockets of his long field coat, watching the yard below as if it were a chessboard. The glow of early dawn didn't warm the concrete or the steel, but it sharpened every detail—the glint off the water crates, the sheen on the helmets of the soldiers lining up by squads, the tight, measured steps of the quartermaster team as they moved through final inspections.

Magnolia approached from behind, her boots announcing her presence with crisp cadence on the metal stairs. "Fifteen thousand," she said, voice clear against the wind.

Sico turned slightly.

She stopped beside him, eyes following his down into the courtyard.

"Fifteen thousand bottles in this shipment," she repeated. "We've never moved that much in a single run."

Albert appeared a moment later, ever punctual, holding a tablet-size slate of reinforced polycarbonate etched with ink: weights, stops, projected cap returns.

"No sign of rot in the containers. The new seals held through the cold test. Loadmasters say the new harnessing system shaved twenty minutes off strapping time."

Sico exhaled slowly through his nose.

"Greentop. Somerville. Vault 81. And now Graygarden."

Magnolia nodded. "With a fifth drop-off point at an independent farmstead near Milton. They've got fuel to trade and a functional rotary purifier—they just need the base stock to run it."

Albert flipped a page. "Assuming they can pay."

"They can," Magnolia replied. "We sent scouts last week. The place is run by a pre-War civil engineer and his daughter. Smart people. Practical. But they're barely holding their neighbors off."

Sico nodded once. "Water buys them protection."

"And us goodwill," Albert added. "Plus a future staging point if we ever push west."

The first of the trucks rumbled to life down below, diesel engines coughing, then stabilizing into deep, rhythmic growls. Workers in patched coats and thick gloves shouted over the noise, their gestures efficient, their motions drilled from the last two runs.

It wasn't chaos.

It was execution.

Sico stepped down from the platform, and Magnolia and Albert followed. The three moved across the yard toward the motor pool, stepping over thick electrical cables and past crates of backup supplies.

As they reached the depot, one of the junior clerks rushed up—a young woman with wind-burnt cheeks and a patch sewn into her scarf reading "LANEY."

She saluted awkwardly. "Sir, ma'am, uh—report from convoy captain Tate. All manifest checks complete. We're ready for final personnel review."

Sico returned a nod. "Good. Where's Sarah?"

"In the training yard, sir. With Preston. They've got the elite detail mustered."

"Right." He looked to Magnolia. "Hold position here. I want a clean launch."

Albert gave him a sideways glance. "You going to inspect them yourself?"

Sico nodded. "If this run's going to be the spear, I want to know who's holding the damn shaft."

The clang of boots on gravel echoed off the walls of the old pre-War schoolhouse repurposed into the militia's war training center. Smoke from the nearby burn barrels curled lazily into the cold air. The elite detail—twelve soldiers total—stood in formation across from Sarah and Preston.

Every one of them had seen real combat.

Some in Quincy. Some on the Cambridge raid. A few during the old retreat from the Glowing Sea. Their armor wasn't matching—Sanctuary didn't have that kind of luxury—but it was hardened, field-reinforced, and worn like a second skin. Modified laser rifles and heavily maintained combat shotguns hung from shoulder straps and magnetic clips. You didn't see fear in their faces.

Just readiness.

Sarah saw Sico before anyone else did.

She turned without ceremony, offering a nod. "They're tight."

"Names?" he asked.

She gestured with a datapad. "Squad One: Danys, Bales, Mercado, and Jin. Front-line defense. Three of them used to be mercs. Jin worked under Moss in Lexington before she moved up."

"Squad Two's our hammer," Preston added. "Barkley, Croft, LaRue, and Theo. Grenadier support, rotating suppressive fire, fallback cover."

Sico eyed them one by one. "And Three?"

Sarah smirked. "Our ghosts. Recon and flanking. Rios, Harlan, Kenzie, and Mayfield."

Sico took a moment, walking slowly past each of the soldiers. He looked at their gear, their posture, the set of their mouths. These weren't greenhorns pretending to be heroes.

These were killers who understood purpose.

"Each squad embeds with a convoy truck," Preston explained. "Tail vehicle has Squad Three. They jump the perimeter if contact's made."

"MacCready would approve," Sico muttered.

Sarah chuckled faintly. "He helped write the manual, after all."

"Good," Sico said. "They've got authority to override local militia at the drop points. Any town tries to slow things down, they move on. No delays. No bribes. No politics."

Preston's face tightened a little, but he didn't argue.

"And if Drenner shows up?" Sarah asked.

Sico looked her in the eye. "I want his bones scattered by sundown."

The final moment felt slower than it really was.

The last crates were strapped in. Personnel loaded. Commandos hidden under tarps in the backmost truck, rifles tucked beside them under ration crates marked "salt pork."

Magnolia walked beside Sico as they passed the length of the line—six trucks in total. One flatbed gun rig. Two recon bikes. Fifteen thousand bottles of clean, purified water. Fifty-five lives between departure and delivery.

Albert met them at the gate, glasses catching the pale morning light. "Message from the Graygarden relay," he said. "They'll receive at dusk tomorrow. Weather holding."

"Signal them," Sico said. "Tell them they'll get every drop."

Sarah stepped up next. "Formation's holding. Comms live. If we hit a snag, you'll know before the second echo."

Preston gave a crisp nod, eyes on the lead vehicle. "Convoy captain is Tate. Same as last run. He's solid."

Sico stepped forward alone, hands behind his back, addressing the waiting soldiers and drivers now watching him in complete silence.

"You've all seen what happens when good people do nothing," he said. "That's not what this is."

He let the words settle.

"Today, we don't just carry water. We carry a future. One that says Sanctuary isn't just standing—we're rising. You carry proof that we are more than survivors. You carry the answer to fear."

He paused.

"And if someone tries to take it from you?"

He let his eyes pass over the trucks.

"You answer with fire."

Then he stepped back.

"Move out."

The convoy roared to life.

One by one, the trucks rolled forward—through the gate, past the last of the recon posts, down the old cracked highway that cut through the wild brush of the northern hills. The noise faded slowly, swallowed by the wind.

The gate clanged shut behind the last truck, the echo of steel on steel rippling out into the frosted stillness. Sico stood watching until the convoy became little more than dust and movement along the distant ribbon of road, veiled by the treebreak and the glint of light on old highway signs. The morning cold bit sharper now that the diesel heat had faded, but he didn't move, not right away.

Magnolia lingered at his side. "They'll be fine."

"I know," Sico murmured. But his eyes didn't leave the horizon. "But I also know what a man like Drenner will do."

He turned toward her slowly, the wind tugging at the hem of his coat, ruffling the fur trim at his collar. "As they doesn't like to lose quietly."

Magnolia watched him a moment, then gave a short nod and walked off toward the planning offices, her boots crunching through the frosted gravel.

Sico remained still for a beat longer. Then, without a word, he pivoted on his heel and strode toward the armory annex, already unfastening the strap of his left glove.

Preston was there before him.

Recruits hauled crates of ammo and rations while two techs tested the hydraulic mounts on a disassembled sentry turret. Preston stood near a long table, checking the bolt action on a battle rifle, the kind that could punch through Raider armor at two hundred yards.

"Preston," Sico called, low but firm.

The lieutenant turned immediately. His face was still youthful, still principled—but there was a wariness in his eyes now, like a man who'd carried too many coffins and buried too many regrets.

"I need thirty," Sico said.

Preston's brow furrowed. "Soldiers?"

"Fast movers. High stamina. Combat tested." Sico glanced down the rows of supplies. "This isn't a shadow op. It's a chase."

Preston didn't hesitate. "You think Drenner's planning something big."

"I think the last ambush was a feeler," Sico replied. "Twelve raiders, trying to probe our methods. See how we respond. They got wiped."

"So they'll come harder," Preston finished, frowning now.

"Much harder." Sico walked around the table, running a hand along the worn wooden edge. "MacCready's report said they were better organized than your average scum. That takes leadership. Logistics. Drenner's moved beyond scav gangs."

Preston nodded grimly. "Which means he's either built a new base or joined up with one of the old ones."

"Exactly. We're not going to wait for him to pick the place and time." Sico pointed to the logistics clerk across the room. "Get me one truck. And two Humvees. Standard armor. I don't need them bristling with guns—I need them fast, with clean engines and spare tires."

Preston stepped back and barked out the orders. "You heard the General! Two Humvees and a truck, on the line in twenty minutes! Load heavy, strip light!"

As the orders rippled out into the chaos, Sico crossed to the tactical display near the far wall. A large map of the Commonwealth was pinned there, hand-marked with red lines, chalked-in roadblocks, settlement notations, and shaded zones marked "bandit activity," "feral zone," and "potential contact."

He pointed to an intersection near an overgrown cloverleaf past the Weston tunnel. "This here. It's the likeliest bottleneck before the Graygarden rise. If I were going to spring a trap…"

Preston nodded, leaning in. "You'd wait until they passed the tunnel mouth. Take out the rear truck first, block their retreat."

Sico looked at him. "Exactly. Then hit the middle to scatter them. It's an old highway killbox. You'd be a fool not to use it."

"We'll intercept from the north slope. Cut behind the overpass and drop down fast."

Sico turned, stepping in close, his voice lowering. "And if Drenner's not just sending raiders this time? If it's Gunners—or worse—then we don't just stop the attack. We turn it into a rout. No survivors."

Preston met his gaze squarely. "We'll do it clean."

Sico nodded, then moved briskly toward the gear lockers. "We roll in thirty-five minutes."

By the time the makeshift strike team assembled near the east lot, the pale sun had crested the far ridge but hadn't done much to warm the air. Frost still clung to the side of the supply trailer, and breath came in plumes.

The truck rumbled low and steady, its wide tires tread-deep and armored plates welded over the flanks. The Humvees were smaller, sleeker, retrofitted with carbon-tough mesh on the windows and infrared dash units ripped from old Vertibird wrecks. They looked mean. Functional. Ready.

Preston returned from the barracks with his chosen thirty, their breath fogging in the chill air, but their movements tight and crisp. Some were faces Sico recognized: Baker from the retake of Lexington Tower, Wu from the East Malden line, and old Harry Cordes, whose shotgun had ended more Raider dreams than any sharpshooter's rifle.

They lined up quickly, no fuss, no bravado. Just nods. Glances. Small handshakes between brothers and sisters in arms.

Sico walked the line slowly.

"This is a contingency force," he said. "We're not running security. We're hunting. You see contact on the convoy—hard contact—you move to engage and flank. If you see nothing, we hold until Graygarden, then sweep back to the Weston route to confirm it stays clean."

He stopped, facing them directly. "But if we find Drenner?"

He didn't finish the sentence.

He didn't need to.

"We burn him," someone muttered.

Sico gave the faintest nod. "Mount up."

The truck loaded first—twelve in the back, three up front. Sico and Preston took the lead Humvee, with two scouts and the radio tech riding shotgun and rear. The second Humvee would bring up the rear, weaving behind the truck with a four-person recon and medical team in case of trouble.

They rolled out a minute later, the tires crunching gravel and kicking up slush from the half-frozen edge of the courtyard road. Magnolia was waiting at the gate with a thin datapad in hand.

"Convoy's three hours ahead of you. No issues reported. Weather's stable, but there's been some comm scatter near the Weston antenna."

Sico leaned out the window. "Let Sarah know we'll be out of radio range for fifteen minutes once we cross into the gorge. Standard bounce deadzone."

"She knows." Magnolia stepped back. "Keep 'em safe, Sico."

"Always."

The convoy rolled into the wild.

The world changed quickly once you left the borders of Sanctuary's rebuilt sprawl.

The trees grew closer, twisted with radiation-warped bark and patches of clean regrowth. Birds had returned to some regions, and even the occasional brahmin herd dotted the higher ridges—but the danger hadn't left. It just hid better now. Waiting under old cars. Nestled behind ruined waystations.

Inside the lead Humvee, Sico leaned forward, maps rolled out across his knee, checking elevation markers.

Preston scanned the horizon through a handheld monocular, then glanced down at the motion sensor embedded in the dash. "Nothing on the scopes."

"They'll be hiding," Sico muttered. "Or trailing the convoy."

The radio crackled.

"Convoy has passed marker 39C," came Sarah's voice, faint through the interference. "Tate reports minor wheel wobble on truck two—no delay yet. Moving into Ridgebend pass."

Sico keyed the mic. "Confirmed. We're eight miles out. No contact."

The static replied, followed by a short burst of comms code—a preset signal. Sarah was switching to encrypted burst until they were clear of the deadzone.

Preston sat back, exhaling slowly. "If they're going to hit, it'll be soon."

Sico glanced at the dash clock. "That's the idea."

The dashboard clock ticked past 12:04. Outside the Humvee, the trees clawed inward, gnarled limbs scraping together like brittle fingers. The wind had dropped, leaving only the hum of tires on old, cracked highway and the occasional bump that shook the undercarriage as they rolled over frost-lifted asphalt.

Sico stared at the map again, his finger tapping a rhythmless beat against the corner of the unfolded parchment. Ridgebend Pass loomed close now. That stretch was long, exposed, flanked by the broken skeleton of a concrete overpass on one side and a series of crumbling ridgelines on the other.

Perfect ground for an ambush.

Too perfect.

"Preston," Sico said, low but firm, breaking the tense silence.

The lieutenant looked up immediately. "Yeah?"

"Tell the drivers to pick it up. I want us on the convoy's six before they make that bend."

Preston blinked, then nodded without a word. He leaned forward, grabbing the comm receiver mounted into the Humvee's dash.

"All units, this is Preston. Increase speed to intercept. I want full visual on the convoy in ten. Over."

The reply came quickly from the tail Humvee: "Roger that. Rear's adjusting. Truck's throttling up."

From behind them, the distinct roar of gears shifting and engines growling into a higher range answered the command. The formation moved faster now, hugging the road tighter, every man and woman gripping their gear and bracing for the bumpier ride.

The Humvee jolted hard as it hit a divot in the road, Sico's hand gripping the edge of the dashboard for balance. He didn't look away from the map.

"They've been quiet too long," he muttered. "That's the part I don't like."

"You think Drenner's holding them back?" Preston asked.

Sico shook his head slowly. "No. I think he's waiting for something. Waiting for the right moment. And I'd rather be there when it happens than hear about it through a distress call."

He reached forward and clicked on the infrared display. Pale heat signatures of trees and wildlife dotted the roadside in grayish smears, but nothing with shape. Nothing organized.

Preston adjusted the receiver again. "Convoy, this is Bravo Strike—come back with position report. Over."

Only static returned.

"Convoy, this is Bravo Strike. Do you copy?"

More static.

Sico's jaw tightened. He clicked over to an alternate frequency, one Sarah had marked as a sideband—meant for emergencies.

Still nothing.

And then, faint, like a whisper on a dying wire:

"…-team—moving—smoke—engagement…"

Sico sat up straight. "We're too far."

Preston cursed softly under his breath, then pounded the dash. "We should've been on them an hour ago."

"We still can be." Sico snapped his fingers toward the driver. "Floor it."

The Humvee leapt forward as the driver slammed down the pedal, the engine growling like an angry beast. Behind them, the cargo truck and second Humvee mirrored the motion. The trees began to blur. Speed replaced caution. Whatever lay ahead, they were done waiting.

They crested a hill and the first hints of smoke curled into the sky.

Thin at first. Then thicker.

Black smoke, billowing fast.

Preston looked through the monocular again. "Sweet God…"

Below, the convoy had ground to a halt in the middle of the Ridgebend stretch. One of the water trucks—second in line—was jackknifed halfway off the road, its side riddled with small-arms fire. The front cab was crumpled against an overturned log barricade. No movement came from the driver's side.

The rear truck still stood, its rear gate torn open, crates of purified water spilled across the asphalt and down into the brush.

But what chilled Sico more than the sight of the wreck was the shape of the attack.

It wasn't random.

This wasn't a Raider brawl.

It was coordinated.

Precision detonations had taken out the lead truck's tire tracks and rear axle—Sico could see the blown rubber and twisted axles from here. Chokepoints had been pre-staged. Flank positions dug into the treeline. Kill zones established. Sniper blinds set into the hillside.

And now?

Now it looked like the firing had stopped.

Or gone silent.

"Stop the truck!" Sico barked into the radio. "Don't crest the hill. Disembark all units. We go on foot from here."

The convoy behind them halted in seconds. Troops spilled from the vehicles, crouched low with rifles up, fanning out into two parallel lines along the slope. Sico and Preston took point, their boots crunching against frost as they moved down into the lower bowl of the ridge.

A scream echoed from below.

Then automatic fire—short, precise.

And then another scream, cut off halfway.

"Jesus," muttered Baker beside Sico. "They're finishing off survivors."

"No," Sico growled, cold fury in his throat. "They're baiting."

Preston turned to the comms officer trailing them. "Get Sarah. Now."

The tech was already trying, switching frequencies like a piano player on speed. "No dice. There's a deadzone this side of the ridge. We'd need to climb back up."

Sico waved him back. "Do it. Relay that the convoy's under attack. Tell her we're engaging now."

He turned to the squad. "Split into three fireteams. One left, one right, one with me down the middle. Engage only on my signal. I want overwatch eyes from the trees."

The soldiers scattered with sharp nods. Some peeled into the brush, others took up sniper positions along outcroppings. Sico crouched at the lip of a broken culvert and scanned the area again.

Then he saw movement.

Four men—no, five—emerging from the treeline behind the rear truck. One wore a chest rig overloaded with grenades. Another had a shock baton in hand. They weren't rushing. They were walking slow. Casual. One even kicked over a crate of water and laughed as bottles spilled.

________________________________________________

• 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:-