Fallout 4: Rebirth At Vault 81

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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.

The barrel of Sico's rifle dropped an inch.

He blinked once, sharply. "Hold fire," he muttered into his comms bead.

A second later, Preston said it aloud, his voice tense: "Hold fire, all units. Eyes on. Something's happening down there."

Through the swirling smoke and shifting shadows, the scene took sharper shape.

A burst of gunfire cracked off near the overturned truck—controlled, short bursts. Then another. Not wild like raider fire. Disciplined. Aimed.

Sico adjusted his scope, eyes narrowing.

There. On the far side of the second truck, just behind the front wheelwell, two soldiers lay prone. One of them—blonde hair under a smeared combat helmet—rose slightly to squeeze off a pair of well-placed shots toward the treeline. Her rifle bucked, but the motion was clean. Practiced. The second soldier to her right—a heavyset man in recon armor—lobbed a flashbang toward the advancing raiders and ducked back behind cover.

"They're still in it," Sico breathed. "Those aren't stragglers. That's a holdout team."

"Convoy guards," Preston said, sounding grimly impressed. "They're holding the line."

A beat passed. Then more shapes began to emerge—three, four more—ducking behind the wheels of the rear truck and scattered barricades hastily thrown up from cargo crates and splintered pallets. Some were bleeding. One was being helped by another as they retreated from the open road, but every single one of them was still fighting.

A female soldier with burn marks on her coat fired through the hole in a supply crate, then pulled her sidearm and passed it to a limping comrade whose own rifle lay shattered on the ground.

Another dragged what looked like a wounded civilian—the driver, probably—into the shelter of the embankment.

One soldier had set up an old minigun mount ripped from the flatbed's cargo latch. It wasn't pretty, but the barrel spun, and when it roared, the clearing in front of the raiders exploded with dirt, leaves, and blood spray.

The advancing raiders—some of whom were laughing a moment ago—weren't laughing now.

They were pinned.

One of them took a round to the leg and collapsed, howling. Another ducked too late and was caught in the upper chest by a burst from the front wheelwell. He folded like a dropped marionette.

Drenner's gang was hitting resistance.

Real resistance.

And Sico's men weren't even in the fight yet.

"Preston," he said calmly, "move your flank left and tighten the cordon. They're too focused on the trucks. We flank from the ridge, pinch them in."

"Copy that. Left fireteam, move to high ground on my mark."

"Right flank," Sico whispered into the mic, "hold position and sight every bastard still standing on the road."

Then he leaned back, watched a moment longer.

The woman with the flashbangs had run out of explosives and was now using a sawed-off shotgun, popping up and firing from behind a wheel hub like she'd done it her whole life. Blood ran down the side of her cheek from a scalp wound, but her eyes were focused. Steady.

Another soldier—short, fast, rifle slung cross-body—darted between the second and third trucks, throwing a frag into the opposite treeline. The explosion tore through a dug-in position and sent two raiders sprawling out of cover, one screaming with both legs mangled.

The convoy defenders were outnumbered.

Outgunned.

And holding.

"That's Tate's people," Preston said, now crouched beside a rock with his rifle sighted. "Has to be. He always kept a fallback plan."

Sico smiled faintly. "They just bought us time."

His eyes never left the ridge.

"Let's pay them back."

Sico's eyes tracked the battered crate that had spilled across the asphalt minutes earlier—the same one one of Drenner's men had kicked open with a smug laugh.

Even from this distance, he could still picture the water bottles scattering, some cracked, some intact, most useless under fire.

But he hadn't flinched when they were kicked.

Neither had Preston.

Because they knew the truth.

He leaned slightly toward his second-in-command, keeping his voice low in the comm bead. "The trap's working."

Preston didn't even glance back—just kept his rifle sighted down the ridge. "Yeah," he said, almost conversational. "Drenner's boys didn't know the convoy guards were all elite. And they sure as hell don't know that most of the cargo isn't purified water."

Sico's mouth curled slightly. "That crate they kicked? Decoys. Refilled with river runoff and sealed to match spec."

"Exactly," Preston replied. "Looks the part, feels the part. Smells like swamp rot once you crack it. But it bought us time."

"And their overconfidence." Sico shifted position, kneeling beside a fallen log that offered partial cover. "They thought they were hitting a soft underbelly. Same pattern as last time. Hit fast, scatter, take the water. They were expecting desperation."

"What they got was Tate's commandos and a shipment designed to bleed them out."

Preston's voice carried a touch of grim satisfaction. "They walked right into it."

Down below, the fighting surged again. Drenner's troops—clearly not the random, starving raiders they'd once been—were better equipped than before. But they were still fighting like mercenaries used to easy targets: relying on brute strength, corner-flanking tactics, and rushed shock charges instead of discipline and control.

They hadn't expected the resistance to last more than a minute.

Now they were entering minute ten—and it was turning against them.

Sico looked left, catching a brief nod from Harlan on the left flank. The recon scout had slipped behind a cluster of twisted birch and was now signaling: two tangos moving wide, trying to flank the defenders from the far treeline.

"Preston," Sico murmured. "Left, ten o'clock. Two trying to flank the rear."

Preston adjusted, sighted downrange, and squeezed off three rounds in sharp succession. The shots were spaced perfectly—measured like a heartbeat. Sico didn't even need to ask. He knew what the outcome was.

The radio crackled in his ear. LaRue's voice came through—tight, focused. "We're in position. They've got a blind on the east slope—couple of guys holding the rear road, but they haven't seen us."

"Don't move yet," Sico replied. "Wait for the signal. When it drops, we sweep. You burn them out. They don't get to run this time."

He stood slowly, raising his rifle as he moved toward the next vantage point.

Below, the chaos was folding in on itself. Smoke twisted around the broken trucks like vines, half-concealing the soldiers locked in vicious, close-quarters combat. The convoy team was down to maybe eight active fighters—several wounded, at least one not moving—but they weren't giving ground.

They weren't supposed to.

That had been part of the gamble.

The convoy wasn't just a shipment. It was bait.

But bait needed teeth.

And those teeth were sharpened in weeks of pre-mission planning, briefings, silent hand signals, backup kill zones, and gear swaps that saw the decoy crates filled with junk water and the real stock rerouted in a separate column toward Graygarden the night before.

Drenner's men had spent days preparing for a strike on a phantom.

And now?

Now they were bleeding for it.

"Contact, right ridge!" barked a voice over the shared channel—Mercado. One of Sarah's best. "Sniper! North branch—two clicks high!"

Sico didn't hesitate. "Rios. Suppress. Jin—eyes on. Find the nest."

Two beats later, a sharp burst of fire rang from the left flank. A grunt followed, then the telltale crack of a sniper rifle being dropped down a hill in freefall.

"Clear," Jin said. "Got him through the scope."

"Nice," Preston muttered. "That's one less gift from Drenner."

"Doesn't matter," Sico said. "He brought too few. Again."

He crouched behind a half-collapsed signpost and looked down toward the trucks. The woman with the sawed-off shotgun was now pinned near the back tire of the rear truck. One of the mercenaries was circling toward her, close enough now that his shadow passed over the broken glass near her boot.

Sico didn't even aim.

He fired once, from the hip.

The mercenary's head snapped sideways, his helmet flipping off as he crumpled mid-step.

The woman jerked up instinctively, then caught sight of Sico's silhouette on the ridge. She gave a short, two-fingered salute. The kind soldiers gave when they knew someone had just saved their life.

He returned it with a nod, already shifting to the next position.

The radio crackled again.

"Tate here," came the familiar voice—gruff, strained, but alive. "We've got wounded, but we're holding. Enemy thinning. Ammo's low."

Sico keyed in. "Tate, this is Sico. Stand by. We're about to break the right flank. On my mark, push hard left. Sweep and clear."

"Copy that, sir. Good to hear your voice."

"Likewise."

He turned toward Preston, who was now standing just below the ridgeline with a half-dozen of the thirty-man response squad ready behind him. "Right flank's folding. Time to break their back."

Preston grinned. "Let's make it hurt."

They moved in tandem, the squads converging in a crescent sweep. Left flank fireteams began opening up with suppressing fire, forcing the last of Drenner's troops into the kill zone between the second truck and the collapsed overpass wall.

The timing was flawless.

The trap closed.

Within seconds, the makeshift enemy line buckled. A few tried to scatter—one darted into the brush and was promptly dropped by a single shot from Mayfield. Another tossed down his weapon and raised both hands, only to be tackled by Croft and zip-tied with practiced efficiency.

The last echo of gunfire cracked like the brittle snap of deadwood, and then—silence.

Real silence.

The kind that follows something irreversible.

Smoke clung to the earth in patches, curling between the wrecks and bodies like mourning veils. The snow hadn't yet started to fall, but the wind that pressed into the ridge now tasted of it—dry, cold, the scent of coming frost.

Sico stood in the open, his coat dusted with grime, the muzzle of his rifle still faintly warm in his hands. The ridge behind him had been vacated, his men having descended into the kill zone with grim efficiency. No cheers. No whoops. No misplaced triumph.

Only breathing. Only movement.

Only purpose.

The dying didn't scream anymore. The ones who still breathed were silent—hands bound, heads lowered, blood mixing with the oil-dark stains on the cracked road.

Seven remained alive.

Seven of Drenner's best—or at least, the last of his bold enough to be sent this far into Sanctuary's reach.

They sat or knelt in a line between the burned-out husks of the water convoy trucks, guarded by a tight ring of soldiers from Sico's strike team. Some looked defiant, others broken. Two were so bloodied that they could barely lift their chins. One—a thin man with close-cropped hair and a shattered jaw—spat blood onto the pavement and tried to smirk.

Sico didn't look at them yet.

He moved slowly to Tate first.

The convoy commander sat against the wheelwell of the lead truck, his left leg bandaged hastily with a stripped piece of uniform. Dried blood streaked his temple, but his eyes were clear.

"You held," Sico said quietly, crouching down beside him.

Tate nodded. "Wasn't about to run. Not with them watching."

He meant his squad. The men and women who had followed him through two runs already, who'd taken bullets for him, for Sanctuary. He glanced toward the bodies of his fallen near the bend—three, maybe four. Sico saw the grief trying to tighten his face.

"You bought us the time we needed."

Tate swallowed. "The plan worked."

"It did."

Sico stood again, and now he turned to the seven.

The man with the broken jaw tried to laugh again, even as blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He was clearly the type who thought he'd bought himself time with surrender. Maybe even leverage.

He hadn't.

Sico stepped forward, boots crunching through the frost-slick gravel. He came to a stop just in front of the prisoners. They looked up at him now. No words. Just breaths. Waiting.

He stared at them a long time.

Then he turned to Preston.

"Execute them."

Preston didn't blink. Didn't ask.

He looked to the soldiers standing guard, then gave the nod. "You heard him. Make it quick."

There was no protest. No courtroom plea. No show of mercy.

The first bullet cracked and dropped the thin man with the broken jaw. He fell backward with a final gurgle, blood bursting in a fan across the asphalt. The next came seconds later—then another.

One by one.

Clean. Final.

Sico didn't watch all of them fall. He turned slightly away as the fifth went down, the sound of boots stepping forward for the last two echoing hollowly in the hollow basin of the ridge.

They'd been part of something bigger. Smarter. The ambush hadn't just been about water—it had been precise, calculated. Drenner had known exactly where to strike. When. How many trucks. The order. The schedule.

Too much.

Too specific.

Preston approached quietly as the last shot rang out behind them. His rifle was slung now, his face unreadable, jaw set.

"They knew the route," Sico said flatly, eyes still distant.

"Yeah," Preston muttered. "Too well."

Sico finally looked at him. "Which means someone's talking."

Preston didn't speak at first.

Then: "You think it's someone inside Sanctuary?"

"I know it is." Sico folded his arms, voice low and quiet. "There's no other way they'd get those numbers right. The convoy details. The route. The timing down to the hour."

"You think it's the Water Division?" Preston asked. "Someone in Albert's unit?"

"Possibly," Sico said. "Or someone in comms. Or the scouting corps."

He paused.

"Could even be someone we don't suspect. That's how it always starts."

Preston exhaled hard, shoulders sagging. "Shit."

Sico turned away from the executed bodies. "It's a good thing Magnolia, Albert, and I planned for this. This whole convoy—" he motioned to the wreckage and the crates, "—was a shell."

"The real shipment?"

"Already at Graygarden," Sico said. "Left before dawn in a ghost column. Two bikes, one flatbed. Took the southern split past Greentop. Bypassed the Weston intersection entirely."

Preston blinked, then gave a small, quiet smile. "Drenner wasted his best on a bluff."

"Exactly. And now he's blind."

A wind picked up then, sharp and cold, howling briefly between the trees like a wounded dog. Sico looked to the sky—clouds gathering fast now, dark with weight. Snow wouldn't be long.

"We'll sweep the area," he said. "Recover the wounded. Secure any weapons or documents they had on them. Strip the uniforms. Then torch what's left of the decoys."

"Message to Drenner?" Preston asked.

Sico nodded. "Yeah. Let him know he failed. And that we're watching."

Preston glanced at the bloody trail along the eastern slope. "One of them tried to run early. Croft shot him in the leg. He's still breathing."

Sico's expression didn't change.

"I want him isolated," he said. "Stripped, bound, and put on the front bumper of the truck. We'll bring him back alive. See if we can squeeze anything out before we turn him into fertilizer."

"I'll handle it."

"Good."

The rest of the unit moved with the speed and quiet of a crew that knew the clock was ticking. The dead were counted and laid out in a single line near the treebreak. Dog tags recovered. ID slates checked. Ammo divvied up

The final echo of the last shot seemed to hang in the air longer than the bullet itself had traveled. Then even that faded, swallowed by the wind, by the cold, by the emptiness that followed necessary violence. The strike team began to move without being told—like clockwork, not mechanical but deeply human, a rhythm forged through hardship and repetition. No one needed to be told what came next.

Sico stood still for a moment longer.

Then he breathed.

"Clean it up," he said, voice steady, low.

Preston gave a crisp nod and turned, barking the order without force, without aggression. It didn't need any.

"Let's get it done. Strip the bodies, mark the ordinance, catalog any intel. We torch the rest before nightfall."

The squads broke apart like drops of water flowing down old channels. Two went toward the decoy crates still intact—peeling them open to confirm what they already knew: that most were filled with scrap, broken machinery, and salt bags dyed blue to resemble purified water packs. A few had token rations, torn clothes, even a half-stack of holotapes, just enough to sell the illusion to anyone gullible or desperate enough to believe this was a real shipment.

Another team began gathering the weapons from the fallen raiders. The rifles were mostly cobbled together—rusted pipe stocks, melted scopes, odd calibers with custom magazines. Not worthless, but nothing that would change the balance of power.

Preston watched it all with a soldier's eye, and then he looked at Sico again.

"I thought you said the shipment left before dawn."

Sico didn't turn.

He just answered, calm and quiet: "Yes. But not all of them."

Preston blinked. "What do you mean?"

Sico exhaled, then finally turned to face him. "This convoy was a shell, right? It had to look like the full shipment—the full guard, full manifest, full volume of water."

He motioned to the field.

"They took the bait. Hard."

Preston crossed his arms. "So there's a second half?"

"A third, actually," Sico said. "The main ghost column went south past Greentop Station. That one's under radio silence and won't resurface until they reach Graygarden tonight."

"And the other?"

Sico nodded toward the eastern ridge. "They're behind us. Took the long way around through the Cranberry Trail. We packed one Humvee with actual purified bottles, gave them civilian cover, and four of Sarah's scouts as outriders."

"Shit," Preston muttered, processing. "You weren't just covering our backs… you were baiting both ends."

Sico gave a small, tired smile. "Exactly. If Drenner had scouts near Graygarden, they'd see something. If he watched our roads here, he'd see something. The only thing he wouldn't see is the middle."

Preston let out a low whistle, then looked at the convoy again. "You think he bought it?"

"Oh, he bought it," Sico said. "He paid in bodies."

Preston's mouth twisted into a grim grin. "That's some fucking dirty chess."

Sico's expression didn't change. "It's war."

The snow began to fall.

Light at first—just powder, drifting down through the bare trees like ash. It dusted the blood before it could sink too deep into the soil, kissed the exposed boots of the fallen, blurred the hard edges of death with something gentler, quieter.

Sico stepped around the last truck and moved toward the eastern slope where a few soldiers were finishing up the grim task of stripping the dead. The air smelled of burned oil and gunpowder, but beneath it, something else was rising—smoke. One of the fuel lines had finally caught, a small engine fire licking up the edge of a half-destroyed cargo frame.

"We'll have to move," he said without turning. "This convoy still needs to roll."

Preston arched a brow. "You're planning to use it?"

Sico nodded. "Half of the shipment was supposed to be delivered by these trucks. Not just the illusion. We gutted half the crates for scrap, but the rest underneath are real water, real filtration units."

"Won't it be too risky now? Drenner's gonna know this convoy got hit. If he sends another wave—"

"He won't," Sico cut in. "Not immediately. This was supposed to be his moment. An ambush this deep into Sanctuary territory? If he lost this many men and got nothing to show for it? He'll go quiet."

Preston folded his arms again. "Or he'll get desperate."

"Let him," Sico replied, cold and clear. "Desperate enemies make mistakes."

The ridge behind them flared briefly as Croft's team set one of the decoy trucks alight. The fire hissed to life with the sharp scent of igniting cloth and cheap oil, sending smoke curling into the sky.

In the distance, a lone figure limped across the flatland toward them. One of Preston's men—Thomson—escorting the wounded raider who'd tried to escape earlier. The man was half-conscious now, bound at the wrists with coarse wire, his left pant leg soaked with blood and trailing behind like a torn flag. His face was pale beneath the grime, his lips cracked and blue.

Sico walked over.

"Put him on the bumper," he said. "We'll talk once we're back inside the wire."

Thomson saluted, then dragged the man roughly toward the lead truck. He didn't protest—just groaned, a wet, ragged sound that barely qualified as breath.

Snow began to fall harder now, the flakes sticking to Sico's coat, melting in his short hair, clinging to the barrels of weapons like frostbite waiting to bloom.

"Let's move," he called. "Repack the crates. Strip the decals. I want this convoy rolling within the hour."

The fire from the decoy truck crackled behind them like a funeral pyre.

By the time they reached the northern gate of Sanctuary, the light was starting to fade.

The convoy rumbled through the open iron arches just as the wind picked up again, driving snow into the faces of the gate sentries. The guards looked sharp—alert, rifles slung high, eyes scanning both flanks of the incoming trucks. One of them saluted as Sico's vehicle passed, and he returned it with a short nod.

Inside, the town was a muted hum of activity. The cold had driven most people indoors, but a few teams were still working the perimeter: wall patrols, scavenger teams hauling scrap from a broken fence section near the south end, two technicians trying to coax power from a stubborn generator near the pump station.

Preston leaned out the passenger side window as they rolled past the mess hall.

"Place looks quiet," he muttered.

"Good," Sico said. "Means they didn't hear about the ambush."

Yet.

The trucks came to a halt near the eastern yard, where a long row of storage buildings had been retrofitted to house incoming supplies. Magnolia stood waiting, arms crossed over her thick jacket, her long dark scarf fluttering in the wind like a banner. Albert was beside her, clipboard in hand, the thick-rimmed glasses fogging slightly as he squinted into the cold.

Magnolia stepped forward as Sico dropped from the cab.

"You brought the convoy back," she said, surprised.

"Half of it," Sico replied. "Enough to deliver the rest of the third shipment."

Albert looked up from the clipboard, his brow furrowed. "Did the trap work?"

"Better than we expected," Preston said, joining them. "They took the bait like brahmin to water."

Magnolia gave a slow nod, eyes searching Sico's face. "Losses?"

Sico looked past her for a moment. "Tate's squad lost four. Couple wounded. We'll bury them in the northern grove tonight."

Albert closed his eyes briefly, then wrote something on the clipboard. "I'll have the treasury issue bonus rations to their families."

"They earned more than that," Sico said. "We'll figure it out."

Magnolia touched his arm lightly. "You look tired."

Sico offered a faint smile. "You should see the other guys."

Preston let out a short, humorless laugh.

Behind them, the wounded raider was pulled off the bumper by two guards. He whimpered, coughed, and tried to speak, but whatever strength he had was leaving him fast. Sico pointed toward the infirmary.

"Put him in isolation. No visitors. I'll be in to question him in the morning."

Albert frowned. "You think he'll talk?"

"If he doesn't," Sico said flatly, "we'll make him."

The wind howled again, and from the distant edge of Sanctuary's walls, a bell rang once—low and hollow.

Magnolia glanced toward it. "Scouting patrol?"

"Probably the south wall rotation," Preston said. "They're always late."

Sico looked toward the center of town, where lights were starting to flicker on in the windows of the rebuilt houses. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the scent of meat stew floated faintly on the wind.

It should have felt safe.

But it didn't.

Not yet.

"There's a leak," Sico said quietly. "Someone fed Drenner the route. The timing. The convoy manifest."

Magnolia's eyes narrowed. "You're sure?"

"I don't make guesses," he replied. "Whoever it is… they were careful. But not perfect."

Preston stepped forward. "You want to start an internal sweep?"

"Not yet," Sico said. "Not until we've finished the delivery. The people need that water."

Albert spoke next, voice soft. "And when the delivery's done?"

Sico's jaw tensed. "Then we clean house."

A long silence followed.

Then Magnolia nodded. "Understood."

Behind them, the convoy team had already begun unloading the real shipment—carefully marked crates being slid down with chain lifts, canvas covers peeled back to reveal true purified bottles, the Sanctuary seal stamped into every label.

________________________________________________

• 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:-