Fallout 4: Rebirth At Vault 81

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As the convoy rolled out under the reddening sky, with the sun bleeding across the Wasteland horizon and the wind blowing fine dust across the cracked road, MacCready sat back in his seat and finally let himself exhale.

The road back to Sanctuary was quieter than any of them expected—not for lack of sound, but because the sounds that did exist felt… hollow. The steady rumble of the convoy's engines, the occasional static whisper of comms chatter, the rattling clinks of loose gear in the back of each truck—it all felt like background noise to the silence sitting heavy on everyone's shoulders. They weren't just tired. They were emptied out.

MacCready sat in the middle Humvee, across from Kara, who was leaned back with her head against the cold window, eyes closed but clearly not asleep. Her hand rested loosely over the bandage wrapped around her thigh. Every bump in the road made her jaw twitch, but she didn't complain. She never did.

The dust outside was still thick from the Vault's collapse, swirling in long plumes that twisted into the reddening sky like ghosts escaping through cracks in the world. The sunset had bled to a deeper orange now, edging toward bruised purple. That kind of light made the wasteland look almost peaceful. Deceptive.

MacCready adjusted the volume on the comms dial embedded in the dashboard, then reached up to his shoulder and clicked the side of his radio headset.

"This is MacCready," he said, voice low but clear. "Sico, you there?"

There was a beat of static, then a familiar voice answered.

"Go ahead, Mac. I'm here," Sico's voice came through, calm but tight, like he'd been waiting by the radio this whole time.

MacCready exhaled slowly, the first release of tension since the firefight began.

"We got him," he said. "Drenner's in custody. Base is destroyed—Vault 77 is a crater now."

There was a brief silence. No static this time—just Sico taking it in.

"You sure?" Sico finally asked, voice quieter now. "He's not walking out of that place again?"

MacCready looked out the back window of the Humvee. The transport cage holding Drenner was barely visible in the dust, flanked by soldiers who had barely holstered their rifles.

"He's not going anywhere," MacCready confirmed. "We cuffed him, stripped the armor, and he's bleeding from enough places that even if he wanted to make a run for it, he'd collapse before he got five feet. Robert and the demolition crew made sure nobody's ever going back in there. Place is rubble."

He paused.

"We lost a couple. Donner might not make it. Duke's hanging in, but it was close. Kara took one to the leg, but she's stable."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. Sico didn't say anything for a moment, then:

"Understood. I'll have the infirmary prepped. Tell Kara to hang on."

"She's tougher than half the Power Armor team," MacCready muttered with a faint half-smile. "She'll manage."

"Good. And Mac…"

"Yeah?"

There was a pause—weighted, measured.

"Thank you," Sico said. "You did the right thing out there. I know how bad it could've gone."

MacCready leaned back in his seat, one hand tapping absently against the side of the window.

"Could've gone worse if you hadn't sent Robert and the reinforcements when you did," he replied. "That call saved our asses."

Through the comms, Sico's voice dipped into something softer. "We'll talk when you're back. I want a full debrief. But for now, just… bring everyone home."

"Copy that," MacCready said. "ETA two hours. We're making good time."

He clicked off the headset and sat back with a long sigh.

Across from him, Kara had opened one eye.

"You always that polite on comms?" she asked, voice dry as bone.

MacCready raised a brow. "Only with Sico. Man's earned it."

Kara grunted. "Fair."

The road ahead wound between patches of broken asphalt and long, dark scars where pre-war roads had once been. The Humvees kicked up dust clouds that drifted like fog behind them. Despite the haze, they drove steady, never too fast, never slow enough to get flanked. MacCready noticed how tight Robert's formation was—every truck positioned like clockwork, flanked by two Power Armor units at the front and back like mobile bunkers.

Every mile between them and Vault 77 felt like a layer of weight peeling off his shoulders.

Kara dozed off not long after, head tilted just slightly toward the window. Her rifle was still on her lap, one gloved hand loosely curled around its grip. Even wounded, she slept like someone who'd learned long ago that any minute could be their last, and it was better to get what rest you could.

MacCready turned to watch the landscape scroll past—dead trees, rusted road signs half-buried in dust, the shell of a Red Rocket station that had collapsed under its own weight years ago. And in the middle of it all, the long, flat sprawl of the Commonwealth stretched to the edge of the sky.

There was something about driving through it now, after all they'd seen, that made it look different. Maybe because the horror was behind them. Maybe because the horror had finally ended.

At Sanctuary, the northern watch post buzzed with movement.

Sarah paced just outside the tower gates, her rifle slung across her back and her coat buttoned against the creeping cold. The wind was sharper tonight—thin, biting, dry. She stared into the darkness past the northern hills, waiting for a sign.

When the spotter in the crow's nest called out that the convoy had been sighted on the horizon, she was already halfway to the command center, barking into her comms.

"Sico! They're here. Convoy just crossed the ridge. Full escort—looks intact."

A moment later, Sico appeared at the balcony of the Freemasons' command tower, a heavy coat over his usual uniform, radio in one hand, binoculars in the other.

He didn't smile.

Not yet.

Not until he saw them.

The Humvees and trucks rolled into Sanctuary's gates just before the sky gave up its last light. The floodlights snapped on as they crossed the threshold—bright arcs that cast long shadows behind the armored vehicles and soldiers.

Kara was the first out, limping but upright, leaning hard on a field cane Robert handed her. Sico was at her side in seconds.

"You're bleeding on my roads," he said with mock irritation.

Kara gave him a tired smirk. "Paints the place up a little."

"Get to the infirmary," he said, softer now. "You earned a cot."

She didn't argue.

Robert climbed out next, Power Armor hissing as it released hydraulic pressure. He moved like a mountain in motion—slow, deliberate, unshaken.

Sico met his gaze and nodded.

Robert gave a tight nod back. "It's done."

And then, behind the cage bars of the lead truck, Drenner's sunken face appeared. Hollow, bruised, a shell of the warlord who had once threatened the entire Commonwealth water trade.

Sico stared at him for a long moment. Drenner stared back.

Nothing was said. Not yet.

MacCready slid out of the last truck and adjusted his coat. His face was streaked with grime, his boots caked in Vault dust. He looked like hell.

Sico walked to meet him.

"You look worse than the guy we captured," Sico said.

MacCready managed a tired laugh. "I feel worse."

They shook hands, and in that brief squeeze, a hundred unspoken things passed between them—respect, relief, gratitude, pain.

The cold settled into Sico's collar as he stood in front of the cage that held Drenner.

The former warlord hadn't said a word since crossing Sanctuary's gates, not even when the cage door was slammed shut behind him or when two guards—both Freemason veterans, men who had lost friends to Drenner's water raids—flanked him with their rifles held just high enough to make a point. He just sat on the metal bench, one side of his jaw swollen and crusted with dried blood, his hands still bound with reinforced cuffs. The war paint he'd once worn proudly had smudged into a mess of oil and sweat, more ghost than mask now.

Sico stared for a long time, the hum of the generator tower behind the command building pressing low in his ears. His arms were crossed, his breath fogging in the evening chill.

"He say anything?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the cage.

"Not a damn word," replied Briggs, one of the guards. "Coughed once. Spat blood. Other than that? Just stares."

Sico nodded once, then turned to the other guard—a wiry young man named Leon who had only recently earned his Freemasons jacket.

"Take him to the jail. Deep cell. Strip him, search him. I don't care if he's hiding a paperclip in his teeth—I want it found. Get that armor junk out of here. Scrap what's left of it, but don't touch the insignia yet. I want that in the war records."

Leon gave a sharp nod. "Yes, sir."

"And put eyes on him every second. Rotate the watch every four hours, no gaps. If he so much as twitches funny, I want to know about it."

"You got it," Briggs said grimly.

The guards opened the cage and hauled Drenner to his feet. He didn't resist—just moved like his bones had forgotten how to work properly. The limp MacCready had mentioned was worse now; both legs stiff, one boot dragging across the concrete as he was walked toward the stockade built beneath the east side of the Sanctuary wall. The cells had once been basement storage units for tools and salvage, but the Freemasons had reinforced them with steel bars, rebar mesh, and pressure-locked doors.

Good enough for a monster like Drenner.

Sico watched them go until the shadows swallowed the trio at the end of the path. Then he turned and walked back toward the main hall of the Freemasons' command building.

Inside, the air was warmer, but it carried the sharp scent of antiseptic and boiled coffee. He passed two medics wheeling Duke into the recovery wing. The young soldier's head lolled to one side, his breathing shallow but steady under the oxygen mask. Donner wasn't with him—he was still in surgery, somewhere deeper inside. Sico kept walking.

He found MacCready in the war room, just past the strategy table.

The mercenary had stripped out of his outer coat and was down to a bloodstained flannel shirt, his holster still tight across his chest. A mug of something dark and probably terrible sat steaming on the edge of the map table. He looked like he'd aged a year since leaving, and his knuckles were scabbed from the fight.

Sico stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

"Drenner's in the deep cell," he said.

MacCready nodded. "Good. He's gonna hate it."

Sico crossed to the table and pulled a chair out, lowering himself into it with a long, slow exhale. His fingers tapped twice against the table's edge before he looked up.

"All right," he said. "Give me the bones of it."

MacCready rubbed his face, then leaned forward, his forearms bracing against the edge of the table. His eyes were tired, but focused.

"We moved in early, before first light. Recon confirmed what we suspected—Drenner's main base was inside Vault 77. Real structure, real depth. Not just a gang hideout—this was organized. Military structure, water filtration systems, weapons stockpiles, old-world labs."

Sico's jaw tensed, but he didn't interrupt.

"Echo squad went in first. Found the outer perimeter lightly guarded, probably to avoid detection. Once inside, the real defenses started. Fire lanes, kill boxes, fallback positions. Someone taught them discipline."

"Drenner?" Sico asked.

MacCready shook his head. "No. Not originally. This was something older. We found evidence of previous occupants—maybe even pre-Drenner command. Some of the logs were corrupted, others intentionally wiped. But the infrastructure was already there. He inherited a fortress."

"And turned it into a bunker for war," Sico murmured.

"Exactly," MacCready said. "Place was booby-trapped. Echo lost two men clearing the reactor wing. Kara took a hit during the final breach—slug tore through her thigh, missed the artery, but not by much."

"She walked in tonight like it was nothing," Sico said.

"She's like that. Anyway, we hit the command chamber hard. Found Drenner directing the last defense personally. That bastard didn't run, I'll give him that. Fought to the last."

"But he lost."

MacCready nodded. "We brought him down. Took him alive. Robert and the Power Armor team swept the place. Planted charges on critical systems—reactor, comms, support pillars. Once we confirmed no civilians or prisoners, we leveled the Vault."

"Casualties?"

MacCready hesitated.

"Donner's critical. Still in surgery. Might not make it. Duke's stable, but out cold. We lost Sergeant Mann and a scout named Ripley. Good people."

Sico looked down at the map between them. His hand pressed briefly against the Commonwealth sector grid, right where Vault 77 had once been marked. Now it was just a scorched-out sector with a red cross drawn over it in permanent ink.

"I'll make sure they're honored," he said quietly.

"They already were," MacCready replied.

The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was the kind born from mutual respect, the kind that filled the room like smoke from a fire finally out. Sico reached for the old tape recorder in the drawer beside the table, pressed it once, and the machine clicked to life with a low hum.

"Briefing complete," Sico said. "Recording saved to mission log. Mac, go get yourself looked at. You look like hell."

MacCready gave a tired smirk. "Hell looks better."

Then, just as he stood to go, Sico asked, "He said something before you brought him in?"

MacCready stopped, turned back.

"Yeah. When we cuffed him, he said we didn't understand. That this didn't end with him."

Sico frowned. "Empty threat?"

"Maybe," MacCready said. "Or maybe Vault 77 wasn't the only thing he inherited."

An hour later, Sico stood outside the reinforced door to the deep cell.

The corridor was narrow, lit with two exposed bulbs that flickered every now and then. The air smelled faintly of mold and rust—no matter how many times they patched the concrete, the pre-war rot always found its way back.

Briggs unlocked the door and stepped aside.

Drenner sat alone in the cell, shirtless now. His torso was a tapestry of bruises, scars, and old tattoos—half military, half raider iconography. A faded lightning bolt stretched across one shoulder, and on his chest, the symbol of a broken water valve—painted in red ink, like blood that never dried.

He looked up as Sico stepped in. No smile. No snarl. Just the quiet gaze of a man with too much past and too little future.

Sico pulled a metal chair across the floor and sat down, arms resting on his knees.

"You know who I am," he said.

Drenner nodded once. "You're the one they talk about like you're already dead."

Sico blinked, caught slightly off-guard. "That right?"

"Yeah. Heard about you long before you came sniffing around my trade lines. The man who built Sanctuary. Who made raiders, the Brotherhood's, and the Institute nervous."

"You flatter me," Sico said flatly.

"You should be flattered."

The flickering bulb overhead buzzed softly, a faint static that seemed to underscore every breath in the room.

Sico watched Drenner carefully from across the cell. The man sat in his corner like a wolf caged for the first time—still proud, still dangerous, but subdued by more than iron bars. His body bore the brutal story of his defeat: bruises blossoming beneath the skin like rot on fruit, a dislocated finger that had already stiffened crooked, a split in his brow crusted over with half-dried blood. And still, the son of a bitch had the nerve to sit there like a king without a throne.

"You should be flattered," Drenner said again, his voice rough from thirst and grit. "You made waves. People noticed."

Sico's mouth pulled tight into a neutral line. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together.

"Let's skip the small talk. Why?" Sico asked quietly. Not a demand, not a shout—just a question soaked in cold steel. "Why attack our purified water shipments? Why try to undermine the Freemasons Republic? What was the point?"

Drenner didn't answer right away. His eyes flicked to the corner of the ceiling where a rusted vent hummed faintly. For a moment, Sico thought he wasn't going to speak at all.

Then Drenner looked back and grinned—a broken, half-hearted thing full of bitterness more than triumph.

"For what else?" he said, his voice a rasp. "Power, of course."

Sico didn't react.

"When I found Vault 77," Drenner continued, "it wasn't much. A rusted husk. Half-dead systems. Skeletons in uniforms. One reactor flickering on emergency. But the bones of it…" He leaned forward now, just slightly. "The bones were strong. The infrastructure, the depth, the tunnels—all of it just waiting to be claimed."

Sico nodded slowly. "So you thought it was a good place to start an empire."

Drenner's eyes gleamed.

"Damn right I did. Water control, filtration, security gates, old-world schematics—I saw the potential right away. Raiders dream of finding caches. Scavs dream of finding guns. But I… I dreamed bigger."

He smirked, a shadow of the warlord he once was. "And Vault 77? It was perfect. Too perfect. No experiments. Just systems. Left behind and forgotten. It was like finding the keys to a buried god."

Sico's voice cut in, quiet and sharp. "And what happened, Drenner? You built your base, started consolidating gangs, threatened settlements, stole water. Why not come at us directly?"

Drenner shrugged with the stiffness of a man whose shoulders had been through war. "Because I couldn't win in a straight fight. Not against you. You and your Freemasons—trained, disciplined, coordinated. My men? Raiders, scavvers, mercs with drink for discipline and greed for loyalty. They'd break like kindling against your steel."

"So instead," Sico said, his voice now iron under velvet, "you tried to undermine us. You attacked our purified water shipments."

Drenner nodded. "I didn't just want to hurt your Republic—I wanted to make the people stop believing in it. You can't hold a banner high if everyone underneath it's dying of thirst."

His words hung in the air like smoke.

"I started by intercepting the routes you rarely patrolled," Drenner went on. "Small shipments. The ones meant for the outposts on the edge of your territory. Knew it would look like bandits. A mistake. I made sure we never hit the same place twice—kept it random, unpredictable. That way no one traced it back to me. At first."

"You were patient," Sico admitted. "Strategic."

"Had to be," Drenner said. "I knew I couldn't break you head-on. But if the people started to doubt you—if they believed their water wasn't safe anymore—they'd turn. Mistrust spreads faster than any bullet."

Sico stared at him long and hard, and in that look was no admiration—only contempt.

"And how many people died for that plan, Drenner? How many kids went sick without clean water? How many mothers gave their rations to their children and collapsed from dehydration three days later?"

Drenner's jaw flexed. But he didn't answer.

Sico's voice darkened.

"You sit there talking about empire and strategy like it's a game. But what you did was cowardice wrapped in ego. You couldn't stand up to us, so you tried to make the Wasteland bleed until it turned on us."

Drenner spat onto the cell floor. "You think what you built here is pure? That it's holy? You think the people love you for your charity?"

"I think they trust us to protect them," Sico said coldly. "Which is more than they ever did with men like you."

The words bit deeper than Sico expected. Drenner's smirk faltered. His eyes, sunken and bruised, twitched with something buried deeper than arrogance.

"Do you know what I was before this?" Drenner asked.

Sico raised a brow.

"I was a guard at a water outpost. Before the bombs? No. After. Years after. Place was called Junction Red. No flags, no factions, just a pump and a bunch of people clinging to a leaky filter and hope. We barely had enough to drink, let alone share."

Drenner sat back against the wall, his cuffed hands shifting.

"Then one day, some traders from a big name faction—I don't even remember which—came through. They had gear, guns, maps. We begged for help, for spare filters. They laughed. Called us 'beggars with plumbing.' Took what they wanted and moved on."

Sico didn't speak. He let the silence draw out.

"I watched people I cared about die of rotgut and radiation because we didn't have enough filtration mesh. So yeah," Drenner said with venom now. "When I found Vault 77, I decided to build something different. Something that didn't rely on charity or the Brotherhood's leftovers. Something that took."

"But what you built was a tomb," Sico replied, voice low. "For yourself. For your men. For every settler who drank poison because of your theft."

Drenner looked away.

For a moment, all that remained was the hum of the light above and the low whir of the camera in the corner clicking to life.

"You had a choice," Sico added. "We all did. You could've joined us. You could've helped the water network, not hijacked it."

"I tried," Drenner muttered. "Years ago. Sent a message to a settlement under Freemason protection. Offered trade. Resources. They never answered. I waited for two weeks. Then raiders hit the outpost and wiped out half my men. I figured that was my answer."

Sico exhaled sharply. "You assume too much."

"Maybe," Drenner muttered, his voice hoarse again. "But assumption is all you get in the Wastes."

"No," Sico said. He stood slowly, the chair legs scraping gently across the floor. "In the Wastes, you get choices. And you made the wrong ones."

He looked down at Drenner, the light behind him casting a shadow across the man's face.

"I'll have your full confession by morning. You'll answer for every stolen shipment. Every raid. Every death. And then… we'll see what kind of justice fits a man who tried to poison a nation."

As Sico turned toward the door, Drenner spoke one last time.

"You can put me on trial. Hang me. Burn the insignia. But what I tried to do?" He coughed, a dry, ragged sound. "Someone else will try it again. You've made something people envy. And envy breeds wolves."

Sico paused at the doorway.

"Let them try," he said without looking back. "We're not done building. And we sure as hell aren't done fighting."

Back in the command tower, the hallway lights were dimmed for the night shift. Kara sat on a cot in the medical wing, her thigh freshly bandaged, a stimpack wrapper discarded beside her. Her armor was propped up against the wall like a sleeping giant.

MacCready stood in the doorway, a fresh bruise darkening his cheekbone.

"You get anything out of him?" Kara asked without looking.

Sico nodded. "He talked."

MacCready stepped in, arms folded. "Confession?"

"Half a story. Half delusion. But yes. We've got enough to build a tribunal."

Kara exhaled through her nose. "Good. Then maybe the settlements will sleep easier."

"They will," Sico said. "But we won't."

MacCready smiled faintly. "Wouldn't be the Wasteland if we did."

Later that night, Sico stood alone at the edge of the Sanctuary walls, looking out across the black horizon. The stars blinked coldly overhead, distant and uncaring. Below him, the people of Sanctuary slept. The guards rotated on schedule. The wind whispered through the chain-link fences, carrying dust and the smell of cooling ash.

________________________________________________

• 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:-