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Then, finally, he turned and walked back down to the command cabin. Plans to make. People to prepare. A war to stop — or win.
The morning after Sico's warning to Preston felt like a tide breaking over Sanctuary.
The sun had barely crested the edge of the eastern hills when Preston was already at work, his old Minuteman coat half-buttoned as he moved briskly from building to building with a notebook under one arm and a canteen swinging at his hip. Sarah was close behind, crisp and focused, hair tied back in a tight ponytail, her voice sharp but steady as she gave out orders. The town had barely shaken off sleep, but the air carried a buzz of urgency now — a quiet understanding that whatever peace they'd earned in recent months was beginning to fray.
"Two couriers to Tenpines and Oberland," Preston barked to a young recruit who still looked like he was wiping sleep from his eyes. "Tell them we need every able-bodied fighter they can spare — we'll provide food and medical if they show up within three days."
Sarah was hunched over a crate of old radio equipment beside the main comms hut, soldering wires with nimble fingers. "Red Rocket's relay is working. I've got a signal path stretching to the Slog and Finch Farm. I'll send word to Maria and see how many volunteers they've already gathered."
"Don't wait too long to follow up," Preston called over. "We need confirmations, not maybes."
"I'll handle it," Sarah replied, not looking up.
By midmorning, a command tent had been pitched just outside the main gates of Sanctuary, and a large table inside it was already covered with hastily drawn maps, printed recruitment rosters, and clipped stacks of hand-written inventory notes. Preston stood at its head, chewing the end of a pencil while reading through a report on likely recruits from settlements as far out as Egret Tours Marina. Sarah entered a moment later with a mug of steaming coffee and a grim expression.
"We've got at least 250 willing bodies already committed," she said, handing him the mug. "Another 400 maybes. A lot of them are settlers — no real combat experience."
Preston grunted. "Doesn't matter. We'll teach them. The Brotherhood or Institute won't care who's holding the rifle when they come down on us. All they'll see is a line of defense."
Outside the tent, the old farm fields of Sanctuary were already being converted into training yards. Mel had taken charge of clearing the debris, shouting directions to a pair of settlers as they dragged old fence posts into rough shooting lanes. MacCready was farther out, drawing chalk lines in the dirt to form the outline of a full-scale drill ground.
"Alright, you sorry lot!" MacCready hollered at a small group of green recruits already arriving from nearby settlements. "First rule of not dying in a firefight is knowing how to shoot straight. Second rule is knowing how to reload faster than you piss your pants."
Chuckles erupted, but there was tension underneath it. These were people stepping into a war — even if they didn't quite know it yet.
Meanwhile, Sico had taken a different path that morning.
Instead of the training fields, he'd headed southeast with a pair of guards in tow and his old rifle slung across his back. His destination: to the Minutemen's primary weapons, armor, and ammunition facility. The smell of gunpowder and oil hit him as soon as he stepped through the front doors. Sparks flew from welding stations, machinery thudded in a constant rhythm, and the scent of scorched metal lingered in the air.
"Commander," said one of the engineers, a wiry woman named Kestrel with welding goggles pushed up into her hair. She wiped her hands on a filthy cloth and motioned him deeper inside. "We're behind on the last batch of combat armor plates, but the assault rifle line's been running double time since yesterday. We've got maybe three hundred ready to go, another six hundred in various stages of assembly."
Sico walked beside her past long lines of workers — many of them settlers who'd been trained as machinists over the past year. They moved like clockwork, bolt guns hissing, presses slamming down on steel molds, conveyor belts humming with potential death. The rows of half-built rifles looked like sleeping beasts waiting to wake.
"We need at least fifteen hundred sets," he said, scanning the assembly line. "Full combat loadout. No mismatched junk. I want standardized kits — modular armor, plate carriers, proper helmets, reinforced boots, full-auto capable rifles with mid-range optics. And a sidearm, minimum, for every recruit."
Kestrel raised an eyebrow. "That's enough firepower to start a whole militia war."
Sico gave her a look. "That's exactly what we're trying to avoid. And if we can't avoid it — we'd better be ready to win it."
She nodded, face tightening. "I'll put the night crew back on shifts. But we're gonna need more components. Springs, screws, polymer, adhesives… we're chewing through inventory like termites."
"I'll have Sturges reroute supply caravans from the northern routes," Sico said. "And I'll speak with Abernathy Farm. They've been hoarding aluminum. Maybe it's time they shared."
Over the next few hours, Sico moved between the departments like a general touring his arsenal. In the armor workshop, steel plates clanged into shape under pneumatic hammers. Welding torches hissed as chest rigs were soldered together. He stopped to inspect a nearly completed armor set — dark green matte finish, shoulder pauldrons reinforced with ceramic composite, a black insignia of the Minutemen etched over the heart. It looked professional. Military-grade.
"Good work," he said. "This is what they need."
Back in the ammunition wing, he watched workers manually packing magazines with 5.56 rounds, each click of a bullet sliding into place like a prayer answered. The factory's furnace roared nearby, melting down scrap for new casings. A teenager barely old enough to shave worked beside an older man missing two fingers, both sweating in the heat but working with quiet focus.
When Sico finally left the factory that afternoon, the sun had risen high and angry, burning across the ruins and settlement rooftops. He adjusted the strap of his rifle and took a long look out across the Commonwealth.
War was coming.
But so was readiness.
Back at Sanctuary, the recruitment efforts were snowballing. By the third day, wagons from Tenpines, Oberland, The Slog, Finch Farm, and even Somerville Place rolled into town bearing not just goods — but volunteers. Some wore patchy leathers or salvaged metal, others arrived in threadbare clothes and nervous expressions. Preston and Sarah greeted every group, checking rosters and directing them to temporary barracks set up in pre-war homes and tents on the outskirts.
MacCready was running drill routines by now. Long lines of recruits stood with wooden rifle facsimiles, practicing stance, breath control, trigger discipline.
"Keep your elbow in," he barked at one lanky recruit who was flinching every time he raised his fake gun. "Unless you want your shoulder to shatter when you fire the real thing."
Mel, meanwhile, had organized weapons distribution on a hill overlooking the west field. Each recruit would receive their gear after completing basic drills and a two-day combat course. Rifle cleaning, armor fitting, communication basics. Field dressing wounds. Night operations.
"We're making soldiers out of farmers," Mel muttered to Sarah, who stood nearby overseeing supply checklists. "And we don't have time to waste."
Sarah nodded. "They'll learn fast. Or they won't survive. That's the truth."
At night, Sico returned from the factory exhausted but driven, gathering with Preston, Sarah, MacCready, and Mel in the command cabin. Maps were spread out, coffee mugs ringed with stains. They worked late into the night, planning squad formations, defense lines, comms hubs, and contingency routes in case of evacuation.
"We need fallback positions," Preston said one evening, tapping a point near the old National Guard training yard east of Cambridge. "If the Brotherhood or Institute hits us hard, we can't have everyone die in one place."
"We'll be ready," Sico said, leaning back in his chair. "We'll meet them wherever they come. And we'll show them the Commonwealth belongs to its people."
Then the scene turns to the Brotherhood of Steel had been watching.
From their vantage high above the Commonwealth aboard the Prydwen, Elder Arthur Maxson stood at the forward observation deck, arms behind his back, cloak rippling slightly in the wind from the slow turn of the massive airship's propellers. Below him sprawled the ruin-choked city, sunlit but simmering with unrest. Even without optics, Maxson could see the shifting shape of Sanctuary's fields — freshly cleared training yards, new tents dotting the farmland, convoys moving in from multiple directions.
A war machine was waking.
Not the Brotherhood's. Not the Institute's. The Minutemen's.
"Have you seen the latest intel reports?" Knight-Captain Kells stepped up beside him, crisp and severe as always. He handed over a holotape dossier marked with the Minutemen sigil in red.
Maxson didn't answer at first. His eyes lingered on the northwestern quadrant of the map displayed on the forward screen inside the command room — the projected radius of Minutemen control had expanded significantly in the past three weeks. Outposts. Relays. Artillery signatures. The data didn't lie.
"Sanctuary's being turned into a military hub," Kells continued. "Our scribes intercepted chatter confirming at least seven settlements have committed fighters to their cause. They're recruiting for something big, Elder."
Maxson finally turned, jaw locked, expression cold. "They're not just defending themselves anymore. They're mobilizing."
Kells nodded grimly. "If we wait any longer, we'll be fighting a two-front war. Minutemen to the north. Institute from the south. If they coordinate—"
"They won't," Maxson interrupted. "Because we won't allow them the time."
He strode back through the steel corridors of the Prydwen, boots echoing with authority, Kells close behind. Paladins stood at attention as he passed. Knights and squires cleared a path. The ship's humming power core reverberated beneath the deck — a mechanical heartbeat echoing the tension in every soldier aboard.
Inside the war room, Maxson wasted no time.
"Bring Fort Strong under control. Immediately," he barked, pointing to a red-encircled location on the operations map. "No more delays. We need that weapons cache, and we need the high ground for staging Vertibird deployments. Brotherhood units stationed near Back Street Apparel are to push forward tonight."
Kells stepped forward, activating a projector to bring up terrain schematics. "We have a combat team already entrenched in the western approach. Paladin Danse is leading the assault. They've met resistance — super mutants dug in deep. But with Vertibird cover—"
"They'll break," Maxson said with iron certainty. "We'll break them."
The lights in the war room dimmed slightly as another screen flickered to life, this one showing the sublevel research decks where Dr. Madison Li was working. Maxson nodded at the technician. "Get me Li."
The line crackled, then steadied. Madison Li's face appeared onscreen, weary but alert. She stood amid coils of wiring, stacks of technical schematics, and the imposing armored frame of Liberty Prime — or rather, the scorched skeleton of what used to be him.
"Dr. Li," Maxson began, eyes hard. "You're aware of what's happening. The Minutemen have begun military-scale mobilization. If they continue at this rate, we'll be flanked. I need Liberty Prime operational again. Not in months. Not in weeks. Immediately."
Li took a breath, wiping grime from her forehead. "Elder, I've been working round-the-clock as it is. Prime's fusion matrix was nearly obliterated after the last engagement. We had to rebuild half of his command logic from backup core fragments. Rushing this risks system failure mid-deployment."
"Then take the risk," Maxson growled. "Prime's presence will cripple their morale and give us total surface dominance. Pull every engineer from non-critical assignments. Give Prime a new reactor if you have to — hell, cannibalize the old T-60 units from the lower decks if you must. Just make him walk."
Li hesitated, clearly biting back her protest. "Understood. I'll push the timeline."
The screen went dark.
Maxson turned back to the room. "Inform all field captains — once Fort Strong falls, we begin staging operations around Cambridge Police Station and Haymarket Mall. If the Minutemen want a war, we'll bring the full might of the Brotherhood down on them first."
He turned sharply and strode out, the steel door hissing shut behind him.
Then the scene change to the far below, buried in the sterile white corridors of the Institute, Father stood before a massive projection wall inside the Directorate Command Hall. The illuminated map displayed similar details — movement vectors, recruitment estimates, intercepted transmissions from Minutemen outposts. His expression was unreadable, his tone calm as always.
"They're becoming… bold."
Dr. Ayo, arms crossed and face tight with concern, nodded. "They're coordinating territory with military precision. Preston Garvey and his inner circle have begun outfitting civilian militias with assault rifles and combat-grade armor. Our scouts estimate over 700 active recruits — and growing."
Father didn't look away from the map. "And our countermeasures?"
"We've increased teleport interception protocols, but the problem isn't infiltration anymore," Ayo said. "It's numbers. We've long relied on surgical force. But if this becomes a three-party war…"
He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.
"I won't allow the Commonwealth to fall into chaos," Father said. "And I won't let the surface dictate the future of our people."
He turned and addressed the rest of the Directorate, who sat or stood in tense silence.
"Effective immediately, I am authorizing a fifty percent increase in Generation-3 synth production. We will activate dormant assembly lines in Subsector Theta and Epsilon. All repair bays are to shift to accelerated refurbishment of damaged units. No downtime."
Several nods followed — though some were wary. Synths weren't just soldiers. They were laborers, scouts, couriers. Overextending production might ripple into other systems.
"As for our courser program," Father continued, "the recent defeat at Greenetech revealed critical weaknesses. That will not happen again. I want all coursers subjected to new battlefield simulations — urban warfare, open terrain, and resistance suppression. Send those who fail retraining into containment for reprogramming."
Dr. Odren, head of synth retention and training, raised a brow. "That will strain our instructor cadre—"
"Then triple it," Father said sharply. "Pull secondary synths into training support roles. The surface is destabilizing. We must remain the spear."
He let the silence stretch a moment, then turned back toward the projection.
"We've long hidden in the shadows, manipulating events from beneath the ground. But now we are confronted with two rising powers above — both of whom believe they speak for the people. Neither understands the burden of stewardship. The Minutemen appeal to sentiment. The Brotherhood to conquest. Only we understand control. Logic. Continuity."
He paused, letting his words sink in.
"Begin simulation drills at once. I want all courser units redeployed within seventy-two hours for recon ops across the western settlements. No violence — yet. Just intelligence. But if a shot is fired…"
He looked directly at Ayo.
"…we finish the war before it begins."
Ayo nodded once. "Understood."
The Commonwealth itself seemed to feel the shift. Patrols from the Brotherhood began flying deeper into civilian territory, Vertibirds screaming over farmland and ruined cityscapes. Synth scouts blinked into existence near trade routes, observing from the tree line. Settlers whispered of shadowy figures seen near their homes. Convoys were ambushed in the dark, neither side claiming responsibility.
And at the heart of it all, the Minutemen continued to drill.
In the growing dusk at Sanctuary, torchlight and lanterns lit the training yards. Rows of green recruits stood firm under MacCready's watchful eye, sweat beading on their brows as they repeated reload drills and practiced formations. Sarah walked the rows with a clipboard, logging injuries and progress.
Inside the command tent, Preston and Sico sat in silence for a moment over the latest reports. Word of Brotherhood activity near Cambridge had filtered in. Synth signals had been detected just south of Lexington. Sanctuary has always be a fortress, but they knew that a storm was slowly approaching.
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• 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:-