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And as he stood sipping that coffee — warm, bitter, oddly comforting — he realized something Maxson would never believe.
The morning haze had yet to burn off the fields as Sico arrived at the southern edge of Sanctuary's farmlands. A fine mist clung low over rows of crops like the breath of the earth itself — warm, damp, and heavy with the scent of tatos and razorgrain. The path under his boots was soft with dew, and a few lazy insects buzzed past his ears. Out here, away from the bustling heart of Sanctuary, the world felt quiet in a different way. Not the emptiness of the wasteland. Not the tense, hollow quiet of a raider ambush. But a calm built from the rhythm of work — tilling, planting, harvesting, living.
He saw Jenny before she saw him.
She was crouched beside a water pump, her hands deep in the casing as she adjusted something within. A few stray strands of blonde hair clung to her temple in the morning humidity, and the back of her coveralls bore smudges of dirt and machine grease. Her boots were caked in dried mud, and a holstered pipe pistol hung loose at her hip, more for tradition than necessity these days. A dog — not Dogmeat, but one of his pups — lounged nearby with its head resting lazily on its paws, ears twitching at the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Jenny," Sico called as he neared, his voice low but carrying in the still morning air.
She looked up, squinting at first, then smiled as she wiped a greasy hand on her pant leg and stood.
"Well, look who's remembering to check in on us dirt-diggers," she said, stepping forward and offering her arm in greeting. "Did Congress finally tell you to get your boots dirty, or is this just a courtesy visit?"
Sico took her arm and grinned. "A bit of both. We now have got four thousands soldiers. That's a lot of mouths to feed."
Jenny let out a low whistle and shook her head. "Damn. You're gonna break my water pumps and my patience."
She gestured for him to follow and started walking down a freshly turned path between two crop beds. "Come on. I'll show you what we've got — and what we don't."
As they walked, Sico glanced over the fields. The old pre-War rows had been redrawn and expanded. Crops were organized now, sectioned off by type, with string lines and painted markers to keep track of rotations and soil quality. Tatos, razorgrain, corn, mutfruit — all growing in various stages, some already ripening under the morning sun. Wind-powered irrigation pumps creaked softly in the distance, and a few greenhouse domes shimmered beyond the main tilled rows, the recycled polymer glinting faintly.
They passed a group of workers — mostly settlers, some synths, a few ghouls — all laboring with purpose. One man lifted his hat in greeting. Another woman called out a reminder to check the south fenceline for mole rat burrows. Everyone seemed to know their role.
"We've expanded over the past three months," Jenny explained. "Picked up another four acres out toward the old reservoir. The soil's not as good there, but we're composting like hell to turn it around. Rotation schedules are tighter than I'd like, but the Greenetech composters we got from Carla's team are making a real difference. Between that, hydroponics, and two newly operational vertipod greenhouses, we're producing enough to feed Sanctuary and half the outposts within a ten-mile radius."
Sico nodded thoughtfully. "And the other half?"
"Running lean. We've got trade agreements in place — Graygarden sends us surplus mutfruit in exchange for maintenance gear and ammo. But we're still importing too much from Oberland and Finch. If those caravans get hit or delayed… well, we'll feel it."
They stopped beside a greenhouse. Jenny reached for the latch, swung the door open, and gestured him inside.
Warm, moist air wrapped around them instantly — thick with the scent of soil, fertilizer, and growing life. Inside, crops grew in neat tiers under the glow of salvaged UV lamps. Synths in clean work aprons moved between rows, scanning leaves with handheld sensors, taking notes on nutrient levels and growth rates. One nodded to Jenny as she passed, and another paused long enough to offer Sico a polite smile before returning to her work.
"This one's mostly mutfruit and carrots," Jenny said. "High-yield, low maintenance. We rotate it every fifteen days using flood-drench nutrient cycles. It's not enough to scale, but it's efficient for towns like Tenpines Bluff and Nordhagen Beach. The real gains are in the seed cloning labs down below."
"Below?" Sico raised an eyebrow.
Jenny grinned. "Came with the bunker network. Turns out the old settlers used this plot as a contingency farm back during the early days of the Institute war. Dug deep — hydroponics, power storage, even a cryo-seed bank. We've been upgrading it piece by piece, using salvage from CIT and Vault 81."
She led him through the back door of the greenhouse to a metal hatch half-covered by tall grass. It opened with a groaning hiss, and they descended into the cool, dim corridor below.
The lab beneath was unlike anything above ground.
Clean, orderly, bright. LED strips glowed overhead. Transparent vats held rows of suspended seedlings. Humidifiers hummed faintly. Computer terminals blinked with graphs and numbers — all tracking soil quality, seed viability, and gene integrity.
A synth technician approached, nodding once to Jenny. "Ma'am. Seed Bank Omega reports full sprouting for batch 42-A. No contamination."
Jenny smiled. "Thanks, Ema. Keep an eye on 42-B — if the mutagen count spikes, I want to know before end of cycle."
"Understood."
Sico's eyes scanned the room, then settled on a large screen showing distribution graphs — lines tracing food flow between settlements, color-coded by nutrient density and crop type. "You've turned this into a command center."
Jenny gave a small shrug. "Farms are more than dirt and sunshine now. They're logistics hubs. We've got fourteen settlements depending on us directly, and another twenty-two indirectly. You want to keep feeding an army? This is your front line."
Sico crossed his arms, frowning slightly. "What do you need to scale up?"
Jenny's face sobered. "Three things. First, more trained agri-techs. Synths can handle most of the data work, but humans still make the best intuitive decisions when shit goes sideways. Second, better weather insulation on the north fields. Last year's frost killed off two weeks of crop — we can't afford that again."
"And the third?" he asked.
"Security," she said bluntly. "We've had two attempted raids in the past month. Nothing major — just a few desperate mercs looking to grab food or steal tools. But it's only going to get worse. The more successful we are, the more we become a target."
Sico let out a breath and nodded. "I'll send a request to Carla and Sarah. We'll rotate a full Minutemen squad to patrol the outer edge, and I'll push for drone surveillance from Graygarden's relay array. We've got some aerial recon drones in storage from the Quincy Labs sweep — they'll help with early warnings."
Jenny grinned. "See, this is why I let you walk through my mud. You bring actual solutions."
He chuckled, the sound low and genuine. "You keep feeding us. I'll keep the mud off your walls."
They emerged back into daylight just as the sun crested over the hills. The fog had lifted now, revealing the full sprawl of Sanctuary's outer farms — a patchwork of green and brown and gold, stitched together by irrigation lines, walking paths, and the quiet rhythm of labor.
Jenny stood beside him at the top of a slight rise, arms folded, surveying the land like a general overlooking a battlefield.
"These people," she said softly. "They don't just work for food. They believe in it. In building something that lasts. That's what scares the Brotherhood, you know. Not the tech. Not even the politics. But this." She gestured to the fields. "This is a kind of strength they can't understand."
Sico nodded slowly, the wind catching his coat. "Maybe. Or maybe they understand it all too well — and they know they've already lost it."
For a moment, they just stood there. Watching the fields.
Then, quietly, Jenny said, "There's a tomato-squash hybrid I've been working on. Ugly little bastard, but tasty as hell. Want to try one?"
Sico smiled. "Only if it won't kill me."
"No promises."
They laughed.
The air still carried the scent of soil and fresh growth as Sico made his way from the farmlands toward the industrial sector of Sanctuary. The shift was subtle at first — a change in the rhythm of the environment. The buzzing of insects faded into the distant hum of fusion generators and pneumatic tools. Dirt paths gave way to reinforced concrete slabs, and instead of open fields, squat steel buildings rose from the ground like stubborn mushrooms after rain. Here, the smell of loam was replaced by scorched metal, machine oil, and ozone.
A handful of Minutemen nodded as Sico passed — not soldiers on patrol, but workers on their off-duty rotation helping with loading crates and moving supplies. Everyone pitched in these days. The war had shifted gears, and no one — not even a general or a president — could afford to keep their hands clean.
The main factory complex was an old assembly yard, half-buried under scaffolding and retrofitted panels. What had once churned out Mister Handies and Protectrons before the Great War now served as the heart of Sanctuary's military-industrial revival.
Sico ducked under a low arch of cabling strung overhead and stepped through the sliding bulkhead doors, nodding to the two guards flanking it. Inside, the air was hot, dry, and alive with movement. Mechanical arms hissed and clanked along rail tracks. Sparks rained down in brief cascades as welding rigs sealed armor plating. Synth workers moved with quiet precision between workstations, while human technicians barked orders or consulted tablets displaying readouts of progress reports.
In the middle of the controlled chaos stood Sturges — sleeves rolled up, goggles perched on his forehead, and a plasma torch in one gloved hand.
"Sturges," Sico called over the din.
The man looked up, squinting against the backdrop of light and noise, then grinned as he spotted him. "Well, well. Look who's gracing us with his presidential presence."
Sico chuckled as they met halfway, shaking hands firmly. "Not here to shake hands, Sturges. I want to see progress."
"Then you came to the right place," Sturges said, wiping his face with a dirty rag and tossing it over his shoulder. "Come on. I'll show you around. Things've been moving fast since the last shipment from Quincy Labs came in. Those Gauss coil components really opened up options."
They moved past the main floor toward a raised walkway. From there, the factory's layout came into clearer view — four separate production lines operating in parallel.
"To your left," Sturges said, pointing, "Combat armor production. Model six-B plating with upgraded ceramic layering and hydraulic joints. Stronger, lighter, and damn sight easier to repair in the field than the older models. We're putting out about forty full sets a week now, all built to Minutemen standards."
Below them, synths and humans alike moved like clockwork — fastening greaves, sealing breastplates, testing hydraulic support systems. Each completed suit was lined up in rows like silver-and-olive statues waiting to march.
"And weapons?" Sico asked.
"Follow me."
They crossed over to the second wing of the building, where the sharp tang of gunpowder residue filled the air. The weapon foundry was louder — more volatile. Here, precision took on a different shape. Sturges led Sico down a row of auto-assembly benches where modular assault rifles were being pieced together in seamless sequences. Robotic arms selected components from labeled bins — receivers, stocks, barrels, capacitors for energy weapon hybrids — and clicked them into place before human supervisors tested each finished product at indoor ranges behind reinforced glass.
"We've streamlined the Mark II Minuteman Assault Rifle," Sturges said proudly. "Standardized 5.56mm, modular optics, underslung grenade launcher optional. No more jamming issues like the old improvised designs."
He tapped a data screen mounted nearby. "Right now, we've got 3,500 rifles distributed. Another 700 ready for shipment. Shotguns, sidearms, and energy rifles are also in production, but on a smaller scale until we get more fusion cells from Graygarden's salvage team."
Sico nodded approvingly. "This'll hold the line. But we need surplus — not just maintenance levels. You know how fast we burn through gear in the field."
"I do," Sturges replied, more seriously now. "That's why we've been automating the secondary line. Once that's up, our weekly yield will double."
They came to a large blast door at the far end of the complex. It was painted in bold yellow stripes and bore a stenciled label: Project: Sentinel.
Sico's expression hardened slightly. "This is what I came for."
Sturges keyed in a code, and the blast door rumbled open.
The space beyond felt quieter. More clinical. Lit by ceiling strips and humming with cooling systems, the Sentinel Lab was unlike the noisy factory outside. Ten reinforced gantries lined the walls, each one holding a single power-armored figure in varying stages of completion.
Seven were fully constructed — towering steel exosuits bristling with heavy plating, sensor arrays, and integrated weapons ports. Their finish was a deep matte graphite, with the Freemasons Republic insignia emblazoned in white on the left pauldron of each suit. These weren't repurposed T-60s or salvaged X-01s — they were entirely new.
Each Sentinel was a walking fortress.
Sico stepped toward the nearest one and looked up at it.
"Status?" he asked.
Sturges walked to a terminal and tapped through a few menus. "Sentinels One through Seven are fully built. Combat systems tested. Neural interface functional. We've got test pilots running sim loops upstairs — real-time feedback's good. Balance and movement are smoother than Brotherhood frames, especially in urban terrain. Sentinels Eight and Nine are in late-stage fabrication. Ten's still waiting on its primary capacitor array — we need one more high-yield core to finish assembly."
Sico looked from the massive suits back to Sturges. "And the pilots?"
"They're training. Every one of them handpicked — veterans, special ops, the best we've got. The neural relay link is more intuitive than I thought it'd be. No need for direct synaptic ports, either — just a helmet and a stable link. They're not quite like Liberty Prime, but they move fast, hit hard, and think on their feet. Once deployed, these ten can anchor any line we hold."
A second man approached — older, lean, with a clipboard tucked under one arm. He wore a blue jumpsuit with a patch that read: Director Myles – Chief of Fabrication.
"President," Myles greeted with a sharp nod. "Everything you see here has passed QA twice. We're ahead of schedule. The Sentinels will be field-ready in six days, assuming nothing delays the capacitor shipment."
"I want a live test run before deployment," Sico said. "Simulations are good, but I need to see them move in the real world."
"You'll get it," Myles promised. "We've cleared a section of the old Lexington ruins for live drills. Sturges is overseeing the pilot sync trials tomorrow."
"Good," Sico said, voice steady. "Because when we march into Cambridge, these things are going to be the tip of the spear."
He looked again at the seven completed Sentinels — their presence filled the room with a quiet, implacable power.
"This is what the Brotherhood fears," he murmured. "Not just strength — but independence. Innovation. Our people, building the future on their own terms."
He turned back to Sturges and Myles. "Keep pushing. Whatever you need — materials, labor, tech — ask. I'll make it happen."
Myles nodded again, briskly. "You'll have it, sir."
As they exited the Sentinel chamber, Sturges glanced sideways. "You planning to walk the floor at Robotics next? Doc Holdren's team's got new support units nearly finished. Combat medics, drone carriers, recon scouts. Could be worth seeing."
Sico exhaled through his nose, rubbing a bit of grime from his sleeve. "Not today. I need to head back to the HQ and prepare for the next summit with the Congress delegates. But I'll be back. And when I return, I want to see all ten Sentinels moving."
Sturges offered a tired, crooked grin. "You got it, boss. Just don't expect them to salute."
Sico grinned back. "That's your job."
⸻
By the time Sico stepped back out into the afternoon light, the sky had shifted — clouds gathering in slow, curling masses over the horizon, hinting at an evening storm. The breeze had picked up, carrying the scents of iron and ozone from the factory behind him. But beneath it all still lingered the earthy trace of tatos and mutfruit on the wind — Sanctuary's quiet promise.
He paused on the overlook between the factories and the central commons. From here, he could see it all — the farms to the south, the factories in full swing, the quiet silhouettes of homes being rebuilt stone by stone, and the gathering pulse of something larger.
A nation.
Built not just from old bones and salvaged tech, but from belief. From effort. From unity.
He didn't smile this time. He didn't have to.
He simply turned, coat flapping in the wind, and began the long walk back toward the heart of the Freemasons Republic.
________________________________________________
• 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:-