Fallout 4: Rebirth At Vault 81

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Sico turned back toward the HQ, but not before casting one final glance toward the spot where Chris had fallen. The snow was already covering the blood. Nature was quick like that—trying to bury things before they could stain too deeply.

The next morning came cold, silent, and sharp. Not the kind of cold that threatened snow or ice—but the kind that simply existed, flat and dry, as if the world itself had run out of warmth to offer. The wind rattled the eastern shutters of the Freemasons HQ, whispering through the seams like a ghost too stubborn to be forgotten.

Inside his office, Sico sat hunched over the desk, elbows braced, one hand curled loosely around a mug of now-cold chicory tea. The other traced a dull knife blade in slow, unconscious circles across the grain of the wood. Papers were scattered across the tabletop—tower readouts, last night's duty reports, a sketched map of the northeast sector marked in red and green ink.

He hadn't slept. Not really. Not after what they'd done to Chris. Not after the way the crowd had looked—not angry, not afraid, just… heavy. Like every soul in Sanctuary had taken on a little more weight overnight.

He didn't regret the execution. But he carried it. And he knew it wouldn't be the last.

The radio on the far end of his desk crackled alive.

Not a full burst—just a whisper. A soft hiss, then a pause. Then another.

He leaned forward instantly, all thoughts falling away.

Three short taps. A delay. Then two more.

Commando protocol.

MacCready.

Sico flipped the switch and tuned the frequency up half a dial, his breath slowing as the static evened out into something smoother, clearer.

"MacCready," he said, voice low. "Go ahead."

There was a beat of silence—just long enough to make Sico's spine tighten—then a voice filtered through the speaker, laced with exhaustion and just a touch of adrenaline.

"We found it," MacCready said.

Sico sat straighter, the dull knife forgotten.

"You're sure?"

"As sure as I've ever been about anything," MacCready replied. "The runners don't go past it. All the couriers circle through, and I saw three separate drop-offs yesterday. Every one of them disappears down into the ground. Into a tunnel system, I think. Lots of old rail scrap and rusted train siding, but someone's been welding in reinforcements. This isn't just a hideout."

Sico's voice was steady. "It's a base."

"A fortress," MacCready corrected. "Underground, layered, and they've got elevated guard positions on the hills around it. Two towers, maybe more. I counted six men on rotation, but there's no telling how many are actually bunkered in below."

Sico leaned back, his fingers tapping once against the edge of the desk.

"How's the defensive setup?" he asked.

There was a pause.

Then MacCready said, "Quietly solid. Not flashy. But professional. Sandbags set low into the hillside—good use of terrain. They've even got overlapping fire lanes across the main valley. Whoever designed this wasn't improvising."

That was all Sico needed to hear.

His breath tightened once, then released slow through his nose.

"Send me the coordinates," he said. "Encrypted channel. Priority one."

MacCready didn't even hesitate. "Already done."

Sico stood, moving swiftly toward the rear wall of the office. A glass panel covered the central command console embedded into the wall—a repurposed Vault-Tec schematic board with new circuitry grafted in by Albert's tech crew. He slid the cover aside, typed in a six-digit access code, and activated the internal alert system.

A soft hum filled the air as Sanctuary's comm relay came online.

Then, he switched frequencies.

"Command dispatch, come in."

A reply came instantly, calm and clear. "Dispatch online. Go ahead."

"Locate Robert. Priority status. I want him in briefing chamber one in ten minutes."

"Copy that."

"And prep Strike Platoon Echo and the Second Armored Unit. Fifty men, five Power Armors. They move in forty-five minutes."

The pause on the other end was brief—but charged.

"Confirmed. Sending orders now."

Sico cut the line and turned back toward his desk.

Magnolia had just stepped in, a thin binder in her hands, face tired but sharp. She took one look at his expression and stopped mid-step.

"You found him."

"MacCready did," Sico corrected. "And now we finish this."

She stepped forward and set the binder down. "What's the plan?"

Sico didn't respond immediately. He opened the drawer beside his desk, pulled out a clean tactical map, and began sketching quickly—laying down ridge lines, marking the valley slope, indicating tower positions as relayed by MacCready.

"Robert takes point," he said, not looking up. "Echo squad hits the west flank. Armor comes in behind him—east and north, pinning the escape routes. MacCready stays dark until they're on site."

Magnolia's eyes narrowed as she scanned the map. "We're going full burn?"

"Not quite," Sico said. "Not yet. This is a probe—but with teeth. We'll pressure the defenses. Test the gates. If they hold, we back off. If they crack…"

He didn't finish the sentence.

He didn't have to.

Magnolia nodded once. "I'll inform Preston."

"Quietly," Sico said. "I don't want this bleeding across Sanctuary. We've already dealt with enough fear this week."

She turned and left.

Outside, the buzz of activity had begun to spread. Echo squad was assembling in the lower yard, their black-stitched combat uniforms forming a dark line against the snow. Power Armor rigs—freshly repaired, their paint still chipped and scorched from last month's ambush—were being hoisted onto transport beds with care and reverence. The quiet rumble of preparation replaced the usual morning sounds of tools and drills.

Ten minutes later, Robert stepped into the war room.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a jaw that looked like it had been carved out of granite, Robert had the kind of presence that made people straighten when he entered. He wore no helmet, just a weather-stained field coat and a sidearm. His voice was low and unshakable.

"You called?"

Sico handed him the map. "Coordinates are embedded. You're taking Echo squad, fifty soldiers, five suits. Meet up with MacCready at grid twelve-four-alpha. He'll be your forward recon. You're not storming the base unless I give the word. This is a pressure op. Probe, test, push."

Robert scanned the map with a soldier's eyes. "Looks like a kill box."

"It is," Sico said. "Which is why you go light and smart. If you're compromised, I want you out. No heroics."

Robert smirked faintly. "You didn't pick me for my poetry."

Sico's mouth twitched. "Just make sure you come back in one piece."

Robert gave a short nod and turned to go.

Outside, the war drums were already beating—quietly, but with purpose. The soldiers moved like clockwork, focused, clean. The tension in the air had changed—not fear, not dread, but intent. Like a hunter who had finally found the scent again after weeks of trailing cold.

The yard below the Freemasons HQ had taken on a new rhythm—no longer the humdrum of daily rebuilding or the casual clatter of midday chores. It was brisk, precise, and militarized. Men and women moved with purpose, their boots pressing hardened prints into the packed snow, the air buzzing with clipped instructions and the grumble of warming engines.

Sico stood at the edge of the upper deck, the wind tugging at the hem of his coat, watching it all unfold beneath him like a game board finally set in motion.

Robert was down there—commanding but not loud, never loud. He walked among the assembled Echo squad with that steady pace that belonged only to soldiers who had already made peace with war. His voice was low, but every man and woman around him leaned in slightly when he spoke. No need for theatrics. Robert's presence was enough.

The squad was moving quickly—each soldier equipped with winter-camouflage gear stitched from repurposed Brotherhood armor, layered for mobility and heat retention. Tactical packs were being distributed, checked, rechecked. Ammunition was being loaded into bandoliers and crates. Shotguns, Gauss rifles, laser carbines—they were carrying a little bit of everything. Enough for a real fight, if it came to that.

"Second supply truck is fueled," one of the quartermasters reported up through Sico's earpiece. "Third one's rolling up from the east storage. We've got six crates of stimpaks, three water tanks, and two barrels of plasma grenades secured."

"Good," Sico replied, his voice barely above the wind. "I want redundancy in everything. This isn't a show of force—it's insurance."

"Understood."

He switched channels. "Logistics control—give me status on the transport units."

A pause. Then: "Humvee One is hot, turret loaded with a tri-barrel and belt-fed. Humvee Two's final armor plating being mounted now. Trucks are lined up behind Tower Seven—one carrying supplies, one full of medical, one for evac in case it goes south."

Sico turned slightly, scanning the staging area. He could see the vehicles from here, parked in a clean line along the southern wall. The Humvees looked more like something out of a pre-War propaganda poster—steel plates welded to the sides, mesh over the windshield, turrets mounted and draped in tarp. The trucks were older—rust in the seams, dents along the panels—but dependable. Their tires were new, and their engines had been rebuilt from scratch.

Robert approached one of the Humvees, rapping his knuckles on the hood before popping it open and checking the engine personally. He didn't leave anything to chance. He didn't delegate where it mattered. Sico respected that. That's why he'd chosen him for this.

Down below, one of the squad leaders—a young woman named Kara—was barking inventory to a comms technician. Her voice was clear and practiced, no-nonsense but not unkind. She had a reputation in the eastern patrols for being the kind of officer you wanted next to you when bullets started flying. Sico watched her mark off supplies with a thick pencil and toss the clipboard into the passenger seat of the second Humvee before slamming the door.

The Power Armor units were next—five suits lined up like titans in rest, their fusion cores humming quietly in their backs. A mechanic knelt beside each one, double-checking servo integrity, power flow, and onboard comms.

One of the suits—a heavily modified T-60 with reinforced shoulder plating and an old American flag painted faintly on the chest plate—belonged to Lieutenant Harrow, a former Brotherhood defector who'd joined Sanctuary two years ago after a bloody retreat from the Glowing Sea. He'd earned that armor piece by piece, salvaged from dead zones and old bunkers, and welded together with the grim patience of someone who knew they'd need every bolt.

Sico watched Harrow climb into his armor like a man slipping into a second skin. The servos hissed and locked, and when he stood, it was with the quiet menace of a walking tank. The heads-up display inside the helmet flashed faintly across the visor, then dimmed into standby green.

The others followed—two heavy gunners, one scout variant with lighter plating for speed, and a final unit carrying high-output Tesla arrays mounted to the shoulders. All powered up, all green.

Sico finally descended the stairwell from the HQ, his boots crunching against the fresh dusting of snow. The cold didn't bother him. It kept him sharp.

Robert met him halfway across the yard, his coat now fully buttoned, helmet in hand.

"Transports are locked in," he said. "We've got overwatch set for the tower line. I've got two sharpshooters going with the convoy and the third holding the ridge two clicks out."

Sico nodded. "Good. Humvee One leads, then the two trucks with supplies. Humvee Two runs rear guard. Power Armor splits—three in front, two in back. If we're lucky, MacCready's got a clear drop-in point. If not, you dig in and wait."

Robert adjusted his gloves. "We've got enough to hold a canyon for twelve hours if we need to."

"I don't want a canyon. I want Drenner," Sico said, his voice low. "But not at the cost of this squad."

Robert looked him in the eye. "Understood."

Sico turned, scanned the entire group one last time—the engineers now clearing snow away from the Humvee tires, the medics loading final crates into the last truck, the squad members doing last-minute checks on their weapons.

"You leave in fifteen," Sico said. "I'll be monitoring from the war room. If anything shifts—anything—I want word back fast."

Robert gave a sharp nod. "You'll have it."

Sico stepped aside as the squad began final preparations. He watched the ignition lights flicker to life on the trucks, saw the barrels of the Humvee tri-barrels rotate once in a dry cycle. The Power Armor units did a synchronized systems check, servos flexing with a mechanical whine that echoed off the courtyard walls.

Magnolia appeared at his side, silent for a moment before speaking.

"They're ready."

"They have to be," Sico murmured. "If MacCready's right about the base, Drenner's dug in deeper than any raider has in a decade."

Magnolia folded her arms, eyes on the convoy. "Then we bury him in his hole."

They stood in silence as the engines roared to life and the convoy rolled forward.

The wind kicked up dust and snow behind them, trailing ghosts in their wake. And Sico didn't move until the last truck had passed beyond the gate and the north patrol tower called in with the all-clear.

The cold didn't bother MacCready anymore. Not because he was tough—he'd never been the bravado type—but because after enough years of sleeping under collapsed skyways and crouching in ditches that smelled like dead dogs and old blood, cold just became part of the job.

Still, that morning had a bite to it.

A dry wind cut through the skeletal remains of the pine ridge, slipping past broken tree trunks like a blade through old cloth. Snow clung to everything—branches, boots, the creases of his gloves—and it didn't melt. Just sat there, stubborn. Even the sun, now climbing its reluctant way over the eastern horizon, did little to warm the earth.

MacCready lay flat against a patch of frozen dirt, his rifle balanced on a bipod and pointed downslope. Beneath him, maybe seventy meters away, was the lip of the basin—the hollowed-out crater that had once been a rail yard before the bombs turned half the tracks into slag. Now it was something else.

Drenner's base.

He and the Commandos had been watching it for two nights and a day. Living like shadows in the trees, shifting positions every three hours, using stripped-down recon drones and mirror flashes to relay movement. It wasn't glamorous. It was slow, patient work—the kind you didn't get medals for.

But it was vital.

"Anything new?" came a low whisper to his right.

MacCready didn't look up. "Same two sentries. Same patrol pattern. Thirty steps, pause, scan, backtrack. They swap every four hours. It's been clockwork."

Behind him, Keene adjusted his scope and exhaled slowly. He was the youngest of the team, a quiet sharp-eyed kid from Quincy who'd somehow survived three raids before ending up under MacCready's wing.

"They ever blink?" Keene asked.

"If they do, they do it with their eyes open," MacCready muttered. "Professional. And not slouching either. They're clean, well-fed. No radiation sickness, no twitchy behavior. These aren't raiders."

Keene grunted. "So mercs?"

"Or ex-mil," MacCready said.

He scanned the valley again through the scope. The perimeter was deceptively bare—a few sandbag lines, two raised towers made from scavenged I-beams, and a bunch of old train cars stacked into makeshift walls. But the real strength wasn't in what you could see.

It was what you couldn't.

"Weather control says we've got clear skies for another two hours," came a voice through the earpiece. It was Delaney—half tech expert, half demolitions, currently monitoring drone footage from a spot deeper in the woods. "After that, cloud cover moves in from the west. Could give us good concealment."

MacCready clicked once in response, signaling acknowledgment.

He'd already decided that if Robert didn't arrive before the clouds did, they'd have to move their vantage anyway. They were close enough now that scent alone might betray them if the wind shifted.

But for now, they waited.

He checked the comms log—no signal from Sanctuary yet. That was good. No panic meant the convoy was likely en route, if not already closing in.

"Shift change coming," Keene whispered.

MacCready adjusted his focus.

Sure enough, a second pair of sentries had appeared—one of them carrying a drum-fed light machine gun, the other a long-range rifle strapped to his back. They moved with discipline, exchanging low words with the current guards before taking up the same pacing pattern, like gears in a machine. The originals disappeared down a sloped ramp behind the sandbag wall—likely an access tunnel into the deeper bunker system.

"Clock that?" MacCready said quietly.

Keene nodded. "Yeah. Second pair has no insignia."

"Right. First pair had painted armbands. Probably squad leads."

"They're organized," Keene murmured.

"Yeah," MacCready said. "Too organized for a backwoods gang."

He turned slightly and made a quick set of marks on the small notebook tucked into his jacket sleeve. Arrows. Names. Shifts. It was old school, but reliable. No risk of static giving them away.

Then came the buzz.

It was faint—just a ripple in the earpiece. But MacCready recognized it instantly.

Robert.

"This is Echo Leader to MacCready. Confirming approach. Two minutes out from forward position. Ready for uplink."

MacCready keyed his mic. "Copy, Echo Leader. Hold position at Ridge Three. I'm sending Keene to guide you in. Keep the Humvees off the southern bluff—engine noise carries."

"Understood."

Keene didn't wait for an order—he was already crawling backward through the brush, moving with the kind of smooth, careful motions that only came from long nights hiding from things you couldn't outrun.

MacCready turned his attention back to the basin.

The new shift of guards had resumed their patrol. Inside the walls, movement was harder to see, but smoke curled from a few chimney stacks rising between the train cars. At least two fires, probably a cooking station and a generator room. There were no alarms, no shouted orders—just the kind of steady, quiet efficiency that came from routine.

But that, in itself, was dangerous.

Routine meant structure. Structure meant infrastructure. This wasn't a scavenger den. It was a fortress. A community of some kind. Raiders didn't do shifts. Raiders didn't build overlapping fire lanes.

MacCready frowned.

He reached down and opened the side panel on his pack, pulling out a sketchbook filled with his field notes. Flipping back several pages, he scanned through the list of observed frequencies, flag markers, and the most recent drone snapshots of the area. One image in particular caught his attention.

It was a blurry frame, captured just before dawn yesterday—a figure walking through the perimeter gate. Tall. Light armor. A rifle slung casually over one shoulder.

And on the arm: a faint triangle patch. Dark green.

He tapped the photo twice with his gloved finger, jaw tight.

That patch wasn't from Drenner's old raider crew.

It was from the 108th.

A pre-War remnant.

Or worse—someone pretending to be one.

Footsteps behind him made him turn.

Robert approached from the treeline, moving like a mountain in motion. His coat was already dusted with snow, and the black paint on his chest armor looked half-erased by frost. Behind him came the rest of Echo squad—silent, alert, their faces taut with that pre-mission tension that never quite went away.

"Talk to me," Robert said.

MacCready didn't waste time.

"Two entry points visible. One main gate on the east side, heavily guarded. One ramp behind the towers—they use it for shift rotation. Probably where their internal bunker system links up."

Robert crouched beside him, scanning the layout. "Guard strength?"

"Light on the surface. Six to eight visible at any given time. But it's the underground we're worried about. Smoke, signals, movement patterns—they've got at least thirty below. Maybe more."

Robert didn't flinch. "Power Armor?"

"None spotted yet," MacCready said. "But that doesn't mean they don't have one."

Robert nodded slowly. "We strike at night?"

"We wait for cloud cover. Give the Tesla team time to set up on the high ridge. I've already got Keene planting sensor beacons."

"And Drenner?"

MacCready looked at him.

"He's in there. I'd bet my last fusion cell on it."

Robert didn't speak for a moment. Then he looked to his squad, who were already spreading into position, digging in, setting up spotters and relays. The medics were laying down their kits behind snow-packed logs. The Power Armor team hunkered down behind a low outcropping, waiting for the order.

And the wind carried that silence like a breath held.

"Then let's smoke him out," Robert said.

MacCready allowed himself the smallest nod.

MacCready didn't move at first. He kept his eyes on the valley—its frostbitten calm, the false quiet that blanketed the basin like a shroud. But he felt the moment shift. Something in Robert's stance, in the way the snow around them suddenly seemed to hush more deeply. No birds, no breeze.

It was time.

MacCready slowly pulled his scope back and clipped it to the side of his rifle. "We'll lose light cover in thirty minutes," he murmured.

Robert looked over his shoulder at the squad. They were dug in tight, watching for the signal. Steam curled from mouths held shut with tension. One of the Tesla troopers flexed his fingers around the handgrip of his shoulder-mounted capacitor—coils glowing a dim blue as the charge spooled up.

Robert turned back to MacCready. "Then we strike now."

He tapped his earpiece twice—short, sharp. Across the ridge, Kara caught the signal and raised her arm. One clenched fist in the air. Movement rippled through the unit like a shared breath. Knees bent. Triggers checked. Shields armed. No shouting. No theatrics. Just motion.

MacCready keyed into his comms. "Delaney. Start the opener."

A second later, deep in the woods, a subtle pulse thrummed through the air. It came from beneath a patch of snow and moss where Delaney had buried a seismic pinger.

Then came the explosion.

A thunderous burst of orange fire cracked from the west side of the basin—exactly where the enemy's outer tower met the remains of a rusted train car. The shockwave lit the trees in jagged contrast, spraying shrapnel into the air. One of the guards was thrown into the side of the makeshift barricade, crumpling before he even had time to scream.

Chaos erupted.

Gunfire sparked from the towers, frantic and wide. Shouts echoed, garbled by panic and distorted by cheap radios. Figures scrambled from within the perimeter, weapons raised, but their pattern shattered—there was no coordination now. Just noise.

"Go!" Robert barked.

The Power Armor team surged forward, servos whining, boots punching through crusted snow like sledgehammers. Three from the front flanked right, spraying suppressive fire with miniguns that roared to life in a blaze of spent casings. Blue bolts of Tesla energy arced through the cold air, shorting out a turret before it could even swivel.

Robert moved with them, rifle tight to his chest, eyes locked on the main gate. "Push them back—keep 'em from regrouping!"

MacCready and his snipers rained hell from above. Keene dropped two lookouts with precise, silent cracks—both shots clean through the helmet. No flinch. No sound. Just meat and snow.

Another explosion lit up the left side of the basin—one of Delaney's charges, perfectly placed beneath a fuel tank. The blast kicked a storm of debris into the air, cutting visibility and sending defenders ducking behind cover.

Robert's voice came through the comms, hard and focused: "Split team—ramp side! Breach point is the tunnel!"

Kara and five others peeled off from the line, weaving through old train tracks and sliding behind debris piles. One threw a shock grenade—an arc mine that detonated midair and sent a cluster of raiders spasming to the ground, twitching as their weapons clattered from numb hands.

________________________________________________

• 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:-