Fallout 4: Rebirth At Vault 81

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And in that quiet moment, with the scent of blood and ash still thick in the air, the President of the Freemasons Republic resolved something silently to himself.

Preston wiped a smear of blood from his jaw with the back of his glove as the soldiers resumed their positions. The air remained sharp and brittle from the adrenaline spike, but the storm had passed—at least for now. He turned to Sico, his eyes shadowed with something more dangerous than anger: calculation.

"We need to do an internal check," he said, voice low but direct. "Inside the Freemasons Republic."

Sico's brow furrowed as he leaned against the Humvee, still cradling his ribs with one arm. "You think someone in the Republic sold me out?"

Preston's lips thinned. "It's not just what I think. It's what that setup back there implies. That sniper didn't get lucky. He knew the route, knew the time, knew you'd be limping and exposed after the crash. That's not a raider guess or a Wasteland gamble. That's precision—someone fed him details."

Sico didn't answer immediately. His thoughts raced down channels he rarely allowed himself to wander: betrayal, politics, ambition. He'd spent years building the Republic on principles of unity, shared burden, and unrelenting survival. But even unity had cracks when ambition was involved. And power? Power brought termites.

Preston kept going. "Someone knew you were coming back to Sanctuary. Knew your route. And had enough authority or access to leak that info to a professional trigger. We need to ask: who benefits if you're dead? Who steps up next in the chain? Who's got eyes on the presidency and maybe doesn't want to wait for the next Congress vote?"

Silence. Heavy as lead.

Then Sarah's voice cut in, rough and skeptical. "No. I don't think this was about politics."

Both men turned toward her. She stood at the edge of the truck bed, arms crossed, still keyed up from the engagement. Her tone wasn't dismissive—just focused, deliberate.

"If this were about power," she continued, "the sniper wouldn't have tried to kill you from 300 meters out in a forest. That's high risk, low guarantee. No confirmation kill. No control of the aftermath. That's not how a coup happens."

Sico tilted his head. "Go on."

"I think…" She paused, eyes flicking across the convoy as the troops regrouped. "I think someone wanted you captured, not killed. I think they were counting on you surviving that crash and being vulnerable—isolated. They leak your route, the sniper takes out a few guards, causes confusion, you're taken in the chaos. Then the real plan begins. Ransom. Negotiation. Maybe even political leverage. Not a clean assassination."

Preston narrowed his eyes. "So, you're saying this was a kidnapping attempt?"

Sarah nodded. "Most likely. And think about it—there were no follow-up shooters. No ambush team. That sniper was solo. Just one guy, elite gear, not Brotherhood but Brotherhood-level tech. It reeks of a hired gun, not a political assassin."

Sico leaned heavier against the Humvee, exhaling slowly. Pain flickered through his chest, but it was muted beneath the growing churn of strategic fury. He wasn't sure which was worse—the idea of a political betrayal from within, or the implication that some outside group thought they could hold him hostage and bargain with the Republic.

"Then who?" he asked. "Who could've paid for this?"

Sarah didn't answer immediately. Preston did.

"Plenty of people would love to put a leash on you," he said. "Raiders who lost territory. Slavers pissed about our Sanctuary embargo. Hell, even some ex-Minutemen with a grudge from the old days. But if the shooter had Brotherhood kit, maybe we're looking at a splinter cell. Someone who didn't get the memo that we're not the enemy anymore."

Sico shook his head slowly. "Or someone who never believed the peace to begin with."

The thought hung there, rotten and pulsing. The Brotherhood had officially signed the Concord Accord last year, aligning with the Freemasons Republic in a fragile peace after nearly a decade of skirmishes and political stonewalling. But not every Knight or Paladin had been thrilled with that compromise. The Republic had absorbed many wastelanders—ghouls, synths, ex-raiders. To some Brotherhood traditionalists, that was heresy.

"Either way," Preston said, "we start inside. Internal Affairs needs to comb the movement logs. Who requested convoy manifests? Who knew the return timeline? We cross-check that with comms traffic—look for any unauthorized transmissions in the last seventy-two hours."

"I'll call Marcus and the ops team," Sico said, straightening slowly. "Full lockdown on all outbound data until we get a clean trace."

"I'll help run interrogations," Preston added. "Quiet ones."

Sarah frowned but said nothing. That part of the job—digging for rot—was always necessary, but never pleasant.

As MacCready approached, still brushing twigs from his armor, he added fuel to the growing fire. "That rifle? I ran a partial serial check. It's been wiped mostly, but it traces faintly to a batch used in the Brotherhood's Sentinel recon units. Not local. West or Midwest chapter, maybe Chicago or Kansas division."

Sico's jaw clenched. "They'd never deploy that far east without clearance."

"Unless someone went rogue," MacCready offered.

The idea settled like ash. A rogue Brotherhood agent, a paid contractor, a splinter mercenary from the Midwest—whatever the truth, the sniper hadn't acted alone. He'd been sent.

And whoever had sent him thought Sico was worth the price of a war.

"Sarah," Sico said, glancing her way. "What's the probability that someone in our own camp leaked the schedule?"

She hesitated. "More than zero. Someone had to know you were moving. Maybe not your exact path, but enough to track a convoy time window. Could've been a civilian clerk. Could've been someone at Castle command. It doesn't have to be high-ranking to be dangerous."

"Then we clean house," Sico said. "Start quiet. Nothing gets out. Not even to the Congressional office staff."

Preston raised an eyebrow. "You want us to audit the presidential office logs too?"

Sico nodded. "Everything. No exceptions. I don't care how loyal they've been. I want to know who knew what, when, and who might've slipped."

Sarah crossed her arms. "That includes Sanctuary. Vault 81. Bunker Hill. Anyone who might've picked up chatter."

Sico glanced toward the treeline, the wind whispering through burnt pines and crumbling ruins. The road to Sanctuary was still a few hours out, and now it felt twice as long.

"I want two teams," he said. "MacCready and Sarah—you take half the squad, sweep the area, recover whatever tech the sniper left. If he had a relay, a data chip, anything—we trace it. Preston, ride with me in the lead Humvee. I want to coordinate comms and begin draft reports before we hit the gates."

"And the body?" Sarah asked.

Sico looked toward the sheet that had been draped over Corporal Jack.

"Full rites. We take him home."

They moved out an hour later, with the convoy tighter than before. Sentinel walked point, infrared sweeps washing the trees in thin red lines. The weight of the sniper's bullet still hung over them—not just the blood it spilled, but the truth it cracked open. Someone out there wanted leverage. Someone believed the Republic could be threatened through its leader.

The Humvee's suspension groaned as it bounced over a jagged patch of broken road, its armored frame rattling faintly with each jolt. Inside the cabin, the air was hushed but tense. Sico sat in the passenger seat, one arm still pressed against his ribs beneath the flak vest, the other gripping the doorframe with white-knuckled pressure. Preston rode beside him, his eyes scanning the road ahead while a silent Sentinel trudged in step with the convoy, its optic sensors glowing faintly in the gathering dusk.

Behind them, the rest of the Freemasons Republic convoy rolled slowly through the ruined trees and battered outposts that marked the edge of greater Sanctuary territory. Sarah and MacCready had taken their squad west, toward the forested ridge where the sniper had perched like a carrion bird. The sweep would take time—maybe hours—but Sico knew Sarah wouldn't stop until she'd combed every square inch of brush and dirt for signs of enemy tech.

Inside the Humvee, the silence grew heavy. Sico finally broke it.

"When we get to Sanctuary," he said, voice hoarse but steady, "I want Piper brought to the radio tower."

Preston glanced sideways. "You sure? That's… making it public."

"I'm not just sure," Sico said, sitting up straighter despite the pain pulsing in his chest. "I'm done whispering in corners while people try to put bullets in my head. If someone wants me dead, or dragged off to some cage in the Glowing Sea, then let them hear their name echo through the Commonwealth. No more shadows."

Preston's jaw tensed. "You're talking about the Radio of Freedom."

Sico nodded. "Exactly. I want Piper to broadcast it wide. Not a rumor. Not a leak. A direct message from me, to every settlement, every scavver, every trader, every raider with half a brain. We tell them the truth—someone tried to kill or kidnap the President of the Freemasons Republic. They failed. And now we want names."

Preston exhaled, slow. "And if nobody talks?"

"They will," Sico replied. "We offer a reward. Caps, supplies, even protection. I want every rat who whispered about this hit job to start wondering if their friend's going to sell them out. I want every mercenary who's ever taken a contract to know there's a bigger payout for loyalty than betrayal."

Preston looked back at the rest of the convoy through the rear window, watching the troop trucks jostle behind them. "Won't this spook Congress?"

"Good," Sico said. "Let them get spooked. We need to shake the tree. Whoever's behind this thinks I'm a pawn on the board. Time they learned I built the board."

The road curved slightly, revealing the faint silhouette of the Sanctuary skyline in the far distance—guard towers, radio spires, the telltale glow of power nodes along the upper walls. The return was near. But the sense of safety it used to bring was gone, smothered beneath the weight of betrayal and buried corpses.

Preston finally nodded. "Alright. I'll contact Piper when we hit the comms net. She's always ready for a message, but this… this'll shake some cages."

Sico looked out the window again, at the scorched woods and wind-torn grasslands of the northern Commonwealth. His jaw clenched tight.

"I want every Wastelander to know what happened. No filters. No diplomatic gloss. Just the truth. The Republic's President was targeted in an assassination—or a kidnapping. And we're not letting it slide. We're going to find out who planned it, who paid for it, and why."

He turned back to Preston, eyes dark beneath the bruise blooming over his cheekbone.

"And I want Piper to say it like I'm sitting there with her, looking dead into the mic."

They arrived at Sanctuary two hours later, headlights cutting through the deepening dusk. The main gate opened on approach—two Sentinels standing tall on either side, their hydraulic legs shifting as they scanned the returning convoy. Troops on the walls saluted; others leaned over to catch a glimpse of Sico, visibly relieved at his return.

But Sico didn't wave back. His expression remained unreadable as the convoy rolled into the outer yard and came to a grinding halt. Technicians, medics, and aides swarmed toward the Humvees, but Sico was already moving, waving off the stretcher and nodding for Preston to follow.

"Find Piper," he muttered. "Tell her it's time."

Piper Wright had barely stepped into the tower's third-floor broadcast room when the door burst open again. Preston strode in, dust-streaked and grim-faced.

"Sico wants a broadcast. Now."

She blinked. "A regular update or—?"

"No. Personal message. From him."

She frowned. "Alright. He okay? I heard something happened out on the return—"

Preston simply nodded to the hallway. "You'll hear it from him directly."

A few minutes later, Sico entered the room, limping slightly but upright, still in his worn combat armor, jacket torn at the shoulder from the crash. Piper rose from her chair, mouth parting with worry.

"Jesus… You look like you walked out of a burning building."

Sico didn't smile. "Close enough."

He made his way to the mic and sat slowly, ignoring the creak in his ribs. He gestured at Piper to start recording.

"You're live in thirty seconds," she said, her voice softer now.

He nodded, staring at the glowing red light on the board. When it blinked to green, he leaned into the mic and spoke.

"This is Sico, President of the Freemasons Republic. If you're hearing this, it means our emergency channel has been activated across all towers on the Freedom Network.

Earlier today, I was targeted in what we now believe was an attempted assassination—or an organized kidnapping. I was ambush when return alone to Sanctuary by my Humvee was struck by a high-powered missile and almost got kidnap, then when I was rescue and when we want to get into our vehicle, one of our man were shot by sniper fire using Brotherhood-grade recon gear. One of our own, Corporal Jack, was killed protecting my life.

This was not a random attack. It was planned. Coordinated. Someone knew where I would be and when. Someone thought they could break the Republic by taking its leader.

Let me make something clear. I'm not broken. I'm not gone. And this Republic doesn't crumble when you shoot at it. It gets stronger.

I'm offering a reward—5,000 caps. To anyone who brings us information leading to the person or people who planned this attack. Names. Locations. Contracts. Anything.

If you're a merc and you were approached—talk. If you overheard something in a settlement—talk. If your friend's bragging about knowing the next move—make him regret it.

Because we're coming for the truth. Quietly, or loudly.

To those responsible, wherever you are, I have one message: you missed."

The light dimmed as the transmission ended. Piper sat back, eyes wide, the gravity of the message hanging thick in the air.

"Damn," she muttered. "That'll light some fires."

Sico stood slowly, nodding. "Good. Let them burn."

Preston stepped in from the hall. "We'll start the rotation. Make sure it plays every hour across the relay."

"Make it every thirty minutes," Sico corrected. "And make the reward real. Send out the funds to Piper's people—we'll front it from the Reserve account. Pull from regional taxes if we need to."

Preston didn't argue. He only nodded, already turning to issue the command.

As Sico limped out of the tower, the stars were beginning to break through the clouded night sky. He looked out over the rooftops of Sanctuary, where the wind rustled through freshly repaired walls and distant fires burned low in cookpots and signal beacons.

He could feel it now. The tension rising in the soil. The shift in the people. The Republic had survived war, famine, Brotherhood standoffs, even synth revolts. But this was different. This was personal.

Somewhere out there, in the irradiated dust of the Wasteland, someone thought they could lay hands on him and turn the future of the Republic into leverage. They'd underestimated not just the strength of his command, but the will of the people. Sanctuary was no longer a dream. It was a reality, defended by thousands who believed in something more than survival.

And now, they'd believe in vengeance.

Back at the convoy depot, Sarah returned hours later with MacCready and the sweep team. She was grim, her gloves stained from digging through the underbrush.

She met Sico at the town hall just before midnight, where he stood over a table littered with recovered debris. A broken rifle scope. A chipboard splinter. The snapped length of a Brotherhood tactical lanyard.

"We found a relay chip," she said without preamble. "Deep in the ridge, buried under the nest. It was encrypted—Brotherhood protocol—but it was wired to an off-frequency uplink. Civilian-range booster. Someone didn't want to trace it back to any known Brotherhood base."

Sico looked up sharply. "So not an official hit."

"More likely a rogue agent," Sarah said. "Someone using Brotherhood hardware but sidestepping the chain of command."

MacCready tossed a small field notebook onto the table. "Found this in the brush, half-burnt. Most pages gone. But one note still legible."

Sico picked it up, squinting at the charred ink.

"Contact awaits further confirmation. Extraction not authorized until asset is secure."

Sarah crossed her arms. "Extraction. Not elimination."

"So Sarah was right," Preston said from the corner. "Kidnap job. Not assassination."

Sico stared down at the note for a long time, then whispered, "Asset."

Not President. Not enemy. Not even Sico.

Just an asset.

He dropped the notebook onto the table and looked at the others, one by one. "Then let's make sure they learn," he said, voice like iron. "I'm not for sale. And I'm nobody's goddamn asset." The wind howled outside, but inside the Republic's capital, a storm was already brewing—one that wouldn't pass quietly.

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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:-