568. Batch Of Supply Coming In

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Together, they walked the edge of the southern parapet, overlooking the beach and the broad sweep of ocean beyond. In the far distance, a shattered tanker sat rusting on a sandbar, half-eaten by waves and time.

Three days had passed since Sico's radio call to Sarah, and though the war drums had quieted for now, the echoes of battle still hung in the salty air. The Castle, bruised and battered, had begun the slow crawl back toward normalcy—if there was such a thing anymore. The fortress no longer smelled of blood and cordite, but of soldering metal, worn leather, hot oil, and cooking meat. Life, in all its stubborn resilience, was growing back through the cracks.

Reinforced plating now lined much of the damaged walls, scavenged from junkyards and reshaped in the Castle's machine shop. The mobile kitchen had doubled its output, feeding the workers with hot stew and dry biscuits, and new patrol schedules rotated like clockwork. But even amid the sense of recovery, Sico knew better than to take it as peace. It was only the breath between storms.

He stood at the northeast corner bastion just after midday, one hand resting on the rough edge of the stone as he watched a team of engineers near the motor yard. They moved slowly around 2 skeletal frame of a disassembled Sentinel tank—once the proud iron beasts of the Freemasons Republic, now just another victim of necessity. A tangle of wires, scorched plating, and a snapped left tread told the story without words.

Sico made his way down the winding ramp to the yard, nodding to passing soldiers as he approached the engineers. Sparks flew from a blowtorch held by a woman in coveralls streaked with soot and grease. She paused when she noticed him.

"President," she greeted, lifting her goggles. Her name was Harlow—senior engineer, formerly a scavver from Quincy with nerves of steel and a mouth to match.

Sico tilted his chin toward the ruined Sentinel. "How is it?"

"Yeah," Harlow replied, wiping her hands on a rag. "They are not getting back up."

He sighed, glancing over the remains. "Damage too bad?"

"Damage is one thing. We could fix the chassis, maybe rewire her main power relay, if we had time and the right parts," she said, voice clipped but not unkind. "Problem is the core. That fusion linkage is slagged clean through. No backups, no replacements. We'd be throwing good resources after bad."

Sico rubbed the back of his neck, squinting in the sunlight. "So they done?"

Harlow nodded. "Yeah. They out of commission for good. We've already stripped what we could—stabilizers, heat sinks, some of the neural network arrays. We're rerouting all of it into build another Sentinel. The boys are calling it the Bastion."

Sico arched a brow. "You're building a new one?"

"We have to," she said, leaning against a rusted support beam. "No point trying to repair two half-dead tanks when we can forge one damn good one. Bastion's coming along faster than I expected. We'll be field testing her within the week if we don't run dry on flux coils."

That brought a shadow to Sico's expression. "I'll talk to Sarah again tonight. If Warwick cache had anything intact, it's probably there."

Harlow nodded, wiping her forehead with her sleeve. "Just keep me posted. We've got two engineers rotating double shifts and a synth tech from Graygarden helping out. Bastion'll be the toughest thing in the Commonwealth once she's rolling."

"Good work, Harlow," he said, meaning it. "Let me know the second she's mobile."

"You got it."

Sico stepped away, the clanging of tools and whir of welding torches following him as he made his way back toward the central courtyard. Bastion. The name lingered in his mind. There was something symbolic about it—building something new from the wreckage of what was. Not just survival, but reinvention.

At the heart of the Castle, soldiers were assembling sandbags and weapon platforms. New recruits had arrived from Finch and Oberland, fresh-faced and wide-eyed, their energy lifting the weight of the older veterans who still bore the stiffness of healing wounds. He passed them by on his way to the war room, where Preston and Robert were waiting.

The old concrete briefing chamber smelled of coffee, gun oil, and sweat. A large table dominated the space, strewn with maps, radio logs, and ammo manifests. Preston stood with arms folded, his laser musket leaning against the wall nearby. Robert, younger and rougher, sat at the edge of the table with his sleeves rolled up, a fresh scar cutting across his jaw.

"Sico," Preston greeted, giving a slight nod. "You check in on the engineers?"

"Yeah," Sico replied, setting a mug of tea beside the map. "They've made the call. We're down one Sentinel. But we're getting Bastion."

Robert let out a low whistle. "One tank better than two limping ones, I guess."

"It better be," Sico said. "She's going to be the spine of our next forward operation."

He tapped the map with a finger. "Where are we on the southern sweep?"

"MacCready's team checked in from the edge of Warwick," Preston said. "They cleared a raider camp near the bend in the river. Took light casualties—nothing serious. Warwick's stable, and the cache Sarah mentioned was intact. They found flux coils, some spare capacitors, and a crate of old artillery shells."

"We're already hauling it up north," Robert added. "They'll be back by tomorrow."

Sico nodded, a grim smile playing at his lips. "That's the best news I've heard today."

Preston pointed to another part of the map. "Drumlin route's also secured. Robert's team ran recon last night. No Gunners, just scavvers. Some of them had intel on movement west of Lexington, though."

"Intel worth chasing?" Sico asked.

Robert hesitated. "Maybe. Could be a splinter group regrouping. Could be smoke and dust. We're still verifying."

Sico's eyes narrowed. "Keep me updated. Last thing we need is a resurgent cell on our flank."

The meeting continued another hour. They reviewed supply numbers, rotated garrison rosters, and coordinated the final stages of a trade convoy to Bunker Hill. Sico took it all in, weighed every word, every movement on the map, as if each pin might decide whether the Castle stood or fell.

By late afternoon, the war room cleared, and he returned to the upper levels, stopping briefly to check in on Rea in the radio room.

"Line's clear if you want it," she said, not even needing to ask.

He stepped up to the console, keyed the frequency, and called out, "Sanctuary Base. This is Castle Command. Come in."

It took less time this time. A warm, familiar voice crackled through the line.

"Hey, Sico. We just finished packing the last crate. Convoy's leaving tonight."

His lips quirked upward. "You really don't waste time, do you?"

Sarah laughed lightly. "I know what it means to you. And besides, Sanctuary's been running smoother now. Rina's overseeing the next batch of water filters, and we've got some new volunteers from Tenpines."

"That's good," Sico said, glancing out the window. "I talked to Harlow. The tank's gone, but Bastion's close. Flux coils from Warwick made the difference."

"Glad to hear it," she said. "Anything else you need?"

He paused. "Maybe not gear. Maybe not yet. But people. I'm thinking of restarting patrol outposts along the southern edge. Keep raiders and wildlife from creeping too close again. I'll need good officers to lead them."

Sarah went quiet for a beat, then replied, "I'll send you Nia and Ward. They've been itching to get back in the field."

Sico smiled faintly. "Perfect."

There was a silence on the line, not uncomfortable—just filled with everything unspoken.

Then Sarah asked, her voice lower, more personal, "You holding up?"

He looked down at his hands, calloused and dust-covered. "Most days. Nights are harder. I keep thinking about the ones we lost."

"We all do," she said softly. "But you brought the Castle back. You made it more than a relic."

He didn't reply immediately. Instead, he looked across the courtyard again. The dying sun cast a gold shimmer on the steel plating along the walls, and Bastion's half-built form glinted like a promise.

"We're not done," he said quietly.

"Not even close," Sarah agreed.

They signed off a moment later, and Sico lingered at the window again. The wind carried the sound of a guitar—someone strumming near the mess hall. A laugh rang out. Hammers echoed off stone. There was life here again, stubborn and defiant. He breathed it in.

The sun cracked the horizon with a slow, deliberate rise, its golden light stretching across the ocean in shimmering sheets as if trying to warm the salt-stung scars still fresh on the Castle walls. The Atlantic wind had calmed, trading its usual snarling gusts for a cool whisper that rustled the canvas tarps over supply stacks and tugged gently at the Freemasons Republic flag above the central tower. The sky was blue and cloudless—a rare, clean day in the Commonwealth.

By the time Sico stepped into the courtyard with a cup of roasted dandelion brew in hand, the Castle was already awake. The smell of fried brahmin strips wafted from the mess tent. Someone was shouting instructions near the southern stairs. A dozen or so recruits were doing calisthenics on the training field under Sergeant Hennings's gruff command. Across the yard, the skeleton of Bastion loomed taller than it had the day before—still unpainted, still wounded—but unmistakably rising.

He took a sip from the cup, then turned at the sound of tires crunching gravel from the east gate.

A dust plume rolled into view beyond the fortifications, and the rhythmic rumble of engines followed—a long, familiar convoy snaking its way down the bluff road. His breath caught in his chest for a moment, not from anxiety, but something harder to name. Relief, maybe. Fulfillment. The cavalry had arrived.

Six trucks. Three Humvees. All moving with a synchronized precision that spoke volumes of Sarah's organization. They were packed with everything from power cells to pre-war wiring kits, cloth rolls to reinforced plating, and food rations to fresh ammunition. Dunn's manifest had been followed to the letter.

Sico walked down to the lower gate just as Rea and Harlow were arriving from the opposite side. Preston and Robert weren't far behind, the latter carrying a clipboard and barking out orders to nearby laborers. As the lead Humvee ground to a halt and kicked up a storm of dust, the door popped open with a creak.

Sarah didn't step out—this wasn't her place to be today—but Nia did. Her tall frame was clad in a modified combat harness, shoulder tattoo exposed beneath her rolled sleeve, and a confident tilt to her head that hadn't changed since their Brotherhood days. Behind her came Ward, stocky and grim-eyed, with a scoped plasma rifle slung across his back. Both were seasoned, both ready.

Nia tossed Sico a lazy salute. "Reporting for duty, boss. Hope you've got better food than Finch Farm."

Sico chuckled and returned the salute with mock formality. "Depends on whether you like squirrel meat and stale biscuits."

Ward gave a small grunt. "Better than radroach."

The next half hour turned into an orchestrated ballet of logistics. Crates were unloaded, checked, and signed for. Dunn himself, clipboard in hand, walked beside Robert, confirming every item. The Castle's defenders formed a long chain from the truck beds to the armory, passing gear and supplies hand to hand. From combat rations to reactor-grade spare parts, every crate that disappeared into the stone depths of the armory felt like another stitch sewn into the Castle's wounded body.

Inside, lanterns lit the cavernous storage room as soldiers packed shelves and secured materials. Harlow oversaw the sensitive electronics, personally directing their placement into lead-lined vaults. Preston marked the medical kits into his field log, quietly pleased to see quantities triple what they'd had before the last attack.

"Look at this," he murmured to Sico, holding up a small black case marked with the faded initials M.T.F. "Med-Tek First-Class. This stuff's not just field grade. It's command grade. Probably salvaged from an old vault."

Sico opened the case gently. Inside lay sterile packs of stimpaks, blood regulators, antibiotic injectors, and a surprisingly intact surgical laser scalpel. He shut the lid again and nodded. "We'll put it in the command medbay. No telling when we'll need it."

By noon, the trucks were empty and the convoy team broke for a quick meal under the supply tent. The mess cooks had outdone themselves—bowls of mutt-chow stew with fresh wild onion, strips of fried mole rat belly, and sweetgrain crackers from the old vault stockpile. Sico joined the drivers, laughing quietly with them as they recounted the haul through Cambridge, dodging a storm of feral ghouls near the Charles.

"We didn't even slow down," one of them said between mouthfuls. "Ward dropped one through the windshield of the lead ghoul like it was nothing. No one even spilled their Nuka."

Ward gave a gruff shrug. "They move better when they're scared of you."

"Not much scares you, does it?" Nia teased.

He gave a rare grin. "Just you when you're pissed."

Sico stood with them for a while, boots planted, arms crossed, feeling the warmth of fellowship again. These were his people. Tough, scarred, good-hearted. Survivors. They didn't just follow orders—they believed in the cause. He could see it in the way they watched the walls, the way they took up tools and rifles without complaint. It wasn't about territory. It was about purpose. It was about belonging.

By early afternoon, the drivers and security detail began final checks for departure. Ward did a weapons sweep. Dunn secured the route manifest in his belt pouch. Nia lingered by the gate, talking quietly with Preston about her upcoming assignment—leading a southern patrol outpost along the coast road.

"I want eyes on the old MTA substation and that collapsed bridge," she was saying. "I don't trust those bogs. Too quiet lately."

"We'll coordinate air recon when we get another vertibird up," Preston replied. "Until then, use the radio outpost at the marsh bluff. Signal range is solid, and it's got clean water."

Nia nodded. "We'll be ready."

Sico came over as the last Humvee engine sputtered to life.

"Safe travels," he said, offering his hand to Ward. "Tell Sarah thank you."

Ward nodded. Dunn gave a tight smile. "We'll let her know. She's already working on the next batch of supply."

Sico stepped back as the vehicles rumbled into motion. The wind picked up as they pulled through the gate, blowing dust across the cobblestones. Soldiers saluted. One of the engineers gave a fist-pump. Harlow waved from the scaffolding by Bastion. The Castle stood a little taller in their wake.

He watched until the last taillight vanished around the bluff curve.

For a long moment, he stood alone in the shadow of the gate tower, watching the empty road.

Then he exhaled, long and low, and turned back toward the heart of the fortress.

The grit of the road still clung to Sico's boots as he turned away from the tower gate, the wind curling over his shoulders with the faint whisper of the departing convoy. The Castle had grown quieter again, but not empty—never empty. The air still buzzed with the low hum of generators, the muted clang of tools, and the layered cadence of a living, breathing fortress doing what it did best: recovering.

He made his way through the winding stone corridors, ducking beneath scaffolding where welders were still reinforcing the ceiling joists above the eastern wall. The walls had been patched since the Mirelurk assault, but the scars remained—cracks sealed with fusion-cured mortar, burn marks still visible in places where plasma fire had carved the stone. The further he walked, the cooler the air grew. The scent of concrete, oil, and gunmetal led him down into the armory proper.

The Castle's armory had once been a damp, dark cellar—little more than a repurposed bomb shelter where Minutemen had stored salvaged muskets and pipe rifles. But under his and Robert's direction, it had evolved into something formidable: reinforced concrete walls, magnetic vault doors repurposed from an old bank vault near Quincy, and rack upon rack of weapons organized by function and range. The lighting was still a bit harsh—vault-grade fluorescents casting a bluish hue over everything—but at least it was bright, and every inch of space was being used.

Dunn stood near the center table, elbow-deep in a fresh inventory list, the clipboard half buried beneath open crates and small piles of foam-packed ammunition tins. His dusty combat armor was unbuckled at the shoulders, hanging loosely around his waist as if he'd started peeling it off and forgotten midway through. He looked up when Sico entered, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.

"Boss," he said, setting down a box of 5mm rounds. "You missed the good part—Robert tried to count a shipment of flares as energy cells."

Sico smirked and stepped around a stack of mil-spec grenades. "Don't tell me. He gave you a two-hour lecture about luminous dye calibration?"

"More like three. And a half." Dunn shook his head. "Man can talk circles around a Brahmin."

Sico leaned a hand against the table, his eyes sweeping over the freshly inventoried goods. Pulse grenades, laser rifle mods, syringes labeled with Med-Tek serial numbers, and spools of copper wiring all sat arranged in logical, methodical order. Nothing wasted. Nothing lost.

"I came to ask," Sico began, his voice dropping a little lower, "is it enough?"

Dunn paused, then pulled a small notepad from his inner vest pocket. He flipped through it with stained fingers, then laid it on the table next to a map of the region.

"The stockpiles sent by Sanctuary," he said, tapping the top line, "will hold the Castle for at least three months. That's conservative. If the worst happens, like another full-scale Mirelurk assault or raider siege? We might burn through some of the stims and fusion cells quicker. But in normal terms—patrols, training, medical reserves, and wall defense drills? We're good."

Sico nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the gear. "And ammo?"

"We're full-up on ballistic," Dunn confirmed. "The last batch came straight from the Concord Foundry. Hollow-points, FMJ, even a few incendiary belts for the Sentinels. Energy cells—we've got enough microfusion for two months' worth of training and live response. Plasma cells are a bit lower, but Ward brought in a dozen more packs today. We can ration those for sniper use."

Sico turned that over in his mind. His fingers drummed lightly against the cold edge of the steel table. It wasn't just numbers. It was preparedness. Sanctuary had come through. Sarah had come through. But war wasn't tidy. War was chaos. He'd seen too many outposts fall because they thought they had enough.

"Food stores?"

Dunn reached for another clipboard, flipped it up. "Processed rations to last ninety days for a force of 150. More if we stick to two hot meals a day instead of three. Canned goods from Vault 81, mole rat jerky, wildgrain sacks, and a full crate of powdered nutrient bricks—ghastly stuff, but high-protein."

"I'll pass on the bricks," Sico muttered. "But good. Really good."

He took a deep breath and stepped back. The air in the armory always had a chill to it, as if the steel and stone were still remembering the bombs that had once fallen outside its walls. But today, it felt secure. It felt earned.

"Have your crew lock the vault again," he said. "No point keeping it open once the inventory's sealed."

"You got it, boss."

Sico lingered for a moment longer before nodding once and heading back up. The halls outside were still busy—Rea's engineers moving between workstations with armfuls of cables and sensor arrays, one of the young scouts carefully carrying a crate of signal flares, and a pair of artillery technicians tinkering with a rangefinder mount they'd pulled from a derelict tank near Quincy.

He stopped briefly in the courtyard. The sun was higher now, casting sharper shadows, but the sky remained clear. Bastion's frame now stretched above the northeast wall, half its armor plating in place, half still waiting. Rea had dubbed it the spine—the part that would support the energy capacitors and serve as the primary command-and-defense hub for the Castle once completed. The name had stuck.

He found Preston not far off, standing near the field tent that now doubled as a coordination post. A portable map board had been erected beside it, where patrol routes were being pinned and updated with ribbon tags and faded highway signs. Preston was in his long coat, hat pushed back, one arm resting on the board as he spoke to Nia's replacement—a wiry man named Calder who'd just been promoted to outpost liaison.

Sico waited until the conversation ended before stepping in.

"Calder ready for the field?" he asked.

Preston gave a half-grin. "As he'll ever be. He's green but steady. Spent the last year managing remote radios up in Salem. Knows the coastal cliffs like the back of his hand."

"Good. We'll need a steady hand with Nia's unit stretching thin."

He looked past the tent, across the training ground where Sergeant Hennings was still barking at the recruits. Half of them looked ready to collapse, but the others—particularly the woman with the buzz cut and the tall kid with a scar under his eye—were still standing tall. They'd make it.

"I just spoke with Dunn," Sico added. "We're stocked for three months. If nothing breaks down or explodes, we're secure until September."

Preston whistled low. "Sanctuary's stepping up."

"They are. Sarah's planning a follow-up drop in six weeks. Mostly tools, insulation material, maybe another generator if we can dig out the wiring."

Preston looked over at Bastion. "Good. Rea's been talking about setting up a thermal grid under the command barracks. Says it'll keep things warm in winter and take pressure off the grid."

"She always thinks ahead," Sico said. "Reminds me of someone."

Preston smirked. "She reminds me of someone, too. Bit meaner, though."

Sico chuckled. The wind kicked up again, cooler this time, pushing strands of his hair across his forehead. For a brief moment, he allowed himself the comfort of it—not just survival, but stability. The Castle stood. Stronger than it had been in decades. Not just because of walls and weapons, but because of people. All of them.

"Come nightfall," he said, "let's do a full drill. Wall stations, perimeter recon, emergency medbay sim. No surprises next time."

Preston nodded. "I'll notify the squad leaders. We'll run it dry first, then live."

"And tell Hennings to ease up after the evening rotation. No point in burning out the new blood before they've even fired a shot."

He turned to go, but Preston's voice caught him.

"Sico," he said, quieter now. "You've done right by us. All of this—"

Sico raised a hand, cutting him off. "We're not done yet."

Preston hesitated, then nodded again. "No. We're not."

Sico left the coordination post and made his way up the central tower. From the lookout platform, the whole world unfurled below him: the craggy bluffline to the east, the gleaming sheet of ocean beyond it, and the distant rise of what had once been Boston to the northwest. Smoke curled somewhere beyond the skyline. Not fire, not yet—just the constant, shifting breath of the wasteland.

________________________________________________

• 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:-