588. Buying Materials

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Sico stopped just outside the new gate frame. It didn't look like much yet—two tall beams with nothing between them, barely ten feet high. But it was enough.

The next morning came heavy and warm, a curtain of silver fog draped over Sanctuary's outer fields.

It wasn't quiet. Not anymore. The new day was met with the low grind of machinery, the rhythmic crack of hammers, and the clatter of tools against steel. The smell of sweat and concrete dust mingled with breakfast rations steaming from the kitchen tents. Voices carried—sharp orders, tired jokes, the occasional outburst of laughter that didn't feel out of place anymore.

Sanctuary was moving.

Sico wiped a smear of rust from his forearm as he stepped back from the eastern rebar line. His gloves were hanging from his belt, damp from the morning's labor, and the back of his collar was dark with sweat. Sarah had just finished checking the tension on a brace support and was now hunched over a blueprint with two engineers, her ponytail pinned up high and swaying with every nod.

He was about to walk over when a breathless runner approached—Jansen, one of the scouts, a lean, long-legged kid who could cross Sanctuary from edge to edge in five minutes if you gave him a purpose.

"Sico!" Jansen called out, boots crunching on the gravel. "Caravan. Coming in from the west. Big one."

Sico straightened. "How big?"

"Three brahmin. Five traders, maybe more. Said they heard the broadcast. Brought materials. Want to sell."

That was enough.

He nodded once, already scanning the scaffold for Sarah.

"Get them held outside the checkpoint," he told Jansen. "No weapons drawn, but keep eyes sharp. I'll be there in five."

"Yes, sir."

As the scout turned and sprinted off, Sico swung toward the scaffolding and called out.

"Sarah!"

She looked up immediately.

"We've got a caravan. West gate. They're here to trade materials."

Without another word, she rolled up the blueprint and handed it to one of her engineers. "Keep laying the supports. I'll catch up."

By the time Sico had reached the plaza by the kitchen tents, Sarah had already joined him, wiping her hands on a stained rag. She wore her work harness and carried a sidearm, but her eyes were sharp and alert—she knew the risks of strangers showing up this soon after a battle.

"Magnolia," Sico muttered, glancing toward the northern housing units. "We need her too."

Sarah didn't hesitate. "I'll get her."

Magnolia wasn't just a singer anymore.

Sure, she still performed when the electricity held and the speakers weren't shorted. Her voice could still smooth the edges off a bad day like whiskey and silk. But now she held another title: Treasurer of the Freemasons Republic. A job no one had expected her to want—and one she handled with precision, charm, and the kind of no-nonsense attitude that made her indispensable in the vault of Sanctuary's finances.

Sico and Sarah found her by the hydro shed, speaking with a local gardener about seed exchanges. She wore a long green coat over her usual dress, her signature red lipstick muted to a more practical tone. When Sarah explained, Magnolia gave a slow nod and adjusted her gloves.

"Good," she said. "Let's see what this broadcast stirred up."

They made their way to the western checkpoint.

The fog had thinned some by the time they arrived, and the rising sun gleamed faintly off the metal slats of the half-completed wall. The checkpoint wasn't pretty—just two sandbagged towers and a long stretch of mesh fencing—but it was manned and alert. Two guards flanked the entry gate, weapons shouldered but not aimed.

Beyond them stood the caravan.

Three brahmin, each loaded with salvaged materials wrapped in canvas and bound in copper wiring, waited patiently as their handlers whispered to calm them. The traders—five men and women dressed in layered patchwork armor and dust-caked scarves—stood in a loose circle, all eyes on the approaching trio from Sanctuary.

The man at the front was tall, dark-skinned, with a rust-colored duster and a laser musket slung over his back. His beard was streaked with gray, but his posture was straight and easy. Not aggressive. Just cautious.

Sico stepped forward first.

"Welcome to Sanctuary," he said. "You heard the call?"

The man nodded once. "Name's Royce. Caravaneers outta Prospect Hill. We've got two tons of sheet steel, some bundled rebar, six full spools of copper wiring, and some reinforced paneling from a downed vertebrate engine core. Heard you needed parts. We need caps."

Behind Royce, a woman with a short ponytail and a scrap-welded shotgun across her back nodded. "Got a few crates of intact ceramic insulation, too. Brotherhood tech, pre-war."

Sarah whistled low.

Magnolia stepped forward then, already producing her ledger from inside her coat.

"Let's talk numbers," she said, her tone crisp but welcoming. "We're paying fair trade. You get full market value on the steel and rebar, capped bonus for the copper if it's unspliced."

Royce smiled faintly. "Not our first time haggling, ma'am."

Magnolia arched a brow. "Good. That means we can skip the theatrics."

They moved to the side near a collapsible table where Magnolia began examining samples from each cart. Sarah ran her hand over the vertebrate plating, nodding approvingly at the thickness.

"This'll do for the second gate's support frame," she muttered.

Sico, meanwhile, watched the rest of the caravan. They were calm, steady. No signs of hidden weapons. No quick glances or coded whistles. Just tired traders who'd taken a chance on the promise of payment.

"You hear anything on the road?" he asked one of the younger traders. "Raiders? Gunners?"

The woman, no older than twenty-five, shook her head. "Quiet, mostly. But there's movement around the old General Atomics plant. Saw a group with Institute colors passing through—three days back."

Sico frowned. "Synths?"

"Didn't get close enough to check."

"Thanks."

Back at the table, Magnolia clapped her hands together.

"Alright. Deal's done. Caps will be counted and delivered by sundown. You've earned a warm meal and some place to sleep while we unload. You're staying the night."

Royce smiled wider this time. "Didn't come here expecting hospitality, but we won't say no."

Sarah gestured toward a small lot just past the checkpoint.

"Park the brahmin there. We'll get a team to help unload."

Sico watched as the gates opened. The traders began guiding their animals inside. One of the children from the labor crews ran over to offer water. It felt right—welcoming. Practical. Human.

Magnolia turned to him as the caravan rolled in.

"You think this will be the first of many?"

"I hope so," Sico said.

And he meant it.

By midday, the brahmin had been unloaded and the scrap sorted into measured piles beside the scaffold lines. Sturges nearly burst into tears when he saw the insulated paneling.

"Goddamn," he muttered, running a finger along the edge. "This is Brotherhood military grade. I can rig it for the turret towers."

"Get started," Sico said. "Before someone tries to trade it for jet."

The rest of the workers took a brief break under the shade of the half-rebuilt northern wall, chewing on salted jerky and passing around warm bottles of water. Sarah and Royce leaned against one of the carts, comparing wasteland routes and safe zones. Magnolia scribbled something into her ledger, her lips moving silently as she tallied values and double-checked outgoing caps.

The midday sun had climbed high and fierce, baking the fresh-set cement around the new eastern gate into a flaky skin. The air shimmered just slightly above the steel beams as if the earth itself was holding its breath.

Sanctuary was holding its rhythm. A cadence of rebuild, of motion and purpose.

Sico had just handed off a bottle of purified water to a young boy who had been lugging tools since morning when he heard it—boots again. Fast ones. Coming up the slope near the western gate checkpoint.

"Runner!" someone called from the scaffold.

He turned. Jansen again.

The kid was practically airborne as he sprinted through the main path, his coat flapping open, arms pumping like pistons. His cheeks were flushed, and there was a kind of urgency in his gait—not panic, but definitely tension.

Sico met him halfway, Sarah already approaching from the rebar piles and Magnolia slipping her ledger into her coat pocket.

Jansen barely stopped, panting.

"Another caravan," he gasped. "Coming in fast. Six brahmin. More people. Two with heavy weapons. Might be security, might not. They're maybe ten minutes out. Heading straight for the west checkpoint."

Sico didn't hesitate. "How many?"

"Couldn't count exact. At least eight. Maybe more following."

Sarah gave a low whistle. "That's nearly double the first group."

Magnolia adjusted her gloves, eyes narrowing. "Second caravan, this fast? Word's moving quicker than we thought."

Sico turned to Sarah. "Get Preston. I want him at the gate with two squads—non-aggressive posture. Full armor. No weapons raised unless provoked."

She was already moving.

"And grab MacCready, too," Sico called after her. "We'll want his eyes on the rooftops."

He turned to Jansen. "You sure they weren't trying to flank or circle?"

The scout shook his head quickly. "They're moving like traders. Dusty. Tired. Slow brahmin pace. Not sneaky."

Magnolia exhaled through her nose. "But well-armed. That's what bothers me."

Sico nodded once. "Let's go meet them."

The western checkpoint was already coming to life when they arrived.

The first caravan—Royce and his crew—had paused their unloading and now stood just inside the gate, watching warily. Royce himself had moved toward one of the guard towers, hand resting on the butt of his musket. He didn't look afraid. Just alert.

"Something I should know about?" he asked Sico as they passed.

"More company," Sico replied. "Stay calm."

Royce gave a small nod and backed off.

Preston was already on-site when they got there, his armor half-buckled, laser rifle strapped but not raised. He stood beside two of the Republic's elite—Commandos in gray plates, eyes hidden behind visors. They weren't aiming, but they weren't relaxed either.

"Got visual," called one of the watchmen above.

Sico climbed the nearest sandbag pile and lifted a set of binoculars.

There they were.

Six brahmin, like Jansen said. Covered in tarp bundles, crates of scrap, wiring coils and fuel drums. The caravan was led by a woman—tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar down the left side of her cheek and a chest plate that looked like it had once belonged to a BoS Knight. Behind her came a man in a crimson cloak over salvaged synth armor, and two other guards flanking the wagons, their weapons holstered but visible.

No banners.

No emblems.

Just a caravan, dust-covered and weary.

Sico dropped from the sandbags. "Let them approach. No sudden moves."

When the newcomers reached the outer perimeter, the lead woman raised a hand in peace and called out, "Traders from Ashland Bend! Heard you folks were buying!"

Sico stepped forward, flanked by Preston and Magnolia. The guard detail held their ground but didn't move.

"You're a long way from Ashland," Sico said.

The woman smiled—not warmly, but respectfully. "Name's Bren. We heard the broadcast three days ago, bounced through Minutemen relay north of Somerville. Didn't think we'd get here before dark."

Magnolia stepped forward, always the one with numbers on her tongue. "What are you carrying?"

Bren nodded toward her wagons. "Steel plating, industrial cable, three fusion batteries, and enough cement mix to drown a Deathclaw. And… turrets."

Sarah, who had arrived moments earlier, narrowed her eyes. "What kind of turrets?"

"Two automated Mark V mounts. Not functional yet, but the cores are intact."

That turned heads.

Even MacCready, who had just joined them with dust still clinging to his scarf, gave a low whistle from atop the nearest roof.

"Where'd you get those?" Sico asked, tone cool.

"Scavenged them from an old Gunners' outpost south of the river," Bren said plainly. "Place was abandoned. Probably cleared out during the Institute raids."

Sico studied her for a moment.

No twitch. No shift. She was either telling the truth or very good at lying.

"You want caps for the whole haul?" he asked.

"Caps. Food. Clean water. Maybe a night's safety behind that wall of yours."

Magnolia spoke next, flipping open her ledger.

"I can tally and appraise," she said, "but we'll need to inspect the turrets and verify the battery charge levels."

"You're welcome to," Bren said.

There was a pause.

Sico made his decision.

"Gate opens," he said.

Two guards stepped back and slowly pulled the checkpoint fence open. The second caravan moved in, brahmin lowing, traders nodding thanks as they passed.

Royce watched them from a distance, his expression unreadable.

Sico met his eye and gave a slight nod.

Royce returned it—barely.

Within the hour, the area just outside the scaffold line had turned into something that resembled a makeshift trading yard. The first and second caravans parked on opposite sides, crates half-unloaded, workers and soldiers crisscrossing the area with clipboards and makeshift scales.

Sturges inspected the turrets personally, fingers humming along the interior mounts with reverent precision. "Gotta swap the circuit boards," he muttered, "but this one's clean. This'll mount nice on the southern tower."

Sarah gave her approval on the steel quality. "Better than the last shipment."

Magnolia finalized the payment arrangements—caps where requested, food and ammo packs where needed. Water was doled out generously, and Sico made sure that the newer traders were assigned tents for the night.

No fights. No bad blood. Just business.

By late afternoon, it was clear:

The broadcast had worked.

Not once.

But twice.

And maybe more were coming.

Sico stood near the central lot as shadows grew long and a cool breeze rolled off the river. His shirt clung to him, soaked from labor and sun, but his eyes were clear. He watched traders break bread with guards near the fire pits. Children ran past brahmin as if none of it were strange. A group of volunteers unrolled blueprints for the third watchtower.

As the afternoon wore on and the sun sank behind the ragged skyline of the Wastes, casting long golden streaks across Sanctuary's makeshift trading yard, the energy that had driven the day began to shift. Workers slowed but didn't stop, their pace measured now—not out of weariness, but the careful focus of people who knew how to stretch the last hours of light before the lanterns had to be lit. The clang of hammers was quieter now. The voices lower. But it was still motion. Still forward.

Sico stood near the edge of the scaffold, watching it all unfold like a slow orchestration. The air smelled like burnt copper and cement dust, and behind it, the sharper scent of clean steel and exhaust from the turret cores that Sturges was still calibrating by hand. Laughter from one of the fire pits drifted through the breeze. He could hear MacCready cracking a joke to Royce somewhere behind the tents.

Then he heard boots approaching from the side—two sets. Confident strides. One light. One heavier.

He didn't need to turn.

Magnolia and Sarah flanked him a second later, their presence familiar and grounding, like the two ends of a bridge finally rejoined.

Sarah was first to speak, her voice a little hoarse from a full day of ordering, climbing, lifting. Her gloves were still tucked in her waistband, fingers stained with oil and rust. She exhaled, sharp and satisfied.

"All the materials are in," she reported, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead. "Turrets are prepped for reassembly. Cement mix is under cover, and we've got the steel and rebar locked up tight in storage. Everything's where it should be."

She nudged him lightly with her shoulder. "Took a damn army, but it's done."

Sico glanced at her with the faintest curve of his lips. "And not a single broken wheel this time."

Sarah snorted. "Don't jinx it."

Then Magnolia stepped up on his other side. She wore her coat again, the soft green fabric now dusted in ash from the brahmin wagons and streaked with smudged ink from her ledger. Her clipboard was in her hands, but her eyes weren't on it—they were on Sico.

"Want the number?" she asked dryly.

He raised a brow. "That bad?"

"Could've been worse," she replied. "Could've been better, too. But it got us everything we needed and then some."

She flipped the ledger open and tapped the bottom of the final page.

"Total expenditure for today's procurement: twenty-three thousand, four hundred and fifty-six caps."

Sico gave a long, low whistle. "That includes the turret cores and the fusion batteries?"

"All accounted," Magnolia confirmed. "I even knocked the price on the batteries down by fifteen percent. Bren was too tired to argue."

Sico crossed his arms, considering it. "We've got enough left?"

"We've still got a good buffer," she said. "We won't be broke tomorrow. But it's a line in the sand now. If another caravan rolls in asking for gold-plated power armor, we'll have to get creative."

Sarah added, "The new turret base alone is gonna soak up power like a Deathclaw with a thirst. Might want to talk to Al about the reactor grid tomorrow."

"Already on my list."

The three of them stood there in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the last of the second caravan settle in for the night. One of the younger traders tossed a chunk of bread to a kid walking by with an empty bowl. Someone near the wall had started strumming a salvaged guitar. The string was out of tune, but no one seemed to mind.

Then Sarah said, more quietly, "You know what this means, right?"

Sico tilted his head toward her. "What?"

Her voice dropped just a little. "We're not invisible anymore."

Magnolia gave a soft, mirthless chuckle. "We were never invisible. But now they know we're here. And alive. And armed."

"And organized," Sarah added. "That's the part that'll scare them."

Sico nodded slowly.

"Let them be scared."

Because that was the truth, wasn't it?

The Freemasons Republic had survived the Institute's assault. They'd buried their dead, patched up the wounded, and rebuilt part of their wall in forty-eight hours. They'd sent a message out into the wilds, and the wilds had answered—not with chaos, but with trade.

And that changed everything.

It meant Sanctuary was more than a stronghold.

It was a beacon.

The wind picked up slightly, rustling through the sheeted fencing and fluttering one of the worksite banners—still stitched from old vault uniforms and curtain scraps, still bearing that cracked white star that had come to mean something more than pre-war patriotism.

"Food tonight?" Magnolia asked, breaking the quiet.

Sarah glanced toward the mess tents. "Rice and beans. With mystery meat."

Magnolia winced. "God, again?"

Sico grinned faintly. "That's the cost of victory."

Sarah nudged him again. "You sound like a general."

He shook his head. "Just a guy trying to keep his people standing."

"Well," Magnolia said, brushing dust from her shoulder. "You're doing alright."

That meant something, coming from her.

She tucked the ledger under her arm. "I'm going to give the final numbers to the Council before I sleep. You two keep the walls from falling in."

Sarah raised a lazy salute. "Yes, ma'am."

And Magnolia was off, her coat flaring behind her as she strode toward the center barracks.

Sico turned back toward the wall again, watching as the final pieces of rebar were covered in tarp. The crew would return in the morning. The cement would finish setting overnight, and by midday tomorrow, the second turret mount would be ready.

Sarah leaned against the post beside him.

"Tired?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Not tired. Just… aware."

He didn't need to ask what she meant. He felt it too—that line, always just beneath the surface. Between peace and vigilance. Between rebuilding and preparing for what might come next.

"Think they'll keep coming?" she asked.

"The caravans?"

"Yeah."

He was quiet a moment, then said, "If I were out there? And I heard a place like this was still alive, building stronger, helping people…"

He looked at her.

"I'd come."

Sarah nodded once. "That's what I'm afraid of."

And they both smiled—tight, crooked things. The kind of smile you make when you're bracing for impact but choosing hope anyway. The stars began to rise. Slowly, faintly. And Sanctuary's lanterns blinked on one by one, dotting the valley like tiny embers of something still burning.

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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:-