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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Because it didn't matter what it looked like. Only that it worked, and it would as he make sure of that.
Secured.
Locked into place tightly enough that rough water wouldn't shift them an inch.
Mel drew thick anchor rings along the deck, evenly spaced on both sides of the loading lane. Heavy-duty steel loops, welded directly into the reinforced frame beneath the plating.
Not decorative.
Not optional.
Necessary.
A Humvee breaking loose in open water wasn't just cargo loss.
It was catastrophe.
He added retractable wheel chocks next.
Simple mechanisms.
Mechanical.
Reliable.
The kind of systems that still worked when electronics didn't.
Which, in the Commonwealth, was often.
"…Manual overrides," he muttered, jotting the note beside them.
Because complicated systems failed first.
Simple ones endured.
He leaned back again, narrowing his eyes at the growing blueprint. The vessel was beginning to look less like an idea and more like a machine.
A real one.
A thing that could exist.
A thing that could float.
Hopefully.
That last thought drew the faintest smirk from him.
Behind him, the room continued moving. Tools clattered. Someone argued quietly over wiring tolerances. A generator coughed somewhere near the rear workstations before settling back into its steady hum.
Life.
Work.
Momentum.
Mel thrived in that sound.
He reached for a ruler, aligned it carefully, and began drafting the loading ramp in greater detail.
Hydraulic assist would have been ideal.
Hydraulic anything was ideal.
Hydraulic anything that still worked reliably after two centuries of neglect was another matter entirely.
He scratched that possibility out almost immediately.
"No."
Mechanical winch.
Chain-driven.
Hand-crank backup.
Redundant systems.
Always redundant.
If the primary mechanism failed during a landing, soldiers needed a way to force that ramp down.
Fast.
He drew the winch housing just behind the forward bulkhead, then reinforced the cable path with protective channels.
A snapped cable under load could kill a man before he heard it coming.
And Sico would absolutely expect that to have been considered.
Which meant Mel absolutely had to consider it.
He glanced toward the engine bench again.
Then toward another table stacked with salvaged marine components scavenged over the last few months.
Prop shafts.
Gear housings.
Cooling manifolds.
Most of it ugly.
All of it useful.
"…Twin screw," he said aloud.
A nearby technician looked up.
"What?"
Mel was already sketching.
"Two propellers."
"One gets hit, the other gets you home."
The technician nodded immediately.
"Smart."
Mel didn't bother answering.
He was already adding the second shaft housing.
Twin engines would be better.
Twin engines would also be a nightmare.
Fuel consumption.
Maintenance.
Parts availability.
No.
Single main engine.
Dual propeller transmission.
Better compromise.
Good enough.
Actually, more than good enough.
He circled the rear assembly.
Wrote:
PRIMARY ENGINE - ARMORED COMPARTMENT
SERVICE ACCESS INTERNAL ONLY
Because if raiders or worse started shooting at the stern, the crew needed protection while keeping the engine running.
He moved on.
Crew capacity.
Essential personnel only.
Pilot.
Engineer.
Loadmaster.
Minimal combat crew, unless additional soldiers were being transported.
He added a small enclosed bridge above the rear engine housing.
Elevated sightline.
Armored glass if they could salvage enough.
If not, layered steel shutters.
Visibility mattered.
Survival mattered more.
The door burst open behind him.
Not violently.
Just quickly.
A gust of cool morning air swept into the workshop.
Sturges stepped inside carrying a mug that probably contained coffee, though nobody was entirely certain.
He took one look at Mel's table and stopped.
"…Well, damn."
Mel didn't look up.
"Morning."
Sturges wandered over, sipping from the mug as he studied the blueprint.
His eyebrows climbed steadily higher.
"That a boat?"
"Technically."
Sturges chuckled.
"Technically?"
Mel finally glanced up.
"It's more of a vehicle transport platform with maritime capability."
Sturges stared at him for two seconds.
"…That's the nerdiest possible way to say boat."
A few nearby scientists laughed.
Even Mel cracked a smile.
Barely.
Sturges leaned over the table.
"You serious about this?"
"Very."
"How many vehicles?"
Mel tapped the deck area.
"Two trucks comfortably."
"Three Humvees if loaded tight."
"Additional infantry on side benches."
Sturges whistled low.
"That's not a boat."
"No."
Mel returned to the blueprint.
"It's logistics."
That earned a quiet nod.
Because Sturges understood that.
Maybe better than most.
Wars weren't won by guns alone.
They were won by getting guns where they needed to be.
Along with fuel.
Food.
Ammo.
Repairs.
People.
Everything.
Sturges set his mug down and pointed at the hull.
"Draft's gonna be deep fully loaded."
"Too deep for some shoreline approaches."
Mel had already thought of that.
"Flat-bottomed enough to beach."
"Reinforced bow plate for grounding."
Sturges nodded slowly.
"Good."
He pointed again.
"What about unloading under fire?"
Mel's pencil stopped.
That one mattered.
A lot.
He added armored side plates that could be raised during approach, offering limited protection to embarked troops and vehicle crews.
Then a forward suppressive mount.
Nothing extravagant.
Just enough for a mounted heavy machine gun.
Or perhaps something meaner, depending on available inventory.
Sturges grinned.
"Now you're talking."
Mel scribbled:
FORWARD WEAPON MOUNT - OPTIONAL CONFIGURATION
Because optional usually meant absolutely mandatory.
They both knew it.
Naming the Beast
By noon, the blueprint covered nearly the entire sheet.
Measurements.
Structural notes.
Cross-sections.
Engine layouts.
Ballast controls.
Ramp mechanics.
Weapon placements.
Cargo limits.
It wasn't finished.
Not even close.
But it had crossed the line from theory into reality.
The team had gathered around it almost without realizing it.
Scientists.
Mechanics.
Engineers.
A few guards who had wandered in and decided they were now emotionally invested.
Sturges folded his arms.
"She's ugly."
Mel nodded.
"Efficient."
"Ugly efficient."
"The best kind."
One of the younger engineers tilted his head.
"What's it called?"
That stopped everyone for a second.
Because apparently, once you built something large enough, it demanded a name.
Mel stared down at the blueprint.
He hadn't thought that far.
He usually didn't.
Sico would probably designate it something clinical.
Transport Vessel Mark One.
Landing Craft Alpha.
Something painfully functional.
Sturges took another sip.
"We should give it a real name before Sico names it after a spreadsheet."
That got an actual laugh.
Mel considered the drawing.
Considered Far Harbor.
The fog.
The sea.
The wall.
And the reason this thing needed to exist.
"It's a bridge," he said quietly.
Several heads turned toward him.
"Between Sanctuary and the island."
"Between reinforcement and isolation."
"Between surviving and expanding."
He looked up.
"The Bridgekeeper."
Silence followed.
Then Sturges nodded once.
"Damn."
"That's actually good."
A mechanic grinned.
"Better than Floating Truck Box."
"I liked Floating Truck Box," another muttered.
Mel ignored both.
He wrote it across the top of the blueprint in block letters.
PROJECT: BRIDGEKEEPER
The room seemed to settle around that.
As if the ship had become more real the moment it had a name.
Mel wiped his hands on a rag, then reached for the radio.
Static crackled.
He adjusted the frequency.
Pressed the transmit key.
"Mel to Sico."
The response came almost immediately, clear despite the distance.
"Sico."
Mel glanced once at the blueprint before speaking.
"We've got a preliminary design."
A beat passed.
"Status."
Mel couldn't help the small smile tugging at his mouth.
"Flat-bottom landing craft."
"Vehicle capacity: two trucks or three Humvees."
"Forward loading ramp."
"Armored engine compartment."
"Beachable hull."
"Optional weapons mount."
He paused just long enough for effect.
"We're calling it the Bridgekeeper."
Silence.
Then:
"…Acceptable."
That, from Sico, was practically a standing ovation.
Mel laughed under his breath.
"Blueprint will be finalized by tonight."
"Construction can begin immediately after."
"Estimated completion—"
He looked around at the assembled team.
At the scientists already discussing materials.
At the mechanics mentally disassembling half the Commonwealth.
He made the calculation.
Then gave the answer.
"Five days."
The line stayed quiet for one heartbeat.
Then:
"Approved."
Simple.
Absolute.
Sico added one final instruction.
"Prioritize durability over speed."
Mel snorted.
"Already did."
"…Good."
The radio clicked off.
Mel lowered it slowly.
Around him, the room came alive.
Not because they had been idle before.
But because now the blueprint was no longer a concept.
It was an order.
And orders became reality.
Sturges slapped the table once.
"Alright, you brilliant lunatics."
He pointed around the room.
"Let's go build a boat."
Mel corrected him automatically.
"Landing craft."
Sturges grinned.
"Boat."
The workshop erupted into motion the instant the order became real.
Blueprint copies were made in minutes.
Materials lists were shouted across the room.
Names were assigned.
Responsibilities divided.
What had been theory only moments ago transformed into purpose.
Mel thrived in moments like this.
Not because they were easy.
Because they weren't.
Because difficult things separated engineers from dreamers.
And this?
This was difficult.
He rolled the master blueprint carefully, securing it inside a reinforced tube. Losing several hours of work to an unexpected rainstorm would have been the sort of irony the Commonwealth specialized in.
A pair of science division technicians were already gathering drafting tools, measuring equipment, and the specialized welding schematics they'd need once construction began.
Nearby, another team loaded crates of salvaged components onto a flatbed.
Propeller shafts.
Transmission housings.
Marine-grade bearings.
Steel plates.
Half the Commonwealth's forgotten industrial history, piled neatly and ready for a second life.
Sturges stood near the garage entrance, hands on his hips, watching the chaos with an expression that hovered somewhere between pride and mild terror.
Which, honestly, was his default setting most days.
"You sure five days wasn't optimistic?" he asked as Mel checked the fastenings on the blueprint tube.
Mel didn't look up.
"Very."
Sturges snorted.
"That means yes."
"It means if everything goes exactly according to plan, five days."
"And if it doesn't?"
Mel finally met his eyes.
"Then six."
That drew a laugh from half the room.
Sturges shook his head.
"Man, you are just aggressively optimistic."
Mel adjusted the strap of his tool satchel across his shoulder.
"I've seen your repair estimates."
"Low blow."
"Accurate blow."
A few of the nearby scientists chuckled.
Sturges pointed a greasy finger at him.
"You break my heart, Mel."
"I'll note that in the maintenance log."
The banter came easily.
That was one of the strange things about Sanctuary these days.
For all the danger outside its walls, inside them there was room for things like laughter.
Room for normal.
Or at least whatever passed for normal after the world ended.
The truck waiting outside was one of Sanctuary's newer heavy transports.
Armor plating reinforced the cab.
The engine had been tuned by people who treated horsepower like religion.
Its bed was already stacked high with equipment and materials.
Three science division specialists climbed into the rear bench while another pair secured the cargo straps.
Mel took one final look around the workshop.
Everything that could be done here had been done.
The rest would happen at the shipyard.
Sturges stepped beside him.
For a moment, neither man spoke.
They didn't need to.
They'd built enough together to understand the weight of a project without discussing it.
Finally, Sturges crossed his arms.
"You know, normal people spend their mornings fixing generators."
"Normal people died two hundred years ago."
"Fair point."
Mel allowed himself a small smile.
"Try not to let Sanctuary collapse while I'm gone."
"No promises."
Sturges extended a hand.
Mel took it.
A firm shake.
Respect earned through countless long nights, impossible repairs, and the shared understanding that civilization was mostly held together by duct tape and stubbornness.
"Build me a damn fine boat," Sturges said.
"Landing craft."
"Boat."
Mel released his hand.
"You're impossible."
"Yet lovable."
"Debatable."
Sturges grinned.
"Safe trip."
Mel nodded once.
Then he climbed into the passenger seat.
The engine roared to life beneath him, deep and confident.
A sound that promised power.
The truck rolled forward, crunching over Sanctuary's packed dirt roads as the settlement gradually opened before them.
Residents paused to watch.
Word had spread quickly.
It always did.
Children waved excitedly.
Guards offered salutes.
Farmers looked up from their fields.
The people of Sanctuary understood what this meant, even if they didn't know every technical detail.
A ship.
A real ship.
A vessel capable of carrying vehicles, troops, supplies.
A connection to Far Harbor that wasn't dependent on hope and favorable weather.
Expansion.
Security.
Reach.
Mel looked out the side window as they passed the main square.
Sturges stood there still, mug in hand, watching them go.
He raised it in salute.
Mel returned the gesture with two fingers against the glass.
Then Sanctuary disappeared behind them.
The road south wound through familiar territory.
Ruined suburbs gave way to overgrown highways.
Collapsed overpasses loomed like ancient skeletons against the pale sky.
The Commonwealth never really let anyone forget what it had been.
Nature and rust had spent two centuries fighting over the remains, and neither had quite won.
Mel unfolded a smaller copy of the blueprint on his lap as the truck rumbled along.
The driver, one of the Freemasons' veteran logistics men named Carter, kept his eyes on the road.
"The shipyard still active?" Mel asked.
Carter nodded.
"Very."
"Been pulling hull sections out of the harbor all week."
"Sarah wanted it ready before your design was even finished."
That sounded like Sarah.
Preparation first.
Questions later.
Mel approved.
In the back, the scientists were already discussing material tolerances and structural reinforcement.
Dr. Hensley argued for thicker bow plating.
Dr. Kim countered that excessive forward weight would compromise beaching performance.
Their debate grew increasingly technical.
Then increasingly personal.
Then technical again.
Mel let them continue.
Scientists, left unsupervised, naturally evolved into arguments.
It was one of the laws of the universe.
They crossed the Charles River near midday.
The Castle rose in the distance shortly after, its restored walls standing proud against the coastline.
Even from miles away, it looked formidable.
A fortress reborn.
But Mel's eyes went beyond the Castle itself.
Toward the shoreline east of it.
Toward the sprawling industrial complex that had once been nothing more than a collection of ruined docks.
Now it was something else entirely.
The Freemasons Shipyard.
And it was magnificent.
Massive cranes dominated the skyline, their steel arms reaching upward like mechanical giants.
Dry docks stretched along the waterfront.
Repair platforms extended over the water on reinforced pylons.
Warehouses lined the perimeter.
Welding arcs flashed like captured lightning.
The sound hit them long before the truck fully arrived.
Metal striking metal.
Engines rumbling.
Voices shouting measurements.
The steady roar of industry.
It was beautiful.
Not in the conventional sense.
But Mel had never trusted conventional beauty anyway.
This was functional beauty.
The kind built by hands.
The truck passed through the main gate after a quick security check.
Freemason guards waved them through immediately once they recognized Mel.
Workers turned to look as the vehicle rolled deeper into the yard.
Some nodded.
Some pointed toward the blueprint tube secured beside him.
Everyone understood why he was here.
They'd been waiting.
Carter parked near the largest dry dock.
The engine cut off.
For a moment, the sudden relative quiet felt almost unnatural.
Then the world rushed back in all at once.
Salt air.
Hot steel.
Oil.
The distant cry of gulls.
Mel stepped out and immediately felt the ocean breeze cut across his face.
Different from Sanctuary.
Sharper.
He inhaled deeply.
Behind him, the science division personnel unloaded equipment with practiced efficiency.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
A familiar voice called from across the dock.
"Took you long enough."
Mel turned.
Sarah approached with her usual purposeful stride, coat moving in the coastal wind.
Beside her walked Preston, laser musket slung over one shoulder.
Both looked exactly as they always did.
Capable.
Alert.
Busy.
Sarah reached them first.
Her eyes immediately dropped to the blueprint tube.
"That it?"
Mel handed it over.
"Preliminary design."
She unfastened the cap, withdrew the rolled schematics, and spread them across a nearby steel table.
Preston leaned in beside her.
Within seconds, both were studying it with intense concentration.
Sarah's eyes moved rapidly across the layout.
Deck dimensions.
Ramp assembly.
Engine compartment.
Weapon mount.
Cargo capacity.
She looked impressed.
Which, from Sarah, wasn't given lightly.
"This is excellent."
Preston whistled softly.
"That'll carry a whole platoon."
"Or three Humvees," Mel corrected.
"Or that."
Sarah tapped the bow ramp.
"Mechanical redundancy?"
"Primary winch."
"Manual backup."
"Chain-driven."
She nodded.
"Good."
Her finger moved to the stern.
"Single engine, dual screw transmission."
"Fuel efficiency."
"Lower maintenance."
"Less likely to leave us stranded."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"You really did think of everything."
Mel shrugged.
"Most things."
"That's usually enough."
She rolled the blueprint closed.
"When can construction start?"
Mel glanced toward the dry dock.
Then toward the stacked materials already waiting nearby.
Steel beams.
Hull plates.
Pre-cut frame sections.
"Now."
That earned a satisfied look.
"Excellent."
She turned and raised her voice.
"Attention!"
The nearest workers immediately gathered.
Then more.
Shipwrights.
Welders.
Mechanics.
Engineers.
Within moments, nearly fifty people stood assembled around the dock.
Sarah held up the blueprint.
"Project Bridgekeeper begins today."
A murmur of approval rolled through the crowd.
"This vessel will connect the Commonwealth to Far Harbor."
"It will carry our troops, our vehicles, our supplies, and our future."
She handed the plans back to Mel.
"He has command of construction."
Every eye turned toward him.
Mel hated speeches.
He tolerated necessity.
He stepped forward.
Looked at the workers.
At the dry dock.
At the mountain of steel waiting to become something greater.
"This won't be easy," he said plainly.
Good.
That got their attention.
"It'll be long."
"It'll be heavy."
"It'll be complicated."
A few grins appeared.
"Which means it's worth doing."
More than a few nods followed.
Mel pointed toward the dock.
"Frames first."
"Hull plating immediately after."
"Engine compartment by nightfall."
He looked at the assembled specialists.
"If you have questions, ask."
"If you have problems, solve them."
"If you have complaints—"
He glanced at Sarah.
"—submit them to command."
That got a roar of laughter.
Even Sarah smirked.
Mel allowed himself one tiny smile.
Then he clapped his hands once.
"Let's build a ship."
And just like that, the yard came alive.
Crane operators climbed into their cabs.
Welders pulled down their masks.
Forklifts roared into motion.
Teams split with almost military precision.
The first steel keel section was lifted into place within twenty minutes.
It hung suspended over the dry dock like the spine of some great metallic beast.
Mel stood below, guiding it down inch by careful inch.
"Lower."
A few feet.
"Hold."
Measurements checked.
Alignment verified.
"Three inches port."
The crane adjusted.
Perfect.
"Set."
Steel met support braces with a deep, satisfying clang.
The sound echoed across the harbor.
The beginning.
Real.
Solid.
Irreversible.
Mel placed a hand against the fresh steel.
Cold.
Rough.
Promising.
Around him, workers immediately began securing the keel with temporary braces.
Sparks erupted as the first welds took hold.
Orange light danced across the dock walls.
Dr. Kim supervised structural alignment.
Hensley reviewed stress distribution.
Another team unloaded the transmission housing.
Sarah remained for nearly an hour, observing the opening phase before duty pulled her elsewhere.
Preston stayed longer, helping direct supply traffic and somehow ending up carrying steel beams because apparently no one had informed him that generals weren't supposed to do manual labor.
Mel suspected he preferred it that way.
By late afternoon, the skeletal frame of Bridgekeeper had risen above the dock floor.
Ribs curved upward.
Cross-members locked into place.
The outline of the hull was visible now.
Not complete.
But undeniable.
A vessel was being born.
Mel moved constantly.
One station to the next.
Checking weld quality.
Adjusting measurements.
Correcting errors before they became disasters.
He lost track of time.
Engineers often did.
Time became irrelevant when something needed building.
At one point, a young welder misaligned a support bracket by half an inch.
Mel spotted it instantly.
He crouched beside the man.
"See this?"
The welder nodded nervously.
"It'll shift load distribution across the frame."
"By how much?"
The young man swallowed.
"Enough."
"Correct."
Mel handed him a chalk marker.
"Fix it."
No anger.
No humiliation.
Just instruction.
The welder did.
And he did it right the second time.
That mattered.
As evening approached, the shipyard lights flickered on one by one.
Powerful floodlamps bathed the dry dock in brilliant white.
The ocean beyond turned dark blue, nearly black.
The Castle's walls glowed warmly in the distance.
Bridgekeeper's frame cast enormous shadows across the concrete.
It already looked enormous.
Bigger than it had on paper.
They always did.
Sturges radioed just after sunset.
Mel answered while reviewing stern reinforcement measurements.
"How's the boat?" Sturges asked immediately.
"Landing craft."
"Boat."
Mel sighed.
"Keel laid."
"Primary frame assembled."
"Engine mount installation in progress."
A whistle crackled through the speaker.
"Not bad for one day's work."
"Not bad for a boat."
"Landing craft."
Sturges laughed.
"Sanctuary's still standing, by the way."
"Impressive."
"I know."
A brief pause.
Then, more quietly:
"Good luck, Mel."
Mel looked up at the towering skeleton of Bridgekeeper.
At the sparks cascading like golden rain.
At dozens of workers laboring under the floodlights.
At the future taking shape in steel and fire.
"We won't need luck."
He released the transmit key.
Then added, mostly to himself:
"We've got engineers."
And in Mel's experience, that was usually better.
Night settled fully over the Commonwealth.
But the Freemasons Shipyard did not sleep.
Not tonight.
Not with Bridgekeeper rising from the dock.
Generators hummed.
Cutting torches hissed.
Crane cables sang under strain.
Men and women worked in rotating shifts, fueled by coffee, determination, and the peculiar joy that came from building something important.
Mel remained at the center of it all.
Grease stained his sleeves.
Soot darkened his hands.
A burn mark decorated one glove.
He barely noticed.
This was where he belonged.
Not behind a desk.
Not giving speeches.
Here.
With steel.
With tools.
With people who understood that civilization was something you assembled one bolt at a time.
Near midnight, he finally stepped back from the dock edge.
The first day's work stood before him.
Keel complete.
Primary frame locked.
Lower hull plating nearly half installed.
Engine compartment foundations secured.
It was only the beginning.
But beginnings mattered.
A cool sea wind rolled in from the harbor.
Mel folded his arms and stared at the growing vessel.
Bridgekeeper.
A name.
A purpose.
Soon, it would carry trucks across open water.
Soon, it would land soldiers on distant shores.
Soon, it would connect worlds.
Behind him, one of the younger scientists approached.
"Think it'll work?"
Mel considered the question.
Then the ship.
Then the endless sea beyond.
Finally, he answered with absolute certainty.
"Yes."
The scientist smiled.
"How can you be so sure?"
Mel looked back at the steel skeleton rising into the night.
Because the truth was simple.
Because he'd seen impossible things built before.
Because people had a habit of exceeding expectations when given a reason.
Because this wasn't just metal.
It was necessity.
And necessity was the greatest engineer of all.
He adjusted his gloves.
Picked up his clipboard.
Turned back toward the workers.
"Break's over."
A collective groan rose from the dock.
Mel ignored it entirely.
"Portside plating needs finishing before dawn."
The groans became laughter.
Then movement.
Then work.
Dawn came gray and cold over Boston Harbor.
The Freemasons Shipyard had never truly gone quiet, but there was always a strange stillness in the minutes before sunrise. The floodlights still burned. Welders still worked. Engines still hummed. Yet the world itself seemed to pause, as if taking one deep breath before another day began.
Mel hadn't slept.
That wasn't unusual.
It was, in fact, almost tradition.
He stood on the scaffolding above Bridgekeeper's starboard hull, a mug of coffee in one hand and a clipboard in the other, watching the first sunlight crawl over the harbor.
The steel beneath him still radiated warmth from hours of welding.
Below, workers changed shifts.
Night crews shuffled off with blackened gloves and tired smiles while the morning teams filed in, fresh-faced and carrying tools.
Well.
Fresh-faced by Commonwealth standards.
Which mostly meant they only had a moderate amount of soot on them.
Mel took a sip.
The coffee was terrible.
That was also tradition.
Dr. Kim climbed the scaffolding ladder and joined him, carrying a stack of revised stress calculations.
"I've updated the forward ramp tolerances."
Mel accepted the papers without looking away from the ship.
"Improvement?"
"Three percent."
"Useful."
Kim glanced over the side.
Workers were installing the portside armor plating, huge sheets of reinforced steel lowered into place by crane and locked down with welds thick enough to survive artillery.
"You know," Kim said, "most people take months to build something this size."
"Most people don't have a war to prepare for."
That ended the conversation rather efficiently.
Kim nodded once.
Then headed back down.
Mel returned to his coffee.
And Bridgekeeper continued to grow.
The second day was engines.
That meant noise.
A lot of noise.
It took two cranes, sixteen workers, and one increasingly stressed foreman to maneuver the monstrous engine into position.
Mel supervised every inch of the installation.
"Slow."
The crane operator lowered the engine.
"Hold."
A half-inch adjustment.
"Two inches aft."
Steel groaned.
Chains rattled.
The engine settled perfectly onto its reinforced mounts.
Mel crouched beside it immediately, checking alignment bolts himself.
Perfect.
He allowed himself a small nod.
"Secure it."
Wrenches turned.
Bolts tightened.
Locking collars clicked into place.
By noon, the heart of Bridgekeeper was beating.
Not literally.
That would have been concerning.
But once Carter primed the fuel lines and Mel gave the signal, the engine roared to life with a thunderous growl that rolled across the entire harbor.
Workers stopped what they were doing.
Even veteran shipbuilders grinned.
Black smoke billowed briefly before clearing.
The idle settled into a deep, confident rumble.
Steady.
Powerful.
Alive.
Mel placed a hand against the engine housing.
The vibration traveled up his arm.
A machine with purpose.
The best kind.
Preston, who had arrived that morning with another supply convoy, laughed over the noise.
"Sounds mean."
"It is."
"Good."
That, in Preston's book, was usually the highest praise possible.
Sarah returned twice over the next several days.
Always briefly.
Always busy.
Always carrying reports, orders, or three separate problems at once.
Yet she made time to walk the dock each visit.
To study the progress.
To ask questions only someone deeply invested would ask.
On the third day, she stood beside Mel as workers installed the forward loading ramp.
The enormous steel plate descended slowly, guided by chain assemblies and reinforced hinges.
When it finally slammed into place, the impact echoed like cannon fire.
Sarah folded her arms.
"How many cycles can it handle?"
"Thousands."
"Under combat conditions?"
"Hundreds."
She nodded.
"Good enough."
Mel glanced sideways.
"High praise."
"I try not to spoil people."
She watched a test crew operate the winch assembly.
The ramp lowered smoothly.
Rose smoothly.
Locked perfectly.
"Far Harbor will change things," she said after a moment.
"It already has."
Her expression softened just slightly.
"Yes."
Then duty reclaimed her, as it always did.
She departed within the hour, Preston leaving with her after hauling three more crates than anyone had asked him to.
That was Preston.
If there was work nearby, he'd find it.
Or it would find him.
Sturges radioed every evening.
Without fail.
Usually just as Mel was trying to focus on something important.
"How's the boat?"
"Landing craft."
"Sure, sure."
By the fourth day, it had become ritual.
Mel would provide the status report.
Sturges would make a joke.
Mel would pretend not to appreciate it.
Both of them would know better.
Sanctuary, according to Sturges, was thriving.
New housing foundations were underway.
Water purification had expanded.
One generator had exploded.
Entirely unrelated, according to him, to any of his decisions.
Mel had his doubts.
Bridgekeeper transformed rapidly.
Hull plating enclosed the skeletal frame.
The armored bridge rose above the rear deck, offering commanding sightlines over the bow.
Internal compartments took shape.
Fuel lines.
Electrical systems.
Cooling loops.
Bilge pumps.
Redundant manual controls.
Because Mel trusted machines.
But he trusted backups more.
The cargo deck became a cavernous open space capable of carrying trucks, Humvees, supplies, or enough infantry to make any raider reconsider their life choices.
Anchor rings were welded in place.
Wheel chocks installed.
Side benches mounted.
The forward weapon mount reinforced with extra plating because "optional" was one of those words military organizations treated as a suggestion.
On the fifth day, the final coat of anti-corrosion sealant dried under the afternoon sun.
Workers stood back.
For the first time, they weren't looking at a construction project.
They were looking at a ship.
Bridgekeeper sat in the dry dock like a beast waiting to wake.
Flat-bottomed.
Broad-shouldered.
Functional.
Ugly in the way only truly useful things could be.
Mel found it beautiful.
Sturges arrived just before sunset.
He climbed out of a transport truck, took one look at Bridgekeeper, and let out a long, impressed whistle.
"Okay."
He walked slowly around the dock, craning his neck upward.
"That's… actually one hell of a boat."
"Landing craft."
"She's gorgeous."
"Debatable."
Sturges slapped the hull affectionately.
The steel answered with a heavy clang.
"You built this in five days."
"We built this."
Sturges turned.
For just a moment, his usual humor gave way to genuine admiration.
"Still counts."
Mel looked away first.
Mostly because compliments were deeply suspicious.
The launch drew a crowd.
Word spread faster than radiation in the Commonwealth.
Shipyard workers lined the docks.
Freemason soldiers gathered along the seawall.
Castle artillery crews leaned over battlements for a better view.
Even civilians from nearby settlements had made the trip.
They wanted to see history.
And history, it turned out, floated.
Albert arrived an hour before launch.
Commander Albert, head of the Freemasons Navy.
A tall man in his late forties, weathered by salt, wind, and more years at sea than on land.
His long coat bore naval insignia stitched with practical simplicity.
Not decorative.
Earned.
He stepped from a staff car and immediately looked toward the dry dock.
Then stopped walking entirely.
For several seconds, he simply stared.
Bridgekeeper had that effect.
"Well," Albert said at last, "that's a serious piece of work."
Mel approached, wiping grease from his hands.
"Commander."
Albert offered his hand.
Mel took it.
A sailor's grip.
Strong.
Direct.
"I've heard a lot about you."
"Mostly complaints, I hope."
Albert laughed.
"Mostly admiration, actually. Which is suspicious."
"Agreed."
The commander circled the vessel slowly, eyes sharp.
He examined the ramp hinges.
The propeller housings.
The armored bridge.
The cargo deck.
He asked intelligent questions.
The kind asked by someone who actually understood ships.
"What draft fully loaded?"
"Five feet, eight inches."
"Empty?"
"Just under three."
"Turning radius?"
"Acceptable."
Albert grinned.
"Engineer answer."
"Correct answer."
He climbed the boarding ladder without waiting for permission.
Which Mel respected.
A man who trusted his own feet.
Inside the bridge, Albert ran his hands across the controls.
Manual throttles.
Mechanical linkages.
Emergency overrides.
Everything rugged.
Everything simple.
Everything meant to survive.
"This will handle rough water?"
"It'll handle worse than rough water."
Albert's eyes gleamed.
"I like it already."
Launch procedures began at noon.
Dock crews released the support locks.
Ballast tanks adjusted.
Winches engaged.
The great dry dock gates opened slowly, revealing the harbor beyond.
Water rushed inward.
Bridgekeeper settled lower inch by inch.
The first moment a ship touched water was always special.
Even Mel, who claimed not to care about sentiment, felt it.
Steel floated.
Humanity won another argument against physics.
Workers cheered as the hull lifted cleanly from its supports.
Bridgekeeper rocked gently.
Stable.
Balanced.
Perfect.
Albert nodded in approval.
"Let's see what she can do."
Mel was already heading for the bridge.
The test crew consisted of Mel, Albert, Carter, Dr. Kim, and a skeleton naval team.
Enough hands to operate.
Enough eyes to evaluate.
Not enough to get in each other's way.
The engine fired instantly.
A deep, hungry rumble filled the vessel.
Albert stood beside Mel at the helm.
"Take her out."
Mel glanced at him.
"Your command."
Albert shook his head.
"You built her."
Fair point.
Mel eased the throttles forward.
Bridgekeeper moved.
Slowly at first.
Then with growing confidence.
The harbor opened ahead.
Water curled along the hull.
Twin screws churned white foam behind them.
Onshore, hundreds watched.
Cheers followed them out.
Mel kept his focus forward.
There would be time later.
Right now, there was only the ship.
Only the sea.
She handled beautifully.
That surprised no one more than Mel.
Acceleration was steady.
The rudders answered immediately.
The flat-bottom hull rode higher than expected.
Albert moved around the bridge, checking sightlines and instrumentation.
"Port turn."
Mel complied.
Bridgekeeper swung smoothly.
"Tighter."
He pushed harder.
The vessel carved across the harbor, stable even under aggressive maneuvering.
Albert grinned.
"Responsive."
"That was the goal."
Carter checked engine readings below.
"Temperature stable!"
"Oil pressure nominal!"
"Transmission holding!"
Mel allowed himself a breath.
A small one.
Not a full breath.
Engineers didn't fully relax until after the paperwork.
Next came the ramp test.
They beached her on a sandy stretch north of the Castle.
The bow grounded exactly as intended.
Minimal impact.
Excellent distribution.
Mel engaged the ramp controls.
Chains rattled.
Winches turned.
The massive steel bow lowered.
It hit the shoreline with a thunderous slam.
Perfect angle.
Perfect stability.
A waiting Humvee rolled aboard, secured quickly, then disembarked again.
Twice.
Then a second vehicle.
Then both simultaneously.
Albert watched every second.
His expression never changed.
That was slightly terrifying.
When the final vehicle rolled clear, he turned to Mel.
"Again."
They repeated the process.
Then repeated it once more.
No issues.
No hesitation.
No mechanical failures.
Bridgekeeper performed like she'd been doing this for years instead of hours.
Albert's lips twitched.
The naval equivalent of a standing ovation.
They pushed her harder offshore.
Rougher water.
Higher speed.
Emergency turns.
Reverse thrust.
Full stop.
The hull slammed through swells with brutal efficiency.
Spray battered the armored glass.
The deck remained stable.
The engine never faltered.
At one point, Albert actually laughed.
A sharp, delighted sound.
"She's ugly as sin."
Mel nodded.
"Efficient."
"Ugly efficient."
"The best kind."
Albert looked at him.
"You're spending too much time with Sturges."
"Occupational hazard."
By late afternoon, Bridgekeeper returned to harbor.
The crowd waiting onshore had doubled.
Maybe tripled.
People climbed crates.
Battlements.
Warehouse roofs.
Anything for a better view.
As the vessel approached, the cheering began.
It rolled across the water like thunder.
Bridgekeeper entered the harbor under full power, wake spreading wide behind her.
Mel guided her toward the dock.
A perfect approach.
A gentle touch against the fenders.
Lines secured.
Engines idle.
Then silence.
For one glorious second, nobody moved.
Then the harbor exploded.
Cheers.
Whistles.
Applause.
Workers embraced.
Sailors pounded each other on the back.
Even Castle guards on the walls were shouting.
Mel stepped onto the dock.
Albert followed.
The commander stood there for a long moment, looking at the vessel.
At the workers.
At the future.
Then he turned sharply.
"Attention!"
The shipyard quieted almost instantly.
Albert's voice carried like cannon fire.
"This vessel exceeds every operational requirement."
A grin spread across dozens of faces.
"It will revolutionize our coastal logistics."
More cheering.
Albert raised a hand.
And then delivered the words everyone had been hoping for.
"Begin construction on four additional Bridgekeeper-class landing craft immediately."
For half a heartbeat, the shipyard went dead silent.
As if everyone needed to confirm they'd heard correctly.
Then absolute chaos.
The good kind.
Workers shouted.
Helmets flew into the air.
Someone actually started dancing on a crate.
Sturges nearly dropped his coffee.
Preston, who had arrived halfway through the trial run, laughed loud enough to scare nearby gulls.
Sarah standing near the front, arms crossed while allowed herself a rare, genuine smile.
Not a smirk.
A smile.
That alone was worth the entire project.
Albert approached Mel once the cheering settled.
"You understand what you've done here?"
Mel looked at Bridgekeeper.
Then at the dry docks already being cleared for the next hulls.
"I built a landing craft."
Albert chuckled.
"You built a navy."
That was, admittedly, a larger statement.
But not entirely inaccurate.
Albert extended his hand again.
"This class will form the backbone of our expeditionary fleet."
Mel shook it.
Firmly.
"Then let's make sure the next four are even better."
Albert's grin widened.
"Now you're speaking my language."
Work began again almost immediately.
Because celebrations were nice.
But shipyards ran on momentum.
Templates were copied.
Materials requisitioned.
Dry docks assigned.
Teams reorganized.
Bridgekeeper had proven the concept.
Now it would become a class.
A fleet.
A capability.
Sarah joined Mel on the dock as sunset painted the harbor gold.
For a while, neither spoke.
They simply watched workers swarm around the adjacent slips.
The beginning of something larger.
"You did well," she said at last.
Mel kept his eyes on the water.
"So did they."
"That's not what I said."
He glanced at her.
She meant it.
Entirely.
That made him mildly uncomfortable.
Which probably meant it mattered.
"Thank you."
She nodded.
Then looked toward Bridgekeeper.
"Far Harbor just became a lot closer."
"That was the idea."
"And the Brotherhood just became a lot more worried."
That was also true.
A mobile navy changed equations.
It changed strategies.
It changed wars.
Sarah folded her arms against the evening breeze.
"Get some sleep tonight."
Mel considered that.
Then glanced toward the four empty dry docks.
Then toward the stacks of waiting steel.
Then toward the workers already asking questions.
"Unlikely."
Sarah laughed softly.
"Of course."
She turned to leave.
Then paused.
"Sturges still calls it a boat, doesn't he?"
"Constantly."
"He's not wrong."
Mel stared at her.
Betrayed.
Utterly betrayed.
Sarah walked away smiling.
Preston joined her moments later, laughing after she repeated the joke.
Traitors.
All of them.
That night, long after most had gone to rest, Mel stood alone on Bridgekeeper's deck.
The harbor was calm.
Castle lights reflected across dark water.
The ship creaked gently beneath him.
Alive in its own way.
Below, workers were already marking out the keels for Bridgekeepers Two through Five.
Four more.
A squadron.
A statement.
A promise.
Mel rested one hand against the rail.
Five days ago, this had been lines on paper.
Now it floated beneath the stars.
Soon, four sisters would join her.
And after that?
Who knew?
The Commonwealth was changing.
Not slowly anymore.
Not cautiously.
Rapidly.
Deliberately.
Built by people who refused to accept that the world had ended simply because someone had once dropped bombs.
______________________________________________
• 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:-