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Sico sat back in his chair, letting the silence of the room close around him. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine the future—not the battle, not the costs, but the sight of an AA gun rising against the skyline, standing sentinel over Sanctuary.
The stack of paperwork was still sitting neatly on his desk when the morning light found him. He hadn't slept. At some point, the lantern had guttered out entirely, leaving him hunched in his chair, staring at the faint glow of dawn crawling through the window like an intruder. He didn't even remember closing his eyes, but his body told him he must've stolen an hour or two in that posture. His neck ached from the angle, his back stiff, his hand still faintly smudged with ink.
Sico dragged a hand over his face and pushed himself upright. The weight in his chest was still there, but it had taken on a quieter shape, less gnawing now that the work was done. The reports were complete. The requisition sheets signed. The justification drafted and redrafted until even he believed it might sway a stubborn Congress. It wasn't victory, but it was preparation.
He gathered the pages into a leather folder, the kind Sarah had pressed on him weeks ago when she got tired of seeing important papers floating loose. The clasp clicked shut with a sense of finality. One burden down, a hundred more waiting. Always.
The HQ was stirring by the time he stepped into the hall. The guards looked fresher, their relief rotations just starting. A few bleary-eyed clerks shuffled past with mugs of bitter black coffee, their expressions the same hollow mix of exhaustion and routine he recognized in himself. Outside, he could hear the faint thrum of life resuming—caravans gearing for departure, settlers shouting to each other across the yard, hammers clanging in early labor. The Republic never slept long.
But today, he wasn't walking toward the yard. Or the Congress hall. Or the workshop. His steps turned toward the east wing, where the walls grew colder and the air heavier.
The prison.
It wasn't a dungeon, not in the old-world sense. The Freemasons had converted an old municipal building, reinforcing the cells, adding security checkpoints, keeping the whole place under careful watch. It wasn't large—Sanctuary didn't have the manpower for mass incarceration—but it was secure. For most prisoners, it was meant to be a holding place until judgment: trade, exile, integration, or, in rare cases, execution. But one cell—one chamber—was different.
Shaun's.
As he neared the checkpoint, two guards shifted in place, rifles coming subtly to hand. Not in aggression, but in the trained reflex of men who knew who their Commander was approaching. They didn't need to ask his purpose. They just stepped aside, opening the gate with the metallic screech of old hinges.
The corridors inside were quieter, muffled by thick walls. Dimly lit lanterns flickered against concrete, their glow making the air feel colder rather than warmer. Each step echoed too loudly, bouncing off steel doors and reinforced walls.
Finally, he reached it.
The chamber wasn't exactly a cell—not in the way the others were. It had been retrofitted, adapted from the old municipal safe room, lined with extra insulation and patched wiring. At its center stood the cryo pod. Pre-war, salvaged, a relic that didn't belong in this world but had been carried forward all the same.
And inside it: Shaun.
He looked the same as he always did in that frozen glass coffin. Pale, still, features slack with a peace that had nothing to do with comfort. Time hadn't touched him since the day they sealed him in—hadn't given him wrinkles, scars, laughter lines. It was the kind of stillness that twisted something in Sico's chest every time he saw it. Because Shaun wasn't dead. But he wasn't alive either.
The faint hum of machinery filled the room, a sterile rhythm that kept the pod running, that kept Shaun's limbo unbroken. Beside it, a console blinked softly, its monitor throwing blue light across the chamber. And standing in front of it, as she always did when he came, was Curie.
Her posture was straight, attentive, though her movements carried a precision that was almost too careful, too deliberate, like someone who had learned humanity rather than been born into it. Her dark hair was tied back, her lab coat patched but spotless, her delicate hands dancing lightly over the console controls. When the door clicked shut behind Sico, she turned her head, her face brightening with that unmistakable warmth that was hers alone.
"Ah, Commandeur!" she said, her accent curling the word, softening the harshness of the room. "You are here early. Did you sleep at all?"
Sico's gaze lingered on the pod. "Enough."
She studied him a moment, clearly unconvinced, but let it pass. Instead, she turned slightly toward the monitor, one hand brushing the surface as numbers and charts scrolled across.
"You have come to ask about Shaun, oui?"
"Yes."
Her eyes softened as she looked back at him, then toward the pod. "All good," she said simply. "Vitals steady. No signs of stress on the systems. His temperature, heart rhythm, oxygen saturation—they remain precisely where they should be. He sleeps without distress."
Her voice was calm, clinical, but beneath it was something gentler, something she rarely showed outside of this room. A tenderness reserved only for Shaun.
Sico stepped closer, his boots quiet on the cold floor. He stopped just before the pod, his reflection faint in the glass, hovering over Shaun's frozen features.
"All good," he echoed, but it came out quieter, heavier. His hand rose slightly, fingertips brushing the glass. It was cold, biting even through the thick pane.
"He doesn't look any different," Sico said after a long silence.
Curie's tone softened further. "He does not change, non. That is the nature of the cryostasis. For him, no time has passed. When he wakes, it will be as though it were yesterday."
Sico's jaw tightened. "But for us, it isn't yesterday."
Curie tilted her head, her expression shifting into that blend of curiosity and empathy that was uniquely hers. "Non. For us, every day continues. Every heartbeat. Every choice. That is why it is important, Commandeur, that we make those choices with care."
He let the silence stretch again, the hum of machinery filling it. His mind drifted—unwanted, but insistent—to all the choices he'd made since Shaun had been placed in that pod. Battles fought, alliances struck, men and women buried, entire towns pulled into the orbit of this Republic. All while Shaun slept untouched by any of it.
Sico finally broke the silence. "He's still stable, then. No complications?"
Curie shook her head. "Non. The systems are efficient, and I have optimized them further. I check his vitals three times daily, more if I am restless." She smiled faintly at that, a flicker of self-awareness. "I promise you, Commandeur, he is safe."
Safe. The word landed strangely in his chest. Safe, when everything outside this room was anything but. Safe, when the Brotherhood's shadow loomed, when the Congress debated rations and weapons, when settlers built walls higher each week. Shaun was safe. Untouchable.
Sico's hand lingered on the glass another moment, then fell to his side. He exhaled slowly, as though trying to push out some of the heaviness.
"Keep watching him, Curie. If anything changes—anything—you come to me immediately."
Her smile deepened, not with amusement but with reassurance. "Of course, Commandeur. Always."
The cold of the cryo chamber clung to him long after he left it. Even as he stepped back into the brighter hallways of the HQ, where lanterns burned warmer and voices carried more life, some part of that silence stayed with him. Shaun's stillness had a way of seeping under the skin, reminding him how fragile the line was between waiting and loss.
Sico rubbed a hand over his neck, trying to banish the chill. He didn't want to carry it into his next stop. Out there, he couldn't afford to look like a man haunted. Out there, people needed to see him steady, practical, alive to the pulse of the Republic.
The air outside bit sharper than usual, the dawn mist still hanging over the yard. The smell of damp earth and smoke drifted from the workshops where early fires had been lit. He paused a moment, squinting against the thin sunlight just starting to break through, before setting his stride toward the settlement edge.
He didn't need to ask where Sturges was. You could always find the man by following the noise.
Sure enough, the clatter of hammers, the grind of saws, and the occasional burst of laughter or swearing carried over the makeshift streets. He rounded a half-finished corner of the new residential row and found them: Sturges and his crew, already knee-deep in lumber, nails, and the skeletal frame of another house.
The man himself stood on a beam, his broad frame balanced with the ease of long habit, a tool belt hanging heavy at his waist. Sweat already beaded on his brow despite the morning chill. He barked an instruction to two younger settlers hefting a plank, then leaned down to inspect a joint, muttering under his breath about angles and supports.
When he spotted Sico, he straightened, pushing his hat back with the heel of his hand. A grin split his face, bright despite the weariness in the lines around his eyes.
"Well, I'll be," Sturges called down. "Look who decided to visit the working folk instead of pushin' papers."
The crew chuckled, though none slowed their labor. Settlers had learned quickly that Sturges didn't tolerate idle hands.
Sico allowed the faintest twitch of a smile. "Some of us finish our work early."
"Ha! That'll be the day." Sturges hopped down from the frame with a heavy thud, dusting his gloves off. "What brings you out here, Commander? Don't tell me Congress finally approved my request for ten more hands and a machine that cuts lumber without breakin' every other blade we got."
Sico cast a slow glance at the skeleton of the building, then at the rows already standing behind it. Some were rough, patchwork things of scrap wood and metal, others more polished—signs of Sturges' constant refinements. The growth was undeniable. Sanctuary was no longer a scattering of pre-war houses and shacks. It was beginning to look like a town.
"I came to ask how the buildings are holding up," Sico said. "And what you and your department need."
Sturges arched an eyebrow, tilting his head as though making sure he'd heard right. Then he barked a laugh, shaking his head.
"Well, now, ain't that somethin'. Usually, I gotta hunt you down for supplies. Don't get me wrong, Commander, I ain't complainin'—just makin' sure the world ain't flipped upside down overnight."
Sico folded his arms, his expression steady. "Consider it efficiency. If the settlers don't have homes, they don't have stability. And if they don't have stability, we don't have a Republic."
"Now that's the truth if I ever heard it." Sturges' grin softened into something closer to appreciation. He gestured toward the frame rising behind him. "Well, lemme give you the tour, so to speak. That there's House Number Sixty. Two-room setup, small porch, little space for a cookfire out back. Nothin' fancy, but it'll keep a family warm and dry."
They started walking, Sturges pointing things out as they went. The walls still smelled of fresh-cut wood, though some planks were already scarred from being pried out of older ruins. Windows were just empty frames for now, but the shutters stacked nearby promised eventual privacy.
"The older builds are holdin' up better than I expected," Sturges went on. "Course, we had to patch a few leaks after that storm last week, and one roof near collapsed 'cause some fool thought hay made good insulation. But on the whole? Folks are stayin' dry, floors ain't saggin', and nobody's froze to death yet. That's what I call a success."
Sico ran a hand briefly along the wooden wall, feeling the rough grain beneath his palm. "And what do you need to keep it that way?"
Sturges let out a long sigh, the kind that came from a man with a list too long to bother memorizing. "Lumber, first off. Always lumber. We're scroungin' what we can, but it's slow goin' salvagin' from old ruins. Nails, too—can't build much without those. And tools that don't break after a week. Half my saws got teeth duller than a Brahmin, and don't get me started on the hammers."
He ticked off fingers as he went. "We could use glass for windows, proper insulation for winter, hell, even decent hinges so doors don't creak like ghosts every time someone opens 'em. And hands—good, steady hands. I got settlers eager to help, but not everyone knows which end of a hammer to hold."
Sico listened, committing each point to memory. He'd heard similar lists before, but the urgency in Sturges' tone had grown sharper. The settlement wasn't just surviving anymore—it was expanding, demanding more than patchwork fixes.
"I'll see what can be requisitioned," Sico said.
Sturges gave him a long look, squinting slightly as though gauging how much weight those words carried. Then he nodded, satisfied enough. "Appreciate it, Commander. Really do. These folks… they need roofs. They need walls. Gives 'em somethin' solid in a world that feels like it's always ready to tear down."
They paused near the edge of the frame, where two settlers were wrestling with a support beam. Sturges shouted a quick correction—"No, no, left side higher, or she'll lean like a drunk settler on market day!"—before turning back.
"You ever think about that?" he asked, voice dropping a little lower. "What it means, puttin' a house up for someone? Ain't just wood and nails. It's roots. It's the start of a life that ain't all runnin' and fightin'. Kinda feels like we're plantin' somethin', y'know?"
Sico's gaze drifted over the half-built homes, the smoke rising from chimneys, the faint sound of children laughing somewhere beyond the work site. For a moment, the weight in his chest shifted—not gone, but lighter, touched by the sight of something enduring.
Then Sico went to ask him how the Sanctuary Wall held up after the rebuild.
"How's the wall holding up, Sturges?" Sico asked at last, breaking the rhythm of their inspection. His eyes swept toward the distance, where the line of timber and scrap-metal fortifications loomed faintly against the misty morning. "After the rebuild. We put a lot into it. I need to know it's not just standing—but holding."
Sturges followed his gaze, his grin returning in a more subdued, proud sort of way. "You mean that wall? She's holdin' up fine, Commander. Better than fine. Truth be told, it's even better than before. We learned a thing or two from the last round of attacks. Got ourselves a sturdier base, tighter joints, and reinforcements where we used to just slap on some sheet metal and hope for the best."
He wiped his forehead with the back of his glove, leaving a streak of dust. "This time, we sunk the posts deeper. No more of that half-buried nonsense. Every section's got bracing so strong it'd take a Behemoth to knock it over. And if one ever comes knockin', well… we'll hear him long before he makes it across."
There was a flicker of humor in his eyes, but also the weight of a man who had seen too many walls fall. "We built it stronger, tighter, smarter. Ain't pretty, but it'll take a hell of a lot more than raiders or the Brotherhood bangin' on our gates to tear it down now."
Sico gave a slow nod, absorbing every word. He remembered the last breach—the smoke, the shouting, the way the settlement's heart had trembled under fire. He'd felt it in his bones, how fragile everything they were building still was. To hear Sturges speak with that kind of certainty—it was more than just reassurance. It was the foundation of trust.
"Good," Sico said quietly. His hand brushed along the wooden beam again, almost absentmindedly, like grounding himself in the reality of what they were making here. "That wall isn't just wood and steel. It's the line between order and chaos. Between people sleeping soundly and people sleeping with rifles in their hands."
"Couldn't agree more," Sturges said. "And I'll tell you what else—we're not done yet. See, the beauty of this wall now is it's modular. Means we can add on without tearin' down. Every week we scrounge up somethin' new—metal sheets, concrete chunks, even some decent bricks—we just slap 'em in, reinforce the weak points, make her stronger bit by bit. She'll grow right along with the town."
They stood there for a while, both looking toward the distant line of fortifications that enclosed Sanctuary like a great, battered shield. Smoke curled from chimneys inside, rising steady against the pale sky. The faint clang of hammers and the laughter of children carried on the air, underscoring what that wall really meant: safety, however fragile.
Sturges broke the silence first, his voice thoughtful. "Funny thing is, Commander… first time I ever worked on that wall, I figured it was just another project. Y'know? Bang some boards together, stack some junk high enough to keep the nasties out. But now? Now I see it different. That wall ain't just protection. It's a promise. Folks see it when they walk through the gate, and it tells 'em plain as day—'You're safe here. You belong here.' That's somethin' worth sweatin' over."
Sico turned his head slightly, regarding the man with a steadier gaze than before. "You've done more than sweat, Sturges. You've given people something they didn't even know they needed—hope that this place can hold."
Sturges chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, don't go makin' me blush, Commander. I'm just a fella with a hammer who don't like seein' folks sleep in the dirt. But… I'll admit. Feels damn good knowin' the wall's more than just scrap nailed together. It's somethin' that lasts."
Sico's lips curved, just barely, into something that might've been called a smile on a man less reserved. "That's all any of us are doing, isn't it? Trying to build something that lasts."
That simple question about the wall opened the door to much more. The conversation didn't stop there. Sturges, once he'd started talking, had a way of carrying the whole rhythm of the worksite in his words—steady, practical, but touched by that flicker of humanity that made people trust him.
As they walked back toward the pile of materials, he went on, "You know, when we first started the rebuild after the Institute tore through, I wasn't sure folks would rally. Everyone was tired, scared, still patchin' wounds—inside and out. But the minute we started liftin' those posts, somethin' changed. Settlers stopped sittin' on their porches mopin' and started haulin' wood. Kids ran messages. Even old man Rourke, bum knee and all, insisted on helpin' patch gaps. That wall pulled us together more than I ever expected."
Sico remembered that week vividly. He'd walked the perimeter at dawn and dusk, boots sinking into churned mud, rifle never far. He'd seen settlers dragging carts, faces pinched with exhaustion but lit with grim determination. He'd felt the pulse of unity, fragile yet fierce.
"Unity," Sico said aloud, the word tasting heavier than it should. "That's what walls are made of as much as timber and steel."
Sturges snapped his fingers, pointing at him with mock triumph. "Exactly. You get it. And unity's somethin' we're gonna need plenty of in the months ahead. 'Cause I don't fool myself, Commander—walls or no walls, there'll be more comin'. Raiders, mutants, hell, maybe even the Brotherhood came to knock'. But if that time comes, I know we'll stand behind somethin' solid. Ain't no small comfort."
Sico let out a slow breath. He felt the truth of that deep down. The Republic wasn't just an idea held up by words and votes. It was wood and nails, walls and roofs, fires that kept the night at bay. It was the rhythm of hammers and saws, the laughter of children inside a place where danger couldn't reach.
"Keep making it stronger, Sturges," Sico said finally. His voice carried that commander's weight, but softer now, almost personal. "The stronger that wall is, the stronger the Republic will be."
"You got it, Commander." Sturges tipped his hat, eyes glinting with the kind of satisfaction only a craftsman knew. "Long as I got two hands and some scrap to work with, Sanctuary'll have walls that hold."
The morning mist was thinning when Sico finally turned away from the pile of supplies, the conversation with Sturges still hanging between them like the echo of hammer blows. His boots crunched over gravel as he nodded toward the fortifications that stretched across Sanctuary's outer line.
"Let's take a look," he said simply.
Sturges didn't need to ask what he meant. He fell in beside him, that easy stride of his keeping pace without effort. The two men walked side by side down the dirt path that wound toward the nearest gate, the distant clang of work growing sharper with every step.
As they drew closer, Sico could already see figures moving along the wall—settlers with toolbelts slung around their hips, scrap slats balanced on their shoulders, hammers ringing out like a steady heartbeat. It wasn't chaotic. It wasn't frantic. It was organized, deliberate, alive with purpose.
Sturges's voice carried a note of pride. "There they are—my crew. Well, more like the settlement's crew, but they let me bark at 'em enough that they humor me."
Sico studied them carefully. Men and women both, young and weathered, each one moving with a rhythm that spoke of routine. A boy no older than fourteen ferried nails in a bucket to one side of the wall. A pair of women braced a steel plate against the wooden posts, while another settler drove bolts through with a salvaged wrench. Higher up, someone balanced precariously, replacing a cracked board with something sturdier.
"Not bad," Sico said. His tone was neutral, but Sturges knew him well enough to hear the respect buried in it.
They reached the base of the wall where one of the teams was working. The structure loomed above them now—patchwork but formidable, a mosaic of wood, corrugated steel, concrete chunks, and scavenged fencing. It wasn't pretty, not by pre-war standards, but it carried the look of something built to last.
"Commander," one of the workers greeted, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow. He was a stocky man, sleeves rolled up, arms roped with muscle from a life of hard labor. "We've been reinforcing the west line. Found a couple weak seams where the metal plates shifted after the last rain. Sturges had us bracin' 'em up proper."
"Show me," Sico said.
The man led him to a section where fresh timbers had been sunk into the earth. The steel sheets were bolted tight now, but the ground showed the telltale signs of sag where rainwater had undermined it.
Sico crouched, gloved hand brushing over the damp soil. "Good catch," he said, glancing up at the worker. "Water does as much damage as bullets if you let it. Keep the drainage clear."
"Yes, sir."
Sturges folded his arms, grinning faintly. "See what I mean? I tell 'em, but when you say it, Commander, it sticks."
Sico didn't respond right away. He stood, his eyes sweeping upward, taking in the stretch of wall as far as the mist would allow. He could see more of Sturges's crew scattered along its length, hammering, tightening, checking for faults. There was no laziness here, no corner-cutting. Just the steady pulse of maintenance—keeping the shield of Sanctuary strong.
"You've got them working like a unit," Sico said at last. "Not just patching holes. Maintaining. That's the difference between surviving and thriving."
Sturges shrugged, though his grin gave him away. "Guess they're startin' to see it like I do. A wall ain't somethin' you build once and forget. It's like a machine—needs upkeep, tune-ups, a bit of elbow grease to keep hummin'. Only this machine keeps us breathin'."
They walked further along, boots sinking in damp soil. Everywhere they went, settlers straightened, some offering quick nods, others continuing their work with a renewed sharpness. Sico's presence was like that—he didn't need to raise his voice or bark orders. Just being there was enough to remind people what was at stake.
One section of the wall was under heavier repair. A group of settlers had pulled down a warped panel and were replacing it with salvaged highway guardrail. Sparks jumped as a man wielded a makeshift welder, fusing the steel to its frame.
Sico paused, watching. The hiss of the torch, the glow, the acrid scent of burnt metal—it was the sound and smell of resilience. He found himself remembering the last time he'd stood here during battle: the Brotherhood's shells pounding the defenses, men and women firing desperately from behind cover, sections of the wall crumbling under assault. And yet, here it stood again, stronger.
"Every time I see it rebuilt, I'm reminded," he murmured, almost to himself. "Walls fall. People fall. But if they rise again stronger, then the enemy hasn't won."
Sturges glanced at him sidelong, catching the rare flicker of something personal in the commander's voice. He didn't press, just nodded slowly. "That's the spirit that keeps this place alive. Don't think folks don't notice, either. When they see you walkin' the line like this, checkin' every bolt and beam—it reminds 'em why they fight, why they stay."
They continued on, weaving between workers, listening to updates. One woman explained how they'd rigged wire mesh along the base to prevent tunneling from mole rats. Another showed off a pulley system that let them lift heavy panels without breaking their backs.
Sico listened to it all, asking questions here and there, never dismissing even the smallest detail. To him, every nail mattered. Every reinforcement was a potential life saved when the next attack came.
By the time they reached the north gate, the mist had burned off enough for the sun to cast long, angled rays across the settlement. The gate itself stood massive—twin doors reinforced with iron bars, hinges scavenged from some pre-war warehouse. A pair of guards leaned against it, rifles slung casually, but their eyes alert.
"Morning, Commander," one greeted. "Everything holding so far. Smooth day."
"Good," Sico said simply, though his gaze lingered on the hinges, the locking mechanism, the brace beams. He ran his hand across the rough steel, checking for cracks, rust, anything that might weaken it. Finding none, he gave a small nod of approval.
Behind him, Sturges's crew was already shifting to a new section, their voices carrying in laughter and chatter even as they worked. It wasn't forced. It was the sound of people who, for once, believed in what they were building.
Sico let the sound wash over him. He stood tall by the gate, arms folded, looking out beyond the wall where the wilds stretched empty and unforgiving. For a long moment, he didn't move. His mind traced the invisible line between inside and out, between safety and chaos, between the fragile promise of the Republic and the wasteland waiting to tear it down.
Finally, he spoke, his words low but steady. "Keep them at it, Sturges. This wall isn't finished. It never will be. Every day it has to grow, has to hold. If it falls, Sanctuary falls. If Sanctuary falls, the Republic crumbles with it."
Sturges, standing beside him, nodded firmly. "Then it won't fall. Not on my watch."
Sico's eyes remained fixed on the horizon, but his hand came down briefly on Sturges's shoulder—solid, approving, wordless trust. And then, without another word, he turned back toward the heart of Sanctuary, the hammering and laughter of the wall crews echoing behind him like the pulse of a living, breathing shield.
________________________________________________
• 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:-