If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
The night held them there for a long moment—the team, the weapon, the quiet hum of the truck engine still idling like a heartbeat. And Sico stood among them, the weight of the Republic pressing on his shoulders, but for once, not crushing him. Because in this moment, he wasn't carrying it alone.
The next day broke slow, heavy with the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke still drifting from the night's fires. Sico woke early, as he always did, though he hadn't slept long. His boots had barely left the dirt before dawn colored the horizon, and his mind, restless as ever, had dragged him from his cot before the sun had even cleared the ridge.
The clang of the factory had died down with the night, replaced now by the softer sounds of the waking settlement—roosters crowing, dogs barking somewhere in the distance, and the low hum of voices as people stirred from their cots and makeshift beds. The Republic lived in shifts: warriors, builders, farmers, traders. The hammers and welders had worked until exhaustion shut them down, and now, another lifeline of the settlement carried the weight—the farmers.
Sico walked with the steady patience of someone whose presence always drew eyes, but not in the way of vanity. People didn't whisper his name because of who he was—they whispered it because he represented what they were all trying to hold together. His shadow seemed to move a second ahead of him, long and stretched across the broken road as he made his way out toward the farmlands.
The farm lay on the southern edge of the settlement, past the walls reinforced with scavenged steel and half-dismantled cars. Beyond that perimeter, the land spread wide, a patchwork of tilled soil, fences hammered together from scrap wood, and irrigation channels dug by blistered hands. What had once been cracked wasteland now carried the stubborn green of survival—rows of mutfruit trees, small patches of corn stalks, razorgrain swaying in the early wind.
And at the heart of it, always moving, always watching, was Jenny.
He found her near the cattle pens, where a small herd of brahmin lumbered in their slow, two-headed way, their breath steaming in the cool morning air. Jenny stood with her back to him, sleeves rolled up, her hair tied into a practical knot at the nape of her neck. Her hands worked quick and sure as she tightened a rope along one of the fence posts. Dirt streaked her forearms, but there was a sturdiness to her stance that spoke of a woman who'd learned to wring life out of ground that had long ago stopped wanting to give it.
Sico's boots crunched against gravel, and Jenny glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes, sharp and bright even in the dim light, narrowed slightly before softening into something closer to recognition than greeting.
"Commander," she said, not with surprise but with that simple acknowledgment of someone she expected eventually. "You're up with the roosters, same as always."
Sico stopped a few paces from her, resting his weight slightly on one leg, arms loose at his sides. "The Republic doesn't wait on late sleepers," he replied evenly. "I came to see how the land's treating you. How's the harvest? And the cattle—do we have plenty?"
Jenny wiped her hands on the front of her trousers, leaving dark streaks on already stained fabric. She gave a short snort, half amusement, half exasperation.
"Plenty?" she echoed. "That's a word for better times. Out here, 'plenty' means nobody goes hungry tonight. And by that measure, we're holding."
She gestured with her chin toward the fields beyond the pens. Rows of mutfruit trees sagged under the weight of swollen, bulbous fruit. Corn stalks stood tall, leaves rustling in the morning breeze. The razorgrain patch shimmered faintly, its sharp edges catching the light.
"The mutfruit came in strong this season," Jenny said, her tone more matter-of-fact than proud. "Weather's been kinder than usual, and the soil's held enough water thanks to those irrigation ditches we dug. Corn's slower, but it's coming along. Razorgrain—stubborn as ever, but we'll have sacks full of it ready for grinding in a week or two."
She turned then, wiping her brow with the back of her wrist, her eyes steady on Sico's. "The brahmin are the bigger worry. We lost one to sickness last week—guts turned sour. I had to put her down myself before she spoiled the pen. The others are holding, but we'll need to trade for more fodder if we want them fat enough to give good milk through the winter."
Sico's gaze drifted over the herd. The animals shifted slowly, their heavy sides brushing against the fence, two-headed silhouettes bending to chew at the patchy grass inside the pen. He studied them with the same patience he gave soldiers—measuring not just what they were now, but what they could become if cared for properly.
"You've done well," he said finally, the words low but deliberate. "This is more than survival—it's stability. The Republic can't march without food, and you're giving us the backbone we need."
Jenny let out a breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "Don't dress it up too pretty, Commander. These fields feed bellies, sure—but it's not enough yet. Not for an army, not for what you're planning. You want to push back the Brotherhood, you'll need twice this yield, and that's if we don't lose more cattle."
Her bluntness wasn't defiance. It was honesty—the kind Sico valued more than flattery. He stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the fence, his eyes on her as if weighing her words like stones in his palm.
"Then tell me what you need," Sico said. "Tools? Hands? Caravan trade? I'll see it done. But I need you to give me the truth, Jenny—not just for today, but every day. If we're starving while building guns, it won't matter how many we put in the field."
Jenny's eyes softened a fraction. She leaned back against the fence, crossing her arms, her expression one of someone who'd lived too long with hard choices but still carried the fire to keep pushing.
"Truth is, we need more hands," she admitted. "The kids help, but they can't work a plow from sunup to sundown. Some of the older folk are too worn down to last in the fields. If you can spare even a few soldiers on rotation, we'll double what we put out of this ground."
Sico considered that, the gears of command already shifting in his mind. Soldiers were precious—each one a fighter needed on the line. But what good were fighters if their stomachs were empty?
"You'll have them," he said, no hesitation. "I'll assign a rotation. Strong backs, steady hands. They'll dig, plant, whatever you need."
Jenny raised a brow, skeptical. "You sure about that? Your people didn't sign up to pull weeds."
"They signed up to keep this Republic alive," Sico answered evenly. "If that means a rifle one day and a plow the next, then that's the fight."
For a moment, Jenny just looked at him, her lips pressed into a line, her gaze sharp as though she were testing him. But then she nodded, slow and deliberate, her arms uncrossing as she pushed off the fence.
"Alright then," she said. "We'll put them to use. And in return, I'll make sure nobody goes to bed hungry under your command."
There was no oath, no handshake, just a simple exchange of resolve between two people who understood what survival really demanded.
The morning light grew stronger, spilling across the fields and turning the mutfruit leaves to gold. Workers had begun trickling in now—men and women with baskets slung over their shoulders, children carrying tools too big for their hands, laughter and chatter mixing with the calls of the brahmin. The farm was alive, and for a moment, Sico stood in the middle of it, the weight of war balanced against the quiet rhythm of life being rebuilt from the dirt.
Jenny turned back toward the pens, her hands already reaching for another length of rope. "If you're looking to help right this second, Commander," she said with a wry smile, "grab a bucket. These beasts don't milk themselves."
Sico didn't hesitate when Jenny handed him the dented metal bucket. He hooked it in one hand, ducked under the fence, and made his way to the closest brahmin. The beast shifted lazily, its twin heads swinging toward him with dull-eyed curiosity. One head gave a low grunt, the other just chewed. Up close, Sico could smell the heavy musk of its hide, the earthy weight of an animal that had survived in a world that killed most things too weak to adapt.
Jenny stood at the post, arms crossed, watching with the faintest smirk tugging her lips. "Careful there," she called out. "She's the gentle one, but don't let her fool you—step on her hoof and she'll put you in the dirt."
Sico crouched beside the brahmin with the same focus he gave to assembling a rifle or mapping a battlefield. His hands weren't farmer's hands, but they were steady, and that steadiness counted for something. He worked as Jenny had shown him on a past visit, his big frame leaning in close, bucket balanced against his boot. The brahmin shifted, gave a low groan, and then, slowly, the first streams of milk hit the bucket with a hollow patter.
Jenny chuckled softly. "Not bad, Commander. Guess you're not all swords and speeches."
He didn't look up, just kept working, his voice low. "A man shouldn't be afraid to get his hands dirty, not when the Republic asks it."
By the time the bucket was half full, Jenny had come over with another one, already moving toward the next brahmin. For a few minutes, neither spoke. Only the sound of animals breathing, the soft stream of milk, and the occasional laugh of a child running past the pens filled the air. Sico felt something almost unfamiliar in his chest—a quiet that wasn't strategy or war, but work that built instead of destroyed.
When the last bucket was set aside, Jenny wiped her hands on her trousers and gave him a long look. There was no smile, no outward show of warmth, but there was respect in her eyes. "You'll do," she said simply, then added with the faintest tilt of her head, "Come back when you're not planning to fight a war. We'll make a farmer out of you yet."
Sico gave a grunt that might've been amusement, then straightened and brushed dust from his coat. "Don't tempt me," he said. "For now, you'll have soldiers to help. I'll send them down before the week's end."
Jenny nodded once, already turning back to the fields. That was how she was—no wasted words. The farm didn't give her the luxury.
Sico left the pens, the smell of earth and cattle clinging to his coat as he walked back through the settlement. The sun was higher now, burning off the haze, lighting the steel walls and half-rebuilt homes in a pale gold. Life was stirring everywhere: smiths hammering at makeshift forges, children darting between houses, traders setting up stalls along the dirt road that wound through the heart of the Republic's settlement.
But as he turned a corner toward the east side, the tone shifted.
The recruitment center.
Where Jenny's farm was slow rhythm and steady work, the center was noise and motion. By the time Sico approached, he could already hear the clamor: voices raised in argument, in laughter, in nervous questions. The closer he got, the thicker the crowd became—men and women jostling shoulder to shoulder, some in rags, some in half-patched armor, all with that same hungry look in their eyes. Hunger not just for food, but for belonging. For a place in something larger than themselves.
The building itself wasn't much—an old pre-war warehouse stripped and repurposed, its wide doors thrown open to let the flood of people in and out. A flag hung above the entrance, the symbol of the Freemasons stitched clumsily but proudly onto the cloth. Guards in mismatched armor kept loose order, ushering recruits into lines, keeping the desperate from surging forward.
And at the center of it all was Albert.
Sico spotted him instantly. The man stood on a raised platform just inside the doors, his broad shoulders squared, his voice carrying above the din with that mix of authority and fire that made him perfect for this job. His coat was rolled at the sleeves, sweat dampening his shirt beneath, but he never slowed. A stack of ledgers sat at his side, manned by two assistants scribbling names and details as fast as their hands could move. Another team worked behind them, handing out scraps of uniforms, sorting recruits into groups.
Albert was in his element—part commander, part salesman, part shepherd.
"Next!" he barked, pointing at a nervous-looking young man who stepped forward from the line. "Name?"
The boy stammered something.
"Speak up!" Albert demanded, though not unkindly. "You want to be a Mason, you start with strength in your voice. What's your name?"
The boy straightened, swallowed hard, and said it louder this time. Albert clapped him on the shoulder, gave him a grin, then gestured to one of his team. "Put him with the second group. We'll see if he's got arms enough to carry a rifle."
The crowd surged again, and Albert moved seamlessly to the next.
Sico stepped closer, the press of bodies parting slowly as people noticed him. Whispers rippled through the line—his name carried in low tones, heads turning, eyes following. Not fear, not awe, but recognition. The man who had carved this Republic out of ruins. The one whose shadow meant direction.
Albert caught sight of him then, mid-sentence, and for just a second his voice faltered. He gave a sharp nod of acknowledgment, then finished with the recruit before raising a hand.
"Make way!" he called, his voice booming. "Let him through. Clear the path for the Commander!"
The crowd shifted, hesitant at first, then obedient. Sico walked forward, boots heavy on the worn floorboards, until he stood at the edge of the platform. For a moment, he said nothing—just let his eyes sweep the room, measuring the faces that stared back at him. Some were thin, worn by hunger. Some carried scars that spoke of past fights. Some were wide-eyed with youth, others hardened by age. All of them carried hope—raw, unsteady, but there.
Albert stepped down from the platform, wiping sweat from his brow, his grin wide. "Commander," he said, voice warm despite the exhaustion etched into his features. "Didn't expect you down here this early. You come to check if I'm working or not?"
Sico allowed the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. "I know you're working, Albert. The noise carries all the way to the farms."
Albert laughed, clapped his hands once. "Noise means life, Commander. Look at them. Half of these folks came crawling in with nothing but the rags on their backs. Now they want to wear our colors. That's something worth the racket."
Sico glanced back at the crowd, then returned his gaze to Albert. "How many today?"
Albert's grin dimmed into something more serious. He pulled a folded ledger from the table, flipping it open with rough fingers. "Since sunrise? Fifty-six names. Yesterday, we had seventy-two. It doesn't stop, Commander—they keep coming. From the ruins, from the roads, from settlements burned by raiders. They hear about us, about what you're building, and they want in."
He handed the ledger over. Sico took it, scanning the pages—names, ages, notes scrawled in cramped handwriting. Fit for combat. Needs training. Skilled in mechanics. Farmer's son. Raider deserter. It was all there, a tapestry of the broken world funneling into their cause.
"You're doing well," Sico said finally, closing the book and handing it back.
Albert gave a shrug that didn't hide his pride. "We're trying. But truth is, Commander, we're running out of room. We don't have enough beds, enough kits. Half these new recruits are sharing boots, for God's sake. And training? Don't get me started. We've got more bodies than rifles. More fists than food."
His tone wasn't complaint—it was raw truth, the same kind Jenny had given him in the fields.
Sico's gaze hardened, but not at Albert. He looked again at the recruits, at their restless shifting, the way their eyes lingered on him with questions they didn't dare speak aloud.
"Then we'll find room," Sico said, his voice carrying enough weight to settle the hum of the crowd nearby. "We'll find kits. We'll build what we don't have and take what we need from those who stand against us. These people came here to fight for something larger than themselves, Albert. We won't turn them away because we lack boots or blankets."
Albert's grin returned, fierce this time. "Knew you'd say that, Commander. Always pushing us forward."
Sico gave a short nod. "Always forward."
Sico stood in the middle of that warehouse-turned-recruitment center, the smell of sweat, dust, and oil thick in the air. For a moment he didn't speak, just let the room settle. The weight of his silence alone was enough to quiet some of the chatter; people leaned forward as though waiting for an order they hadn't realized they were longing to hear.
Albert, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, looked to him expectantly.
Sico's gaze swept the crowd one last time before he spoke, his voice even, low, but carrying to the edges of the hall.
"These men and women who come here," he said, "they're not just bodies for the line. They're not just hands to hold rifles. They're the spine of our Republic. And a Republic doesn't stand without citizens."
Albert's grin faded into something sharper. He knew that tone; it meant the Commander was laying stone, building something that would hold.
Sico stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly so that only Albert and his aides could hear, though the firmness in his tone made it sound like he was etching the words into steel.
"Make sure of this, Albert. Every recruit—every single one—if they're not already a citizen of the Freemasons, they go to the census department. They get their ID card. No exceptions. I want their names on the books, their status clear. If they're going to bleed for the Republic, then they damn well deserve to belong to it."
Albert gave a short, sharp nod, his jaw tightening with the weight of the order. "Understood, Commander. I'll see to it. We'll have the clerks working day and night if we need to. No one joins the line until they've got their card."
Sico's eyes didn't waver. "Good. These people come from the wastes, from shattered towns, from roads paved in ash. Many of them don't even remember what it means to belong. That card, Albert, it isn't just paper. It's a promise. It's proof they're part of us. That when they fight, they fight for their own."
Albert's grin returned, slow this time, not the quick flash he used to win over crowds but something deeper, more grounded. He thumped his chest with his palm. "You always find the marrow of it, Commander. I'll tell them. I'll make sure every recruit knows—before they wear our colors, they carry our name."
The assistants nearby, their quills scratching furiously on parchment, paused just enough to nod along. They understood too. It wasn't just administration. It was foundation.
⸻
Sico turned his head, eyes drifting again over the crowd. He saw the way some of them straightened at Albert's words, as though the mention of belonging—of being recognized—struck something in them. In a world that had stripped people down to nothing, even the idea of a name on a card carried power.
He let that silence hold for a beat longer before speaking louder this time, his words pitched for the whole hall.
"Listen well!"
The chatter died instantly, eyes snapping to him.
"Those who come here to serve the Republic," Sico said, voice steady as stone, "will not serve as nameless wanderers. You will be citizens. This is your Republic as much as mine. You'll be counted, recognized, and when you fight, you fight as Freemasons, not outsiders. No one here stands alone. Do you understand?"
A murmur rose—low at first, then louder as it spread through the hall. "Yes, Commander." Some shouted it, others whispered it, but the words rippled like a current through the bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder.
Albert's grin widened. He raised a fist in the air, his voice booming to match. "You heard him! No one stands alone! You come to us as strays, but you stay as citizens!"
The hall erupted—not with chaos, but with a fierce, ragged cheer, the kind that came from bellies too long hollow and hearts too long hardened.
Sico let it wash over him for a moment, not feeding it, not basking in it—just letting it burn into the bones of the place. Then, as it began to ebb, he turned back to Albert, voice low again.
"Have the census department ready. If they're to handle this many names, they'll need more hands, more ledgers. Tell them to prepare."
Albert nodded. "I'll send word. Maybe pull some of the scribes from the quartermaster's ledgers. They won't like it, but they'll manage."
"Good," Sico said. Then his gaze flicked back toward the line of recruits, toward the nervous faces waiting for their turn to be seen. "Now get back to your work, Albert. These people didn't come here to wait on my speeches. They came here to begin."
Albert gave a sharp salute—not the crisp, polished kind of pre-war armies, but the rough, earnest gesture of men who'd built something out of rubble. Then he turned back to his platform, clapping his hands to draw the recruits' attention again.
"Alright, you heard the Commander! Line up, one by one! You give your name, your skill, and if you don't got an ID, you march yourself straight to the census hall after this. We're building more than an army—we're building a Republic!"
The cheer was still echoing behind him when Sico stepped out of the hall, the heavy doors thudding shut like the lid of a forge. The air outside was cooler, though not by much—the afternoon sun hung swollen above the rooftops, painting the dust in muted gold. He paused a moment on the threshold, listening to the muffled roar inside, then let the noise slip from his shoulders like a cloak he no longer needed to wear.
Albert would see to the recruits. He always did. That man had a knack for turning Sico's words into marrow for the people, something they could carry in their bones. It was enough for now.
But Sico's mind was already elsewhere.
The Republic wasn't held together by soldiers alone. You could have a thousand rifles, a hundred cannons, but if your people went thirsty, they wouldn't last long enough to fire a shot. In this wasteland, water was the coin heavier than caps, the lifeline more valuable than any wall of steel.
And the Freemasons had something most others didn't: purified water, clean enough to drink without fear, clean enough to trade for everything from ammunition to goodwill. For two, nearly three months now, it had been flowing steadily out of their pumps and into their caravans. It was their largest income, their largest bargaining chip. And the one Sico trusted to oversee it was Magnolia.
So he turned his boots toward the warehouse district, where the caravans came and went.
Magnolia wasn't hard to find.
The trading post had grown like a hive in the last few months. Once just a cluster of wagons and barrels, it now sprawled across half a block—rows of stacked containers, barrels marked with the Freemasons' sigil, carts lined up waiting to be loaded. Guards stood at intervals, rifles slung casual but eyes sharp, watching every passerby with the wary patience of men who knew desperation when they saw it.
And in the middle of it all, there was Magnolia.
She wasn't the kind of woman who needed to shout to be noticed. Her presence was enough—a steady weight, a calm current running beneath the chaos. She stood at a table covered with ledgers, her finger tracing down a column of numbers while a nervous-looking merchant wrung his hands beside her.
Sico stopped for a moment, just watching.
There had been a time when Magnolia was known only for her voice, that smoky tone drifting from a stage in a dark corner of Goodneighbor. People used to think she belonged to that stage, to the bottle and the microphone. But here she was, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, eyes sharp as steel as she haggled over water shipments like she'd been born to it.
She glanced up, as if sensing his gaze, and her lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "Commander," she said, her voice carrying across the distance without needing to rise.
The merchant paled at the word. He stammered something about coming back later and scurried off, leaving Magnolia to close the ledger with a soft thump.
"You've got a way of scattering people just by showing up," she said, her tone warm but edged with humor.
Sico stepped closer, his boots crunching over gravel. "Then maybe I should show up more often. Save you the trouble."
Magnolia chuckled, low and genuine. "I'd rather you didn't. I make better deals when they're a little scared of me, not you."
He allowed himself a faint smile, though his eyes were already moving to the barrels stacked nearby. Each one represented work, risk, survival. Each one was a promise to their allies and a target for their enemies.
"How's it holding?" he asked.
Magnolia leaned against the table, folding her arms. "Better than you'd expect. We've been running the pumps near full capacity for three months now, and so far the filters haven't buckled. Sturges and his crew check them daily. We lose a little to leaks here and there, but nothing we can't patch. The real challenge is keeping up with demand."
Sico's brow furrowed. "Too much?"
"More than too much," Magnolia said. "Every settlement within a week's travel wants a piece. Raiders come sniffing, too, though they've learned quick that our convoys don't travel unguarded. Still, the more word spreads, the harder it gets to keep control. Everyone wants what we've got."
Sico let that settle. He knew it already, of course, but hearing it from her gave it weight. Magnolia didn't embellish, didn't deal in fearmongering. If she said demand was outpacing supply, then it was truth carved into stone.
"Any trouble with the traders?" he asked.
Magnolia tilted her head, considering. "Some try to haggle more than their share. Had a caravan master last week try to walk off with double the shipment after paying for half. Didn't get far—your guards have good aim—but it's a reminder. The more we trade, the more someone's going to think they can cut corners. Or cut throats."
Sico's jaw tightened. He'd expected as much. Water wasn't just trade—it was power. And power always drew blood.
He glanced at her again, studying the lines of her face. "And you? You holding up?"
That earned him a raised brow and a smirk. "You mean am I tired of counting barrels and breaking up fights? Not yet. Turns out, singing to half-drunk lowlifes at The Third Rail was decent training for dealing with merchants. Just less music, more ledgers."
Sico allowed himself the ghost of a laugh. But Magnolia's eyes softened, and for a moment her voice lost its edge.
"It matters, you know," she said. "What we're doing here. Every barrel we send out isn't just caps in the coffers—it's families drinking clean for the first time in years. Kids not dying of thirst. Farmers growing something other than dust. People are starting to believe again, Sico. In the Republic. In themselves. That's worth more than the caps."
He met her gaze, steady and unflinching. "That's why you're here."
Magnolia held his eyes a moment longer, then nodded, pushing off the table. "Well, since you are here, want the full report? Or are you just checking in to see if I've started charging for autographs?"
Sico gestured for her to walk with him, and together they moved through the rows of barrels and carts, the smell of metal and wet stone thick in the air. Guards and workers stepped aside as they passed, nodding respectfully. Magnolia kept talking, outlining numbers, trade routes, deals struck and deals broken.
________________________________________________
• 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:-