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Outside, through the narrow window behind his desk, the night stretched endless over the Commonwealth — dark, silent, and waiting. The faint lights of the Freemasons outposts blinked in the distance like stars refusing to go out.
The morning began slow — not because the HQ itself was sluggish, but because the weight of dawn always seemed to move differently in this part of the Commonwealth. Through the high, narrow windows of Sico's office, the first light crept in like a slow, golden tide — washing across the desk, over the stacks of reports, and catching the faint shimmer of the Republic's insignia embossed on a steel placard beside the door.
The base outside was already alive. Sico could hear it — faint, muffled through the thick concrete walls, but unmistakable. The hum of generators. The distant clang of tools on metal. The low, rhythmic cadence of soldiers drilling in the courtyard below. It was a steady pulse — the heartbeat of a nation trying to stand tall in a world still broken.
Inside his office, though, there was quiet. The kind of quiet that came only from long hours of habit — the sound of pen scratching paper, of datapads being tapped and dismissed, of one man steadily chipping away at the mountain of responsibility that leadership always built.
Sico sat behind his desk, posture upright despite the visible exhaustion tugging at his shoulders. A fresh pot of coffee steamed near the corner of the desk — untouched long enough that the aroma had gone bitter. His jacket was draped neatly over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up, forearms marked faintly with old scars and ink-stained fingertips.
He'd been awake since before dawn. Reports had come in overnight — routine updates mostly, but one had caught his eye. A small footnote in the Brotherhood activity logs from the southern sector: a reconnaissance drone had detected faint heat signatures moving along the old I-93 corridor. It could have been anything — scavengers, raiders, wild ghouls — but the pattern was disciplined, too clean, too deliberate.
He'd made a note of it. The Brotherhood might be repositioning, or maybe just scouting. Either way, he'd need Sarah to review it later. But for now, there was something else to handle. Something far more delicate.
He pressed a small intercom switch built into his desk. "Mara," he said, his voice steady, calm, but carrying that tone of quiet authority that made people listen.
The reply came almost immediately, soft but professional. "Yes, Commander?"
"Could you call Captain Garvey to my office?"
"Of course, sir."
The line clicked off.
Sico leaned back slightly, letting the chair creak under the shift of his weight. His gaze drifted toward the holographic map still glowing faintly on the far wall. The red and blue sigils hadn't changed since last night, but his eyes lingered on them anyway — tracing the edges of their expanding influence, the slow, deliberate spread of the Republic's reach.
They were holding. Stronger than before. But the Brotherhood's shadow still loomed on the horizon, and that made what he was about to do even more important.
He tapped his fingers lightly on the desk, not in impatience but thought. The kind of rhythm that came when his mind was already three steps ahead of the conversation that hadn't yet begun.
After a few minutes, the sound of boots echoed down the corridor — solid, measured steps. The door hissed open, and Preston Garvey stepped through.
He looked as he always did — dependable, steady, the sort of presence that made chaos seem manageable just by being in the room. His uniform bore a few new scuffs, a faint layer of dust from the morning drills, but his expression was alert, professional.
"You wanted to see me, Commander?"
Sico gestured toward the seat across from his desk. "Yes. Close the door, please."
Preston did, the soft hiss sealing them off from the noise outside. The moment the door clicked shut, the tone of the room seemed to change — quieter, heavier somehow.
Sico studied him for a moment before speaking, his hands folded neatly on the desk. "How was patrol rotation this morning?"
"Smooth," Preston replied. "Sarah's teams have the perimeter checks running like clockwork. Mel's tech units are reinforcing the sensor grids around the northern gate. No major incidents overnight."
"Good." Sico nodded once. "That's what I like to hear."
A brief silence stretched — the kind that always preceded something serious. Preston could read it in Sico's posture, in the careful precision of his words.
"You've been leading a lot of the field operations lately," Sico said finally, his voice lowering slightly. "And I trust your judgment more than most. That's why I'm giving you something delicate today — something that needs to be handled quietly."
Preston leaned forward a little, attentive now. "Understood. What's the target?"
Sico tapped a control on the desk. The holographic map flickered, zooming in on the northern quadrant of the Commonwealth — an expanse of forested ruins stretching between the outskirts of Medford and the remains of Revere. Faint red markers blinked at two locations.
"These zones," Sico said. "Mutant concentrations seem moderate, mostly standard types. No behemoths. I want you to lead a team there."
Preston's brow furrowed slightly. "A sweep?"
"Not exactly."
Sico's eyes lifted to meet his. "Capture."
That word hung in the air like a held breath.
"Virgil's project needs subjects — fresh ones," Sico continued, his tone quiet, but unyielding. "The last samples we provided gave him partial data, but he needs living, stable mutants if he's going to continue the synthesis. Preferably one, maybe two. Contained, not killed."
Preston was silent for a moment, digesting that. His jaw tightened a little, not in objection, but thought. "That's not an easy pull, sir. You know how unpredictable those things get once cornered. And containment —"
"I know," Sico interrupted softly. "But you've done it before."
A faint shadow of memory passed across Preston's face. He remembered — the last time they'd done something like this. Deep in the ruins of the old city, before the Republic had even declared itself. A dark operation, run under blackout protocols, when the Freemasons were still a whisper in the Commonwealth.
They'd brought one in alive back then. Barely. It had taken four commandos, two injuries, and a containment field generator running at maximum output.
He exhaled slowly. "Robert and the Commandos?"
Sico nodded. "Exactly. I want it done the same way — small unit, minimal noise. No broadcasts, no radio chatter outside the encoded channel. You go in, secure the subjects, and extract them directly to Virgil's lab through the underground entry. The fewer eyes on this, the better."
Preston's gaze sharpened. "You don't want the Brotherhood catching wind."
Sico's expression didn't change, but his silence was answer enough.
"They're watching us," Preston went on quietly. "I've seen their recon drones circling near our outposts. They're not striking yet, but they're waiting — watching. If they get wind we're experimenting with FEV samples again…"
"They'll come for it," Sico finished for him. His tone was cool, even. "That's why this has to stay buried. Only you, Robert, Mel, and Virgil know the details. Everyone else — if they ask — you're running a salvage recovery mission. Keep it clean."
Preston nodded slowly, though the faint crease between his brows deepened. "You really think Virgil can make something out of it? After everything we've seen that virus do?"
Sico's eyes softened, just a fraction. "I think if anyone can, it's him. He's not trying to recreate the past — he's trying to redeem it. If he can strip the corruption from the FEV and control the mutation sequence…"
He paused, his gaze drifting briefly to the window, to the faint light spilling across the map's edges. "Then maybe humanity gets a second chance at surviving without losing what makes it human."
Preston studied him quietly. He'd known Sico a long time — long enough to recognize the weight that sat behind those words. This wasn't about power. Not really. It was about responsibility. About making sure that whatever came next didn't repeat the same mistakes that had burned the world to ash.
Finally, Preston exhaled through his nose, nodding once. "Alright. I'll do it. Same as before — quiet and quick."
"Good."
"I'll take Robert and four of his best. Two from Mel's lab team for containment. That's it. We move before dawn."
"Dawn's fine," Sico said. "I'll authorize the transport and have the containment cells prepped before you return."
Preston rose, straightening his coat. "We'll bring them in alive."
Sico leaned back slightly, watching him. "And safe. I don't want unnecessary bloodshed. These things — they were people once. Don't forget that."
Preston's expression softened, just slightly. "I never do."
He turned toward the door, but before he could reach it, Sico's voice stopped him.
"Preston."
He turned back.
"If anything feels off," Sico said, "if there's even a hint of Brotherhood presence, you abort. I'd rather lose a specimen than draw them to our gates."
"Understood."
Their eyes met — that silent understanding between commander and captain, between men who had seen too much to need more words.
Preston gave a short nod and stepped out, the door hissing shut behind him.
Sico sat there for a long moment afterward, the hum of the holographic map filling the silence again. His eyes lingered on the northern markers — those tiny points of red light that now represented both risk and possibility.
He trusted Preston completely. That wasn't the issue. But still, a part of him couldn't shake the unease — the quiet whisper of intuition that came from years of reading the world's hidden movements.
The Brotherhood's silence was too clean. Too deliberate.
He rose from his chair, moving toward the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Below, the courtyard was alive again — patrols changing, technicians checking fuel lines, mess workers hauling crates toward the canteen. The Republic looked strong. Unbreakable, even.
But Sico knew better. Every empire in history had looked unbreakable once — until the cracks began to show.
He took a slow breath, eyes on the horizon beyond the walls, where the faint morning mist was beginning to burn away under the sun.
If Virgil succeeded, they could rebuild the world faster than any Brotherhood zealot could imagine. If he failed… they might unleash something worse than the war itself.
That was the burden of command — to make choices that could save or doom the future with the same stroke of a pen.
And Sico, standing there in the quiet morning light, understood that better than anyone.
He turned back to his desk, the paperwork still waiting — requisitions, reports, signatures.
The next file on Sico's desk was different.
Not the usual kind of report filled with casualty counts or ration logs, nor another requisition form stamped urgent in red ink. This one was printed on heavy paper — rare these days — and sealed with the dark blue emblem of the Department of Civic Development. Whoever had sent it had taken care to make it look important, almost ceremonial.
Sico arched an eyebrow, breaking the seal with the edge of his thumb. The paper slid free with a faint rasp, unfolding neatly across his desk. His eyes moved over the heading first, and for a rare moment, the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.
Proposal: Founding Day Celebration — One Year Anniversary of the Freemasons Republic.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the words hang in the quiet. The sunlight spilling through the high window caught the edge of the paper, painting it gold. One year.
It was strange to think of it that way — to think that an entire year had passed since that morning in Sanctuary Hills when he had stood before the gathered settlers, soldiers, scientists, and survivors, and declared that they were no longer fragments of a broken world. That they were something new.
The Freemasons Republic. Or, as some of the people still fondly called it — the Minutemen Reborn.
He read on. The document was clear, methodical, and almost enthusiastic in tone. It laid out a plan for a three-day festival to mark the anniversary: public speeches, a military parade through the restored streets of Lexington, musical performances, food markets.
There was even a note about inviting settlers from allied territories — Graygarden, Tenpines Bluff, Starlight, and Finch Farm — to attend as guests of honor.
Sico's eyes lingered on one line near the end:
"A nation must not only survive — it must remember why it was worth saving."
He smiled faintly at that. Whoever had written this understood something deep. Rebuilding wasn't just about walls and weapons. It was about spirit — about giving people something to believe in again.
He let the paper rest on the desk, fingertips brushing the edge thoughtfully. The Republic had grown stronger than he'd dared hope in that first chaotic year — with functioning power grids, trade routes, even a semblance of governance. But beneath it all, the people were still healing. Still carrying the ghosts of what they'd lost.
Maybe a festival wasn't a luxury. Maybe it was exactly what they needed.
He took a slow sip of his coffee — cold now, but it didn't matter — and reached for the intercom.
"Mara," he said, voice even but lighter than before.
"Yes, Commander?"
"Get me Treasurer Magnolia. Tell her I'd like to see her in my office."
"Right away, sir."
He clicked off the intercom and leaned back again, eyes wandering briefly toward the Commonwealth map still pulsing faintly on the wall. The thought of a celebration — a real one, not just a speech or a ceremony — felt almost alien in this world. But as he imagined the sounds of laughter, music, the smell of cooked food, children running without fear… the idea started to take root.
Maybe this was how hope took form — not through science or steel, but through joy.
The door hissed open several minutes later, and a voice, warm and lightly amused, drifted through.
"Commander Sico," Magnolia said, her tone smooth as always. "When I heard you wanted to see me personally, I thought either the treasury was on fire, or you were planning to do something expensive."
Sico looked up with a faint smirk. "Possibly both."
Magnolia stepped in — tall, confident, dressed in the sharp charcoal uniform of the Treasury Office. She carried her usual datapad under one arm and a wry smile that suggested she already suspected why she was here. Her red hair was pinned neatly at the back, her dark eyes bright despite the early hour.
"You've been up all night again," she remarked, glancing at the untouched coffee mug and the stacks of paperwork. "You know, most people sleep."
"Sleep is for those without paperwork," Sico replied dryly.
She chuckled softly, then moved closer to the desk, setting her datapad down beside the document he'd been reading. "So. What's this about?"
Sico slid the paper toward her. "A proposal from the Department of Civic Development. They want to organize a festival for the one-year anniversary of the Republic's founding."
Magnolia's brows rose slightly as she began to skim the text. Her lips parted in a faint murmur as she read. "A festival… with performances, trade exhibitions, and a parade through Sanctuary?"
"That's the plan."
She looked up, tilting her head slightly. "And you're considering it?"
Sico nodded slowly. "I think it's time. We've spent a year surviving, building, fighting off what's left of the old world. People need to see that we've built something worth living in — not just defending. A festival could remind them of that."
Magnolia was quiet for a moment, weighing his words. Then she smiled faintly. "You've always been the practical dreamer, Sico. The kind who builds a fortress but still wants a garden outside it."
He allowed himself a soft chuckle. "A fortress with no heart is just a prison."
"True enough," she said, tapping the proposal with one manicured finger. "So, you want to know if the treasury can handle it."
"That's right. Between Virgil's lab expansions, the new housing projects in Sanctuary, and Mel's funding for research, I know resources are tight. But if there's a way — even a modest one — to make this happen, I want it done."
Magnolia nodded slowly, already flicking through figures on her datapad. "Let's see…"
She scrolled, the faint light of the screen reflecting off her face. "The treasury's current liquid reserves stand at fifty-three thousand caps, plus the stored trade value from the caravans heading in from Bunker Hill next week. Mel's energy division has surplus materials we could reassign — lighting rigs, generator fuel, tents. We'd need to allocate extra security, of course."
She paused, eyes darting over the numbers. "If we scale it properly — keep the food locally sourced and the decorations minimal — we could do it. It would cut into our emergency buffer by about twelve percent, but… yes. It's feasible."
Sico nodded slowly, the faintest trace of relief in his expression. "That's good news."
Magnolia looked up, eyes narrowing playfully. "You're smiling. Don't deny it."
He glanced down, pretending to busy himself with another file. "I don't smile."
"Liar," she said, with mock severity. "You do. Just not often enough for anyone to catch it."
He gave a small exhale that might've been a laugh. "Maybe this festival will change that."
She leaned back slightly, her tone softening. "You know, Sico… I think it's a good idea too. People are tired. They've given everything they have to keep this Republic standing. A few days to breathe — to celebrate — might remind them that this isn't just another wasteland stronghold. It's home."
He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. "That's exactly what I want."
"Then I'll make it happen," Magnolia said firmly, sliding the datapad back into her grasp. "I'll draft the budget proposal and send it to you by noon. You can review it before presenting it to the Directorate."
"Good. And Magnolia?"
"Yes?"
"Make sure the performers get real instruments," he said. "Not just synth-encoded tracks. I want the people to feel the music."
Magnolia smiled, her expression softening with something almost nostalgic. "You want to make it human."
"That's the point," Sico said quietly.
There was a pause, the silence between them comfortable — the kind that came only between people who'd been through the same storms. Then Magnolia straightened, giving a small nod. "I'll see to it personally. Anything else?"
"Just one more thing," Sico said. "Let's call it Founding Day. Make it official."
Magnolia grinned, a spark of warmth in her eyes. "Founding Day. It has a nice ring to it."
He nodded once, approvingly. "It does."
Magnolia paused halfway to the door, one hand still resting lightly on her datapad, when Sico's voice stopped her.
"Magnolia," he said, his tone softer now — not the clipped, commanding cadence of the Republic's leader, but something closer to the man beneath the uniform.
She turned slightly, arching an eyebrow with that faint, knowing smile. "Yes, Commander?"
Sico leaned back in his chair, eyes following her with quiet amusement. "Maybe," he said, "you can go back to your singing career at the festival."
For a second, she just stared at him — the words hanging in the still air between them. Then, slowly, a genuine laugh escaped her, rich and warm in a way that seemed to thaw the sterile atmosphere of the office.
"You're serious?" she asked, amusement flickering behind her eyes.
Sico didn't look away. "Dead serious."
Magnolia shook her head lightly, though the smile that followed wasn't one of dismissal — it was softer, touched with memory. "You know, I haven't been on a stage since the day you recruit me. The Third Rail feels like another lifetime ago."
"I know," Sico said quietly. "But you still sing sometimes. I've heard you — late at night, in the mess hall. Half the guards stop to listen through the doorway."
She blinked, caught off guard. "You've been listening?"
He gave a faint, almost sheepish smile. "You make it hard not to."
Magnolia laughed again, but this time it came with a faint flush of color on her cheeks. She crossed her arms, leaning her hip against the edge of his desk. "So the mighty Commander Sico actually wants a cabaret singer for his national festival?"
"Not just any cabaret singer," he replied. "The one who kept people sane in Goodneighbor when everything else was falling apart."
Her gaze softened at that — just slightly. The mention of Goodneighbor stirred something in her, something buried deep under the weight of years and new responsibilities.
"Back then," she said, her voice quieter now, "singing was all I could do to keep the world from collapsing on itself. People came to the club just to remember what it felt like to be human. Not to win, not to fight — just to feel."
She looked down for a moment, her fingers tracing the rim of the datapad absently. "But that was before the Republic. Before all this."
Sico's tone deepened — calm, grounded, sincere. "And that's exactly why I'm asking. This festival — Founding Day — isn't just about what we've built. It's about who we are. The people here need more than speeches and flags. They need something that reaches them — something that reminds them why they chose to keep going."
He paused, his gaze steady on her. "And your voice does that."
Magnolia didn't reply immediately. The light from the window caught the faint traces of gold in her red hair as she looked away, thoughtful. Her lips parted once, closed again, then curved into a slow, wry smile.
"You're good with words," she murmured. "Always have been."
"Comes with the job."
"Oh, I'm sure." She chuckled softly, then drew in a quiet breath and straightened. "You know, Sico… I used to dream about singing for something bigger than a smoky bar or a bunch of half-drunk scavvers. Something that mattered. Maybe this is it."
Sico's expression softened. "Then you'll do it?"
Magnolia looked at him for a long moment — long enough for the faint hum of the ventilation system to fill the silence. Then she smiled again, smaller this time, but warmer. "Yeah. I'll do it. For the Republic. For the people."
Then, after a beat, she added with a teasing smirk, "And maybe a little for you."
He chuckled quietly. "I'll take that as an honor."
She turned, glancing toward the window where sunlight had started to pour through the blinds, casting stripes of gold across the floor. "You'll have to let me pick my own band," she said. "None of that synth-music garbage the younger crowd keeps piping through the speakers. I want real strings, real brass. I want people to feel it in their bones."
"You'll have full control," Sico said. "Just make sure the sound reaches every corner of Sanctuary."
Magnolia laughed, shaking her head. "Listen to you. You talk like a general even when it's about music."
"It's in the job description," he said dryly.
"Well, Commander, if you want a show, I'll give you one worth remembering."
Sico looked at her for a long moment. There was something quietly proud in his eyes — not just of her decision, but of what it meant. "That's all I ask."
Magnolia gave a small salute — half-serious, half-playful — before turning toward the door. But before she stepped out, she stopped again, glancing back over her shoulder.
"You know," she said softly, "it's funny. When I first joined the Republic, I thought you were all business — no heart, no time for anything but duty. Guess I was wrong."
Sico raised an eyebrow, smirking faintly. "You were."
"Mm. I'll try not to make that mistake again."
She winked, then slipped out of the room, the door hissing softly closed behind her.
For a long moment, the office was silent again — but not the same kind of silence as before. This one felt lighter somehow. Like something unseen had shifted.
Sico leaned back in his chair, staring at the door for a few seconds longer before turning his gaze back to the Founding Day proposal. His hand brushed over the paper slowly, thoughtfully.
Magnolia singing again… it felt right. Symbolic, even. A bridge between the old world and the new. Between the darkness they'd crawled out of and the light they were still building.
He could almost picture it already — the square lit with lanterns, children running between stalls, soldiers without helmets laughing for once, music echoing across the rebuilt streets. And in the center of it all, Magnolia, her voice rising like smoke and starlight over the crowd.
He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining it — that rare, impossible peace — and when he opened them again, there was a calm certainty in his expression.
The Republic had survived its first year. Now, it was time for it to live.
He picked up his pen and began writing the authorization memo himself — no aides, no delegation. His script was neat but firm:
Directive: Founding Day Celebration — Approved.
Treasury Authorization: 12% reduction from reserve fund, per Treasurer Magnolia's recommendation.
Special Request: Musical performance by Treasurer Magnolia. Full support and resources to be provided by the Department of Civic Development.
Signed, Commander Sico Lee, Freemasons Republic.
He set the pen down, sealing the memo with his insignia stamp — a small, simple act, but one that carried the weight of a future being shaped.
Then he sat back, exhaling slowly, eyes drifting again toward the window.
Outside, the sky was clear — a soft, steady blue stretching far over Sanctuary's rebuilt walls. In the distance, the faint hum of life reached his ears: settlers working, laughter from the training yard, the rhythmic clatter of tools.
For the first time in weeks, Sico allowed himself to feel a quiet satisfaction. Not the thrill of victory, not the grim relief of survival — but something simpler. Contentment.
A knock came at the door.
"Come in," Sico called.
Sarah Lyons stepped in this time — the ever-straight, composed commander of field security. Her armor was polished but scarred, her hair tied neatly back, her expression sharp as ever.
"Commander," she said, giving a small nod. "Patrol reports from the western sector. No signs of Brotherhood activity. We're clear for now."
"Good work," Sico said, motioning for her to hand over the report. "How's morale?"
Sarah hesitated — the slightest flicker of something more human crossing her otherwise disciplined face. "Actually… high, sir. Word's spreading about the Founding Day plans. People are… excited."
"Already?"
"Yes," she said, almost smiling. "You know how fast rumors move through Sanctuary. The idea of a festival — real music, food, lights — it's got everyone talking. Even the guards are looking forward to it."
Sico nodded slowly. "That's good. Let them. They've earned it."
Sarah studied him for a moment, then added quietly, "You know, sir… I think this might be exactly what the Republic needs. A reminder of what we're fighting for."
"That's the idea," Sico said.
Sarah's lips curved in a rare, small smile. "Then I'll make sure the patrols double coverage around the main square during the event. We'll keep it safe."
"Appreciated."
She turned to go, but before she reached the door, she glanced back. "Commander… I heard Magnolia's going to sing again."
Sico raised an eyebrow. "Already heard that too?"
"Like I said — rumors move fast."
Sarah's smile widened just slightly, and for a fleeting moment, even she looked younger, lighter. "It'll be good to hear her voice again. Maybe we all need a little bit of that."
Sico gave a soft nod. "Maybe we do."
Sarah was halfway to the door when Sico's voice cut softly through the space between them.
"Sarah," he said, his tone low but firm — the kind of voice that carried quiet authority rather than force.
She turned, her gloved hand still resting on the door panel. "Yes, Commander?"
Sico set the patrol report down on his desk and leaned forward slightly, fingers steepled. His expression was calm, but behind that calm there was calculation — the kind born from experience, from too many moments when something that should have been safe had turned out not to be.
"Starting today," he said, "I want an increase in patrol coverage inside Sanctuary itself. Not just the perimeter — inside the walls, between the markets, near the main stage, near the power hubs, near the storage depots."
Sarah's brow furrowed slightly. "Inside the walls? You're expecting trouble?"
"I'm expecting… possibilities," Sico replied, leaning back again. "We've come too far, built too much, to let anyone spoil this. Founding Day will draw attention — not just from our people, but from outside eyes. Caravans, settlers, maybe even sympathizers from places we've barely had contact with. When that many people gather, security can't just be tight — it has to be invisible. Calm, but absolute."
Sarah was quiet for a moment, considering that. Then she nodded slowly. "You're worried about the Brotherhood."
Sico didn't answer immediately. His gaze shifted toward the window — toward the horizon where the rebuilt towers of Sanctuary rose against the afternoon sky. "The Brotherhood," he said finally, "and anyone else who might see our celebration as weakness. To some people out there, joy looks like an opportunity."
Sarah's jaw tightened, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes. She'd seen it too — how a crowd could turn from laughter to chaos in the blink of an eye. How even good intentions could be exploited.
"All right," she said. "I'll reassign the second patrol platoon from the northern wall to the inner sector. We'll double routes through the central square and the main gate plaza. And I'll have Preston coordinate the civilian volunteers to help maintain order during the festivities."
Sico nodded approvingly. "Good. I trust your judgment. Keep it subtle — no heavy armor near the festival grounds, no overt patrols near the children's area. I don't want people to feel policed; I want them to feel safe."
Sarah allowed herself a faint smile. "That's a fine line to walk."
"I know," he said. "But if anyone can manage it, it's you."
For a moment, Sarah's expression softened — just slightly. "Thank you, sir."
Sico rose from his chair then, walking slowly toward the wide window that overlooked the heart of Sanctuary. The midday light had shifted, stretching shadows across the courtyard below where workers were already setting up framework for the upcoming event — wooden stalls, banners half-painted in crimson and gold, the beginnings of what would become the stage.
He rested a hand lightly on the windowsill. "Do you remember the first night we secured this place?" he asked quietly.
Sarah stepped closer, folding her arms. "Hard to forget," she said. "The storm rolled in about an hour after sundown. Half our men were still wet from the river crossing."
Sico chuckled softly under his breath. "You told me it was madness to build the command post here."
"I still think it was madness," she replied with a small smirk. "But somehow, it worked."
He turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze. "It worked because people believed it could. Because even when the Commonwealth was burning, we didn't give up on the idea that there could be something better. That's why Founding Day matters, Sarah. It's not just a show — it's proof. Proof that the world didn't end, it just started over."
Sarah looked out the window with him, her expression growing distant. "You really think we can hold it together? The peace, I mean. The Republic, everything?"
"Yes," Sico said simply. "As long as we remember what we're building — and who we're building it for. But peace doesn't mean we stop being vigilant."
He turned back toward his desk, picking up one of the data tablets — this one showing a rotating schematic of Sanctuary's layout. He tapped it a few times, pulling up the new construction zones near the south district and the old marketplace.
"These," he said, gesturing to the clusters of blue light on the screen, "will be the busiest during the festival. Set checkpoints here and here — discreet ones. Civilians won't notice, but I want every entry and exit logged. Anyone carrying contraband or unregistered weapons, I want them flagged quietly."
Sarah leaned over slightly, scanning the display. "Understood. I can assign a few of our synth operatives to blend in with the crowds — the ones with the latest behavioral modules. They'll act as passive surveillance."
Sico nodded. "Good idea. Just make sure Mel's people calibrate their optics — we don't need another incident like the one at the River Market."
That earned him a faint grimace from Sarah. "One faulty targeting algorithm and nobody ever lets it go."
Sico's lips curved faintly. "In fairness, it did try to arrest a street musician."
"Who was busking with a laser guitar," she said defensively.
"And singing about overthrowing the government," he countered, tone deadpan.
Sarah rolled her eyes, conceding the point. "All right, all right. I'll make sure Mel's team runs diagnostics on every unit before deployment."
"Good," Sico said.
For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The quiet between them wasn't awkward — it was the kind that came after long years of shared battles, mutual trust, and the kind of respect that didn't need to be spoken aloud.
Then Sarah shifted slightly, her tone softer now. "You're doing the right thing, you know. The festival. The people need it. And the security measures — they'll keep it safe. I'll make sure of that."
"I know you will," Sico said.
She looked at him for a long moment, studying his face. He looked tired — not just physically, but in the deeper way that came from carrying too much for too long. But there was still something unyielding in his eyes, something steady.
"You ever think about what comes after?" she asked quietly. "After Founding Day, after the Republic is stable… what happens then?"
Sico was silent for a beat. Then he said, "Then we start again. We keep building. One day, the Republic won't need soldiers at every gate. It'll just need people who believe in it."
Sarah smiled faintly. "That's a future worth fighting for."
"It is," he said softly.
Another moment passed. Then, as if remembering something, Sarah glanced down at her wrist-comm, checking the time. "Preston's expecting me at the training yard. We're reviewing the volunteer assignments for festival security. I'll brief him on your new orders."
"Good," Sico said. "Tell him to report back to me tonight. I want a full layout of the new patrol routes and civilian coordination teams."
"Understood."
She turned to go, but before she reached the door again, Sico spoke one last time.
"And Sarah — make sure everyone knows this isn't just another security detail. It's a promise. To protect what we've built. Whatever it takes."
Sarah paused, her hand hovering over the door panel. She looked back at him — her expression serious now, eyes steady. "I'll make sure they understand, Commander. Whatever it takes."
Then she stepped out, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft hiss.
The office was quiet again, but the silence this time felt alive — filled with movement, with purpose. Through the open slats of the blinds, Sico could see the faint stirrings of life below: patrols moving through the square, technicians raising steel frames, the gentle hum of machinery and voices.
He turned back toward his desk, picking up the Founding Day proposal once more. His thumb brushed the edge of the page — the crisp feel of real paper against his skin grounding him somehow, reminding him that not everything had to be metal and glass.
He thought of Magnolia's laughter, Sarah's calm efficiency, Preston's optimism, Mel's tireless mind. Each of them represented a piece of the Republic — its heart, its mind, its hands.
He'd built this place with them, not for them. And that distinction mattered.
He reached for the comm-link again. "Mara," he said.
"Yes, Commander?" came the crisp reply.
"Send word to Sturges and his engineering team. I want full diagnostics on every fusion core generator powering the main square. No blackouts during Founding Day, not even a flicker."
"Understood, sir."
"And inform the communications office that I'll be addressing the council tomorrow morning. We'll finalize the festival schedule then."
"Yes, sir. Anything else?"
Sico hesitated for a moment, his eyes drifting once more toward the window — toward the streets where people were already preparing for something they hadn't had in years: celebration.
"No," he said finally. "That's all."
He clicked off the comm, then exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. For the first time in what felt like months, he allowed himself to imagine a world without alarms, without gunfire, without the constant shadow of threat.
A world where the sound that filled Sanctuary wasn't the march of boots or the hum of reactors — but laughter, music, and song.
Later that evening, as dusk settled over the settlement, Sico found himself walking the inner streets alone. The lamps flickered to life one by one, bathing the restored buildings in soft amber light. The air smelled faintly of fresh paint, wood polish, and warm bread — a sign that the bakery had finally reopened.
He moved past groups of workers still chatting after their shifts, past children chasing each other between stalls, their laughter echoing through the alleys. For all his caution and worry, it was moments like this that reminded him why the Republic existed at all.
________________________________________________
• 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:-