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Hours later, as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the gunfire finally slowed. The last ghoul fell with a single, echoing shot — and silence took the valley once more.
The dawn bled slowly across the ridge, pale light creeping over the battlefield like a hesitant hand uncovering old scars. The valley below, once alive with movement and fire, now lay quiet — save for the faint crackle of dying embers and the whisper of wind threading through the smoke. The stench of charred flesh and gunpowder hung thick in the air, bitter and heavy enough to make even seasoned soldiers grimace.
Sico stood at the crest, his rifle slung low across his chest. The barrel was blackened, still faintly warm from the long night's fight. He hadn't said a word since the last ghoul fell — hadn't needed to. Silence said enough. His eyes scanned the field below, where bodies lay strewn in twisted piles. Some still smoldered, their limbs twitching faintly as the last sparks of whatever animated them guttered out. The fires the Power Armor team had set were dying now, smoldering into ash and smoke that curled into the rising light.
Behind him, soldiers were already moving through the aftermath — some with rifles raised, just in case. Others knelt beside the fallen, checking pulses, murmuring prayers, or simply staring. The adrenaline that had carried them through the night was fading fast, replaced by exhaustion, disbelief, and that hollow ache that always followed survival.
Sico finally turned, his boots crunching softly over the grit and shell casings. Preston and Sarah were nearby, both marked by the fight — Preston's coat scorched at the edges, Sarah's armor streaked with black soot and blood that wasn't her own. They looked to him instinctively when he approached, but he didn't speak right away. He simply drew a long breath, the kind meant to ground a man after chaos.
"Preston," Sico said finally, his voice rough from smoke and shouting, "get me a headcount. I want numbers on wounded and KIA."
Preston straightened, fatigue shadowing his features but duty sharpening them again in an instant. "Aye, Commander." He lifted his radio, his tone snapping back into formality. "All platoon leads, report your status and casualties to me within five minutes. Medical teams start triage immediately — anyone critical gets priority transport to Sanctuary."
Static answered at first, then a chorus of tired but steady voices began checking in across the comms.
Sico turned to Sarah next. "You'll assist him. I want confirmation on every soldier we brought. No one unaccounted for, understood?"
Sarah nodded, her jaw tightening. "Yes, sir." She was already pulling her datapad from its holster, fingers tapping through platoon rosters. "I'll coordinate with field medics. We'll get you numbers fast."
"Good," Sico said quietly. He turned his gaze toward the lower slope, where the Power Armor troopers stood in the smoke — their hulking silhouettes still glowing faintly from the heat of battle. "Robert," he called out, his voice cutting through the wind, "check on the Power Armor team. I want to know how our machines held up — and more importantly, how our men did."
Robert looked up from where he'd been kneeling beside a wounded soldier. He rose immediately, gave a brief nod, and started toward the armored figures. "On it."
Sico watched him go for a moment before returning his gaze to the valley. The wind shifted, blowing the smoke aside just enough to reveal the devastation — a carpet of scorched corpses stretching far into the basin, their grotesque forms frozen mid-motion. It was a sight he'd seen before, too many times, but it never got easier. The cost of survival always came with a price — measured not in bullets, but in names.
Preston approached a few minutes later, his face grim. "Preliminary count coming in," he said, lowering his radio. "We've got nineteen confirmed KIA so far. Another thirty-four wounded — most of them minor, but six are critical. Med teams are stabilizing them now."
Sico's expression hardened slightly. "And the rest?"
"Alive," Preston said. "Exhausted, but standing."
Sico exhaled slowly, nodding once. Nineteen gone. That was nineteen too many, but against what they'd faced, it could've been far worse. Still, each number weighed on him like a stone. He could already picture their faces, not clearly — just fragments of expressions, voices, names half-remembered. Men and women who had followed him into hell because he told them it was necessary.
Sarah approached soon after, wiping soot from her cheek. Her notepad in her hands. "Count matches Preston's. Nineteen confirmed dead. Five from Alpha, three from Charlie, eight from Delta, three from Bravo. All others accounted for. Medics say they'll need transport for the critically injured within the hour — some of the trucks are already being cleared for medevac."
Sico gave a small nod. "Make it happen. I want them back to Sanctuary before midday. Tell the clinic to prep emergency bays and have Curie standing by."
Sarah hesitated a moment before speaking again, softer now. "We lost good people out here."
Sico met her gaze, his voice quieter but no less firm. "We always do."
She nodded, not as acceptance, but understanding — the kind only soldiers shared when the smoke cleared and the world felt a little emptier.
Robert returned not long after, his boots leaving deep prints in the dirt. He'd taken off his helmet, sweat streaking down his face despite the cool morning air. "Power Armor team reports in," he said, his tone steady but heavy. "All five pilots alive, but Hendricks caught a bad hit to his left servo — ghoul managed to climb the armor and tear through a joint. He's shaken but stable. Griggs has a busted incinerator feed line, Morales took a few glancing hits on his chestplate, and Hale's reactor's running hot. Dawn's the only one fully functional."
Sico gave a slow nod, taking that in. "And the suits?"
"Functional," Robert replied. "Banged up but salvageable. We'll need Mel's engineering team to inspect them once we're back."
"Tell them to lock down and cool their cores before we move," Sico said. "Last thing I need is a meltdown in the middle of a convoy."
Robert managed a faint smirk. "Wouldn't that make the headlines."
Sico's lip twitched, almost a smile, but it faded quickly. "Let's keep it from coming to that."
He walked past them, his boots carrying him toward the edge of the ridge again. The soldiers had begun gathering the dead — laying them in careful lines, covering their faces with torn cloth or spare jackets. The sight stopped him for a moment. He watched in silence as one young woman knelt beside a fallen friend, her hands trembling as she tied a strip of fabric around the man's wrist — a mark for identification.
Preston came up behind him quietly. "We'll take them home, Sico. All of them."
Sico nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the valley. "See that we do."
A long moment passed before he spoke again, his voice lower now, meant only for Preston. "You ever think about how many times we've stood like this?"
Preston didn't answer immediately. His eyes followed Sico's, taking in the smoke, the fire, the still bodies. "Too many," he said at last. "And not enough, if it means the next fight doesn't reach our walls."
Sico glanced at him — tired, but resolute. "That's the thing, Preston. The next fight always comes. Different enemy, same war."
Preston gave a slow exhale through his nose. "Then we keep fighting. Because someone has to."
Sico didn't reply. His gaze had drifted again — to the rising sun, its light breaking over the horizon and painting the battlefield in gold. It was beautiful, in a cruel way. The light washed over the burned bodies, the ruined ground, the soot-streaked faces of soldiers who'd lived through the night — and somehow, it made it all look almost peaceful.
Almost.
"Sarah," Sico called without turning. "Once the wounded are loaded, I want a sweep of the area. Make sure none of those bastards are playing dead."
"Yes, sir," Sarah replied immediately, signaling a squad to move out.
Sico crouched down beside one of the fallen — a young man, no older than twenty. His face was still, pale, but there was no fear left there, only the faint peace of final rest. Sico reached into the man's jacket, pulling out a small dog tag and reading the engraving: Private Leon Harrow — Delta Platoon.
He closed his hand around the tag for a moment before tucking it gently into his pocket. "You did well, son," he murmured. "You did your part."
He rose again, his movements slow, deliberate. Around him, the organized chaos of cleanup continued — medics shouting for stretchers, engineers checking vehicle integrity, Power Armor suits cooling in hissing bursts of vapor. The Freemasons flag on the lead Humvee flapped weakly in the wind, its edges scorched but still whole.
Robert approached again, wiping grease from his gloves. "Power Armor team ready for transport. Griggs insists he's good to drive his suit back, but I told him no — he'll ride in the truck with the rest of the wounded."
"Good call," Sico said. "Last thing we need is a limping Titan in the middle of the convoy."
Robert nodded. "He's not happy about it, but he'll manage."
"They always do," Sico said quietly.
Sarah returned moments later with updated figures. "Sweep complete. No movement in the valley. Whatever was left out there, it's dead now."
Sico looked at her — the kind of look that carried gratitude without needing words. "Good work."
She gave a faint, tired smile. "We did what we came to do."
"We did," Sico agreed, his voice steady. "Now let's bring our people home."
Preston stepped forward. "Convoy's ready to roll once the medics finish loading the last of the wounded. Engines are clean, fuel's good. Trucks two and five will carry the fallen."
Sico nodded, his eyes on those trucks — their backs now lined with stretchers, each covered body treated with the kind of solemn respect soldiers reserved for their own. "Make sure they're given full honors when we get back."
Preston's voice softened. "Of course."
The wind picked up again, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke and iron. The sun had fully risen now, burning away the fog and ash that had clung to the ridge. In its light, the battlefield didn't look like a place of death anymore — it looked like proof that they had endured.
Sico turned toward his people — tired, bloodied, but alive. "Mount up," he said quietly, yet his voice carried across the ridge. "We're heading home."
Engines rumbled back to life, one by one. Soldiers climbed into trucks, medics secured the wounded, and the Power Armor suits were loaded onto flatbeds with the clank of metal against steel. The convoy began to take shape once more — not as an army marching to war, but as survivors returning from it.
Before stepping into his Humvee, Sico took one last look at the valley. The smoke had thinned to a ghostly veil, drifting across the scorched earth. The ghouls were gone — nothing left but ashes and silence.
Preston stood beside him again, his rifle slung across his shoulder. "Hell of a night," he said quietly.
Sico's gaze lingered on the horizon. "Yeah," he murmured. "And a hell of a price."
Preston nodded. "We'll rebuild. We always do."
Sico gave a small nod, then climbed into the Humvee. "Let's go home."
The engines roared in unison once more, shaking the ground beneath their wheels. The convoy rolled out from the ridge, the rising sun at their backs.
The bridge to Sanctuary always had a certain sound when convoys rolled across it — a deep, hollow rumble that echoed through the valley like the heartbeat of a living thing. The morning light shimmered across the cracked surface of the old concrete, glinting off the metal as Sico's lead Humvee crested the rise. The flags mounted on the front fenders — tattered from the night's fight — fluttered in the wind, the Freemasons' sigil still visible despite the soot.
It had been hours of travel since they'd left the battlefield. Hours of silence broken only by the rumble of engines and the occasional radio check. The men didn't talk much. They rarely did after something like that. The adrenaline that had carried them through the night had burned out long ago, replaced by a heavy quiet that filled the trucks like fog — the kind where even breathing felt too loud.
Sico sat in the front passenger seat, one gloved hand resting on the window frame, the other tapping idly against his thigh. He wasn't looking at the road ahead anymore; his eyes were unfocused, his thoughts still lingering back on the ridge. Every bump in the road seemed to bring another memory from the night before — flashes of muzzle fire, screams cutting through static, the dull thud of explosions echoing off the valley walls.
And faces. Always the faces.
He didn't try to push them away. You didn't forget the people you led — not if you had any decency left in you. He carried them all in silence, the living and the dead alike.
"Gate in sight," Preston's voice came through the radio, calm and steady, though it carried a trace of weariness.
Sico blinked, leaning forward slightly. Beyond the rise, the faint outline of Sanctuary's gate began to form — tall steel plates reinforced with wooden beams, standing like sentinels at the edge of the settlement. The wall stretched wide on both sides, dotted with turrets and watch posts. As the convoy approached, figures began to appear along the ramparts — soldiers in clean uniforms, their rifles raised in salute.
The radio crackled again. "Freemasons convoy inbound. Gate team, open her up."
A mechanical whine filled the air as the gate began to part. The steel panels groaned under their weight, sliding aside to reveal the familiar sight of Sanctuary beyond — streets lined with sandbag barricades, guard towers, and the faint shimmer of sunlight catching on solar panels. Civilians had already gathered along the main road, their faces pale with worry as they watched the battered convoy roll in.
Sico's Humvee was the first to cross the threshold. The bridge rattled beneath them, the sound deep and satisfying — a reminder that this place still stood. The gate guards saluted as the vehicle passed, and for a fleeting moment, Sico caught sight of his reflection in the glass: bloodstained, hollow-eyed, his beard darkened by soot. He looked like a ghost of himself, but then again, so did everyone else.
The convoy came to a gradual stop near the clinic — a two-story building that had once been a school before the Freemasons rebuilt it into something far more vital. A red cross was painted on its wall, faded and chipped but unmistakable. As soon as the engines went quiet, the sound of movement filled the air — medics rushing forward, stretchers being lifted, orders shouted with practiced urgency.
Curie was already at the entrance before the first wounded were unloaded.
The synth's human-like features were framed by strands of auburn hair that had come loose from her bun, her usually bright expression subdued but composed. She wore her white lab coat over combat fatigues, a stethoscope draped around her neck, her sleeves rolled up. The exhaustion on her face didn't dull her energy — she moved with purpose, scanning the incoming stretchers with sharp, clinical precision.
"Over here!" Curie called out, motioning to a group of medics. "Critical patients to Room A — I want full blood work and vitals before transfusion. The rest go to the east wing. And for God's sake, make sure the sterilizers are running — no exceptions!"
Her accent still carried that faint French melody, even when she barked orders.
Sico climbed out of the Humvee, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. The air smelled cleaner here — filtered by the trees and river — but the faint undertone of oil and blood clung to everything. He stood for a moment, watching the wounded being carried inside. Every stretcher that passed seemed to add another weight to his chest.
Curie spotted him and approached immediately, her gloved hands still busy with a datapad. "Commander," she greeted, her voice steady but urgent. "I need to know — are there any chemical burns, radiation exposure, or unknown contagions?"
Sico shook his head. "None confirmed. It was mostly claws and blunt trauma. Couple of plasma burns, but nothing contagious."
"Good," she said briskly, already typing notes. "My team can handle that. We'll stabilize everyone we can — though some of them…" She hesitated, her eyes flicking toward a stretcher bearing a soldier whose bandages were already soaked through. "…some are in bad shape."
Sico nodded. "Do what you can. No one dies if it can be helped."
Curie met his gaze for a long moment, her eyes softening just slightly. "You always say that," she said quietly, almost fondly. Then, with a sigh, she turned and hurried back into the building.
Sico watched her go. The doors to the clinic swung open and closed in a rhythmic pattern, the sounds of groaning and hurried footsteps spilling out into the street.
Preston approached him then, his coat still dusted with ash. He looked tired — the kind of tired that went deeper than lack of sleep. His rifle was slung across his back, his cap pulled low.
"They'll be in good hands," Preston said quietly, glancing toward the clinic. "Curie and her people… they always pull through."
Sico nodded faintly. "They do."
For a few seconds, neither man spoke. The noise of the settlement filled the silence — the murmur of onlookers, the hiss of engines cooling, the metallic creak of trucks being unloaded. A group of children had gathered near the street corner, clutching at their mothers' coats, eyes wide as they watched the soldiers return.
Then Sico exhaled through his nose, the movement slow, deliberate. "Preston."
"Yeah, President?"
"I want the KIA buried by sundown," Sico said. His tone was steady, but there was a weight behind it. "Full honors. Make sure their names are recorded in the log. Each one gets a headstone, no exceptions."
Preston's expression softened. "Of course."
"And…" Sico hesitated, glancing toward the back of one of the trucks, where covered bodies lay in neat rows. "If any of them have family here, or… friends — make sure they're informed personally. Don't send a messenger. We owe them better than that."
Preston nodded, his eyes lowering briefly. "I'll see to it myself."
"Good."
Preston turned to leave but paused. "You should rest, Sico. You've been up for nearly two days."
"I will," Sico replied, though both men knew he wouldn't — not yet.
Preston gave a small nod, then moved off toward the convoy, calling out orders to the burial detail. His voice carried across the yard — calm, authoritative, the kind of tone that steadied men who were one bad thought away from collapse.
Sico stood alone for a moment, letting the scene unfold around him. The courtyard had become a controlled flurry of motion — soldiers unloading equipment, medics moving between trucks, mechanics already inspecting the battered Power Armor units that had been lifted from the flatbeds. The smell of hot metal and antiseptic filled the air.
He glanced toward the second truck, where the fallen lay. Sarah was there, kneeling beside one of the covered forms, her hand resting lightly on the fabric. She wasn't crying — soldiers rarely did — but her expression carried the quiet grief of someone who'd seen too many of her own laid to rest.
Sico walked over slowly, his footsteps heavy.
"They're ready," Sarah said softly, not looking up. "We'll start moving them to the burial grounds once Preston gets the teams organized."
Sico nodded. "You did good out there, Sarah."
She gave a faint, humorless smile. "Didn't feel like it."
"It never does."
He rested a hand briefly on her shoulder — not as her commander, but as a comrade — then turned away, watching as Preston began directing soldiers to lift the bodies gently from the truck. Each one was carried with the kind of care usually reserved for the living.
The burial grounds were just beyond the eastern edge of Sanctuary — a small patch of earth fenced with scrap metal and painted wood. The graves were arranged in neat rows, each marked with a white stone carved by hand. Some were old, their names weathered by rain. Others were fresh, the soil still dark.
As the first of the fallen were carried past him, Sico stood straight and saluted — a slow, deliberate motion. The other soldiers followed his lead, forming a silent line along the road. No words were spoken. There didn't need to be any.
When the last body had been taken, Sico finally turned back toward the clinic. The doors opened as he approached, and Curie met him halfway down the hall. Her gloves were stained red now, her eyes tired but focused.
"We stabilized four of the critical patients," she reported briskly. "Two remain in danger, but we are doing everything possible. The others will recover."
Sico nodded once. "That's good work."
Curie hesitated before adding softly, "You look exhausted, Commander. You should rest, at least a little."
"I will," Sico said again, though his tone made it clear he wouldn't. His eyes drifted toward one of the curtained bays, where a wounded soldier lay hooked to IV lines. "They need me awake right now."
Curie studied him for a long moment, then sighed, her voice softening. "You cannot carry everyone, Sico. Even the strongest shoulders break if they never set the weight down."
He almost smiled. Almost. "Then I'll break later."
She looked as though she wanted to argue, but instead she simply gave a small nod and turned back to her work.
Sico stepped back outside into the sunlight. The sky was clearer now, a pale blue stretching wide and empty above Sanctuary. The noise from the clinic had faded into a dull murmur, replaced by the rhythmic thud of shovels in earth coming from the direction of the graves.
He walked toward the overlook near the main gate — the same spot where, one year ago, they'd first rebuilt Sanctuary's walls. From here, he could see almost everything: the fields to the south, the rows of solar panels gleaming in the sun, the faint shimmer of the river cutting through the landscape. Life, fragile but stubborn.
Down below, Preston and Sarah were still at work with the burial detail. Soldiers stood in formation around the open graves, heads bowed as names were read one by one. The wind carried fragments of the words up the hill — "Private Leon Harrow… Corporal Jansen Reed… Lieutenant Mara Hayes…"
Each name was a wound reopened.
When the ceremony ended, Preston approached again, wiping dirt from his gloves. His expression was grim but composed. "All buried, Sico. Markers set. I'll make sure their names are added to the memorial wall before dusk."
Sico nodded slowly. "Thank you."
Preston hesitated. "Families have been notified — those who still have any. Some… didn't."
Sico's jaw tightened slightly. "Then they have us."
Preston gave a faint nod, his eyes flicking toward the horizon. "They always do."
The two men stood in silence for a long while, the sound of the settlement continuing around them — hammers clanging in the distance, the faint chatter of children, the low hum of life pushing forward.
Finally, Sico spoke, his voice low. "Get some rest, Preston. You've done enough for today."
Preston looked like he wanted to argue but didn't. "You too, Commander."
The sun was slipping westward when Sico finally made his way across the plaza. The long shadows of the watchtowers stretched across the cracked concrete like fingers reaching for dusk, and the air had begun to cool — that fleeting moment of calm between day's heat and the night's chill. The smell of earth from the fresh graves still clung faintly in the breeze, mingling with the metallic tang of the workshops nearby and the smoke rising from the mess halls where someone had started cooking dinner.
Sanctuary was alive again.
After a day of grief, exhaustion, and silent labor, people had started to move — slowly, cautiously — back into the rhythm of their lives. Soldiers were washing down their rifles beside the armory, engineers tightening bolts along the perimeter walls, and civilians moving crates of supplies toward the depot. From the look of things, life didn't stop here; it simply staggered, caught its breath, and carried on.
Sico walked quietly through the heart of it. His boots scuffed against the stone as he crossed the courtyard, his jacket hanging open, the faint breeze tugging at the worn flag patch on his shoulder. He'd been saluted at least a dozen times since leaving the burial grounds, but he returned each gesture only with a nod. The people didn't need their president now — they needed their leader to see them, to walk among them, to remind them that he was one of them.
His path took him to the command barracks sat to the right, its roof still lined with solar panels. The mess hall was alive with chatter, clinking metal trays, and weary laughter. But further ahead, across a narrow stretch of cobblestone, stood the low brick building whose front was marked by a large wooden sign:
"FREEMASONS RADIO – VOICE OF THE REPUBLIC."
The door was open just a crack, a faint beam of warm light spilling out onto the pavement. From within came the low hum of power generators and the soft crackle of radio static. The voice that floated through — faint, clear, and unmistakable — brought a ghost of a smile to his face.
"…and if you're just tuning in, folks, that's the latest from our trade routes down south. The caravans from Quincy arrived safely this morning, bringing medical rations and enough grain to last through the season. So if you're listening out there, remember to thank the farmers keeping our bellies full — and the guards keeping our roads safe. You're not forgotten."
Piper Wright's voice. Confident, warm, and just a touch playful — the kind of voice that could make the wasteland sound a little less cruel.
Sico paused for a moment outside, letting her words play over the static. He could still remember when she'd first arrived in Sanctuary — coat torn, notepad full, talking faster than most people thought possible. She'd been a journalist before the bombs, a truth-seeker after them, and somehow she'd ended up here — the Republic's voice, the woman who turned cold reports into something that reached hearts instead of just ears.
He knocked lightly on the doorframe.
"Come on in!" Piper called, her voice carrying that familiar tone of cheer that was equal parts genuine and stubborn — the kind that refused to be broken by the world around it.
Sico stepped inside.
The room was smaller than most offices in the HQ — dim, cluttered, alive. Radios of all shapes and sizes lined the shelves, their dials glowing softly in the half-light. A large microphone stood at the center of a round table surrounded by tangled wires and scattered papers. The air smelled faintly of dust, ink, and burnt circuitry.
Piper sat behind the microphone, headphones perched around her neck, one hand jotting notes onto a battered notepad. Her dark brown hair was tied back in a messy bun, her old red leather jacket thrown over the chair behind her. She looked up when she noticed Sico in the doorway, and a smile crept across her face — tired, yes, but real.
"Well, if it isn't the man of the hour," she said, leaning back in her chair. "Or should I say, the ghost who finally decided to walk through my door?"
Sico smirked faintly. "Didn't realize I'd been haunting the place."
"Yeah, well," she said, shrugging with mock casualness, "word travels fast, you know. People heard the gunfire from miles away. Then the convoy came back half shot to hell. Everyone's been waitin' for word — what happened, who made it, who didn't." Her smile faded just slightly. "I figured I'd wait to hear it from you."
He stepped closer, resting a hand on the edge of the table. "We stopped the horde before it reached the valley. Two hundred ghouls, maybe more. They're gone now."
Piper nodded slowly. "And your men?"
Sico's jaw tightened. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded paper — one of the casualty logs Preston had finished not an hour ago — and set it on the table between them.
"Nineteen dead," he said quietly. "Forty-three wounded. The rest made it back."
The words hung in the air, heavy and unmoving.
Piper didn't say anything for a moment. Her eyes flicked down to the paper, scanning the rows of names scrawled in black ink. Some she recognized — voices she'd heard laughing in the plaza, faces that had smiled at her during broadcasts, people she'd passed a hundred times without realizing how fragile each moment had been.
Finally, she looked up. "That's a hell of a price."
"It is," Sico said softly. "And I don't want it buried in silence. The Republic deserves to know what they gave up to keep this place standing."
He gestured toward the microphone. "That's why I'm here. I want you to broadcast it — the whole thing. The battle, the casualties, the survivors. Everything."
Piper blinked, caught off guard. "You want me to tell everyone?"
"Yes."
She hesitated, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Most leaders wouldn't. They'd bury those numbers under good news, say it was a victory and move on."
Sico's gaze was steady, resolute. "Most leaders would be wrong. If we hide the cost, we cheapen the sacrifice. I want the people to know the truth — to understand what it takes to keep the Republic safe. And I want the families of those who died to hear their names said out loud. To know they're not just a list on some file in my office."
Piper studied him for a long moment — the tired lines in his face, the soot still smudged along his jaw, the steadiness in his voice that came not from pride but from purpose. She'd interviewed a lot of people in her time — liars, heroes, and everything in between — but few carried their truth the way Sico did.
She leaned back in her chair, tapping her pen against the edge of the table. "Alright. You got it. I'll need the official report for accuracy, but I can put together a live address. You'll want to be the one speaking, right?"
He shook his head. "No. I'll stand behind the words, but I want you to tell it. The people trust your voice more than mine."
Piper's brows lifted. "You serious?"
"I am."
She exhaled slowly, setting down her pen. "Alright then. Guess I'll make it count."
Sico glanced around the room, eyes drifting across the old world relics — the rusted turntable, the cracked glass of the studio clock, the stacks of worn tapes labeled in her handwriting. "How soon can you go live?"
Piper checked the console, flicking a few switches. "Ten minutes, maybe less. Just need to calibrate the relay towers. The last storm messed with the signal north of Concord."
"Do it," Sico said simply.
She nodded and went to work, moving with brisk precision. Her fingers danced over the controls, adjusting frequencies, testing channels, scribbling last-minute notes. The faint hiss of static filled the room, replaced occasionally by bursts of garbled voices as the signal stabilized.
Sico stood by the window, watching the glow of the plaza outside. From here, he could see the faint flicker of torchlight at the memorial wall — people already gathering, lighting candles, saying names quietly to themselves.
"Hey," Piper said softly behind him.
He turned.
She had removed her headphones now and was standing beside the microphone, one hand resting on it. Her eyes were gentler, more personal. "You sure you don't want to say something yourself? Just a few words? People might want to hear from you too."
Sico hesitated — then slowly nodded. "Maybe I should."
Piper smiled faintly. "Thought so. Alright then, President. Let's give the Republic something to remember."
She flicked the switch. A red light blinked to life above the console. The static cleared. Across the Commonwealth — from the far farms of Lexington to the outposts near Quincy — radios crackled to life with her voice.
"This is Freemasons Radio, broadcasting live from Sanctuary. Piper Wright here, with an urgent report from the front."
Her tone was calm, clear, professional, but heavy with feeling. She glanced at Sico once before continuing.
"Last night, our soldiers faced the largest feral ghoul horde seen in months — over two hundred strong — advancing from the northern ridges toward Sanctuary. The Freemasons Republic's response was immediate. Under Commander Sico's direct leadership, two hundred soldiers and five Power Armor units engaged the enemy head-on, intercepting them miles from our borders."
She paused, letting the words settle.
"The battle was fierce. Our forces fought through the night, and though victory was won, it came at a cost. Nineteen brave men and women gave their lives so that the rest of us could wake up safe this morning. Forty-three others are injured — many still fighting for their lives in the hospital as we speak."
Sico closed his eyes briefly. The silence that followed felt like an ocean.
Piper continued, her voice steady but carrying that unmistakable tremor of emotion beneath the surface.
"These were not just soldiers. They were fathers, mothers, sons, daughters — builders, farmers, guards. People who believed this Republic was worth bleeding for. Their courage will not be forgotten. Their names will be etched into the memorial wall tonight, and their stories will be told to every child who grows up under our flag."
She nodded slightly toward Sico, her eyes asking the unspoken question.
He stepped forward. His voice, when it came, was low but unwavering — gravelled by fatigue, yet steady enough to carry weight even through the static.
"To everyone listening out there — in the settlements, the farms, the watch posts — this victory belongs to you as much as it belongs to them. Those we lost gave everything so you wouldn't have to. And I promise you this: their sacrifice will build a peace that lasts longer than any of us. But peace doesn't mean forgetting. Remember their names. Honor their memory. Keep the Republic alive in how you live — with courage, with kindness, with purpose."
He paused, his gaze steady on the microphone.
"We will rebuild what we lost. We will carry them with us. That's not just a promise — it's a duty."
He stepped back. Piper's eyes glimmered faintly in the dim light, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat — then she leaned forward once more.
"From Sanctuary, this has been Piper Wright, for Freemasons Radio. To the families of the fallen — the Republic stands with you. To our soldiers in the field — come home safe. And to the people listening in the quiet, remember: we endure because we stand together."
She flicked the switch again, ending the broadcast. The red light went dark. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the generator and the soft ticking of the old clock on the wall.
Neither of them spoke.
Finally, Piper sat back in her chair and let out a long breath. "That'll get through to them," she said softly. "You did good, Sico."
He didn't answer right away. His eyes were still distant, fixed on the microphone as though the echoes of his words were still hanging there. Then he nodded once, slow and thoughtful. "Let's hope so."
Outside, the sun had nearly set. The first stars were appearing above the horizon, faint and cold. And down below in the plaza, people were gathering — lighting candles, whispering names, listening to the silence that followed the broadcast.
For the first time that day, Sico felt something shift inside him. Not peace exactly — not yet — but a fragile kind of steadiness. The knowledge that even in loss, they had found meaning.
He turned back toward Piper. "Thank you."
She smiled faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Anytime, Mr. President."
He chuckled quietly at the title, shaking his head as he turned toward the door.
As he stepped out into the cool evening air, the faint hum of distant radios carried through the streets — replaying his voice, her words, their truth.
________________________________________________
• 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:-