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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.
The next morning broke soft and pale over Sanctuary — the kind of quiet dawn that always seemed to come after a night of heavy hearts. The sunlight crept gently over the rooftops, glinting off solar panels and dew-slick metal. From the streets below came the muted rhythm of a settlement waking up: the clatter of boots on cobblestone, the murmur of voices, the smell of bread baking somewhere near the southern kitchens.
But up in the Freemasons Headquarters, the mood was heavier — quieter, still carrying the echoes of Piper's broadcast the night before. People spoke in hushed tones as they passed through the hallways. A few candles still burned in the lobby, placed there by the families of those who hadn't come home.
Behind the reinforced glass of the top-floor office, Sico sat at his desk, staring out at the morning haze that clung to the horizon. His coat hung loosely from his shoulders, the fabric wrinkled, the lines of exhaustion etched deep around his eyes. The mug of coffee in front of him had gone cold, untouched. On the desk, beside a stack of reports and casualty forms, lay a smaller pile of letters — handwritten ones — each addressed to a name now carved into the memorial wall.
He had written the first few himself. After that, the words began to blur.
For a long while, he just sat there, the low hum of the office ventilation filling the silence. There was a kind of stillness to these moments — the kind that came not from peace, but from a mind trying to hold itself together.
A knock broke the quiet.
"Come in," he said, his voice steady but soft.
The door opened, and Preston stepped in first — hat in hand, his usual easy manner replaced by something heavier, quieter. Behind him came Sarah Lyons, her stride firm, her expression composed but not cold. And finally, Magnolia entered — a presence altogether different from the two soldiers. She was dressed in a neat tan coat, her hair tied back, a ledger tucked under one arm. Her eyes, a deep shade of green, flicked from Sico to the documents on his desk before she crossed the room with a measured calm.
"Morning, Commander," Preston said gently, closing the door behind them.
Sico nodded once. "Morning. Thank you all for coming."
They gathered around the desk — Sarah taking the seat opposite him, arms folded across her chest; Preston standing to her right, silent but attentive; and Magnolia setting her ledger down on the desk before carefully opening it.
Sico exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair. "You already know why I called this meeting," he began. "Nineteen soldiers didn't make it home. Their families deserve more than folded flags and kind words. I want to talk about compensation — real, tangible support."
Magnolia's brows lifted slightly, but she said nothing yet. She simply waited, pen poised above the blank page of her ledger.
Sarah nodded once. "They'll appreciate that, sir. Some of the families are in the outlying settlements — a few don't even have steady homes yet. We should consider both immediate aid and long-term assistance."
"Exactly," Sico said. He reached for the top report and spread it open. "These nineteen weren't just soldiers. They were workers, builders, fathers, mothers. Each one had a life tied to someone else's. I don't want those lives collapsing because their provider didn't come back."
Preston shifted his weight, his jaw tightening. "Some of 'em had kids, too. The youngest one, Corporal Harris, had a son just born three months ago. Kid's not even walking yet."
Magnolia's pen stopped moving for a moment. She looked up at Sico, her expression softening. "You have something in mind already, don't you?"
He nodded slowly. "Yes. I want each family to receive a compensation of two thousand caps upfront. Enough to cover the next several months — food, shelter, medical needs. Beyond that, I want us to establish a monthly stipend for the next year. The amount can vary depending on the family's circumstances."
Magnolia leaned back slightly, thinking. "Two thousand each…" she murmured, scribbling quick figures into the margin of her page. "That's thirty-eight thousand in total, just for the initial payout. The treasury can cover it — barely. But it'll cut into our expansion budget for the northern trade routes."
"I'm aware," Sico replied. "Cut it. We'll rebuild those funds later. These people can't wait."
Magnolia's pen hovered mid-air. "You understand what that means, Sico. It'll delay the construction of the trade depots in Lexington."
"I do," he said evenly. "But I'd rather delay a depot than let a widow starve."
Preston gave a small nod of approval, the corner of his mouth twitching with something that might've been gratitude. "That's the right call, sir. Folks'll remember that you looked after their own."
Sarah leaned forward, her eyes flicking from Sico to Magnolia. "I agree with the Commander. The Republic's built on loyalty — not just from its soldiers, but from their families. If they see that service means security, others will follow their example."
Magnolia tapped the end of her pen against the page thoughtfully. "Alright. Two thousand per family upfront, followed by a year of monthly stipends. We'll have to finalize the amounts per case, but I can draft the allocations by tonight."
"Do it," Sico said. "And I want the first payments issued before sundown tomorrow. No delays, no excuses."
Magnolia nodded, already jotting down notes. "Consider it done."
For a while, the only sound was the faint scratching of her pen and the soft buzz of the ceiling light.
Then Preston cleared his throat. "If I may, sir — there's something else we should consider. A memorial fund. Something permanent."
Sico looked up, intrigued. "Go on."
"Well," Preston said, resting his hat against his chest. "We've already got the wall, but that's for remembering. I'm talkin' about something that keeps on helping. Maybe a 'Freemasons Fallen Fund' — donations, public support, a percentage from trade taxes. It could go toward helping families of anyone who falls in service to the Republic."
Sarah nodded slightly. "That's not a bad idea. It would show people that the Republic doesn't just mourn its soldiers — it honors them in action."
Magnolia looked between them, then back to Sico. "It's doable. I'd have to restructure part of the treasury's allocation plan, but we could make it work. A fixed percentage from trade and production revenue — say, five percent. It wouldn't cripple us, and it would grow over time."
Sico's eyes softened just slightly, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Make it happen."
Magnolia raised a brow. "You don't even want to see the numbers first?"
"I trust your math," he said simply. "And I trust that it's worth every cap."
That earned the smallest laugh from her — quiet, but genuine. "Alright then. I'll make it happen."
Sarah leaned forward again, elbows resting on her knees. "What about public recognition? Piper's broadcast last night reached every settlement in the Republic. We could hold a ceremony tonight — honor the fallen formally. Families, soldiers, citizens — everyone deserves a chance to stand together for this."
Sico nodded slowly. "Yes. We'll hold it at dusk. Not a spectacle — something solemn, honest. I'll speak, but I don't want speeches from officials. Just names, one by one."
Preston's voice dropped lower. "That's gonna hit hard, sir."
"It's supposed to," Sico said quietly. "We can't let people forget what it costs to build something worth living for."
For a moment, silence filled the room again. The weight of nineteen names — nineteen faces — seemed to settle like dust in the air, soft but unshakable.
Finally, Magnolia closed her ledger with a soft thud. "I'll see to the financials immediately. I'll also coordinate with Piper — she'll want to announce the compensation details publicly once everything's signed. Transparency keeps faith strong."
"Good," Sico said. He rose from his chair then, the motion slow but deliberate. "Preston, Sarah — make sure the families are contacted personally. No letters, no cold messengers. I want someone they trust delivering the news. Go yourselves if you have to."
Both of them nodded. Sarah's voice was steady. "Understood, sir."
Preston adjusted his hat. "You got it. I'll take Robert and a few of the other officers. We'll handle it right."
"Thank you," Sico said softly.
Magnolia stood, gathering her papers, then hesitated. "Sico… if I may?"
He looked up at her.
"You're doing the right thing," she said, her tone gentler now. "But you can't carry all of it alone. Let the people share the weight. That's what the Republic is for."
He met her gaze — tired, grateful — and gave a small nod. "I know. But someone has to make sure it doesn't crush them first."
Magnolia smiled faintly, tucking her ledger under her arm. "You've got a bad habit of being that someone."
Sico huffed a quiet laugh, the first in hours. "Maybe."
Preston smirked faintly. "Wouldn't be the Republic without it."
They all began to file out then — Sarah first, already speaking quietly with Preston about the logistics of notifying the families; Magnolia last, pausing at the door to glance back once more before stepping into the hall.
When the door closed, the office fell silent again.
Sico exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. The sunlight had shifted now, pouring through the window in long amber streaks that caught the dust in the air like faint stars. He looked down at the casualty list one last time, tracing his fingers over the first name.
Then he picked up his pen. Beneath the printed line, he wrote a single sentence in his own hand:
"Your sacrifice built the peace we stand on."
He set the pen down.
The sun dipped slow that evening, trailing threads of orange and gold across the western sky. By the time the last light began to fade behind the ridge, Sanctuary's main square had already transformed into something sacred and quiet but alive with the breath of hundreds gathered shoulder to shoulder.
The square itself had been swept clean that afternoon. Lanterns hung from every pole, their warm glow washing across faces both familiar and new. At the center, where the cobblestones formed a mosaic of the old Masonic crest, stood a raised platform built from reclaimed wood and steel. A black banner hung behind it, simple and unadorned except for a single silver emblem which the symbol of the Freemasons Republic.
Soldiers lined the perimeter in full uniform, their armor polished, their weapons slung respectfully over their shoulders. But tonight, they were not guards. They were mourners or comrades standing vigil for their own.
In the front rows stood the families of the fallen. Some held candles; others clutched photographs, lockets, medals. Children pressed close to their mothers, their small hands gripping tightly to fingers that trembled but did not let go.
The air was thick with that kind of silence that only comes before something heavy, but a breath held by an entire people.
When Sico stepped up onto the platform, the crowd stirred only slightly. Conversations faded to whispers, then to nothing at all.
He wore his long dark coat, freshly pressed but still bearing the faint scuffs of use which a deliberate choice. His gloves were tucked into his belt, his hair pulled back. His expression carried the weight of command, yes, but more than that as it's carried the ache of someone who had walked among the wounded and written letters to the dead.
Sarah Lyons and Preston stood just behind him, side by side. Magnolia was off to the right, a ledger clutched in her hands even now, though her eyes were soft and red-rimmed from tears she hadn't let anyone see earlier.
Piper was there too, camera slung from her shoulder, standing a few meters from the stage. She wasn't filming, as it was not the time yet. Tonight wasn't about news. It was about remembrance.
The torches flickered as a cool wind swept through the square, carrying with it the scent of wax and smoke.
Sico looked out across the crowd for a long moment before he spoke. When his voice came, it wasn't booming or commanding, as it was steady, quiet, and raw.
"Tonight," he began, "we stand together not as officers, or workers, or soldiers but as people. As a family bound not by blood, but by the hope we've built together."
A few heads nodded silently in the front row. Somewhere near the back, a baby fussed briefly, then went quiet again.
"Two nights ago," Sico continued, "nineteen of our brothers and sisters gave their lives defending that hope. Nineteen souls who stood between this Republic and the chaos that would've swallowed it whole. They didn't fall for glory. They didn't fall for orders. They fell because they believed or truly believed that what we are building here is worth protecting."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. Lanternlight danced across his face, catching in the faint lines of exhaustion carved deep beneath his eyes.
"They were more than soldiers," he said softly. "They were parents, friends, builders, dreamers. Some of them grew up in the ruins of the old world that is scavenging, fighting just to see another day. And yet, when they found this place, they chose to fight for something more than survival. They chose to fight for peace."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd.
Sico glanced down briefly at the papers in his hand, but he didn't read from them. He spoke instead from memory, from somewhere deeper.
"I knew many of them personally," he went on. "Corporal Harris, he is twenty-three years old. He was part of the bridge reconstruction team before he enlisted full-time. Every morning, before sunrise, he'd whistle the same tune as he worked. Drove the whole crew mad. But when you asked him why, he'd just smile and say, 'Because I can still hear it.'"
A faint, broken laugh rippled through a few in the crowd. Sico let it linger, then continued.
"Sergeant Vale, she'd been with us since the early days. I remember when we barely had enough rations to split three ways, she'd still find a reason to give her share to someone else. Said she was tired of hunger, and tired of watching others starve. She didn't fight out of duty. She fought out of love."
He exhaled slowly, the wind catching his coat. "And every one of them that is all nineteen carried that same heart."
He fell silent for a moment, letting the stillness settle again.
"They stood so we could stand here tonight, safe, alive, and together," he said at last. "And it's our duty to make sure that their families never carry that burden alone."
Now he reached down to the small stack of papers resting on the podium. His fingers lingered there for a second, steadying himself before he spoke again.
"As of tonight," he said clearly, his voice rising just enough to carry, "the Freemasons Republic will grant a compensation of two thousand caps to the family of each fallen soldier. Not as charity but as a promise. A promise that this Republic stands behind those who stand for it."
A murmur ran through the crowd as they were not surprise, not disbelief, but the sound of quiet gratitude, of hearts moved by something more than words.
Sico continued, his tone resolute. "Beyond that, we are establishing a fund dedicated to supporting the families of all who serve. It will be called the Freemasons Fallen Fund. A share of every trade, every contract, every cap earned by this Republic will go into it. Because we do not forget our own. Not now, not ever."
He paused again. The torchlight reflected off the wet gleam in his eyes, though his voice did not waver.
"I know no amount of caps or comfort can fill the space left behind. No number can measure what was lost. But what we can do or what we must do is to ensure that the light of their sacrifice never fades."
He stepped back from the podium then, taking a breath as Sarah moved forward. She held a list — nineteen names, written carefully in ink.
Sico nodded to her once. "Read them," he said quietly.
Sarah unfolded the paper and began. Her voice, usually commanding and firm, carried a softness that trembled only slightly as she spoke each name.
"Sergeant Vale."
"Corporal Harris."
"Private Lian Torres."
"Lieutenant Marlow."
"Specialist Ren Carter."
…
One by one, nineteen names filled the air — each followed by a bell tone rung by Preston, who stood to her left holding a small brass striker. The sound echoed across the square, sharp and clean, fading into the quiet like a prayer.
By the tenth name, tears had begun to flow openly. A woman in the second row pressed a photograph to her chest, her lips moving silently in what might've been a prayer. A small boy beside her held the base of her candle steady, eyes fixed on the stage.
By the fifteenth, even hardened soldiers blinked rapidly, jaws set tight.
When Sarah reached the last name, her voice faltered for a beat — just a heartbeat — before she whispered it into the night.
"Private Aaron Kells."
Preston struck the bell one final time. The sound lingered long after his hand dropped back to his side.
For a while, no one spoke. The square held its breath, the only sounds the wind and the faint crackle of torch flames.
Then Sico stepped forward again, his voice softer now. "Let the sound of those names live longer than any bullet, longer than any war. Let them remind us that peace is not given — it's built, and it's paid for in the courage of those who stand when others fall."
He lowered his head briefly, eyes closed. When he looked up again, his voice had steadied once more.
"If any among you have words to say — to remember, to honor — the floor is open. This night belongs to all of us."
From the crowd, an older man stepped forward — one of the settlement's builders, his coat dusty from the day's work. He removed his cap, clutching it in both hands.
"My daughter," he began, voice rough but strong. "She served under Sergeant Vale. Said she was the best damn leader she ever had. When she came back from patrols, she'd tell me, 'Dad, I ain't scared no more. I got people who'd die for me.'"
He swallowed hard. "Turns out she was right. So tonight, I just want to say — thank you. To the ones who did."
A murmur of soft "hear, hear" rose from nearby, the sound spreading gently through the crowd.
Next came a young woman, tears streaking her cheeks. She didn't speak much — just stepped forward, placed a single dog tag on the edge of the platform, and whispered, "For Liam," before returning to her place.
Sico stood still, letting each voice, each gesture fill the space. There was no rush, no ceremony beyond the simplicity of shared grief.
When the last person stepped back into the crowd, Sico turned once more to the microphone.
"Tonight," he said, "we've mourned. Tomorrow, we rebuild — for them. For the ones they left behind. And for the world they believed we could still create."
He glanced up toward the stars beginning to pierce the sky above the square — faint, distant, but visible now through the thinning clouds.
"May their names be the foundation of that world," he finished quietly. "May we build on their memory, not their graves."
The crowd bowed their heads in unison. The silence that followed was deep, almost holy.
Then — softly, almost like the wind itself — came a sound. One soldier began humming, low and steady. The same tune Corporal Harris had whistled every morning on the bridge crew.
Others joined in. Within moments, the square was filled with the quiet hum of hundreds of voices — rough, uneven, but together. A sound that was neither song nor chant, but something between — something older, something human.
When the last note faded, the night seemed to hold its breath once more.
Sarah stepped up beside Sico, her voice a murmur. "You did good tonight, Commander."
He looked out over the crowd, his face lit by the flicker of torchlight. "They did better," he replied.
Magnolia approached from the side, her ledger now closed. "The treasury will have the first compensation transfers ready by morning," she said softly. "Piper's preparing a public notice for the settlements. It'll reach everyone by midday."
Sico nodded, tired but resolute. "Good. Make sure the families get theirs first."
Piper, camera still untouched, stepped forward quietly. "I won't film tonight," she said. "But tomorrow — I'll tell their stories. Every one of them. People should know who they were, not just that they're gone."
Sico met her gaze, gratitude flickering behind his weariness. "Thank you."
For a while, none of them moved. The torches burned lower, the lanterns dimmed, and one by one, people began to leave the square — not in silence this time, but in soft conversation. Children were lifted onto shoulders, mothers held one another close.
When the square finally emptied, only a handful remained — Sico, Sarah, Preston, Magnolia, and Piper. The nineteen candles at the base of the platform still burned, small and steady against the wind.
Sico stepped down from the stage and crouched beside them. He adjusted one that had nearly gone out, shielding its flame with his hand until it caught again.
"You said once that peace costs more than war," Sarah murmured behind him.
He nodded faintly. "It does. But it's worth every cap, every tear."
Preston exhaled quietly, looking out at the empty square. "You think the Brotherhood'll hear about this?"
"They already have," Sico said softly, straightening. "And they'll see what real unity looks like."
He turned then, the torchlight catching the faint silver thread of his rank insignia. "Tomorrow, we move forward. But tonight…" He looked back toward the candles, their flames swaying together like a heartbeat. "…we remember."
The morning after came slowly, the kind of dawn that felt like it was trying to be gentle.
The air above Sanctuary still held the faint chill of the night before, and when the sun rose, its light didn't burst through the clouds but soft, golden, diffused. The square, where hundreds had gathered only hours ago, now stood nearly empty. The torches were cold, their smoke long gone. But the nineteen candles still remained, wax melted into small pools at their bases. Someone that maybe one of the soldiers on night watch had replaced the ones that had burned out. Their flames flickered again, quiet but alive.
Inside the Freemasons Headquarters, the hum of the Republic's heart had returned. Boots echoed faintly in the corridors, doors opened and shut, typewriters clattered in the administration offices. The life of a nation, restored after a night of mourning.
In the central office on the second floor, Sico sat behind the same oak desk as yesterday — the one that had seen everything from war plans to peace treaties. Papers were already spread across it again, though this morning, the ink and signatures carried a different kind of weight.
A cup of coffee steamed quietly beside him, untouched and cooling fast. Across the desk, Sarah Lyons stood with a clipboard tucked under her arm, her tone steady as she read through the latest reports.
"Civil division sent over their final tally from last night's attendance," she said, flipping a page. "Seven hundred and twelve civilians present in the square. Fifty-three active service members. No incidents, no disruptions. The soldiers kept everything under control."
Sico nodded slightly, his eyes tracing the lines of another report in front of him. "Good. What about the compensation distributions?"
"Magnolia and the Treasury team started the transfers at dawn," Sarah replied. "Nine families have already confirmed receipt. The others are being processed through the courier network. By tomorrow morning, all nineteen will have their full compensation."
Sico leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. His eyes were heavy, but his mind that always alert, moving behind the fatigue.
"Piper's broadcast starts in ten," Sarah added. "She asked for clearance to include audio from the ceremony. Said she wants to play the names again."
He glanced up at her, expression thoughtful. "Let her. The people should hear them."
Sarah nodded. She hesitated for a moment, then placed the clipboard down on his desk. "You know, it's strange," she said quietly. "Last night was… different. I've seen more ceremonies than I can count from Brotherhood honors, Enclave commemorations, even pre-war tributes. But that…" She trailed off, searching for the word. "…that was human. Not just military protocol. It felt like everyone understood why we fight."
Sico's gaze softened. "That's because they do. People don't need orders to care, they need something to believe in. Last night gave them that."
Sarah looked at him for a long moment, her features caught somewhere between admiration and the quiet exhaustion of shared burden. "You really think this peace will hold, don't you?"
He didn't answer immediately. He turned slightly, glancing out the tall windows to the view beyond from the rooftops of Sanctuary glinting in the morning light, the smoke of forges rising in lazy columns, and the distant glimmer of the northern hills where the horde had once gathered.
"I think peace," he said slowly, "isn't something you hold. It's something you keep rebuilding every day, because the moment you stop, it starts to fall apart."
Sarah didn't reply and just nodded, her gaze following his toward the horizon.
Then, faintly, from the corner of the room, came a soft crackle of static.
The Freemasons Radio had come alive.
Every settlement across the Republic — from Sanctuary to Graygarden, from the old Lexington outposts to the edge of the coast would be hearing it now. The Republic's signature tone hummed low for a moment, then faded, replaced by a familiar voice.
Piper Wright.
Her tone was softer than usual that is not her sharp, reporter cadence, but something warm, careful, and human.
"Good morning, everyone," her voice carried through the radio, clear and steady. "This is Piper Wright, speaking to you live from Sanctuary on the Freemasons Radio Network. If you're tuning in right now, I'd like to ask just for a moment that you stop whatever you're doing. Put down the wrench, step off the patrol route, pause the broadcast in the workshop, and just… listen."
Sico looked up from his papers. Even Sarah turned toward the small radio set in the corner. The room felt still.
"Last night," Piper continued, "the Freemasons Republic gathered in the main square to honor nineteen of our brothers and sisters who fell during the Northern Operation, the mission that stopped a horde from reaching Sanctuary. They didn't fall in vain. They stood their ground so that the rest of us could wake up this morning to another sunrise. And I think that matters more than most of us realize."
Her voice wavered slightly, not from nerves but from feeling. "I was there last night. I saw the faces of those families from the mothers, the sons, the old men holding medals they'd polished with shaking hands. I saw the President light a candle that had nearly gone out. And I saw a square full of people from strangers, neighbors, to soldiers that standing as one."
Outside, through the office windows, the faint hum of the settlement grew quieter as people tuned in. Mechanics stopped their work. Guards slowed their patrols. Even traders at the market turned their heads toward the speakers mounted on the poles.
Piper's voice filled the streets.
"These nineteen weren't just soldiers. They were the reason we can live without fear, the reason our children can go to sleep without the sound of war outside their windows. Their names were read last night by Vice General Sarah Lyons. And with the President's permission, I'll read them again now."
Sico leaned forward, elbows on his desk.
Sarah, beside him, crossed her arms but said nothing. Her expression was unreadable.
Piper began.
"Sergeant Vale. Corporal Harris. Private Lian Torres. Lieutenant Marlow. Specialist Ren Carter…"
The names flowed again, slow and reverent. For every name, a bell sounded as the same audio Preston had struck during the ceremony, recorded live and now replayed across the airwaves.
The sound was haunting — echoing faintly even through the static of the radio.
"…Private Aaron Kells."
Then silence.
No music, no filler, just the soft hum of wind over the microphone.
Piper spoke again, her tone quiet. "To the families of the fallen, the Freemasons Republic stands with you. Commander Sico announced last night that each family will receive a compensation of two thousand caps, and a new fund that will support every family of those who serve. But this isn't about caps. It's about the promise we make to each other: that none of us will be forgotten."
Outside, across Sanctuary, people stood still. The butcher in the market wiped his hands on his apron, bowing his head. Two young mechanics leaned against a wall, their eyes misted.
Even in the frontier settlements far beyond the city walls, the message carried through the static of old pre-war receivers.
In Graygarden, the robots paused their routine for a moment as the audio played as the sound of bells drifting faintly across the rusted platforms.
In Tenpines Bluff, settlers gathered around an old radio salvaged from a Raider den, heads bowed.
In the far northern outpost near the river, a young soldier — one of the few survivors of the Northern Operation — stood by the perimeter fence, helmet tucked under his arm, staring out toward the forest as the last name echoed from the radio.
Piper went on, her voice steadier now. "Last night, the Commander said something that's been sitting with me since. He said, 'Peace isn't given, it's built. And it's paid for in the courage of those who stand when others fall.' I think that's something we all need to remember today. Whether you're a farmer tilling the ground, a soldier on patrol, or a scientist in a lab, you're part of that peace. Every nail you hammer, every patrol you finish, every life you save because that's how we build it."
Sico closed his eyes briefly. The words carried weight not because they were dramatic, but because they were true.
Piper continued, "So wherever you are, if you can, light a candle. Take a minute. Remember the nineteen who didn't come back. And then… keep going. Keep building. Because that's what they'd want."
The sound of soft static followed. Then a faint tune began to play — the same melody Corporal Harris used to whistle on the bridge. Slow, steady, hopeful.
In the silence of the office, Sico reached for his coffee that turn to lukewarm and took a sip. The bitterness grounded him.
"She's good," Sarah murmured finally. "She has a way of reaching people."
Sico nodded slowly. "She always did. Even before the Republic, she was the voice that told people the truth, even when it hurt."
He set the cup down. "Now she's the voice that reminds them why we fight."
Sarah's gaze dropped to the reports again. "You think the Brotherhood's listening to this?"
"Probably," Sico said quietly. "They'll call it propaganda. But that's fine. They've got their machines and dogma. We've got people."
He looked back toward the radio, where Piper's voice faded into the melody.
"That's what they'll never understand," he added. "You can't program loyalty. You can only earn it."
Sarah gave a faint smile, the kind that never quite reached her eyes but carried meaning nonetheless. "You sound more like a philosopher than a commander these days."
"Maybe," Sico said, his tone dry but warm. "Or maybe that's just what war makes of people who survive too many of them."
The two stood in quiet for a while longer. The broadcast continued, Piper's tone moving from remembrance to small updates from the reconstruction of the northern highway, the expansion of the Republic's trade routes, the announcement of the upcoming celebration. But her voice still carried that same undercurrent of reflection, as if the entire Republic was still holding its breath from the night before.
Outside, the settlement began to move again. The clang of metal, the rumble of engines, the distant laughter of children. Life, stubborn and bright.
Sarah gathered her papers and closed her clipboard. "I'll head down to the barracks," she said. "Check on the returning units. They deserve some rest."
"Tell them I said that myself," Sico replied.
She gave him a brief nod, then turned for the door.
When she was gone, Sico sat back, the morning light cutting across his desk. He reached over and adjusted the small wooden frame beside the stack of reports — a faded photograph of the early Freemasons team: Preston, Magnolia, Sarah, Piper, Mel, and himself. All younger, dirtier, but smiling. The world had been smaller then, but the hope just as big.
He ran his thumb along the frame's edge, then let his hand fall to the desk again.
The radio crackled once more. Piper's broadcast came to a close.
"…and to everyone listening, remember — it's easy to rebuild walls. Harder to rebuild trust. But we've done both before. We'll do it again. For them. For all of us. This is Piper Wright, signing off for the Freemasons Republic."
The signal faded into static, then silence.
A steady thrum filled the steel bones of the Prydwen. The massive airship drifted in the cold midmorning air above Boston Harbor, its engines pulsing with that deep, rhythmic heartbeat that every Brotherhood member had grown used to a sound that meant vigilance, power, and unending duty.
Inside, the command deck was awash in the muted glow of monitors and brass-cased instruments. The metallic tang of oil and ozone hung in the air, mixing with the faint hum of the ship's ventilation. Beyond the glass, sunlight glinted across the water below, but the mood inside was anything but bright.
A crackle of static cut through the noise of the deck, followed by a familiar voice, one that didn't belong to any Brotherhood frequency.
"…this is Piper Wright, signing off for the Freemasons Republic."
The last words of her broadcast drifted from a radio set near the comms station. The crew had been listening in silence for the past fifteen minutes—drawn not by curiosity, but by order. Elder Maxson had commanded the broadcast be patched through the Prydwen's internal network the moment it was detected.
Now, the final notes of that haunting melody faded, leaving only the hum of the ship and the low murmur of tension that seemed to seep from every armored chest.
Maxson stood near the viewport, hands clasped behind his back, the long red coat of his command uniform hanging heavy on his shoulders. His expression was carved from stone. The light caught in the short, dark beard that framed his jaw, highlighting the hard set of his mouth. He didn't turn immediately when the broadcast ended—he stood there, watching the pale morning over the harbor as if the voice from the radio still echoed somewhere beyond the horizon.
Behind him, Lancer Captain Kells cleared his throat, his voice crisp but uneasy.
"Sir… we traced the signal back to Sanctuary. They're broadcasting through a network of pre-war relays. Frequency strength suggests multiple boosters—likely spread through their settlements. That wasn't a one-time transmission."
Proctor Quinlan, ever the scholar, added from behind a console, "She's built something remarkable, in technical terms. They've reactivated at least four relay towers across the Commonwealth, possibly more. That kind of synchronization requires precision engineering—and access to technology the Brotherhood didn't even recover until after the Institute fell."
At that, Proctor Ingram muttered under her breath, adjusting her cybernetic arm as she leaned against a nearby workstation. "Yeah, and they've got engineers who used to be with the Institute, from what our scouts reported. Guess the Freemasons know how to use brains as well as bullets."
The words earned her a sharp look from Knight Captain Cade, who stood near the med-station console, arms crossed. "Brains can't stop a laser round, Proctor."
Ingram gave a half-smirk. "Maybe not, but they can make sure you're the one on the receiving end of it."
"Enough," Maxson said quietly.
The tone was soft, but it carried across the entire command deck like a cold wind. The murmuring stopped. All eyes turned to him.
He finally turned from the viewport, his gaze sweeping the room. "You've all heard it," he said. "Not just the words, but the intent behind them."
Kells nodded stiffly. "Propaganda, sir."
Maxson's eyes narrowed slightly. "No. Something worse." He stepped closer to the central table, where a holographic map of the Commonwealth shimmered in pale blue light. Several red markers indicated Brotherhood outposts. Further west, new green icons pulsed faintly that is the Freemasons Republic's known settlements. Sanctuary, Lexington, and others spreading outward like slow-growing roots.
"They've found a way to turn sympathy into strategy," Maxson continued, his voice low but precise. "While we enforce order with discipline and strength, they win hearts with sentiment. And now, they're using that radio to do what even the Institute couldn't, unite the Commonwealth under a single ideology."
Proctor Quinlan adjusted his glasses, the lenses glinting. "The message was carefully constructed. It wasn't overtly hostile like no mention of the Brotherhood, no direct challenge to our authority. But its subtext was unmistakable: they're building something new… something that presents itself as the moral alternative to us."
Proctor Ingram folded her arms. "So they throw a big memorial, light some candles, and give out a few thousand caps. That doesn't make them a threat."
Maxson looked at her, his stare sharp enough to cut through steel. "It does when every settler from here to Far Harbor starts to believe their Republic is what the Commonwealth needs instead of us."
He turned away again, pacing slowly around the table. "When we first took to the skies above this wasteland, we were the saviors of humanity. We burned the mutants, purged the synths, cleansed the filth left by the old world. But now—" He paused, jaw tightening. "Now this… Freemasons Republic stands below us, claiming to be the true inheritor of civilization."
Paladin Brandis shifted uncomfortably, his heavy armor clinking faintly. "With all due respect, Elder, maybe that's what people down there want. They've seen enough war to last a lifetime. Maybe they just—"
"Enough," Kells barked sharply, but Maxson raised a hand, stopping him.
"No, Captain," Maxson said, his gaze still on Brandis. "Let him finish."
Brandis hesitated, the muscles in his jaw flexing. "I'm not saying they're right. But I've seen what they're doing out there. Roads being rebuilt, farms flourishing, people not afraid to walk outside their gates anymore. They're not the Institute. They're not raiders. And for the first time in years, they're making the Commonwealth believe in something that isn't us."
A silence hung after his words—thick, heavy, and dangerous.
Maxson studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. "That's precisely what makes them dangerous."
He walked back to the viewport, his voice quieter now, but no less certain. "Fear keeps people obedient. Hope makes them rebellious. The Institute ruled through terror; it will crumbled because of it. But the Freemasons… they inspire hope. And hope, in the hands of a well-armed, well-organized movement, is far more dangerous than any synth army."
Kells stepped forward, posture rigid. "Orders, sir?"
Maxson didn't answer right away. He was staring at the water below again, at the faint glimmer of sunlight off the waves. When he finally spoke, it was with a tone that carried both calculation and conviction.
"For now, we observe," he said. "We monitor their transmissions, map their signal network, and intercept any new frequencies they establish. Quinlan, that's your responsibility."
Quinlan inclined his head. "Understood, Elder. I'll have a team start analyzing their encryption protocols immediately."
Maxson turned to Ingram next. "I want a technical assessment on their relay towers. If we decide to neutralize them, I need to know how fast we can do it and how hard they can hit back."
Ingram smirked faintly. "You planning to blow up their radios, sir?"
"If it keeps the Commonwealth from falling under their spell, yes."
Knight Captain Cade spoke next, his tone careful but concerned. "Elder, if we make an overt move against them now—especially after that broadcast—it'll look like we're trying to silence them. That might turn more settlers to their side."
Maxson turned sharply. "Which is why we won't act openly."
He took a step closer, the floor panels creaking under his boots. "We'll use discretion. Intelligence first, then infiltration. We'll learn everything we can about their leadership structure, their troop numbers, their logistics. When the time comes, we'll strike where it hurts the most—quietly, decisively."
Kells's eyes flickered with something like satisfaction. "Understood, sir. I'll have recon flights rerouted toward Sanctuary and the western settlements."
Brandis frowned. "That's a dangerous airspace now. Their patrols are equipped with high-caliber weapons and mobile AA Gun."
Maxson's voice didn't waver. "Losses are the price of vigilance, Paladin."
He turned toward the map again, watching the soft green pulse of Sanctuary's icon. "They think because they light candles and sing songs, they can build a new world. But they forget—civilization isn't built on sentiment. It's built on strength."
A long silence followed. The only sound was the low hum of the Prydwen's engines.
Finally, Proctor Quinlan spoke, his voice hesitant. "Elder… if I may, what if their message spreads faster than we can contain it? The radio signal is strong, and morale reports from our ground patrols indicate settlers are growing… sympathetic. To their cause."
Maxson's expression hardened. "Then we'll remind the Commonwealth why the Brotherhood was feared in the first place."
He looked around the command deck, meeting each of their gazes in turn—Kells's rigid loyalty, Ingram's calculating eyes, Quinlan's cautious intellect, Cade's unease, Brandis's quiet doubt.
"They call it the Freemasons Republic," Maxson said, his tone low, deliberate. "But what they're building is a rival power—one that dares to stand equal to us. And I will not allow that."
He turned sharply toward the communications officer. "Keep that frequency monitored at all times. I want transcripts of every word they broadcast from this moment forward."
"Aye, sir."
The officer adjusted the dials. The radio crackled again, faint static filling the room. Somewhere beneath it, the faint strains of Piper's closing melody replayed—the tune Corporal Harris had once whistled, now woven into the soul of a nation Maxson didn't yet understand.
Maxson's eyes lingered on the speaker for a moment, and something unreadable flickered across his face. "They know how to play with emotion," he muttered, almost to himself. "They know the language of the people. But words don't win wars."
He turned back to his officers. "We do."
No one spoke after that. The command deck settled into the familiar rhythm of duty—data streams scrolling across monitors, boots clicking on metal, distant reports murmured through the comm lines. But beneath it all, a new kind of unease pulsed through the air.
________________________________________________
• 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:-