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The fires of evening glowed softly along the ridge, illuminating faces marked by dirt and determination. Soldiers and settlers alike shared quiet smiles, helping each other tend minor wounds, passing water, and exchanging words of encouragement.
The battlefield was quiet now. Only the low hum of voices, the distant crackle of dying fires, and the rustle of boots through churned mud filled the air. Smoke drifted lazily over the Southern Ridge, carrying with it the acrid scent of gunpowder and charred wood. In the soft amber light of late evening, Sanctuary's defenders—settlers, Minutemen, and patrol alike—moved like ghosts among the wreckage of their victory.
Sico stood near the crest of the ridge, his coat torn and dust-streaked, the faint trace of blood marking one sleeve. The adrenaline that had fueled every order, every movement, now faded into a deep, heavy exhaustion that settled in his bones. But there was no time to rest. Not yet.
He turned slowly, eyes scanning the scene. Settlers gathered in small clusters, tending to the wounded or resting against barricades. The first row of houses—scarred, but still standing—rose like a symbol of stubborn defiance against the chaos that had tried to swallow it. Beyond, the trenches were half-filled with mud and debris, the makeshift fortifications already being reclaimed by hands eager to rebuild.
Sarah was standing a few yards away, her rifle slung over her shoulder, her hair damp with sweat. She was overseeing a group of patrol soldiers collecting weapons from the fallen raiders and marking the edges of the field for cleanup. Even after hours of battle, her stance remained alert—disciplined, vigilant.
Sico walked toward her, boots crunching softly in the dirt. "Sarah," he called, his voice low but steady.
She turned immediately, straightening her posture as if instinctively preparing for another command. "Sir?"
"Check how many of ours are down," he said quietly. "I need numbers—KIA and injured. Every one of them deserves to be accounted for."
Sarah nodded, her expression grave. "Yes, sir. I'll get the full report." She motioned to a nearby patrolman. "Get the medics to mark the wounded and set up a temporary field post by the water barrels. I want a clear count within the hour."
As she moved off, Sico lingered for a moment, staring out toward the western treeline where the raiders had come. The forest stood silent now, black silhouettes against the dying light. He could almost imagine the echoes of the chaos that had erupted there earlier—the shouts, the gunfire, the dull thud of boots as raiders charged the slope. The ridge bore scars from the fight, but it stood firm, as did the people who had defended it.
He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. There was a heaviness in the air that went beyond fatigue. It was the aftermath of survival—the quiet reckoning of what it had cost.
He turned back toward the heart of the ridge, where the settlers were gathered. Many were still shaking off the daze of battle: faces streaked with dirt, hands trembling as they wrapped bandages or hauled debris. These weren't soldiers—they were builders, farmers, parents. And yet, they had fought like veterans.
Sico walked among them, his steps unhurried. A few heads turned as he passed; people straightened, nodded respectfully, or offered tired smiles. He made a point to stop at each cluster, resting a hand on a shoulder, kneeling beside the wounded, speaking softly but with sincerity.
"You did good work today," he told a woman whose arm was bound in a hastily tied sling. She looked up at him, eyes wide and still red from tears. "You kept calm, followed Sturges' orders, and helped reinforce the line when we needed it most. That saved lives."
"I—I just did what anyone would've done," she stammered, her voice trembling.
"No," Sico said firmly, meeting her gaze. "You did what a Sanctuary settler does. You stood your ground. That's something not everyone can say."
He moved on, passing a small group of settlers gathered around a fire pit. A man was cradling his son's hand, wrapping it carefully after a burn from handling a hot rifle barrel. The boy couldn't have been more than seventeen. His eyes darted up as Sico approached.
"Sir," the young man said, his voice quiet but proud. "We held the slope. We didn't let them through."
Sico smiled faintly, crouching beside him. "You did more than hold it," he said. "You proved that this ridge is more than timber and dirt. It's the heart of Sanctuary now. And you were part of what kept it beating."
The boy swallowed, his jaw tightening as he nodded. His father murmured a quiet thank-you, and Sico returned the gesture with a small nod before standing again.
He moved toward the far side of the ridge, where Sturges and a few settlers were dismantling damaged barricades and salvaging usable planks. Sturges looked up as Sico approached, wiping his forehead with a dirty rag.
"Hell of a day, boss," he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion but tinged with relief. "Didn't think we'd turn 'em back after that second wave, but damned if those trenches didn't hold."
Sico gave a tired chuckle. "You built those trenches, Sturges. You gave us the ground we needed to fight."
Sturges shook his head. "We all built this. Settlers, Minutemen, patrols—everyone pulled weight. I just made sure the nails didn't fall out."
Sico clapped a hand on his shoulder. "And that's exactly why you're the best at what you do."
A few yards away, a small group of settlers was laying out blankets for the wounded. Makeshift lanterns flickered in the dusk, casting golden light over the faces of medics moving with quiet precision. Sico made his way there, stopping beside a woman who was trying to stanch the bleeding from a soldier's leg wound. He knelt down, helping her tie the bandage tighter.
"Keep pressure here," he instructed gently, pressing his hand over the cloth. The woman nodded wordlessly, her hands shaking but determined.
"Thank you, sir," she whispered, her eyes glistening.
"You don't need to thank me," Sico replied softly. "You're doing the real work now."
For a few moments, there was silence between them—the kind of silence that comes after the storm, where only the crackle of distant fires and the slow rhythm of breathing fills the air. Then, as he rose to his feet again, Sarah returned, a notepad in her hand and a grim expression on her face.
"Report, sir," she said, handing it over. "We lost twelve. Five from the patrol, seven from the settlers. Twenty-one wounded, six of them critical but stable for now. Medics are doing all they can."
Sico's fingers tightened slightly around the paper. He didn't need to look at it to feel the weight of the numbers—they were more than statistics; they were names, faces, people he'd spoken to that morning. People who'd been laughing as they worked, proud of how far the ridge had come.
He folded the note carefully and slipped it into his coat. "We'll honor them," he said quietly. "Every one of them. Make sure their families are seen to—supplies, shelter, whatever they need."
Sarah nodded. "Already done. Preston sent word that he's arranging a proper burial site near the eastern garden. He said it should overlook the settlement, so their families can visit."
Sico's gaze drifted toward the direction she mentioned, where the faint glow of lanterns marked the path leading down to Sanctuary proper. "Good," he said softly. "They deserve that view."
For a while, neither of them spoke. The sounds of rebuilding had already begun—settlers hammering planks, voices calling measurements, the steady rhythm of a community refusing to crumble. It was remarkable, really. Hours after a siege, and they were already rebuilding.
"That's the thing about Sanctuary," Sarah said finally, almost as if reading his thoughts. "We don't stay broken for long."
Sico smiled faintly, glancing her way. "No. We don't."
He walked again through the ridge, stopping where needed—offering a word, a nod, a helping hand. Every person mattered. Every voice counted. To him, leadership wasn't about standing above the others; it was about standing among them.
Near one of the fires, a small group of settlers sat together in silence, sharing a pot of stew. The smell of it—a simple mixture of mutfruit, brahmin meat, and wild herbs—cut through the heaviness of the air. Sico joined them briefly, accepting a tin cup when one of the older men offered it.
"You'll want some, boss," the man said. "Ain't much, but it's hot."
Sico took a sip, the warmth spreading through him. "You kept everyone calm when it mattered," he said, recognizing the man as Tom, one of the early settlers who had helped clear the southern slope weeks ago. "You organized the water supply and made sure no one panicked. That was leadership, Tom."
The man chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Leadership? Nah, I just didn't want folks wasting water 'cause of fear."
"Sometimes," Sico replied, "that's exactly what leadership looks like."
The group smiled, and for a moment, the exhaustion eased. There was laughter, quiet and fragile, but genuine. It reminded Sico why they were here—why all of it mattered.
When he rose to leave, he looked around one last time. The ridge was alive again—not with battle, but with purpose. Settlers worked side by side with Minutemen, clearing debris, straightening frames, salvaging usable wood. The glow of lanterns dotted the landscape like constellations in the dark, each one a testament to survival.
As he walked back toward the ridge crest, he passed a makeshift memorial—a few planks set into the soil, with helmets, rifles, and names etched into them. Someone had already begun placing candles there. He paused, lowering his head.
"Rest well," he murmured, the words almost lost to the wind. "You did your duty. We'll take it from here."
Behind him, the settlement stirred with new energy. Sturges' voice carried again, calling out to his crew: "All right, folks! Let's make these frames right. We'll fix what's broken and make it stronger. Same for the trenches—get the supports tight. We'll finish what we started!"
Sico smiled faintly. Even in exhaustion, Sturges' spirit was unbreakable. The man could turn a battlefield into a workshop before the smoke cleared.
As night fully settled over the ridge, torches were lit along the perimeter. Sarah's patrol reestablished watch rotations, and Preston's Minutemen prepared to stay the night as additional security. The settlement was safe again—for now.
Sico stood alone at the edge of the ridge, overlooking Sanctuary below. The lights of the settlement flickered softly, reflected in the small river that ran past the southern border. From this height, the world looked peaceful—fragile, but alive.
He exhaled slowly, feeling the ache in his shoulders ease slightly. Behind him, he could hear laughter again—faint, tired, but real. The kind of laughter that only comes after surviving something that could have ended everything.
The morning after the battle broke over the Southern Ridge like a promise — pale gold light spilling across the scarred land, burning away the last traces of smoke that had clung to the air through the night. The soft whir of distant generators and the occasional clang of hammers were the new sounds of dawn, replacing the gunfire and chaos that had haunted the same ground only hours earlier.
Sico stood by the edge of the ridge, his hands resting against a rail of bent metal salvaged from a wrecked barricade. The sunrise bled warmth across the sky, washing over the battered trenches, the overturned sandbags, the scattered shell casings that still glinted like dull silver in the grass. For a long moment, he said nothing. He simply breathed — deep and steady — and let the quiet settle inside him.
Behind him, footsteps crunched over the dirt. Sturges approached with his ever-present tool belt slung across his hip, a rolled-up schematic under one arm and a mug of coffee in the other. His shirt was already streaked with dust, though the day had barely begun.
"Mornin', boss," he called out, voice rough but carrying that unshakable note of optimism that seemed to cling to him no matter how bad things got. "Figured you'd be up here before the sun even had the sense to rise."
Sico turned slightly, offering a faint smile. "Couldn't sleep. Not after last night."
Sturges handed him the mug, still steaming. "Ain't none of us slept right. But we got daylight now, and that's as good a reason as any to start putting things back together." He unrolled the schematic on a nearby crate, flattening it with his calloused hands. "I been thinkin' about the repairs. Gonna need a full rebuild on the western barricades — too much structural damage to just patch 'em up. The trenches held, but the supports on section C collapsed halfway through the fight. We'll need new timber, rebar if we can scavenge some."
Sico nodded slowly, studying the schematic. "What about the houses along the southern path? Any of them still salvageable?"
Sturges rubbed the back of his neck. "Two of 'em are standing fine, just got shot up a bit. But that third one — the one with the red door? It's a goner. Fire tore through the whole frame. We'll need to clear it out completely before we start anything new there."
He paused, glancing up toward the horizon where smoke still rose faintly from the outskirts. "We'll get it done, though. Always do."
Sico took a sip of the coffee — strong, bitter, grounding. "How soon can we have a work team assembled?"
"They're already here, more or less," Sturges said with a half-grin. "Folks didn't wait for me to call. Half the settlement started clearing debris before the sun came up. Guess they figured the sooner we fix things, the sooner it'll feel like home again."
Sico's eyes softened at that. "They've got heart," he murmured. "Even after what happened."
"That they do," Sturges agreed, then gestured toward the slope. "Come on down. You'll wanna see how much progress they've made already."
The two men walked together down the ridge. The air was cool, touched with the scent of scorched earth and wet soil. Around them, life had already begun to reassert itself — settlers working shoulder to shoulder, voices rising in tired but determined rhythm. The sound of hammers echoed through the valley, mingled with the steady scrape of shovels against dirt.
Children ferried small bundles of scrap metal to the workshops while older settlers sorted through piles of salvaged material, separating what could be reused from what was too twisted or burned to save. Someone had set up a makeshift forge near the eastern perimeter, the faint orange glow of heat already visible beneath a corrugated roof.
Sico stopped near a group of workers hauling debris from the destroyed barricade. "Morning," he greeted, and every one of them turned at once, offering nods or murmured acknowledgments.
"Morning, Commander," one woman replied, brushing a streak of ash from her face. "We're clearing the north side first — figured we'll have it done by midday."
"Good," Sico said. "Make sure everyone gets breaks. We don't need anyone pushing themselves to exhaustion today."
She smiled faintly. "After last night, this almost feels easy."
That earned a quiet chuckle from Sturges. "Don't jinx it now."
Sico crouched briefly, lifting a charred beam with his gloved hands and helping two settlers move it aside. "Keep this section clear," he said. "We'll use it as a supply lane once the trucks start coming in."
As the workers moved off, Sturges opened his schematic again, pointing at several areas marked in red ink. "We'll start with the trench supports and outer walls first. Sarah's already got a patrol sweeping for leftover munitions and traps, so once the area's safe, we'll send in the builders."
"And the damaged houses?" Sico asked.
"I'll split the teams. Once we reinforce the main line, we can spare hands for reconstruction. Oh, and before I forget — Preston sent word. He's bringing a convoy later today with new timber, some prefabs, and a few crates of spare wiring from the caches. Guess he figured we could use 'em."
Sico nodded approvingly. "Good man."
They reached the western trench line, where several men were already setting new posts into the ground. The smell of fresh-cut wood mingled with the scent of mud and gunpowder. The trench was deeper now — widened by the damage — but it would be stronger once rebuilt.
"Hey, boss!" a voice called from below. It was Daniel, one of the young engineers who'd joined from the northern settlements. He was knee-deep in mud, waving a spanner in one hand. "We're reinforcing the lower struts! Should hold better next time!"
"Next time, we'll make sure they don't even get close enough to test it," Sico called back, earning a round of tired laughter.
He crouched at the edge, peering down into the trench. "Good work, Daniel. Once you finish there, move east and help with the sandbag lines. Keep your head down while they're setting posts."
"Got it, Commander!"
As he straightened, Sico turned to Sturges again. "It's strange," he said quietly. "Last night, this place felt like the edge of the world. Now it feels alive again."
Sturges gave a small grin. "That's what we do, boss. We take broken things and make 'em better. Sometimes it's wood and steel. Sometimes it's people."
Sico looked out over the ridge, the faint wind tugging at his coat. "And both take time."
"Yeah," Sturges said, "but we got plenty of that now. Long as we keep fighting for it."
By midmorning, the Southern Ridge had turned into a hive of movement. Preston's convoy rolled in just before noon — five trucks and a pair of Humvees carrying supplies. The rumble of engines echoed off the hills as settlers gathered to unload crates and beams. The trucks carried more than just materials — inside, the Minutemen had packed food, clean water, even spare medical kits for the wounded.
Preston climbed out of the lead Humvee, tipping his hat when he spotted Sico. "Heard you were already rebuilding," he said with a tired grin. "Couldn't let you have all the fun."
"Glad you made it," Sico replied, shaking his hand. "We'll need every bit of what you brought."
Preston nodded. "We'll start distributing supplies. You just tell us where you want 'em."
"Right along the ridge line," Sico said. "We'll reinforce the main wall first. Once that's solid, we'll start on housing and utilities."
As Preston moved to organize the unloading teams, Sarah arrived from the patrol sector, her uniform still dusty but her expression focused. "Commander, perimeter's clear. No more signs of raiders. I've posted watch rotations just in case."
"Good," Sico said. "Tell your men to stand down in shifts. They've earned some rest."
Sarah gave a sharp nod and turned to leave, but paused. "You're staying here through the rebuild, aren't you?"
"I am," he said. "Can't ask people to rebuild something I'm not willing to work on myself."
A faint smile crossed her face. "Didn't think otherwise."
By midday, the sun sat high and bright, its warmth spreading over the ridge. Sweat glistened on foreheads, shirts clung to backs, but no one complained. There was laughter now — weary but real — as people worked side by side, lifting, hammering, rebuilding. Children ran water to the workers, dogs barked as they chased each other through the dirt, and the clang of tools became the steady heartbeat of recovery.
Sico and Sturges worked shoulder to shoulder, repairing a shattered wall section. The wood creaked as they fitted the beams together, nails driven in with rhythmic strikes.
"Hand me that level," Sturges muttered, squinting at the frame. Sico passed it over, and he adjusted the angle until it was true. "There. Straight as a Minuteman's aim."
Sico chuckled softly. "You've seen some of their aim lately, right?"
Sturges grinned. "Yeah, fair point."
The humor helped. It kept the exhaustion at bay, reminded everyone that they weren't just patching holes — they were reclaiming what was theirs.
By late afternoon, the first stretch of the new barricade stood tall and solid again, gleaming in the sun. The trenches were reinforced, the houses cleared of debris. Preston's men had begun setting up new turrets along the ridge, while Sarah's patrol tested the communication relays between the Southern Ridge and Sanctuary.
As the day wound down, Sico climbed back to the top of the ridge and looked out over it all — the workers, the rebuilt defenses, the glint of steel catching the light. He could hear Sturges shouting for measurements, Preston laughing with a group of settlers, Sarah's firm voice giving final orders to her patrol.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't finished. But it was alive.
And that, Sico thought, was enough for now.
He turned as Sturges approached again, wiping sweat from his brow. "Not bad for one day's work, huh?"
Sico smiled faintly. "Not bad at all."
Sturges followed his gaze toward the horizon, where the sun was beginning to dip, casting the land in gold and crimson. "You know," he said quietly, "I think this place'll stand for a long time. Long after you and me are gone."
Sico's expression softened. "Then let's make sure it's built right."
Then Sico told Sturges that they needed to quickly build the wall and connect it to the Sanctuary wall, as the place would be a part of Sanctuary, just like they'd always planned.
"Yeah," Sturges said, nodding thoughtfully as he leaned over the rough blueprint he'd drawn in charcoal across a sheet of old pre-war drafting paper. "I was thinkin' the same thing myself. The Southern Ridge's got good elevation, plenty of visibility. Once we link it to Sanctuary's north gate, we'll have a proper perimeter that is strong, tight, and defendable."
Sico crouched down beside him, the gravel crunching under his boots. "We'll need to make sure the corridor between here and the main wall is secure," he said, tracing a gloved finger across the map from the edge of the ridge down toward the river bend where the Sanctuary wall curved. "If we don't reinforce this stretch, the Brotherhood or raiders could try cutting through the valley."
"Yeah, that's a weak point, no doubt," Sturges muttered, scratching at his jaw. "But if we dig in some new foundations and set up a wall along that path, we could close it right off. Maybe even make it part of the new trade route you've been talkin' about."
"That's exactly what I want," Sico replied. His tone was calm but purposeful, the kind of focus that always made people nearby straighten their backs and listen closer. "We're not just building defenses anymore, Sturges. We're building something that lasts, a real home. If Sanctuary's going to be the capital of the Republic one day, it needs to grow like one."
Sturges chuckled, though there was pride behind it. "You talk like one of those old-time Presidents, boss."
Sico gave a faint grin. "I don't want to be a President. I just don't want people to keep living in fear."
There was a silence between them for a moment — not uncomfortable, just filled with the weight of everything they'd already survived together. The sound of hammering and voices drifted up from below, a reminder that rebuilding wasn't just an idea. It was happening, plank by plank, nail by nail.
Finally, Sturges broke the quiet. "Well, if we're extendin' the wall, we'll need to set new corner posts along the ridge. Gonna take a lotta timber and a hell of a lot of sweat. But we can do it." He looked up with that familiar spark in his eyes — the one that always made even the hardest jobs seem possible. "We'll start layin' the base tonight."
Sico nodded, glancing toward the horizon where the last of the sunlight burned orange over the treetops. "Do it. I'll have Sarah station an extra patrol along the connecting path. Preston's men can start clearing the area while your team gets the framework up."
"Roger that," Sturges said, already turning toward the camp. "I'll grab my tools and round up the night crew."
Sico watched him jog down the slope, calling for his builders. For a moment, he just stood there, taking in the quiet majesty of the ridge — the air crisp, the distant chatter of settlers blending with the sound of the river far below. The war might not be over, but in that moment, there was peace. Fragile, yes — but real.
He began walking down toward the main camp, his boots kicking up soft puffs of dust with each step. Lanterns flickered on one by one as dusk deepened, casting warm amber light across the construction site. Settlers worked in pairs, lifting beams, hauling scrap, tightening bolts on freshly welded barricades. The rhythm of rebuilding carried through the night like a song — steady, determined, hopeful.
Preston met him halfway down the slope, clipboard in hand. "Got word from the scouting team," he said, falling into step beside Sico. "They cleared the old utility road west of the ridge. It's overgrown but stable. We could use it to transport supplies between here and Sanctuary once the wall's connected."
"Good," Sico said. "We'll need it. Make sure the path is guarded around the clock until we finish construction."
"Already on it," Preston replied. "Sarah's posted a squad there now. She's making sure no one slips through."
They reached the heart of the camp, where the forge glowed red-hot under a makeshift awning. Sparks leapt into the air as metal met metal, each strike echoing like a heartbeat through the night. Sico stopped to watch one of the blacksmiths hammering out a support hinge for the new wall gates — the man's face streaked with soot, his movements practiced and sure.
He turned as Sarah approached, her rifle slung over her shoulder, eyes sharp even in the dim light. "Perimeter secure," she reported briskly. "But I'd recommend moving a few more guards to the eastern sector once night falls. That's where the treeline's thickest."
"Do it," Sico said. "And make sure the outer watch rotates every two hours. No one stays out there too long — we don't need fatigue right now."
Sarah nodded. "Understood." She hesitated for a moment, then asked, "You think the Brotherhood will regroup?"
Sico's expression darkened slightly. "They always do. But next time they come, they'll find us stronger."
There was something in the way he said it, that made Sarah's posture ease. She gave a short nod, then turned to relay his orders to her squad.
As the night deepened, the camp buzzed with controlled energy. Floodlights powered by salvaged fusion cores lit the ridge, casting long shadows over the half-built wall. The rumble of generators mixed with the chatter of tired voices and the clatter of tools. Sico moved among them as the checking progress, lending a hand where needed, offering a word of encouragement to those who looked ready to collapse.
At one point, he stopped beside a group of younger settlers struggling to lift a heavy beam into place. Without a word, he stepped forward, grabbed hold of the beam, and heaved with them until it slid perfectly into its slot. The group looked up at him, panting but grinning.
"Thanks, Commander," one of them said, wiping sweat from his brow.
Sico nodded, catching his breath. "We all carry the weight together," he said simply, and moved on.
Sico moved back toward the center of the camp, leaving Sturges and his crew to hammer, saw, and weld the skeletal frames of the new wall into place. The air smelled of sawdust and scorched metal, mingling with the faint acrid tang of the old battlefields. The rhythmic pounding of hammers and the occasional hiss of welding torches filled the night, a chorus of recovery.
He paused at the edge of the partially destroyed houses along the southern path, the structures scarred by fire and raider bullets. The red-door house had been reduced to a blackened skeleton, but the others were only partially damaged — splintered walls, shattered windows, and collapsed roofs that could be rebuilt with care. Sico ran a hand along the jagged edge of a beam, feeling the uneven grain beneath his fingers, and took a slow, measured breath. There was work to do, and he intended to see it done right.
"Alright," he murmured to himself, "if Sturges is keeping the wall alive, I'll keep these homes alive."
He moved among the settlers and medics, calling out instructions as he assessed the damage. The first house he approached had its front wall partially caved in, and the roof had collapsed in one corner. Two men were attempting to lift a charred support beam back into place, straining with every movement. Sico crouched beside them, brushing the dust from his hands.
"Let me take a look at that," he said, voice calm but firm. He examined the angles and the remaining supports, running his hands along the beams. "We need to brace the corner before you lift anything else. Otherwise, it'll twist under the weight and come down again."
The men nodded quickly, following his instructions. Sico found a plank from the salvage pile and positioned it as a diagonal brace, securing it with nails and a hammer. He guided them step by step, ensuring the structure could bear the stress before they attempted to lift the beam again.
"Steady… and lift," he said as they finally hoisted it into place. The beam settled into position with a groan of wood and dust, but it held.
One of the men grinned through sweat and dirt. "Thanks, sir. Thought we were going to be here all night just trying to hold it up."
Sico shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We're not just holding it. We're fixing it. And when it's done, it'll be stronger than before."
He moved on to the next house, where a section of the wall was riddled with bullet holes, the plaster shattered and the wood underneath splintered. Several women were trying to patch it, smearing mud and plaster in a vain attempt to hold the frame together.
"Stop," Sico said softly, kneeling beside one of them. "We're going to do this properly. Patchwork like this won't last through the next storm, let alone another attack."
He set to work, demonstrating how to reinforce the frame from the inside with fresh timber and metal brackets scavenged from the ruins. The women watched, wide-eyed, and then joined him, cutting, measuring, and hammering under his guidance. He moved among them patiently, correcting angles, adjusting beams, and praising their effort when it was needed.
By the time he stepped back, the wall was solid, the braces hidden inside the structure, invisible to anyone passing by but strong enough to hold against almost anything. He looked at their faces — tired, grimy, but alive with determination — and felt a swell of pride.
"Good work," he said, voice carrying over the night. "This house is standing again because you didn't give up. Remember that."
He walked toward the next building, a larger house that had been almost entirely gutted by fire. The roof had collapsed inward, leaving a jagged void, and the walls were blackened from the smoke. Settlers had begun clearing debris, hauling charred beams and ash into piles for later disposal.
Sico crouched beside a young man stacking the remains of a wall, his face streaked with soot and sweat. "Careful with that," Sico said. "Some of those beams are brittle. If they snap while you're carrying them, they could fall right on you."
The young man nodded, adjusting his grip. "Yes, sir. Didn't think of that."
"Always think of it," Sico replied. "Every beam, every plank, every nail — it all matters. One mistake, and we undo all the work everyone's already put in."
He worked alongside the group, hauling pieces of debris to the edge of the clearing and sorting them for reuse. Larger timbers, only slightly scorched, were set aside for the roof supports. Metal hinges, brackets, and nails were collected in a tin for later use. Each salvaged piece would be carefully reintegrated into the new structure, a patchwork of survival and ingenuity.
As he worked, he noticed several of the younger settlers struggling to lift a heavy roof beam. Without hesitation, he moved to help them, coordinating their effort and guiding the beam into place. The beam creaked as it settled onto the newly reinforced supports, but it held.
"Perfect," Sico said, stepping back. "That's how you do it. Solid and steady. Now we move on to the next section before fatigue sets in."
By the time the first hints of dawn crept over the horizon, casting pale gold light across the ridge, the first house was structurally sound again. The red glow from the forge and the lamplight mingled with the early morning, highlighting the hard work etched into every face. Settlers moved between buildings, carrying supplies, measuring beams, and hammering nails with renewed energy.
Sico moved to oversee the repair of another house — a long, low structure near the edge of the ridge that had taken heavy fire during the raider attack. Its front wall was perforated with bullets, windows shattered, and the roof partially caved in. He knelt beside the skeletal frame and ran a gloved hand along the wood, feeling for weak spots.
"Sarah," he called softly, and she approached, her rifle slung across her back. "Can you organize a small patrol to clear the area behind this building? Need it safe for the teams to work without fear of anything slipping up while we repair."
"Already on it," she said. "Two squads heading up now. No surprises tonight."
"Good," Sico replied, moving along the wall. "We're going to reinforce the interior frame first. Once that's solid, we'll replace the windows and repair the roof."
He worked alongside a pair of settlers, guiding them through the process of installing diagonal braces, securing supports with nails and metal brackets, and carefully lifting the charred roof beams back into place. Every so often, he paused to check measurements, ensuring each piece was perfectly aligned.
"This is going to take hours," one of the settlers muttered, sweat dripping down his forehead.
Sico looked up at him, wiping grime from his cheek. "It will. But we'll get it done. And when it's finished, it will be stronger than it ever was before the attack."
Hours passed in a steady rhythm — the clang of hammers, the scrape of saws, and the occasional barked instruction carrying through the air. Sico moved from house to house, assessing damage, prioritizing repairs, and coordinating teams. He directed one group to focus on structural reinforcements, another on clearing debris and salvaging materials, and yet another on preparing roofing and window replacements.
At one point, he paused near the edge of the partially destroyed riverbank, where water had seeped into the foundations of several homes during the previous night's rains. He called over a young woman who had been helping with debris.
"Can you bring the sandbags over here?" he asked. "We're going to shore up the foundations before we start rebuilding the walls."
She nodded quickly and ran to gather the supplies, returning moments later with a small pile of sandbags. Together, they laid them along the compromised foundation, tamping them down and reinforcing the base of the structure.
"There," he said finally, stepping back. "That will hold. We'll pour some concrete tomorrow to solidify it, but for now, it's safe."
The young woman looked at him, eyes wide and exhausted. "Sir… thank you. I didn't think it could be done so fast."
Sico shook his head gently. "No, thank the teamwork. Everyone did their part. That's what made it possible."
By late afternoon, the first stretch of the damaged houses was structurally secure, with scaffolding in place and teams already preparing to replace roofs and windows. Sico walked along the line, inspecting each house, offering encouragement, and correcting small mistakes before they could become problems.
He paused at one of the houses near the center of the ridge, where a group of settlers was nervously attempting to raise a heavy front door salvaged from another building.
"Step back," he instructed, moving forward. "We'll lift it together. On my mark."
With coordinated effort, the settlers and Sico raised the door into position. Sico held it steady while the hinges were secured, ensuring it swung properly. When it was finally fixed in place, the group cheered softly, pride and relief written across their faces.
"That's how we do it," Sico said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "One step at a time. Nothing is too broken that we can't make it better."
As night fell, lanterns lit the ridge again, casting a warm glow over the repaired structures. The smell of sawdust, mud, and the faint tang of smoke lingered in the air. Sico walked among the settlers one last time for the day, offering words of encouragement and checking on the progress.
Sturges approached, wiping sweat and grime from his face. "You're doing a fine job over here, boss. The wall's coming along, and you're turning these broken homes into something strong. They'll last longer than most of the old pre-war buildings."
Sico nodded, exhausted but satisfied. "Thanks, Sturges. We'll need to keep this pace up. Every wall we repair, every beam we reinforce, every house we rebuild — it all counts. Sanctuary is growing. And every step we take now is for the people who will call this place home."
He paused, looking out over the ridge, where the dark silhouettes of newly repaired houses stood against the night sky. The sound of hammers and saws had slowed, replaced now by the occasional murmur of settlers cleaning up and preparing for the next day.
Sico felt the weight of the day press down on him, fatigue mingling with satisfaction. He knew there would be more battles to fight, more repairs to make, and more walls to build.
________________________________________________
• 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:-