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Inside the command tent, Preston and Sico sat in silence for a moment over the latest reports. Word of Brotherhood activity near Cambridge had filtered in. Synth signals had been detected just south of Lexington. Sanctuary has always be a fortress, but they knew that a storm was slowly approaching.
The morning broke slow and gray over Sanctuary Hills, the sun a hazy disc pressing through a ceiling of cloud like an old war light straining through smoke. The usual sounds of the settlement — hammering, barking orders, the low hum of generators — came alive in sequence like instruments tuning up for a march.
Sico stood just outside the perimeter of the training yard, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his jaw set. Before him, a line of new Minutemen recruits stood rigid in their combat armor, mismatched and still clunky on their frames, but present and accountable. Mud caked their boots. Sweat glistened on a few faces despite the cool air. Some looked exhausted already — half from the physical exertion, half from the sheer gravity of where they were.
The yard before them was alive with activity. MacCready was downrange with a group practicing with combat rifles. The report of gunfire cracked through the air at tight intervals, rhythmic and precise. He barked corrections with the kind of authority that didn't come from rank but from hard-earned survival. Some recruits flinched when corrected. Others nodded and reset, pulling bolts, clearing jams, reloading from the hip like they'd done this a thousand times in the simulations Preston had ordered.
But this wasn't simulation anymore. This was real.
Sico's eyes moved over the lines. Some recruits were just kids — barely out of their teens, faces still raw with uncertainty. Others were grizzled settlers who looked like they'd never worn formal armor a day in their lives but carried tools and farming grit like second skins. One woman was rewrapping a bandage over her knuckle. A man to her left coughed and shifted, trying to hide a limp. No one was perfect. No one needed to be.
Down the gravel road from the training yard, a pair of settlers approached the gates on foot, and the guards waved them through after a quick check. Behind them, a caravan of makeshift transports — two retrofitted military flatbeds escorted by power-armored Minutemen — rolled slowly toward Sanctuary, kicking up dust behind them. The noise drew eyes from the yard. The newcomers were stacked in the beds, some clutching duffle bags, others just holding the sides of the frame with white-knuckled grips, their eyes wide as they took in their new reality.
Preston stood at the center of the courtyard, waiting. His coat fluttered in the wind, his hands behind his back. Always composed, always carrying the weight. When the trucks hissed to a halt, he moved forward to meet them.
"Welcome to Sanctuary," he said, voice loud and sure. "Step down, one at a time. We'll get you settled, fed, and cleared. Then you'll receive assignments. You're not just survivors anymore. You're Minutemen now."
The words landed with mixed expressions. Some climbed down with purpose in their step. Others hesitated — perhaps feeling the weight of that title for the first time. Among them was a young woman with braids pulled tight beneath a patched cap, her eyes scanning everything and nothing, trying to anticipate danger. A grizzled man — maybe sixty, maybe seventy, with a faded NCR tattoo barely visible beneath a torn sleeve — muttered a greeting in Spanish as he stepped off. A boy who couldn't have been more than fifteen came last, carrying a rifle twice his size and glancing over his shoulder at the disappearing wasteland.
Preston met them all with a nod. He clapped a hand on the shoulder of one man who looked half-ready to turn and bolt. "You're here now. We've got you."
Sico watched it all with a strange knot in his gut. It wasn't the military precision that got to him. It wasn't even the fear. It was the scale. Every day, more people. Every day, new recruits, new equipment, more patrol routes, more ration lists, more logistics reports. Sanctuary had always been a refuge, a rebuilding ground. Now it was becoming a war machine, and though it felt necessary — righteous, even — he couldn't shake the thought that something sacred was being lost in the process.
Later that morning, inside the command tent, Sico joined Preston, Sarah, and MacCready for the daily review. The tent was crowded with crates of supplies, printed maps, half-scribbled notes, and a battered radio still crackling with static from patrol teams farther east.
"New numbers just came in," Sarah said, spreading the clipboard across the table. "Today's intake: thirty-seven recruits. Twenty combat-ready. Seventeen marked for support roles. One serious injury — heat exhaustion. I've already pulled her from the rotation."
MacCready sipped his coffee and scowled. "They need more than just discipline. Half these kids never held a rifle before. We're burning through ammo faster than we can build it."
"Speaking of which," Preston added, flipping open a folder, "the caravans from Quincy and Nordhagen hit another delay. Brotherhood patrols near Haymarket forced them to reroute south. Lost two days. That's going to strain supplies until next week."
Sico leaned over the table. "We still don't know if those were Brotherhood or Institute?"
"Neither side's claiming it," Preston said. "But they knew when to hit. Just enough to spook our drivers, not enough to make a mess. That's Brotherhood tactics."
"They're probing," Sico said.
"Exactly."
Silence fell for a beat. The maps on the table showed more than just territory. They showed pressure. They showed possibility. They showed danger.
"They're both watching us now," Preston said quietly. "We made our move at Greenetech, and they heard it loud and clear. They're not going to let us grow unchecked. So the question is: Do we wait for them to strike, or do we strike first?"
Sarah's eyes moved over the maps. "If we do, we risk overextending."
"If we don't, they'll pick us apart a convoy at a time," MacCready shot back. "We can't play defense forever."
Sico rubbed his temple. "Then we hit something symbolic. Not too big. Not too small. We send a message — 'we're here, we're ready, and we don't back down.'"
Preston gave him a long look, then nodded slowly. "I'll talk to the scouts. We'll pick a target. Institute relay station. Brotherhood observation post. Something that reminds them this Commonwealth doesn't belong to either of them."
No one argued.
That evening, the campfires lit up across Sanctuary like stars on the ground. Recruits laughed, joked, sharpened knives, cleaned weapons. The smell of cooked beans and fried cornmeal wafted from the mess tents. Old pre-war songs played softly on a salvaged holotape recorder, somewhere between wistful and hopeful.
Sico sat alone on an overturned crate near the water purifier, watching the lights flicker over the lake. His shoulders ached. His mind wouldn't stop racing.
Sarah eventually joined him, dropping beside him with a sigh and two tin cups of water. She handed him one.
"You alright?" she asked.
"Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
He smiled faintly.
They sat in silence for a while. The firelight danced against the rippling water. Off in the distance, a Vertibird cut through the sky, black against the stars. It didn't approach. It just passed overhead, a watcher in the dark.
"You ever wonder what happens if we win?" Sico asked suddenly.
Sarah blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, after the fighting. After the Brotherhood pulls back or the Institute crumbles. After it's just us. What does the world look like then? What happens to all of this?" He gestured toward the camp, toward the drills, the training, the weapons stacked like sandbags.
Sarah looked down at her cup. "Then we rebuild. Properly this time. No overlords. No ghosts underground or soldiers in the sky. Just people… building something better."
"You really believe that?"
"I have to," she said. "Otherwise, what's the point?"
Sico replied quietly, his voice nearly lost beneath the hush of the breeze and distant laughter, "Yeah… that's true. And maybe…" he trailed off for a moment, swirling the water in his tin cup before finishing, "maybe we rebuild a new government after we settle all of this."
Sarah turned her head toward him, her eyes reflecting the shimmer of firelight and starlight alike. For a moment, she said nothing, weighing the words in the air like a blacksmith sizing up raw metal.
"You really think that's possible?" she asked. Not cynical — curious.
Sico didn't answer right away. He took a slow sip of water and leaned back, stretching his legs out, one boot scuffing softly against the gravel. "I don't know," he admitted. "But we have to try. What we're doing here — Sanctuary, Quincy, the Minutemen — it can't just be a militia forever. If we win… we'll need to become something more. Something people can trust. Not just a shield, but a foundation."
Sarah stared out across the lake. The Vertibird had vanished beyond the hills, leaving only silence and the steady drone of crickets. "You're thinking long-term."
"I have to," he said. "You and Preston, MacCready — you're damn good leaders. But what happens when we're gone? What happens to the next generation? Do they inherit a war, or a world?"
She gave a half-smile, sad and fond. "You always were the idealist between us."
"I'm not an idealist," he replied, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he knew it wasn't entirely true. "I just… I've seen too many people die for nothing. I don't want this to be for nothing."
Sarah didn't speak right away. She shifted her gaze toward the flickering campfire, her thoughts as scattered as the glowing embers drifting upward. Somewhere across the lake, a frog croaked, loud and sharp in the silence. The fire crackled softly as one of the logs gave way, collapsing inward in a shower of sparks. Sico's expression remained unreadable, eyes fixed on the water's surface — the moon's reflection rippling in the gentle current.
Then he spoke again, quieter this time, as though talking more to the world than to her.
"Until when," he said, "do we live in a world where raiders are running rampant, feral ghouls roam the wilds attacking anyone they find, and super mutants stalk us like we're prey?"
His voice grew firmer with each word. Not angry, but resolute. Weathered by pain, shaped by grief, but refusing to bend anymore.
"We need a government," he continued, looking up at Sarah now. "Something that can stabilize the area. Rebuild civilization. Set laws. Defend people. Provide food, water, security. A place where kids can grow up without learning how to shoot before they can even read."
He paused, letting the words hang between them.
"I'm not saying we can go back to how it was before the war," he said. "Hell, I don't even know if we should. But we can't keep living like this. Scavenging ruins, trading bullets for food, hoping someone stronger doesn't show up and burn everything down."
Sarah's face softened. Her eyes were still sharp — soldier's eyes, survivor's eyes — but they carried something else now. A glint of understanding. Of hope, maybe.
"I don't disagree," she said slowly. "It's just… there's so much to fix. So many dangers out there still. The Brotherhood, the Institute, raider clans that operate like warlords. And that's not even counting the things we don't understand. Radiation storms. Wild creatures. The rot in the land itself. How do you govern something like this?"
Sico ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. "I don't have all the answers. But I know it has to start somewhere. Maybe here. Sanctuary, Quincy, Nordhagen — places where people already live, already rely on us. We connect them. Build a council, not just commanders and fighters, but settlers too. Engineers, doctors, teachers. People with ideas, people with dreams. We write something down — not just rules, but values. We make something people can believe in."
Sarah's brow furrowed. She took another drink from her canteen, chewing over his words. "You want to write a constitution."
"Call it whatever you want," he said. "But yeah. A framework. Something to protect people even when we're gone."
A moment of silence passed, broken only by the rhythmic chirping of crickets and the distant howl of a night beast — maybe a yao guai, far enough not to worry about yet. Sarah leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, staring into the fire.
"You really think people will go for it?"
"Some will. Some won't. That's fine," Sico said. "We're not forcing anything. But if we offer them something better… something stable… people will come. You saw it with Quincy. People came from miles around when they heard we took it back from the Gunners. They want safety, sure, but they also want dignity. A future."
Sarah nodded slowly. "And if someone doesn't want to play along? If the Brotherhood says no? If the Institute says no?"
"Then we stand our ground," Sico said. "Like we always have. But we don't just fight them on the battlefield — we fight them with ideas. With community. With unity. Because that's something they'll never understand. The Brotherhood wants control. The Institute wants obedience. But us? We're building something for everyone."
She was quiet again. Sico could see her processing it, the lines at the corners of her mouth twitching with the kind of deep thought that only came when faced with something daunting — and yet possible.
He didn't press her. He just sipped his water and looked up at the stars, brighter now with the fire low and the moon climbing higher. There was peace in that moment, quiet and rare.
"I had a dream once," Sarah said after a while, voice hushed. "I dreamed about a school. Just a little one. Three rooms. Kids sitting in a circle, learning how to read. One of them asked me what the stars were, and I told her they were fireflies trapped in heaven. She laughed." Then she silence for a while and added. "Wasn't real, just a dream. But it stuck with me."
"It doesn't have to stay a dream," Sico said gently. "We can make it real."
She chuckled, shaking her head. "You're dangerous when you get like this. You make me want to believe again."
"Good," he said. "Because I need people like you to believe in this. People who know what it costs. Who've bled for it."
She looked over at him, serious again. "If we do this… we're not just painting targets on our backs. We're building something that people will want to tear down."
"I know."
"And we're putting power in the hands of people who've never had it before. That'll scare a lot of folks."
"I know."
Sarah exhaled and leaned back again, stretching like a cat. "Alright. You stubborn bastard. I'm in."
Sico smiled — a rare, full smile that reached his eyes. "Thank you."
"But," she added, raising a finger, "you're writing the first draft of this 'charter' or whatever the hell we're calling it."
"Deal."
"And if you use too many big words," she said, smirking, "I'm editing the crap out of it."
Sico laughed. It felt good.
They sat there a little while longer, as the war wasn't over. The Brotherhood still loomed, the Institute still plotted, and the Commonwealth was still a place of darkness and danger.
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• 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:-