If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
__________________________
Maxson stood there for a moment longer, watching the clouds roil. His reflection shifted slightly as lightning flashed again — for an instant, his face illuminated, worn yet unyielding.
The storm rolled on outside, a distant growl beneath the steel belly of the Prydwen. Lightning fractured the clouds, its light crawling across the glass of Elder Maxson's quarters — a place more spartan than regal, despite its owner's rank. The air smelled faintly of gun oil and the sharp tang of recycled ozone, the scent of machines that never slept.
Maxson stood by the viewport, cape hanging heavy off one shoulder, his gauntlets resting on the rim of the steel desk. For a long moment, he said nothing. The lights were low, most of the illumination coming from the occasional flash outside and the soft amber glow of a single lamp, its beam cutting a narrow path across maps, data slates, and reports that littered the desk.
The door hissed open behind him.
Danse entered first — the measured clank of his power armor softened to a respectful tread. Kells followed, less subtle, the authority in his gait making his boots strike the deck like small hammer blows.
"Elder," Kells said with a nod. His voice carried the rasp of a man used to shouting over wind and engines.
Maxson didn't turn. "Close the door."
It sealed shut with a hiss, the hum of the room deepening into something almost claustrophobic. For a moment, only the rain against the hull filled the silence.
Then Maxson spoke, his tone calm, deliberate. "I called you both here because I don't want this discussed in the war room. Not yet."
Danse straightened slightly, the servos in his armor sighing softly. "Understood, Elder."
Maxson turned then — slowly, the reflection of lightning catching in his eyes. "What we saw today wasn't a fabrication. The Freemasons have built a weapon capable of threatening our Vertibirds. That alone changes the equation of our presence in the Commonwealth."
Kells folded his arms, the motion crisp. "You think it's operational?"
"I don't think," Maxson said evenly. "I know it is. And I believe it was built with a specific message in mind — to remind us that we're not untouchable."
He stepped around the desk and gestured toward the holographic emitter embedded in its surface. It flickered to life, replaying the image from the scout's feed — the Republic's convoy rolling through the gray wasteland, the turret glinting beneath the clouds.
"That's not a defensive weapon," Maxson continued. "That's deterrence. The kind you use when you're preparing for escalation."
Kells watched the rotating hologram for a long moment, his jaw tight. "If they're testing us, perhaps it's time to remind them what happens when someone points a cannon at the Brotherhood."
Danse's head tilted slightly. "And risk proving them right? If we strike now, we'll confirm their fears — that we're not protectors, but conquerors."
Kells shot him a glare. "That distinction doesn't matter if they're arming to kill us."
"It matters to the people we're trying to govern," Danse countered, his voice steady but edged. "Every farmer, every settler — they already whisper about the Republic as an alternative. If we attack, we'll turn those whispers into banners."
The two men's voices clashed, like steel meeting stone. Maxson let them. For several seconds, the tension built — heavy, thick, electric.
Then he lifted a hand, silencing both.
"You're both right," Maxson said simply. "And both wrong."
He paced slowly toward the window again, his reflection passing through the hologram as if walking through the phantom image of the Freemasons' machine. "If we strike too early, we appear threatened. But if we wait too long, we appear weak. That leaves us one option."
Danse frowned slightly. "A preemptive strategy?"
Maxson nodded once. "But not with bombs or Vertibirds. Not yet." He turned to face them fully, his expression hardening. "We'll undermine them before they ever get the chance to fire."
Kells stepped forward. "You mean infiltration."
"Observation," Maxson corrected, though his tone made the difference sound rhetorical. "We need to know how far this Republic extends. Who builds their machines. Who commands their soldiers. And most importantly — where they get their materials."
He walked around the desk, the light of the hologram flickering across the polished plates of his armor. "We'll start with Cambridge Outpost. I want reconnaissance drones positioned along the northern trade routes. Anything moving from Sanctuary to the rail lines gets tracked. If they're scavenging steel or salvaging pre-war cores, I want to know whose hands it passes through."
Danse nodded slowly. "I'll dispatch recon teams — men I trust."
"Good," Maxson said. "And Kells, tighten Vertibird patrols over Boston. Minimal passes near Republic territory — let them believe we're adjusting for weather. But increase aerial range beyond the Charles. If they think our eyes are elsewhere, they'll move more freely."
Kells considered it, then gave a curt nod. "Deception through omission. I can arrange that."
"Do it," Maxson said, then leaned forward, resting both hands on the desk again. His tone dropped lower, quieter — almost a growl. "But make no mistake — this Republic believes it can dictate terms to us. That is arrogance born of comfort. And comfort," he said, his eyes lifting toward the storm outside, "is the precursor to collapse."
Danse studied him for a moment, then said quietly, "Elder… if I may speak candidly."
Maxson's gaze shifted to him.
"This Republic — Sico, Preston, whoever's running it — they're not raiders. They're not the Institute, either. They're trying to build something stable. If we destroy that too soon, without cause, we'll make ourselves the very tyrants we claim to stand against."
For a moment, Maxson said nothing. The rain drummed softly against the hull. Then, a faint exhale — not quite a sigh, but close.
"I know what you're implying, Paladin," Maxson said. "That the Brotherhood has become what it was created to oppose."
He turned slightly, and for a fleeting second, his expression softened — not weak, but haunted. "Do you think I don't ask myself that?"
Danse didn't respond.
Maxson's voice steadied again. "Our mission is preservation. But preservation without dominance invites corruption. Every time the world rises from the ashes, it arms itself with the same tools that destroyed it. The Republic is no different. They may wrap it in ideals — freedom, unity, reconstruction — but beneath it all, it's the same disease."
He straightened, looking between the two men. "We can't cure it by destroying them, not yet. But we can make sure it never spreads."
Kells nodded. "Then what's your order, Elder?"
Maxson's reply was measured. "Prepare contingency protocols. If the Republic expands beyond the northern territories or attempts to establish anti-air sites beyond Sanctuary, we strike. No hesitation."
"And if they don't?" Danse asked.
Maxson's gaze turned toward the window again, lightning illuminating the hard line of his jaw. "Then we wait. We watch. And when they finally believe they're safe… we'll remind them that the Brotherhood never sleeps."
He turned away then, signaling the end of the meeting. Kells saluted and exited first, the door hissing closed behind him. Danse lingered a moment longer, watching Maxson's reflection in the glass — the storm outside mirrored by something quieter but fiercer burning in the Elder's eyes.
Then Danse too turned and left.
The room fell silent again, save for the thunder rolling in the distance.
Maxson reached out, tapped a small switch on the desk, and deactivated the hologram. The image of the Republic's convoy flickered out, leaving only the faint outline burned into his mind.
"Show me your cards, Sico," he murmured under his breath. "Let's see how far you think your republic can fly."
Two hundred miles away, at the heart of the Freemasons Republic
The morning came slow over Sanctuary — the rain that had lingered through the night now softened into mist that clung to rooftops and the still-wet roadways. The air smelled of ozone and oil and damp soil — the living scent of a world rebuilding itself.
In the Freemasons HQ — once a restored pre-war municipal building turned command center — the lights were already on. The corridors buzzed faintly with the sound of footsteps, radios, and distant mechanical clatter.
Inside his office, Sico sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, a mug of black coffee cooling beside a stack of reports. The room was tidy but alive — maps layered with pencil markings, schematics pinned to the walls, and the faint hum of a secure transceiver on the corner of the desk.
He'd been reading since dawn — trade manifests, power grid summaries, convoy patrol logs — but it wasn't until Preston Garvey entered that the day truly began to move.
Preston's knock was quick but firm. "Morning, General."
Sico looked up, smirking faintly. "You're still calling me that?"
Preston stepped inside, adjusting the brim of his hat. "Force of habit. Besides, 'President' doesn't roll off the tongue."
Sico chuckled and leaned back in his chair. "Fair enough. What's the update?"
Preston handed over a thin folder. "Patrol reports from the north and northwest sectors. The air's been busy since sunrise. Multiple Brotherhood Vertibirds, some on high-altitude routes, some running parallel to our borderlines. No direct flyovers of Sanctuary, but close enough to make the men nervous."
Sico opened the folder, scanning the entries. The notations were detailed — sightings near Concord, over the Charles River, and even faint radar echoes from farther east.
He raised an eyebrow. "Increased air activity, huh?"
"Yeah," Preston said, leaning against the wall. "They're not attacking. Just… watching. More than usual."
Sico exhaled slowly, setting the folder down. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "So they noticed."
Preston frowned slightly. "You expected this?"
"I was counting on it," Sico said, tapping his finger lightly against the desk. "The moment we rolled that AA platform out into the open, I knew the Brotherhood scouts would bite. They can't resist anything that looks like a threat to their air supremacy."
He stood and crossed to the window, looking out over the misty landscape. Beyond the HQ walls, workers moved across the yard, cranes lifting prefabricated panels, engineers shouting directions through the fog. The Republic was alive — imperfect, loud, determined.
"They're adjusting flight paths now," Preston said, arms folded. "I checked with the radar team. The birds are steering wider — giving our perimeter a two-mile berth."
Sico's smile widened slightly. "Good. That means Maxson took the bait."
Preston tilted his head. "So this was a bluff?"
Sico turned, resting his hands on the back of his chair. "Partly. The gun works — make no mistake — but it's not built for sustained conflict yet. Power regulation's unstable, targeting sensors are half-calibrated. It's a prototype, more theater than weapon right now."
Preston's brow furrowed. "And you risked showing it off anyway?"
"That's the point," Sico said. "The Brotherhood fights with intimidation. So we used it against them. They think we're escalating; they'll pull back, regroup, hesitate. Every day they waste second-guessing us is a day we can keep building."
He walked back to his desk, pulling open a drawer and retrieving a marked-up map of the Commonwealth. Red circles marked Brotherhood positions — Cambridge, Revere, and smaller outposts strung along the east. Blue lines traced Republic patrol routes, supply runs, and construction projects.
Preston stepped closer, studying it. "You think they'll fall for it long?"
Sico nodded slightly. "Long enough. Maxson's not impulsive — he's methodical. He'll observe before he strikes. Which means, for now, he'll keep his men cautious. That gives us time to reinforce the outer sectors and finish the second prototype."
Preston blinked. "There's going to be a second one?"
Sico's expression was calm but firm. "There has to be. One gun won't hold the skies, but a network will."
Preston stared at him for a moment, then let out a low whistle. "You're turning this place into a fortress."
Sico smiled faintly. "No. I'm turning it into something that can't be bullied."
The two men stood in silence for a moment, the hum of the HQ filling the room. Outside, a convoy rolled past — engines rumbling, boots on wet pavement. The Republic was moving, working, breathing.
Finally, Preston spoke again. "So what's next?"
Sico looked back down at the map, eyes narrowing slightly. "We hold position. Keep the patrols steady, but don't overextend. Let the Brotherhood watch. Let them think we're content."
He reached for his mug, took a slow sip of the now-cold coffee, and smiled faintly. "The real work's happening underground."
Preston raised an eyebrow. "You mean—"
Sico nodded. "BioScience, Robotics, Engineering — all of it. The Brotherhood still thinks we're scavengers with tools. They haven't yet realized we've started manufacturing."
Preston grinned. "You really are playing chess, huh?"
Sico chuckled. "Always."
He turned back toward the window one last time. The mist outside had begun to thin, revealing the distant sprawl of Sanctuary — homes rebuilt from ruin, flags fluttering faintly in the morning breeze. Somewhere out there, soldiers patrolled beside that great iron beast — the Republic's first mobile anti-air gun, gleaming faintly beneath the weak sunlight.
"They wanted to own the sky," Sico murmured. "Now they'll have to share it."
Preston smiled faintly. "Guess the bluff worked."
"It did," Sico said, his voice quiet but resolute. "But now comes the hard part."
He turned back to his desk, eyes sharp, already calculating the next move. "Keeping it believable."
The air inside the HQ had that quiet hum of order — the kind that came only after months of chaos finally began to bend into structure. The walls no longer looked half-collapsed and patched; they'd been reinforced, the concrete sealed, the wiring properly run through conduits instead of dangling bare. It wasn't fancy, not yet — but it was theirs.
Sico leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed loosely as he stared at the map spread before him. The faint chatter of radios filtered in from the hallway — patrol reports, weather updates, convoy requests. Life. A steady, beating rhythm that had replaced the silence of ruin.
"Preston," Sico said at last, his tone steady but curious. "How's the patrol system holding up across our territory? I know you've been working with Sarah to standardize it — rotation times, resupply chains, all of it."
Preston looked up from the corner of the room where he'd been skimming another report, then set it aside. He moved closer, the leather of his coat creaking slightly. "Going smooth," he said, with the easy confidence of someone who'd fought hard to earn that word. "Better than I expected, actually. Now that we've got outposts stretched across our territory, the patrols finally have places to stop, rest, and resupply without heading all the way back here."
Sico nodded, his eyes still fixed on the map. "That was the idea. A network, not just a home base."
Preston stepped closer, pointing at the small pins scattered across the Commonwealth — red for strongholds, blue for trade stations, green for relay points. "Each outpost doubles as a scout station now. Sarah's rotation plan is working — every team that passes through leaves a fresh report and takes one with them. That means updates every twelve hours, not every few days like before."
He tapped the pin near the northern edge of the map — a restored warehouse settlement now known as Outpost Northlight. "Northlight's keeping an eye on the border with Concord and the old Lexington roads. They've got decent range on their radio — enough to reach Sanctuary if the weather doesn't mess with the signal."
Sico's gaze followed his finger. "And east?"
"Outpost Hawthorne," Preston replied. "Sits on the old freeway overpass near the Charles. That one's your best lookout for Vertibird activity. They've been tracking Brotherhood flight patterns since last week, confirming what we saw earlier — most of their birds are circling wider now, probably scanning for blind spots."
Sico grunted softly. "And finding none, I hope."
Preston's mouth curved into a faint grin. "Not unless they like flying into fog and crossfire. Our boys at Hawthorne have been training with the new spotter scopes — they can track heat signatures at nearly a mile out. If a Vertibird drops below cloud cover, we'll know before they get near our lines."
"That's good," Sico said, nodding slowly. "Very good."
For a moment, he let silence fill the room. Outside, the low murmur of Sanctuary carried faintly — the clang of hammers, the groan of cranes, voices calling orders across the construction yards. The Republic wasn't just surviving anymore; it was expanding. Every sound outside the window was proof of that.
"And what about raider activity?" Sico asked finally, turning his gaze back to Preston. "Any sign of movement since we fortified the trade routes?"
Preston exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "Not much. No major increase, at least not inside our borders. Most of the scum seem to be scattering east and south — toward the Glowing Sea if they're desperate. Word's gotten around that we don't tolerate their kind anymore. You can't walk ten miles in our territory without passing a Republic patrol."
Sico gave a faint, approving smile. "Discipline breeds reputation."
Preston nodded. "Exactly. Raiders are opportunists, not soldiers. Once they realize they can't hit and run without losing half their crew, they start looking elsewhere. Still…" He trailed off, eyes narrowing slightly as his tone grew thoughtful. "We can't get comfortable. The outposts are strong, but they're not invincible. Some of the more organized gangs — maybe even remnants from Nuka-World — could regroup. If they do, they'll test our walls sooner or later."
Preston continue saying. "I've been rotating our militia squads through the outposts for live drills. Every man and woman on the patrol roster knows how to handle a breach, a skirmish, and a full withdrawal if needed. Sarah's been pushing for better coordination between the towers, too. She's calling it a 'rapid response network' — if one outpost comes under attack, the two nearest ones roll in within the hour."
Sico looked impressed. "That sounds like her. Efficient, no-nonsense, and tactical."
Preston smirked faintly. "And a little terrifying when she's angry."
That drew a quiet laugh from Sico — brief, but real. "You noticed that too, huh?"
"She nearly bit my head off last week because the western patrol missed a check-in window by fifteen minutes." Preston chuckled. "Fifteen minutes, Sico. She said if I didn't tighten their schedule, she'd do it herself — and she meant it."
Sico grinned. "That's why she's the best at what she does."
They both stood there for a moment, sharing that small flicker of levity before the weight of their responsibilities settled back into place.
Then Preston's voice lowered again, more serious. "That said, I'll make sure the patrols stay sharp. No matter how quiet it gets, we don't drop our guard. The Commonwealth's like a minefield — the moment you think you've cleared it, another one blows."
Sico nodded approvingly. "Good. Keep the teams disciplined. Even a single lazy patrol can give an enemy the illusion of weakness."
Preston tilted his head. "You think someone's watching us that closely?"
Sico's eyes flicked toward the window again — toward the horizon, where the mist had thinned enough to reveal the outline of the hills beyond Sanctuary. "Always. The Brotherhood isn't the only one with eyes in the sky. Raiders, mercenaries, scavenger lords — they all hear rumors. 'The Republic has fusion cores. The Republic has robots. The Republic has food.' That kind of talk spreads faster than bullets."
Preston sighed. "Yeah. You're right. We've built something people envy. That's both our shield and our curse."
The two men fell quiet again, the kind of silence that carried mutual understanding. Outside, a small convoy rolled past the HQ — three trucks and a pair of brahmin, their carts piled with scrap metal and crates of salvaged electronics. A young guard saluted as he passed by the window, his Republic armband bright against the morning fog.
Sico watched them go, then said softly, "They're the reason we can't afford mistakes."
Preston followed his gaze. "They're the reason we can't afford to lose."
Sico gave a faint, approving nod. "Exactly."
He turned back toward his desk, resting his hands on the cool surface as he scanned the map once more. His mind worked through the routes, imagining the paths of each patrol — the settlements they'd pass, the miles of cracked asphalt, the quiet forests where danger still lurked.
"Preston," he said after a moment, "I want the next patrol rotation doubled for the next seventy-two hours. Not because I think something's coming, but because I want every outpost to rehearse a full emergency lockdown. Treat it like it's real. Simulate a raider assault on Outpost Hawthorne, maybe a Vertibird flyby near Northlight. Test communication speed, response time, everything."
Preston nodded immediately. "Consider it done. We'll run it as a full drill — live comms, simulated gunfire, emergency med responses. Sarah's team will love the challenge."
"Good," Sico said, his tone firm. "And make sure they understand the purpose — not paranoia. Preparation. The Brotherhood's shifting their posture. They're watching us now more than ever. That means sooner or later, they'll test our boundaries. I want our men to be able to respond without hesitation."
Preston gave a short nod. "You got it." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "You really think Maxson's planning something soon?"
Sico's expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened slightly. "He's too smart to rush in. But smart doesn't mean passive. He'll move when he believes the outcome's guaranteed — and when that happens, I want us to be three moves ahead."
Preston gave a small, grim smile. "You sound like a chess player who already knows the endgame."
"I don't," Sico said quietly. "But I know how to make sure the board's ours."
Preston studied him for a moment, then nodded again. "Alright. I'll coordinate with Sarah. The drills start tonight. We'll keep the men sharp and ready."
Sico pushed away from the desk, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. He walked toward the window again, the light outside brightening as the mist continued to fade. Beyond the main courtyard, the Republic's banners caught the wind — deep crimson cloth stitched with the gold insignia of the Freemasons: a triangle enclosing a rising sun.
For a moment, neither man spoke. They simply stood there, watching the settlement below come alive. Engineers working on power relays, children helping stack sandbags near the perimeter, traders shouting prices at the market stalls. It was civilization — fragile, but real.
Sico finally broke the silence, his voice low but steady. "You know, Preston, when I first came to Sanctuary, I never thought it would get this far. I thought we'd fix a few walls, set up a few farms, maybe clear a few roads. But now…"
Preston smiled faintly. "Now we've got a republic."
"Yeah," Sico murmured. "And the responsibility that comes with it."
He turned to face him fully. "Keep your people close, Preston. We've got soldiers now, not settlers — but I don't want them to forget who they're fighting for. If the day ever comes when we start seeing everyone outside these walls as an enemy, then we've already lost."
Preston's expression softened. "I'll make sure they remember. We're not the Brotherhood. We don't conquer — we protect."
Sico nodded once, the faintest trace of pride in his eyes. "Exactly."
A soft knock came at the door. One of the young messengers — barely twenty, wearing the Republic's light brown field jacket — stepped in, saluting briskly. "Sir, report from Outpost Horizon just came in. Supply convoy from the south's arrived safe. No incidents."
Sico nodded. "Good. Send word to their quartermaster — make sure the drivers get a rest shift before heading back."
"Yes, sir," the messenger said, and hurried out.
Preston watched the door close, then looked back at Sico. "You know," he said with a small smile, "it's almost starting to feel like we're running a real government."
Sico chuckled softly. "Don't say that too loud. Someone might expect elections."
Preston grinned. "Wouldn't that be something."
Sico shook his head with amusement, then moved back toward his desk. The radio crackled faintly — the voice of a patrol captain checking in from the western perimeter. Everything calm. No hostiles. Supplies intact.
Sico leaned forward on the edge of his desk again, letting the hum of the radio fade into the background. The low chatter of reports and coded messages from patrol teams had become a kind of white noise to him — the sound of a world that finally, slowly, was beginning to work the way it should. For once, the map before him didn't look like a list of disasters waiting to happen. It looked… stable. Secure. Almost peaceful.
He exhaled, the sound slipping into a faint chuckle that caught Preston's attention. "You know," Sico said, rubbing the back of his neck, "maybe… I can finally take a breather for a while. Get some holiday — rest my mind, let my body catch up."
Preston looked up from the radio set, eyebrows lifting slightly. Then he laughed — a low, genuine sound that carried more warmth than surprise. "You? Taking a break?" He shook his head with an amused grin. "I'll believe that when I see it."
Sico smiled faintly, crossing his arms and leaning back against the edge of the table. "No, I'm serious this time. I've been running from one crisis to the next since the day we started rebuilding Sanctuary. Super mutants, raiders, synth negotiations, the Brotherhood… hell, even paperwork now." He gestured loosely at the thick stack of reports beside him, their pages dog-eared and marked with red ink. "If I keep this up, I'll end up sleeping in this damn office until the end of time."
Preston chuckled again, nodding. "Yeah, you probably would. You've been pushing non-stop, Sico. Since the first wall went up. You were out there every day, hammering, scouting, fighting. Hell, even when you were supposed to be recovering from that gunshot last winter, I caught you reading field logs in bed."
Sico smirked at that, lowering his gaze with a half-admitting sigh. "Old habits die hard."
"Yeah, well, they don't have to die — just take a nap once in a while," Preston said, leaning back in his chair. "You've earned it. We all have, but especially you. You're the reason this place didn't fall apart when everything else did. Maybe it's about time the great General Sico actually learned what it feels like to relax."
The title made Sico grimace slightly — not out of offense, but humility. "Don't call me that, Preston. You know I hate it."
"Yeah, yeah," Preston said with a grin, waving a hand. "But whether you like the title or not, it's true. You built this Republic with your bare hands — and I mean that literally. So if anyone deserves a few days to breathe, it's you."
Sico let out another slow exhale, the kind that carried more weight than sound. His gaze drifted toward the window again, where the morning light had softened into a warm gold, spilling across the landscape beyond Sanctuary's walls. The settlement below was alive — children chasing a dog down a dirt lane, traders calling prices across the market, the metallic clang of hammers echoing from the construction yards. It was the sound of peace — rare, fragile, but real.
For once, there wasn't the constant hum of tension that usually crawled beneath his skin. For once, he didn't feel like the next explosion was only a breath away.
"Yeah," Sico murmured after a long pause. "Maybe I should."
Preston watched him quietly, his expression shifting from amusement to something more thoughtful. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. "You know, I can take the reins for a bit. Sarah and I already have the outposts running like clockwork. Hancock's got the trade routes handled, and Nora's keeping the Institute teams focused on logistics. You wouldn't be leaving a hole, Sico. You'd just be giving yourself some air."
Sico tilted his head, mulling that over. "You really think the place can manage without me?"
Preston smiled. "It's supposed to. That's what you built it for — a system that can keep running even if its founder needs a break."
Sico gave a low hum of thought. He knew Preston was right. He'd spent so long building this machine of survival — the patrols, the supply chains, the council meetings, the command structure — that it no longer depended on his every move. In a way, that was what made it beautiful.
He'd built something that didn't need him to keep breathing.
Still, old instincts were hard to silence. "And if something happens while I'm gone?"
"Then we deal with it," Preston replied firmly. "Just like you taught us. You're not running a one-man army anymore. You've got commanders, engineers, scientists, farmers — an entire nation, Sico. It's time to trust it."
Sico's lips quirked slightly, but his eyes softened. He turned to look at the map again — at the web of pins and strings that marked their outposts, trade lines, and defense points. It was more than strategy now. It was a living network. A heartbeat.
"Maybe you're right," he said finally, the words quiet but genuine. "Maybe it's time I step back — just for a few days."
Preston leaned back, grinning. "That's the spirit. You got anywhere in mind?"
Sico's gaze drifted toward the far edge of the map — where the dense, green outline of the old forests stretched beyond the Republic's borders. "Haven't decided yet. Maybe the coast near Salem. Quiet place, used to be a fishing town before the bombs. Or maybe the lake by the old ranger cabin north of Concord — I remember camping there once when I was a kid."
Preston raised an eyebrow. "You, camping? That I'd pay to see."
Sico laughed quietly. "Yeah, well, back then it wasn't called camping. It was just surviving in the woods when the world went to hell."
"Fair enough."
Sico rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Still, a quiet lake doesn't sound too bad right now. No radio, no briefings, no Brotherhood flight logs. Just… air."
Preston nodded approvingly. "Then take it. You deserve it, Sico. Hell, if I were you, I'd drag Sarah and Hancock along too — make them take a break before they both burn out. Sarah hasn't slept properly in days, and Hancock's been working himself into the ground managing those scavenger routes."
That drew a chuckle from Sico. "You might be right. Though good luck convincing Sarah to sit still longer than ten minutes."
"Oh, I'm not saying convince her," Preston said with a grin. "I'm saying order her. You're the boss, remember?"
Sico gave him a look — half amused, half warning. "If I order Sarah to rest, she'll probably pull a gun on me out of principle."
Preston laughed. "Yeah, you're not wrong about that."
The laughter eased into quiet again, though not the heavy kind. It was a rare, easy silence — one born of camaraderie rather than duty. Outside, the sunlight shifted, painting the edges of the HQ in gold and dust.
After a moment, Sico's expression softened even more. "You know, Preston, when I first got here — when I first stood in the ruins of Sanctuary — I never thought I'd live long enough to even think about taking a vacation."
Preston's tone gentled. "None of us did. We were just trying to survive back then. Now we're living."
"Yeah," Sico murmured. "We are."
He glanced again at the stack of reports — the endless tide of numbers, routes, names, and signatures. He could still feel the weight of leadership pressing against his shoulders, but for the first time, it didn't feel suffocating. It felt earned.
Preston broke the silence again, his tone teasing but kind. "So when do you plan on heading out? Because if you tell me 'tomorrow,' I'll personally make sure your bags are packed."
Sico smirked faintly. "Tomorrow might be too soon. Maybe after the next patrol drill finishes. Once I know the network runs smooth without my eyes on it, I'll go. Two days, maybe three."
Preston nodded. "Fair enough. I'll keep things steady here while you're gone. You have my word."
"I know I do."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The HQ was quiet now, the last of the reports filed and the radios settled into static murmurs. The kind of peace that always felt foreign to men who'd spent too long in war.
Sico stepped away from the desk and toward the window again, gazing out at Sanctuary — at the banners swaying gently in the breeze, at the workers hauling supplies to the western gate, at the faint trail of smoke from the forges where Sturges and his crew were working late.
"You ever stop to think," he said quietly, "that this is what it was all for? All the fights, all the blood, all the losses — just to reach a day like this? Where we can actually talk about taking a break instead of fighting for our lives?"
Preston followed his gaze. "Every damn day."
Sico's voice lowered, the words almost more to himself than to Preston. "Then maybe it's time I start living the peace I fought for."
Preston smiled faintly. "Now that's something I can get behind."
He stood up, giving Sico's shoulder a firm, friendly clap. "Go get your rest, brother. You've earned it. And when you come back, the Republic'll still be here — maybe even better than you left it."
Sico chuckled softly, though there was a glint of pride in his eyes. "I'll hold you to that, Preston."
"You better."
They shared a brief, genuine handshake — one not of rank or duty, but of respect and friendship. Then Preston stepped toward the door, glancing back once more before he left. "Try not to start another project before you leave, alright? You've got enough to keep busy for a lifetime."
Sico smirked. "No promises."
Preston rolled his eyes, laughing as he left the room. The door shut softly behind him, leaving Sico alone once more with the fading hum of the HQ.
The sunlight had dimmed now, turning amber through the window. Sico looked around the room — at the maps, the documents, the flags. Then he exhaled slowly, closing the folder in front of him.
For once, the world could wait.
He reached over, switched off the radio, and let the silence settle — not the cold, uneasy silence of the wasteland, but the calm kind. The kind that came when you knew, deep down, that everything was finally — at least for now — under control.
________________________________________________
• 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:-