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Outside, Sanctuary continued waking up with people moving, systems turning, life asserting itself again and again against a world that had every reason to collapse.
Morning did not announce itself in Sico's office.
It never did.
There were no windows wide enough to let sunlight pour in dramatically, no birdsong to mark the hour. The Freemasons Headquarters woke the same way it always had with quietly, deliberately, through the low hum of generators, the shuffle of boots in hallways, the soft crackle of radios checking in.
Sico was already awake when the day truly began.
He sat at his desk with his jacket folded neatly over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled just enough to free his wrists, pen moving steadily across paper. Reports were stacked in careful piles from Goodneighbor assessments, patrol summaries, logistics forecasts, diplomatic notes that required wording precise enough to prevent misunderstandings that could cost lives.
He worked without rushing.
He always did.
But there was something different this morning.
At first, it was subtle. Easy to dismiss.
A warmth beneath his skin that felt out of place in the cool air of the office. A faint pressure behind his eyes, like a headache that hadn't yet decided whether it wanted to exist.
Sico ignored it.
He had learned long ago that bodies complained for many reasons, and most of them were inconvenient. Hunger. Fatigue. Pain. None of them could be allowed to dictate the pace of governance that not when the Republic balanced on a web of fragile stability.
He finished one document and slid it into the completed pile, then reached for the next.
His handwriting was still steady.
That mattered.
He read through a report on Sunshine Tidings Co-op, eyes scanning the lines automatically while his mind cataloged implications from population density, patrol overlap, supply redundancy. Goodneighbor's extension had eased pressure on Sanctuary, but it also created new nodes to protect.
New vulnerabilities.
The warmth grew more noticeable.
Not uncomfortable yet. Just present.
Sico paused briefly, pressing his fingers together once, then continued reading.
He had felt worse before.
The pen scratched softly as he made a note in the margin, a small adjustment to patrol rotation timing. Outside his door, guards shifted positions, boots scuffing faintly. The world continued without concern for the fact that its director was beginning to feel… wrong.
Time passed.
Sico lost track of it the way he often did when the work demanded everything. Reports blurred into one another, the rhythm of reading, annotating, signing, stacking becoming almost meditative.
But the pressure behind his eyes deepened.
A dull throb settled at his temples, pulsing in slow, deliberate beats that matched his heartbeat. His vision blurred for just a fraction of a second when he looked up from the page—so brief he wondered if he'd imagined it.
He blinked, adjusted his glasses, and leaned forward slightly.
Focus.
He'd gone longer without sleep before. Gone days on stimulants and willpower alone during the Republic's earliest crises. This was nothing.
He reached for his mug.
The coffee inside had gone untouched, steam long since faded. He took a sip out of habit.
It tasted wrong.
Not spoiled. Just… off.
He frowned faintly and set it aside.
Another report finished. Another signature. Another careful placement.
The warmth was no longer subtle.
It radiated now, a heavy heat coiled in his chest and climbing his neck, settling beneath his skin like a fever that had finally decided to stop waiting.
Sico slowed.
Just slightly.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a count of three.
One.
Two.
Three.
The headache sharpened when he opened them again, sending a spike of pain through his skull that made his jaw tighten involuntarily.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
Not now.
He reached for the next document anyway.
The Republic did not stop because its director felt unwell.
That was the rule he had written for himself long before anyone else could enforce it.
His pen hovered for a moment above the paper.
The warmth surged again, stronger this time, accompanied by a sudden wave of dizziness that made the edges of the room tilt almost imperceptibly. The desk felt farther away than it should have. His own hands looked… distant.
Sico set the pen down carefully.
That, at least, he acknowledged.
He lifted one hand and pressed his fingers to his forehead.
The skin was hot.
Not warm. Hot.
A tight, quiet realization settled in his chest.
Fever.
He'd known it was coming, in some abstract way. Weeks of relentless work, interrupted sleep, constant stress layered on stress. He had pushed his body past warning signs because there had always been something more urgent than rest.
And now it had pushed back.
Sico closed his eyes again, this time longer.
He considered his options with the same methodical clarity he applied to everything else.
Ignore it and continue working. Risk impaired judgment.
Stop now. Seek medical care. Lose time.
Time, however, was useless if he collapsed at his desk.
He opened his eyes and made a decision.
The remaining paperwork could wait.
Barely.
He gathered the finished documents into a neat stack, aligning the edges with care that bordered on ritual. Even now, even like this, he refused to leave disorder behind.
Slowly, deliberately, Sico pushed his chair back and stood.
The motion sent a sharp wave of vertigo through him, the room lurching violently to the left before snapping back into place. He grabbed the edge of the desk instinctively, fingers digging into the wood until the sensation passed.
His heart pounded harder now, each beat echoing painfully in his skull.
"Alright," he murmured under his breath. "Hospital."
Just that.
No dramatics. No pride.
He took a step forward.
The floor felt uneven beneath his boots, like walking on the deck of a ship in rough water. His vision narrowed slightly, a faint darkening at the edges that made the center of the room feel too bright.
Another step.
His head throbbed viciously now, pain blooming behind his eyes, down his neck, into his shoulders. Sweat prickled at his hairline despite the cool air.
He reached the edge of the desk and turned toward the door.
That was as far as he got.
The world tilted abruptly, far more violently than before. His stomach lurched. The floor surged upward to meet him as his legs simply… stopped responding.
There was a sound.
A dull, heavy thud as his shoulder clipped the desk.
Then a sharper crack as his body hit the floor.
Outside the office, the guards heard it immediately.
The sound didn't belong.
It wasn't footsteps. It wasn't a dropped crate or a shifting chair. It was the unmistakable noise of a body hitting the ground.
Both guards reacted at once.
Weapons were raised instinctively, then lowered just as quickly as one of them reached for the door.
"President?" the first called sharply.
No response.
They didn't wait.
The door opened fast.
The sight inside froze them for half a second too long.
Sico lay on the floor beside his desk, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath him, glasses askew, skin flushed and damp with sweat. Papers had scattered from the edge of the desk, fluttering uselessly around him like fallen leaves.
"Shit," one guard breathed.
The other was already moving, kneeling beside Sico and checking his pulse with practiced efficiency.
"He's alive," the guard said quickly. "Strong pulse. Fever."
The first guard grabbed the radio at his shoulder.
"Medical," he snapped. "President's down. I repeat, President is down. We need a medic at HQ immediately."
Static crackled, then a voice responded, sharp with urgency.
"Copy that. En route."
The guard gently rolled Sico onto his side, careful not to jostle him more than necessary. His breathing was shallow but steady, brow furrowed even in unconsciousness as if his mind refused to fully let go of responsibility.
"Sir," the guard murmured, unsure whether Sico could hear him. "Help's coming."
Outside, footsteps pounded down the hallway.
Footsteps thundered through the corridors of Freemasons HQ, the normally measured pace of the building shattered by urgency.
Sarah heard the radio call mid-stride.
She had been halfway down the eastern hallway, a folder tucked under one arm, already mentally sorting through the day's priorities, when the sharp voice cut through the low background murmur.
"—President's down. I repeat, President is down."
Her body reacted before her mind fully processed the words.
She broke into a run.
Preston was only a few meters behind her, having heard the same transmission from the opposite corridor. He turned sharply, eyes wide for a fraction of a second before his jaw set and he matched her pace without a word.
They didn't ask questions. They didn't need to.
The answer waited at the end of the hall.
Two soldiers stood outside Sico's office now, weapons lowered but hands tense, posture rigid with alarm. One of them looked up as Sarah approached, recognition flashing across his face.
"General—"
She didn't slow down. "Inside."
The guard stepped aside immediately.
The door was already open.
Sarah crossed the threshold and the world narrowed to the sight on the floor.
Sico lay on his side beside his desk, jacket discarded, papers scattered across the polished surface like the aftermath of a storm. His face was flushed an unhealthy shade, sweat darkening his hair at the temples. His glasses sat crooked, one lens reflecting the overhead lights at an odd angle.
Two soldiers knelt beside him.
One was supporting his shoulders carefully, keeping him stable. The other had his fingers pressed to Sico's neck, eyes locked on the steady rhythm beneath the skin.
"He collapsed," the guard said quickly as Sarah dropped to one knee. "Fever. Hit the desk on the way down. No bleeding."
Preston stopped just behind her, breath tight in his chest.
"Oh God," he murmured.
Sarah reached out without thinking and brushed her fingers against Sico's forehead.
The heat startled her.
"Jesus," she whispered. "He's burning up."
Her expression hardened instantly that not with fear, but with something sharper. Anger, perhaps. At him. At herself. At the quiet, relentless way he had driven himself into the ground without ever saying a word.
"How long?" she asked.
"Unknown," the guard replied. "We heard the fall."
Sarah nodded once. "Good. You did the right thing."
She reached for her radio.
"Medical team ETA?" she asked, voice clipped but controlled.
"Two minutes out," came the reply.
Two minutes felt like a lifetime.
Sarah shifted closer to Sico, positioning herself near his head. She knew better than to shake him, but she leaned in, voice low.
"Sico," she said. "Hey. It's Sarah."
There was no response.
His breathing hitched slightly, shallow and uneven, but it didn't stop.
Preston crouched on the other side, hands hovering uselessly for a moment before he rested one on the floor, grounding himself.
"He never said anything," Preston said quietly, almost to himself. "He never does."
Sarah's jaw tightened. "He didn't have to. We should've seen it."
Preston looked at her. "You can't watch him every second."
"No," she agreed. "But I should've tried harder."
Bootsteps echoed again in the hallway that lighter, faster, more numerous.
Curie arrived at a near jog, white lab coat already half-buttoned, dark hair pulled back hastily. Two nurses followed close behind her, one carrying a medical kit, the other already pulling on gloves.
Curie took in the scene in a single glance.
"Please, give me room," she said, calm but unmistakably urgent.
The soldiers shifted back immediately.
Curie knelt beside Sico with practiced grace, hands gentle but efficient as she checked his airway, his breathing, the pulse at his wrist.
"High temperature," she said, switching briefly into French under her breath before catching herself. "Very high."
She pressed the back of her fingers to his forehead, then to his neck.
"He has been pushing himself too far," she said softly, almost reproachfully. "Again."
Sarah felt the weight of that word settle heavily in her chest.
Curie opened the medical kit with a snap, pulling out a scanner and running it over Sico's torso and head. The device hummed quietly, projecting faint lines of data across its surface.
"No major head trauma," Curie said after a moment. "Contusion to the shoulder. Mild dehydration. Fever is severe."
One of the nurses leaned in. "Any idea what caused it?"
Curie's lips pressed together. "Stress, exhaustion, immune suppression. Perhaps an infection. Perhaps simply… collapse."
She looked up at Sarah and Preston.
"He should have been resting days ago," she said. "His body has decided for him."
Preston swallowed hard. "Is he going to be okay?"
Curie met his eyes. "Yes. If we act now."
Sarah exhaled slowly, not realizing she'd been holding her breath.
"Hospital," Sarah said immediately. "Now."
Curie nodded. "Yes. We will move him carefully."
The nurses began preparing a stretcher, unfolding it smoothly, efficiently, their movements synchronized by long habit.
Sarah stepped back just enough to allow them space, but her eyes never left Sico.
He looked smaller like this.
Not diminished, but vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to see. The man who carried the Republic on his shoulders lay unconscious on the floor, undone not by enemies or politics, but by his own refusal to stop.
Curie gently adjusted his head, sliding a support beneath his neck.
"Sico," she said softly, voice warm and reassuring. "You are safe. We are here."
As if in response, his brow furrowed slightly.
A faint sound escaped his lips that not words, just a breath edged with discomfort.
Sarah leaned forward again. "That's it," she murmured. "You hear her."
The stretcher was positioned beside him.
The nurses moved him with meticulous care, coordinating every lift, every shift of weight. Sico didn't stir beyond a faint tightening of his fingers, his hand curling slightly as if grasping for something solid.
When they lifted him, Sarah noticed how light he felt beneath their hands.
Too light.
They secured him to the stretcher, straps snug but not restrictive, then checked his vitals again.
Curie nodded once, satisfied for the moment.
"We must go," she said.
Sarah straightened. "I'll walk with you."
Preston rose as well. "Me too."
The guards fell in behind them as the stretcher rolled into the hallway, the wheels rattling softly against the floor. The sound echoed louder than it should have, drawing attention as doors opened and faces appeared.
Whispers followed them.
"Is that—"
"Did something happen—"
"Is he—"
Sarah didn't look at them.
Her focus stayed locked on the stretcher, on the slow rise and fall of Sico's chest.
The hospital of Sanctuary wasn't far, but every step felt too slow.
Curie walked at the head, issuing quiet instructions to the nurses as they moved.
"Monitor his breathing."
"Keep him cool."
"Prepare IV fluids."
They entered the medical wing through double doors that swung open at their approach, the familiar scent of antiseptic replacing the wood smoke and oil of the HQ.
The room brightened under clinical lights.
They guided the stretcher into a treatment room, already prepped, already waiting as if the building itself had known this moment was coming.
Curie took charge immediately.
"Here," she said, gesturing. "Lift, now."
They transferred Sico to the bed smoothly.
One nurse began setting up an IV. Another checked his temperature again, shaking her head slightly at the reading.
"Still rising," she said.
Curie frowned. "Cool compresses. Now."
Sarah stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed tightly, forcing herself not to interfere. This was Curie's domain. She trusted her completely.
Preston hovered near the wall, hands clasped together, eyes fixed on Sico's face.
"He looks awful," he whispered.
Sarah didn't answer.
Curie placed a hand on Sico's chest briefly, feeling his breathing, then leaned closer to his face.
"Sico," she said again, louder this time. "You are in the hospital. You are safe."
His eyelids fluttered.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, slowly, with visible effort, his eyes opened a fraction.
They were unfocused, glassy with fever, but alive.
Sarah moved instantly, stepping closer.
"Sico," she said, voice steady. "It's me."
His gaze drifted, unfixed, then settled vaguely in her direction.
"…Sarah?" he murmured, the word barely audible.
"Yes," she replied. "You're okay."
His brow creased faintly. "Work…"
Curie clicked her tongue softly. "Non," she said gently. "No work."
Sico's lips twitched faintly, almost a smile, before his eyes slipped closed again.
But he didn't go fully under.
His breathing steadied slightly, the worst of the strain easing as the IV began to flow.
Curie straightened and finally allowed herself a breath.
"He will sleep now," she said. "That is good."
Sarah nodded, tension easing just a fraction. "What happens next?"
Curie removed her gloves carefully. "We observe. We treat the fever. We determine the cause. He will remain here until he is stable."
"And after that?" Preston asked.
Curie looked at them both, expression firm.
"After that," she said, "he rests. Whether he wishes to or not."
Sarah let out a quiet, humorless huff. "Good luck convincing him."
Curie's lips curved slightly. "Leave that to me."
The room settled into a quieter rhythm.
The room settled into a quieter rhythm.
Machines hummed softly. The sharp edge of crisis dulled into something more controlled, more clinical. The nurses moved with practiced efficiency, adjusting lines, checking readings, murmuring to one another in low voices that carried reassurance rather than alarm.
Sico slept.
Not the shallow, restless half-consciousness he often endured at his desk, but real sleep that heavy, involuntary, claimed by a body that had finally overridden the will that had driven it too far.
Sarah remained at the foot of the bed for several long seconds, arms still crossed, shoulders tight. She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, counted breaths without meaning to. Each one steadied something in her that had been threatening to unravel.
Preston shifted beside her.
"He's stable," he said quietly, as if saying it too loudly might undo it.
"For now," Sarah replied. Not pessimistic. Just honest.
Curie glanced up from the monitor. "For now is enough," she said gently. "It gives us time."
Sarah nodded, then finally turned away from the bed. The movement felt harder than it should have, like leaving a post unfinished. She took two steps toward the door before stopping, glancing back once more.
"Stay with him," she said to Curie. It wasn't a request.
Curie inclined her head. "Of course."
Outside the treatment room, the corridor felt too open, too loud, even though voices were hushed and movement restrained. News traveled faster than any runner in Sanctuary ever could, and Sarah could already feel it rippling outward with questions forming, assumptions sharpening, fear slipping into the cracks where certainty should have been.
She walked a few steps down the hall before slowing.
Preston caught up to her easily.
"We need to get ahead of this," Sarah said under her breath.
Preston didn't argue immediately. He looked tired in a way that went deeper than missed sleep, eyes shadowed by worry and the weight of responsibility that never quite left him.
"Rumors already started," he said. "You saw the looks."
Sarah stopped walking and turned to face him.
"That's exactly why we need to control it," she said. "If people think he was attacked, or poisoned, or worse—"
"They won't," Preston interrupted gently. "Not for long, anyway."
Sarah frowned. "What do you mean?"
He gestured vaguely back toward the hospital wing, toward the paths Sanctuary's people would be taking all morning.
"Half the HQ saw us run," he said. "More saw the stretcher. Folks in the hallway, guards, clerks. And by now, I guarantee you, someone saw us bring him in here."
Sarah exhaled sharply through her nose.
"So we shut it down," she said. "We keep it contained."
Preston shook his head.
"Sarah," he said quietly, "this place isn't built on secrecy anymore. It's built on trust."
She held his gaze.
"And trust means we don't lie," he continued. "Even when the truth's uncomfortable."
Sarah looked away, jaw tight.
"People are already scared," she said. "The Republic's barely holding together as it is. If they hear their president collapsed—"
"They'll hear it anyway," Preston replied. "But what matters is how they hear it."
He paused, then added, softer, "If we try to bury it, that's when it turns into something worse."
Sarah closed her eyes for a brief moment.
She hated that he was right.
"What are you suggesting?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
Preston didn't hesitate. "We tell the truth."
She opened her eyes again. "All of it?"
"As much as matters," he said. "He collapsed because of a fever. Because he pushed himself too hard. Because he's human."
Sarah let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "That's the part people forget."
"And the part they need to remember," Preston said.
She studied his face for a moment. The lines there weren't new as he'd earned every one of them, but there was a steadiness in his expression that reminded her why she trusted him with this.
"Piper," Sarah said finally.
Preston nodded. "Piper."
The Freemason Radio station sat near the edge of Sanctuary's central hub, close enough to the HQ to stay connected, far enough to feel like its own beating heart. It was already alive when they arrived qw voices inside, equipment humming, the faint echo of someone laughing at something off-mic.
The door swung open before they even knocked.
Piper Wright stood there, microphone slung loosely around her neck, eyes sharp and curious as ever. The smile she wore at first faded the instant she saw their faces.
"Okay," she said, stepping aside to let them in. "That look means this isn't a social call."
Inside, the radio room smelled like warm electronics and paper, notes pinned everywhere with bulletins, schedules, half-scribbled reminders. The place buzzed with energy even in quiet moments, like it was always waiting for the next thing to happen.
Piper closed the door behind them.
"I heard something," she said. "Not details. Just… noise."
Sarah didn't waste time.
"Sico collapsed this morning," she said plainly.
Piper's eyes widened, the reporter in her instantly alert. "Collapsed how?"
"Fever," Preston answered. "Exhaustion. He pushed himself too far."
Piper's expression shifted that not to excitement, not to panic, but to something more serious.
"He's alive," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Sarah said. "He's stable."
Piper exhaled, some tension leaving her shoulders. "Good."
She leaned back against the console, arms folding loosely.
"So," she said, "you're here because you don't want this turning into a guessing game."
Sarah nodded. "Exactly."
Piper considered that for a moment, then tilted her head slightly.
"You want me to tell people the truth," she said. "On air."
"Yes," Preston replied.
"And you want me to say it was because he overworked himself," Piper continued.
"Yes."
"And you're aware," Piper added, eyes flicking between them, "that some folks are going to take that as weakness."
Sarah met her gaze evenly. "Let them."
Piper studied her for a long second, then smiled faintly.
"You know," she said, "most leaders would try to spin this. Or bury it. Or blame something external."
"We're not most leaders," Sarah replied.
Piper straightened. "Alright. I'm in."
She moved quickly then, sliding into her chair, adjusting the mic, flipping a few switches. The familiar red light blinked on, steady and bright.
"This is Piper Wright," she said into the microphone, voice smooth, calm, carrying the kind of confidence that made people stop what they were doing to listen. "Bringing you a quick but important update from the heart of the Republic."
Sarah and Preston stood just behind her, silent.
"There's been some movement this morning," Piper continued, "and I know folks have questions. So let's clear the air before rumors do what rumors always do."
She paused deliberately.
"President Sico was brought to the hospital earlier today after collapsing in his office."
Sarah felt her chest tighten, but she didn't interrupt.
"He did not suffer an attack," Piper went on. "There was no sabotage. No enemy action."
Another pause.
"He collapsed due to a severe fever brought on by exhaustion."
Piper's voice softened slightly, losing none of its clarity.
"He pushed himself too hard. Too long. Carrying more than one person ever should."
She leaned forward a bit, voice earnest now.
"He's alive. He's stable. He's receiving care, and doctors expect him to recover fully."
There it was.
The truth.
No polish. No deflection.
"Let me be clear about something," Piper added. "This isn't a sign of a weak Republic. It's a reminder that the people leading it are human."
Sarah felt something shift inside her at that.
"They get tired," Piper continued. "They get sick. And sometimes, they don't know when to stop until their body stops them."
Piper smiled faintly, just audible in her voice.
"So here's the real story: the Republic didn't falter today. It caught one of its own before he fell too far."
She leaned back, concluding.
"I'll keep you updated as we learn more. Until then, take care of each other. This has been Piper Wright, Freemason Radio."
The red light clicked off.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Piper turned in her chair, studying Sarah and Preston.
"How'd I do?"
Sarah released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"Perfect," she said.
Preston nodded. "Thank you."
Piper shrugged lightly. "Just doing my job."
She glanced toward the door, then back at them. "You think he's gonna listen this time? About resting?"
Sarah snorted softly. "No."
"But we'll make him," Preston said.
Piper smiled. "Good."
They left the radio station together, stepping back into the morning light of Sanctuary. The place felt… steadier somehow. Like a knot had been loosened before it could tighten too much.
People were already talking, but the tone was different than Sarah had feared. Concern, yes. Worry. But also understanding. Respect.
They hadn't been fed shadows. They'd been given truth.
As they walked back toward the hospital wing, Sarah glanced at Preston.
"You were right," she admitted quietly.
He gave a small smile. "About this."
She nodded. "About this."
The hospital doors slowly came back into view.
Then the afternoon light crept into the hospital wing differently than morning ever did.
It didn't rush. It didn't glare. It filtered in through high, narrow windows in pale slants, softened by dust motes and the faint haze of antiseptic. The frantic energy of earlier hours had long since drained away, replaced by a quieter vigilance with the kind that followed a crisis once the worst had passed, when everyone waited to see what came next.
Sico stirred.
At first, it was nothing more than a tightening in his fingers, a faint twitch as his body tested the boundary between unconsciousness and waking. His breathing shifted, shallow becoming deeper, more deliberate, as though his lungs were remembering how to work without being forced.
Then came awareness.
Not clear, not immediate as at first it was just fragments. Sensation before thought.
The mattress beneath him was too soft. The air smelled wrong that clean, sharp, sterile. There was a dull ache in his skull, not stabbing anymore, but heavy, like pressure trapped behind his eyes. His throat felt dry, parched in a way that made swallowing uncomfortable.
Hospital, his mind supplied distantly.
That realization carried weight.
His eyelids fluttered, resisted, then finally opened.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar with white panels, faint cracks where time had left its mark, a single light fixture humming quietly. He stared at it for several seconds, letting the image anchor him, letting his thoughts align.
He tried to sit up.
His body immediately disagreed.
A wave of dizziness rolled through him, not as violent as before, but firm enough to warn him not to try that again. He exhaled sharply, one hand curling against the sheets as he let himself sink back.
"…damn it," he muttered hoarsely.
The sound of his own voice startled him. It came out rough, strained, like he hadn't used it in days.
A soft movement caught his attention.
To his left, a nurse had been checking a monitor, her back turned. She froze the moment she heard him speak, then turned slowly, eyes widening just a fraction.
"Oh," she said, relief threading through the word. "You're awake."
Sico shifted his gaze to her, blinking to bring her face into focus. She wore a simple uniform, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back neatly. Calm. Professional. Alert.
"How long?" he asked, voice still unsteady.
The nurse stepped closer, gently placing two fingers at his wrist to check his pulse. "Most of the day," she replied. "You gave us quite a scare."
He frowned faintly. "I don't scare easily."
She smiled despite herself. "You scared everyone else."
Sico absorbed that in silence.
Hospital room. IV line in his arm. The steady beep of a monitor near his head. His jacket gone. His boots replaced by thin covers.
Memory returned in pieces.
The warmth. The headache. Standing up. The floor rushing toward him.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Curie," he said quietly.
The nurse nodded. "I'll get her."
She straightened, already moving toward the door, but paused. "Try not to move," she added gently. "And don't fall asleep again just yet. She'll want to see you awake."
"I'm not going anywhere," Sico replied dryly.
The nurse smiled again and slipped out of the room, the door closing softly behind her.
Alone again, Sico stared at the ceiling.
A familiar frustration bubbled up in his chest that not anger, not fear, but irritation. At himself. At the weakness he'd ignored. At the way his body had betrayed him at the worst possible moment.
He flexed his fingers slowly, testing. They responded sluggishly but obeyed.
Alive. Functional.
That would have to be enough.
Footsteps approached outside the room, voices low but unmistakable.
The door opened.
Curie entered first, her presence immediately filling the space that not with authority, but with assurance. She wore the same lab coat as before, though now buttoned properly, her expression composed but sharp with concern.
Behind her came Sarah and Preston.
They stopped just inside the doorway.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Sico turned his head slightly, eyes settling on them. His gaze lingered on Sarah first, then Preston.
"Well," he said hoarsely, one corner of his mouth lifting faintly, "this is… embarrassing."
Sarah crossed the room in three long strides.
She stopped at the side of his bed, arms folding tightly over her chest, eyes blazing with a mix of relief and barely contained anger.
"You collapsed," she said flatly. "In your office."
"Yes," Sico replied. "I gathered."
"You scared the hell out of everyone," Preston added, stepping closer, his voice gentler but no less firm. "Do you have any idea what that looked like?"
Sico exhaled slowly. "I imagine it wasn't ideal."
Curie cleared her throat pointedly.
"Before we discuss appearances," she said, stepping up to the other side of the bed, "we will discuss your condition."
She placed two fingers against his neck, then checked his pupils, shining a small light briefly into his eyes. He winced.
"Your fever has reduced," Curie continued. "But it is not gone. Your dehydration was significant. Your immune response is compromised. And you," she added, fixing him with a look that brooked no argument, "have been ignoring your limits."
Sico looked away.
"I don't have the luxury of—"
Curie cut him off instantly.
"You do not have the luxury of dying," she said sharply. "And yet, you were attempting it anyway."
Sarah snorted softly despite herself.
Sico closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them, resignation settling in.
"How long," he asked carefully, "until I can return to work?"
Curie's lips pressed into a thin line.
"No."
Sico frowned. "That wasn't the question."
"It does not matter," Curie replied. "The answer is still no."
Sarah leaned forward slightly. "Curie."
Curie raised a hand without looking at her. "Two days," she said firmly. "At minimum. Three would be preferable."
Sico's head snapped toward her. "Absolutely not."
Preston stepped in before Sarah could respond.
"You don't get to decide that right now," he said calmly.
Sico stared at him. "Excuse me?"
"You collapsed," Preston repeated. "Your body shut you down. That means you don't get to overrule it."
Sico's jaw tightened. "The Republic—"
"Is still standing," Sarah cut in. "And it will continue to stand for two or three days without you."
His gaze flicked back to her. "That's easy for you to say."
"No," she replied evenly. "It's not. But it's true."
Silence stretched between them, taut but controlled.
Curie adjusted the IV flow slightly, then looked directly at Sico.
"This is not punishment," she said more gently. "It is care. Your mind may believe it can continue indefinitely. Your body has proven otherwise."
Sico swallowed, throat dry.
"And if I refuse?" he asked quietly.
Curie didn't hesitate. "Then I sedate you."
Sarah blinked. Preston's eyebrows shot up.
Sico stared at Curie for a long moment, then let out a short, incredulous breath that might almost have been a laugh.
"You wouldn't."
Curie met his gaze calmly. "I would."
Another pause.
Then Sico leaned his head back against the pillow, eyes closing briefly.
"…two days," he said. "No more."
Curie tilted her head. "We will reassess."
Sarah nodded once. "Good."
Preston released a breath. "Thank God."
Sico opened his eyes again, gaze drifting toward the window.
"I assume," he said quietly, "people know."
Sarah stiffened slightly. "Yes."
He turned his head back toward her. "How bad is it?"
She held his gaze. "Not bad. Honest."
Preston stepped closer. "We told them the truth."
Sico frowned faintly. "You did what?"
"Piper went on air," Preston said. "Explained what happened. Fever. Exhaustion. No attack. No conspiracy."
Sico stared at them both.
"You had no authority—"
Sarah leaned in, voice low but unwavering.
"You collapsed in public," she said. "That made it our responsibility."
He searched her face, then Preston's.
"And the reaction?" he asked.
"Concern," Preston replied. "Support. Respect."
Sarah added quietly, "Relief."
Something in Sico's expression shifted then. Not anger. Not fear.
Surprise.
"They didn't panic," he said slowly.
"No," Sarah replied. "They understood."
He stared up at the ceiling again, processing that.
"Perhaps," Curie said softly, "you do not have to carry everything alone."
Sico didn't respond immediately.
Then, quietly, "Perhaps."
The room settled again, tension easing into something more manageable.
Curie finished her checks and straightened. "I will return later," she said. "You will rest. No paperwork. No meetings. No clever workarounds."
Sico sighed. "You're very thorough."
"I am very serious," Curie replied.
She turned to Sarah and Preston. "He may have visitors, briefly. But not too many."
Sarah nodded. "Understood."
Curie left the room, the door closing softly behind her.
For a moment, it was just the three of them.
Sico looked between Sarah and Preston.
"You didn't have to stay," he said.
"Yes, we did," Sarah replied.
Preston smiled faintly. "You've done enough alone."
Sico studied their faces, the resolve there, the concern they weren't trying to hide.
"…thank you," he said quietly.
Sarah nodded once. "Rest."
Preston added, "That's an order."
Sico huffed softly. "I thought I gave those."
"Not today," Sarah replied.
The monitor beeped steadily, unhurried, as the afternoon light shifted across the room. For the first time in a long while, Sico didn't reach for a pen. He closed his eyes and let himself rest.
______________________________________________
• 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:-