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But his mind didn't rest. Not yet. The war against the Gunners might have tipped tonight — might even have swung fully in their favor — but it wasn't over. Not until every last remnant was hunted down. Not until there were no more commandants left to rise again, no more ambushes waiting in the hills, no more traps buried in long-forgotten ruins.
The eastern sky had just begun to bruise with light, a smudged streak of purple and red on the horizon when the first rumble of engines reached the northern gate. Faint at first, muffled by distance and thick stone walls — then louder, clearer, a rising chorus of diesel roars, grinding treads, the rhythmic pulse of military trucks returning from the field.
Sico had been waiting by the command tower for nearly an hour now, his hands behind his back, posture taut with anticipation. He hadn't slept — he never did after an operation like that. Not until he saw the men return.
And they were returning.
The lead Sentinel tank appeared first, its blackened chassis still steaming from its twin-barrel barrage hours before. Behind it came the Humvees — scorched with soot, mud-caked, antennae bent from brush and shrapnel. Then the six troop trucks, flanked by two remaining power armor units walking beside them like mechanical giants, their servos hissing with every step.
The convoy rolled down the main road in silence. No celebratory honks, no raised voices or gunfire into the air. Just the low growl of victory — tired, grim, complete.
They came to a slow stop in front of the old concrete prison that Sico had order to build months ago into a fortified holding facility. It had stood for weeks — its cells has been used for thief, its lights off. How it would be occupied once more.
A cold wind swept through the square as Preston stepped down from the lead Humvee, boots thudding onto the pavement, his coat trailing behind him in the breeze. His rifle was slung across his back, barrel still darkened from heat. The side of his face was streaked with grime, a scratch above his temple sealed with quick-patch foam.
He turned immediately as Sico approached.
"President," he said, giving a firm nod.
Sico looked past him for a moment — eyes scanning the trucks. Prisoners were being offloaded under guard: stripped of weapons, hands zip-tied, many with bruised faces and torn uniforms. Some looked defiant. Others broken. A few just stared at the ground.
Then Sico returned his gaze to Preston.
"How many wounded?" he asked, voice low and controlled.
Preston let out a short breath. "Eight with light injuries — mostly shrapnel and cuts. They'll walk again in a day or two."
"And?"
"Three heavy injuries. One of ours caught the edge of the mine blast, lost a leg below the knee. Another took a beam across the ribs, might have spinal damage. Third's a burns case — but stable. No KIA."
Sico blinked, jaw tightening with surprise. "None?"
"We had the element of surprise," Preston said with a slight shrug. "Caught them while they were still bunkered in. Their command structure collapsed the moment Vance went down. After that, it was a matter of clearing them room by room."
Sico gave a slow nod, one hand rising to scratch at the stubble along his jawline. "Could've gone worse."
Preston didn't respond. He knew it should have gone worse. It had all hinged on perfect timing — the Sentinels, the initial breach, the rapid elimination of the command node. A dozen variables could've gone wrong.
But they hadn't.
"Get the wounded to Dr. Amari," Sico said, turning slightly. "Use the upper clinic for triage. I want them comfortable, and I want a full report on recovery time within the hour."
"Yes, sir."
"And the prisoners," Sico added, eyes narrowing. "Keep them under constant watch. No unmonitored conversations. I want full logs of everything said, every name they drop, every region they mention. If there's another Gunner cell out there, we'll find it."
Preston nodded again, and gestured to Sergeant Jules, who was already barking orders to begin processing the prisoners into the holding blocks. The heavy iron doors of the prison clanged open one by one, swallowing the Gunners into their cold stone belly.
One of the prisoners — a mid-ranking officer, judging by his stripped insignia and still-defiant glare — locked eyes with Sico as he was shoved forward. The man didn't speak. Just stared.
Sico returned the gaze without flinching.
Then turned away.
They had time. Time to break that one.
He and Preston walked toward the command annex just off the courtyard, footsteps echoing between the buildings. The sun was starting to rise in earnest now, casting long gold-edged shadows across the compound. A few civilians, curious and cautious, watched from the edge of the settlement wall — drawn by the returning convoy, the sight of captured enemies. Hope flickered in their eyes.
They knew. The people always knew.
In the annex, Sico unstrapped his holster and set it on the table beside a jug of fresh water. He poured two glasses, handed one to Preston, and kept the other for himself.
The drink was cold and crisp. Sanctuary's filtration system was one of the best things they'd salvaged.
They stood there for a moment in silence, sipping, both of them still hearing the echoes of battle behind their eyes.
Then Sico said, "Tell me everything."
Preston didn't need prompting. He laid it all out in sequence — from the Commando teams breaching the compound's east gate, to Hodge's rooftop kill shot, to the minefield trap that nearly split their convoy in two. He described the counterattack, the redirection of Sentinel fire to the ridge, the obliteration of the relay dish that killed the mine signal.
He recounted the final push.
The roar of the last barrage. The chaos inside Vance's perimeter. The power armor charge that cracked the last resistance like an egg. And finally, the moment Vance raised his pistol and Preston shot him through the chest.
"He was ready to die," Preston said at the end, voice low. "I think he wanted it. Might've known there was no way out."
Sico looked down at his glass, turning it slowly in his hand. "People like him never think there's no way out. They just think they'll be the exception."
He set the glass down and walked over to the map display mounted on the far wall. With a flick of the switch, the touchscreen buzzed to life — showing a real-time topographical layout of the region. He zoomed out to a 50-mile radius. Then another.
"There's still movement out there," he murmured. "Small patrols. Shadow routes. Maybe stragglers trying to regroup."
Preston stepped closer. "We think Vance had backup?"
Sico gave a dry nod. "I'd bet on it. He was too confident during that speech he gave over the old Brotherhood relay. Too well-supplied. That wasn't just a dying warband, Preston — that was a foothold."
"Then we dig," Preston said. "We press the prisoners, check their satchels for any old maps or codes, and send scouts north and east. If there's a second base, we'll find it."
Sico turned back toward him, something steel-bright in his gaze. "Not scouts this time. Not just a recon detail. I want two new Commando teams — Lita can lead one. Hodge can pick her second."
Preston arched a brow. "You think they're ready?"
"They have to be."
For a moment, the two men stood in silence, their shared understanding as old as the postwar terrain beneath their boots. They had won a battle — a decisive one. But it was never just one battle. It was never the end.
That was the truth of leadership. Of rebuilding from ashes.
Of running a Republic surrounded by chaos.
Outside the window, the prisoners were being marched into cells — one by one, hands behind their backs, eyes scanning the ground, the sky, the walls around them. Some of them might talk. Others wouldn't. But enough would.
They always did.
Sico tapped the glass once, then turned away.
"Once we get them sorted," he said, "I want you and Sarah in the war room tonight. We go over everything. I want new patrol routes established by morning. And Preston?"
Preston turned. "Yeah?"
"Get some sleep. You look like shit."
Preston chuckled, the first genuine laugh of the day. "Thanks, sir. You too."
The warmth of Preston's laugh hadn't yet faded from the air when Sico looked down at his glass again, the clear water untouched since they'd begun talking. He turned it slowly in his fingers — a movement born of habit, not thought — before setting it down with care. Then, in a quieter voice, he said:
"After this… I'm heading down to the prison."
Preston raised his head slightly.
"I need to know," Sico continued. "If there's anything left. Another cell. Another Vance out there waiting for his chance. I'll interrogate them myself."
Preston didn't ask why. He knew. No one could interrogate like Sico — not because he was cruel, though he could be, but because he was relentless. He could read a man's will like scripture and carve it apart until the truth spilled out of it. Preston nodded slowly.
"I hope there's nothing left," Sico added, the weariness finally leaking into his voice. "God, I hope this was the last of them."
He didn't say anything more. He just turned and walked out, his boots echoing in the metal corridor as he headed for the prison compound across the courtyard.
The morning was sharpening around the Republic — sunlight catching on watchtowers, catching the copper edges of the old courthouse, still under renovation, and glinting across the helmets of the patrols forming up for their next cycle. The civilians had thinned out now, going back to their day with cautious optimism. Sico saw them from the corner of his eye as he crossed the square — saw the way they looked at the prisoners being marched to their cells.
It was quiet again. But not calm. Never calm.
At the gate to the fortified prison, the guards straightened. One stepped forward to open the reinforced steel door, punching in the code with a gloved finger. It buzzed, clicked, and slid open with a heavy mechanical groan.
Sico stepped inside, the door locking behind him.
The interior was colder — built that way on purpose. Stone and steel with narrow hallways and reinforced glass. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and copper, and every step he took echoed as if inside a vast chamber.
He met the warden at the foot of the central staircase.
"Bring me one of the officers," Sico said. "One of the ones who's still proud of himself."
The warden, a hard-jawed former raider turned lawman named Mathers, gave a slow nod. "We've got one who won't shut up. Claims he was Vance's right hand."
Sico's brow twitched. "Perfect. Interrogation room two."
The room was at the far end of the second floor. Isolated. Soundproofed. Built for precisely this kind of morning.
Sico entered and stood behind the table. A steel chair waited on the other side, a bucket in the corner, a single light hanging low. No windows. Just silence and the hum of the fluorescents.
He waited.
A few minutes passed. Then the heavy door opened again, and the prisoner came in under armed escort.
He was tall, maybe late thirties, sun-scarred and thick-necked. His hair was shaved down, the remnants of military precision still in his bearing, even with his hands cuffed and his lip split from the scuffle during capture. A strip of dried blood was matted to his temple. Despite it all, he still walked like a man with conviction — or maybe like a man clinging to the memory of it.
They shoved him into the chair.
He looked up at Sico, and for a moment, there was something almost smug in his expression.
"President," he said, as if the title were a joke.
Sico didn't smile.
"You Vance's second?"
"I was."
The reply was fast, too fast — pride, not fear. That told Sico something.
"You've got a name?"
"Lang," he said. "Captain Lang."
"Not anymore, you don't," Sico said flatly. "You're just Lang now."
Lang smirked. "Fair enough."
Sico folded his arms.
"I want information."
"I'm sure you do."
Sico leaned forward. "Then let's not waste time. Were there any other Gunner remnants in the Commonwealth besides your group?"
Lang blinked. But he didn't answer.
Sico tilted his head. "You'd be smart to tell me everything now. I don't like repeating myself."
Lang's lips curled. "You think you're going to scare it out of me?"
"No," Sico said, voice calm. "But you'll tell me. They always do."
He stepped back and gestured to the guards. One of them came forward with a baton and a syringe case.
"Let's start small," Sico said.
They began with cold pain — pressure point strikes, a cracked knuckle, a nerve shock across the back of Lang's neck. Nothing that would cripple him. Just enough to open the door.
Lang resisted at first, spitting blood on the floor, breathing hard through the pain, biting down on his lip so hard it reopened the scab.
But Sico was patient.
He asked again. "Any other cells?"
Lang stayed silent.
Then came the syringe. A mild hallucinogen that disoriented the nervous system. Lang started sweating. Started shaking. His mouth twitched with phantom motion, and his eyes darted around the room like he was seeing more than four walls.
Sico waited until the drug peaked — then asked again, calm as a still lake:
"Are there any other Gunner remnants?"
Lang swallowed hard. Still didn't speak.
So they went further.
More pain. Psychological tricks. Sounds of others screaming down the hall — actors, not real, but Lang didn't know that. The illusion of others talking. The fear that he'd be the only one who hadn't. The fear of irrelevance.
By the end of the second hour, Lang was slumped forward, mouth slack, eyes red and wet with stress. His fingers twitched in the cuffs. His breathing was shallow.
Sico sat down across from him again.
This time he didn't speak. Just waited.
Lang blinked. His lips moved.
"There's… there's nothing left."
Sico leaned in. "Say that again."
Lang's voice cracked. "There's no other remnant. Not that I know of. Vance brought everyone in — said it was time to go loud. He pulled every Gunner cell from the north and east, the last few from the Glowing Sea perimeter, even some from the old NCR bunkers west of the river. Said it was the final stand. We believed him."
Sico's brow twitched.
"How many did he bring?"
"Almost two hundred, counting non-combat support."
"And you're telling me… there's no splinter?"
Lang hesitated. But then he shook his head. "None that I ever heard of. We were it."
Sico stared at him a long time. He didn't speak. Didn't blink.
Then, softly, he stood.
"Thank you," he said.
He turned to the guards. "Get him cleaned up. Put him back in holding."
Lang didn't speak as they dragged him out, one arm limp. The door slammed shut.
Sico remained standing in the silence, the echo of the confession hanging in the room like the fading smoke of a discharged weapon.
If Lang was telling the truth — and Sico believed he was, by now — then they'd done it. They had broken the last Gunner stronghold in the region. Vance had been their leader, their banner, and with him gone, the chain had snapped.
No more command. No more orders. Just prisoners and corpses.
Still, Sico didn't feel relief. Not quite.
Because in this world — in this chaos — things had a way of crawling back out of the grave.
He left the room and made his way back down the hall, boots echoing once more. Outside, the Republic was waking to another day. Another breath of survival.
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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:-