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Sico stepped back out into the gray morning, the cold biting again but less unwelcome now. Behind him, the doors to Army HQ whispered shut.
The dawn was a pale promise, not a greeting. Dawn crept over the horizon in shades of steel-gray and bruised lavender, pushing back the night like someone drawing a knife through fog. Sanctuary stirred toward another day—one no one wanted to find themselves willingly awake for.
Sico stood atop the wooden execution platform, tracing the grain with one gloved toe. Below him, the settlement's center square had been cleared and flattened, benches set in concentric lines of precaution around the dais. The platform was simple: reinforced beams, steel plates replacing rotted wood, sandbags piled high at its base like brittle fortifications.
On each of the four corners, Power Armor troopers stood vigil, their helmets off, faces hidden only by shadow. They held rifles at the low port—calm, silent, unblinking sentinels.
Sico adjusted the microphone on the podium—his own and a backup beside it, wired straight to the broadcast rig over near the Army HQ. No static interference, no dropped signals. Every word had to carry.
He glanced across the crowd. The benches were nearly full—families cloaked in woven furs, traders with children curled in their laps, militia members stamping their feet, shifting in heavy kit. Whispered prayers, stifled coughs, the quiet hum of anticipation.
Today wasn't a celebration. None of them were smiling. But this was history they were part of. Whether they liked it or not.
At the edge of the crowd, Sarah Lyons and Preston Garvey oversaw the perimeter. Soldiers fanned out, rifles loosely held. Each squad maintained a visible but restrained posture. Eyes scanned the buildings, the rooftops, the distant hills.
No one passed note.
No one looked anywhere but this platform and the stage.
Around Sico's feet, cords snaked into a control box at the back corner of the dais, where Piper and a small tech crew from Sanctuary's radio team whisper-spoke into headsets. Piper's fingers flew over the mixer board. One wrong setting and the execution would never reach the Commonwealth.
Robert stood behind them—towering, silent, the sheen of his Power Armor as polished as funeral steel. Even brass could rust from cold grief.
Sico inhaled, tasted the metallic edge of morning tension. He wished he could walk away, call it off, say they'd let the trial verdict stand and bury Drenner privately. But that wasn't in the cards. Not now.
Not after everything.
A quiet voice at his elbow made him turn.
Magnolia stood there, shawl clasped at her throat. Her breath made small ghosts in the air. She held the trial document—a single sheet of pre-war parchment stamped with the Freemason seal and Drenner's name.
"I wrote it as we discussed," she said softly. "Strong. Measured. Fact, not rhetoric."
He nodded, touched the paper lightly. "Thank you."
She exhaled, her face pale beneath the shawl's hood.
"I'll be by the radio room. Want to hear the broadcast?"
He paused, then shook his head.
"Not today."
She gave a small nod and slipped away, moving toward the trucks parked behind the guard line.
Sico turned back, gripping the edges of the podium.
"Radio ready?" he asked into the mic.
"Go," Piper snapped.
He leaned close to the mic.
"I'm listening out there," a hushed voice came.
From dozens of hidden speakers wired into the grid and dozens more in radios across the wasteland—a voice answered.
"And I hear you."
Sico cleared his throat, then pulled his eyes from the crowd to the horizon—the sort of horizon that trapped every sky in sepia.
He raised his head and spoke into the mic—his voice rich, firm.
"People of the Commonwealth, and of Sanctuary—
Today, we stand before a man who sought to destroy what we built—through fear, sabotage, and quiet betrayal. We are here not to bask in victory, but to affirm what that victory cost." His gaze drifted across the benches.
He paused. Sico's eyes zeroed in on a woman sitting near the front, visibly trembling under twin blankets. A child curled into her lap. His voice softened but did not waver.
"Make no mistake—this man Drenner, unleashed all of that upon us."
The crowd held quiet. A soldier let his rifle tap softly against his power fist.
"The trial has found him guilty of high crimes: conspiracy, mass murder, sabotage of public water networks, the attempted collapse of the Freemasons Republic. We did not rush this decision. Three days of testimony. Hundreds of witnesses. A public record."
He inhaled deeply, the cold air biting his lungs.
"Today, we deliver justice."
He glanced toward Piper, who gave a subtle thumbs-up. Sico reached back and pressed a button. A hum rose from the broadcast rig—live transmission now rolling.
He turned back to the crowd.
"To those listening through radios across the Commonwealth—you see what order looks like. You know what failure looks like. Decide wisely when calling home who you trust."
He glanced toward the gabion walls surrounding this square—it looked like the world trying to hold itself together.
"Drenner—step forward."
Heavy footsteps struck the platform.
Guards delivered the caged figure of Drenner to a center point behind Sico. He stood there, standing yet broken. Scars mapped his cheeks. The slumped posture looked like a condemned beast—ragged. A bloodless ghost of the tyrant he'd once been.
Sico took a breath.
"Look at him."
A hush fell. Even guards shifted in place.
"He is a man who chose power over mercy, tyranny over trust. But he will not be the legacy we leave."
Drenner's eyes swung up—an ember of rage still smoldering. He moved, tried to speak—no word passed his cracked lips.
Sico continued.
"All executions weigh heavily on the conscience of any community. We do not do this lightly." He let the silence settle. "We do it to protect not just ourselves—but to ensure that the ripples of this cowardice do not spread."
Sico gestured to the firing squad behind the cage—five soldiers in full uniform with rifles at ready.
"Soldiers of the Freemasons Republic—present arms."
They lifted rifles in synchronized motion, eyes locked forward.
Sico stepped aside and raised his hands.
"Soldiers—aim."
He paused, eyes closed for a heartbeat. Then opened them and raised his right hand.
"Fire!"
A sharp roar answered as five rifles cracked in unison. The echo rolled through the street, ricocheted off corrugated steel. A plume of dust sprang from behind Drenner's cage like a wave breaking. The world stood still but for that moment—the instant between life and silence.
Then he collapsed, head slumping forward as the dust settled around him.
Sico returned to the podium, voice quiet now.
"Executed by the judgment of our Republic. May this bring peace to his victims, and a warning to those who choose darkness."
He turned to face the crowd.
"Godspeed, Drenner."
He pressed the mic again.
"Transmission end."
Behind him, Piper and Magnolia closed the rig down. One by one, soldiers stepped forward, pulled the cage away. The body inside was hauled off and placed in a simple canvas bag—no glory, no spectacle.
The square remained hushed long after the shots had faded.
Smoke curled around the edges of the cage like mist reluctant to disperse. The dust hung in the morning air, catching slants of pale sunlight as though the universe itself hadn't decided what kind of day it wanted to be. People didn't move. Not yet. Not until someone else did first.
Even the wind waited.
Sico stood still at the podium for another long moment, his hand lingering on the microphone switch like a man unsure whether to turn off a memory. He felt it all beneath the surface—every weight that had led to this day. Every choice that had made this necessary. There was no cheer. No applause. Only the steady press of silence and the far-off clink of metal boots as soldiers reformed their lines.
Eventually, Sico stepped down from the platform.
The wood creaked under his weight—not loud, just honest. One of the Power Armor soldiers at the corner gave him a nod as he passed. Sico returned it with a tight one of his own. When his boots touched the cracked earth below, something about the world felt heavier. More anchored.
Like history had latched on and didn't plan to let go.
He spotted Magnolia standing a few meters away beneath the shadow of an old broken lamppost, the trial parchment still clutched in her fingers. Her face was pale, lips slightly parted as if she'd been holding her breath the entire time. Sico walked toward her, brushing dust from his coat.
"He's dead," she said, not quite a question.
He nodded. "Yeah. He's gone."
She swallowed hard. Her hands trembled slightly—too slight for anyone else to notice, maybe, but not for Sico. They were hands that had once only touched piano keys and old vinyl records, not trial documents and lists of the dead. Not like this.
"It's not over," she murmured. "Is it?"
"No," he said, his voice even. "But one wall's been built. Now we get to stack the others."
He glanced around the square. Some people were beginning to rise now. A few whispered words to neighbors. Others shuffled off toward the markets or the work teams by the northern gates. The mood didn't lift, but it shifted. People had seen justice. And that, however bitter, could be carried forward.
He turned back to Magnolia and dropped his voice.
"I want you to resume the purified water shipments. Get with Albert. Tell him to double-check every crate and convoy before they head out."
She blinked, surprised. "You sure?"
"Drenner's gone. That shadow isn't over us anymore." He looked past her toward the rebuilt scaffolding and the tower guards. "The worst part of their threat died with him. We move forward. Today."
Magnolia looked toward the platform one last time, then down at the paper in her hands. She folded it carefully and tucked it into her coat.
"I'll get it moving," she said, voice firmer now. "Convoys by noon."
He nodded. "Good."
Then he turned and walked toward the rear of the square, where Piper stood atop a folding stool beside the broadcast rig, headset pushed up over her red-streaked hair. Her fingers danced across the mixer board again, but this time with a lighter rhythm. She glanced up as he approached, brow furrowing with quiet thought.
"Mic's still warm," she said. "You want to say something else?"
"Yeah. Not to the crowd," he replied, jerking his chin at the horizon, "to the whole Commonwealth."
She raised her eyebrows. "Another speech?"
"Not a speech," Sico said. "An offer."
She gestured toward the podium and rig. "Go ahead. We're still patched in."
Sico stepped up beside her. He didn't take the stage again—no elevation this time. He stood ground level, eye to eye with the engineers and militia around the broadcast crew. Piper slid him a small mic and clicked the channel open with a sharp nod.
"This is Sico of the Freemasons Republic," he began, steady and clear, but less formal now—more the tone of a neighbor leaning over a fence than a commander on a podium.
"To the people of the Commonwealth—those who listened to the trial, those who heard the sentence, and those just tuning in now—I have something to say to you."
He paused for half a breath. In the background, Magnolia's voice echoed softly over the radio as she gave instructions to the water logistics crew nearby, confirming crates, caps, and routes.
"We know what it's like to be thirsty," Sico said. "To go to a well and find sludge. To barter for a half-liter of clean water with the last thing you've got to trade. That's not the world we're building. That's the world we buried today."
Piper glanced at him with subtle approval, adjusting a dial.
"From this moment on," Sico continued, "the Freemasons Republic is resuming purified water shipments to all corners of the Commonwealth. Prices will remain fair just 10 caps per bottle. And delivery? Free. We aren't charging for distance. We aren't holding your lives hostage for caps."
He let the weight of that settle. Somewhere to the west, a child's voice cried out—too distant to understand, but still caught by the mic. It didn't interrupt. It underlined.
"If you're a settler, a trader, a caravan captain or a wandering soul tired of foul pumps and broken filters—come talk to us. Sanctuary's gates are open. Our water is clean. Our word is good."
Piper held up a hand, signaling him to finish it in ten seconds. He gave a slight nod, his voice turning quiet, almost gentle.
"We're not just surviving anymore," he said. "We're rebuilding. With you. For you."
He clicked the mic off.
The rig fell quiet.
"Nice," Piper said softly. "Solid pitch."
"It wasn't a pitch."
She grinned. "That's what made it work."
A burst of wind rolled through the square, ruffling coats and kicking ash off rooftops. The sun had climbed higher now—thinner than summer light, but brighter than dawn's steel-gray.
The crowd had almost fully dispersed. Only a few lingered—an older man carving something into a notebook, two scavvers speaking low beside a supply crate, a mother holding a child who kept pointing at the soldiers like they were giants from bedtime stories.
Sico took it all in with one long, slow breath. Then he turned to Piper again.
"Rebroadcast it hourly for the next two days."
"You got it," she said. "You want a tagline?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"
She smirked, mimicking a broadcaster's voice. "'The Freemasons Republic—where clean water doesn't cost you your life.'"
Sico almost smiled. "Too grim."
"'Your next drink's on us?'" she offered.
He gave her a look.
"Alright, alright," she said, raising her hands. "No slogans."
He clapped her shoulder once. "Thanks, Piper. Keep the signal hot. If anyone tries to jam us, I want them buried in static."
"Same as always," she said, already reaching for the dials again.
As he walked back toward the barracks, the late morning began to hum around him.
Caravans from the east road had arrived—two Brahmin teams, one with wooden barrels of adhesive, the other with cropseed and tarps. Guards inspected them, stamping delivery manifests and checking for forged seals. The market stall workers were out now, setting up tarp canopies and hand-painted signs. From the machine yard near the old Minutemen garage, Sturges' voice rang out, cursing the hydraulics on a lift that had refused to rise.
Life was returning.
The execution hadn't broken them.
It had lit a fire beneath their steps.
He passed by a group of militiamen replacing sandbags along the inner barricades. One of them—a young woman with freckles and a scar across her cheek—gave him a nod.
"Commander," she said.
"Private," he returned. "Keep those lines tight. If anyone asks, Sanctuary's done bleeding."
"Yes sir," she said, voice sharp with pride.
The hallway into the war room was warm—stove still burning, maps still rolled out across the main table, chalk scrawled with caravan routes and patrol shifts. On the corner of the table sat a sealed envelope. He cracked it open and pulled out a note from Albert.
WATER PLANT SECURED. SHIPMENT AHEAD OF SCHEDULE.
TALKED TO MAGNOLIA. GUARDS ESCORTING TRUCKS.
NO SIGNS OF INFILTRATION SINCE DRENNER.
WILL UPDATE IF THAT CHANGES.
Sico folded the note slowly, pressed it flat.
The warmth of the war room stove clung to his coat as Sico stepped back out into the sharp, clean bite of the late morning air. The wind had shifted—northwesterly now, rolling down from the broken hills beyond Lexington. It carried the faint scent of rusted metal, turned soil, and something rarer these days: woodsmoke.
He tucked Albert's note into his breast pocket and started walking—long strides, purposeful, down the corridor past Logistics and then out through the east gate where a pair of guards parted without needing the word. A quick nod was enough. His direction was obvious.
The water plant sat on the edge of the hill, just past the rebuilt bunkers that once served as the Minutemen's last line of defense. It was the old Sanctuary filtration complex—originally a small pre-war utility station repurposed into something much more vital. After the collapse of the Institute and the rise of the Freemasons Republic, it had been expanded with additional tanks, pressure regulators, UV sterilization rigs, and a pipe network that now ran in jagged lines like surgical scars across the Commonwealth.
Today, smoke lifted from the forgehouse chimney beside the main water depot, and two trucks—heavy, armored, rebuilt from old military transports—stood in the loading yard with soldiers bustling around them like ants.
And at the center of it all, Magnolia and Albert moved like opposite gears in the same clock.
Albert, sleeves rolled up past the elbows of his canvas coat, shouted over the hiss of pressurized pumps and the grind of mechanical winches. His voice rang out with the clipped precision of someone who lived and died by weight tolerances and fuel ratios.
"Clamp that lid down! If we lose even one bottle to slosh, I'll have you filling it with your own spit, you hear me?"
His crew scrambled, tightening latches and reinspecting the steel-reinforced crates.
Meanwhile, Magnolia was quieter but no less present. She moved between teams with a clipboard in one hand and a fountain pen in the other, ticking boxes, speaking low and clear to caravan leaders and station engineers alike. Every so often, she'd pause to adjust her scarf or peer through her reading glasses at a particularly messy manifest. No wasted motion. No flustered delays. Just grit, grace, and the steely resolve of a woman who had seen too much ruin to ever again accept chaos.
Sico approached, boots crunching across the gravel.
Albert spotted him first.
"Commander," he barked, raising one hand in greeting. "You catch the note?"
"Caught it and folded it," Sico replied. "Good work."
Albert grinned, wiping a smear of grease from his temple with the back of a weathered glove. "Just glad to finally get back to shipping, sir. Sitting on our hands was starting to feel like failure."
Sico nodded, letting his eyes scan the operation. Rows of steel drums lined the courtyard, each marked with the blue stencil of the Freemasons Republic and the weight/capacity indicators: 20L PURIFIED. Militia troops armed with carbines stood at relaxed ready, forming a perimeter. Brahmin handlers soothed their beasts as crates were strapped to the packs—one animal per side, perfectly balanced.
"We're ahead of schedule?" Sico asked.
"By about four hours," Albert said. "Thanks to Magnolia."
Sico turned just as she approached, having noticed him a few moments earlier. She was already tucking her clipboard under one arm.
"You checking up on us?" she asked, offering a faint smile. There was something tired behind her eyes, but it didn't dim the pride in her tone.
"More like following the only good news I've had in two weeks," he said.
"You say that now. Wait until you see the state of the east pump valves."
Albert groaned. "Don't even mention them."
Sico chuckled, then motioned toward the nearest truck. "Walk me through it."
Magnolia and Albert exchanged a quick look—familiar, wordless—and then led him along the line.
"Shipment One is heading to Tenpines Bluff," she began. "Twenty crates. Two Brahmin, three guards, one engineer. They've been hurting ever since their well collapsed during the freeze last month. Two deaths from dehydration. We've prioritized them."
Albert chimed in. "We reinforced the cargo bay with new shock absorption on the main springs. Should ride smoother, less chance of bottle damage."
Sico nodded. "Good. And the second?"
"Abernathy Farm," she said. "Fifteen crates. They've been holding out on their own, but they've been rationing for weeks. Mary Abernathy radioed in herself—asked for help."
"She never asks for help," Sico muttered.
"Exactly why we didn't wait."
They reached the back of the second truck, where two soldiers were performing final checks. The driver, a lanky man with nervous eyes and a lucky scarf tied to his antenna, saluted quickly.
Sico returned it absently and turned back to Magnolia.
"And after these?"
She lifted the clipboard again. "Greentop Nursery, Oberland, Sunshine Tidings, and Finch Farm over the next four days. Beyond that, we're coordinating with Robert to hit the coastal towns."
Sico stepped up onto the loading dock, peering into one of the open crates. The bottles were stacked tight—each individually sealed, labeled with sterilization dates, and cushioned against movement. Not a single one looked out of place.
It was more than just water.
It was proof.
Proof that Sanctuary had come through the storm intact. That the Freemasons Republic wasn't just another faction playing at government. That it could deliver—on promises, on hope, on something that mattered.
He stepped down and turned back to the two of them.
"Keep the guards tight on every leg," he said. "I don't care if the route's been quiet for months—we don't get to assume peace."
Albert nodded. "We're doubling patrol intervals. Spotters posted on every overpass."
"And radio every three hours. If a shipment drops off the grid, I want air support over that trail in fifteen minutes."
"We've got the Vertibird prepped," Magnolia said. "Sturges rigged the long-range antennas for real-time tracking."
Sico folded his arms, eyes narrowing slightly.
"You think people are going to challenge the shipments?"
Albert answered first.
"I think Drenner's dead," he said, "but rats always outlive the shipwreck. His people—whatever's left of them—they're still out there. Bitter. Hungry. And desperate."
"Desperate people do stupid things," Magnolia added. "But we're not giving them a chance to."
A gust of wind picked up again, sending ripples across the water sitting in the open vats near the filtration pipes. Somewhere down the slope, a Brahmin lowed, and the faint clang of a wrench echoed off the far wall.
Sico stared out at it all—the trucks, the guards, the metal bones of a system designed to defy the very apocalypse that had tried to end them.
Then he nodded.
"Start the engines," he said.
Within moments, the sound of ignition filled the air—deep, grumbling diesel roars from both trucks. Steam hissed from pressure valves. The ground trembled faintly as tires began to roll.
Soldiers barked instructions. Crate locks were secured. Magnolia stepped away to issue final clearance, her voice calm and authoritative.
Sico stayed back with Albert, watching it all unfold.
"You built a hell of a machine," Sico said.
Albert scratched the back of his neck. "We all did. And it only works 'cause nobody's treating it like it's perfect."
Sico smiled faintly. "Let's keep it that way." The first truck rolled out of the station gates. The second followed thirty seconds later.
________________________________________________
• 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:-