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The world outside could still turn. The Brotherhood could still rage. The wasteland could still shift and threaten. But here, in this little house, under the soft glow of lanterns and the hum of an old radio, life — simple, human, beautiful — carried on.
The morning sunlight crept lazily through the curtains, spilling a soft, amber warmth across the room. Dust motes drifted in the air, floating like tiny ghosts of a world long gone, and for once, Sico didn't stir at the first hint of light.
He lay there for a while — eyes half open, his body heavy in that comfortable way that only came from true rest. The quiet hum of life outside filtered faintly through the walls: distant footsteps on the main road, the soft chatter of settlers starting their morning routines, the rhythmic creak of a wagon wheel turning somewhere near the bridge.
And yet, inside, it was still. Peaceful.
He stretched slowly, one arm thrown over his head, the other brushing against the empty side of the bed where his pistol usually rested. Instinct made him glance toward it — the spot on the nightstand where he always set his sidearm after long nights — but this time, it was empty. Just his Pip-Boy, its green glow dim and idle, resting beside a half-empty glass of water.
For a second, that felt strange. Then, slowly, it felt right.
He closed his eyes again and smiled faintly.
For months or maybe a year and a half, mornings had always meant urgency. A radio call from HQ. A mission report waiting for his signature. The echo of boots in the corridor. Even when the world wasn't burning, there was always something to fix, something to decide, something to carry.
But not today.
Today, there was no agenda. No map waiting to be marked, no orders to sign, no crises to manage.
Just the quiet. The stillness. The simple, human rhythm of a world that — for once — didn't need saving.
He exhaled deeply, the air leaving his chest with a soft, content sigh. Then, almost reluctantly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards were cool beneath his feet, and for a moment, he just sat there — elbows on his knees, watching the sunlight crawl across the room.
The scent of last night's laughter still lingered faintly in the air — stale beer, a bit of smoke, and something warmer beneath it: the ghost of camaraderie. Empty bottles still sat in a lazy cluster on the kitchen table; someone had left Hancock's hat on the armrest; Sturges' rag was draped over a chair.
He chuckled softly to himself. "Guess they really made themselves at home."
His voice sounded strange in the quiet — softer, rougher. Not the commanding tone that barked orders in war councils, but something gentler. The voice of a man who, for once, didn't have to be the leader.
He rose and crossed to the window. Outside, the world was already awake.
Settlers moved through the main road, carrying baskets of crops or tools. Two of Sarah's patrolmen walked their route in the distance, rifles slung casually over their shoulders, chatting between steps. A couple of kids darted past the fence, chasing a battered old baseball.
Sico leaned a shoulder against the window frame and just watched for a while.
It was the kind of morning he'd never thought he'd see — not in this world. Not after everything. The kind that didn't feel borrowed or fragile, but earned. Built.
He glanced toward the horizon where the hills curved against the pale sky, and for the first time in years, he didn't see threat or strategy. He saw beauty.
"Damn," he murmured to himself, "maybe I should've done this a long time ago."
With a small grin, he turned back toward the kitchen. His stomach gave a quiet growl — the good kind, the kind that promised an ordinary day ahead. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his arms once more, and made his way to the counter.
The kitchen was still half-lit from the early sun, shadows curling around the cupboards. The smell of metal, wood, and last night's coffee lingered faintly. He reached for his Pip-Boy, snapped it onto his wrist, and flicked through the radio frequencies until the familiar static gave way to a warm, confident voice.
"…and good morning, Commonwealth. Or should I say, good morning, Republic," Travis said, cheerful but still carrying that hint of self-conscious charm. "Hope you all slept well out there. If not, maybe a little music'll fix that. I know it helps me. This one's for everyone who made it another day. You did it. And that's something."
Then, with a flicker of static, the tune began — "Don't Fence Me In" by Bing Crosby. The jaunty rhythm filled the kitchen, its easy confidence pairing perfectly with the scent of morning air drifting through the cracked window.
Sico grinned, shaking his head. "Good choice, Travis."
He rummaged through his small pantry — cans, jars, some preserved mutfruit, and a small carton of fresh eggs Sturges had dropped off from the nearby farms last week. The tatos from yesterday sat on the counter, still good.
He rolled up his sleeves, lit the stove, and poured a bit of oil into the pan. The hiss of the fire crackling to life filled the air, mixing with the easy croon of Bing Crosby on the radio.
"Give me land, lots of land under starry skies above…"
Sico began to cook.
It wasn't graceful — his movements were a bit clumsy, like someone trying to remember an old rhythm — but there was something satisfying in it. The way the eggs sizzled in the pan. The soft scrape of a wooden spoon against the skillet. The earthy smell of fried tatos rising with the heat.
He hummed under his breath — not quite in tune, but not caring either.
As the minutes passed, the music shifted again. Travis' voice returned, easy and relaxed.
"Ah, that one always gets me moving. Feels good, doesn't it? Anyway, next up, we've got a personal favorite — 'Ain't That a Kick in the Head.' For everyone out there takin' a rare day off, this one's for you."
Sico laughed quietly. "You spying on me, Travis?"
The first swing notes of Dean Martin's voice rolled through the room as he plated the food — fried eggs, crisped tatos, a bit of canned beans on the side. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot he'd left overnight, its taste a little burnt but still rich.
He carried his breakfast to the small table by the window. The sunlight fell just right there — warm, gentle, alive.
Outside, a couple of settlers waved as they passed by. He waved back absently, fork in one hand, coffee mug in the other.
The food wasn't perfect — the tatos were slightly overcooked, the beans a little too salty — but it didn't matter. It was real. Simple. His.
He ate slowly, savoring it, not just the taste but the moment itself. Every sound, every smell, every flicker of light felt sharper, clearer somehow.
Maybe it was because, for once, his mind wasn't running ahead.
No lists. No reports. No strategies. Just… now.
He leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee, listening as the song faded and Travis' voice returned again.
"Y'know, folks, I was thinkin' earlier — funny how we used to dream of days like this. Wakin' up without gunfire or alarms. Just the wind, the sun, maybe a cup of something hot. Guess dreams really can come true, huh?"
Sico smiled softly.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Guess they can."
He stayed there a long time — long after his plate was empty, long after the coffee cooled. The radio kept on, playing one old-world tune after another, filling the air with that strange, sweet nostalgia of a time before everything changed.
At one point, he pulled out an old cigar from his desk drawer — a rare find from a trader months back — and lit it by the stove flame. The smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, carrying that rich, earthy scent that always reminded him of the pre-war stories Nora used to tell.
He took a slow drag, let it out through his nose, and chuckled quietly to himself.
"First a day off, now breakfast and a smoke," he muttered. "If anyone sees me, they'll think I retired."
The thought didn't sting the way it once might've.
He wasn't ready to stop leading, not yet — not while the world still needed someone to hold the line. But maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to keep running to do it. Maybe leadership didn't always have to look like sacrifice.
He lingered for a while longer in that quiet kitchen, finishing the last of his coffee until only the bitter dregs clung to the bottom of the cup. The sunlight had climbed higher now, spilling in golden shafts across the counter and the floorboards. A soft breeze slipped through the half-open window, carrying with it the distant sounds of morning — laughter, hammers striking metal, the soft chatter of a marketplace slowly coming alive.
Sico exhaled through his nose and pushed himself up from the chair. His bones gave a faint protest as he stretched his arms over his head, rolling his shoulders with a small grunt. It wasn't age — not yet — but the kind of tiredness that came from years of carrying the weight of survival. Still, he felt lighter today. Rested. Human.
He looked around the kitchen again. The skillet still sat on the stove, cold now but marked with the remnants of breakfast. The empty plate rested by the window. A smear of oil glinted faintly on the counter.
"Guess it's been a while since I've had to clean up after myself," he muttered with a small smile.
He gathered the dishes and brought them to the sink. The water pump squeaked as he worked the handle, a rush of clear, cool water spilling into the basin. He scrubbed the plates and pan carefully, his motions unhurried. The rhythmic sound of water and metal filled the silence — a strange sort of peace in it. For once, his hands weren't cleaning blood off a rifle or grease off an armor joint. Just dishes.
When he finished, he wiped his hands on a towel and glanced toward the door. The sunlight had grown brighter now, glinting off the rooftops outside. He hadn't walked through Sanctuary in weeks — maybe months. Between missions, councils, and the endless work of holding the Republic together, the place he once called home had become something he only passed through. A waypoint. Never a destination.
But not today.
"Yeah," he said softly to himself, reaching for his jacket. "A walk won't hurt."
He slung the worn brown coat over his shoulders, the fabric still smelling faintly of smoke and gun oil. His Pip-Boy blinked to life as he stepped outside, the door creaking shut behind him. The morning air greeted him — fresh, clean, carrying the scent of tatos and brahmin from the nearby farms. The sky stretched wide and blue above, broken only by a few drifting clouds and the distant outline of the radio tower on the hill.
The main road was already bustling. Traders from the nearby outposts were unloading their carts at the market stalls — crates of produce, cured meat, jars of moonshine, and handmade trinkets. The chatter of voices mixed with the clatter of hooves as a pair of brahmin plodded past, their handlers guiding them toward the pens.
Sico tucked his hands into his pockets and began down the dirt path, nodding to those who greeted him. Some called out a polite "Morning, sir!" while others simply offered a smile or a respectful nod. He wasn't the kind of man who basked in admiration, but today, seeing the ease in their faces — the lack of fear — made something warm stir in his chest.
Sanctuary had changed.
The old skeletons of houses had long since been rebuilt — sturdy wood and steel structures standing where ruin once reigned. The cracked roads had been patched over, and the bridge that once creaked under every step now gleamed with reinforced plating. Lanterns hung from posts, gardens thrived in backyards, and the air hummed not with tension but with life.
When he reached the market square, the energy shifted — livelier, filled with motion and color. Settlers haggled over prices, laughter burst out from a nearby stall where a trader was cracking jokes, and the scent of cooked brahmin meat drifted from a food stand at the corner.
He slowed his pace, taking it all in.
"Morning, General!" a voice called out.
Sico turned to see June Warwick waving from behind a produce stall, her apron smeared with dirt but her smile bright. "Haven't seen you around in ages," she said cheerfully. "Finally taking a day off?"
He chuckled, stepping closer. "Something like that. Thought I'd restock my supplies — the pantry's looking emptier than I remember."
"Well, you came to the right place," June said, reaching into one of her baskets. "Got fresh tatos, razorgrain, and even some carrots from the new hydro plot. We've been testing the new irrigation lines Mel rigged up — working like a dream."
"That so?" Sico asked, genuinely impressed. "Mel's been busy."
"Oh, you know him. Never stops tinkering." She wrapped a small bundle of tatos in cloth and handed it over. "Here, take these. On the house. You've done more for this place than anyone else ever could."
Sico shook his head, reaching into his pocket. "You're not giving me these for free, June. Everyone here earns their keep — me included."
She hesitated for a moment before taking the caps he offered, her expression softening. "Alright, alright. But you come by more often, you hear? We miss seeing you around."
"I'll try," he said, and meant it.
He moved on to the next stall — a butcher's stand run by old Abe Finch. The air was heavy with the scent of cured meat and spices. Abe stood behind the counter, knife in hand, trimming a slab of brahmin meat with the precision of a craftsman.
"Well, I'll be damned," Abe said when he looked up. "Sico himself. Thought you'd forgotten us little folk down here."
"Not a chance," Sico replied with a faint grin. "Been eating HQ food too long — figured I'd remind myself what real cooking tastes like."
Abe barked a laugh. "HQ food, eh? Heard it's decent, but nothing beats brahmin raised on clean pasture." He nodded toward the hanging cuts. "Got a few prime pieces left from this morning's slaughter. You want a steak or two?"
"Yeah," Sico said. "Make it three. And throw in some of that smoked jerky. I'll pay extra."
"Hell, you don't have to," Abe said, already wrapping the order in paper. "But I'll take the extra caps if it means you'll stop by more often."
Sico chuckled again and handed over the payment. "You drive a hard bargain, Finch."
"Damn right I do. You stay safe out there, General."
"Always."
He packed the groceries carefully into his satchel and began the walk back home. The market sounds faded slowly behind him, replaced by the more familiar rhythm of Sanctuary's heart — the murmur of settlers chatting outside their homes, the clang of hammers from the workshop where Sturges and his crew were patching a generator, and the laughter of children playing near the riverbank.
He paused near the bridge for a moment, watching them.
Three kids — two boys and a girl — were chasing a ragged ball back and forth, their bare feet kicking up small clouds of dust. Their laughter rang through the air, pure and unrestrained. Nearby, an older woman sat in a rocking chair under the shade of a rebuilt porch, knitting quietly while keeping an eye on them.
For a long moment, Sico just watched.
That laughter — that unbroken, unafraid laughter — was something he hadn't heard in years. Not since before the war tore the Commonwealth apart, not since before fear became the air everyone breathed. It struck him deeply, quietly. This, he thought, was what they'd all been fighting for. Not the glory of conquest or the pride of survival. Just this — the sound of peace.
He moved on, passing by a small garden where two settlers knelt, tending to rows of mutfruit bushes. They looked up as he passed, smiling and nodding.
"Morning, General!" one of them called. "Looks like we'll have a good harvest this week."
"That's good to hear," Sico replied, his tone warm. "Keep it up — we'll need every bit of it once winter rolls around."
They nodded, and he continued down the path.
Everywhere he looked, there were signs of life thriving — people laughing, working, living without the constant shadow of death hanging over them. A pair of old men sat at a table playing cards; a group of young settlers were building a new fence near the east entrance; someone was painting a wall with bright colors — reds, yellows, greens — as if reclaiming beauty itself from the gray wasteland.
Sanctuary wasn't just surviving anymore.
It was living.
Sico's steps slowed as he neared his home again, the satchel heavy with groceries at his side. The wind brushed past, cool and clean, carrying with it the faint scent of brahmin and tilled soil. For the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself stop and simply… breathe.
This was what all the blood and sweat had built. This peace. This stability. A world where old people didn't have to worry about being left behind. Where kids didn't have to learn how to fire a gun before they learned to read. Where people could wake up to the sound of laughter instead of gunfire.
He stepped through his gate and paused once more at his porch, setting the satchel down by the door. His eyes wandered across the street, watching as a young man helped his grandmother carry a crate of fruit. Across the road, two mechanics were arguing playfully over a fusion core reading, grease staining their hands. A couple sat beneath a tree, their hands intertwined, heads bent together in quiet conversation.
A small smile touched his lips.
"Maybe," he murmured, "maybe it's finally starting to work."
He crouched to pick up the satchel again, but his gaze lingered on the settlement beyond — the Republic's heart. For years, he'd dreamed of something like this: a place strong enough to protect its own, kind enough to give hope to others. It had seemed impossible once. But now, standing there, the evidence surrounded him.
People weren't surviving because of fear anymore. They were living because of trust.
He lifted the groceries and stepped inside, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath his boots. The house felt warmer now — not just from the sunlight, but from the sense of belonging that filled it.
Sico set the groceries on the counter, the faint thud of the satchel breaking the quiet hum of the house. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and old dust, touched by the lingering scent of the morning's coffee. He unpacked the bundle slowly, the motions methodical — jars of tatos, smoked jerky, carrots, and a few precious spices wrapped in cloth.
He stacked everything neatly in the kitchen cabinet, wiping his hands on the towel afterward. For a moment, he just stood there, leaning his hip against the counter, listening to the faint creak of the house around him. The clock ticked on the wall — steady, unhurried. Outside, birds chirped faintly, mingled with the distant thrum of the marketplace that never quite went quiet.
And yet, despite the peace around him, something inside him itched.
He looked down at his hands — rough, scarred, lined with stories that wouldn't fade. He flexed them once, the old habit of a soldier without a weapon. His days were usually filled to the brim — patrol briefings, logistics meetings, intel reports. But for the first time in months, there was nothing on his docket. Preston had practically ordered him to take three days off, "no excuses."
And now, with two days still left, Sico didn't know what to do with himself.
He let out a soft breath through his nose, muttering, "Two days. Might as well be two weeks."
He glanced toward the window. The sun was climbing higher now, washing the settlement in soft gold. Children's laughter carried faintly from somewhere near the river, and a trader's bell chimed in the distance. Sanctuary was alive — calm, strong, thriving — and for once, it didn't need him to hold it together.
That should have been a comfort.
But it only made him feel like a ghost walking through his own creation.
He pushed away from the counter and slipped his jacket back on, fingers brushing against the worn fabric. His eyes drifted toward the door. "Maybe I'll go see Nora," he said quietly to himself. "It's been a while."
He didn't think twice about it. The thought came naturally, like a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Nora always had that effect — grounding him, reminding him there was still life beyond strategy tables and battle reports.
So he grabbed his satchel, slung it over his shoulder out of habit more than need, and stepped outside.
The sunlight met him with a warmth that soaked into his skin. The path leading toward Nora's house was lined with rebuilt homes and tidy gardens. The grass had grown thick along the edges of the street, and flowers — real flowers — dotted the patches of soil near each fence. People had started planting for beauty now, not just survival. That small shift said more about how far they'd come than any military victory ever could.
He walked slow, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path. The air was clean and full of life — the earthy scent of tilled soil, the faint sweetness of mutfruit blossoms. Somewhere nearby, someone was playing a harmonica, the lazy tune drifting through the afternoon air.
Sanctuary felt… alive in a way that was almost foreign.
When he turned down Nora's street, he could already see the faint curl of smoke rising from her chimney, and the sound of laughter — bright, genuine — reached him before the house came into view.
A smile tugged at his mouth before he even realized it.
Dogmeat was the first to notice him.
The old shepherd was stretched out lazily beside his little wooden doghouse, half-asleep under the sun. But the moment Sico's shadow crossed the path, Dogmeat's ears perked up, tail thumping once against the ground before he sprang to his feet with a bark of pure joy.
"Hey there, boy," Sico said, crouching as the dog bounded over. Dogmeat's paws hit his chest, tail wagging wildly as he barked again, pressing his snout against Sico's shoulder like he was trying to hug him.
Sico laughed — a deep, genuine laugh that hadn't escaped his throat in too long. He rubbed behind Dogmeat's ears, feeling the warm, familiar texture of his fur beneath his gloves.
"Still got that same energy, huh? You don't age like the rest of us, do you?"
Dogmeat gave another bark, almost as if to agree, then spun in a quick circle before dashing toward the door, turning halfway to look back as if urging him to follow.
"Alright, alright. I'm coming," Sico said, straightening up and brushing the dust from his coat.
As he approached, he could hear the laughter inside more clearly now — Shaun's high, bright giggle and Nora's soft, melodic laugh blending together. And somewhere between them, Codsworth's familiar voice, all clipped politeness and mechanical concern.
"Master Shaun, if you continue at that speed, I must insist you avoid crashing into the table again!"
There was a thud, followed by Shaun's laughter and Nora's amused, "He's fine, Codsworth! It's just a wooden sword!"
Sico smiled to himself, pausing just before the door. For a moment, he just stood there, listening — letting the sounds of life spill through the walls. The warmth in Nora's voice, the unfiltered joy in Shaun's — it painted a picture of something rare in this world. Something whole.
He knocked softly, out of habit more than need.
The laughter paused. Then Nora's voice called out from inside, bright and familiar.
"Sico? Is that you?"
"Yeah," he called back, pushing the door open slightly. "Didn't mean to interrupt."
"You're not interrupting," she said, appearing in the doorway, her hair tied back in a loose braid, a faint smudge of flour on her cheek. She was wearing a casual blue blouse and trousers — simple, practical, but somehow it made her look even more alive. "Well, look who finally decided to show his face around here."
"Guilty," he said with a small grin. "Figured I'd take advantage of my forced vacation before Preston starts sending patrols to make sure I'm actually resting."
Nora chuckled, stepping aside. "Come in, then. You're just in time — I was about to make lunch."
The warmth hit him immediately as he stepped inside. The house smelled like home — a mix of fresh bread, stew, and faint traces of old wood and polish. Shaun was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his toy sword in hand, a grin lighting up his face the moment he saw Sico.
"Uncle Sico!" Shaun shouted, springing up and racing toward him.
Sico barely had time to crouch before Shaun threw himself into his arms. The boy's small frame hit his chest with surprising force, and Sico caught him easily, ruffling his hair.
"Hey there, champ. You've gotten taller since I last saw you."
Shaun laughed, puffing his chest proudly. "That's what Mom says too!"
"I bet she's right," Sico said, smiling as he set him down. "What were you two up to? Sounded like a battle in here."
Shaun grinned wider and held up his wooden sword. "I was fighting raiders! Codsworth says I almost broke the table."
"I did indeed, sir," Codsworth said from the corner, floating in with his usual whirr of servos. "Master Shaun's enthusiasm for combat is commendable — though perhaps best directed outdoors next time."
"Maybe I can help with that," Sico said, raising an eyebrow. "Teach him some proper technique."
"Oh no," Nora said quickly, laughing. "The last thing I need is him learning how to actually hit things."
Sico chuckled and turned to her. "Fair enough."
She gestured toward the table. "Sit down. You hungry?"
"Always."
She nodded toward Codsworth. "Set another plate, please."
"Right away, Mum."
Sico took a seat, watching as Nora moved around the kitchen with a kind of practiced ease. It wasn't the way someone cooked for survival — it was the way someone cooked for the people they loved. He noticed the little things: the extra pinch of spice, the way she tasted the broth before nodding to herself, the faint hum of an old tune under her breath.
Shaun climbed up onto a chair beside him, fidgeting with his toy sword. "Uncle Sico, is it true you fought the Gunners?"
The question made Sico pause. He looked at the boy — the curiosity in his eyes, innocent but sharp. Nora glanced over from the stove, her expression tightening slightly.
"I did," Sico said finally, his voice calm. "A long time ago. But that fight's over now."
"Did you win?" Shaun asked, wide-eyed.
Sico smiled faintly. "We did what we had to. And now, because of that, places like this — you, your mom — you're safe."
Shaun nodded slowly, as if considering the answer with the solemn weight of a child trying to understand a world that used to be cruel. Then, with a sudden grin, he said, "So you're a hero."
"Not quite," Sico said softly. "Just someone who got lucky enough to keep trying."
Nora set a steaming bowl on the table and gave him a knowing look. "He's underselling it, Shaun. Trust me — he's one of the reasons you can sleep easy at night."
"Mom," Shaun said, blushing slightly. "You always say that."
"Because it's true," she said, smiling as she ruffled his hair.
They ate together at the small wooden table, sunlight streaming in through the window. The stew was simple — brahmin meat, carrots, and razorgrain — but it was warm, seasoned, and real. Conversation flowed easily — Nora talking about the latest settlement improvements, Sico mentioning a few things Mel and Sturges had been tinkering with, Shaun occasionally interrupting to show off one of his "new sword moves."
It felt… natural. Unforced.
After lunch, Nora stood to clear the dishes, and Sico offered to help, but she waved him off. "You're supposed to be resting, remember? Go sit on the porch before you start fixing something that isn't broken."
He chuckled. "You know me too well."
"I've known you long enough," she said with a grin.
He stepped outside, Dogmeat following him to the porch. The old dog curled up beside his chair while Sico leaned back, gazing out at the horizon. The wind brushed softly through the trees, carrying with it the scent of flowers and freshly turned earth.
After a moment, Nora joined him, two mugs of tea in her hands. She handed one to him and took the seat beside him.
They sat in silence for a while, just listening — to the wind, the faint laughter from the street, the easy rhythm of life around them.
"You know," she said finally, her voice quiet, "it still amazes me how far this place has come. There were days I didn't think any of this was possible."
"Yeah," he said softly, eyes still on the settlement. "Me too."
She turned slightly, studying his profile. "You've done a lot, Sico. You should let yourself enjoy it."
He gave a small smile. "I'm trying. Guess I just… don't know how to stop moving anymore."
Nora chuckled lightly. "That sounds about right. You've been carrying the Commonwealth on your back for years — maybe it's okay to set it down once in a while."
He looked at her then, really looked — at the way the sunlight caught in her hair, at the calm strength in her eyes. She'd been through hell and back too, and yet she still found reasons to smile. To live.
"Maybe you're right," he said. "Maybe I could use a reminder of what normal feels like."
Nora smiled faintly. "Then stay a while. Shaun loves having you around, and Dogmeat practically tackles the door when he hears your name."
Sico laughed quietly, glancing down at the dog already dozing beside him. "Yeah, I noticed."
The breeze picked up, cool and gentle. The world felt… still, for once. Peaceful.
And for the first time in a long while, Sico let himself simply exist — not as the general, not as the strategist, not as the soldier — but as a man who'd helped carve a sliver of peace out of chaos, sitting on a porch beside an old friend, watching a world he'd helped rebuild continue to grow without him needing to hold it together.
________________________________________________
• 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:-