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Sico lowered the rifle at last, his jaw tight, his chest heaving. He looked down at the field of wreckage — smoking tank barrels, wounded knights dragging themselves upright, soldiers pulling bodies from rubble.
The air still smelled of gunpowder and burnt flesh, thick enough to sting the back of the throat. Dust hung like fog, drifting down in lazy swirls that caught in the early light. The cheers still echoed, but already they were softening, breaking into tired laughter, sobs, or silence.
Sico stood above it all, sniper rifle loose in his hands, and forced his lungs to slow. The fight was over, but the work wasn't. It never was.
He turned to where Preston stood among his battered line, pistol still smoking faintly in his grip, face streaked with dirt and blood that wasn't his.
"Preston!" Sico's voice carried like a hammer strike.
The lieutenant snapped his head up, meeting his commander's gaze. He was winded, shoulders slumped, but his spine straightened instantly at the call.
"Count the wounded," Sico ordered. "Get me numbers. Dead, injured, and who's still fit to fight. I want names by the hour."
Preston gave a sharp nod, sliding his pistol back into its holster. His voice cracked as he turned to his men: "You heard the Commander! Medics, get moving! Squad leaders, tally your people and report in! Nobody goes uncounted!"
The battered line jolted into motion, not with the frenzy of battle but with the weary determination of survivors. Stretchers were dragged from the rubble, medkits snapped open, bandages unfurled. Cries of pain rose as wounds were probed and wrapped, but at least they were cries of the living.
Sico exhaled, setting the rifle aside, and turned his eyes back to the field.
Three hulking shadows sprawled across the ruins beyond the walls. They looked dead — broken heaps of scale and claw, blood soaking into cracked asphalt and shattered stone. But looks didn't count for much when it came to Deathclaws. He'd heard stories: soldiers celebrating too soon, only for the beast to lurch up in a frenzy of pain and kill another dozen before finally dropping for good.
He wasn't about to let that happen here.
Sico descended the stone steps from the wall, boots echoing against worn concrete, and pushed through the courtyard where soldiers were still buzzing with adrenaline. Men saluted as he passed; others whispered, eyes following him. To them, their commander had stared a monster in the eye and dropped it with steady hands. That kind of thing traveled faster than bullets.
But Sico wasn't basking in it. He wasn't thinking about glory or legends. He was thinking about teeth, claws, hides thick as steel, and the way every man in this courtyard needed to know those things were truly finished.
The gate creaked open, wide enough for him to slip through. Outside, the battlefield smelled like blood and burnt rubber. Shards of Deathclaw scale lay scattered like broken armor. Pools of dark ichor steamed faintly where tank shells had torn through flesh. Flies were already gathering.
He walked toward the nearest carcass — the crippled one that had dragged itself like some demon out of hell. Its body lay slumped in the rubble, one arm twisted backward, skull caved in from the hammer strike. Even dead, it radiated menace. The claws looked sharp enough to gut a man with the gentlest brush. Its chest still seemed to heave, though Sico knew it was only the settling of torn muscle and gas escaping from ruined lungs.
Still, he didn't trust it.
Sico drew his sidearm, a heavy-caliber pistol built for stopping power, and stepped closer. He aimed for the creature's ruined skull and fired once. The shot cracked, echoing off the ruins, a final punctuation.
The body twitched, then went still.
"Stay down," Sico muttered under his breath. He holstered the pistol, then crouched low, inspecting the body.
Up close, the creature was even more grotesque. Its hide was tough, layered scales thick as roofing tiles, some still resisting the blade of his combat knife when he tested the edge. Its teeth, yellowed and jagged, were longer than his fingers. The smell was foul — coppery blood mixed with rot and gunpowder.
But beneath the stench, there was value. He knew it.
Deathclaw parts were prized across the wasteland. Hunters, chem-makers, even some backwater doctors paid in caps for claws, hides, glands, bones. You could turn a corpse like this into medicine, armor plating, weapons, even trophies that made raiders think twice about testing you.
Sico rose, scanning the field. Two more carcasses sprawled in the dust — one still smoking from tank fire, the other a broken heap where Preston's men had bled their lives to hold it off.
His jaw tightened. He wasn't going to let those sacrifices be for nothing.
He glanced back toward the walls, where Preston's men were still triaging the wounded. Then he called over his shoulder, his voice sharp and carrying:
"Salvage crew!"
A handful of men, the kind who always hung near the edges of the fight waiting for the smoke to clear, perked up. Scavvers in uniform, most of them. They hurried forward with sacks, knives, and pry tools strapped to their belts.
Sico pointed to the nearest corpse. "Strip them. Hide, claws, glands, anything worth caps or craft. Move careful — don't cut yourselves on the scales. These parts will pay for more bullets, more rations, more steel for the Republic."
The scavvers saluted, eyes wide at the sight of the hulks they were about to carve. One muttered, "By the Founders… up close, they're bigger than I thought."
"Bigger doesn't mean immortal," Sico said flatly. "They bleed like everything else. And we made them bleed today."
The men nodded, steadied, and set to work. Knives bit into hide, sacks began to fill. The sound of sawing and tearing rose, mingling with the moans of the wounded inside the walls.
Sico walked to the second corpse — the one blasted apart by the tanks. Its chest cavity was little more than a ruin, blackened ribs jutting upward like the timbers of a burned house. Smoke still curled from the gaping hole, the stink of charred meat thick around it.
He crouched again, prodding the carcass with the muzzle of his pistol. No movement. No twitch. The tanks had done their job well.
But even here, value remained. The claws were intact, curved scythes that gleamed dully in the light. He ran a gloved hand along one, marveling at the sharpness. You could mount one on a gauntlet and punch through steel doors with it.
He stood, turned back to the scavvers, and barked: "Take the claws first. Prioritize what'll last. Meat will rot in hours, but these—" he tapped one talon with the butt of his pistol, the sound like striking stone—"these'll outlive us all."
The men nodded and moved to obey, setting to work with careful, reverent strokes.
Finally, Sico moved toward the third body — the one Preston and his men had fought tooth and nail to bring down. This one had taken the longest to fall. Its body was riddled with bullet holes, its hide scorched, its leg torn away by tank fire. And yet it still looked… wrong. As though, any second, it might rise again, furious and starving.
Sico's eyes narrowed. He drew the pistol once more, placed the muzzle against its eye socket, and fired. The skull cracked, brain matter spraying against the dust. Only then did he let himself breathe.
He stood there a long moment, staring down at the monster. He thought of the men who had died — the knight crushed in his armor, the recruit skewered and tossed aside, the gunner whose spine had snapped like dry kindling. He thought of how close the line had come to breaking.
And he thought of how, without these walls, without this fight, every man, woman, and child in the Republic would've been meat for these things.
His lips pressed into a hard line.
"Not today," he whispered.
He turned, raising his voice once more. "Strip this one too. Take everything worth a damn. The Republic doesn't waste."
The scavvers fanned out, knives flashing, sacks filling. Soldiers began to drift closer, some just watching, others helping. There was a grim satisfaction in it — proof that monsters could die, and their remains could serve the living.
The scavvers' knives whispered through hide and tendon, the wet sound of their labor echoing oddly against the ruins. For a moment, the battlefield seemed caught between two worlds: the quiet efficiency of men harvesting spoils and the muffled cries of wounded soldiers drifting over the wall.
Sico lingered by the third carcass, arms folded across his chest, eyes distant. He didn't look at the beast so much as through it — as if the corpse were a shadow of something larger, some threat that would never truly vanish. His ears caught every groan from the courtyard, every barked order, every shuffling boot on gravel.
The war wasn't over. Not while men bled behind his walls.
Bootsteps approached. Heavy, hurried. Sico turned his head just as Preston crossed the churned ground, ducking under a twisted support beam that jutted from the rubble. The lieutenant's uniform was torn at the sleeve, a strip of dried blood crusted against his temple, but his stride was firm.
"Commander!" Preston called, his voice low but carrying.
Sico raised his chin. "Report."
Preston stopped a pace away, standing at attention despite the fatigue dragging at his limbs. His chest heaved once, twice, then steadied. He swallowed hard before speaking.
"We've finished the count." His voice cracked slightly, then steadied again. "Thirty-four wounded. Fifteen of them serious — broken bones, deep lacerations, burns. The rest are lighter injuries. Cuts, bruises, shock."
Sico's eyes narrowed, waiting for the weight he feared. The number that always came like a knife between the ribs.
Preston's gaze flicked down for a heartbeat, then lifted again, brighter, relieved in a way that made him look ten years younger. "No dead, sir. None. Every man and woman is accounted for."
For the first time since the gunfire had ceased, the iron set of Sico's jaw loosened. His shoulders eased, just slightly. A breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding slipped free, leaving his chest lighter.
"None," he echoed, his voice quieter, almost disbelieving.
"None," Preston confirmed, and this time his lips twitched into something like a smile, though it was weary, worn at the edges. "By some miracle, Commander, we didn't lose a soul today."
The battlefield noises seemed to fade under those words, like the world itself paused to let them sink in.
Sico looked past Preston to the courtyard walls where medics hustled between clusters of men laid out on blankets, where stretchers moved like lifeboats through a tide of rubble. His gaze lingered there, then came back to Preston.
"Miracle's got nothing to do with it," he said firmly. "It's discipline. It's grit. It's you holding that line when hell itself came clawing. Don't chalk that up to chance. You earned it."
Preston blinked, and for a moment his posture faltered under the weight of those words. Then he nodded, voice husky. "Thank you, sir."
But Sico was already moving, his boots grinding gravel as he strode back toward the gates. His voice cut sharp over his shoulder:
"Get the wounded stable. Now. I want every medic and every doctor working double until they drop. No excuses. No delays."
Preston turned instantly, barking orders to nearby soldiers: "You heard the Commander! Move! Medics, double-time! Triage stations cleared — now!"
The courtyard came alive again, this time not with panic but with the steady rhythm of care. Two medics jogged past carrying a crate of stim packs, their faces grim but focused. A doctor in a patched white coat was already on her knees beside a soldier with a shattered leg, her hands slick with blood as she worked.
Sico entered through the gates, the heavy wood scraping behind him as it swung shut. He scanned the scene like a general taking stock of a city after a siege. Men lay in rows, some groaning, some silent, their uniforms stiff with dirt and blood. Bandages were being wrapped, splints fashioned from broken planks. Buckets of water sloshed as orderlies rushed to clean wounds.
Sico's voice boomed across the courtyard, impossible to ignore:
"Doctors, medics — hear me!"
Heads turned. Hands froze mid-motion. Even the wounded stirred, their eyes lifting to the figure who stood tall in the dust and smoke.
"These men fought for the Republic today," Sico said, his voice carrying like a drumbeat. "They stood when monsters came for our walls. They bled for every child behind these gates. And because of them, not one soul lies cold."
He let the words hang a moment, watching their weight sink into weary shoulders.
"So hear this: no one we saved on that wall dies now. Not one. I don't care if you have to stitch them by candlelight, if you burn through every stim and bandage we own. You keep them breathing. You keep them fighting. You give them back the lives they damn well earned."
The courtyard held its breath. Then a ripple moved through the medics and doctors — nods, clenched jaws, shoulders straightening. A vow unspoken, but felt.
"Yes, Commander!" voices called back, rough but strong.
Sico gave one short nod, satisfied, then turned back toward Preston, who had followed him through the gate. "Get me rotations. I want fresh hands relieving the medics before exhaustion kills their precision. Set up cots for surgery, keep water boiling. And keep the wounded warm. Shock will kill faster than blood loss if we let it."
Preston scribbled notes in a worn pad, nodding fast. "Already moving, sir."
"Good."
Sico let his gaze sweep the courtyard once more. His eyes lingered on a boy — no older than twenty — who sat propped against a wall, his arm splinted, face pale but alive. Another soldier knelt beside him, spooning water to his lips. The boy's eyes flicked up, locking with Sico's for just a heartbeat. And in that moment, Sico knew what it meant to these men that their commander walked among them, not above them.
Sico lingered just a moment longer among the wounded, his gaze moving over each stretcher and pallet as if silently counting, assuring himself again that Preston's words were true. No dead. That was a gift rarer than gold in this blasted world. But he didn't linger too long — a commander couldn't hover. He had to move. He had to keep the gears grinding forward, even when the machine threatened to collapse.
His boots found their rhythm on the packed dirt as he moved across the courtyard, through knots of soldiers and medics who parted to let him pass. Some of them nodded, some tried to straighten despite their injuries, but he didn't slow for acknowledgments. His eyes were already on the far edge of the settlement, where smoke curled up from the machines that had been left idling, and the sound of hammers echoed faintly, stubborn as a heartbeat.
Sturges.
The man was out there somewhere, probably with grease up to his elbows and a dozen half-finished blueprints in his head. If anyone could wrangle order from this wreckage, it was him. And that was exactly what Sico needed right now — not just survival, not just patchwork solutions, but the promise of something better standing in the place of all this ruin.
He pushed open the smaller gate to the workshop yard and found him exactly where he expected: hunched over a half-dismantled generator, a rag tucked into his belt, a cigarette stub dangling from his lip, though it had gone out long ago. Sparks crackled as Sturges twisted a length of wire with a pair of pliers, muttering to himself in a drawl thick as molasses.
"…now if I just get ya to stop shortin' every damn time the wind blows, maybe I can sleep a whole night for once—"
"Sturges."
The word landed sharp enough that the tinkerer jumped, pliers clattering against the frame of the generator. He spun around, eyes wide for a half-second before he caught himself, and then he huffed out a laugh.
"Well, damn, Commander. You walk quieter than a cat wearin' slippers. Thought I was about to get my throat cut."
Sico didn't smile, but the edge of his expression softened in that way it sometimes did with Sturges, the way it did for a man who'd already earned his place ten times over.
"Come with me," Sico said simply.
Sturges blinked, wiped his hands on his trousers, and fell into step without asking why. That was trust. Or maybe it was just survival instinct. Either way, it worked.
The two men walked back through the gate and out onto the churned field beyond the wall. The air was still sharp with the scent of blood and gunpowder, still heavy with the iron stink of death. The scavvers had finished most of their grisly work, dragging away hides, stripping teeth and claws, leaving the carcasses little more than husks slumped across the dirt. Flies had already begun to swarm, a black shimmer in the late afternoon light.
Sturges slowed, his usual easy grin faltering as his eyes swept the ground. "Sweet Jesus," he muttered under his breath. "Looks like the devil's butcher shop out here."
Sico stopped at the third carcass, the same one he'd stood over earlier, arms folding once more across his chest. He didn't look at Sturges right away. Instead, he let the man take it in — the twisted remains of the beasts, the gouges clawed into the earth, the shattered barricades leaning drunkenly where they'd barely held.
Finally, Sico spoke. His voice was lower now, less of the commander barking orders, more of the man thinking three moves ahead.
"This place can't stay like this. Not if we mean to last. Not if we mean to build something worth keeping."
Sturges shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ain't exactly easy scrubbin' away a bloodbath, boss. These walls took a beatin' too. Gonna need weeks just to patch her back up, never mind makin' it look like… well, like somethin' other than a slaughterhouse."
Sico turned his head, finally pinning the man with his stare. His eyes had that steady, unyielding weight in them again — the kind that made it clear this wasn't a request.
"Then you'll do both," Sico said. "You'll turn this ground back into what it was before today — strong, clean, fit for life. And you'll keep building. The wall isn't finished. You know it. I know it. These beasts proved it." He gestured with one hand at the broken barricade, the claw marks gouged into timber. "We need height. Reinforcement. Gates that won't crack the first time something bigger than a raider comes knocking."
Sturges let out a long, slow whistle, rocking back on his heels. "You sure don't set the bar low, do ya? Wipe the battlefield clean and raise Rome from the ashes while I'm at it."
"Rome wasn't built in a day," Sico said, his tone flat but edged with something that almost resembled dry humor. "But our walls need to be. Or close enough."
Sturges chuckled despite himself, though it died quick as his eyes swept the field again. His hands found his hips, thumbs hooking against his belt. "Alright. Let's think it through. First, we clear the dead — both the beasts and the debris. Can't build on rot. I'll need every able-bodied settler not on medic duty haulin' wood, stone, whatever we can salvage. Then… hell, we might have to quarry new stone. This wall won't hold another hit like that unless we double her thickness."
Sico nodded once, approving the train of thought. "Do it. Whatever you need, you'll have. But I want it fast, Sturges. Every hour the wall stands half-finished is an invitation. And next time, we might not be so fortunate with our count."
That hit. Sturges's jaw tightened, and he spat into the dirt, more habit than disdain. "Ain't argue with that. Guess I'll be callin' in every favor I'm owed for materials."
"Good," Sico said. His gaze shifted back toward the walls where, inside, he could still see the movement of stretchers and medics. His voice dropped a notch, carrying less for command and more for himself. "This place isn't just stone and wood, Sturges. It's proof. Proof we can do more than just survive out here. Proof we can live."
For a moment, silence hung between them, filled only by the buzzing of flies and the far-off clatter of tools against steel. Then Sturges nodded slowly, his drawl softened by something more sober.
"Alright, boss. You want proof? I'll give it to ya. By the time I'm done, this wall's gonna look like it was built by the damn Romans themselves. Beasts come knockin' again, they'll break their teeth on it."
Sico gave one short nod, approval showing not in his words but in the slight easing of the iron around his eyes.
"See to it," he said.
Sturges scratched at his jaw, eyes already scanning the battlefield like a man sketching blueprints in the air. "But I'll tell ya somethin', Commander. Walls'll keep us safe, sure. But if you really want this place to look like it ain't a warzone, we're gonna need more than stone. Gardens, clean streets, hell, maybe even a coat of paint someday. Folks need to believe in more than survival. They need to believe in tomorrow."
Sico's gaze lingered on him, weighing those words. Then, finally, he gave the faintest ghost of a smile — a crack in the armor, fleeting but real.
"Tomorrow starts with today," he said. "Get to work."
And with that, Sico turned back toward the gate, his stride purposeful, while behind him Sturges was already barking to a pair of settlers who'd been loitering too close.
"Hey! You two got hands, don't ya? Grab a shovel. We're cleanin' this mess up before the sun sets. And don't gimme no bellyachin' — this ain't optional."
Sturges' voice carried across the broken yard like a hammer striking iron, sharp enough to slice through the buzzing of flies and the murmurs of tired men.
"You heard me! Grab a shovel, grab a hammer, grab somethin' that ain't just your thumb up your ass. We're turnin' this mess back into somethin' worth livin' in. C'mon, move like ya mean it!"
The settlers flinched at his bark but scrambled into motion all the same, scattering like sparks from a forge. Sturges didn't wait to see if they'd follow through — he stomped off toward the nearest pile of lumber, already shouting names, pointing, waving his arms like a conductor whipping an orchestra into rhythm.
"Gus! You're on wood detail. Don't just stand there gawkin', I want every plank sorted by length. June, get the kids keepin' the nails in a clean bucket, I ain't spendin' the night diggin' through dirt for what should've been in a jar. Tommy! Yeah, you. Get that damn wheelbarrow movin' — stone don't haul itself!"
His words were rough, but his tone carried something under it — urgency, yes, but also hope. Like a spark catching on dry tinder, the kind that made tired backs straighten, made hands stop dragging and start working with purpose.
Sico didn't look back. He didn't need to. He knew Sturges would handle it. The man had a gift for turning chaos into motion, for taking settlers who'd rather be drinking or hiding and making them build the bones of a future.
The Commander's boots carried him through the gate again, back into the courtyard where the wounded still lay. The air here was different — quieter, though not silent. The moans of pain, the hissed curses, the low murmur of medics calming their patients filled the space. It smelled of blood, sweat, antiseptic, and smoke from the fires still smoldering outside the walls.
He moved slowly, not because he was tired but because each step mattered here. Each wounded man or woman deserved more than a passing glance from their commander. They deserved to be seen.
The first row held a cluster of men propped up against makeshift pallets. Bandages wrapped their arms, their legs, their scalps. One soldier had a bandage around his chest so tight it made his breaths come shallow, but his eyes were sharp, following Sico's every movement. He tried to rise when the Commander approached, but Sico raised a hand and shook his head.
"Stay down," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "You've done your part today."
The man swallowed hard, then nodded, settling back with a wince. His lips trembled like he wanted to speak, but no words came. Sico gave a single nod and moved on.
He stopped next at a boy barely out of youth, his arm splinted from wrist to elbow, his face pale but his jaw clenched against the pain. A medic knelt beside him, spooning water from a tin cup. The boy's eyes flicked up, meeting Sico's gaze. For a moment, time slowed. That look carried more than words ever could — fear, pride, disbelief at being alive, and the unspoken question: Was it enough?
Sico crouched down, his knees creaking with the motion, until his face was level with the boy's.
"You held the line," Sico said quietly, his voice meant only for him. "That's enough. More than enough."
The boy's throat bobbed, his good hand trembling slightly as he lifted it in a shaky salute. Sico clasped it firmly, grounding the gesture with the weight of his own calloused hand. When he let go, the boy's eyes shone wet, but no tears fell.
The Commander stood again, scanning the rows. Fifteen serious cases, Preston had said. He could see them — the ones lying flat, pale as ash, their wounds wrapped but still seeping through cloth. The medics hovered over them like hawks, never letting their attention drift.
He spotted Curie, the bright flash of her white coat among the muted colors of uniforms and dirt. She was bent over a man with a crushed leg, her hands steady as she adjusted a crude splint, her voice a soothing hum that sounded almost musical despite the chaos. Sico moved closer, watching her work for a moment.
When she noticed him, she looked up, her eyes behind her glasses glinting with both exhaustion and determination.
"Commander," she said, her French accent soft but clipped with urgency. "Zey are stable, for now. But we need more antiseptic, more bandages. And zere are some injuries I cannot treat properly without surgical tools."
Sico didn't hesitate. "Make me a list. Whatever you need, no matter how rare. We'll find it."
Her lips pressed together, a flicker of relief softening her face. "Merci. I will write it immediately."
He nodded, then stepped past her, weaving deeper into the rows.
The courtyard was a tapestry of suffering and resilience. Some men groaned in pain, others lay silent, eyes glazed but alive. A few even laughed, trading jokes through clenched teeth as medics stitched their wounds. It was gallows humor, the kind that grew in foxholes and bloodied courtyards, but it was laughter nonetheless — and that meant something.
Sico paused at the far end, where a man lay with his chest rising shallow, his face gray with shock. A doctor worked over him, pressing cloth hard against a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. The doctor's eyes snapped up when Sico approached, his face lined with sweat.
"We're losing him," he said bluntly. "Too much blood, and no transfusion setup. If I can't—"
"Then don't let go," Sico cut in, his voice like iron. He stepped closer, crouched, pressing his own calloused hands over the doctor's. "He doesn't die. Not today."
The doctor blinked, startled, but nodded, bracing harder against the wound. Together, they held pressure, minute after minute, until the flow slowed, until the man's breathing steadied into something less desperate.
Only then did Sico release, his palms slick with blood. He stood slowly, wiping his hands on his trousers, his face unreadable.
"Keep him alive," he said to the doctor, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"Yes, Commander," the doctor replied, already refocusing on the patient.
Sico stepped back, his chest heavy but his stride steady. He had seen enough for now. Enough to know his people were fighting not just on the battlefield, but here, in the courtyard, against the slow creep of death.
Outside the walls, Sturges' voice still rang, mingled now with the thud of hammers, the scrape of stone, the grunt of labor. The sound of rebuilding. Inside, the murmurs of medics and the groans of the wounded filled the air. Survival and progress, side by side.
________________________________________________
• 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:-