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And for that one perfect moment, beneath a sky streaked with color and fire, Sico let himself believe — truly believe — that maybe the end of the world had already passed, and what came after was something brighter, something worth every scar they carried.
The celebration still hummed behind them — the rhythm of Magnolia's song mixing with the laughter of children and the soft chatter of settlers — when Sico, Sarah, and Preston drifted away from the stage. The air was alive with that kind of warmth that came after a long day's joy: lanterns swinging gently from poles, the smell of cooked corn and smoked meat, and the occasional spark of fireworks that still popped somewhere over the northern hill.
The path through the square curved toward the marketplace, which had transformed into a carnival of sorts for the evening. Strings of colored bulbs had been draped between stalls, glowing faintly in the dimming light, and laughter echoed from every direction. There were food stands, music corners, handmade jewelry booths — and then, tucked at the edge of it all, a shooting game.
A wooden sign leaned at an angle, hand-painted in bold red letters:
"Test Your Aim — BB Rifle Challenge! 5 Caps per Round!"
Beside it, a man with a scruffy beard and a patched-up denim jacket stood proudly behind his counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He had the kind of swagger that came from knowing his booth was one of the crowd favorites. Behind him stood a row of old tin cans stacked in pyramids, and a set of metal figures on a rail — crudely cut shapes of mole rats, raiders, and one that looked suspiciously like a Brotherhood knight.
Sico stopped in front of it, his lips twitching into a grin. "Well now," he said, tilting his head toward the moving targets, "that brings back memories."
Preston chuckled. "Of the shooting, or the Brotherhood target?"
Sico smirked. "Both."
Sarah folded her arms, eyeing the line of rifles neatly laid out across the counter. "You're not seriously thinking of trying this, are you?"
"Why not?" Sico replied. "Can't let all these folks think their president's just good at speeches."
Preston laughed. "Alright, alright. Let's see if you've still got it."
The booth owner straightened when he recognized who was in front of him. "President Sico," he said, grinning wide enough to show a missing tooth. "Didn't think you'd come to my humble stall tonight. You planning to show the folks how it's done?"
Sico gave a good-natured shrug and reached into his coat pocket. "Five caps, right?" He dropped the small metal disks onto the counter with a clink. "Let's make it interesting."
The man nodded, still grinning. "Tell you what — you clear all the cans and hit every moving target, I'll give you the grand prize." He pointed to a dusty shelf on the side of the booth, where a plush Deathclaw toy sat next to an old Nuka-Cola blaster replica.
Sarah raised an eyebrow, half amused, half incredulous. "A Deathclaw doll? Really?"
The booth owner looked a little defensive. "Hey, people love those. Especially the kids. Hard to make, too — took me weeks to get that stitching right."
Sico chuckled. "Guess I'll just have to win it then."
He picked up one of the BB rifles, testing its weight in his hands. It was lighter than a real weapon, of course, but well-balanced enough to feel satisfying. The stock had been sanded smooth, though faint cracks hinted at how many hands had gripped it before his. He pulled the lever, heard the soft click of a round loading, and brought it up to his shoulder.
The noise of the fair faded a little as he took his stance — muscle memory sliding into place like an old friend.
The booth owner called out, "Alright! Targets ready!"
The cans clinked as they were reset on their shelves. The metal figures began to slide back and forth on their tracks, jerking slightly but moving fast enough to challenge even a decent shot.
A few people gathered nearby to watch — settlers, guards, even a couple of kids clutching sticks of roasted corn. Someone whispered, "That's him — that's the President!" and suddenly, the small crowd began to buzz with anticipation.
Sarah leaned closer to Preston and murmured, "He's really going to show off, isn't he?"
Preston smiled. "He can't help it."
The booth owner raised a hand. "Alright, big man — whenever you're ready."
Sico took a breath, exhaled slowly, and squeezed the trigger.
Pop!
The first can went flying, spinning off the stand with a satisfying clatter. The crowd let out a cheer.
He didn't wait — his hands moved almost instinctively, cycling the lever and firing again. Pop! Pop! Pop!
Three more cans toppled in quick succession. The rhythm of his shots matched his steady breathing — smooth, precise, unhurried.
"Damn," Preston murmured, a grin spreading across his face. "Still got it."
Sarah crossed her arms, pretending to look unimpressed, though there was the faintest flicker of pride in her eyes. "He's showing off, but at least he's good at it."
The cans were cleared now, leaving only the moving figures — jerky silhouettes sliding left and right, pausing unpredictably before darting again.
Sico tracked the first one — a mole rat shape — and hit it dead center. Then another — the raider. Then the Brotherhood knight, painted silver and black, gliding across the far end of the range.
He steadied the rifle, took a breath, and fired.
Pop!
The bullet pinged against the figure's helmet with a metallic ting, sending it spinning on its track.
The crowd erupted in cheers and laughter. A few guards near the edge of the booth clapped and whistled.
The booth owner laughed, shaking his head. "Well, I'll be damned. Haven't seen anyone hit all those in a row since… ever."
Sico lowered the rifle and smiled faintly. "Guess the Brotherhood taught me something after all."
That drew a few chuckles from the settlers.
Sarah stepped forward, hands on her hips. "Alright, sharpshooter. You won your Deathclaw doll. You gonna give it to one of the kids, or keep it on your desk as a trophy?"
Sico looked at the toy sitting on the shelf — its small claws stitched neatly, its fanged mouth oddly cute rather than terrifying — and reached for it.
He turned, scanning the small crowd until his eyes fell on a little girl standing near the front, clutching her mother's hand. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the plush toy.
Sico crouched down slightly, holding it out to her. "Here," he said gently. "Think this fella needs a new home."
The girl hesitated, glancing at her mother, who nodded encouragingly. Then she stepped forward, took the toy carefully, and smiled — a gap-toothed grin that melted even Sarah's usually stoic face.
"Thank you, Mister President," the girl whispered.
Sico smiled back. "You take care of him, alright? He's a tough one — survived the end of the world, just like us."
The girl giggled, hugging the toy close.
Preston chuckled, watching the moment. "You've got a soft spot, boss."
Sico shrugged, straightening. "Someone's got to make sure the next generation believes in something better."
The booth owner gave him a nod of respect. "You ever get tired of politics, I could use you here. You'd make me go broke with how many people you'd draw in."
Sico laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."
They moved on from the booth, the sound of BB pellets and laughter fading behind them. The square stretched wide and alive — music, dancing, lights strung over every street. Children ran past with sparklers in their hands, their laughter carrying through the cooling air.
Sarah walked a step ahead, her gaze flicking over the rooftops and guards as she spoke. "It's good to see this, you know. The people smiling again. You remember what Sanctuary looked like a one year ago?"
Sico nodded slowly. "Yeah. Burned-out shells, half-collapsed homes, and just you, me, Robert, Jenny, Sturges, and a few food you protect. We've come a long way."
Preston's voice softened. "Feels like we've been fighting forever just to get to this point."
Sico looked around, at the lights, the faces, the music — and for a fleeting second, the exhaustion in his chest eased. "And we'll keep fighting," he said. "But today… we celebrate."
They reached another stall — one selling bottles of cider, homemade from the settlers' first orchard harvest. Sico bought three and handed them out. They stood at the edge of the square, watching the dance floor as Magnolia's music floated over the night.
The cider was sweet, faintly tangy, and a little rough on the throat — but it was real. It was theirs.
"You ever think about what's next?" Preston asked quietly after a long sip. "Once all this settles — the Brotherhood, the Republic, the rebuilding. What comes after?"
Sico looked down at the bottle in his hand, the firelight flickering across the glass. "I used to think it would be peace," he said finally. "But peace isn't an ending. It's a choice. One we'll have to make every day."
Sarah nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. "And we'll make it. As long as people like this still believe."
A shout went up near the stage — someone calling for another song, and Magnolia obliged, her laughter echoing softly through the night. The crowd cheered again, feet stamping in rhythm as the music swelled.
Sico glanced toward the direction of the main street, where the lanterns grew thinner and the night seemed to stretch deeper into the horizon. Somewhere beyond that lay the Commonwealth — still dangerous, still fractured, still waiting for its own light.
The night was settling deep over Sanctuary when Sico finally turned his gaze back toward the stage. The lights that hung over it swayed faintly in the evening breeze, glowing like fireflies against the darkening sky. The laughter around the square hadn't died down, but it had softened—mellowed into a hum of comfort, of people who no longer felt the weight of fear on their shoulders. The musicians still played behind Magnolia, their rhythm steady and rich, and her voice—low and warm—floated through the lantern-lit streets like a memory come alive.
Sico took a slow breath and set his half-empty bottle of cider on the edge of a wooden crate. "Alright," he said quietly, looking between Preston and Sarah. "I think it's time."
Preston followed his gaze toward the stage. "You sure you want to break up the music?" he asked, smiling faintly. "Magnolia's got the crowd wrapped around her little finger."
Sico chuckled. "Yeah, but she's had her turn to sing. Now it's mine."
Sarah gave him a small nod, the corners of her mouth lifting. "You've been waiting to say this all day, haven't you?"
"Maybe," he admitted. "A year like this doesn't come around often." He straightened his jacket—a dark, formal piece with the Freemasons insignia sewn carefully into the shoulder—and began walking toward the stage. Preston and Sarah fell into step beside him, parting the crowd as they went.
The people noticed him almost immediately. Whispers rippled through the square, and slowly, conversations hushed. Some turned and smiled; others saluted, or lifted their bottles in silent cheers. The firelight caught on faces—weathered, strong, full of life—and Sico felt a surge of pride swell quietly in his chest.
As they reached the edge of the stage, Magnolia caught sight of them. She was just finishing a verse, her voice lingering on the last note like silk sliding through air. She gave a knowing smile mid-song and stepped back from the microphone with grace. When the applause rolled through the square again, she raised a hand to quiet it gently.
"Alright, my lovelies," she said, her tone playful yet reverent, "I think I've kept you all in my spell long enough. Because tonight, we've got someone else who deserves this spotlight far more than me."
A murmur went through the crowd. Sico paused at the bottom of the wooden steps as Magnolia looked toward him, the warm glow from the lanterns reflecting in her eyes.
"Ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters of the Freemasons Republic," she said, her voice soft but clear, "please welcome the man who dreamed this all into being—the man who built our Republic from nothing but dust and courage. President Sico."
The applause that followed wasn't loud at first—it was deep. A rising swell of clapping, cheers, whistles, and stomps on the wooden floorboards that made the air itself tremble. Sico waited a moment before stepping up, his boots echoing softly on the planks. Magnolia met him halfway, leaning close enough to whisper with a wink, "They're all yours now, Mr. President."
Sico smiled back. "You've warmed them up nicely."
"Always do."
With that, she slipped away, her red dress catching the lamplight as she descended the stage steps and vanished into the crowd. The musicians stayed, standing quietly behind Sico as he approached the microphone. The air held a subtle weight now—the kind that always came before something important.
He looked out over the sea of faces before him. People filled every inch of the square—families with children perched on shoulders, farmers still in their work clothes, guards with rifles slung casually over their backs, scientists and engineers from the Institute mingled among the settlers. They were all here. All the fragments of the world that had been broken, now standing together.
Sico rested both hands on the podium. For a moment, he didn't speak. He just looked at them. The silence that fell wasn't empty—it was reverent. The kind of silence that meant people were ready to listen.
Then, he began.
"Brothers and sisters of the Republic," he said, his voice low but carrying clearly across the square. "A year ago today, this land was still haunted."
He paused, glancing toward the northern hill where the remnants of an old rusted sign still stood—a relic from before the war. "Sanctuary wasn't a home then. It was a memory of one. Broken houses, cracked roads, and ghosts that wouldn't let go. But look at it now."
He raised his hand, gesturing out toward the crowd, the lights, the rebuilt homes glowing warmly against the night. "Look at you."
The murmurs began again—soft, proud.
"You took the ruins of the old world and made something better," he continued. "You rebuilt with your hands, you defended with your hearts, and you believed when there was no reason to. That belief—your faith in one another—is what gave birth to this Republic. It's what makes tonight our first Founding Day."
A cheer rippled through the crowd, growing stronger as it spread. The words "Founding Day" echoed from one end of the square to the other, shouted by children and repeated by their parents.
Sico let the sound live for a few seconds before lifting his hand for calm. "We call it Founding Day because it marks more than a date. It marks a promise. A promise that the mistakes of the old world will not define us. That the wars, the greed, and the divisions that tore humanity apart will never take root here again."
He looked toward Sarah and Preston near the edge of the stage, then back to the people. "This Republic isn't just a government. It's a family. Built on trust. On unity. On the idea that freedom isn't given—it's earned, and defended, and shared."
The flickering lantern light made his face seem both fierce and warm, his eyes catching the reflection of the fires that burned along the square's perimeter.
"Many of you remember the nights when it wasn't this way," Sico said, his tone softening. "When we fought tooth and nail against raiders, mutants, and men who thought power meant control. When the Brotherhood of Steel came to our door and demanded submission. When we had to decide whether we'd live free… or die trying."
He paused. The crowd had gone still again. Even the band behind him was silent now.
"We chose freedom," he said simply. "And because of that choice, we are here tonight."
He leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping the podium. "But I'll be honest with you—I didn't do this alone. None of us did. Sanctuary stands because of every person who picked up a hammer, every soldier who stood watch at night, every scientist who worked by candlelight to make water clean again. You all built this Republic. You are the Freemasons."
The cheers came again, louder this time. Some raised their bottles of cider; others chanted "Freemasons! Freemasons!" in unison, their voices rolling through the town like thunder.
Sico waited again, letting the energy surge before continuing. "I look at you now, and I see the future we dreamed of when we were still fighting in the dark. I see children who will grow up not knowing the sound of gunfire in the streets. I see families who will never go hungry again. I see scientists rebuilding what the old world destroyed. And I see soldiers who fight not for conquest—but for protection, for peace."
He drew a long breath and looked up at the stars that stretched endless above the settlement. "Peace," he said quietly. "That's what we've earned. But peace is fragile. It doesn't come from walls or weapons—it comes from the choices we make every day. From how we treat one another. From how we forgive, and rebuild, and hold fast to the idea that we are one people now."
Sarah's eyes softened as she watched him speak. Preston stood straight-backed beside her, pride unmistakable on his face. Around them, settlers wiped tears from their eyes, clasped hands, or simply stood in silence, faces lit by lanternlight and hope.
Sico continued, his voice low but steady. "We will face new challenges. The Brotherhood still marches. Raiders still lurk. And the wasteland… it still remembers what it was. But so do we. We remember what humanity can be. We've learned that the only way forward is together. No more empires. No more tyrants. Just a Republic built by the people—for the people."
Applause broke out again, scattered at first, then swelling until it filled every corner of the square. Sico raised his hand again, smiling faintly as the noise subsided.
"So tonight," he said, "we celebrate. Not because our fight is over, but because we're still here to keep fighting. Because we've proven that hope can survive the end of the world."
He paused then, the emotion in his voice raw and unguarded. "And to those we've lost along the way— to every Freemason who gave their life to protect this dream—this night belongs to you, too."
A hush fell once more. Some people bowed their heads; others simply looked up toward the stars. The air seemed to hold its breath.
Sico's gaze moved over the crowd slowly, resting on faces that had known both hardship and healing. "They're still with us," he said softly. "Every nail we hammer, every wall we raise, every light that shines tonight—that's their legacy."
He stepped back from the podium slightly, letting his next words ring clearly.
"So long as Sanctuary stands… so long as one child laughs under these lights… the Freemasons Republic will endure."
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, as if the world itself exhaled, the crowd erupted.
The cheers were deafening this time—raw, unrestrained joy. Flags waved high; bottles clinked; people hugged one another, crying, laughing, shouting. Even the guards on the rooftops joined in, raising their rifles skyward in salute.
Preston turned to Sarah, his voice nearly lost in the noise. "He's really something, isn't he?"
Sarah's expression was calm but proud. "He's what they needed," she said quietly. "What we needed."
Sico stood for a moment longer, soaking it in—the faces, the light, the sound of his people. Then he raised his hand one last time.
"Tonight," he shouted over the crowd, "we dance, we sing, we remember—and tomorrow, we keep building!"
The cheers redoubled. The band struck up a triumphant tune, the kind that made your heart pound and your spirit lift. Magnolia reappeared at the edge of the stage, her grin wide as she called out, "You heard the man! Let's make this Founding Day one to remember!"
Music filled the air again—bright, hopeful, unstoppable.
Sico stepped down from the stage to join his friends, the crowd parting around him in waves of laughter and applause. Sarah clapped him on the shoulder. "Nice speech, Mr. President."
Preston laughed. "You even got me tearing up there for a second."
Sico smiled, looking out over the sea of people now dancing under the stars. "You think they'll remember this night?"
Sarah looked around at the glow of lanterns, the music, the joy that refused to die. "They'll remember," she said softly. "Because this… this is the beginning of everything."
The square still pulsed with life long after the last echoes of Sico's voice had faded into the night. The music had returned in full force — Magnolia's smooth voice rolling over the melody of guitars and soft drums, children weaving between legs as laughter mingled with song. The lanterns glowed like small suns, and every flicker of light seemed to dance in time with the heartbeat of the Republic itself.
Sico walked slowly through the crowd, the energy washing over him like a warm tide. Every few steps someone stopped him — a farmer offering thanks, a soldier saluting sharply, a settler clutching his hand and saying how the speech reminded them of why they'd stayed when times were hardest. Each face carried its own story, its own thread in the tapestry they'd been weaving together since that first, fragile day of the Freemasons Republic.
Sarah walked beside him, hands tucked into her coat pockets, scanning the crowd with the habitual sharpness of a commander who never really stopped working. Preston lingered just behind, trading the occasional smile or handshake with those who recognized him. The three of them had been through enough together that words weren't always needed. Sometimes just a glance, a nod, said everything.
Then, through the blur of faces and light, Sico saw her — Piper Wright, striding toward them with that familiar spark in her eyes and a half-folded notepad in her hand. Her trench coat fluttered around her knees as she moved, her press badge pinned proudly on her lapel beside a small Freemasons insignia. The glow from the lanterns caught the ink smudges on her fingers and the faint, hurried smile tugging at her mouth.
"Figures I'd find you in the middle of all this," she called out as she got close, her voice rising above the music.
Sico turned, a tired but warm grin tugging at his lips. "Piper. You just missed your cue to dance."
"Yeah, yeah," she said, waving that off with a flick of her hand as she came to a stop in front of him. "I'll dance when I'm done working. But right now, I've got something better in mind."
Preston chuckled. "Does this involve another one of your 'urgent' interviews?"
Piper shot him a look, though her grin betrayed the tease. "You say that like I haven't made half this Republic care about you lot."
Sarah smirked slightly. "Oh, you have. Every time I walk into a command post, there's someone quoting one of your stories like scripture."
Piper pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. "Music to my ears. But tonight's story —" she turned back to Sico, eyes gleaming — "this one's big. Founding Day, one year of the Republic, and a speech that'll go down in history. I want a few words from you, Mr. President. Straight from the man himself."
Sico raised an eyebrow. "You didn't get enough from the speech?"
"Oh, that's for the crowd," Piper said, already scribbling something quick on her notepad. "But I want something personal. Something for the paper — and for the morning broadcast on Freemasons Radio. People like to hear the real you, not just the leader on the podium."
Preston chuckled. "She's not gonna leave until you give her what she wants."
Sico sighed good-naturedly and gestured toward the quieter edge of the square, where the noise of the music softened into the rustling of leaves. "Alright then, Ms. Wright. Let's talk."
Piper grinned victoriously. "Knew you'd see sense."
They walked a few paces away from the crowd until they reached one of the wooden benches near the lantern posts. From here, they could still see the square — the swirl of dancing figures, the glow of the bonfire, the silhouettes of guards along the rooftops. But it felt distant, like watching a memory being written in real time.
Piper set her notepad on her knee, flipped a few pages back, and clicked her pen. "Alright, Sico," she began, her voice softer now but still sharp with curiosity. "You said earlier that the Republic is built on trust — on people believing in one another again. When you look around tonight, do you feel like that belief's strong enough to last?"
Sico leaned back slightly, his eyes drifting toward the square. The light played across his face — gold, orange, a hint of smoke. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I do. But belief isn't something you build once and forget about. You've got to feed it — like a fire. Every day. Remind people what they're part of. Remind them why they fought in the first place."
He looked back at her, his expression thoughtful. "When we started, this wasn't supposed to be a nation. It was just a safe place. Sanctuary — that's all we wanted. A home. But when people saw what we built, they wanted to be part of it. They saw something worth protecting."
Piper's pen scratched softly against the paper. "And do you think the Freemasons Republic has become what you imagined back then?"
Sico gave a faint laugh, shaking his head. "No. It's better. Harder, too — but better. I never imagined we'd have our own power grid again, or clean water, or trade routes that stretch from Lexington to the coast. I thought I was just keeping people alive. Turns out, they were building something to live for."
Piper's eyes flicked up from her notes, a small, genuine smile forming. "That's gonna make a great quote."
Sarah, standing a few feet away, crossed her arms with a smirk. "Of course it is. She'll put that on every wall in the capital if she could."
"Don't tempt me," Piper said with mock seriousness. Then, lowering her voice a little, she leaned closer. "What about you personally, Sico? You've carried this whole thing on your back since the start. Now that you've made it through the first year… what's keeping you going?"
That question hung in the air for a moment — not heavy, but honest.
Sico exhaled slowly, the sound of the music fading a little as his thoughts turned inward. "Hope," he said after a beat. "And responsibility. You can't build something like this and walk away from it. Every face out there —" he gestured toward the crowd "— that's a reason to keep going. And every grave we've buried is a reminder of why we can't stop."
Piper watched him closely, her pen still. "You talk about hope like it's something alive."
"It is," he said. "It's the one thing that survived the bombs."
For a moment, none of them spoke. The square seemed quieter here — the air thick with the scent of wood smoke and the faint hum of distant laughter. Fireworks popped again over the northern hill, casting fleeting bursts of color across the sky.
Then Piper broke the silence. "You know," she said, her tone softening, "a lot of people out there owe their lives to what you've built. But they don't just see you as a leader anymore. They see you as a symbol — like what the Minutemen used to be, but stronger. You ever think about that? What it means?"
Sico glanced down, a small, almost weary smile tugging at his mouth. "Yeah. I think about it too much, sometimes. But I don't want them to see a symbol. I want them to see themselves. Because if all this dies with me, then we've failed."
Preston nodded behind him, his voice steady. "That's why people follow you, boss. You never made it about power. You made it about purpose."
Piper's pen moved again, the scratch of it blending with the rustle of the wind. "Purpose," she repeated. "That's what I'll call the headline."
Sico chuckled. "Catchy."
She grinned. "And it'll sound even better on air tomorrow. I'll splice your words between the Founding Day broadcast. People'll wake up to your voice and know what this Republic stands for."
Sarah quirked an eyebrow. "You sure that's not too much hero worship for one morning?"
Piper laughed. "Please, people love a good speech. And a president who can shoot cans off a rail like a legend? That's good radio."
Sico shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You just want to make sure your story beats everyone else's."
"You know me too well," Piper said. Then she hesitated, her expression softening. "But seriously… thank you. For giving me something worth writing about again. When I left Diamond City, I thought journalism was dead. Now it's alive again — just like everything else."
"You kept the truth alive when nobody else dared," Sico said. "That's worth more than you think."
That earned a faint blush from her, though she quickly hid it behind her notebook. "Alright, that's enough flattery. I'm supposed to be the one writing the quotes, remember?"
Preston chuckled. "Looks like the reporter just got reported."
Sarah gave him a sideways glance. "Don't start."
They all laughed quietly, the sound mingling with the fading notes of Magnolia's song. For a brief moment, it felt like time slowed — like the world outside the walls of Sanctuary didn't exist. Just them, the glow of the lanterns, and the sense that maybe, just maybe, they'd built something strong enough to last.
Piper closed her notebook and slid the pen behind her ear. "Alright, Mr. President. I've got what I need. Expect to hear your own voice over breakfast tomorrow."
Sico grinned faintly. "I'll make sure to tune in."
She started to step away, then turned back. "Oh — and don't think you're off the hook for another interview next month. The people are gonna want updates."
"Updates?" Sarah echoed, pretending to groan. "You're relentless."
"Part of the job," Piper said with a wink. "Good night, everyone."
As she walked back toward the square, her coat flaring behind her, the sound of the crowd rose again — laughter, cheers, music, life. Sico watched her go, the corners of his mouth curling in quiet satisfaction.
"She's good for the Republic," Preston said after a moment.
"She's good for the truth," Sico replied. "And the Republic needs that more than anything."
Sarah glanced toward the horizon, where faint clouds drifted under the stars. "Let's hope the world gives us time to keep this truth alive."
Sico followed her gaze, his expression thoughtful. The fireworks painted fleeting colors across the night sky — bright, beautiful, and gone in an instant. "We'll make the time," he said softly. "That's our job now."
The morning broke gently over Sanctuary — pale gold spilling through a thin mist that clung to the treetops and rooftops like a veil. The echoes of the previous night's celebration still lingered in the air: bits of confetti caught in the grass, empty cider bottles left on railings, the faint smell of smoke and roasted food drifting from the square. The town slept lighter than usual, its dreams full of music, laughter, and the steady rhythm of hope.
But as the first rays of sunlight touched the cobblestone streets, a different kind of voice began to rise — carried not by song or speech this time, but by the hum of the Freemasons Radio Network.
A crackle. Then a familiar tone. Then Piper Wright's voice filled the Republic.
"Good morning, Freemasons Republic. This is Piper Wright, coming to you live from the Sanctuary broadcasting hall. If you're tuning in from Lexington, Quincy, or the coastal outposts — good morning to you too. I hope your Founding Day was one for the history books, because today, we make sure it's written there."
Her voice was smooth but vibrant, the same blend of warmth and fire that made people stop what they were doing and listen. A soft tune played behind her — Magnolia's song from the night before, faint and nostalgic.
"Last night, under lanterns and stars, President Sico addressed the people of Sanctuary and beyond. It wasn't just a speech — it was a moment. A reminder that hope didn't die with the bombs, that unity isn't just a word, and that the Republic we've built together is more than walls and laws. It's a heartbeat."
She paused, letting that sink in. Then the sound shifted — the faint hiss of a recorded feed playing back.
Sico's voice came through next, calm and clear, carried over the airwaves like a promise:
"We call it Founding Day because it marks more than a date. It marks a promise — that the mistakes of the old world will not define us. That the wars, the greed, and the divisions that tore humanity apart will never take root here again.
This Republic isn't just a government. It's a family. Built on trust. On unity. On the idea that freedom isn't given — it's earned, and defended, and shared."
Across the Republic, people stopped what they were doing.
In Sanctuary's market square, the early risers — farmers and traders hauling carts of vegetables and tools — froze mid-step when the broadcast echoed from the speakers mounted on the light posts.
"Turn it up," someone said, and a mechanic in a grease-streaked jacket cranked the old radio higher.
The sound of Sico's voice rolled across the square like sunlight warming cold metal. A little boy, sitting on the edge of a wagon, swung his legs and listened wide-eyed. His mother smiled faintly, brushing dust from his hair.
"That's the man who built all this," she whispered.
"Sounds like he's talking right to us," the boy murmured, as if afraid to break the spell.
A few stalls over, an elderly couple stood holding hands. The man — one of the original settlers — had tears in his eyes. "You remember what it was like before?" he said softly.
His wife nodded. "I remember hiding in cellars. Now we sell tomatoes in peace. That's what he gave us."
The hum of quiet pride rippled through the square. Men and women who once fought in the mud now smiled as they worked, hammering nails into new stalls, mending fences, knowing their lives — finally — had meaning again.
Down in the Commonwealth's southern border, where the Freemasons patrols had been rebuilding a trade post near Quincy, a squad of soldiers sat around a portable radio while eating their morning rations.
"Freemasons Radio's live," said Corporal Hall, turning the dial. Static gave way to Sico's voice again:
"Peace is fragile. It doesn't come from walls or weapons — it comes from the choices we make every day. From how we treat one another. From how we forgive, rebuild, and hold fast to the idea that we are one people now."
Private Luna leaned back, staring at the sky. "You ever think we'd live to hear words like that again?"
Hall smirked, shaking his head. "Back when I was with the Minutemen? No chance. Every day felt like the end of the world."
"Feels different now," Luna said. "Feels like the beginning."
Another soldier chuckled quietly. "You think the Brotherhood's tuning in to this too?"
That drew a murmur around the camp. The Brotherhood of Steel had always listened — whether they admitted it or not.
And they were.
High in the ruins of an old radio tower north of Cambridge, a Brotherhood scribe hunched over a terminal, adjusting the dials. The faint voice of Piper came through the static, followed by Sico's again.
Knight-Sergeant Reddin entered, her power armor whirring softly as she approached. "Report."
The scribe hesitated. "They've begun their Founding Day broadcast, ma'am. It's… it's reaching as far as the coast."
Reddin's visor turned toward the faint sound of Sico's speech playing through the console speaker. She listened quietly, arms folded.
"We remember what humanity can be. We've learned that the only way forward is together. No more empires. No more tyrants. Just a Republic built by the people — for the people."
Reddin's jaw tightened. "Turn it off."
"But ma'am—"
"I said off."
The radio clicked silent. The only sound left was the faint hum of her armor's core.
She stared out the cracked window toward the horizon, where the sunlight glinted over Sanctuary's distant hills. "The man's clever," she muttered. "He's not building an army — he's building belief."
The scribe swallowed. "Some of the lower ranks have… been listening to his speeches. They say he talks about rebuilding the world. About peace. Some of them—"
"Some of them forget their oaths," Reddin finished coldly. "Hope is a dangerous weapon. More dangerous than a laser rifle in the right hands."
She turned sharply, boots thudding against the metal floor. "Send word to Prydwen. The Elder will want to know what the Republic's preaching now."
At the Brotherhood's Prydwen, Elder Maxson stood in his tent, the morning light bleeding through the canvas as he listened to the same broadcast from a captured frequency.
He said nothing at first — just listened. The voice that came through wasn't one of defiance or propaganda. It was calm. Certain.
"We will face new challenges. The Brotherhood still marches. Raiders still lurk. And the wasteland… it still remembers what it was. But so do we."
Maxson's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes. He turned to Paladin Brandis, who stood at attention.
"He's naming us now," Maxson said quietly.
Brandis nodded. "He's drawing lines, sir. Not battle lines — ideological ones."
Maxson folded his arms. "He's positioning himself as the world's savior — the man who resurrected civilization. The settlers will follow that. Even some of ours might question who truly represents the future."
Brandis hesitated. "With respect, Elder… he's not wrong about one thing. The world is changing. Maybe the people—"
Maxson's glare silenced him. "Enough. Our mission hasn't changed. Technology must be preserved, and control maintained. If his Republic spreads further north, he'll challenge that control."
He turned toward the open flap of the tent, looking out over the Brotherhood's encampment — rows of armored soldiers, vertibirds gleaming in the light.
"Prepare the reconnaissance teams," he said. "I want constant surveillance on Sanctuary and its outposts. If they expand, we'll know."
Brandis hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, sir."
As Maxson's silhouette darkened against the dawn, Sico's final words echoed faintly from the radio before being shut off:
"So long as Sanctuary stands… the Freemasons Republic will endure."
Maxson's hand hovered over the switch. Then, almost to himself, he muttered, "We'll see."
Far away in Diamond City, the bustling streets were unusually quiet for morning. Most of the city's traders and residents stood clustered near the open radio booth Piper used to broadcast from — though today, she was live from Sanctuary. Her assistant, a bright-eyed young woman named Carrie, handled the transmission feed.
"Think she's nervous?" one of the guards asked.
Carrie smirked. "It's Piper. She was probably born with a pen in one hand and a megaphone in the other."
From the loudspeakers above, Sico's voice came through again — this time one of the shorter lines Piper had recorded after the speech:
"You can't build something like this and walk away from it. Every face out there — that's a reason to keep going. And every grave we've buried is a reminder of why we can't stop."
The market fell into a hush. Even the usual bartering quieted.
In the front row, a group of scavengers from Goodneighbor listened with crossed arms. One of them — a scarred man named Juno — muttered, "Damn. Almost makes a guy think he could turn his life around."
A woman beside him snorted. "You mean trade your shotgun for a shovel?"
Juno cracked a smile. "Maybe both. You never know when the old world'll bite back."
The others laughed, but not unkindly. Because deep down, they all felt it — the spark that Sico's words carried. It wasn't just talk. It was a mirror.
In the far east, at the coastal settlement of Salem, the radio played softly inside the lighthouse. The sea crashed below, gulls wheeling through the mist. A woman in a patched military coat stood beside the console, staring out the window while Sico's speech rolled faintly behind her.
"We've proven that hope can survive the end of the world."
Her name was Captain Norah Haines — once a raider lieutenant, now the Republic's coastal defense commander. She smiled faintly. "You really know how to pick your words, Sico," she murmured. "You keep talking like that, and we'll have to build a whole new world just to live up to them."
She turned to her second-in-command. "Record this feed. Every settlement under my watch gets a copy before nightfall. Let them remember why we fight."
Back in Sanctuary, the broadcast wound toward its end. Piper's voice came through one last time — bright, sincere, carrying the hope of a thousand voices with it.
"So, there you have it, folks. From the words of our president himself, from the heart of our Republic. The Freemasons stand not on what we've taken — but on what we've built. And if you're out there listening, whether you're one of us or just a drifter passing through — remember this: you're part of the same story. The one where humanity decided to start over."
She paused, smiling into the microphone though no one could see it.
"This is Piper Wright, signing off — for truth, for hope, and for the Republic."
The music swelled one last time, the same melody from the night before — the song that had started it all.
Across the Republic, life slowly resumed. Farmers went back to their fields, soldiers to their posts, engineers to their tools. But everything felt a little lighter. The air carried something invisible — not the smoke of war, but the promise of peace.
________________________________________________
• 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:-