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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.
The morning sun over Sanctuary had risen high by the time the dust from the north road began to move — a faint column that shimmered in the light, tracing the slow approach of a single traveler. From a distance, he looked like any other mercenary making his way across the heartland of the Commonwealth: a broad-shouldered man in a patched leather coat, carrying a rifle wrapped in cloth and a pack slung tight against his back. Nothing about him stood out. And that was exactly the point.
Paladin Danse — though that name could no longer pass his lips here — had shed everything that once marked him as Brotherhood. The glint of polished armor, the authority in his stride, even the clipped precision in his speech — all of it buried beneath the persona he now wore like second skin. The Commonwealth had seen countless drifters and mercenaries, but few with eyes as sharp, movements as deliberate, and silence as heavy as his.
He paused near the edge of the rebuilt bridge that crossed into Sanctuary's perimeter, letting his gaze travel over what lay ahead.
Stone-paved streets replaced the old cracked asphalt. Guard towers lined the perimeter — manned not by ragtag militia but trained soldiers in dark coats bearing the insignia of the Republic. Overhead, the faint hum of drones drifted in the air — small, sleek machines that moved with the grace of birds, scanning fields and rooftops. Beyond them, the town itself pulsed with life: merchants calling from wooden stalls, mechanics hauling spare parts, farmers unloading crates of crops. Children ran through the open plaza near the new radio tower, laughing as they chased each other beneath banners strung with the Freemasons symbol — a compass and square over a rising sun.
The place looked… alive. Too alive.
Danse adjusted the strap of his rifle and started walking again. His boots met the cobblestone with a muted thud — steady, unhurried. A passing guard nodded at him.
"Morning, traveler. You here for the Founding Week?"
Danse gave a small, practiced smile. "Just passing through. Looking for work."
The guard grinned. "You came to the right place, friend. Half the Republic's hiring. Try the Freemasons HQ near the center — they'll point you where you need to go."
"Appreciate it," Danse said, his voice low, almost gravelly now. He'd been practicing it for days — rougher, older, unremarkable.
As he moved deeper into Sanctuary, he couldn't help but study every detail — the patrol rotations, the power grid conduits running beneath the streets, the hidden cameras on light posts, the subtle lines of wiring that connected the outer walls to the new communications tower. It was all far more advanced than the Brotherhood's last report had suggested. The Republic had grown fast — too fast.
And somewhere inside all of it was what Elder Maxson wanted: information.
Danse's assignment had been simple on paper — infiltrate, observe, report. But as always, simplicity on paper hid complexity in practice. His real objectives were fourfold:
– Identify who ran the Freemasons Radio Network and Radio of Freedom.
– Determine the infrastructure maintaining it — engineers, technicians, relay stations, backups.
– Locate the primary broadcast transmitter.
– Assess whether its systems could be compromised or seized should the Brotherhood decide to move.
But to do that, he'd need trust. And trust here didn't come easily.
He reached the main square — the heart of Sanctuary — and paused. In the distance stood the Freemasons HQ, a tall, fortified structure built from the remains of pre-war government buildings and steel salvaged from the old military checkpoints. Its flag flew high, the white and blue of the Republic fluttering against the sunlight. And near the entrance, a crowd was gathered — civilians, soldiers, and engineers moving in and out with an energy that reminded him less of a government office and more of a growing capital.
A voice drew his attention.
"You look new, friend. Haven't seen that face around here before."
Danse turned slightly. A man in his mid-thirties approached, his hands oil-stained and his clothes covered in dust. He wore a Freemasons worker badge around his neck.
"Just got in from the north," Danse said evenly. "Heard there's work for folks with steady hands and quiet habits."
The man chuckled. "You sound like you've done this before."
"Long time ago," Danse replied, letting just enough vagueness hang in the air.
"Well, you're in luck," the man said, wiping his hands. "Name's Reed. I help maintain the backup generators for the radio network — that big tower you see over there? That's ours. We always need tech hands and guards. You any good with circuitry or defense systems?"
Danse tilted his head. "A little of both."
Reed's eyes lit up. "Perfect. We just lost two mechanics to the Quincy expansion. Come by the tower this afternoon — I'll vouch for you."
Danse gave a slow nod, concealing the flicker of calculation in his eyes. "I'll be there."
As Reed walked off, Danse stood for a moment, looking up at the tower — tall, silver, humming faintly with power. It wasn't just a radio transmitter. It was a symbol. A beacon, connecting every settlement of the Republic. And if what he'd heard from the Brotherhood analysts was true, it was also what made Sico's influence unstoppable.
Destroy the tower, and the Republic's unity would fracture. Control it, and the Brotherhood could broadcast their own message — reshape the Commonwealth's truth itself.
But that was a mission for another day. First, he needed to get inside.
He spent the rest of the morning walking the town, quietly observing. Sanctuary had a rhythm — markets opened at eight, patrols shifted every six hours, Freemasons officers made rounds twice daily. The Republic's infrastructure ran on precision, but not military rigidity. There was freedom here — an odd kind of organized chaos. And everywhere, there were signs of growth.
Children learning from teachers in makeshift schools. Drones delivering mail between buildings. Soldiers not marching — but talking, laughing, living among the civilians.
It was… unsettling.
In the Brotherhood, the line between soldier and civilian was iron. Here, it blurred. Maybe that was why people trusted Sico.
As afternoon came, Danse found himself near the radio tower again. The doors were guarded but not sealed. Reed waved him through.
"Right on time," Reed said. "Boss is upstairs — you'll want to meet her."
They ascended the steel staircase that wound up the tower's side. The air grew warmer with each level, filled with the faint buzz of transmitters and the hum of servers.
The control room was smaller than Danse expected — clean, orderly, humming with life. On one side stood a woman with cropped brown hair, her sleeves rolled to the elbow as she leaned over a console. Her voice carried easily over the low whir of machines.
"Boost the signal gain on relay twelve. I want full coverage to Quincy before dusk."
Reed nodded toward her. "That's Maren. Head of the Freemasons Communications Division. If there's anyone who can tell you how this network works, it's her."
Maren turned, her gaze sharp but not unkind. "You're the new tech?"
Danse nodded. "Name's Daniel."
"Daniel what?"
"Just Daniel."
She studied him for a moment — not suspiciously, but with the easy wariness of someone used to strangers. "Fine. You've got experience?"
"Enough to keep your lights on," he replied.
That earned him the faintest smile. "Alright then, Daniel. We're running the main transmitter on the west frequency. It powers the Freemasons Radio Network — the same one Piper Wright uses for her morning broadcasts. You'll be shadowing Reed for the first few days. After that, we'll see if you're as good as you say."
Danse stepped closer, his eyes scanning the console without seeming to. "Looks stable. You're using pre-war tech?"
Maren raised a brow. "Partly. The mainframe's ours — built from Institute schematics. You know your hardware, huh?"
He shrugged. "Spent some time fixing old relay towers before."
"Then you'll fit right in."
As she turned back to her work, Danse's gaze lingered on the schematics pinned to the wall. Power routes, transmitter coordinates, encryption keys. The Brotherhood would kill for this data.
He forced his eyes away and got to work beside Reed. They spent hours checking circuits, tightening cables, and maintaining power cells. Every motion was familiar — the hum of fusion relays, the soft click of diagnostic readouts. Yet, here in the Republic's heart, it felt different. Cleaner. Purposeful.
As dusk settled, the tower's lights blinked to life. The broadcast began again — Piper's evening program, "The Republic Hour." Her voice filled the control room, soft and resolute:
"Tonight we remember those who built the Republic with their hands — the farmers, the soldiers, the dreamers who believed in something better. To them, we dedicate this light, shining across every settlement, reminding us that the world didn't end. It just began again."
Reed leaned against the railing, smiling faintly. "Never gets old, huh? The way she says it — like she means it."
Danse didn't answer. He just looked out the window, where Sanctuary's lights spread across the valley like stars — each one a piece of the new world he was supposed to dissect and report on.
But for the first time since leaving the Prydwen, he felt something strange stir beneath the weight of his orders.
Doubt.
Because standing here, amid the hum of progress and the quiet faith of the people, he couldn't shake the feeling that maybe — just maybe — the Brotherhood had already lost this war. Not through defeat in battle, but through irrelevance.
The Republic didn't need power armor to command loyalty. It had something stronger.
Hope.
As the radio waves carried Piper's voice into the night, Danse looked down at his gloved hands — once symbols of duty, now instruments of deception. He wondered, not for the first time, which side of history he was really on.
The afternoon light slanted low across the windows of the Freemasons Headquarters, gilding the stone walls and polished metal with a warm, amber hue. From outside, the rhythmic hum of life in Sanctuary reached faintly through the glass — footsteps in the corridors, muffled conversations, the far-off thrum of engines from the Republic convoys. Inside, though, the air was quieter. Papers rustled softly beneath Sico's hand as he worked through another stack of reports, his pen scratching steadily against the page.
He sat behind a broad oak desk that had once belonged to a pre-war mayor, its surface covered with neat stacks of documents, survey maps, requisition lists, and military drafts. A faint trace of coffee clung to the air beside the half-empty mug at his elbow — long since cooled, forgotten hours ago. His brow furrowed slightly as he flipped another page, scanning the latest reconstruction estimates from the northern settlements.
Freemasons HQ, had grown into the nerve center of a republic. And with that growth came a tide of bureaucracy. Each form he signed, each request he approved, each document he reviewed represented a piece of the future they were building. Yet, in moments like this — surrounded by paperwork and silence — it felt distant, abstract.
He leaned back in his chair for a moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The last few days had been relentless. The one-year anniversary of the Republic's founding was only three days away, and every division was pushing double shifts. The square was being decorated, banners printed, speeches drafted. Sanctuary would host leaders, engineers, and settlers from all across the Commonwealth. It was supposed to be a celebration — a symbol of unity, of progress. But Sico knew better than to mistake peace for safety.
The Republic's enemies hadn't vanished — they'd just gone quiet. And quiet, in his experience, was the most dangerous sound of all.
The office door opened with a soft creak.
"Sir," came a familiar voice — calm, measured, but carrying a faint urgency.
Sico looked up. Preston Garvey stood in the doorway, hat in hand, his expression tight. Beside him was Sarah Lyons, her posture sharp as ever in her officer's coat, eyes already set with the grim focus that came before bad news.
He straightened, setting down his pen. "Preston. Sarah."
They stepped in, closing the door behind them. Sarah was the first to speak. "We've got a situation from the north patrol, President. It's not immediate, but it's serious."
Sico's gaze narrowed slightly. "Go on."
Preston exchanged a brief glance with Sarah, then pulled a folded map from his satchel and spread it across the desk. "Patrol Charlie-Three reported a horde of feral ghouls about fifteen miles north of Sanctuary." He pointed at a marked circle on the map. "They estimate… a hundred, maybe two hundred of them."
Sico's fingers paused on the edge of the map. The numbers hit him like a cold current. "Two hundred?"
Preston nodded grimly. "That's what the scouts are saying. They're scattered right now, moving slow, but if they start migrating south, Sanctuary could be in danger within a few days."
Sarah crossed her arms, leaning forward slightly. "The patrol didn't engage. They were outnumbered and too far from reinforcements. But if that horde gets closer to our perimeter, we'll have a real problem. Sanctuary's defenses are solid, but if they hit in numbers that high, even the outer turrets could get overwhelmed."
Sico's eyes stayed on the map, his expression unreadable. "What's the terrain like between them and us?"
Preston replied, "Mostly open fields and woodland, sir. They'd have to pass the northern ridges near Old County Road. It gives us a chance to intercept, if we act fast."
Sico tapped his finger against the paper thoughtfully. "And the weather?"
"Clear skies, mild winds," Sarah said. "If we move tonight or early tomorrow, visibility will be on our side."
Silence hung for a moment — the kind of silence that always followed the weighing of lives against time.
Finally, Sico rose from his chair. The motion was calm, deliberate. "We'll intercept them before they get within five miles of Sanctuary. I won't risk them breaching civilian territory."
Preston gave a firm nod. "Agreed. I can mobilize a strike team within the hour."
The room held its breath for a moment after Preston's words. The hum of the overhead lights seemed louder somehow, the faint clatter of machinery from outside the window filling the silence like an echo of distant thunder. Sico's gaze lingered on the map on the small, trembling circle that marked the horde's position before he finally exhaled, slow and steady.
He straightened, the faint creak of his chair the only sound breaking the stillness. His voice, when it came, was calm — but edged with purpose.
"Preston," he said, his tone firm but measured, "I want a convoy ready within two hours. Five Humvees that fully armed and eight trucks for troop transport and supply. No exceptions on maintenance checks. I want those engines running clean before we roll."
Preston nodded sharply. "Understood, sir. I'll head down to the motor yard immediately."
Sico turned to Sarah, who had already begun mentally tallying resources before he even spoke. "Sarah — I want two hundred soldiers mobilized from Sanctuary and the western garrison. Split them into four platoons code named Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta. Five men in Power Armor with your choice of operators as they'll lead the front assault. Make sure they've got fusion cores charged to full."
Sarah gave a curt nod, her jaw tightening with quiet resolve. "Yes, sir. I'll have Captain Raines pull the Power Armor suits from Bay Two and assign the best rifle teams for support. ETA for full readiness in ninety minutes, tops."
Sico's eyes flicked between them, his tone steady, deliberate with the voice of command honed by battle and rebuilt by leadership. "Good. I'll be joining the operation myself."
Both Preston and Sarah looked up sharply.
Preston frowned. "You're going out there?"
"I am," Sico replied without hesitation. "If two hundred ghouls are heading for Sanctuary, then this isn't just another cleanup operation, it's a statement. The Republic's leader doesn't send men where he won't go himself."
Sarah's expression softened — not in disagreement, but in concern. "Sir, it's risky. We can handle this. You've got enough on your desk without—"
Sico raised a hand, cutting her off gently. "You're right. But this isn't about me — it's about morale. If the soldiers see that I'll stand with them when the dead come crawling from the dark, they'll fight with twice the heart. And that's what we'll need if the Brotherhood decides to move again."
Preston exhaled through his nose, then nodded. "Then I'll be at your side, as always."
Sico allowed a faint smile. "I'd expect nothing less, General Garvey."
He turned his attention back to the map, tracing the route northward with a gloved finger. "We'll intercept them near the ridges along Old County Road — here. The terrain's open enough for vehicle maneuvering, but close enough to funnel the horde into our kill zone. We'll set up a containment perimeter, light the field, and burn what's left. Clean, efficient."
Sarah studied the map, her eyes narrowing. "We'll need to keep the trucks spaced — wide enough that the ghouls can't swarm us if they get through the first line."
"Exactly," Sico said. "Keep the first Humvee up front — I'll take that one. Preston, you'll lead the second. I want Robert to take command of the rear flank with Bravo platoon."
Preston gave a brief nod, already reaching for his radio. "I'll notify him right away."
"Do it," Sico said. "And tell him this isn't just about cleanup. It's about protecting what we've built."
For a long moment, the three stood in silence, their eyes on the map — a quiet recognition of what lay ahead. Then Sico folded it neatly, slid it into a leather satchel, and rose from behind his desk.
"Let's move."
The corridors of Freemasons HQ came alive the moment the orders left his office. Runners darted through the hallways, voices overlapping as they relayed commands. The sharp clatter of boots on metal floors echoed from every direction, and outside, the deep mechanical growl of engines rumbled awake.
Sico walked with purpose, Preston at his side, Sarah just a step behind. Officers snapped to attention as they passed, saluting crisply — some with eyes wide, surprised to see the President himself donning his combat jacket again.
"Is it true, sir?" one young soldier asked as Sico passed. "You're going out there?"
Sico paused for only a heartbeat, his expression firm. "Yes, son. We all are."
The soldier's face broke into a grin — not the foolish kind, but the kind born of pride. "Then we'll make sure they never reach the walls, sir."
"That's the spirit," Sico said, patting him on the shoulder before continuing on.
They stepped out onto the HQ's front platform, where the motor yard sprawled below like a living machine. Mechanics and engineers were already swarming across the vehicles — Humvees lined up in formation, trucks being loaded with ammunition crates, medkits, flamethrower fuel tanks, and rations. The metallic scent of oil and ozone hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint tang of dust kicked up by spinning tires.
Preston's voice cut through the noise. "Fuel those trucks to capacity! No delays! I want engines checked, brakes double-tested, and every gun barrel clean!"
"Yes, sir!" the crews shouted back in unison.
Sarah moved swiftly toward the staging area, barking out orders to squad leaders. "Alpha platoon, to trucks one through four! Bravo, with Commander Robert — you'll take the rear formation. Power Armor units, suit up in the hangar and report to the staging ground within fifteen minutes!"
The rhythmic sound of marching boots followed her commands, the soldiers moving with the kind of precision that came from training — but also belief. These weren't mercenaries or raiders. These were citizens who had found purpose.
Sico stood on the elevated platform overlooking it all. The evening light caught his figure, throwing long shadows across the bustling yard. He said nothing for a while, just watched — the hum of engines, the shouted roll calls, the metallic hiss of Power Armor locking into place. This was what the Republic was made of. Not just words. Not just hope. But movement. Resolve.
Preston stepped beside him, his face calm but eyes alert. "Convoy will be ready within the hour. Radio frequencies synced, ammo stocked. I've got the best riflemen in Delta platoon ready to cover the flanks."
"Good," Sico said quietly. "How's morale?"
Preston's lips quirked faintly. "High. Word spread fast that you're coming along. You've got half the yard trying to volunteer just for the honor of riding in your convoy."
Sico chuckled under his breath. "Let's hope they're still that eager when the shooting starts."
"You know they will be," Preston said, his tone soft but certain.
Sico nodded slowly, eyes still scanning the scene. "Sometimes I wonder if they understand what they're fighting for. Not the ghouls — that's easy. But what comes after."
Preston glanced at him. "You built this, Sico. They fight because they believe in it — in you. That's not something the old world had anymore."
Sico didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the radio tower in the distance — its beacon light pulsing against the dusky sky. "Belief can be a powerful weapon," he murmured. "But it can also blind us."
Preston frowned slightly. "You think we're being blind?"
"I think," Sico said, turning toward him, "that peace makes men forget how fragile it is. Every time we rebuild, the world reminds us it can all burn again. Maybe that's why I can't stay behind."
Before Preston could answer, a familiar voice came over the intercom from the main gate.
"Power Armor units reporting ready, sir!"
Sarah reappeared moments later, clipboard in hand, her tone brisk. "All platoons accounted for. Ammo check complete. Med units are prepping the field kits. Power Armor pilots — Griggs, Morales, Dawn, Hendricks, and Hale. All fully charged and armed with incinerators and Gatling lasers."
Sico nodded approvingly. "Excellent. Tell them to mount up. We leave at sunset."
Sarah hesitated. "You really mean to ride up front, sir?"
"I do."
She exhaled, then smirked faintly. "Then I'll make sure your seatbelt's fastened, Commander."
The remark drew a small grin from both men. Even in war, humor had its place — especially among those who'd seen too much of it.
As the sun began to dip toward the western horizon, the convoy yard transformed. The Humvees idled in formation, their headlights cutting long beams through the settling dust. The trucks rumbled softly behind them, canvas covers snapping in the breeze. Soldiers moved between vehicles, checking weapons, securing gear, adjusting helmets.
Sico moved among them, not as a distant figurehead, but as one of their own. He spoke to the younger troops — brief words of encouragement, the kind that stayed with a man when the night grew long and the screams echoed too close.
"Keep your head clear," he told one nervous recruit. "Don't shoot at shadows — but don't trust them either."
"Yes, sir," the boy stammered, his voice trembling more from awe than fear.
At the far end of the yard, Robert arrived. He approached with brisk strides, giving a short salute. "Reporting as ordered, Commander."
"Good to see you, Robert," Sico said, shaking his hand. "You'll take the rear guard with Bravo. Keep our perimeter tight. If they come from behind, you cut them down before they touch the wheels."
Robert nodded. "Understood. My men are eager. We've been running drills for weeks. They won't fail you."
"I know they won't."
The last light of day flickered out as the sun sank behind the hills, leaving the convoy bathed in gold and shadow. The sky deepened to amber, then indigo. The first stars appeared — faint pinpricks of silver above the hum of engines.
Sico climbed into the lead Humvee. Preston took the passenger seat beside him, radio in hand, his expression a mix of discipline and unspoken readiness. Behind them, Sarah and Robert coordinated the final checks.
"Convoy Alpha to all units," Sarah's voice crackled over the comms. "Final inspection complete. All engines green. Awaiting departure order."
Sico looked out the windshield at the open road ahead — a ribbon of cracked asphalt winding north through the valley. Beyond it, the horizon glowed faintly beneath the rising moon. Somewhere out there, the horde moved — a tide of rot and hunger that had forgotten what it meant to live.
"Ready?" he asked quietly.
Preston glanced at him. "Always."
Sico reached for the radio, pressed the switch, and spoke — his voice calm, resolute, carrying over the convoy with the weight of command.
"Freemasons Convoy Alpha, this is Commander Sico. Our mission is simple — intercept and neutralize the feral threat before it reaches our homes. We move as one, protect one another, and show the wasteland what the Republic stands for. No fear. No hesitation. Only unity."
He paused, eyes scanning the long line of headlights glowing behind him.
"Roll out."
The engines roared in unison, the ground trembling as the first Humvee surged forward. One by one, the trucks followed — their wheels grinding over the dirt, their lights cutting through the growing darkness.
From the windows of Sanctuary, civilians gathered quietly to watch. Mothers held their children close. Old veterans saluted from the steps of their homes. The convoy passed through the main gate like a river of steel and light, each engine a heartbeat of the Republic itself.
The convoy carved through the wasteland like a serpent of steel and light, its headlights slicing across the uneven terrain. The Humvees rumbled low, their engines growling with purpose, while the supply trucks followed in steady formation, tires crunching over grit and broken tarmac. The night air was cool, carrying with it the faint scent of sand, oil, and the metallic tang of pre-war ruin.
Inside the lead Humvee, Sico sat forward slightly, one hand gripping the wheel, the other resting near his sidearm. The faint red glow from the dashboard illuminated the hard lines of his face — calm, focused, but beneath it all, something deeper pulsed in his chest. Responsibility. Not just for the lives behind him, but for what those lives represented.
Beside him, Preston monitored the radio, his eyes flicking between dials and the windshield. "Alpha to all units," he said, his voice steady through the static. "Maintain spacing. Watch for terrain breaks. We're about fifteen clicks from the ridge."
Sarah's voice came back through the channel, calm and sharp. "Copy that, Alpha. All units in position. Power Armor team reports all systems nominal."
Sico nodded slightly, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. The beam of the headlights reached far enough to reveal fragments of the world as shattered road signs, the twisted remains of cars long dead, the hollow skeleton of a gas station standing against the pale moonlight. Somewhere in the distance, a lone Brahmin moaned, then fell silent.
The night pressed in around them, thick and alive.
"Do you hear that?" Preston asked after a moment, his brow furrowing.
Sico slowed the Humvee, listening. At first, there was only the usual symphony of the wasteland that the wind, the groan of metal, the distant buzz of a generator. But then, beneath it, came a sound that didn't belong. A low, collective murmur, too rhythmic to be the wind, too chaotic to be human.
A chorus of gurgling moans.
The horde.
Sico's grip tightened around the wheel. "They're close," he muttered. "Cut the lights."
Preston flicked the switch, and one by one the convoy went dark as the glow of the engines dimming until only the faint reflection of moonlight on metal remained. The soldiers moved in silence, the low hum of idling motors replaced by the whisper of boots on gravel.
Through the dark, the land ahead began to take shape — the ridge rising like a jagged scar against the horizon. The faint, writhing movement near its base made Sico's stomach tighten. Even from this distance, he could see them — hundreds of ghouls, their bodies moving with that same terrible, uneven rhythm. Limbs twitching. Heads lolling. The sound of their snarls carried faintly through the wind.
Sico stopped the Humvee, then stepped out into the night.
The air was cold, biting. Dust swirled lightly around his boots as he moved toward the edge of the slope, binoculars in hand. The moon was full enough to paint the landscape in silver-blue light, enough for him to see what lay below.
The horde stretched across the valley like a flood as a dozens upon dozens of feral ghouls, maybe more than two hundred, all converging along the dirt road that led south. Some dragged their limbs behind them, others crawled across the ground, but all moved in the same direction — toward Sanctuary.
Sico lowered the binoculars slowly. His jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm when he turned toward Preston and Robert, who had stepped out from their vehicles to join him.
"There they are," he said quietly. "Two hundred, maybe more. They're slow, but steady. If they reach the settlement before sunrise, the walls won't hold."
Preston squinted into the dark, his hand resting on the butt of his rifle. "We've got the numbers, but they've got the momentum. Once they start rushing, it'll be chaos."
Robert's tone was grim. "They always rush. Once the first few go down, the rest follow the noise."
Sico nodded once. "Then we'll give them something to follow."
He turned, scanning the soldiers as they assembled in silence, two hundred men and women standing in the pale light of the ridge, their armor reflecting the stars. Power Armor troopers loomed like iron giants among them, the faint whine of servos humming with restrained energy.
Sico stepped forward, his voice cutting clean through the night.
"Form up! Alpha and Charlie platoons, you'll take the left and right flanks! Bravo with Robert, you hold the rear and cover our retreat if needed! Delta — on the ridge! You'll provide suppressive fire from above!"
The soldiers moved swiftly, trained muscle memory turning commands into motion. The metallic clack of magazines being loaded, safeties clicked off, rifles checked — the music of men and women preparing to face death and walk through it.
Sico pointed toward the Humvees. "Get those machine gun running. I want two gunners per vehicle — one for rotation, one for reloading. When the order comes, I want them hot."
A group of soldiers rushed to the vehicles, climbing onto the turrets and swinging the heavy machine guns into position. The barrels gleamed faintly under the moonlight, hungry for the first taste of action.
Preston approached, his rifle slung and his expression grim. "Positions set. Everyone's ready."
Sico gave a single nod, his hand brushing against the stock of his rifle — the same one he'd carried since the early days of the Republic. It had seen battle before, and it would again tonight.
He looked over his shoulder at the convoy, the soldiers, the flag painted on the side of every truck. The Freemasons emblem. A symbol of rebirth, of unity in a world that had forgotten the meaning of either.
Then his gaze returned to the horde below.
"Tonight," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone, "we remind this world why we survived."
The radio crackled softly. Sarah's voice came through from her position on the far ridge. "All units in position. We've got visual confirmation of the target mass. Awaiting your signal, Commander."
Sico took a slow breath, then raised his binoculars again. The horde had drawn closer now — maybe five hundred meters away, staggering, shambling, their broken bodies illuminated in flashes by the moon. Their groans had grown louder, the kind of sound that crawled beneath the skin.
He lowered the lenses, his eyes hard. "On my mark."
Preston stood beside him, silent, ready.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of decay.
"Three…" Sico said, leveling his rifle.
The soldiers behind him raised their weapons, the sound of metal clicking into readiness spreading like a wave.
"Two…"
A faint growl echoed from below — a ghoul breaking into a sprint, its shriek slicing through the night.
Sico's finger rested on the trigger.
"One."
The first shot cracked like thunder.
It tore through the silence, the bullet striking a ghoul square in the skull. The creature's head snapped back, body collapsing into the dirt — and the valley erupted.
The horde turned as one, their collective screech splitting the air. Dozens broke into a run, their limbs flailing, eyes glowing faintly with feral hunger as they surged toward the ridge.
"Open fire!" Sico shouted.
The ridge exploded with light.
Rifle fire thundered in volleys, tracer rounds streaking through the night like red comets. The Humvees roared as their machine gun spat fire, the recoil rattling through the steel frames. The gunners screamed wordless fury as brass casings poured like rain around their boots.
Down below, ghouls fell in waves — torn apart by the sheer volume of gunfire. But still, they came. Crawling over their dead, sprinting, howling. Their screams mixed with the roar of engines and the hammering of weapons until the night itself seemed to tremble beneath it all.
Sico fired again, his rifle steady despite the chaos. A ghoul lunged through the dust — he dropped it with a clean shot between the eyes. Another, crawling on hands and knees, reached the slope; he gunned it down before it could climb.
"Delta! Shift fire left!" Preston yelled over the radio. "They're pushing the west line!"
Sarah's voice cut back immediately, her tone fierce. "Copy! Adjusting now!"
The sound of heavy weaponry shifted direction. The left flank flared with light as another line of ghouls was shredded under concentrated fire.
The ground began to shake as the Power Armor troopers advanced. Griggs led the charge, his suit's servos whining as he leveled his incinerator. "Let's light 'em up!" he roared.
A stream of fire burst from the weapon, rolling across the valley floor like molten wind. The ghouls shrieked, bursting into flame — silhouettes twisting and collapsing into the dirt as the stench of burning flesh filled the air.
Hendricks' Gatling laser spun up beside him, releasing a torrent of red beams that carved through the mob. "They're still coming!" he shouted. "Sweet Mother, how many are there?"
"Enough!" Sico barked, reloading. "Keep them back!"
The line held — but barely.
The horde surged forward with blind determination. Every time one fell, three more took its place. Their numbers seemed endless, an ocean of decay crashing against a wall of men and steel.
Preston ducked as a stray ghoul leaped toward the Humvee, its claws raking the side door. The gunner above turned the turret and cut it down midair, the fifty-cal's thunder echoing off the ridge.
"Nice shot!" Preston called.
"Just keep 'em off my ass, sir!" the gunner yelled back, laughter in his voice despite the madness.
Sico could feel the vibration of every gun through his boots, the air hot with the pulse of muzzle flashes. He ducked behind the hood of the Humvee, reloaded, then fired again — short, controlled bursts. Each round found its mark.
He glanced toward Sarah's position through the haze. Her squad was holding firm, disciplined — years of training manifesting in precise bursts of light.
But then — a break.
A section of the ridge on the right flank erupted in movement. A cluster of ghouls had managed to claw their way up through the rocks, lunging from the shadows.
"Right flank, breach!" Robert's voice boomed over comms. "They're climbing the ridge!"
"Preston, cover fire!" Sico shouted.
"On it!" Preston swung his rifle around, firing in rapid succession. The first two ghouls dropped instantly, but more poured up from the darkness.
"Bravo, shift position!" Robert barked. "Push them back!"
The soldiers moved fast, grenades flung down the slope. Explosions rocked the hillside, shrapnel lighting up the valley in brief flashes of fire. The screams of the dying — both ghoul and man — filled the air.
Sico sprinted toward the breach, rifle in hand. The slope was steep, the dust thick, but he moved with purpose. A ghoul lunged from the side — he sidestepped, jammed his rifle under its chin, and pulled the trigger. The shot echoed through the night, spraying black ichor across the rocks.
"Hold the line!" he shouted.
Behind him, Sarah's voice rang through the comms again. "Incoming from the south! More movement — looks like a second wave!"
Sico's heart kicked hard against his ribs. He turned, scanning the valley. Through the haze of smoke and flame, he saw it — a darker shape moving behind the first horde. Dozens more. Maybe hundreds.
"Damn it," Preston muttered. "We've stirred the whole nest."
Sico's voice steadied. "Then we finish the job."
He turned toward the Power Armor troopers. "Griggs! Morales! Fall back twenty meters and form a burn line! We'll funnel them right into it!"
"Copy that!"
The heavy suits stomped back through the dirt, their incinerators roaring to life once more. Flames poured across the ground, creating a wall of fire that turned the valley floor into a blazing inferno.
Sico climbed onto the Humvee hood, standing tall against the storm. His rifle was empty now — he drew his sidearm, eyes sharp and unflinching.
He looked over the soldiers — his soldiers — men and women fighting for something larger than themselves. The Freemasons Republic. Sanctuary. The dream of a world reborn.
And he shouted — not over the radio, not to command, but to remind them why they were there.
"For every soul we've buried! For every home we've rebuilt! For the Republic, stand your ground!"
The soldiers roared back as one, a thunderous cry that rolled across the ridge. The firelight painted their faces — fierce, unbroken.
And when the second wave hit, they didn't falter.
The valley became an inferno as bullets, fire, and fury tearing through the night. The ghouls screamed as the flames devoured them, their silhouettes writhing against the glow. The Humvees thundered, the fifty-cals blazing until their barrels glowed red.
Through it all, Sico stood firm — smoke curling around him, his coat scorched, his weapon hot in his hands. The ridge trembled under the weight of battle, but the line never broke.
Hours later, as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the gunfire finally slowed. The last ghoul fell with a single, echoing shot — and silence took the valley once more.
________________________________________________
• 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:-