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Outside, the light began to fade toward the golden hue of evening again, and the radio waves rolled out across the Commonwealth that carrying his words, her laughter, and the heartbeat of a new nation to every ear that still dared to hope.
The next day broke quietly over Sanctuary.
Soft light filtered through the thin curtains of Sico's office-bedroom, gilding the room's edges in pale gold. The hum of the generator outside was steady and low — a sound that had, over time, become as familiar as breathing. For a long moment, Sico just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of the quiet morning settle in around him.
His muscles ached faintly from the previous days' labor with the kind of soreness that spoke not of injury, but of use, of work that mattered. Still, it had been a while since he'd trained properly, and he could feel it that stiffness, that slight lag in reflex and rhythm that used to be second nature when he was still fighting day to day for survival.
He pushed himself up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and exhaled deeply. His boots sat neatly by the footlocker, his folded Freemasons jacket resting atop a chair, and his plasma pistol — the one engraved with the sigil of the Republic — lay holstered by the nightstand. For once, he didn't reach for it.
Instead, he reached for something simpler: a grey workout shirt, black training pants, and an old pair of combat trainers that had seen more miles than he cared to count. As he pulled the shirt over his head, the faint smell of dust and old leather stirred in the air. His reflection in the mirror caught his attention with the short-cropped hair streaked faintly with silver, the faint scar running across his collarbone, and the lines around his eyes that hadn't been there years ago.
He smirked to himself.
"Still standing," he murmured under his breath.
He tied his boots tight and stepped out into the hall.
The Freemasons Headquarters was only just stirring. A few guards saluted as he passed, their armor polished, eyes alert. The hall smelled faintly of brewed coffee and gun oil. Outside, the dawn mist had barely lifted, and the air carried that crisp, new-day coolness that promised clarity before the heat settled in.
He crossed the main yard, then went to the open courtyard behind the main hall that doubled as both parade ground and training yard. Its surface was a mix of compacted dirt and concrete slabs, ringed by half-buried tires, old sandbags, and steel dummies riddled with old bullet holes. Beyond the yard, the flag of the Freemasons Republic stirred lazily in the morning breeze — a banner of deep crimson and black, marked with the symbol of the square and compass overlaid with a star.
Sico inhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders as he stepped into the open.
A couple of early risers were already there — soldiers from the Second Division, running laps around the perimeter. One of them spotted him and nearly tripped over his own feet trying to salute mid-run.
"Morning, sir!"
"Morning," Sico replied with a grin, motioning for them to keep moving. "Don't stop on my account."
They laughed lightly and kept running, the rhythm of their boots thudding against the earth in unison.
Sico stretched slowly, feeling his joints crack and loosen. It had been too long since he'd really felt his body in motion — not just moving from one meeting to the next, not overseeing reports or commanding from a distance, but truly working it, grounding himself.
He started simple with shoulder rolls, side stretches, a slow twist of his torso to ease the tightness across his back. Then came the push-ups, slow and deliberate, the dirt beneath his palms cool and rough. Each repetition brought that familiar burn through his arms and chest. Sweat began to bead at his temple, and the air filled with the sound of his measured breathing.
Ten.
Twenty.
Thirty.
He paused only to catch his breath, then shifted to squats — deep, controlled, feeling his thighs and calves ignite in protest. The soldiers nearby began to notice; one of them slowed his jog, watching with quiet respect as their commander worked alongside them without a word or hint of superiority.
By the time he finished his third set, the light had strengthened, spilling gold across the yard. Sico stood, shirt damp with sweat, chest rising and falling steadily. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then moved toward the sparring ring with a simple circle of packed dirt bordered by old tires.
He picked up a practice rifle from the rack nearby, checking its weight. The wooden stock was worn smooth from years of drills. He swung it experimentally, then began to move — steps sharp, stance balanced. It was muscle memory at work: the pivot of his heel, the twist of his hips, the simulated recoil as he drove the buttstock forward in a parry. Each motion had rhythm — not aggression, but precision.
Then he switched to hand-to-hand, as he was shadow sparring. His movements were quick, fluid, the kind of flow that came from countless fights fought in alleys, battlefields, and wasteland ambushes. His fists cut the air in measured arcs, and his boots shifted soundlessly on the dirt.
One of the younger guards, standing near the weapon rack, couldn't help but watch.
"Damn," the soldier muttered under his breath. "He moves like he's still out there."
His companion chuckled. "That's 'cause he never stopped being out there."
Sico heard them, but he didn't break focus. He stepped forward, threw a clean one-two combination, followed by a knee strike and a turn that ended in a low guard stance. His breathing deepened, heartbeat steady, mind clear.
And for the first time in a long while, he felt alive.
It wasn't command, or speeches, or blueprints. It wasn't the sound of construction or the hum of machinery. It was this — the pure, unfiltered pulse of his own body reminding him that he was more than a symbol, more than a leader. He was a fighter, forged in the chaos of the old world, refined in the order of the new one.
He paused only when the sun began to break fully over the rooftops. The warmth brushed his face as he leaned against the post, catching his breath. The soldiers had finished their laps and gathered nearby, stretching and cooling down. A few nodded to him in silent acknowledgment — not as subordinates, but as fellow warriors.
"Not bad for someone who spends half his time in meetings," one of them joked lightly.
Sico smirked. "Careful, Private. Keep talking and I'll make you my sparring partner next round."
Laughter rippled through the yard.
"Permission to decline, sir," the soldier said quickly, hands raised in mock surrender.
"Permission denied."
Even Sico laughed — a genuine, deep laugh that startled a few of them.
He let the moment linger before turning serious again. "Alright. Since we're all here — weapons check at 0900. Patrol rotations move to twelve-hour shifts today. I want the east perimeter doubled tonight; I heard about raider movement near the Lexington highway, and I'm not taking chances."
The soldiers straightened immediately. "Yes, sir."
Satisfied, Sico gave a curt nod and started toward the small wash station by the wall. The water was cold, sharp, and perfect. He splashed it over his face, washing away the sweat and grit, then stood still for a moment, dripping under the rising sun.
That was when he heard a voice from behind.
"Didn't think I'd find you here this early," said Sarah Lyons, walking toward him with her hands tucked behind her back. Her armor caught the light, the Freemasons insignia etched cleanly on the pauldron. "You've been avoiding the gym schedule again, huh?"
Sico smirked. "Not avoiding. Just… improvising."
Sarah raised a brow. "Improvising looks a lot like overworking to me. You already lead the construction, the council meetings, and the expansion projects. What's next — you gonna start driving around in Growler?"
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Someone's gotta stay sharp. I can't lead soldiers if I can't keep up with them."
Sarah's expression softened slightly. "You already do more than enough, Sico. Nobody expects you to carry it all."
"I don't carry it," he said quietly. "I just don't want to lose the edge. Too many leaders forget what it's like to stand in the dirt with everyone else."
She studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Yeah. That's why they follow you."
He glanced sideways at her. "That why you do?"
Sarah smirked faintly. "Let's just say… it helps."
The two of them stood there a while longer, the silence between them easy and familiar. The training yard buzzed with quiet activity now — more soldiers filtering in, technicians walking toward the hangars, the Republic's heartbeat beginning its daily rhythm.
Sico had just finished drying the cold water from his face when a few of the soldiers nearby exchanged glances with the kind of look that held the spark of a challenge in it. They'd seen him train before, of course, but never in this focused, fluid rhythm. The President had a way of making even a simple movement look precise, efficient, and deadly.
One of them, a tall young trooper with a shaved head and a grin that came too easily, finally stepped forward, rubbing his palms together.
"Sir," he said, half-grinning, half-hesitant, "permission to ask something… a little bold?"
Sico arched an eyebrow, curious. "Go on."
The trooper exchanged a quick look with his squadmates before speaking again. "It's been a while since anyone's seen you spar properly, sir. The men were wondering…" He hesitated, then grinned wider. "If you'd be willing to, you know, show us how it's really done."
There was laughter from the others, a few murmured "Yeah, come on, President," and even one bold voice calling out, "We promise not to break you, sir!"
Sico laughed, shaking his head. "You promise not to break me? That's a first." He turned his gaze toward Sarah, who stood nearby with her arms crossed and that familiar half-amused, half-exasperated expression she often wore around him. "Well, what do you think, General Lyons? Should I humor them?"
Sarah smirked. "You're asking me for permission now? That's new."
"I like to keep things democratic."
"Uh-huh," she said, clearly unconvinced. "Alright, fine. But if you pull anything that sends one of them to the med bay again, you're the one explaining it to Curie."
Sico chuckled under his breath. "Deal."
"Then I'll ref," Sarah said, stepping forward toward the sparring ring. "Three-on-one, you versus them. No weapons. Standard training rules which is clean strikes, no gouging, no cheap shots. You go down, you yield. They go down, they're out. Clear?"
The three soldiers nodded immediately, excitement flashing in their eyes.
Sico rolled his shoulders, the familiar weight of anticipation coiling through him like an old friend returning. "Alright then," he said, stepping into the circle of dirt bordered by tires. "Let's see what you've got."
Sarah gave a low whistle to draw the attention of the other guards and technicians nearby. Within seconds, a loose crowd had gathered along the edge of the yard, murmuring quietly, their morning routines momentarily forgotten. The Commander sparring wasn't something you saw every day.
Sarah stepped between them and raised her hand. "On my signal," she called out, her voice sharp and clear. "Ready—"
The soldiers dropped into their stances: the tall one with the name Harris, if Sico remembered right was moved with the brash confidence of a former scav fighter; the second, leaner and lighter on his feet, circled with careful patience; the third, a bulkier man named Ortiz, cracked his knuckles and grinned like he was born for this.
"—fight!"
The word barely left Sarah's mouth before Harris lunged.
Sico sidestepped cleanly, catching the younger man's momentum and redirecting it with a palm to his shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. The move was fluid, effortless that show the mark of someone who had turned combat into instinct.
"Too quick, Harris," Sico said, voice calm but edged with amusement. "You telegraph your steps."
Before Harris could recover, the lighter soldier darted in from the side, throwing a quick jab toward Sico's ribs. Sico blocked it, twisted his wrist, and countered with a sharp elbow that stopped an inch short of the man's sternum, precise enough to make his point.
"Better," Sico said quietly. "But you left your flank wide open."
Ortiz took the opportunity to charge in from behind, trying to grab him in a lock. Sico moved like water as he ducked, pivoted, and with a twist of his hips, used Ortiz's own weight to flip him clean over his shoulder. The impact thudded hard against the dirt.
The small crowd erupted with a mix of laughter and applause.
"Come on, boys!" one of the onlookers shouted. "You gonna let the President dance circles around you?"
Sarah hid a smirk behind her gloved hand. "Don't underestimate him, fellas. You'll regret it."
Harris gritted his teeth, wiping the sweat from his brow as he and the other two regrouped. They spread out this time — smarter, cautious.
Sico crouched slightly, his stance low and balanced. "Now you're thinking like soldiers."
They came together this time with coordinated attack. The lighter one feinted to the left, Harris swept from the right, and Ortiz came in straight down the middle. Sico blocked the first blow with his forearm, sidestepped the second, then drove a swift kick into Ortiz's midsection. The impact forced the bigger man back, gasping for air.
The other two pressed in fast. Harris managed a glancing strike across Sico's shoulder — a small victory, but one that brought a grin to the young man's face. "Got you, sir!"
"Did you?" Sico replied coolly.
In the same instant, he pivoted on his heel, caught Harris's wrist mid-punch, and twisted it just enough to drop him to one knee. Then, before the leaner soldier could capitalize, Sico spun, sweeping his leg in a clean arc that sent him tumbling backward.
The dirt scattered around them, boots scuffing, breath ragged, but Sico's movements stayed measured — never rushed, never panicked. He wasn't fighting to win; he was teaching without speaking, every strike and counter a lesson in control.
Sarah's voice rang out. "Harris, down. Ortiz, you still in?"
Ortiz, stubborn as ever, groaned but pushed himself up again. "Still in, ma'am."
Sico cracked his neck slightly, smiling. "I like the spirit."
Ortiz roared and charged again with no finesse this time, just brute force. Sico waited until the last second, sidestepped, and locked his arm around Ortiz's elbow, using the man's momentum to pull him down in a controlled sweep. The soldier hit the ground hard, but Sico's grip softened the fall enough to avoid real damage.
"Yield?" Sico asked quietly, still holding him.
Ortiz hesitated, then laughed breathlessly. "Yeah… yield."
Sico released him and helped him up. The man took his hand gratefully, still grinning despite the bruise forming along his jaw.
Sarah raised her hand. "Match over. President wins."
The crowd cheered and clapped, the sound echoing across the yard. Some of the younger recruits even whooped, while others just shook their heads in disbelief.
"Damn," Harris said, breathing hard but smiling as he stood. "You make it look easy, sir."
Sico smirked, brushing the dirt from his palms. "It's only easy because I've already made every mistake you just did."
Sarah stepped into the ring, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "You enjoyed that way too much."
Sico grinned faintly. "What can I say? It's good to stretch the rusty muscles."
"Rusty?" Sarah said with mock offense. "You just wiped the floor with three trained soldiers."
"Still feels rusty," he said, rolling his shoulder. "But worth it."
He turned to the soldiers, his tone shifting to something instructive that not scolding, but grounded. "You all did good. You stayed coordinated on the second round. That's what matters with learning to read your team, not just your opponent. Out there, you won't always be fighting one man. You'll be fighting chaos. The only way you survive is by moving as one."
The soldiers nodded, catching their breath. There was no shame in their eyes — only respect, and a hint of determination.
Sarah crossed her arms, watching the exchange with quiet pride. "He's right. You three just got a masterclass. Use it."
Harris grinned again, though this time it was softer. "We will, sir. Thanks for the lesson."
The dust had barely settled when the rumble of bootsteps came from the north end of the training yard. The morning sun now sat higher above Sanctuary, painting the concrete and packed dirt in shades of copper and gold. The laughter of soldiers still echoed faintly, but it faltered when the distinct clatter of reinforced combat armor grew closer.
Sico turned his head and sure enough, the Freemasons Commandos had arrived.
There were six of them, moving with that unmistakable coordination of a unit that had seen countless deployments together. Their armor was matte-black with crimson stripes along the shoulders, each one carrying the Freemasons insignia stenciled on the chest plate. Their helmets were tucked under their arms, exposing faces marked with faint scars, weathered skin, and the calm alertness of soldiers who'd lived too close to danger for too long.
At their front walked two familiar figures: Robert and MacCready.
The crowd of soldiers straightened instantly. Even Sarah raised an eyebrow as the group approached.
"Well," she said under her breath, smirking. "Looks like word travels fast."
Sico chuckled, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "You think they came to watch?"
Sarah's smirk widened. "Knowing them? They came to play."
Robert stopped a few feet away from Sico, his dark eyes scanning the dirt ring and the trio of exhausted soldiers who were still catching their breath nearby. His lips curved into what might've been a smile or at least, his version of one.
"Didn't think I'd see the President dusting up my soldiers this early," he said in his gravelly baritone. "Gotta say, sir, you haven't lost that old touch."
Sico raised a brow. "You sound surprised."
Robert shrugged, the heavy armor plates shifting with the motion. "Not surprised, just… impressed. Haven't seen moves like that since we were mopping up raiders outside Quincy."
MacCready, leaning on the fence nearby, grinned. "You mean that time he single-handedly disarmed three of 'em before breakfast?"
Robert shot him a look. "You were supposed to back him up."
"I was busy reloading, man."
The crowd chuckled quietly. The easy camaraderie between the old veterans had a way of softening the air, even amid the discipline of the training yard.
Sico crossed his arms, eyes glinting with humor. "So what brings the Republic's finest down to my humble sparring ring? Surely you're not here to just watch."
Robert's mouth twitched again, that near-smile returning. "Actually, sir, one of my men's been meaning to test himself. Been running drills all week, talking big." He turned slightly, motioning to a younger commando behind him. The man stepped forward: tall, lean, the kind of build that came from years of conditioning rather than sheer muscle mass. His buzz-cut hair gleamed in the sunlight, and the faint scar along his jawline gave him a hardened look that didn't quite hide the excitement burning in his eyes.
"This here's Corporal Dane," Robert said. "Fresh outta recon detail near Cambridge. Top of his class in close-quarters combat."
Dane straightened his posture, locking eyes with Sico. "It'd be an honor, sir. They say you're the best hand-to-hand fighter in the Republic. Thought maybe I could learn something."
Sico tilted his head, studying the young man. There was no arrogance there, just confidence and genuine respect. The kind of challenge born not from pride, but from ambition.
"Learn something, huh?" Sico said. "You sure that's all you want?"
Dane's lips twitched into a faint grin. "Maybe I want to see how close I can get."
That earned a few laughs from the onlookers. Sarah smirked, shaking her head. "You're braver than most, Corporal."
But before Sico could answer, a murmur rippled through the crowd. A few soldiers had already started whispering, and then someone which probably Private Harris who shouted, "Alright, you know what? Let's make it interesting!"
Sarah turned sharply, though the grin tugging at her mouth betrayed her amusement. "Oh, no."
"C'mon!" Harris said, clapping his hands together. "President versus Special Forces! Ten caps says the Commandos win!"
That set off a chain reaction of laughter and excitement. Within seconds, soldiers all around the ring were pulling out battered pouches, bottle caps clinking together as bets were exchanged.
"Twenty on the President!" someone shouted.
"You're mad, he's outnumbered!"
"Doesn't matter, did you see what he did to Harris?"
"Yeah, but Commandos are a different breed, man!"
Even a couple of engineers from the nearby workshop wandered over, wiping grease from their hands, eager to see the match.
Sarah groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You're turning my training yard into a betting ring."
MacCready grinned. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Because it is."
Sico looked at the growing crowd, then back at the waiting Commandos. A low chuckle escaped him. "Alright, fine. But if this turns into a circus, I'm blaming you, Lyons."
Sarah gave him a mock salute. "Don't worry, I'll officiate fairly. Besides, if you lose, I get to say 'I told you so.'"
"Then I can't lose," he replied dryly.
Robert stepped closer, his expression finally breaking into a real smirk. "You want one-on-one, sir, or you think you can handle two of my men?"
Sico met his gaze squarely. "How about three?"
The crowd erupted.
Even MacCready let out a low whistle. "Oh, this is gonna be good."
Robert barked a laugh. "Three Commandos, no weapons, full restraint protocol?"
Sico nodded. "Same as before. You go down, you yield."
Sarah moved into the ring again, her boots crunching against the dirt. "Alright, listen up. Rules are the same. No cheap shots, no armor strikes, no dirty tricks. You go down, you stay down. Everyone else, back off the ring line — and keep your damn bets to yourself."
The laughter around her said otherwise.
Robert signaled to his men — Dane, plus two veterans named Briggs and Rainer — both bigger, more heavily built, and carrying the quiet confidence of years on the front. They stepped into the ring, removing their gloves and rolling their necks, their movements crisp and synchronized.
Sico loosened his shoulders again, planting his boots firmly into the dirt. His expression softened — not arrogance, not even competitiveness, but calm. The same calm that came before every storm he'd survived.
Sarah raised her hand high. "You ready, President?"
Sico nodded once.
"Commandos?"
Dane grinned. "Always."
"Then—" she dropped her hand, "—fight!"
The Commandos didn't hesitate.
Rainer moved first, fast and heavy, swinging a low leg kick meant to knock Sico off balance. Sico pivoted, catching Rainer's shin with his own and redirecting the force. Briggs came next, his fist a blur toward Sico's jaw — blocked cleanly by a forearm and answered with a sharp strike to the ribs.
But Dane — Dane waited. Watching. Circling.
The soldiers cheered wildly as Sico ducked another swing, hooked Rainer's arm, and slammed him to the dirt. The thud echoed, drawing a roar of approval.
"One down already?!" someone shouted.
"Not yet," Sarah called back. "He's still moving."
Sure enough, Rainer rolled to his feet with a grunt, shaking off the hit. Briggs closed in with a feint — left jab, right hook — but Sico read it easily, slipping inside his guard and landing a short elbow that would've knocked out a lesser fighter.
"Too wide," Sico said, voice calm even as he moved. "You telegraph your right hand, Briggs."
"Noted," Briggs grunted, rubbing his jaw.
Then Dane struck.
Fast — almost too fast. He used Sico's distraction to slide low, sweeping a leg toward Sico's knees. The move connected, sending Sico stumbling slightly — the first hit anyone had landed on him that morning.
The crowd exploded.
"Finally! The Commandos score one!"
Sico steadied himself, his breath sharp but amused. He glanced at Dane. "You've got timing. Good."
"Thanks," Dane said. "You'll need more than that to beat me."
"Confidence," Sico murmured, smiling faintly. "I like that."
Then he moved.
No hesitation, no wasted motion. He surged forward, closing the distance before Dane could react. His hand caught the younger man's forearm mid-strike, twisting just enough to break his rhythm, then brought his knee up toward his chest — controlled, but enough to force him back.
Briggs and Rainer tried to flank him again, moving like wolves, but Sico dropped low, swept Rainer's leg out from under him, and rolled clear of Briggs's punch. The dirt flew, boots skidding, the air thick with the sound of impact and breath.
From the sidelines, MacCready laughed. "He's playing with them!"
Sarah smirked. "Not playing. Teaching."
The match went on for several minutes, every movement sharp, every strike precise. Sweat glistened on their foreheads, breath came ragged, and yet Sico remained centered — like a storm with a calm eye.
Finally, with one decisive motion, he trapped Briggs's arm and turned it into a controlled shoulder lock, forcing the man to yield. Rainer was next, caught in a sweeping throw that landed him flat on his back again.
That left Dane.
The young commando circled warily, learning now — faster than before. He didn't rush, didn't overextend. He waited for Sico to move first.
"Good," Sico said softly. "You're learning."
"Trying to," Dane said through steady breaths.
They clashed — brief, intense. Fist met forearm, elbow met block, dust rising in spirals around their feet. The crowd had gone silent now, captivated.
Then Sico saw it — the faint shift in Dane's stance, the smallest tell of a left feint. He moved first, cutting inside the motion, catching Dane's wrist, twisting, and sweeping his legs out in one fluid movement. The younger man hit the ground hard but safely.
"Yield?" Sico asked quietly.
Dane looked up at him, chest heaving, then nodded with a grin. "Yield."
The yard erupted again — cheers, laughter, a storm of applause.
Sarah raised her hand. "Match over! The President wins!"
Bottle caps flew between hands, bets paid and collected, laughter echoing off the metal walls of the courtyard.
Robert chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped forward. "Well, looks like the Republic's still got one hell of a fighter sitting in that chair."
Sico extended a hand to Dane, who took it gratefully. "You did good, Corporal. You read faster than most."
"Guess I've got a long way to go, sir," Dane said, smiling despite the bruise forming on his cheek.
"We all do," Sico replied. "Even me."
Sarah crossed her arms again, watching the scene unfold with an amused shake of her head. "You just turned a morning drill into a full-blown arena match. I should start charging admission."
MacCready snorted. "You'd make a fortune."
The laughter hadn't even died down before Robert gave MacCready a sidelong look. The man's grin was wide, that rare spark of mischief flashing through the hardened edge of his expression. MacCready saw it instantly and mirrored it, the kind of silent exchange that said you thinking what I'm thinking? without a single word spoken.
"Oh, you've got that look again," Sarah said dryly, crossing her arms.
Robert shrugged, his voice carrying that low gravelly tone that could command a platoon or start a bar fight, depending on the day. "Just thinking it's been a while since I had a proper stretch."
MacCready leaned on the fence rail, grin widening. "Yeah? You sure your back can handle it, weak guy?"
"Careful, Mac," Robert said, smirking. "You forget who taught you how to shoot straight."
"Pretty sure I was already shooting straight before I met you," MacCready shot back.
The soldiers around them laughed, sensing the spark of something brewing with that ripple in the air that came before chaos, or in this case, entertainment. A few of them started whispering, the sound of caps clinking already returning to the air.
Sico tilted his head slightly, curiosity in his eyes as he watched the two veterans banter. "You both look like men who are either about to do something stupid… or something entertaining."
"Why not both?" MacCready said, stepping forward with a glint in his eye. "Tell you what, Mr. President. You've been tossing rookies and Commandos around all morning. How about you test yourself against a couple of us?"
The words hit the yard like a spark dropped into dry grass.
The crowd erupted.
"Wait, Robert and MacCready?" someone shouted.
"Against Sico? Oh, this I gotta see!"
"Double or nothing, I'm calling it now with the Commanders take him down!"
"No way! The President's been untouchable all morning!"
Bottle caps exchanged hands again like wildfire. Even the technicians and off-duty guards who'd gone back to work moments ago came rushing back, laughing and shouting. The training yard was no longer just a place of drills as it had turned into a full-blown arena, a symbol of pride and friendly defiance that stretched all the way through the Republic's heart.
Sarah let out a long sigh, though the faint curve of her lips betrayed her amusement. "You people are impossible."
MacCready gave her a quick salute with two fingers. "Just trying to keep morale up, ma'am."
"Yeah, sure," Sarah said, rolling her eyes. "Morale, gambling, chaos, all the same to you."
Sico shook his head, smiling faintly. "You two want to challenge me?"
Robert cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp and deliberate. "You've been making the rest of us look bad, sir. Figure it's about time someone returned the favor."
"Besides," MacCready added, tossing his jacket aside and stepping into the ring, "I can't let him have all the fun. It's been too damn long since I've seen a real fight that didn't involve plasma bolts."
The soldiers' cheers swelled, and even the Commandos who'd just sparred were grinning wide, slapping each other on the shoulders.
"Hey, five caps on MacCready going down first!"
"Make it ten on Robert throwing him into the dirt before that happens!"
"Twenty says the President still wins!"
"Thirty says he doesn't!"
Sarah groaned, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward. "You're all insane."
Before she could say anything else, the steady clank of boots approached from the east end of the yard. The sound was heavy, purposeful with the kind that always made people glance over their shoulders.
Preston Garvey and his patrol team emerged from the corridor leading toward the outer gate. They were dusty, helmets off, rifles slung casually across their backs, clearly just back from a sweep. Preston looked tired, his coat lined with the faint streaks of the morning's sunlight, but his posture remained as steady as ever.
He slowed as he neared the commotion, frowning slightly at the sea of laughing soldiers and shouting voices. "Okay… what the hell's going on here?"
Sarah looked up, arms still folded, and met his gaze. "You ever walk into something and immediately know you've lost control of your own army?"
"Most days," Preston said flatly. Then his brow furrowed as he spotted Sico in the ring, flanked by Robert and MacCready. "Wait, are they—?"
"About to spar him," Sarah said, her tone dry as ash.
Preston blinked. "Sico?"
"Uh-huh."
"With them?"
"Yep."
Preston exhaled through his nose, a slow grin creeping across his face. "Well, now I've seen everything."
"Please don't tell me you're about to make it worse," Sarah muttered, already sensing it.
Preston smirked. "That depends. You taking bets?"
The soldiers roared with laughter.
Sico, already stretching his shoulders again, looked up at Preston with an amused glint in his eye. "You here to spectate, or are you volunteering?"
Preston raised a brow, taking in the sight of the three men in the ring. "Looks like you're already outnumbered."
"Never stopped me before," Sico replied, smiling faintly.
Robert crossed his arms. "We could use the extra man, Garvey. That'd make it fair."
"Fair?" MacCready scoffed. "Three-on-one's never fair."
Robert gave him a deadpan look. "Exactly."
The crowd exploded again, chanting and cheering, some shouting Preston's name, others jeering that the odds were finally even. The betting frenzy started anew as the caps and rations exchanged hands faster than anyone could keep track of.
Sarah just stared at Preston, expression flat. "You're actually doing this?"
He shrugged, setting his rifle down on the rack nearby. "I've been on patrol for five hours. I could use the workout."
"Oh, I'm sure," she said. "And when Curie has to treat all of you for sprains and bruises, I'll be sure to tell her it was 'for morale.'"
"Morale's important," Preston said with mock seriousness, stepping over the ring's edge.
MacCready grinned. "That's the spirit, General."
Sico rolled his neck, loosening his stance, every movement steady and deliberate. The faint sheen of sweat on his skin caught the sunlight, his expression calm but alive — the kind of quiet thrill that came only from combat training, from the discipline of facing challenge after challenge without fear.
Sarah sighed and stepped forward again, assuming her role as referee. "Alright," she said, raising her voice above the rising noise. "Everyone shut up for a second!"
The crowd quieted, mostly.
"Rules are the same as before," she continued. "No lethal strikes, no weapons, no injuries we'll regret later. You yield when you're down, you stop when I say stop. And anyone caught trying to jump in or interfere loses their next week's rations."
That got a few groans, and Sarah smirked. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Now — Sico, you ready?"
He nodded once. "Always."
"Robert, MacCready, Preston?"
Robert gave a curt nod. "Let's get it done."
MacCready grinned. "Try to go easy on us, boss."
Preston cracked his neck. "No promises."
Sarah stepped back and raised her hand. "Then, fight!"
The yard erupted.
Robert moved first — fast, heavy, deliberate. His years of training showed in every movement, his stance balanced, his strikes sharp. Sico met him head-on, their forearms clashing with a loud crack of impact that made nearby soldiers flinch. The two men circled each other, neither giving ground.
Then MacCready darted in from the flank, light on his feet, trying to catch Sico off balance. He threw a quick jab as Sico blocked it, twisted, and shoved him back with a palm strike that nearly sent him stumbling into Preston, who was moving in from behind.
Preston grinned, using the moment to feint left and drive forward with a shoulder tackle. Sico slipped aside, the motion smooth as water, letting the General's momentum carry him forward before tapping him lightly on the back of the neck but not enough to hurt, but enough to signal caught you.
The crowd howled.
"Damn, he tagged Garvey!"
"No way he keeps this up against three of them!"
"Watch him, he's reading them like a book!"
Sarah was trying hard not to laugh. "You people are ridiculous," she muttered, though she didn't look away.
The fight unfolded like choreography with a blur of motion and muscle, discipline and instinct. Robert's strikes were heavy, military precise; MacCready's style was scrappy and unpredictable; Preston's approach was tactical, reading opportunities and covering angles.
But Sico moved like none of them that efficient, fluid, aware. His body seemed to anticipate before they acted, parrying Robert's swing, dodging MacCready's hook, catching Preston's wrist mid-grapple and redirecting it.
Robert grunted between blows. "You been training or just showing off?"
"Both," Sico said, ducking another punch. "Keeps me young."
MacCready barked a laugh even as he swung again. "You're not supposed to enjoy this so much!"
"Who says I'm not?" Sico countered, spinning just enough to sweep MacCready's leg out from under him.
The young man hit the dirt with a grunt. "Okay, point taken."
Preston and Robert closed in from both sides now, and for a brief second, the air tensed — three soldiers moving in perfect sync against one man. Sico read them instantly, shifting his weight, deflecting Robert's strike while pivoting to avoid Preston's sweep. He countered with a short strike to Preston's ribs, then turned into Robert's guard, using his momentum to twist him down into a controlled fall.
The crowd erupted again, caps flying in the air, laughter echoing off the metal walls.
Sarah blew out a long sigh, hands on her hips. "You boys are going to break something."
From the ground, Robert looked up, breathing hard but smiling. "Maybe… our pride."
MacCready, still sitting in the dirt, wiped a streak of sweat from his brow. "Speak for yourself, man. I'm just trying to survive."
Preston stood, dusting himself off. His grin hadn't faded for a second. "Alright, President. You got us once. Let's see if you can do it again."
Sico smiled faintly, settling back into his stance. "Gladly."
They went again.
This time the rhythm changed that tighter, sharper. The dust rose in a golden haze, sunlight breaking through in spears of light. Every movement became sharper, every breath heavier. Robert landed a glancing hit against Sico's side — the first of the match. The watching soldiers gasped, cheering wildly.
"There it is!"
"Robert's got him!"
"Don't get cocky yet!"
Sico recovered fast, spinning inside Robert's next swing and delivering a controlled strike to his shoulder that forced him back. MacCready leapt in from the left, but Sico ducked under him, catching his arm and rolling him harmlessly into the dirt again.
Even Sarah couldn't hold back her laughter now. "I told you not to challenge him, but nooo, no one listens to me."
Preston exhaled sharply, raising his hands again. "One more round."
Sico nodded once, respect in his eyes. "One more."
They came together in the center — three against one, the air electric with energy. For a moment, everything else faded: the noise, the laughter, the sunlight. All that existed was motion, instinct, and the rhythm of battle.
And then, just as quickly, it ended.
Sico slipped under Preston's swing, grabbed his wrist, and pivoted and pulling him off balance while twisting into Robert's path. In the same motion, he swept his leg, catching both men's momentum, sending them tumbling into the dust side by side.
The crowd exploded in a wave of cheers and applause.
Sarah raised her arm. "Match over! The President wins, again!"
Sico stood in the center of the ring, chest heaving but smiling, the sunlight glinting off the faint sweat on his skin. Robert groaned, MacCready laughed breathlessly, and Preston, still on his back, looked up at the sky and muttered, "I hate being right."
Sico offered his hand to each of them in turn, pulling them up. "You all did good. I haven't had a fight like that in years."
Robert chuckled, rubbing his shoulder. "You still hit like a damn power armor frame."
MacCready leaned on his knees, panting. "I'm… I'm too old for this."
Preston smirked. "Speak for yourself. I'm just getting started."
Sarah raised a brow. "Don't even think about it."
The laughter that followed was pure, unforced, and real with the kind that rolled through the ranks like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. For that brief moment, the yard wasn't filled with soldiers or Commanders or Presidents. It was filled with people that weary, scarred, but alive and still capable of joy in a world that had tried to strip it away.
________________________________________________
• 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:-