If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
Outside, the afternoon light caught the transmitter tower again with its new metal gleaming, its cables humming with renewed strength, its beacon pulsing steady and brave against the sky.
The next day arrived with a cool, crisp breath of morning, the kind that carried the scent of metal, dust, and faint pine drifting from the treeline bordering Sanctuary. The sun wasn't fully awake yet, only a soft golden smear stretched across the horizon, but at the training yard… the training yard was alive.
Sico stood at the top of the concrete steps leading into the yard, boots planted firmly, arms loosely folded as he took in the transformation.
And what a transformation it was.
The entire area that yesterday had been a rough, open expanse of cracked concrete, faded paint lines, and makeshift sparring circles had been reshaped into something structured, coordinated, and celebratory. It wasn't just a yard anymore. It was a battleground for pride. A stage for grit.
Rows of reinforced sparring rings had been marked out with newly painted white lines that bright, clean strokes still smelling faintly of drying paint. Temporary rope barriers framed each circle, while extra sandbags were stacked carefully around them to soften the inevitable falls. Wooden viewing stands had been assembled along the edges, simple yet sturdy structures built overnight by Sturges' carpenters. They were already half-filled by early risers—settlers with steaming mugs of coffee, curious kids dangling their legs excitedly, a few older scavvers who had wandered in because "ain't seen a proper fight in years."
Above them, colorful cloth banners were fluttered lazily in the breeze. Someone had stenciled the Republic's emblem at the center of each banner: the compass-and-hammer crest Sarah had designed last year.
And everywhere, absolutely everywhere, people were gathered.
The line for registration stretched from the long wooden table at the northeast end of the yard all the way down toward the water pump. Dozens of soldiers—men and women, younger recruits, hardened veterans, snipers, grenadiers, medics that stood shoulder to shoulder as they waited their turn to sign up. Some bounced lightly on their feet to warm up. Others stood still with stern focus. Some just looked excited.
And then there were the settlers.
They came from every corner of the Republic.
A handful from Abernathy Farm arrived together, still smelling lightly of fertilizer and fresh cornmeal. A pair from Tenpines Bluff whispered to each other about which fighters looked the most intimidating. A group of kids from Sanctuary chased each other between the stands until a guard gently herded them away. Even the Bunker Hill caravan had sent a few of their own, with their heavy coats unmistakable in the sea of Freemason uniforms.
It was loud, as dozens of conversations overlapping like an orchestra tuning itself before a massive performance.
It was chaotic, with papers shuffling, boots stomping, tools clanking as someone fixed a loose board in the stands.
It was beautiful.
Sico exhaled slowly, feeling something warm uncurl in his chest.
This was exactly what he'd wanted.
And the day had only just begun.
He descended the steps.
At the bottom, Robert Carter was already in full "commando sergeant mode," clipboard tucked under one arm, voice sharp as he barked instructions at a small group of corporals who handled the registration.
"Keep the line moving! I don't care if they can't write their own name, help them! If anyone's missing basic gear, send them to MacCready, he'll handle it. Nobody gets into that ring without proper protection!"
MacCready, nearby, rolled his eyes but didn't argue. He was crouched beside a crate of leather gloves and training pads, handing them out to fighters as they passed near the table.
"Next!" he called to a private who looked barely old enough to shave.
The private stumbled over, nervous but determined.
MacCready gave him a once-over. "Kid, do you even know how to throw a punch?"
"Yes, sir!"
"We'll see," MacCready muttered, handing him a pair of mismatched gloves. "Don't lose these. I swear, if one more idiot leaves gloves behind—"
His voice trailed off as another hopeful approached.
Sico walked toward them, and the moment the crowd noticed him, the atmosphere shifted slightly—as if someone had turned up the brightness of the entire morning.
A few slaps on shoulders, a few murmured "Mr. President," a few respectful nods rippled through the crowd.
He returned each gesture gently, without slowing.
Robert noticed him immediately and straightened, snapping a half-salute more out of habit than protocol.
"Morning, sir!" Robert said. "Hope you slept well, because we've got one hell of a turnout."
"It's impressive," Sico replied, taking in the line again. "Better than I expected."
Robert smirked. "People came before dawn. Some camped out. You'd think we were giving away free Brotherhood armor."
Sico chuckled. "That would definitely cause a riot."
"Sir," Robert added, lowering his voice a little, "morale's sky-high. Soldiers are fired up. Settlers are happy to be part of something that isn't a fight for their lives. This might be one of the best ideas you've had."
"It wasn't just mine," Sico said. "Everyone here made it possible."
Robert nodded, but Sico could still see the pride flickering behind the man's stern face.
MacCready stood up and wandered over, blowing warm air into his gloved hands.
"You weren't kidding, boss," he said. "We've got names from every battalion. Hell, even some from the engineering corps. Engineers, Sico. I didn't even know they knew how to throw anything that wasn't a wrench."
"I'm sure Sturges could teach them a few things," Sico said with a faint grin.
MacCready barked a short laugh. "That man once beat a raider with a socket pipe while fixing a generator. I don't question anything he does anymore."
Sico scanned the yard again.
Soldiers were practicing small footwork drills.
Settlers were finding seats.
Kids were climbing onto their parents' shoulders to see better.
It made his heart settle in a way that battlefield victories rarely did.
Then he walked closer to the registration table.
Two corporals sat behind it, one scribbling names quickly on a ledger, the other stamping slips of paper to mark each entrant's assigned number. Sweat glistened on their temples from how fast they were working.
The corporal writing glanced up, startled at seeing Sico. "Sir! Morning!"
"Good morning," Sico said, smiling softly. "Everything running smoothly?"
"Yes, sir. Busier than expected, but we've got a good system."
The other corporal, red-faced from stamping, chimed in breathlessly, "We've got 132 sign-ups already, sir and that's just the first hour."
MacCready whistled low. "People really want to punch each other today."
A soldier in line overheard and shouted, "It's for a good cause, sir!"
Laughter echoed through the yard.
Sico stepped aside, letting the line continue moving, watching each group of soldiers sign their names with a unique mix of confidence, nerves, and determination.
A lanky sniper scribbled neatly.
A muscled heavy gunner pressed too hard, almost breaking the pencil.
A medic wrote calmly, barely blinking.
A scribe from Logistics wrote her name with surprising flourish.
And then.
A small cluster of settlers stepped into line.
Sturdy men and women.
Mechanics. Farmers. Traders.
Sico paused.
He hadn't expected civilians to try registering.
One of them, a middle-aged man with soot-stained gloves that looked at the corporals and asked:
"Is it allowed for us normal folk too?"
The corporal hesitated, glancing quickly at Sico.
Sico approached them.
"You want to join?" he asked gently.
The mechanic nodded. "Not to win… just to test myself. Been practicing with the guards. Thought maybe, well I thought maybe this was for everyone."
Sico considered him.
Considered the tired eyes behind the man's hope.
He nodded once.
"If you want to enter," Sico said, "you're welcome to. Just be aware: soldiers train for this every day. Some of these fighters are extremely experienced."
The mechanic placed a hand on his chest. "Sir, I raise crops in radiation storms and fight off wild dogs with a shovel. I think I'll survive a sparring match."
The crowd nearby chuckled.
Sico smiled, then glanced toward the corporals.
"Register him."
The mechanic's face lit up like someone had handed him a birthday cake.
"Yes, sir!" the corporals said, stamping his entry slip.
Three more settlers eagerly stepped forward, asking to sign up as well.
Robert huffed under his breath. "This is going to get interesting."
MacCready shook his head. "Or stupid. Very stupid."
But neither man argued.
Because they understood Sico's intention.
The Republic wasn't built on hierarchy. It was built on unity.
And today, that unity was physical.
Sico stepped back to watch the next wave of sign-ups.
Behind him, the sun was rising higher now, warming the yard with golden light. Long shadows stretched across sandbags and bleachers. Technicians rolled out loudspeakers salvaged from Diamond City's old market stalls. Two Minutemen hoisted additional banners overhead. Cooks arrived with portable stoves, already preparing morning stew and mutfruit bread for later. A group of settlers dragged crates of Nuka-Cola to selling stands. The whole place had become a fairground of anticipation.
Then Sarah approached.
Her pace was swift, her coat fluttering behind her in the morning breeze, her expression sharp but energized.
When she reached Sico's side, she exhaled through her nose in a half-groan, half-laugh.
"Do you see this circus?" Sarah asked, gesturing broadly at the crowd.
"It's a good circus," Sico replied calmly.
"It's still a damn circus."
He chuckled. "You sound like you're stressed."
"I am stressed," Sarah snapped—but the corner of her mouth twitched in amusement. "Do you have any idea how many patrol shifts I had to rearrange because half my soldiers insisted on entering?"
"I assume many."
"Try thirty-six."
Sico winced. "Alright, that's a lot."
Sarah rubbed her temples. "We have an entire army, Sico. Yet somehow every idiot on duty today thinks they're the next Commando prodigy."
MacCready joined them and said deadpan, "To be fair, Sarah, half of them aren't idiots. Only… maybe twenty percent."
"MacCready," Sarah said slowly, "if you make my workload harder, I'm putting you on night watch."
MacCready shut his mouth immediately.
But then Sarah looked around again, and her expression softened.
"This…" she said quietly, "is actually… beautiful."
Sico nodded. "It is."
Sarah let out a long breath. "Alright. Alright. Fine. I'll admit it. This was a good idea."
Sico gave her a sideways smile. "Thank you."
"Don't push your luck," she muttered.
Then she stepped closer to him, lowering her voice with a seriousness that didn't replace the warmth—just complemented it.
Then she clapped her hands loudly.
"Alright, everyone!" she yelled toward the corporals. "Double-check gear inspections! Last thing we need is someone losing a tooth because their opponent forgot a mouth guard!"
One of the corporals raised a hand sheepishly. "Ma'am, we're out of spare mouth guards."
Sarah blinked hard. "How, how are we out? We ordered a hundred yesterday!"
MacCready leaned forward. "Uh… someone tried to melt them into a custom grip for his knife."
"WHO?!" Sarah barked.
A recruit nearby immediately ducked behind another soldier.
Sico quietly stepped away, biting back a laugh.
He continued forward through the crowd.
A tall, broad-shouldered grenadier approached him. "Sir, I'm entering. Been waiting for something like this."
"Good luck," Sico replied.
An older woman carrying a basket of food called out, "President Sico! We brought stew for the fighters! My grandson's signing up!"
Sico smiled. "Thank you. They'll appreciate it."
A small girl tugged on his sleeve timidly.
He crouched down.
"Yes?" he asked softly.
"Do… do you think the fighters will get hurt?" she whispered.
He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"They'll get bruises," Sico said honestly. "But they'll be safe. We have rules to protect everyone."
She nodded slowly, comforted.
Her mother mouthed a silent "thank you" as they walked away.
Then Piper arrived.
She didn't walk so much as storm in, waving her notepad and adjusting her hat.
"Holy moly, Sico. This place is a madhouse!" she announced loud enough to turn a few heads.
"You created half of this madness," Sico reminded her.
Piper beamed proudly. "Damn right I did. The broadcast reached all Commonwealth. We've got listeners sending me letters threatening to riot if I don't get recordings of today's fights."
"Please don't encourage riots," Sarah muttered from across the yard.
Piper ignored her.
She stepped close to Sico and nudged him with her elbow.
"So, Mr. President," she teased, "how does it feel being the ringmaster of the Commonwealth's newest favorite pastime?"
Sico glanced at the bustling yard again.
"It feels," he said quietly, "like the Commonwealth is becoming something new."
Piper studied him for a moment, then softened.
"It is," she said. "And people can feel it."
Someone in the crowd shouted suddenly:
"Hey President Sico! Will you be watching all the fights?"
Sico turned.
"Yes," he answered. "Every match."
A roar of approval rippled through the yard.
Another soldier yelled, "Are you betting on anyone?"
Sico shook his head. "No favorites."
MacCready snorted. "Coward."
Sarah elbowed him.
Robert cleared his throat loudly, signaling the corporals to speed up registration.
"Alright, everyone!" Robert shouted. "We start in one hour! If you haven't signed up yet, get it done now! If you're not ready by the first bell, you're out!"
The registration line had finally begun to shrink, though the noise of the yard only grew as voices layering over each other like waves, hammers striking metal as last-minute repairs were made, the shuffling of soldiers and settlers trying to squeeze into better viewing spots.
The morning sun was now fully risen, spilling warm gold across the concrete like paint. It made the banners glow. It made the sandbags throw soft, long shadows. It made the cracked ground seem almost polished.
Sico felt the shift in the air.
And he knew:
It was time.
He stepped forward into the open, raising a hand.
Sarah saw him first and immediately raised two fingers to her lips, releasing a sharp whistle that cut perfectly through the noise.
"QUIET ON THE YARD!"
Her officers echoed the command. MacCready barked for silence. Robert clapped his hands together like thunder.
The chatter died down.
Boots paused.
Kids quieted.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Hundreds of eyes landed on Sico.
He stood in the center of the main ring, as boots planted firmly on the freshly painted white lines, his coat stirring faintly in the breeze, the morning sun illuminating him like the first light of a new day.
Piper slipped closer to the front of the stands with her notepad tucked under her arm, already sensing what was coming.
Sico looked across the sea of faces with soldiers in uniform, settlers with dirt still under their fingernails, mechanics in heavy jackets, mothers holding their kids' hands, engineers with tools still clipped to their belts.
All of them watching him.
All of them waiting.
He drew in one breath.
Then spoke.
His voice wasn't loud, with voice people instinctively leaned toward, the kind that felt honest because it came from a place of purpose rather than ego.
"Good morning," Sico began, his tone calm but resonant. "And welcome… to something new."
A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd.
"Today isn't just about strength," he continued. "It isn't about proving who can hit harder or stand longer. Today is about us. About the Republic."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"In the Commonwealth, we have lived too long defined by war from defined by enemies, by losses, by battles for survival. But today, we gather for something different. Something built with our own hands. Something built on pride, unity, and spirit."
He swept his gaze across the yard, making sure every corner felt seen.
"This competition is not just for soldiers. It's for settlers. For farmers. For engineers. For every person living under the Freemasons Republic. Because this nation isn't built on fear. It's built on us to show on our courage, our resilience, and our will to rise."
A few settlers cheered. Soldiers pounded their fists lightly against their chests.
Sico let a small smile touch his face.
"Today," he said, voice warming, "we fight not because we must… but because we choose to. Because we want to grow. Because we want to sharpen ourselves. Because we want to remind the world and ourselves, that we are alive."
The air was vibrating now.
"In these rings, you will not be enemies. You will be challengers. Rivals. And at the end of each match, you will shake hands, not because a rule tells you to, but because respect is what sets us apart."
Heads nodded. Shoulders straightened. The crowd drew closer.
"And remember," Sico added, softer but firmer, "this isn't about glory. It's about becoming better than you were yesterday. For yourself. For the Republic. For the future we are building together."
Then he placed a hand over his chest.
"Thank you… all of you… for being part of this day."
He stepped back, breath steady, voice rising one last time:
"Let the first Freemasons Republic Sparring Competition, begin!"
A roar exploded from every direction.
Cheers.
Whistles.
Foot stomps.
Shouts of excitement.
Even the banners seemed to flutter more intensely in the sudden storm of energy.
Kids jumped.
Settlers clapped wildly.
Soldiers pumped their fists into the air.
Sarah raised her hands to signal the start.
Robert barked, "Fighters, prepare!"
MacCready cracked his knuckles and muttered, "Here we go."
And Piper.
Piper rushed forward, hopping onto the wooden stand built for speakers. She grabbed the old-world microphone the technicians had wired to the loudspeakers, adjusted her hat, and grinned as if she had waited her whole life for this moment.
Sico turned toward her.
"Piper," he said, "the crowd needs a voice."
She winked. "You sure you want my voice? Sometimes it gets me shot at."
"That's why it's perfect."
Her grin widened.
"So I'm the official commentator?"
"You are."
Piper placed a hand against her heart. "I won't let you down, Mr. President."
Then she spun on her heel, leaned into the microphone, and the speakers crackled alive.
"HELLLLLOOOOO COMMONWEALTH!!" Piper's voice boomed across the yard, instantly sending a wave of laughter and cheers through the crowd. "This is Piper Wright, coming to you LIVE from Sanctuary Hills, where history is about to kick off!"
Kids cheered.
Soldiers hollered.
Settlers applauded.
Piper continued, her energy infectious.
"If you're just tuning in, or if you somehow slept through the stampede this morning. Today is the first ever Freemasons Republic official sparring competition!"
Another eruption of cheers.
"And let me tell you," Piper said, pacing along the stand like a performer on stage, "we've got everything! Soldiers of every rank! Settlers with something to prove! Old-timers trying to show the young bloods they've still got it! Even a few engineers who swear they're more dangerous than their tools!"
Laughter rippled across the yard.
Sico folded his arms, watching her with quiet satisfaction. She was perfect for this, she added electricity to something already bright.
Piper leaned closer to the mic.
"So grab your Nuka-Cola, adjust your seats, and get ready, because the first match is about to start!"
The corporals signaled two names.
"Fighters to Ring One!" Robert shouted.
And the crowd collectively leaned forward.
Two competitors stepped into the circle.
A tall, lean sniper named Daniels.
And a bulky grenadier named Morris.
The contrast alone made the crowd roar.
Piper's voice shot through the loudspeaker:
"OHHHH WE'RE STARTING WITH FIRE!" she shouted. "Daniels the Deadeye versus Morris the Walking Explosion! This is gonna be GOOD!"
Sico couldn't help it, he felt his lips pull into a grin.
The two fighters bowed.
MacCready stepped in as referee.
"Rules are simple," he announced. "Light strikes only. No head shots. Stop if I call stop. Winner is decided by clean hits, control, and technique. Understood?"
"Understood," both men said.
MacCready raised a hand.
"BEGIN!"
Morris charged like a bear.
Daniels sidestepped like a whisper.
The crowd gasped as Morris's punch hit nothing but air.
Piper shouted into the mic, "AND MORRIS MISSES BY A MILE! I think he just punched a breeze into tomorrow!"
Daniels countered with two quick jabs to Morris's ribs that light, controlled, but effective.
MacCready raised a finger. "One point Daniels!"
Cheers erupted.
Sarah folded her arms proudly. "Snipers. Always underappreciated."
"Still betting against the big guy?" Robert asked.
"I'm not betting," she replied. "I'm observing."
Morris regrouped, growled playfully, and charged again—but this time, smarter. He used his weight to corner Daniels.
The sniper slipped out of the trap, surprising even Sico with how smooth the movement was.
"Somebody's been practicing footwork!" Piper called. "Look at him go! Morris can't catch him if he tried to put jet boosters on his boots!"
The crowd roared.
Each movement.
Each dodge.
Each strike.
The yard reacted like a living creature—gasping together, laughing together, cheering together.
And this was just the first fight.
Daniels landed another clean hit.
Then another.
MacCready lifted his hand. "Match!"
Morris sighed heavily—but smiled as he offered his hand.
Daniels shook it.
The crowd applauded them both.
Sico breathed in the warmth of the moment—the unity, the energy, the pure, unfiltered joy rippling across the Commonwealth.
This was working.
This was more than he hoped.
Piper leaned close to the mic again.
"And THAT is our first match, folks! Give it up for both fighters!"
The crowd thundered with applause.
But Piper wasn't finished.
"And remember!" she called. "This isn't just about winning. It's about showing what you've got, pushing your limits, and making the Commonwealth proud!"
More cheers.
MacCready called for the next fighters.
Robert shouted orders.
Sarah adjusted the viewing arrangements.
Settlers banged their palms against the wooden stands, chanting for the next bout. Kids bounced excitedly.
And Sico…
Sico stepped back a little, letting the event unfold. Letting the Republic run on its own momentum. Watching the unity he'd dreamed of grow right in front of him.
Match after match began.
From a young private who surprised everyone with lightning-fast kicks, to a farmer who shocked a veteran with a textbook-perfect shoulder throw, then a medic who fought with careful precision, never once aiming to hurt, with mechanic from Abernathy whose punches sounded like he forged them on an anvil, and a engineer who fought awkwardly but with such heart the crowd adored him regardless.
Piper narrated every one with the flair of a show host, a war reporter, and a comedian all rolled into one.
"OH! DID YOU SEE THAT? THAT KICK COULD HAVE WOKEN UP A MR. GUTSY!"
"Ladies and gentlemen, I think the engineer has invented a new strategy: confuse your opponent by tripping over your own feet!"
"That throw was CLEAN! Someone get that farmer a medal—or at least a free brahmin!"
The crowd ate it up.
The morning slowly bled into late morning.
The sun climbed higher.
The stands filled until there wasn't a single empty plank left.
Food vendors circulated with trays of stew, bread, and cold Nuka-Colas. Settlers waved banners they'd painted last night. Some kids drew chalk pictures of their favorite fighters on the pavement.
By the time the sun began sliding past its highest point in the sky, Sanctuary had transformed into a full-fledged festival ground.
The sparring competition had started as a structured event, a carefully organized gathering.
But by early afternoon?
It had evolved into something far bigger.
The air was warm now, the last traces of morning chill burned away. The sky above was a clear, perfect blue with small tufts of cloud drifting lazily, as if even the heavens were taking the day to relax and watch.
The smell of food was everywhere.
Vendors had formed an informal ring around the yard, calling out their offerings: bowls of steaming mirelurk-and-vegetable stew, freshly baked mutfruit loaves, skewers of brahmin steak glazed with razorgrain honey, even a few rare treats like pre-war potato crisps some trader had saved for years. Crates of Nuka-Cola were opened faster than the vendors could count. Kids begged their parents for sugar bombs shaped into little fists for "fighter snacks."
People ate while watching the matches, cheering between bites, arguing with their mouths half full, pointing excitedly at the fighters mid-swing while stew sloshed perilously over the rims of their bowls.
The stands were completely packed. Some settlers gave up on seats entirely and simply perched on rooftops, fences, or sat cross-legged on crates. The southern side of the yard had become a sprawling picnic, families sitting on old tarps and cloth scraps while they watched the bouts like spectators at a circus.
The noise was indescribable.
And in the center of it all, Piper's voice rang across the speakers, never wavering, never losing momentum.
"—AND HE LANDS ANOTHER ONE! Folks, I don't know what stew that man ate this morning, but somebody better get me a bowl because he is UNSTOPPABLE!"
People laughed, applauded, and whistled.
Sico, Sarah, Robert, and MacCready rotated duties with refereeing, monitoring gear, keeping the flow moving, and occasionally stepping aside to breathe for twenty seconds before the next wave of fighters came in.
But Sico rarely left the ringside.
He watched every match with the same quiet intensity he had in the morning as absorbing every movement, every gasp of the crowd, every connection between settlers and soldiers alike.
The early afternoon bouts were some of the most entertaining.
There was the carpenter from Sanctuary who fought with the slow, heavy rhythm of someone used to swinging tools, not fists, but when he landed a hit, the entire crowd felt the thud vibrate through the stands.
There was the tiny, wiry med-tech who shocked a grizzled veteran by weaving through his strikes like she was dodging radroaches in a cramped hallway. When she won with a precise palm strike to his chest, Piper shouted:
"CAN WE GET HER A CAPE? Because that was some superhero stuff right there!"
There was the Tenpines farmer who fought with a stubborn, almost angry determination with every swing like he was taking revenge on years of raider harassment, years of cold winters, years of scraping by. He didn't win, but the crowd gave him the loudest applause of his bracket.
And there was one fighter, one nobody paid much attention to at first.
A settler.
Just a settler.
He had signed up quietly in the early morning line, saying almost nothing except "I'd like to try," with a sheepish half-smile and calloused hands that spoke of hard labor.
His name was Jonas Hale, a mid-aged man from a small settlement between Bunker Hill and Finch Farm. He wasn't tall. He wasn't bulky. He didn't wear flashy armor or carry himself like a trained fighter.
He looked… normal.
Ordinary.
Forgettable.
But when he stepped into the ring for the first time, he moved with something else, showing not elegance or speed, but a quiet efficiency. A grounded steadiness. Like every motion he made was the result of decades of physical work: hauling scrap, chopping wood, fixing fences, surviving storms.
He fought like a man who had lived through hell not with training, but with life itself.
At first people didn't notice him.
But he kept winning.
And winning.
And winning.
Not with brutality.
Not with force.
But with timing.
With balance.
With surprising patience.
Enough patience that after his second win, Piper leaned into the microphone and said loudly into the speakers:
"Okay, okay, who is THIS guy? Someone check his arms for servo-motors because I swear he's not human!"
Everyone laughed.
Jonas flushed red but grinned in embarrassment.
Sico watched him thoughtfully.
Sarah shot Sico a side glance. "He reminds me of a few Minutemen we lost along the way. Hard lives make hard hands."
MacCready nodded slowly. "Not a spark of talent. But a whole damn engine of heart."
By mid-afternoon, the excitement had reached boiling point.
The first round had come and gone.
The second round had thinned the herd.
And the quarterfinals?
Those had the crowd screaming loud enough to wake the dead.
Kids stood on their seats.
Settlers waved their homemade banners wildly.
Soldiers stomped their boots to create a drum-like beat before every match.
Vendors had to rush to bring more stew, more bread, more Nuka-Cola. Someone even opened a stash of pre-war fancy lad snack cakes from a sealed bunker, selling them for a single cap each "for the sake of the celebration."
People were chewing, yelling, laughing, pointing — the atmosphere was electric.
When the last quarterfinal match concluded, Robert stepped forward onto the center ring, raising his voice above the roaring crowd:
"WE ARE NOW ENTERING THE SEMI-FINALS!"
The reaction was deafening.
Cheers.
Whistles.
Stomping.
Even the exhausted fighters waiting nearby perked up.
Piper leaned into her mic, almost breathless with excitement:
"You heard the man! We are down to the BEST of the BEST! Up next, the semi-finals of the first-ever Freemasons Republic sparring competition!"
The semi-final matches were spectacular.
Brutal.
Technical.
Fast.
Mesmerizing.
The first semi-final was between a heavily trained commando named Delaney and Jonas Hale, the quiet settler who somehow kept slipping through stronger, younger, and faster fighters like water through fingers.
Nobody expected Jonas to win.
Delaney was taller, stronger, faster, trained by the military since he was seventeen. His shoulders were thick, his punches sharp, his footwork crisp.
But Jonas…
Jonas waited.
Watched.
Observed.
Every time Delaney lunged, Jonas pivoted. Every time Delaney swung, Jonas slipped past like wind.
Piper was in disbelief.
"Okay, WHAT is happening right now?! Does Jonas secretly have a Pip-Boy that can see the future?!"
The crowd shrieked with laughter.
Delaney got frustrated.
Pressed forward harder.
And that was his mistake.
Jonas stepped aside and tapped Delaney's ribs with a clean, perfectly controlled strike — not powerful, but undeniable.
MacCready raised a hand. "Point: Jonas!"
The crowd exploded.
People who had no idea who he was in the morning were now screaming his name like he had been their neighbor for years.
Jonas grew bolder.
Delaney grew reckless.
And in a breathless final exchange, Jonas ducked beneath a wild right hook and planted a textbook-perfect open palm strike against Delaney's chest.
Delaney stumbled backward.
MacCready jumped between them. "MATCH!"
The yard went silent for one stunned second.
Then erupted.
PIPER:
"WHAT?! WHAT?! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN — YOUR DARKHORSE SETTLER HAS JUST TAKEN DOWN A COMMANDO!"
Delaney, to his credit, took the loss with grace. He shook Jonas's hand firmly, even raising the settler's arm for the crowd.
Jonas stood there awkwardly, overwhelmed, face red as a carrot, staring at the crowd like he couldn't believe their cheers were meant for him.
Sico watched with a soft, swelling pride.
This is what unity looked like.
The second semi-final was between two soldiers — Grenadier Morris and the med-tech with precision strikes.
It was a close fight, but Morris's endurance won out.
He went to the final.
The med-tech moved on to the third-place match.
After a short break, Robert announced:
"RING TWO, THIRD PLACE MATCH!"
The med-tech faced a young corporal known for speed.
It was fast, clean, technical — the crowd was captivated.
In the end, the med-tech claimed third place with a swift series of controlled hits that left the corporal gasping for breath.
Piper announced the result with pure joy:
"WHAT A MATCH! Third place goes to our precision queen, don't mess with her unless you want to feel your ribs sing!"
The crowd cheered like she'd won a championship.
She bowed shyly and hurried off the ring.
Now all eyes turned to the center.
The main ring.
The final.
The air felt charged, as it was hot.
The stands stopped moving.
People quieted, not fully silent, but the quiet of anticipation, of hundreds leaning forward at once.
Jonas Hale vs. Morris the grenadier.
Settler vs. soldier.
Heart vs. power.
A dark horse vs. a favorite.
Piper's voice, low and intense, echoed across the yard:
"Ladies and gentlemen… this is it. The final match of the first Freemasons Republic Sparring Competition. Two fighters remain. One crown. No second chances. No resets. Just pure spirit."
MacCready called both fighters to the ring.
Morris cracked his knuckles, muscles bulging under his sleeveless shirt. He looked confident, energized — ready to win the whole thing.
Jonas stepped onto the ring slowly, breathing steadily, eyes focused, jaw set.
But he was nervous.
Everyone could see it.
And everyone was rooting for him.
Kids waved hand-painted boards saying "GO JONAS!"
Soldiers cheered his name even louder than the settlers.
Even Morris grinned and thumped his chest at Jonas in a friendly challenge.
Jonas nodded respectfully.
MacCready raised his hand.
"Final match. Last round. Controlled strikes only. Fight clean. Fight fair."
Both men nodded.
The crowd held its breath.
"BEGIN!"
The final was nothing like the earlier bouts.
It wasn't flashy.
It wasn't wild.
It wasn't chaotic.
It was tight.
Precise.
Every step mattered.
Every breath mattered.
Jonas dodged Morris's heavy strikes with perfect timing, but Morris adapted faster than Delaney had. He feinted, changed rhythm, forced Jonas back with sweeping pushes and low kicks that nearly broke through Jonas's defense.
Piper narrated breathlessly:
"Morris is pushing hard, but Jonas is holding on! Folks, this is incredible! It's strength versus timing, brute force versus survivor instinct!"
The fighters circled each other.
Sweat dripped.
Dust kicked up around their feet.
Morris lunged.
Jonas slipped aside.
Morris spun.
Jonas caught his arm and tapped his shoulder with a clean strike.
"One point Jonas!" MacCready called.
The stands erupted, but Morris didn't falter.
He came again.
Hard.
Faster.
Jonas defended.
Barely.
Morris landed a hit to Jonas's upper arm.
"One point Morris!"
The score was tied.
The yard shook with screams, cheers, chanting — a wall of sound so loud it overwhelmed thought.
Piper yelled, "THIS IS TOO CLOSE TO CALL! WHO IS GOING HOME WITH THE GOLD, SANCTUARY?!"
The fighters circled again.
Both panting.
Both trembling.
Jonas's foot slipped slightly from fatigue.
Morris saw it.
Charged.
Jonas stepped back instinctively — but not far enough.
Morris's punch brushed Jonas's ribs — almost making contact but not clean enough for a point.
And in that razor-thin moment, Jonas did something incredible.
He didn't dodge.
He didn't retreat.
He stepped in.
Close enough to make Morris blink in surprise.
Close enough to turn Morris's momentum against him.
Jonas dropped low, pivoted on the ball of his foot, and delivered a clean, undeniable open palm strike straight to Morris's sternum.
Morris stumbled.
MacCready swung his hand up.
"MATCH!"
For a heartbeat, the yard was silent.
Then thunder.
By the time the sun began sliding past its highest point in the sky, Sanctuary had transformed into a full-fledged festival ground.
The sparring competition had started as a structured event, a carefully organized gathering.
But by early afternoon?
It had evolved into something far bigger — something alive.
The air was warm now, the last traces of morning chill burned away. The sky above was a clear, perfect blue with small tufts of cloud drifting lazily, as if even the heavens were taking the day to relax and watch.
The smell of food was everywhere.
Vendors had formed an informal ring around the yard, calling out their offerings: bowls of steaming mirelurk-and-vegetable stew, freshly baked mutfruit loaves, skewers of brahmin steak glazed with razorgrain honey, even a few rare treats like pre-war potato crisps some trader had saved for years. Crates of Nuka-Cola were opened faster than the vendors could count. Kids begged their parents for sugar bombs shaped into little fists for "fighter snacks."
People ate while watching the matches, cheering between bites, arguing with their mouths half full, pointing excitedly at the fighters mid-swing while stew sloshed perilously over the rims of their bowls.
The stands were completely packed. Some settlers gave up on seats entirely and simply perched on rooftops, fences, or sat cross-legged on crates. The southern side of the yard had become a sprawling picnic, families sitting on old tarps and cloth scraps while they watched the bouts like spectators at a circus.
The noise was indescribable — a roar, a river, a current of energy that never slowed.
And in the center of it all, Piper's voice rang across the speakers, never wavering, never losing momentum.
"—AND HE LANDS ANOTHER ONE! Folks, I don't know what stew that man ate this morning, but somebody better get me a bowl because he is UNSTOPPABLE!"
People laughed, applauded, and whistled.
Sico, Sarah, Robert, and MacCready rotated duties — refereeing, monitoring gear, keeping the flow moving, and occasionally stepping aside to breathe for twenty seconds before the next wave of fighters came in.
But Sico rarely left the ringside.
He watched every match with the same quiet intensity he had in the morning — absorbing every movement, every gasp of the crowd, every connection between settlers and soldiers alike.
This was what he wanted the Republic to be.
Not perfect. Not polished.
But alive.
Alive in a way the Commonwealth had never felt before.
⸻
The early afternoon bouts were some of the most entertaining.
There was the carpenter from Sanctuary who fought with the slow, heavy rhythm of someone used to swinging tools, not fists — but when he landed a hit, the entire crowd felt the thud vibrate through the stands.
There was the tiny, wiry med-tech who shocked a grizzled veteran by weaving through his strikes like she was dodging radroaches in a cramped hallway. When she won with a precise palm strike to his chest, Piper shouted:
"CAN WE GET HER A CAPE? Because that was some superhero stuff right there!"
There was the Tenpines farmer who fought with a stubborn, almost angry determination — every swing like he was taking revenge on years of raider harassment, years of cold winters, years of scraping by. He didn't win, but the crowd gave him the loudest applause of his bracket.
And there was one fighter — one nobody paid much attention to at first.
A settler.
Just a settler.
He had signed up quietly in the early morning line, saying almost nothing except "I'd like to try," with a sheepish half-smile and calloused hands that spoke of hard labor.
His name was Jonas Hale, a mid-aged man from a small settlement between Bunker Hill and Finch Farm. He wasn't tall. He wasn't bulky. He didn't wear flashy armor or carry himself like a trained fighter.
He looked… normal.
Ordinary.
Forgettable.
But when he stepped into the ring for the first time, he moved with something else — not elegance or speed, but a quiet efficiency. A grounded steadiness. Like every motion he made was the result of decades of physical work: hauling scrap, chopping wood, fixing fences, surviving storms.
He fought like a man who had lived through hell not with training, but with life itself.
At first people didn't notice him.
But he kept winning.
And winning.
And winning.
Not with brutality.
Not with force.
But with timing.
With balance.
With surprising patience.
Enough patience that after his second win, Piper leaned into the microphone and said loudly into the speakers:
"Okay, okay — who is THIS guy? Someone check his arms for servo-motors because I swear he's not human!"
Everyone laughed.
Jonas flushed red but grinned in embarrassment.
Sico watched him thoughtfully.
Sarah shot Sico a side glance. "He reminds me of a few Minutemen we lost along the way. Hard lives make hard hands."
MacCready nodded slowly. "Not a spark of talent. But a whole damn engine of heart."
⸻
By mid-afternoon, the excitement had reached boiling point.
The first round had come and gone.
The second round had thinned the herd.
And the quarterfinals?
Those had the crowd screaming loud enough to wake the dead.
Kids stood on their seats.
Settlers waved their homemade banners wildly.
Soldiers stomped their boots to create a drum-like beat before every match.
Vendors had to rush to bring more stew, more bread, more Nuka-Cola. Someone even opened a stash of pre-war fancy lad snack cakes from a sealed bunker, selling them for a single cap each "for the sake of the celebration."
People were chewing, yelling, laughing, pointing — the atmosphere was electric.
When the last quarterfinal match concluded, Robert stepped forward onto the center ring, raising his voice above the roaring crowd:
"WE ARE NOW ENTERING THE SEMI-FINALS!"
The reaction was deafening.
Cheers.
Whistles.
Stomping.
Even the exhausted fighters waiting nearby perked up.
Piper leaned into her mic, almost breathless with excitement:
"You heard the man! We are down to the BEST of the BEST! Up next — the semi-finals of the first-ever Freemasons Republic sparring competition!"
The semi-final matches were spectacular.
Brutal.
Technical.
Fast.
Mesmerizing.
The first semi-final was between a heavily trained commando named Delaney — and Jonas Hale, the quiet settler who somehow kept slipping through stronger, younger, and faster fighters like water through fingers.
Nobody expected Jonas to win.
Delaney was taller, stronger, faster, trained by the military since he was seventeen. His shoulders were thick, his punches sharp, his footwork crisp.
But Jonas…
Jonas waited.
Watched.
Observed.
Every time Delaney lunged, Jonas pivoted. Every time Delaney swung, Jonas slipped past like wind.
Piper was in disbelief.
"Okay — WHAT is happening right now?! Does Jonas secretly have a Pip-Boy that can see the future?!"
The crowd shrieked with laughter.
Delaney got frustrated.
Pressed forward harder.
And that was his mistake.
Jonas stepped aside and tapped Delaney's ribs with a clean, perfectly controlled strike — not powerful, but undeniable.
MacCready raised a hand. "Point: Jonas!"
The crowd exploded.
People who had no idea who he was in the morning were now screaming his name like he had been their neighbor for years.
Jonas grew bolder.
Delaney grew reckless.
And in a breathless final exchange, Jonas ducked beneath a wild right hook and planted a textbook-perfect open palm strike against Delaney's chest.
Delaney stumbled backward.
MacCready jumped between them. "MATCH!"
The yard went silent for one stunned second.
Then erupted.
PIPER:
"WHAT?! WHAT?! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN — YOUR DARKHORSE SETTLER HAS JUST TAKEN DOWN A COMMANDO!"
Delaney, to his credit, took the loss with grace. He shook Jonas's hand firmly, even raising the settler's arm for the crowd.
Jonas stood there awkwardly, overwhelmed, face red as a carrot, staring at the crowd like he couldn't believe their cheers were meant for him.
Sico watched with a soft, swelling pride.
This is what unity looked like.
⸻
The second semi-final was between two soldiers — Grenadier Morris and the med-tech with precision strikes.
It was a close fight, but Morris's endurance won out.
He went to the final.
The med-tech moved on to the third-place match.
⸻
After a short break, Robert announced:
"RING TWO — THIRD PLACE MATCH!"
The med-tech faced a young corporal known for speed.
It was fast, clean, technical — the crowd was captivated.
In the end, the med-tech claimed third place with a swift series of controlled hits that left the corporal gasping for breath.
Piper announced the result with pure joy:
"WHAT A MATCH! Third place goes to our precision queen — don't mess with her unless you want to feel your ribs sing!"
The crowd cheered like she'd won a championship.
She bowed shyly and hurried off the ring.
⸻
Now all eyes turned to the center.
The main ring.
The final.
The air felt charged — hot, buzzing.
The stands stopped moving.
People quieted — not fully silent, but the quiet of anticipation, of hundreds leaning forward at once.
Jonas Hale vs. Morris the grenadier.
Settler vs. soldier.
Heart vs. power.
A dark horse vs. a favorite.
Piper's voice, low and intense, echoed across the yard:
"Ladies and gentlemen… this is it. The final match of the first Freemasons Republic Sparring Competition. Two fighters remain. One crown. No second chances. No resets. Just pure spirit."
MacCready called both fighters to the ring.
Morris cracked his knuckles, muscles bulging under his sleeveless shirt. He looked confident, energized — ready to win the whole thing.
Jonas stepped onto the ring slowly, breathing steadily, eyes focused, jaw set.
But he was nervous.
Everyone could see it.
And everyone was rooting for him.
Kids waved hand-painted boards saying "GO JONAS!"
Soldiers cheered his name even louder than the settlers.
Even Morris grinned and thumped his chest at Jonas in a friendly challenge.
Jonas nodded respectfully.
MacCready raised his hand.
"Final match. Last round. Controlled strikes only. Fight clean. Fight fair."
Both men nodded.
The crowd held its breath.
"BEGIN!"
The final was nothing like the earlier bouts.
It wasn't flashy.
It wasn't wild.
It wasn't chaotic.
It was tight.
Precise.
Every step mattered.
Every breath mattered.
Jonas dodged Morris's heavy strikes with perfect timing — but Morris adapted faster than Delaney had. He feinted, changed rhythm, forced Jonas back with sweeping pushes and low kicks that nearly broke through Jonas's defense.
Piper narrated breathlessly:
"Morris is pushing hard — Jonas is holding on! Folks, this is incredible! It's strength versus timing, brute force versus survivor instinct!"
The fighters circled each other.
Sweat dripped.
Dust kicked up around their feet.
Morris lunged—
Jonas slipped aside—
Morris spun—
Jonas caught his arm and tapped his shoulder with a clean strike.
"One point Jonas!" MacCready called.
The stands erupted — but Morris didn't falter.
He came again.
Hard.
Faster.
Jonas defended.
Barely.
Morris landed a hit to Jonas's upper arm.
"One point Morris!"
The score was tied.
The yard shook with screams, cheers, chanting — a wall of sound so loud it overwhelmed thought.
Piper yelled, "THIS IS TOO CLOSE TO CALL! WHO IS GOING HOME WITH THE GOLD, SANCTUARY?!"
The fighters circled again.
Both panting.
Both trembling.
Jonas's foot slipped slightly from fatigue.
Morris saw it.
Charged.
Jonas stepped back instinctively — but not far enough.
Morris's punch brushed Jonas's ribs — almost making contact but not clean enough for a point.
And in that razor-thin moment, Jonas did something incredible.
He didn't dodge.
He didn't retreat.
He stepped in.
Close enough to make Morris blink in surprise.
Close enough to turn Morris's momentum against him.
Jonas dropped low, pivoted on the ball of his foot, and delivered a clean, undeniable open palm strike straight to Morris's sternum.
Morris stumbled.
MacCready swung his hand up.
"MATCH!"
For a heartbeat, the yard was silent.
Then—
Thunder.
Pure thunder.
The loudest scream of the day erupted from the stands.
Settlers covered their faces in disbelief.
Soldiers threw their fists into the air.
Kids jumped so high they almost fell off their seats.
Piper's voice cracked with excitement as she shouted—
"JONAS HALE!! THE SETTLER FROM NOWHERE! THE DARKHORSE OF THE COMMONWEALTH! YOUR FIRST EVER FREEMASONS REPUBLIC CHAMPION!!"
Jonas just stood there.
Frozen.
Then he covered his face with both hands as the crowd roared his name.
Morris walked over, smiling despite the loss, and pulled Jonas into a proud, bear-like embrace.
The crowd cheered even louder.
Sico stepped forward.
Watching Jonas — this ordinary man, this quiet settler who walked into the yard with nothing but perseverance — lift his head to the roaring Republic… it filled him with something indescribable.
Hope.
Real hope.
The kind that came from people rising together, not from orders or battles.
Sarah clapped with rare, genuine joy.
MacCready smirked proudly.
Robert nodded with approval.
Piper, still screaming into the microphone, wiped her eyes dramatically and joked:
"If anyone needs me, I'll be crying over there like a fool — JONAS, YOU BEAUTIFUL PIECE OF COMMONWEALTH HISTORY!"
The crowd roared again.
Jonas lowered his hands, stunned, overwhelmed, shaking—not from fear, but from the shock of being loved by hundreds of people he'd never met.
Sico approached him.
Jonas straightened instinctively.
Sico placed both hands on the man's shoulders.
"You earned this," Sico said quietly, sincerely.
Jonas's voice trembled. "Sir… I'm just a settler."
Sico shook his head.
"No. You're proof of what this Republic truly is."
Jonas swallowed hard, eyes misting.
And as the sun dipped past the afternoon peak, shining warm light across the yard of Sanctuary—over soldiers and settlers, over children and families, over fighters and food stalls and fluttering banners.
Then thunder come, pure thunder.
The loudest scream of the day erupted from the stands.
Settlers covered their faces in disbelief.
Soldiers threw their fists into the air.
Kids jumped so high they almost fell off their seats.
Piper's voice cracked with excitement as she shouted.
"JONAS HALE!! THE SETTLER FROM NOWHERE! THE DARKHORSE OF THE COMMONWEALTH! YOUR FIRST EVER FREEMASONS REPUBLIC CHAMPION!!"
Jonas just stood there.
Frozen.
Then he covered his face with both hands as the crowd roared his name.
Morris walked over, smiling despite the loss, and pulled Jonas into a proud, bear-like embrace.
The crowd cheered even louder.
Sico stepped forward.
Watching Jonas, this ordinary man, this quiet settler who walked into the yard with nothing but perseverance, lift his head to the roaring Republic… it filled him with something indescribable.
Hope.
Real hope.
The kind that came from people rising together, not from orders or battles.
Sarah clapped with rare, genuine joy.
MacCready smirked proudly.
Robert nodded with approval.
Piper, still screaming into the microphone, wiped her eyes dramatically and joked:
"If anyone needs me, I'll be crying over there like a fool. JONAS, YOU BEAUTIFUL PIECE OF COMMONWEALTH HISTORY!"
The crowd roared again.
Jonas lowered his hands, stunned, overwhelmed, shaking—not from fear, but from the shock of being loved by hundreds of people he'd never met.
Sico approached him.
Jonas straightened instinctively.
Sico placed both hands on the man's shoulders.
"You earned this," Sico said quietly, sincerely.
Jonas's voice trembled. "Sir… I'm just a settler."
Sico shook his head.
"No. You're proof of what this Republic truly is."
Jonas swallowed hard, eyes misting.
And as the sun dipped past the afternoon peak, shining warm light across the yard of Sanctuary. over soldiers and settlers, over children and families, over fighters and food stalls and fluttering banners.
________________________________________________
• 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:-