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Sico lingered a moment longer, watching the lights flicker in the homes below. Across Sanctuary, families were still awake, talking in hushed voices around radios, letting the news settle.
The next morning dawned calm, but it didn't stay that way for long.
Inside the President's office at the Freemasons Republic Headquarters, Sico sat behind a desk layered in papers. Congressional correspondence, settlement reports, draft legislation, and defense appropriations lay stacked in uneven piles. A half-drunk mug of black coffee had gone cold beside his elbow, its rim stained from long hours and little rest.
He rubbed his temple with two fingers, eyes scanning the latest communication from the Sanctuary Hills resource board. A line item dispute over crop allotments. Another hand-annotated complaint about post curfews in the southern territories. And tucked between them — a handwritten thank-you note from a child in Oberland, addressed simply: "To the President, from Kaya."
He smiled faintly at the crayon-scribbled picture at the bottom: three stick figures holding hands under a rainbow, one of them unmistakably him — square shoulders, a green coat, and what appeared to be a laser rifle on his back.
He set it aside carefully.
Then the door crashed open.
Sico jolted upright, heart lurching, hand instinctively reaching beneath his desk for the sidearm holstered in a recess beneath the wood. But it wasn't an intruder.
It was Preston Garvey.
Face grim, coat flaring as he stormed through the door, boots heavy with urgency. His eyes were locked on Sico with a look that needed no introduction — something had gone terribly wrong.
"Starlight," Preston barked, not waiting for breath. "They fired a flare. Red one."
Sico's brows shot up. The pen in his hand dropped to the desk.
"They fired a red flare?"
Preston nodded grimly, already reaching into his satchel to pull a battered handheld radio unit. "I got through to their relay team five minutes ago. They confirmed — they're under attack. Raiders. Hit hard, out of nowhere. Might be organized."
"Shit," Sico muttered, already on his feet.
The red flare was not standard protocol. Most flares were orange — calling for support, supplies, or aid. Yellow was medical. Blue was technical. But red?
Red meant immediate danger. It meant combat.
"How many?" Sico asked, crossing the room and grabbing his coat from the wall hook. "And where the hell's our nearest garrison?"
Preston turned up the volume on the radio. A burst of static answered first, then a panicked voice, barely audible through interference:
"—repeat, this is Starlight Relay! Multiple hostiles, northwest perimeter — at least twenty, maybe more. We've lost contact with Tower Two. Taking fire near the main gate—dammit, Barry, fall back! Fall ba—!"
The transmission cut.
Sico's jaw clenched.
"Nearest unit is Finch Farm," Preston said. "Six-minute run if they're moving light. I already pinged them on the secure line. They're prepping now. But that might not be fast enough."
Sico didn't hesitate. "How many can we send from here?"
"We've got a rotation still on-site," Preston said. "Daniels' squad — fifty soldiers. They're green, but trained and some of it were veteran. Should we deploy them?"
"Send them now," Sico said, already shrugging into his coat. "I'll lead them."
Preston blinked. "Sir—"
"No time for arguments. This isn't a negotiation. I've seen Starlight. It's exposed on the north and the west — that main gate's their only fortified approach. If the raiders got past Tower Two, they could already be inside the perimeter."
"You think this is retaliation?" Preston asked as they both moved quickly down the hallway, boots echoing off the hardwood. "Free Men sympathizers?"
Sico shook his head. "Too soon. And Cassia wouldn't sabotage her own envoys. No — this is something else. A test, maybe. Someone watching how fast we respond."
They reached the staging yard out back just as Daniels' squad was finishing their final equipment checks. Armor clips snapped into place. Laser rifles were being slung. A few helmets were still being buckled.
Sico's arrival drew glances. One or two soldiers straightened instinctively. One mumbled, "President on deck," under their breath.
Sico raised a hand. "No ceremony. Just speed. I'm joining your unit. We're moving fast and tight, with point recon and rear guard. Our objective is to stabilize the perimeter, extract any wounded, and assess threat strength. Clear?"
Daniels nodded sharply. "Clear, sir."
Sico turned sharply to Preston, who was already trailing close behind him, pacing in sync as they crossed the outer grounds of the Freemasons HQ. The morning sun had barely lifted above the treetops, casting long, amber streaks across the courtyard and illuminating the hurried scramble of soldiers readying for deployment.
"I want five trucks prepped and moving in ten," Sico said, voice low but firm — urgent in a way that brooked no debate. "Three for supplies — ammo, med kits, field rations, generators. Two for troop transport. No benches. We pack them floor to roof if we have to."
Preston blinked once, already reaching for the comm pad clipped to his coat. "Got it. And escorts?"
"Three Humvees," Sico said, without missing a beat. "Mounted turrets, and make sure at least one has anti-infantry payloads. And—" He paused just a second, long enough for the weight of his next words to land. "Bring out a Sentinel."
Preston stopped walking.
"A tank?"
Sico turned his head, eyes meeting his second-in-command's square on.
"I'm not taking chances. Not with Starlight this exposed. If they're already inside the walls, I want armor that can punch through fast and clear lanes. Full ordinance, minimum crew."
Preston nodded slowly, absorbing the command. "Ten minutes."
"Make it eight."
He didn't wait for a reply.
By the time Sico turned back toward the unit staging beside the loading bays, Daniels and his squad had already divided into fireteams, with one of the sergeants barking sector assignments and rifle checks. The smell of plasma coolant, engine grease, and synthetic fabric filled the air as soldiers double-checked their mags and comm units. A woman was handing out stimulant injectors from a med pouch, and another was cinching down the straps on her ballistic vest, jaw tight, eyes forward.
It reminded Sico of the worst moments from the early days — back when the world still felt like it might split down the middle any minute. When "prepared" meant two pipe rifles, a half-busted stimpack, and blind luck.
They were better now.
But "better" still had a breaking point.
The truck yard was already a chaos of motion by the time he stepped into the vehicle bay. A half-dozen mechanics scrambled across the rows, throwing open fuel ports, snapping shut engine hoods, shouting to one another over the roar of idling engines.
The first two transport trucks were already rolling forward on their thick tires, canvas flaps tied back to let in light as squads climbed into the rear. The supply teams moved in a dance of organized frenzy, rolling carts of ammo crates, folding ration boxes, medkits, water tanks — everything that could fit into a twelve-foot cargo bed was being crammed into the waiting rigs. The lead mechanic waved two fingers in the air: ready for ignition.
One Humvee had pulled into formation already, its roof turret manned by a red-haired gunner whose sunglasses looked like they'd been scavenged from an old cop drama. She saluted with two fingers and called out, "Bullet's charged, boys. Let's shoot some assholes."
A second Humvee rolled in seconds later, smoke curling from the exhaust as it backed into formation. The third followed suit, the gunner atop it already loading belts of high-density rounds into the rotary launcher. Behind them, the behemoth emerged.
The Sentinel tank.
It looked like a relic from another age, even though its plating gleamed from a recent refit. Its matte-black armor reflected no light. Its caterpillar treads churned the earth as it pulled forward with a deep mechanical growl, turret swiveling once as it settled behind the convoy's rear line.
Sico stood at the head of the column and raised his voice.
"Ten minutes ago, Starlight called for help. We are their answer. We're not going in to rescue — we're going in to reinforce. To remind anyone watching that this Republic does not abandon its own."
The squad snapped to attention.
He pointed toward the open gate. "We move hard. We move fast. And we do not leave anyone behind."
Then, stepping into the lead Humvee, he pulled the mic from the dash mount and gave one final call over the column-wide frequency.
"All units. Let's roll."
And just like that, the convoy rumbled out of the Freemasons HQ, wheels pounding against the cracked asphalt road that led toward Starlight Drive-In.
The ride was swift, but tense.
Sico sat in the passenger seat of the Humvee, the headset clamped to his ear, one hand gripping the window rail as the vehicle bounced over uneven ground. The air outside was dry, the wind cutting past fast enough to carry a fine grit into the cabin. Every few seconds, the radio crackled — bursts of static, half-garbled words from Finch Farm's advance units.
"Approaching west ridge… minor resistance encountered…"
"… confirmed smoke, north tower collapsed…"
"… no sign of enemy armor, but multiple contact points. Hostiles are mobile."
The closer they got, the thicker the air felt — not with dust, but with tension. Even the chatter in the Humvee went quiet. The soldiers kept their weapons close, safety switches disengaged, eyes scanning the tree lines that whizzed past.
Then, just past a sharp bend in the road, the first sign came into view.
Smoke. Black and bitter, rising in greasy columns beyond the treetops. As they crested the last ridge, the terrain dropped into a shallow bowl, and there it was:
Starlight Drive-In.
And it was on fire.
The west side of the settlement was choked in flame. The old metal skeleton of the cinema screen had collapsed, jagged supports jutting up like broken ribs. The outer barricades were pocked with impact scars, sections peeled away from concentrated fire. A crater smoldered where Tower Two had once stood.
Figures darted along the inner walkways — defenders, trying to regroup. Others weren't moving.
Daniels' voice cut across the convoy line. "Contact front! Repeat, contact front! Hostiles on the south approach — light armor, improvised cover. Permission to engage?"
Sico grabbed the mic. "Engage. Sweep left and clear their flank. Sentinel, move into firing position — suppress fire, no HE rounds near civilians."
The Sentinel's turret rotated, targeting optics flashing. A moment later, its primary cannon roared — a single, deafening burst that tore through a makeshift barricade like it was paper. Raider bodies flew in all directions, some crawling, some screaming, most not moving at all.
The convoy fanned out like a hammer strike.
The first transport truck unloaded its squad, who moved in formation, sweeping through the gate and pushing the enemy back. The Humvees provided suppressing fire from higher elevation, and the turret gunners laid down curtains of plasma fire, keeping the raiders pinned.
Sico climbed down and ducked behind a low barrier, eyes scanning for the relay tower. One of the local militia members spotted him and pointed. "This way! Commander Briggs is holed up with medics behind the concession stand! We've got wounded!"
"Take me," Sico said, without hesitation.
He sprinted after the young guard, weaving through burning debris, fallen sandbags, and shattered holoprojectors. The sound of gunfire never ceased — a ceaseless punctuation of chaos. Twice they had to duck behind cover as laser fire scorched past them, and once they nearly tripped over a broken body — a young woman with a rifle still clutched in her hands, eyes wide and unblinking.
Briggs was crouched behind an overturned food cart, blood staining one sleeve. His leg was bandaged, but badly. Two medics were working furiously over a wounded civilian, her chest rising in ragged, shallow gasps.
"Mr. President," Briggs said through gritted teeth. "Didn't think you'd come yourself."
"You called for help," Sico said, kneeling beside him. "Help came."
They exchanged a grim nod.
"Report?"
"About sixty raiders, maybe more. They came from the ridge line, used the mist and trees for cover. Well-armed. Coordinated. Not Free Men. No insignias. No demands. Just attacked."
"Mercs?"
"Could be. Or worse. Haven't seen movement like that since the Gunners. But no IDs, no tags."
"Reinforcements are on-site," Sico said. "We're taking back the line. Stay down and let my people handle it."
He rose to his feet again, already switching back to the convoy channel.
"Daniels — status."
"Perimeter's clearing. Raiders retreating toward the tree line. Casualties light. Sentinels suppressing. We've got this."
Sico kept his head low as another burst of gunfire echoed from the northern corner of the drive-in, but it was growing more sporadic now. The rhythm of battle had shifted — no longer a full-on assault, but desperate last volleys from the retreating raiders. The worst of it was over.
Static hissed in his ear as Daniels came back on the line. "They're falling back into the treeline, sir. If we push now, we can cut off their retreat—"
"No," Sico cut in sharply, stepping out from cover and scanning the horizon past the shattered barricades. "Hold the perimeter. Rebuild your defenses. Do not pursue."
There was a beat of silence on the comm before Daniels responded, a little slower this time. "Sir… they're vulnerable."
"Exactly," Sico said. "That's what worries me."
He exhaled, gaze still locked on the tree line where shadows flickered and smoke curled up in lazy strands. It was too easy. The enemy had attacked with precision, with coordination — but their retreat had been disorderly, almost frantic. Either they'd overestimated their position… or this had never been about victory in the first place.
"We push out now and we walk into open woods with exhausted troops and no intel on terrain or numbers," Sico continued, voice calm but hard. "That ridge is perfect for an ambush. They want us to chase them."
Another pause.
"Copy that," Daniels finally said, though Sico could still hear the restraint in his voice. "We'll hold position and start repairs."
"Good," Sico said. "Prioritize the gate and northwest wall. Deploy engineers from the second transport — get floodlights and power online before sundown. Get a casualty report to me as soon as possible. No unnecessary risks."
He turned the mic off and handed it back to the driver, stepping out from behind the cover of the old food cart. Smoke still curled from the ruined projection tower, and a breeze carried the stench of scorched metal and something darker — blood, burnt flesh, cordite. But for the moment, the sounds of battle had quieted.
Preston caught up with him seconds later, a carbine slung across his chest, flanked by two soldiers dragging a stretcher.
"Daniels is settling in," Preston said, voice low. "We've got medics setting up a triage point behind the snack shack. Casualties from the militia are heavier than we thought. About fourteen wounded, six dead. One from our rotation — Corporal Jeannie Alvers."
Sico's jaw tightened. "She was one of yours?"
Preston nodded. "Good soldier. Quiet. Sharp shot."
Sico didn't say anything for a moment. He just stared toward the north, where the last of the smoke was fading into the treeline.
"They didn't come to take Starlight," he muttered. "They came to test us."
"Think it was the Free Men?"
"No," Sico said, shaking his head. "Cassia's reckless, but she's not a butcher. This wasn't political. This was professional. Too tight, too precise. But not clean enough to be Institute. These people didn't care about winning. They wanted to leave a mark."
He crouched beside a makeshift barricade — one of the old pre-War car husks that had been converted into a defensive point — and examined the bullet holes clustered in its side. Uniform spacing. Controlled bursts. Whoever was shooting hadn't been wasting ammo.
"We need to find out who hired them," he muttered. "And why."
Preston knelt beside him. "You thinking mercs? Gunners?"
"Could be. Or someone worse. We've made enemies."
Sico stood again, brushing dust off his knees. "Either way, we're not chasing shadows through the woods. Not until we know what we're dealing with."
He raised his voice, calling to the nearest sergeant. "Get engineers to map out every damaged section. Salvage what you can. Sandbag the rest. We're holding Starlight, and we're going to make damn sure they know they failed."
He paused, then added, quieter, more to Preston than anyone else: "And when they come again — because they will — I want us ready."
Preston gave a tight nod.
The sun had risen fully now, casting harsh daylight over the battered ruins of the settlement. But under that light, soldiers worked, not just to patch wounds or put out fires — but to rebuild. Hammering metal sheets into barricades. Moving bodies with solemn respect. Sorting ammunition, water, tools.
________________________________________________
• 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:-