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For tonight, beneath the stars and among the fires, the people of the Freemasons Republic ate, laughed, cried, and dreamed. Children ran barefoot through the dirt. Old men hummed songs they hadn't dared sing in years.
The morning sun rose over Sanctuary Hills with a gentle warmth that belied the immense change it now bore witness to. The fires from the night before still smoldered in places, reduced to glowing embers in rusted barrels and stone-ringed pits. Ash floated lazily through the golden light, drifting across the paths where revelers had danced only hours ago. The plaza was quieter now, save for the occasional murmur of voices and the rustle of papers in the hands of weary but inspired delegates.
Sico stood at the edge of the plaza, watching the sun crest over the trees, casting a gentle light over the temporary structures and tents. The makeshift stage remained, but today it wasn't for ceremony—it was for governance. A table had been set up, surrounded by folding chairs salvaged from long-forgotten ruins, and behind it, a new banner had been draped. Painted hastily but proudly, it bore the sigil of the newly christened Freemasons Republic: two clasped hands over a rising sun, framed by a gear and a Minuteman musket.
The Freemason Headquarters—formerly the Minutemen HQ—had already begun its transformation. Old mission boards were being replaced with public charters. Logistics officers now worked with scribes and archivists. The spirit of the Minutemen was still present, but this was something greater now, something broader. Sico looked over the gathered delegates as they trickled in one by one, some sipping stale coffee from chipped mugs, others still yawning and stretching their limbs after a night of celebration and restless sleep. These people, ragged yet determined, were now the heart of a nation.
Sico stepped forward and raised his voice, not to command, but to gather.
"All right," he began, his tone level but purposeful. "Let's get started."
He glanced down at the notes Sarah had helped compile. They were scribbled and rough, written by candlelight, but they held the bones of what would shape the Republic.
"First order of business," Sico said, setting the notes down. "As of this morning, I've officially restructured the former Minutemen command center. It is now the Freemason Headquarters. From this building, we'll coordinate civil and military affairs, settlement development, education programs, and communications. This is your HQ as much as it is mine."
A few murmurs of approval rolled through the delegates seated at the long table. Sico nodded once and continued.
"I also want to clarify where we stand in terms of our military readiness," he said, raising a hand for emphasis. "As of today, we have 3,821 active soldiers across the Freemasons Army. That includes the Minutemen's standing forces, plus a few auxiliary units from allied settlements."
He paused, letting the number sink in before moving on.
"In addition to that, we've started the process of recruiting 1,000 more individuals—volunteers and trained fighters alike. That'll bring our total forces up to 4,821 when complete."
This time, a quiet but impressed series of nods followed. Even among the most hopeful, the actual size of the standing army had been uncertain until now. Having a precise number meant more than logistics—it meant trust, confidence in the Republic's ability to defend itself and its people.
"But soldiers alone won't feed this nation," Sico continued. "Which brings us to the next point: taxes."
There was a shift in posture across the table. The word carried weight. It always did.
Sico picked up a different sheet of paper, one that had been heavily debated among his advisors even before the summit. "The Minutemen had an informal taxation system in place. Scrap, food, water, and other essentials were collected from each settlement in exchange for protection, but there were no standards—no consistent system, no accountability."
He looked up. "That changes today. We're a Republic now. We need a fair, transparent system. One that funds our army, infrastructure, education, and relief for the settlements still trying to get on their feet."
He looked around at the delegates, giving the floor to them.
It was Marla Kells from Bunker Hill who spoke first, her voice raspy from a night of shouting orders and toasts. "We could just stick with what the Minutemen were doing—make it formal, sure, but no reason to scrap the whole thing if it worked."
There were a few quiet agreements, but then another voice cut in.
It was Jaden Hall, the delegate from Oberland Station. He was younger than many at the table but well-respected, especially for how he'd turned Oberland into a self-sufficient outpost with a school, clinic, and a small but efficient farm.
"I don't disagree with Marla about keeping what works," Jaden said, leaning forward with a measured tone, "but the old system was… patchwork. If we're going to be serious about equality, we need a tax that applies to everyone who's a citizen. Not just settlements with more resources."
There were nods, and then a low, confident voice rose above the rest.
"Then let's make a new one," said Geneva, the Diamond City delegate. She stood up, her presence steady and firm, eyes meeting Sico's across the table. "One that makes it clear what being a citizen means. Rights—and responsibilities."
Geneva stepped forward, pulling out a paper she'd written in the early hours of the morning. "I propose a flat tax of 25 caps per person, per month. Paid by all citizens who wish to receive a formal ID card and the benefits that come with it—protection, access to schools, clinics, water distribution, and voting rights."
The room quieted.
"For a Republic to function," Geneva continued, "its people need to feel it. Not just know it exists somewhere far away—but feel it when they walk down their street. When they show that ID card to a checkpoint guard or use it to register their kids for school. That tax? That's their skin in the game."
Sico nodded slowly. "Twenty-five caps per person…"
"It's affordable," Geneva added. "It's enough to fund operations without breaking families. And it scales automatically as the population grows."
Another delegate from Finch Farm raised a hand. "What about those who can't pay? The sick, the elderly, the orphaned?"
Sico answered this time.
"We're not going to punish people for being vulnerable. We'll have a Citizen Assistance Fund—every settlement contributes a bit extra each season into a pot. That fund helps cover citizens in hardship. And we'll document who gets help, so there's no corruption."
More nods. This time, firmer.
Jaden leaned back in his seat. "I can support that."
"So can Bunker Hill," Marla said, tilting her head toward Geneva.
One by one, each delegate raised a hand, or a voice, or a quiet aye.
"All right," Sico said, placing his hand on the table. "Then it's agreed. A citizen tax of twenty-five caps per month. All who pay receive a formal ID card and full rights under the Articles of Restoration. This will be administered from the Freemason HQ, with regional clerks appointed in each major settlement."
Geneva smiled slightly, stepping back as the group murmured their approval.
But she wasn't done.
"One more thing," she added. "About the army."
Sico raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
"You said we'll have 4,821 soldiers when recruitment is done. That's impressive, don't get me wrong—but I think we can go further. With proper funding, training programs, and outreach, I believe we could double that number in a year."
There were skeptical murmurs. Sico didn't speak right away.
"I'm not saying we conscript," Geneva clarified quickly. "I'm saying we inspire. We show the settlements that being part of the army isn't just about war. It's about rebuilding. Engineers. Medics. Logistics officers. Educators."
Sico tilted his head thoughtfully. "A civilian-military fusion."
"Exactly," she said. "The Freemasons Army isn't just soldiers with rifles. It's the spine of the Republic. If we want this nation to stand, we need more than fighters. We need builders."
Sico looked around the table.
It wasn't lost on him that the Commonwealth still bore its wounds. Raiders still prowled the far fringes. Super mutants still haunted the broken cities. And the Brotherhood… the Institute… they would not stand idle forever.
"We'll begin with what we have," he said, voice steady. "But you're right. We build for tomorrow. Not just to defend, but to thrive."
He straightened, drawing himself to his full height.
"This Republic isn't a wall to hide behind. It's a foundation we build upward. Brick by brick, life by life."
Sico let the silence linger for a moment after his last words, letting the delegates absorb the weight of what they'd all just committed to. The tax. The ID cards. The definition of citizenship. The expansion of the army into something that would shape not just the battlefield, but the entire rebuilding of society.
Then he took a breath, straightening up, and gave a small, almost wry smile.
"There's one more thing I need to tell you," he said, his voice lowering slightly, as if revealing a secret, though the weight behind it was anything but casual. "Something I think most of you have heard about by now."
The murmurs that followed confirmed it. Curious glances traded across the table. Some nodded. Others leaned in.
"You've heard of the Sentinel."
That name—Sentinel—carried with it a tremor of awe. It had first been spoken in hushed voices along caravan routes, in half-drunk tales around campfires. A massive tank, built from old-world blueprints and reforged in the fires of Sanctuary's foundries. A beast of steel and treads, with armor thick enough to repel super mutant minigun fire and a cannon that could bring down a raider fortress with a single shot.
Sico allowed a beat to pass before continuing. "Well, those are true. We've got ten of them—fully operational. Patrolling roads, posted near critical supply lines, assigned to defend strategic settlements."
He let that sink in.
"And we've got ten more on chassis, prepped and waiting for components. Engines. Tracks. Electronics. Armor plating. All of it."
The shift in the room was instant. Delegates sat straighter. The atmosphere gained a tangible sharpness, the air itself seeming to solidify with the implications. Ten tanks on the field was already a staggering advantage—but ten more waiting to be born? That was a message not just to raiders, not just to the Institute or Brotherhood, but to the entire Wasteland.
"We've been careful not to flash them around too much," Sico continued. "No need to draw attention we're not ready for. But now, as citizens of the Republic, you need to know exactly what we have—and what we can become."
He stepped away from the table, standing fully in the sun now as he looked across the gathered crowd.
"If any of your settlements have surplus material—fusion cores, steel plating, high-grade wiring, ceramic, ballistic fiber—I ask that you send it here, to Sanctuary. With the right components, we can finish those ten remaining Sentinels. And if we can do that…"
He paused again, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"We'll be unstoppable."
For the first time that morning, the crowd didn't murmur. It didn't hum with polite agreement. It sat quiet in a kind of charged unity. The idea of the tanks—the Sentinels—wasn't just about warfare. It was about permanence. Territory. Power that could no longer be swept away by raiders or manipulated by shadowy forces beneath the surface.
Sico broke the silence himself with a subtle shift in tone, a slight softening.
"But we're not building an empire," he reminded them. "This isn't about domination. The tanks aren't for conquest. They're for defense. For us. For our kids. For the people trying to make a life out there, past the broken highways and hollow cities."
Then he stepped back toward the table and picked up a small wooden crate that had been sitting behind his chair. Inside were a few dozen cylindrical objects with orange handles and aged metal bodies—flare guns, modified to shoot signal flares visible for miles.
"Now listen closely," he said, holding one of them up. "Each of you will be given one of these. Use it if your settlement is in danger—raiders, mutants, storms, anything. Fire it into the sky, and every Freemason soldier within range will see it. Every citizen with a sense of duty will see it."
He glanced around the table with deliberate eye contact.
"And I expect those who do see it to respond. Not just the soldiers. Not just me. You."
He placed the flare gun gently on the table.
"If Finch Farm sees a flare from Oberland Station—they go. If Bunker Hill sees one from Somerville Place—they go. That's how this works now. No more waiting for help that might never come. No more lone settlements trying to survive while others sit safe."
Geneva crossed her arms and nodded thoughtfully. "You're building a culture of response."
"I'm building a nation," Sico replied.
The idea resonated. A shared signal. A promise, visible in the sky. For decades, people in the Commonwealth had lived under the constant weight of being alone—of help never coming. Now, with a single flare, the rules changed.
"I won't promise that help will always be instant," Sico added. "We don't have teleporters or airships. But we have Trucks, Humvees, brahmin carts, and feet. And most importantly—we have will."
Marla leaned forward. "And you're saying soldiers will be out there, too? Just… patrolling?"
Sico gave a short nod. "Yes. Starting next week, the Freemason Army will begin its first organized patrol rotations. Regular routes through all major settlements and surrounding regions. Every Freemason soldier will be assigned to a patrol cycle. And they'll be briefed on one standing order above all else: if you see a flare, drop everything and go."
Jaden chuckled under his breath, shaking his head in quiet admiration. "It's a simple idea. But damn if it doesn't feel like hope."
Hope. That word. So often elusive in the Commonwealth, like water through cupped hands. But now, here at Sanctuary Hills, surrounded by the green resurgence of reborn trees and the warm gold of morning light, it didn't feel hollow. It felt possible.
The discussion continued well into the afternoon.
Topics shifted from tactical readiness to civic administration. There were talks about regional councils, where settlements could elect representatives to report directly to the Freemason HQ. Discussions about standardizing education, particularly in literacy and trade skills. One delegate proposed a plan for public libraries, and another pushed for apprenticeship programs across settlements—where blacksmiths, farmers, chemists, and mechanics could train the next generation.
Sarah, who had been quiet for most of the morning, stepped up beside Sico during a brief lull in the dialogue.
"I've been working with the logistics team on a new transport network," she said, laying a map across the table. "Caravan routes, brahmin stations, and safe zones. If we assign sentry stations every 50 miles and rotate the patrols, we can cover the entire territory with less manpower. It'll free up soldiers to help with rebuilding too."
Several heads turned, impressed.
"Efficiency breeds stability," Sico murmured approvingly. "Nice work, Sarah."
The map was passed around, studied, debated, and ultimately adopted by consensus. By early evening, the tone of the gathering had shifted from debate to construction—not of buildings, but of systems. Foundations. Institutions.
As the sun began its slow descent in the sky, painting the plaza in hues of copper and bronze, Sico stood once again.
"We'll close this first session of Congress here," he said, "but this isn't the end. In one week, we reconvene again—same place, same table. Until then, each of you returns to your people with this message: we are not alone anymore. We stand together. We build together. We fight together."
He lifted one of the flare guns again and held it above his head.
"And if you ever doubt it—send the signal."
A wind swept through the plaza just then, lifting the edge of the Freemason Republic's banner overhead. The rising sun painted there seemed almost to shimmer with the light of the real one, just dipping toward the horizon. It was symbolic, but also real. A nation was beginning to breathe.
The delegates began to rise, gathering their notes, exchanging firm handshakes and nods of mutual respect. Some still talked in clusters, energized by the decisions made. Others quietly made their way to the tent rows, preparing for the journey back to their homes.
Sico remained by the stage, watching as Geneva slipped the flare gun into a satchel and gave him a small, meaningful nod.
"Brick by brick," she said.
"Life by life," he echoed.
And as the golden light deepened into orange, and the soft sounds of rebuilding stirred in the heart of Sanctuary Hills, the Commonwealth felt—perhaps for the first time in over two centuries—like something new was rising from the ruins.
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• 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:-