546. The Freemasons Republic

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And Preston Garvey, the humble man who once begged for help to save his people, now donned the uniform of a General—not with pomp, but with resolve. He would train and lead the Commonwealth Army under civilian command, serving not a man, but a republic.

The afternoon sun hung high over Sanctuary Hills, casting long shadows across the plaza as the great tent still bustled with movement and conversation. The Articles of Restoration, now inked with the signatures of every delegate present, lay reverently upon the old wooden desk at the center of the hall—its parchment edges curled slightly in the heat, but the words bold and unyielding. Outside the tent, a few children chased each other between rebuilt houses, the scent of roasted corn drifting from a nearby grill as citizens gathered to witness the birth of something they'd only dreamed of for decades.

Inside, the mood had shifted once again.

Gone was the trembling tension of the morning, the wary calculations and cautious speeches. The air now carried weight of a different sort—the solemnity of a people who had, together, made history. There was joy, yes, but beneath it ran a current of something more sacred: responsibility.

Sico remained at the podium, standing not as a warrior among soldiers, but as a leader before a nation. His newly given title—President—had not yet settled comfortably on his shoulders, but he wore it with dignity nonetheless. The collar of his coat had been straightened by Sarah before he took the stage for the second time, and the Minutemen star on his chest gleamed proudly in the dappled light.

Around him, the delegates had returned to their seats, their voices hushed, their eyes fixed on him once more.

Sico took a breath, resting his calloused hands on either side of the podium. He looked at each of them in turn—Marla from Bunker Hill, the quiet herbalist from The Slog, the elder from Finch Farm whose words had changed everything, the scarred woman from Tenpines Bluff. All of them, people forged in hardship, staring back at him now not as a General, but as their chosen leader.

"There's one more matter I'd like to bring before this body," Sico said, his voice quiet but deliberate. "Before we leave this tent and return to our homes with the knowledge that we have created something new, something unified—we need to give that something a name."

A ripple moved through the tent—not a gasp, not quite, but a communal leaning forward. Of course. They had built the skeleton of a government, drafted the laws, even named a president. But what did they call it? What banner would fly over their settlements? What name would their children grow up reciting in stories of pride?

Sico's eyes softened, and he let a small, thoughtful smile crease his weathered face.

"I've thought a long time about what we're trying to do here," he said. "This isn't just about safety or food or borders. It's about values. About how we treat each other. About remembering what was lost, and more importantly, deciding what's worth rebuilding."

He paused, letting the silence stretch, the weight of his next words hanging unspoken until the last murmurs had faded.

"And I believe we need a name that speaks to that. A name that reminds us we are bound not by force, or fear, or bloodlines, but by choice. By purpose. By belief in something greater than ourselves."

He looked up then, voice firm.

"I propose we call this new nation: The Freemasons Republic."

A beat.

Then a few heads tilted. Whispers followed—some intrigued, others confused.

Sico raised a hand again, gently guiding their attention back.

"Not that kind of Freemasons," he said, smiling faintly. "I'm not talking about secret handshakes and shadowy lodges. I'm talking about what that word really means. Masons. Builders. People who shape the world with their hands. And Free—because no one here was forced to join this. We built this republic together, not because someone told us to, but because we chose it. Freely. That makes us Freemasons in the truest sense."

He paused again, letting the concept settle into the minds of those listening.

"The Freemasons Republic. TFR. Three letters. Easy to remember. Hard to forget."

The tent fell still.

Then Marla Kells, who had been one of the first to question everything that morning, stood slowly. She crossed her arms, considering. "The Freemasons Republic," she repeated aloud. "I like it. Not some dusted-off name from the Old World. Not America part two. Something new. Something earned."

A murmur of agreement rose from a few corners of the tent.

The farmer from Somerville Place nodded. "And 'builders' fits us. We've been laying bricks and hammering nails just to keep our walls standing. Now we're doing the same with laws and hopes."

A man from Nordhagen Beach chuckled. "Damn sight better than the Commonwealth United Coalition or whatever that mouthful was."

More laughter now, and with it, something warmer: agreement.

The Slog's herbalist stood. "Then let the record reflect," she said, voice clear despite her soft tone. "That this body consents, without opposition, to the naming of our government as The Freemasons Republic. May it last longer than those that came before it."

The room rumbled with quiet approval. Nods. Mutters of "Hear, hear." Preston clapped once, hard and proud, and Sarah smiled—small and private, but deeply satisfied.

Sico stepped back from the podium as the declaration was written down, the words committed to the parchment beside the Articles of Restoration. The name—their name—now inked forever beside the signatures of those who had borne witness.

The Freemasons Republic.

He looked out again across the sea of faces—some familiar, others new, but all filled with the same hard-won light. They had been farmers, scavengers, hunters, mechanics. Now they were citizens. Founders. Builders.

As the sun moved west and the golden hour bathed the ruins of Sanctuary Hills, the tent began to empty. Some lingered, speaking in small clusters, their conversations half-political, half hopeful. Others stepped outside to join their families or light evening cookfires. The mood was exhausted, but fulfilled. A harvest not of food, but of unity.

Sico lingered by the registry desk, watching as the last signatures dried. Marla approached him, a bottle of something brown and sharp in one hand. She offered it without ceremony.

"You earned a drink, Mr. President."

He smiled, taking it with a nod. "Only if you share it."

"Oh, I'm not drinking to your health," she smirked. "I'm drinking to our survival."

They sat on the edge of the tent steps, passing the bottle back and forth, watching as children ran past carrying pieces of colored cloth—early attempts at a flag, perhaps. A blue scrap here. A hand-painted star there.

Behind them, Sarah approached, arms folded loosely across her chest.

"I told you this day would come," she said.

Sico gave her a sideways glance. "You also said I'd hate every minute of it."

"You will," she replied, deadpan. "But we'll help you bear it."

He chuckled, low and tired. "Thanks."

Preston arrived not long after, his newly pressed Minutemen coat already dusted with sand and sweat from organizing patrols for the returning delegates. He looked every bit the soldier again—but when he sat down beside Sico, it was not as a subordinate, but as a friend.

"So… the Freemasons Republic, huh?" Preston said, the name rolling thoughtfully off his tongue.

"It fits," Sico murmured. "We're starting from scratch. We're building something new."

Preston nodded slowly, watching a group of young men hoist the base of a flagpole near the center of town. "Guess it's time to figure out what that something is gonna be."

Sarah glanced upward at the darkening sky. "First thing it's gonna be is cold tonight. Everyone's staying until morning. Security, food, housing—we'll need to coordinate."

Sico stood, his joints cracking slightly as he straightened. "Then let's get to work, cabinet."

The word slipped out before he could stop it. Sarah blinked. Preston looked sideways at him.

"Cabinet?" Preston echoed.

"Well," Sico said, rubbing the back of his neck. "We'll need one. Might as well start somewhere."

Sarah snorted. "Start by getting us some chairs that aren't half-busted. Then we'll talk about cabinets."

But the jest was warm, and the bond between them had never been stronger.

That evening, long after the fires had been lit and food passed around in metal bowls, a makeshift platform was erected near the plaza—a temporary stage made from the planks of old doorways and salvaged scaffolding. The citizens of Sanctuary and the remaining delegates gathered once more, lanterns swaying gently in the breeze, casting warm light across the crowd.

There, beneath the rising stars, Sico took the oath of office. Not from a judge, or a preacher, or any authority older than the one they had just formed—but from the people themselves.

Sarah spoke the words, clear and solemn:

"Do you, Sico—citizen of the Commonwealth, General of the Minutemen, and chosen leader of the Congress of Settlements—swear to uphold the Articles of Restoration, to serve the people of The Freemasons Republic, and to lead not as a ruler, but as a steward of our shared future?"

Sico met her gaze and raised his right hand.

"I do."

While the crowd roared their cheers into the cool night air, and Sico lowered his hand after swearing his oath beneath the stars, a figure stood slightly apart from the stage. She had watched the entire day unfold from a respectful distance, notebook in hand, fingers smudged with ink, her wide-brimmed cap pushed back just enough to reveal the intent look in her eyes.

Piper Wright—reporter, survivor, truth-teller.

She'd written a thousand stories in her life. About raiders and politicians. About heroes and frauds. But as she stood on the edge of the plaza with the lanternlight flickering against the crisp paper in her journal, she realized with a quiet certainty that this story—this day—was the one she'd been waiting her whole life to write.

No one had needed to ask her to come. When she heard the rumors flying in from traders, caravan guards, and settlers—that something was happening at Sanctuary Hills, that the Minutemen were gathering, that Sico was calling for a summit—she'd packed her gear and come running. And now, as the Freemasons Republic took its first breath, Piper knew exactly where she needed to be next.

She snapped the journal closed, tucked it beneath her arm, and turned away from the fires and festivities. There was work to do, and she had a message to send to the entire Commonwealth.

The trek to the small Radio of Freedom shack on the west edge of town took her past quiet clusters of delegates resting near cookfires, some of them humming old songs or sharing bread. No one stopped her. They knew who she was, and more importantly, they knew what she did.

She entered the shack without fanfare and moved straight to the broadcast panel. It was modest—just a pair of cracked headphones, a microphone, and the salvaged equipment Sarah had insisted on hooking up months ago as a backup relay for Minutemen alerts. Piper had helped set it up herself, never imagining it would carry a message like this.

She flipped the switch and waited for the hum of power to steady. Then, placing the headphones over her ears and leaning into the mic, she breathed in—and let the story pour out.

Her voice, steady but brimming with the quiet excitement of truth finally spoken, echoed out over the radio waves.

"Good evening, Commonwealth. This is Piper Wright, coming to you live from Sanctuary Hills… and what I'm about to tell you is not rumor, or speculation, or one more whispered half-truth from a caravan drunk on moonshine. No—this is real. I saw it with my own two eyes, wrote every word down in ink that's still drying on the page."

She paused to let the weight settle.

"Today, the people of the Commonwealth did something they haven't done in over two hundred years. They came together—not with guns raised or power armor thundering, but with open hands and open hearts—and built a government. A real one. With laws. A president. A purpose."

She leaned in, the tone of her voice threading between solemnity and wonder.

"They're calling it the Freemasons Republic. The name was proposed by Sico, the Minutemen General himself—who today became President Sico, by the will and vote of delegates from every corner of the Wastes. From Tenpines Bluff to Nordhagen Beach. From Bunker Hill to The Slog. I watched as the Articles of Restoration were signed by each delegate, inked in solemn silence, while the people—people like you and me—stood outside the great tent and waited, holding their breath. And when those delegates emerged… they were citizens of something new. Something born from choice, not conquest."

The shack was still. Just the warm hum of old tech and the rise and fall of her voice.

"I'm telling you this not because it's nice news. I'm telling you because this is history. The kind of day your kids will ask you about. The kind of day you'll want to say, 'Yes—I remember. I was there. I heard it.'"

Her voice caught, just slightly. The emotions she'd held in all day were rising.

"I saw people cry. I saw them laugh. I saw a little girl tie two pieces of cloth together to try and make the Republic's first flag. I saw survivors—worn from years of fear and hunger—stand up tall and proud, not because someone told them to… but because, for the first time, they felt like they belonged to something."

She straightened a bit, voice firming.

"Now, don't get me wrong. This isn't the end of our problems. It's the beginning of hard work, harder than any of us have ever done. But it's the kind that matters. The kind that builds things. And the Freemasons Republic—they're not claiming the world. They're claiming responsibility. For themselves. For each other. For a better future."

She allowed a beat of silence before continuing.

"And to those of you listening out there—those scraping by in the dark, wondering if it'll ever get better—I'm here to tell you it just did. Hope has a name now. It's called the Freemasons Republic."

She leaned closer to the mic, her final words soft but steel-wrapped.

"And the world just changed. Whether you're ready or not."

Then she reached out and flipped the switch, ending the broadcast.

Outside, across the Commonwealth, the signal carried.

**

At Somerville Place, a pair of settlers who had been stringing up makeshift fences dropped their tools and turned toward the small radio mounted to a wall. The words hit them like sunlight through cloud. One of them—an older man who'd nearly given up hope after his partner was killed by raiders—closed his eyes, and let the words "Hope has a name" sink in deep. He turned back to the fence, not with the drag of survival, but with a quiet pride.

In Taffington Boathouse, a woman who had lost her entire family to a Mirelurk attack clutched her chest as Piper's broadcast ended. She sat down, blinking at nothing, before whispering aloud to herself: "We've got a chance now."

At Bunker Hill, traders stood around radios near the old market square, nodding slowly, murmuring. Marla Kells—still in Sanctuary—would return to find them galvanized. One muttered, "We should've done this a long time ago." Another added, "We did it now. That's what counts."

**

But not everyone who heard the broadcast smiled.

Deep beneath the ruins of C.I.T., in the sterile, humming corridors of the Institute, a quiet alert flickered on a console in the central control chamber. A synth technician furrowed his brow and pulled up the broadcast log. Piper's voice echoed in the chamber for a moment before being shut off.

Moments later, Father stood alone in his private quarters, arms folded behind his back as he watched the recording. His expression was unreadable, but his mind moved quickly. The words Freemasons Republic repeated in his thoughts like a distant drumbeat. He didn't need to say it aloud to understand the implications: a government, backed by the Minutemen, chosen by free settlements, was a threat not of military force—but of legitimacy.

A new hegemon had risen. One that couldn't be dismissed as rabble or a fading militia.

He tapped a command on the console. "Summon Dr. Ayo. And begin observation protocols on all Minutemen-linked assets. Immediately."

**

Meanwhile, in the Prydwen's war room, Elder Maxson stood before a holomap projection. The broadcast had been picked up—decoded and replayed in full by scribes. Maxson's expression was dark, his jaw locked in thought.

A scribe stood nervously nearby. "Sir, if I may… they're consolidating. This republic—"

"I heard the broadcast," Maxson interrupted coldly. "A republic of scavengers. Led by a man who calls himself both a general and a president."

He paced a moment, then turned, eyes sharp.

"We underestimated Sico. I won't make that mistake again."

He looked to Paladin Danse.

"Prepare contingency plans. If this republic spreads beyond its borders unchecked, we could lose influence across the entire Commonwealth."

Danse hesitated. "Sir… are we talking about military intervention?"

Maxson turned toward the window, staring out at the landscape below.

"We're talking about containment."

**

But back in Sanctuary, none of that mattered. Not yet.

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.

________________________________________________

• 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:-