545. Sico, the First President of Commonwealth

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Shaun had bought her some breathing room. Maybe not for long. But long enough to make her next move.

The Next Morning at Sanctuary Hills, as sun crested the horizon over the ruined outskirts of the old suburbs, casting long golden shafts of light through the haze of a still-recovering world. The early morning air in Sanctuary Hills was crisp—unusually so, given the summer heat. It carried with it the faint scent of scorched metal and brahmin feed, along with something more elusive. Hope. Tenuous, uncertain—but real.

For once, the settlement bustled not with scavengers or patrols, but with a different kind of movement: purposeful, formal, and heavy with significance. People had arrived from every corner of the Commonwealth. Some on foot. Some by caravan. Others escorted by Minutemen squads through dangerous roads now being made safer every week.

The meeting wasn't being held in Minutemen HQ as it was too small. Instead, a great canvas structure had been erected near the restored central plaza, flanked by two Minutemen guard posts flying the re-sewn banner of the movement: the sword-and-star emblem rising proudly on deep blue cloth. Inside the tent, long tables had been arranged in a wide circle, each bearing the name of a settlement painted carefully on a wooden sign: Somerville Place. Tenpines Bluff. Oberland Station. Finch Farm. Greentop Nursery. Sunshine Tidings. The Slog. Bunker Hill. Nearly two dozen in all, with more expected soon.

At the head of the circle stood a simple podium made from scrap metal and an old oak desk salvaged from a long-abandoned schoolhouse. Behind it stood Sico, dressed not in his signature combat gear but in a black military-style coat—newly tailored, pressed, but still bearing the marks of a man who'd lived every fight he'd led. Sarah Lyons stood just to his right, arms crossed, her armor polished but present. To his left, Preston Garvey wore his Minutemen coat and hat, though he had removed the laser musket slung across his back.

They weren't here for battle. They were here to build something.

"Thank you all for coming," Sico said at last, his voice firm but calm, rising to fill the space. The murmurs faded quickly as every representative turned to face him. "This is history. We all know it."

He let that hang for a moment. No theatrics. No rehearsed lines. Just the truth.

"The Commonwealth has been without a government for two hundred years," he continued. "In that time, we've seen warlords, raiders, slavers, even factions that call themselves 'civilized' but answer only to control, not to people."

He didn't name the Brotherhood. Or the Institute. But he didn't have to. The faces around the circle darkened with the weight of those unspoken truths.

"But that ends now. We're not building an empire. We're not drafting a manifesto. We're not starting a new Minutemen command chain."

He stepped around the podium and looked directly at them all, making eye contact with delegate after delegate.

"We're rebuilding a republic. A government—of, by, and for the people of the Commonwealth."

He paused to let that settle. Then:

"And that means you. The settlements. The farmers, the traders, the scavvers, the guards. The real citizens of this land. We're not here to hand down rules. We're here to give power back."

Finch Farm's delegate, an older man with calloused hands and soot-stained sleeves, stood slowly. "You really expect people to trust each other after everything we've seen? Raiders gut a place one week, come back in trader clothes the next. Institute snatches your wife in the dark. Gunners sell peace and sell you out."

A few others murmured their agreement.

"I do," Sico said simply. "Because I've seen it already. Sanctuary. Greenetech. Bunker Hill. We've brought together hundreds of people from different walks of life. Ex-Brotherhood. Ex-Institute. Gunners. Even former raiders. They've worked, lived, and fought side-by-side under one banner: not the Minutemen, but each other. That's what matters."

"Words are easy," said a woman from Greentop. "What makes this different?"

Sico glanced at Sarah, who nodded and stepped forward.

"What makes it different," she said, "is that we're not keeping the power for ourselves."

She reached into her satchel and pulled out a set of hand-folded documents, moving around the circle to pass them out. "These are the Articles of Restoration. Drafted by Minutemen leadership and legal scholars we've recovered from pre-War vaults. You'll find a proposal for a representative congress, settlement-based voting rights, guaranteed protections for individual freedom, and a new charter for the armed forces—no longer the Minutemen, but the Commonwealth Army, answerable to elected civilian leaders."

A stunned silence fell over the tent.

"You're stepping down?" asked the woman from Oberland. "You, Sico, Preston… you're not staying in charge?"

"We'll serve," Preston said, "if we're elected to. But the people decide. Starting with you."

Sico nodded. "Today, we're asking each settlement to nominate one representative. That council will meet monthly, and more importantly—they'll oversee the election of the first President of the Commonwealth."

That word—President—felt strange in the air. Ancient. Ambitious. But also right.

"Who's going to run?" someone asked.

"That's up to the people," Sico replied. "But I won't be."

That sparked another wave of conversation, louder this time. Several delegates looked shocked. One or two looked relieved.

"I've led the Minutemen through the fight," Sico said. "And I'll keep leading the army until it becomes the new force we're proposing. But I'm not a politician. I've killed when I had to. I've bent rules. And this—this moment—needs someone new. Someone chosen not for what they've destroyed, but what they can build."

He let that land, then turned toward Sarah and Preston again.

"Which is why we're proposing that the Army fall under civilian command. We've already begun retraining our forces—not just to fight, but to serve. To protect. To answer to this new government."

A round of applause broke out—scattered at first, then stronger.

The man from Finch Farm stood again. "Alright, then. Let's get to it. Who nominates who?"

Over the next two hours, every settlement in the circle nominated a representative—most of them local leaders, farmers, or respected elders. Some were young idealists, others cautious pragmatists. A few had once carried guns for less noble causes but had found redemption in rebuilding.

And as the names were entered into the initial council registry, Sico watched something extraordinary begin to unfold.

People were talking. Debating. Offering ideas about water distribution, trade routes, shared defense protocols. Not under threat, not under orders—but as equals.

As the initial flurry of nominations died down, the mood within the great canvas hall began to shift. The early fire of excitement gave way to something more sober—less celebratory, more cautious. The delegates had done what they came to do: named representatives from their settlements to form the first council. Yet even as they congratulated themselves on that historic step, an uncomfortable tension settled in the air like dust that refused to clear.

The delegate from Bunker Hill, a sharply dressed woman named Marla Kells who had once brokered caravans under Hancock's protection, leaned back in her chair and drummed her fingers on the table. "Alright," she said slowly, looking around. "We've nominated representatives. But what happens when the vote comes for the presidency? Let's be real for a second—most of these settlements barely know each other, let alone the people they've just sent."

Heads began to nod. A man from Sunshine Tidings—young, earnest, but clearly anxious—stood and gestured awkwardly at the circle. "We all picked folks we trust, sure. But who's gonna trust them outside their own farms? Even I don't know half the names I just wrote down."

A few people murmured agreement. Another delegate, the soft-spoken herbalist from The Slog, adjusted her spectacles. "Even if we go forward with a vote, how do we expect anyone to win a majority? It'll be a mess of alliances, backroom deals, or—worse—nobody gets enough support, and we fracture right out the gate."

There it was. The old fear. The one that had haunted every attempt at unity since the bombs fell. Distrust. Uncertainty. The silent question behind every promise: Who do you really serve?

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then the elder from Finch Farm cleared his throat and stood again. His hands were still blackened with soot and oil, and he had the look of a man who had never worn a suit in his life and never would. But his voice, when he spoke, was clear and steady.

"There's only one person here that everyone already knows," he said.

Silence fell across the tent once more, but this time, it was charged with anticipation.

He turned to face the podium. "Sico."

A dozen heads turned with him. Sico, still standing near Sarah and Preston, frowned faintly, his posture still that of a man listening rather than leading. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but the old man held up a hand.

"Don't speak yet," he said. "Just listen."

He looked back at the others. "We all just spent the better part of an hour trying to set up a fair system. And I'm proud of that. But systems mean nothing without trust. And trust? That ain't built overnight. It's built in fire. On the roads. In the dirt. And every last one of us has heard the stories."

Another delegate—a woman from Tenpines Bluff with a long scar across her cheek—stood next. "He saved our people when raiders had us cornered. Gave us weapons, training. And not just us. I've seen Minutemen patrols near Greentop, Somerville, even down by Jamaica Plain. They wear the blue, yeah—but they answer to him."

More voices joined in now. One after another. Not in a storm, but like a rising tide.

"Held the line at Greenetech when the Brotherhood came knocking."

"Drove the Gunners out of Lexington."

"Rescued synths from the Institute."

"Stared down the Deathclaw that had terrorized the North trails for months."

"Fought off the raiders who killed my brother. And didn't take a thing in return."

The momentum was growing now, swelling like a wave about to crest. And Sico—still silent—stood in the middle of it, jaw set, eyes scanning the room.

The representative from Oberland leaned forward on the table. "What I'm saying is this. It's not just that he's a good soldier. It's that we know who he is. We've seen who he is. And if this whole thing—we're talking about the rebirth of a nation—if it's going to mean anything, then it needs to start with someone we can believe in. Someone who isn't just another voice behind a closed door. We've got that man standing right here."

Someone else shouted, "Seconded!"

"Thirded!"

"Fourth!"

It was no longer debate. It was a chorus.

Preston looked at Sico then, eyes wide but proud. Sarah nodded once, firm and approving. Even she, who had argued for civilian oversight and stepping back, knew the truth: Sico was not asking for power. And that was exactly why he needed it.

But Sico raised his hands at last, not to reject, not quite to accept—just to quiet the storm.

"I appreciate what you're all saying," he began, his voice measured but intense. "But let me be absolutely clear. This wasn't about putting me on a throne. I fought the Brotherhood because they thought they could decide for everyone. I fought the Institute because they treated people like pieces on a board. I don't want to become that. None of us do."

"You won't," said Marla from Bunker Hill. "Because we won't let you. That's the point. You set the rules. You wrote the Articles. You're not asking for blind loyalty. You're offering a foundation we can build on."

Another man—a weathered farmer from Somerville Place—stood now, voice cracked from years of shouting over Brahmin. "You already gave us the tools. Let us give you the trust."

There was no more doubt now. The tent buzzed with energy, not just approval but determination. Unity, real and present. A decision, not imposed but embraced.

Sarah stepped forward beside Sico, her voice calm but carrying. "You've earned it, Sico. And frankly, we can't afford to waste someone like you sitting in a general's tent forever."

He turned toward Preston, who gave a small, sheepish smile. "You've led the people. I can lead the army. Let me carry that weight. Let's build this together."

And just like that, the choice was made.

Not with a vote.

Not with banners or ballots.

But with consensus.

With faith.

With hope.

The delegate from The Slog walked to the old schoolhouse desk and retrieved the registry. "Then let the record show: by unanimous decision of the founding settlement representatives, the first President of the Commonwealth is Sico—the General who gave us unity, and now gives us back our future."

The words hung in the air like sacred scripture. People clapped, some cheered, some simply sat back and nodded, stunned by the weight of what they had just done.

Sico stood there for a long moment, jaw clenched, arms at his side. Then, slowly, he exhaled. It was not relief, nor fear. It was something deeper—acceptance. The kind of acceptance that only came when the road ahead was longer than the one behind, and more uncertain than ever.

He stepped back up to the podium.

"I won't lie to you," he said quietly. "This won't be easy. We're going to make mistakes. We'll face threats—raiders, remnants of the old powers, maybe even each other. But I promise you this: I'll stand with you. I'll serve you. And we'll rebuild this land—not as it was, but as it should have been."

The tent erupted in applause once more, louder now, unrestrained. The kind of applause that doesn't come from ceremony, but from belief.

The sun outside had fully risen now, flooding the tent with golden light. It poured through the flaps and windows, illuminating faces worn by hardship, but lit by purpose.

Later that day, the Articles of Restoration were signed by every delegate. The new Congress of Settlements was formed, to meet every month at Sanctuary Hills until a proper Capitol could be built. A modest stage was erected near the plaza, and by afternoon, Sico took his oath in front of the very people he had bled for.

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.

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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:-