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Curie and Virgil in the lab, piecing together the sedative that would make or break the mission. Sturges bending steel into cages no one had ever dreamed of building. Robert and MacCready grinding raw recruits into a hundred-man commando force. Sarah and Preston weaving the lifeline of supplies and vehicles that would carry it all.
The next afternoon sunlight slanted through the narrow office windows, casting long amber bars across the heavy desk. Dust motes drifted lazily in the shafts of light, though the air itself felt far from calm. Sico sat in his chair, posture rigid, eyes scanning yet another sheet of reports. Patrol rotations. Supply tallies. A list of potential problem settlers Sarah had flagged for him. His fingers drummed on the wood — not impatiently, but in that controlled rhythm that meant his mind was still spinning gears.
The knock came at the door. Firm, measured. Not frantic, not casual. The kind of knock that meant whoever stood there carried news that mattered.
"Enter," Sico said, his voice cutting evenly through the stillness.
The door creaked open, and there they were — Curie, with her satchel tucked tight against her side, and Virgil, no longer the hulking figure of mutation but the man he had fought to claw back into being.
They stepped inside together, and the young guard outside shut the door behind them.
"Commander," Virgil said, his voice rougher than most men's but no longer the gravelled growl it once had been.
Curie's face was lit with that peculiar mix of nerves and excitement that only came when a theory had finally crossed into reality. "We 'ave progress," she said quickly, her accent sharpening as her words raced ahead of her.
Sico set the reports aside and leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk. His eyes locked onto theirs with that same steel steadiness that could pin a man in place. "Show me."
Virgil placed a small case on the desk — black, metal, salvaged from some forgotten pre-war laboratory, its surface scratched but functional. He flipped the latches, and inside, nestled in foam, were ten slender darts. Each was capped in polished steel, their shafts sleek, feathered with stabilizers made from repurposed polymer. Alongside them, a compact dart gun rested — clearly handmade, but precise in its design.
Curie opened her satchel, pulling free a small notebook and flipping it open. Pages scrawled with chemical structures, equations, and dosage calculations fluttered under her fingers. She pushed it across the desk toward Sico as though he could read the science by sheer willpower.
"It is done," she said, her voice brimming with the restrained thrill of achievement. "We 'ave synthesized a compound strong enough to sedate a super mutant without killing it. Ze darts are filled with precisely measured doses — one should be sufficient to subdue for… mmm, perhaps twenty minutes. Two, if ze subject is particularly resilient. But no more — more would risk cardiac arrest."
Virgil picked up one of the darts carefully, holding it between thumb and forefinger. "The gun is spring-loaded, compressed gas system. Short range, but accurate enough for field use. We tested on smaller mutated creatures first — mole rats, a yao guai pup that stumbled too close to the fences. Results were… promising. The larger the subject, the faster their metabolism clears it, but even the yao guai stayed down for long enough to prove it works."
Sico's eyes narrowed on the darts, his mind already moving beyond the science to the battlefield. "Ten darts," he repeated. "Ten chances. That's all?"
"For now," Curie said softly. "Each dose takes time to prepare. The stabilizing agent alone requires hours. But… we can make more. Given time, given resources, I can produce a steady supply."
Virgil nodded in agreement. "We built the first batch as proof of concept. We didn't want to waste materials until we knew it worked. Now that we're certain, scaling up is possible — difficult, but possible."
Sico sat back slowly, his gaze still fixed on the open case. Ten darts. Ten fragile needles carrying the difference between success and disaster. Between a captured super mutant and a slaughter. He imagined the squads Robert and MacCready had drilled, rifles raised, formation tight. He pictured them firing in coordinated volleys, the darts striking true, the massive forms of mutants shuddering before collapsing into unconscious heaps.
And then he pictured the alternative: a dart glancing off armor, a dose too weak, a mutant enraged rather than subdued. Screams. Blood. Chaos.
His jaw tightened.
"You've done well," he said finally, his tone low but certain. His eyes shifted from Curie to Virgil, holding each of them in turn. "This… is the key. Without it, everything else is worthless. With it… we stand a chance."
Curie's lips pressed into a thin smile, though her eyes shone with pride. "Merci. But remember — ze precision is crucial. Your men must not fire wildly. Each shot must strike flesh. Otherwise, it is wasted."
Virgil set the dart back carefully in its slot and closed the case. "We'll prepare instructions for your commandos. Handling, safety, aiming. They'll need to understand the risks — and the limits."
Sico nodded once, decisively. "Do it. Train them personally if you must. I won't have a single man misunderstand what these darts mean."
Curie tilted her head slightly, her gaze softer now. "Commander… zis is dangerous work. You know zis. But it is also… groundbreaking. If we succeed, perhaps not only ze mutants, but… other threats may be subdued. We can capture instead of kill. Study instead of guess. Learn."
Virgil's expression darkened at that, shadows of his past with the Institute flickering in his eyes. "Knowledge is dangerous in the wrong hands. But in ours… maybe it gives us an edge."
Sico rose from his chair, the leather groaning as he straightened to his full height. His shadow stretched across the desk, long and sharp in the afternoon light.
"We don't need edges," he said firmly. "We need survival. And survival means doing what no one else will. You've given us the tools. The rest…" His gaze flicked toward the window, where the faint clang of Sturges' hammer rang through the yard. "The rest falls on us."
Curie closed her notebook, tucking it back into her satchel. Virgil lifted the case, holding it close to his chest as though it carried more than just metal and chemicals — as though it carried the fragile line between hope and ruin.
For a long moment, the three of them stood in silence, the weight of the mission pressing heavy in the air. Outside, Sanctuary bustled on — drills, shouts, engines rumbling. The sound of a people preparing for something larger than themselves.
Sico finally broke the silence. "Report to Sarah. She'll see you get what you need for further production."
Curie dipped her head in acknowledgment. "Of course."
Virgil's voice was quieter now, but steady. "We'll be ready when you give the word."
The office air still clung faintly to Sico when he stepped out, shutting the heavy door behind him. The wood clicked into place with a finality that matched the thoughts circling in his head — ten darts, ten chances, and an operation that would either carve a path forward or crack wide open beneath their feet. His boots struck the worn floorboards of the hall as he moved, each step steady, deliberate.
By the time he emerged into the open air, the afternoon had deepened. The sun sat lower now, leaning toward the horizon, gilding Sanctuary's rooftops in molten gold. Hammering and voices carried through the settlement — not the idle bustle of a community but the focused tempo of a garrison preparing for war. The clang of metal, the grind of pulleys, the barked orders of sergeants keeping green recruits in line. It was all there, layered into a rhythm that Sico could feel in his bones.
He cut across the main square, past settlers hauling crates of supplies and soldiers moving in formation. Ahead, the construction yard loomed — a broad patch of packed earth where Sturges and his crew had been laboring for days.
When Sico arrived, he stopped just at the edge of the yard. His eyes narrowed slightly, a soldier's instinct cataloguing what he saw before him. The cages were there.
Massive things. Built from steel beams scavenged from collapsed overpasses, reinforced with thick plates that had once been sections of industrial piping. Each cage was a brutal, functional masterpiece, every weld thick, every joint braced. Bars as thick as a man's arm crisscrossed the sides, spaced narrowly enough that no mutant hand could slip through. At the corners, heavy latches and locking mechanisms gleamed with fresh grease, simple enough to be reliable but sturdy enough to resist brute force.
One cage sat open, its door swung wide, and for a moment Sico imagined one of the hulking green giants thrashing inside, rattling the bars with a fury that would have shattered weaker steel. Instead, it was empty — for now — and the hollow space within seemed to vibrate with potential.
Sturges stood nearby, hands on his hips, his work shirt streaked with grease and sweat. His hat was pushed back, revealing damp hair plastered to his forehead, but his grin was unmistakable — the grin of a man who knew he'd just wrestled a monster of an idea into reality and won.
Beside him were Sarah and Preston, their postures a contrast — Sarah straight-backed, sharp-eyed, already analyzing every angle, every risk; Preston quieter, his hands resting on his rifle as he took in the sight with the measured calm of a man used to holding lines no one else thought possible.
Robert and MacCready were there as well, their squads clustered not far off. Robert, had his men moving with clean efficiency, guiding one of the cages up onto thick wooden runners that groaned as it shifted. MacCready, by contrast, was barking orders with the rough-edged energy of a man who'd once been a mercenary and still carried some of that grit in his tone. His squad wrestled with heavy chains and pulleys, straining against the weight as they maneuvered the second cage toward a waiting truck.
Three trucks sat lined up, their paint chipped and bodies scarred from years of use but their engines freshly serviced. Their flatbeds had been reinforced with steel plates, ready to carry the immense weight of the cages. Soldiers swarmed over them, securing chains, checking bolts, shouting to one another over the grinding squeal of metal on metal.
For a long moment, Sico stood there and simply watched. The sight was… something. The air thrummed with purpose, and for once it wasn't just the Institute's sterile order or the Brotherhood's rigid discipline. This was something forged here, out of necessity, out of stubborn will. His people, his soldiers, his builders — all bending their backs to craft the impossible.
Sarah was the first to notice him. She turned, her sharp eyes catching his, and she gave a small nod — not formal, not forced, but a soldier's acknowledgement to her commander.
"Commander," she said, her voice carrying easily over the din.
Preston followed her gaze and lifted his hand in greeting. Robert glanced up briefly, offered a curt nod before returning to his men. MacCready just barked another order, then tilted his head Sico's way with a crooked half-smile.
Sturges, wiping sweat from his brow with a rag that had long ago surrendered its claim to cleanliness, spotted him last. His grin broadened, and he strode over, boots kicking up dust.
"Well, boss," Sturges said, gesturing with both hands toward the cages, "there she is. Or I guess, there they are. Three beauties, built to hold back hell itself if we did it right."
Sico stepped closer, running his gaze along the nearest cage. He reached out, resting a hand briefly on the cold steel. Solid. Heavy. It didn't yield, not even under his weight.
"They'll hold?" Sico asked, though his tone made it clear it wasn't doubt — it was demand.
Sturges chuckled, though there was a note of pride under it. "Boss, we overbuilt these things. Bars thick enough to stop a truck. Hinges you could hang a house on. Only way one of those big green bastards is breaking out is if he learns how to pick locks. And I don't see that happening anytime soon."
Sarah stepped closer, her gaze flicking over the welds, the reinforcements. "They're impressive," she admitted, though her voice stayed clipped. "But impressive won't matter if the locks fail or the trucks break down en route."
Preston added quietly, "We'll need escorts. Three trucks this size will be slow, hard to maneuver. Easy targets if we're ambushed."
Robert's voice cut in from a short distance away, steady and firm: "My men will ride escort. No one gets near these without going through us first."
"And mine," MacCready added, wiping grime from his hands after helping a soldier secure a chain. "We'll make damn sure nothing happens to 'em. Though," he smirked, "I wouldn't mind seeing a mutant try to smash one of these. Might break his fists before the cage."
Sico let their words settle. He looked again at the cages, at the soldiers hauling them up ramps into the waiting trucks, muscles straining, curses slipping between gritted teeth. The air stank of sweat and oil, of hot steel baking under the sun, but beneath it all was the unmistakable charge of readiness.
"Good," Sico said finally, his voice carrying across the yard. The soldiers nearest froze for half a second, instinctively tuned to that tone, then redoubled their efforts. "You've done well. All of you."
Sturges gave a little shrug, though pride still shone on his face. "Ain't nothing, boss. Just took some steel, some sweat, and a whole lotta late nights. You'd be surprised what a man can build if you tell him it's the only thing standing between him and getting torn in half."
Sarah's eyes stayed on the cages, calculating, but when she spoke her tone was softer than usual. "This is more than steel, Commander. This… this is a chance."
Preston nodded, the faintest of smiles ghosting his lips. "And to show the people we're not just surviving anymore. We're taking the fight back."
Sico let their words hang in the air for a moment, watching the sweat-slick soldiers muscle the cages onto the flatbeds. The trucks groaned, suspension creaking as the sheer weight settled in, but they held. The sight was enough. He'd seen enough.
His gaze shifted — first to Robert, then to MacCready. The two men stood like different breeds of wolf: Robert rigid, disciplined, every inch a soldier forged from drill and duty; MacCready looser, rough-edged, his stance carrying that twitch of restless energy that made him dangerous in his own way. Both of them watching him now. Waiting.
Sico straightened his shoulders, voice cutting across the yard with that unmistakable command that made conversations die and ears sharpen.
"Robert. MacCready."
They stepped forward almost in unison, though Robert's boots clicked into place with military precision, while MacCready rolled his shoulders as if to say, Alright, let's hear it.
"We depart tonight," Sico said. No hesitation. No soft edges. The words landed like stones. "Virgil and Curie succeeded. The darts are ready. We're not waiting another day. Get your Commandos prepared. I want every man and woman armed, equipped, and loaded into the trucks and Humvees before sundown."
For a moment, the yard's clamor seemed to dim. Not in truth, but in the way soldiers' heads turned, their movements faltering as they caught the shape of the order in the air. Depart. Tonight.
Robert's jaw tightened, his nod sharp, immediate. "Yes, Commander." Already his eyes were calculating — numbers, loadouts, assignments. His men were efficient, but efficiency took prep. And he'd see it done.
MacCready, by contrast, let out a low whistle. "Tonight, huh?" He gave a half-grin that didn't quite hide the seriousness flickering behind his eyes. "Guess my boys don't get beauty sleep after all. Fine. We'll be ready. But I'm telling you now, if anyone pukes in my Humvee, I'm making 'em clean it with their shirt."
A ripple of laughter broke out among some of his squad, easing the taut air for a heartbeat. Sico didn't smile, but he let the moment pass. Soldiers needed nerves, but they also needed levity. MacCready understood that balance better than he'd admit.
Then Sico's eyes shifted to Sarah. She was already halfway to answering before he spoke, like she'd anticipated the question the moment he'd mentioned departure.
"The supply truck," Sico said. "Is it ready?"
Sarah's chin lifted, her posture crisp. "Yes, Commander. Fully stocked and fueled. Ammunition, rations, water, spare parts — all inventoried and loaded this morning. It'll roll out with the convoy."
"Good." His tone was final, but his gaze lingered a fraction longer on her, as if weighing not the words but the certainty behind them. Sarah didn't flinch.
Preston, standing quietly beside her, finally spoke. His voice carried less of the clipped edge, more of the steady reassurance that came naturally to him. "The people know something's happening. They've seen the cages, the soldiers drilling. Word's going around already. Leaving tonight will settle them more than letting this drag out. They'll see us take the fight back."
Sico gave the faintest nod. Preston's instincts for morale were sharper than most. Sometimes sharper than even Sarah's tactical mind. Both were valuable.
He let his gaze sweep back to the cages, now nearly secured in their trucks. Chains tightened, locks checked, soldiers wiping grime from their hands as they stepped back, watching their work settle into readiness. The sun was sinking, shadows stretching long across the yard, painting the scene in bronze and blood-red.
"Listen up!" Sico's voice boomed now, not just for the officers but for every soul within earshot. Conversations died instantly. Even the clatter of chains seemed to pause. Dozens of eyes locked onto him — soldiers, settlers, builders, all waiting.
"Tonight," Sico said, slow and deliberate, "we move. For days you've sweated, bled, built, trained. For days you've looked at these cages and wondered if they'd hold, wondered if this plan would work. I tell you now — it will. Virgil and Curie have given us the weapon we need. The rest is on us."
He let the silence stretch, the weight of it pressing down like the air before a storm.
"We're going to find them. Not wait for them to come tearing into our homes, not hide behind walls hoping they'll pass us by. We'll find them. And we'll bring them down." His hand cut through the air toward the trucks. "These cages will hold. These darts will work. But only if we do our part. Discipline. Precision. No mistakes."
His eyes swept the crowd, pinning men and women alike. "I don't want heroes. I don't want glory-hunters. I want survivors. I want soldiers who fight together and come back together. You give me that, and tomorrow morning those trucks won't be carrying empty cages. They'll be carrying proof that the Freemasons Republic isn't prey anymore. We're the hunters now."
A murmur rose from the gathered soldiers, swelling into a rough chorus of assent. It wasn't wild cheering — it wasn't that kind of moment. It was gritted teeth, clenched fists, the low growl of people who'd had enough of living on the defensive.
Sturges let out a low chuckle beside him, muttering just loud enough for Sico to catch, "Hell of a speech, boss."
Sico didn't respond. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, where the last edges of sun bled into the wasteland beyond Sanctuary's walls.
Night was coming. And with it, the hunt.
The crowd broke apart slowly, like waves peeling back from a shoreline. Soldiers moved with renewed urgency, their earlier fatigue replaced by the sharpness of purpose. Robert was already barking crisp orders, his squad snapping to formation, their movements neat and practiced. MacCready's men moved with less uniformity but equal speed, hauling gear, checking weapons, shouting to one another in a chorus of rough camaraderie.
Sarah stepped away to confirm details with supply officers, her clipped tones carrying over the noise as she drilled them on fuel reserves and fallback routes. Preston moved toward a knot of settlers who'd gathered at the edge of the yard, speaking to them in that calm, steady way of his — quiet enough that only those close could hear, but strong enough to anchor their nerves.
Sturges, meanwhile, slapped one of his crew on the back, muttering about bolts and hinges, but his eyes kept flicking toward the cages. He looked proud, yes, but also wary — as if no matter how many times he double-checked his welds, part of him still wondered what would happen when those monsters finally slammed against the bars.
The last traces of sunlight had thinned to ribbons across the sky when the signal finally came down the line: the convoy was ready. Sanctuary's main gate stood open, its heavy metal doors pulled aside on creaking hinges, revealing the road beyond as a jagged scar of cracked asphalt stretching into the wasteland.
Engines rumbled low and steady, a mechanical heartbeat thrumming through the settlement. The soldiers had finished their loading hours ago, but readiness was a strange thing — it always seemed to stretch time thin. A dozen men and women paced, rechecked their rifles, muttered half-jokes to mask their nerves. The air smelled of oil, gunpowder residue, and that dry, metallic tang of anticipation.
Three flatbed trucks bore the weight of the cages. Each cage was bolted and chained in place, every weld reflecting the dim lanterns strung up along the square. Soldiers had painted numbers in thick black strokes across the cage doors — "One," "Two," and "Three." The marks looked like brands, like declarations. Those cages weren't just steel. They were intent, written in iron.
Beside them sat the Humvees — scarred beasts of machines, their olive paint dulled with age, their bodies patched in places where bullets and rust had both done their work. But their engines purred strong now, thanks to hours of Sturges' elbow grease and the stubborn genius of his mechanics.
Sico stood in the middle of it all, surveying with that watchful stillness that made men fall silent without realizing why. His helmet was tucked under one arm, his other hand resting on the grip of his rifle slung across his chest. He didn't speak yet. He didn't need to.
Robert approached him, every inch the soldier he'd been molded into. His uniform looked pressed even under lantern light, rifle strapped to his back, sidearm checked and rechecked at his hip. He stopped just short of Sico, heels clicking together, a small nod offered like punctuation.
"Convoy's set, Commander," Robert said. His voice carried the discipline of drilled cadence, but beneath it, there was something steadier — trust. "My squad's mounted and waiting on your order."
Sico returned the nod, his jaw tightening just slightly as he glanced toward the cages. "We ride in the lead Humvee. Eyes sharp. No mistakes tonight."
"Yes, sir." Robert didn't hesitate.
From the rear came a familiar voice, sharp and unpolished. "Rear Humvee's locked and loaded." MacCready leaned out from the driver's side, one hand gripping the frame as he called across the square. "My squad's in the back, weapons clean, mags full, stomachs empty — perfect recipe for trouble." He smirked, though the edges of it frayed quickly into something harder. "We'll keep your ass covered, Commander. You just don't drive us into a ditch."
A few soldiers snorted quiet laughs, though they snapped back into silence when Robert shot them a look.
Sico's response was dry, almost cold. "If I drive us into a ditch, MacCready, you'll be the first one pushing."
That actually earned a laugh, even from MacCready himself. Humor in the wasteland wasn't about jokes — it was about permission to exhale when lungs felt tight. Sico knew when to allow it.
Sarah approached next, clipboard in hand even though half the pages were already smudged with grease and dust. Her eyes found Sico's. "Supply truck's in position, Commander. Rations and ammunition accounted for. Medical crates secure. We've got redundancies — enough to last if the operation goes longer than expected."
"Good." Sico's reply was short, but his gaze lingered a fraction longer on Sarah, like it always did. She gave the faintest nod, the only acknowledgment she needed.
Preston stood with the settlers who had gathered along the edge of the square. Families, mechanics, younger recruits not yet battle-ready — all of them watching as if this departure was more than just a mission. It was proof. Proof that the Freemasons Republic wasn't just another settlement scratching out survival. Proof that they were something larger now, something with teeth.
Preston raised a hand in quiet reassurance to the crowd, then turned to Sico. "They'll be watching for you to come back with something in those cages," he said softly, only meant for the Commander to hear. "Don't underestimate what that'll mean for them."
Sico didn't answer, but his silence was heavy with acknowledgment.
Finally, he pulled his helmet on, the straps clicking into place with finality. He glanced once more at the flatbeds, the Humvees, the soldiers who had fallen into formation around them. His voice rose, firm and steady.
"Mount up."
The order rolled through the yard like a shockwave. Boots clattered against metal as soldiers climbed into the Humvees, the flatbed trucks groaned under the shifting weight of their passengers. Weapons checked one last time with the crisp clicks of bolts sliding home, magazines slapping into place. The air filled with the restless hum of engines warming, headlights cutting pale beams through the dust.
Robert was already climbing into the passenger side of the lead Humvee when Sico circled around to the driver's seat. He slid in, hands gripping the wheel with the easy familiarity of someone who'd driven roads worse than this a hundred times before. Robert sat beside him, posture perfect even in the cramped cab.
Behind them, the supply truck's engine rumbled, its headlights flaring. Behind that, the three cage-bearing flatbeds, each flanked by squads riding shotgun in the beds. And finally, anchoring the rear, MacCready's Humvee, its turret gunner scanning the rooftops and treeline even within Sanctuary's walls, as though danger might leap out at them early just for the fun of it.
The convoy stretched long and mean, like a steel serpent coiled and ready to strike.
At the gate, Sarah and Preston stood side by side, flanked by Sturges and a handful of settlers. They didn't wave. They didn't cheer. They simply watched, faces carved in quiet resolve. Because they all knew: this wasn't the kind of mission you celebrated before it was done.
Sico pressed the clutch, shifted gears, and with a low growl of the engine, the lead Humvee rolled forward. The convoy followed, one vehicle at a time, their tires crunching over Sanctuary's worn streets before crossing the threshold of the open gate.
The doors loomed tall behind them, guardians of home. As the last Humvee cleared the line, the settlers swung them shut. The heavy clang of steel slamming into place echoed like a drumbeat in the twilight.
And then they were outside.
The wasteland opened before them — endless stretches of cracked blacktop, weeds forcing their way through fissures, the skeletons of old-world billboards looming like forgotten titans. The last light of day bled across the sky, painting everything in bruised purple and smoldering orange. Ahead lay shadow, ruin, and the unknown.
The convoy moved in unison, engines thrumming, headlights sweeping over dead trees and rusted cars long since picked clean by scavengers. Dust plumed behind their tires, marking their passage as a trail across the land.
In the lead Humvee, Sico's eyes stayed locked on the road. Robert, beside him, had already unfolded a map across his lap, a small lantern clipped to the dashboard casting pale light across its creased surface.
"Our scouts reported a group moving through the old industrial zone three miles east," Robert said, his finger tracing along the map. "If they stayed on their path, we should intersect before midnight."
Sico gave a short grunt of acknowledgment, hands steady on the wheel. His gaze flicked briefly to the rearview mirror, catching sight of the flatbeds and MacCready's Humvee bringing up the rear. The line held tight, disciplined. For now, it was a machine functioning as it should.
Robert glanced at him, then at the horizon. "First time deploying the darts in the field. You trust Virgil's work?"
Sico's eyes narrowed slightly. "I trust Curie."
That was all. But it was enough.
Behind them, MacCready's Humvee bounced over a pothole, laughter and curses carrying faintly across the convoy as his men adjusted. He leaned out the window, scanning the fields with binoculars, muttering to the soldier riding shotgun. Always restless. Always looking for the thing hiding just out of sight.
The wasteland swallowed the sound of their engines quickly, leaving only the steady hum and the occasional groan of suspension as the convoy pressed deeper into no-man's land. Every mile forward was a mile further from Sanctuary, a mile closer to whatever waited for them in the dark.
________________________________________________
• 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:-