If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
He reached over, switched off the radio, and let the silence settle — not the cold, uneasy silence of the wasteland, but the calm kind. The kind that came when you knew, deep down, that everything was finally — at least for now — under control.
The next day dawned quiet, the kind of quiet that came not from absence but from balance — the world moving as it should. Sanctuary's streets were already stirring when the sun began to climb above the treeline, spilling gold over rooftops and gardens. The early workers were out: farmers hauling baskets toward the fields, guards swapping shifts at the gates, the low hum of a brahmin caravan rolling through the main road. It was a good sound — the sound of life, not survival.
Sico stood at his window, coffee steaming in hand, watching it all unfold. He'd risen before dawn out of habit, but today there was no urgency in it. The air felt lighter, his thoughts less tangled. He took a slow sip and let the warmth spread through him, eyes tracing the smoke trail rising from the forge down the hill.
He smiled faintly. "One more day," he murmured.
Behind him, the door opened softly.
"Sir?"
Sico turned, half expecting Preston again, but instead it was a woman — sharp-eyed, in her early thirties, with a shock of chestnut hair tied back and a datapad tucked under her arm. Lieutenant Mara Vance — his personal assistant and one of the first officers to earn her commission in the Republic. She had the posture of a soldier but the mind of an administrator, and the patience of someone who'd learned how to keep up with Sico's impossible pace.
"Mornin', Mara," Sico said, setting down his cup. "You're early."
"Always," she replied with a hint of dry humor. "You said you wanted to go over delegation reports before your leave."
He nodded. "Right. Let's get it done before I change my mind."
Mara smiled slightly at that — she'd heard the same line before, usually right before he threw himself into another week of work instead of resting. But this time, she could sense something different in him. His shoulders weren't as tense, his voice wasn't clipped by fatigue. It was as if the thought of rest had finally stopped being a luxury and become a necessity.
They moved to the table, the same desk where the map of the Republic lay spread across its surface. Sico gestured for her to sit.
"Alright," he began, flipping open the first folder. "Let's start with the outposts. Preston's overseeing Concord and Starlight, right?"
"Yes, sir. Both are running smoothly. The last supply shipment from the south arrived last night, no incidents. He'll continue coordinating with Hancock on the trade routes until your return."
"Good. And Sarah?"
"She's still stationed at the front near Fort Hagen, keeping the patrol perimeter tight around the old Brotherhood drop zones. She sent a report late last night — said she's holding the line without issue, but…"
Sico arched a brow. "But what?"
Mara hesitated, then smirked faintly. "She added, and I quote, 'Tell the General I don't need a babysitter while he's on vacation.'"
That drew a laugh out of him — the real kind, the kind that cracked through the walls of formality. "That sounds like her."
"I thought you'd say that." Mara's expression softened as she scrolled through her datapad. "We've also got Nora managing the logistics from the Institute's side —she's already synced our supply inventories with their transport teams. Everything should run itself for the next few days."
"Perfect."
Sico leaned back slightly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Alright. You're my point of contact while I'm gone. I'll be off the grid for three days — no radio, no signal beacon unless it's an absolute emergency."
"Understood, sir," she said, nodding firmly.
He glanced up at her. "That means no updates about schedules, no last-minute sign-offs, no status checks unless something's burning. I'm serious this time."
She tilted her head slightly, amused. "You've said that before."
"Yeah, but this time I mean it."
Mara smirked, but there was something respectful in the way she looked at him — not just as her commander, but as the man who'd carried the Republic on his back for years. "Then I'll make sure the world doesn't bother you for three days."
He exhaled a quiet chuckle. "Appreciate that."
They worked their way through the rest of the reports — communications, patrol schedules, repair lists for the western wall, and a few political notes from the Freemasons council. Mara handled it all with the same calm precision she always did, occasionally pausing to adjust the holomap or jot a shorthand note in her datapad.
As the sun rose higher, the HQ began to stir — footsteps echoing down the hallway, voices exchanging morning greetings, the faint rattle of typewriters in the communications wing. It was the rhythm of an institution that no longer needed constant supervision.
When they finished, Sico leaned back in his chair, letting the quiet settle. "That should cover it," he said, though his tone carried the weight of someone learning how to let go.
Mara closed the last folder neatly and stacked it on the edge of his desk. "It will. Everything's in place."
He studied her for a moment. "How long have you been running this place beside me now, Mara?"
"One years next month," she said.
"Feels longer."
She smiled faintly. "That's because we lived through five wars in those two years."
He gave a short laugh. "Yeah, that's fair."
A pause followed — a comfortable one. The kind that exists between people who don't need to fill silence to understand each other.
"You've done good work," he said finally.
"Thank you, sir."
"I mean it. Half of what runs smoothly around here is because of you."
She gave a modest shrug, though her eyes softened. "I just try to keep up."
"Don't sell yourself short," Sico said, his voice lowering. "You've kept the Republic's veins flowing while I've been out putting out fires. That's not a small thing."
Mara looked at him for a moment, then smiled, quiet but sincere. "You're still not used to letting people take over for you, are you?"
He smirked. "Guilty."
"Well," she said, standing, "you're about to find out we can handle it."
Sico stood too, pushing his chair back with a slow scrape. "Guess I am."
He looked around his office — at the neat stacks of reports, the maps pinned to the walls, the old rifle hanging behind his desk like a relic of a different life. He'd spent so long here that the room felt more like a companion than a space. It had seen his frustration, his victories, his nights without sleep. Now, for the first time, he was walking away from it by choice.
Mara noticed the way his gaze lingered. "You'll be back in three days," she said quietly. "It'll still be here — exactly as you left it."
He smiled faintly. "That's what I'm counting on."
When he stepped outside, the air carried that crisp edge of early spring — cool enough to remind you you were alive. The settlement stretched before him in full motion: engineers repairing solar lines, synth workers unloading crates from a caravan, kids laughing as they kicked a battered ball across the street.
It was strange, Sico thought, to see the place so alive. When he'd first arrived, Sanctuary had been a skeleton of broken homes and burned-out cars. Now it was a city. His city.
He walked through the streets slowly, greeting people as he went — not as a general, but as a neighbor.
"Morning, General!" one of the mechanics called from under a truck chassis.
"Morning, Dale," Sico replied, grinning. "Don't call me that, though. Not today."
Dale laughed. "You got it, boss."
Farther down, Sturges was up on scaffolding, tightening a joint in the support beams of a new water tower. "Hey, boss! Heard you're takin' a break!"
"That obvious?" Sico shouted back.
"Hell yeah! Half the crew's already placing bets on how long before you radio in to check on us!"
Sico chuckled, shaking his head. "Tell 'em they'll lose money this time."
Sturges laughed, giving him a mock salute. "We'll see about that!"
Sico continued down the lane, his boots crunching against the dirt path. The sounds of the town followed him — hammering, laughter, voices blending together in a harmony he hadn't realized he'd missed.
He passed Nora's greenhouse on the corner — the faint scent of earth and tomatoes drifted through the air. She was inside, sleeves rolled up, hands deep in soil as she worked beside a couple of Institute scientists. She looked up when she saw him.
"Heading out already?" she called.
"Not yet," he said, walking up to the fence. "Just making the rounds before I do."
"Good," she said, brushing dirt off her gloves. "You need this, Sico. Don't let anyone talk you out of it."
He smiled. "Not even myself?"
"Especially not yourself."
He gave her a nod and kept walking, her words lingering in the back of his mind.
By the time he reached the main gate, the morning had ripened into late sunlight. The guards straightened when they saw him, saluting out of instinct.
"At ease," he said easily. "I'm heading out tomorrow morning. If anything urgent comes up, Lieutenant Vance will coordinate."
"Yes, sir," one of them replied.
Sico had made it halfway down the main road when the thought struck him — quiet but insistent, like a soft knock against the back of his mind. He slowed his pace, his boots crunching on the gravel path, eyes following the gentle movement of the settlement around him.
Families were out on porches. A couple of synth guards shared a laugh with Sturges near the workshop. Somewhere, a baby cried, and its mother's voice followed, low and soothing.
It was… peaceful.
And suddenly, the idea of leaving it — even for just a few days — felt wrong. Not because he was worried the Republic would fall apart without him. No. It was because for once, the peace wasn't something distant or borrowed. It was here, in the air, in the way the people moved, in the way life flowed quietly between houses built from ruin.
Maybe he didn't need to run to the mountains or the lakes to find rest. Maybe what he needed had already been here all along.
He turned back toward HQ.
When he stepped into the main hallway, the usual hum of activity greeted him — clerks passing papers, a pair of soldiers chatting near the radio desk, the faint whir of a generator humming beneath the floor. It was all routine, predictable, alive.
Mara looked up from her station near the door as he entered, brow arching slightly in surprise. "That was quick," she said. "Forget something?"
Sico smiled faintly. "Yeah. My mind."
Mara blinked, not sure if he was joking. "Sir?"
He walked past her desk toward his office, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. "Change of plans. I'm not heading out tomorrow."
Her brows lifted higher. "You're… not?"
"Nope." He opened the door, motioning for her to follow. "Come on in."
She followed him inside, closing the door behind them. The morning sunlight had shifted since they'd last been in here, cutting a sharp, bright angle across his desk.
Sico set his gloves down and leaned against the table. "I've decided to spend my leave here. At home. In Sanctuary."
Mara blinked again, as if trying to decide whether this was a test. "You mean… actually here? Within walking distance of HQ?"
"That's the one."
There was a long beat of silence before she said, "Sir, forgive me for saying this, but that doesn't sound much like a vacation."
He chuckled quietly. "Maybe not. But I've been thinking. I don't need the mountains, or a quiet lodge somewhere in the woods. What I need is to just… stop moving. To be home. For once."
Mara studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "That actually makes sense."
He smirked. "It's been known to happen once or twice."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "Alright. I'll make the arrangements then. You'll still be off duty — no calls, no visitors, no interruptions unless it's urgent."
"Exactly."
"And, just so I'm clear — you want me to tell everyone you're gone. Even if you're technically still here?"
"Right. Let the people think I'm off-site. Keeps them from knocking on my door with forms to sign."
Mara's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Smart."
Sico pushed himself off the table and adjusted his coat. "You're in charge while I'm gone, Lieutenant."
"I'll keep the place running," she said firmly. "Go relax. Or try to."
He gave her a mock salute. "Trying's half the battle."
As he stepped into the hall again, Mara's voice followed him. "And sir?"
He turned.
She smiled faintly. "You've earned this. Don't waste it overthinking."
He gave a small nod — the kind that carried more gratitude than words — and left.
Sanctuary had changed so much that Sico sometimes forgot how it used to look — all cracked driveways, rusted mailboxes, and hollowed-out shells of homes. Now, there were gardens, fences, solar panels gleaming in the sunlight, even a paved main road leading toward the bridge.
His house sat near the end of the lane, not far from Nora's. It wasn't big, but it was sturdy — rebuilt brick by brick over the years. A flag of the Freemasons Republic hung neatly beside the door, its fabric fluttering gently in the wind.
He paused for a moment at the gate, taking in the view — the trees swaying lazily beyond the houses, the faint laughter of children playing near the stream. The smell of earth and morning dew lingered in the air.
When he stepped inside, the door gave that familiar wooden creak — not unpleasant, just… alive. The house smelled faintly of coffee and old books, the kind of scent that made a place feel lived in.
He dropped his bag by the door, shrugged off his coat, and set his gun belt on the small table near the wall. The weight of command — the literal and the metaphorical — came off with it.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, listening to the silence.
Then, almost instinctively, he moved to the radio sitting on the counter. It was an old pre-war model, lovingly restored by Sturges years ago. The dials were a little stiff, the antenna slightly bent, but it worked fine.
He turned the knob, and after a few seconds of static, Diamond City Radio crackled to life.
"…and that was 'Atom Bomb Baby' by the Five Stars," came Travis' voice — confident now, smooth in a way that would've been unthinkable years ago. "Next up, we've got a little something to keep your morning bright. If you're out there in the Commonwealth — or the Republic, these days — don't forget to breathe. It's a good day to be alive."
Sico smiled faintly at the sound. Travis had come a long way since the shy, stuttering DJ who could barely say hello on air. He remembered that day vividly — helping Nora talk Travis through his fears, pushing him to stand up for himself. Seeing him now, so sure, so full of life… it was one of those quiet victories that no one ever wrote about, but that mattered all the same.
The opening chords of another old-world song filled the room. "Maybe, if I could hold you tight…"
Sico rolled up his sleeves and headed for the kitchen.
He wasn't much of a cook — soldiering hadn't left much time for that — but he knew enough to make something edible. He opened the cupboard, found a few cans of brahmin stew, and set them beside a pan of sliced tatos and carrots.
The radio hummed softly in the background as he worked — music blending with the gentle sizzle of the pan. He moved without hurry, every motion deliberate but unforced. For once, he wasn't doing something because it needed to be done. He was just doing it because he wanted to.
The smell of the cooking stew filled the house, mixing with the faint aroma of coffee still lingering from the morning.
As the song changed again, Travis' voice returned. "You ever notice how sometimes things just… work out? Like, one day you're running scared from super mutants, and the next you're sitting in a nice, rebuilt town with people who actually smile when they see you. Wild, huh? Anyway, here's 'Blue Moon' — dedicated to all the dreamers out there."
Sico chuckled softly as the familiar croon of the old record began. He could picture Travis at the mic — probably with his feet up, talking into the static with that awkward charm of his.
By the time the stew was done, the light through the window had turned a soft amber. The town outside was quieting, the day easing toward evening.
Sico sat down at his small kitchen table with his plate and a cup of water. No paperwork, no radio chatter from HQ, no one knocking at the door. Just him, the hum of Diamond City Radio, and the sound of the wind through the leaves outside.
He took the first bite, leaned back, and let out a slow breath.
It wasn't gourmet, but it was warm. And in that moment, it tasted like peace.
After dinner, he cleaned up — slow, methodical, as if the simple rhythm of washing dishes had its own kind of therapy. The radio played on in the background, shifting between songs and Travis' easy banter.
When he was done, he poured himself another cup of coffee and moved to the living room, settling by the window. Outside, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in soft gold and violet. Nora's greenhouse glowed faintly in the distance, lanterns inside flickering like fireflies.
He took a slow sip, feeling the warmth spread through him again.
It had been years since he'd allowed himself a moment like this — not because he couldn't, but because he never thought he should. The Commonwealth had needed him. The Freemasons had needed him. There was always something: a crisis, a decision, a war. Always something to carry.
But now… the world didn't feel like it was collapsing. It felt like it was finally standing on its own legs.
Travis' voice floated through the static again. "You know, I used to think I wasn't cut out for this. Talking on the air, being the voice people listen to. But I had some help — from good folks, back in the day. Folks who believed I could be more. So, uh… if you're listening out there, thanks. You know who you are."
Sico smiled quietly. Yeah, he knew.
He took another sip, eyes drifting over the town.
He saw Sarah's patrol torches flicker faintly near the far end of the settlement. Preston's recruits training by the old cul-de-sac. A couple of settlers strolling arm in arm down the main road. It was all so normal — a word that had once felt foreign, almost laughable.
The song on the radio faded out with the soft crackle of static, leaving just enough space for Travis' voice to drift through again — calm, mellow, with that confident warmth that still carried traces of the nervous kid he'd once been.
"…Alright, folks, that one was 'Blue Moon' by The Marcels — a real classic. Makes you wanna slow down a bit, doesn't it? Anyway, if you're just tuning in, this is Travis Miles, and yeah… it's a good night out there. I don't know where you are, but I hope you're someplace safe, someplace warm. Next up — one for all you late-night thinkers. This one's by Skeeter Davis. 'The End of the World.'"
The opening chords rolled in, soft and melancholy — the kind of song that carried a kind of quiet ache beneath its beauty. The guitar twanged through the air like an echo from another age, and Skeeter's voice followed — fragile but steady, full of all the hurt and hope of the world that came before the bombs.
"Why does the sun go on shining…"
Sico smiled faintly as he leaned back in his chair. He'd always liked this song. There was something painfully human about it — a voice singing about endings, yet the world kept turning. In its own way, it fit everything they'd lived through: war, loss, rebirth. Maybe that was why Travis played it so often.
He was halfway through his cup of coffee when a sudden knock broke through the melody.
It was firm but rhythmic — not the sharp, official sort of knock that meant someone from HQ, but the kind that carried laughter behind it.
He frowned slightly, setting down his cup. "Now who in the hell…"
The knock came again, followed by a voice — unmistakable, easy, half-grinning even through the wood.
"You gonna make us stand out here all night, boss? Beer's getting warm!"
Sico blinked once, then chuckled under his breath. He recognized that voice anywhere.
He set his cup aside, pushed himself up, and crossed the room to the door. The boards creaked under his boots, the song still playing faintly behind him.
When he opened it, the cool evening air swept in — and with it, a cluster of familiar faces.
Preston Garvey stood at the front, that ever-present calm smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Beside him, Robert and Albert who grinned sheepishly, each carrying a six-pack of beer. Behind them were MacCready, leaning on one leg with that cocky smirk of his; Mel, holding what looked suspiciously like a makeshift cooler cobbled together from a repurposed ammo box; Sturges, wiping his hands on an oil rag; and Hancock, coat half-buttoned, hat tipped low over his grin, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Sico blinked, trying not to laugh. "You're all outta your minds."
"Maybe," Hancock said easily, exhaling smoke into the cool air, "but we brought booze, so that makes it a social call."
MacCready lifted one of the beer packs like a trophy. "And we didn't even raid the HQ stash. This is our own supply. Thought you might wanna actually celebrate having a day off for once."
Preston gave a small shrug. "You've been working nonstop since, well… forever. We figured the least we could do is make sure you actually relax instead of sitting here listening to sad music alone."
Sico raised an eyebrow, half amused, half exasperated. "You realize I was two minutes into that 'sad music,' right?"
"Exactly," Sturges said, stepping past him before he could protest. "Which is why we're saving you from yourself. C'mon, boss, scoot over — this place looks way too clean to belong to a soldier."
Sico sighed, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a grin. "You're all impossible."
"That's why you like us," Hancock said as he strolled inside, dropping his cigarette into a tin cup by the door. "Now move aside before I start drinkin' on your porch."
Robert and Albert followed in behind them, already laughing as they set the beers on the counter. The radio was still playing softly — Skeeter Davis' voice filling the room with that gentle ache — and for a moment, the group just stood there, taking in the quiet warmth of the place.
Mel let out a low whistle. "Well, damn. You really cleaned up, boss. Didn't think you were the 'curtains and bookshelf' type."
"Yeah," MacCready added with a grin, "I figured your house would just be a cot, a rifle rack, and a bunch of unfinished reports."
Sico chuckled, leaning against the doorway. "Shows how much you know. Some of us like to have lives outside the battlefield."
"Ha!" Hancock barked a laugh, tossing his hat onto the couch. "You hear that? The man who personally led three wars says he's got a life outside the battlefield. I'll drink to that."
Preston smiled as he helped unpack the bottles. "That's exactly why we're here."
Before long, the house came alive with noise — chairs scraping, bottles popping open, laughter spilling into the corners. Sturges was already poking around the kitchen for cups, muttering something about "improvised refrigeration methods," while Mel proudly presented his ammo-box cooler, revealing several bottles of Nuka-Brew chilling in crushed ice.
Sico just stood for a moment, watching it all unfold. The stillness of earlier had been good — grounding — but this? This was something different. The house felt alive again, like it hadn't in years.
He finally stepped back in, shaking his head. "Alright, alright. You win. But if this place ends up looking like the mess hall after a Brotherhood raid, you're all cleaning it up."
"Scout's honor," MacCready said with a grin.
"You were never a scout."
"Exactly."
That got a laugh from the group.
They gathered around the small living room table, pushing aside a few of Sico's old books and maps to make space for the bottles. Outside, the last of the sunlight had faded, leaving only the soft orange glow of the lamps and the faint glimmer of the stars through the window.
Travis' voice drifted through the room again, gentle between songs. "…And that was 'The End of the World,' one of my favorites. Always gets me thinking about how lucky we are that it didn't really end, huh? Alright, next up, we've got something a little cheerier — don't go anywhere."
"Cheers to that," Hancock said, raising his bottle. "To the world not ending."
Preston clinked his bottle against his. "And to rebuilding it."
Sico smiled, lifting his own. "And to keeping it that way."
The bottles met with a soft clink, the foam catching the lamplight as they drank.
For a long while, the talk flowed easily.
They swapped stories — not of battle or politics, but of the small things.
Mel talked about his team's latest project, wiring up the new anti-air systems near the southern ridge — "she's a beauty," he said proudly, "could knock a vertibird outta the sky before it even hits the ridge line."
Sturges bragged about his new water filtration design — "twice the flow rate with half the maintenance," he said, though Hancock interrupted to claim that it also made the water taste like rust if you didn't stir it counterclockwise.
MacCready told one of his trademark stories — the kind that started half-serious and ended ridiculous — about the time a super mutant tried to "negotiate" with him by offering to trade a dead mole rat for his hat.
Robert and Albert laughed harder than anyone, partly because they were already tipsy. Preston kept his cool, but even he cracked a grin when Hancock started imitating the mutant's voice in grotesque perfection.
Sico didn't talk much at first — he just listened. Watched them.
These were his people — not soldiers tonight, not leaders or engineers or scavengers. Just friends. Family, really. Each of them a piece of the Republic he'd built, each of them carrying a story that made the whole stronger.
When he finally did speak, it was with that low, easy warmth that came from being surrounded by those he trusted. "You know," he said, swirling the beer in his hand, "it's strange. I've led a hundred missions, stood on more front lines than I can count, but this right here…" He gestured vaguely around the room. "…this is what makes it worth it. Seeing everyone here, laughing, alive."
Preston nodded quietly. "That's what we've been fighting for. Not for flags or walls — for this."
Hancock smirked. "You're gettin' sentimental, Garvey."
"Maybe," Preston replied, "but he's right."
Sico raised his bottle slightly. "To the Republic — may it never forget what it was built to protect."
The others echoed the toast. "To the Republic."
The night wore on.
Travis' voice came and went through the static, the songs shifting from slow crooners to lively swing tunes. The beer bottles multiplied, laughter deepened, the stories grew bolder and more ridiculous.
At one point, Sturges convinced Mel to arm-wrestle Hancock on the kitchen counter — a spectacle that ended with Hancock intentionally losing just to watch Mel gloat, only to flick his hat onto Sturges' head in mock defeat.
MacCready tried to teach Robert how to play cards — and failed, miserably — while Albert kept refilling everyone's drinks like he was running a bar.
Through it all, Sico sat back, smiling, content just to watch. The air felt alive with warmth, with noise, with that sense of belonging that was so rare in the wasteland.
When the laughter finally ebbed and the last of the beer was gone, the group lingered — no one quite ready to leave yet.
Hancock leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closed. "You ever think," he said lazily, "about how far we've come? I mean… look at this. A few years ago, none of this existed. We were all just ghosts wandering the ruins."
Preston nodded, his voice quieter now. "And now we're here. Building something real."
Sico glanced toward the window. Outside, the stars glimmered faintly over the quiet rooftops of Sanctuary.
"Yeah," he murmured. "We've come a long way."
He looked back at them — at his people — and smiled. "And we're not done yet."
The room went quiet for a moment. Not a heavy silence, but a peaceful one. The kind that came when everyone understood, without needing to say a word, that they were part of something that would last.
Then, from the radio, Travis' voice returned one last time, soft and content.
"…You're listening to Diamond City Radio. And hey, if you're out there tonight, surrounded by good folks, maybe crack open a cold one and be thankful. The world ended once — no need to live like it did."
Hancock raised his empty bottle with a grin. "Damn right."
Sico chuckled softly, shaking his head. "That man gets it."
The world outside could still turn. The Brotherhood could still rage. The wasteland could still shift and threaten. But here, in this little house, under the soft glow of lanterns and the hum of an old radio, life — simple, human, beautiful — carried on.
________________________________________________
• 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:-