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Nora let out a slow breath, watching the exchange. She hadn't missed the way Sico had slipped into a role she hadn't asked of him, yet one he wore with a kind of natural ease that startled her. He spoke to Shaun not like a passing adult tossing scraps of attention, but like someone who understood what it meant to carry the weight of being young and unsure.
The next day, Sico went to see Mel and his team at the science building to see how the progress on the AA gun he had asked Mel to build was coming along. When he arrived, he saw Mel and his team huddled around a prototype that still wasn't finished.
The building itself smelled of hot metal and solder, the air thick with the sharp tang of machine oil. Sparks occasionally spat from a workbench in the corner where one of Mel's assistants, a wiry young man with grease up to his elbows, was grinding down a length of pipe. The clatter of tools echoed in the rafters, mixing with the low hum of generators running somewhere deeper in the compound.
Sico paused in the doorway for a moment, just watching. He wasn't the kind of man who let himself get lost in daydreams often, but there was something about seeing this place alive — busy, alive with thought and work — that always tugged at him. It was a reminder of what they were trying to build, what all the blood and sweat outside was supposed to be protecting.
Mel was crouched at the side of the machine, his welding mask pushed back on his forehead, dark streaks of soot staining his face. He was animated, his hands moving as fast as his mouth, jabbing at a diagram spread out on the floor.
"—and if we don't reconfigure the loading chamber, it's just gonna jam halfway through the first volley," Mel was saying, his voice carrying over the clang of metal. "We can't afford that. Not against vertibirds. You want a gun that works, you gotta give me space for a larger feed system."
One of the other engineers, a woman with sharp eyes and a scar down her chin, shook her head. "But if we extend the chamber, it throws off the balance. You'll end up with recoil that'll knock the whole mount off its axis. Unless you've figured out a way to reinforce the stabilizers — which you haven't."
Mel scowled, grabbing a wrench and pointing it like a weapon. "I'm workin' on it, alright? Rome wasn't built in a day. Neither's a goddamn AA gun."
That was when Sico stepped forward, his boots thudding against the concrete floor. The sound cut through the argument like a knife.
Mel glanced up, his eyes lighting for a moment before narrowing again, wary. "Well, look who finally showed up. The man with all the bright ideas."
Sico didn't bite at the sarcasm. He moved closer, his gaze shifting to the prototype. It was rough, no question about it — a skeleton of pipes, gears, and an oversized barrel bolted to a makeshift frame. Wires trailed like veins across the floor, connecting it to a cluster of jury-rigged power supplies. To anyone else it might've looked like a pile of junk with delusions of grandeur. But to Sico, it looked like possibility.
"Tell me where we're at," he said simply.
Mel let out a grunt, wiping his hands on a rag that had long since given up on being clean. "Where we're at? We're at the part where you asked for a miracle and I'm tryin' to build one outta scrap metal and wishful thinkin'. This thing could bring down a bird if we fired it right now — maybe. Once. But then it'd overheat, the chamber'd lock, and we'd be stuck sittin' ducks while the Brotherhood painted the ground with us."
One of the younger engineers spoke up, his voice tinged with nerves. "But the math works, boss. If we can tweak the coolant system, if we can just—"
Mel shot him a look that could've curdled milk. "If. Always if. I don't deal in ifs, kid. I deal in what actually fires without blowin' our arms off."
Sico finally crouched down, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied the prototype up close. His eyes traced the barrel, the feed, the half-completed targeting rig on the side. He wasn't a scientist — not like these people — but he'd been around enough machines in his life to know how to read the bones of one.
"You're close," Sico said after a long moment. His voice was steady, calm, the kind of tone that filled the cracks left behind by frustration. "Closer than you're givin' yourself credit for. I've seen enough broken-down weapons in my time to know the difference between a pipe dream and a half-step from working."
Mel gave a dry laugh, short and bitter. "You've also seen enough weapons to know half a step's as good as dead. Ain't no half measures in this fight."
"That's why you're gonna finish it," Sico replied evenly, rising back to his full height. "Because you know the stakes better than anyone here. You've seen what they can do. Vertibirds swoopin' in, Paladins drop out like steel gods — people die before they even know what's happening. That's why this matters."
The room went quiet for a beat. The younger engineers shifted uncomfortably, some looking away, others watching Sico with a kind of quiet intensity.
Mel ran a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. Finally, he sighed. "You don't make it easy, you know that? You stand there with your 'you're closer than you think' speech, like it's all so goddamn simple."
"It ain't simple," Sico said, his voice lowering. "Nothin' worth doin' ever is. But simple don't win wars. People like you do. People who don't stop when the easy answer is 'it can't be done.'"
For a long moment, Mel just stared at him. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. Not quite a smile — more like a reluctant admission that maybe, just maybe, the bastard was right.
"Alright," Mel said, clapping his hands together. "Back to it then. You want this thing shootin' straight, we're gonna need more coolant lines, stronger recoil dampeners, and a better power feed. Which means I'm gonna need more parts. A lot more parts."
Sico nodded once. "Make me a list. Whatever you need, I'll find it."
"You sure about that?" Mel asked, arching a brow. "Some of this ain't just lyin' around in the junkyard. We're talkin' high-grade capacitors, reinforced alloys. Stuff you don't just stumble over unless you know where to look."
Sico leaned in, his eyes steady. "Then tell me where to look."
Mel wiped his hands again on the already-ruined rag, eyes narrowing as if he were running a hundred different calculations in his head all at once. The faint glow from the welder at the far end of the room pulsed against the metal walls, painting fleeting shadows across his soot-stained face. Finally, he exhaled, the sound more like a growl than a sigh.
"Alright," he said. "You really want to know where to look? There's a stockpile down in the old West Roxbury power station. Brotherhood's hit it a couple times, but they don't clear everything—they're too focused on what they can carry fast. The rest is still sittin' there, buried under rust and rubble. Reinforced alloys, capacitor banks, some old pre-war coolant systems. Exactly the kinda things I need to keep this beast from cookin' itself alive."
Sico listened, nodding slowly. He could picture the place already: dark hallways echoing with dripping water, stairwells choked with debris, and the ever-present chance of walking right into a Brotherhood patrol. The thought wasn't exactly comforting, but then again, comfort wasn't what he lived for anymore. It was survival. And survival, these days, meant striking first.
Mel leaned back against the table and crossed his arms, the rag dangling from his hand like a white flag he'd never wave. "But you're not going alone. Hancock's been runnin' scavenger crews out that way for weeks. He knows the back routes, knows how to get in without bringin' the whole Brotherhood down on your head. You oughta talk to him, see if he'll let you tag along. Hell, ask him to bring you straight there. He's slippery enough to make it work."
Sico tilted his head, considering it. "Hancock and his scavvers, huh?"
"Yeah," Mel said, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. "Man's got style, I'll give him that. Half the time he looks like he's gonna keel over from the chems, and the other half he's smoother than a damn shark. But he gets results. His crew's pulled gear I thought only existed in textbooks. If anyone can help you find what I need, it's him."
Sico rubbed his jaw, feeling the grit of stubble under his fingers. "Alright. I'll see Hancock after this, make it official."
"Good," Mel muttered, then, as if remembering something, he jabbed a finger toward the unfinished machine looming behind him. "But listen. Don't think we're sittin' on our asses here while you're off playin' scavenger. We'll keep workin', but right now we're only about thirty percent done with the prototype. And that's bein' generous."
"Thirty?" Sico repeated, his brow creasing.
"Thirty," Mel said firmly. "Maybe thirty-two if I squint. We can keep hammerin' out schematics, keep mockin' up pieces outta scrap just so the kids here don't lose the rhythm. But without that part—without those alloys and capacitors—we're stuck in neutral. I'm not gonna lie to you, boss. We need this. Otherwise, all we're doin' is drawin' pretty pictures of a gun that'll never fire."
The woman with the scar on her chin leaned against the workbench, arms folded, her sharp eyes flicking from Mel to Sico. "He's right. We can theorize all day, but schematics don't win fights. That gun needs to exist. And right now, it doesn't."
Sico turned to study the skeleton of the weapon again. It loomed against the wall like a promise half-kept — hulking and unfinished, its frame bristling with bolts and gaps where the heart of it should be. He imagined Brotherhood vertibirds screaming through the sky, steel titans spilling out of their bellies, and this gun — this incomplete machine — spitting fire up at them. He imagined it too soon, imagined it breaking down in the middle of a fight. Men and women dying because thirty percent wasn't enough.
That wasn't an option.
He finally looked back at Mel, his expression carved from stone. "Then we get what you need. Whatever it takes."
Mel gave him that reluctant almost-smile again, like a man who'd spent too long pretending he didn't believe in miracles. "That's what I wanted to hear."
The room relaxed, just a fraction. The young engineer who had spoken earlier fiddled nervously with his pencil, glancing at the schematics like he wanted to bury himself in the work. The woman with the scar straightened, moving toward the prototype to adjust something with the stabilizer rig. The hiss of welding started up again in the corner. For a moment, life resumed, but the air still thrummed with tension — the kind that came from knowing time wasn't on their side.
Sico lingered, watching them dive back into their craft, and he couldn't help but feel a stab of admiration. These weren't soldiers, not in the way he was. They didn't carry rifles or march into firefights. But they were fighting just the same — with torches and wrenches, with equations scrawled on scraps of paper, with grease under their nails and sleepless eyes fixed on impossible goals. And maybe, just maybe, they were the ones who would tip the scales.
He turned back to Mel. "You get that list written. Every nut, bolt, and wire. I'll see Hancock today, and we'll bring back what you need."
Mel gave a short nod, pulling a bent notebook out of his back pocket. "Already on it."
The walk out of the science building was slower than usual. Sico's boots echoed down the hallway, past open rooms filled with humming equipment and weary scientists hunched over terminals. He passed a young woman asleep at her desk, her cheek pressed against a keyboard, the monitor still glowing with lines of code. Passed two men arguing in hushed voices about energy output versus structural integrity. Every corner of the building was alive with the same desperate pulse: keep working, keep building, because stopping meant losing.
By the time he stepped outside, the air felt cooler, cleaner. The sharp tang of solder and hot metal gave way to the damp earth smell of Sanctuary's outskirts. For a brief moment, Sico just stood there, breathing it in, letting his eyes adjust to the daylight. His thoughts were already drifting to Hancock. The ghoul mayor had his own way of doing things — unpredictable, flamboyant, sometimes reckless. But he was loyal, in his own twisted fashion. And if Mel said Hancock's scavenger team was the best shot at finding those parts, then that was the path forward.
Then Sico went to see Hancock at the Scavenging Department, his strides deliberate, the weight of Mel's words still pressing down on his shoulders. The sun was higher now, filtering through the patchwork of clouds and striking the muddy ground of Sanctuary with a pale light. It made the dust hang in the air like smoke.
The Scavenging Department sat on the western side of the settlement, close to where the old garages and warehouses had been repurposed into storage depots. Hancock had claimed one of the largest buildings, a structure that used to be a pre-war distribution hub. Its faded lettering still clung to the walls, rust streaking down like tears. The wide loading bay doors had been reinforced with scavenged steel, and two guards lounged on either side, rifles slung over their shoulders.
As Sico approached, the guards straightened. One of them—a wiry woman with a tattoo curling down her neck—gave him a sharp nod. "President."
Sico returned the nod, his voice calm but edged with intent. "Hancock inside?"
"Yeah," she said. "Upstairs. Been goin' through manifests all morning. You'll find him in the war room."
"Appreciate it."
The interior was exactly what you'd expect from a man like Hancock: equal parts organized chaos and pure charisma. Maps covered the walls, layered on top of each other until they formed a patchwork quilt of Greater Boston. Bright pins marked supply runs, patrols, and Brotherhood movements. Scrawled notes in half a dozen different hands ran along the margins—Hancock's crude penmanship stood out among the others, bold and almost careless.
The air smelled of stale smoke and jet, but also of oiled leather and dry paper. It was alive with motion—scavengers coming and going, carrying crates of scrap, scribbling notes into ledgers, or huddled around tables littered with pre-war radios and jury-rigged comm sets.
And there he was: Hancock, leaning back in a chair with his boots propped on the table. His hat was tilted at a rakish angle, coat tails draped across the chair like wings. His dead, ghoul face cracked into a grin when he saw Sico step inside.
"Well, well," Hancock drawled, spreading his arms like he was welcoming an old friend into his living room. "If it ain't the man of the hour. What brings the big boss down into the dirt with the rest of us scav rats?"
Sico didn't smile, but his tone was steady, respectful. "Mel sent me. He says you're the man who knows West Roxbury better than anyone. We need that stockpile at the power station. Reinforced alloys, capacitors, coolant systems. It's the only way his prototype gets past thirty percent."
Hancock's grin widened, teeth glinting in the dim light. He sat forward, boots thumping onto the ground. "Ah, so Mel finally came clean, huh? Knew he was sittin' on a secret. Didn't peg him for the dramatic type, but hey, everyone's got their vices. And yeah, I know the power station. Nasty piece of work. Flooded basements, collapsed corridors, a Brotherhood patrol every other week. Like a bad neighborhood that just won't quit."
"You've been running crews out there," Sico said. "He told me you've pulled things nobody else could."
Hancock leaned his elbows on the table, tapping his fingers against the scarred wood. "That's true. My crew's slick, no doubt about it. We've got the routes, the eyes, the instincts. Slipped under the Brotherhood's nose more times than I can count. But what you're askin', boss? That ain't a quick in-and-out grab. You're talkin' heavy crates, coolant tanks, the kinda shit that doesn't exactly fit in a backpack. We'd need cover, we'd need muscle, and we'd need wheels."
Sico nodded. "I'm not sending you in blind. I'm going to Preston next. Fifty soldiers, four trucks, and two Humvees. That should be enough to move the load and keep the Brotherhood off our backs."
The scavver leader let out a low whistle, eyebrows rising. "Fifty? Damn, you're not messin' around. You planning on rebuilding the whole damn power station while you're at it?"
"Just making sure none of my people end up as target practice," Sico said evenly.
Hancock chuckled, low and gravelly. "Fair enough. You bring the muscle, I'll bring the brains and the back doors. My crew'll lead you through the safe routes, get us inside, and help ID the salvage worth haulin'. You keep the tin cans distracted, and I'll make sure Mel's shopping list gets checked off."
Sico extended his hand across the table. "Then it's a deal."
Hancock stared at the hand for a moment, then clasped it with a surprisingly firm grip. "Hell yeah, it's a deal. Let me round up my best. I'll give 'em the heads up, tell 'em to pack for a little field trip. We'll be ready by the time your boys are saddled up."
Sico released the handshake and gave a short nod. "Good. Don't take too long. Every hour we waste, the Brotherhood gets closer to figuring out what we're building."
"Message received, boss," Hancock said, leaning back again with that same crooked grin. "Go do your soldier thing. I'll do my scavver thing. We'll meet in the middle and make magic happen."
By the time Sico left the Scavenging Department, the day had shifted. The clouds had thickened, blotting out the sun until the sky looked like it was holding its breath. The air had that electric charge, the kind that hinted at rain coming later. Sanctuary bustled with life despite it—children running between half-built homes, traders haggling over ammo, soldiers drilling in the open square.
But Sico's path was straight. He cut across the square toward the Command Building, where Preston Garvey kept his office. The two-story structure used to be a town hall before the bombs. Now, its patched walls and repurposed wood made it look more like a fortress than a civic building. A Minutemen flag hung from the front, its faded blue and gold catching the breeze.
Two guards outside saluted as Sico entered. Inside, the building was quieter, more formal. Maps and reports covered the walls, but here the atmosphere was different than in Hancock's den. Where Hancock's chaos thrived on improvisation, Preston's command center thrummed with structure and discipline. Desks were neatly stacked with files, soldiers moved with purpose, and the air smelled faintly of gun oil and paper.
Sico climbed the stairs to Preston's office, his boots thudding against the wood. The door was half open, and he could hear Preston's voice inside—steady, reassuring, the kind of voice that made people believe the world wasn't entirely lost.
When Sico stepped in, Preston was hunched over a table, studying a map with three junior officers. He straightened immediately when he saw Sico, dismissing the others with a nod.
"President," Preston said warmly, though his eyes narrowed just a bit in curiosity. "Didn't expect you this early. What's on your mind?"
Sico closed the door behind him and stepped up to the table. His tone was direct. "We've got a lead. West Roxbury power station. Mel needs reinforced alloys, capacitors, coolant systems—things the Brotherhood hasn't fully stripped yet. Hancock's team knows the routes, but we'll need heavy support to move the haul and hold them off if they hit us. I want fifty soldiers, four trucks, and two Humvees."
Preston's brows shot up. "Fifty? That's a full company, Sico. And four trucks?"
"I know," Sico said. "But this isn't a scav run. This is a lifeline. Without those parts, Mel's prototype doesn't get built. And without that prototype, we don't stand a chance when the Brotherhood brings their full force."
Preston studied him for a long moment, his jaw tight, weighing the risks. Finally, he exhaled slowly. "Alright. You've never asked for this much without good reason. But I need to know—what are we walking into? What kind of resistance should I be preparing my men for?"
"Worst case?" Sico said grimly. "A patrol with air support. Vertibirds. Best case, nothing more than scattered scouts. But either way, we can't risk going light. Not with cargo this important."
Preston nodded, his expression hardening into resolve. "Then you'll have your men. I'll pull from the 2nd and 3rd companies, the ones already rotated back from the eastern front. Trucks will be loaded with fuel and spare parts, Humvees armed with mounted machine gun. But Sico—" He fixed him with a steady gaze. "You know what this means, right? If the Brotherhood catches wind of us hauling that much tech, they'll come hard. This could spark a full-scale fight."
Sico didn't flinch. "Better we choose the battlefield than let them choose it for us."
For a moment, silence filled the office, heavy but not hostile. Then Preston extended his hand. "Alright, President. You've got your fifty soldiers and your convoy. Just tell me when you're ready to roll."
Sico clasped his forearm, a gesture of trust between warriors. "Tomorrow dawn. We move before the Brotherhood knows what hit them."
Sico clasped Preston's forearm one last time, feeling the strength in the man's grip — not just muscle, but conviction. Preston Garvey was carved from the same stone as the Minutemen themselves: stubborn, reliable, steady even when the world around him shifted like sand. When they released their grips, the weight of the moment settled heavy in the room, like the calm before a storm.
"Tomorrow at dawn," Preston repeated, his voice even. "I'll see to the men tonight. Trucks fueled, Humvees armed, rations packed. We'll be ready."
Sico gave a single nod, then stepped back toward the door. "Good man. And Preston?"
"Yeah?"
"Keep this tight. No chatter outside your officers. The fewer people who know, the better."
Preston's brow furrowed, but he gave a curt nod. "You'll have secrecy. My word on it."
That was enough. Sico pulled the door open, the hinges groaning, and stepped back into the quieter hum of the Command Building. Soldiers moved through the hallways with reports, weapons, and hurried steps. Their faces bore the same weariness that seemed etched into everyone these days, but when their eyes flicked to Sico, there was a spark there — respect, trust, the belief that if he was walking these halls, then maybe, just maybe, they still had a chance.
The air outside was cooler than before, the wind sweeping across Sanctuary carrying the bite of rain not far off. Clouds rolled in heavy and gray, muting the settlement's usual clamor into something more subdued. Traders were closing stalls early, lashing tarps down over their goods. Children darted through the mud, herded back home by anxious parents. A storm was brewing, in more ways than one.
Sico adjusted the strap of his rifle across his chest and set his boots back on the path that wound westward — back toward Hancock's den of maps, smoke, and chaos. His strides were steady, deliberate, though his mind raced faster than his legs carried him. Fifty men, four trucks, two Humvees. Enough to mount a defense, maybe even a counterstrike if it came to that. But would it be enough against vertibirds? Against armored patrols that didn't flinch at bullets? He shoved the thought aside. Doubt didn't win wars.
The closer he drew to the Scavenging Department, the louder the noise became — the rattle of crates dragged across the floor, the crackle of radios spitting static, the bark of Hancock's voice cutting through it all like gravel underfoot. The guards at the front had shifted; the wiry woman with the tattoo was gone, replaced by a broad-shouldered man with a shotgun across his chest. He spotted Sico and immediately straightened, snapping a rough salute.
"President," the man said.
Sico dipped his chin in acknowledgment. "Hancock inside?"
"Upstairs, same as before. Just finished chewing out a couple rookies. Sounded like he was in a real good mood." The man's grin showed he didn't believe it for a second.
Sico didn't bother replying. He pushed through the heavy doors and let the chaos swallow him again. The air was thicker now, heavy with the reek of jet smoke and oil. Someone had dragged a generator into the corner, its low rumble adding a constant vibration to the room. Scavvers hustled between tables, their voices overlapping — cataloging, arguing, laughing with the rough edge of people who'd lived too close to death for too long.
And at the center of it all, like a king on a throne made of dust and broken glass, sat Hancock. He was still in that same chair, though now he leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, pointing at a map while a young scavver scribbled notes beside him. When Hancock looked up and caught sight of Sico, his ruined face split into a grin sharp enough to cut steel.
"Look who came crawlin' back," Hancock called out, waving the kid away with a flick of his bony hand. "What's the word, boss? You get our cavalry, or am I gonna have to sweet-talk some raiders into playin' bodyguards?"
Sico crossed the room, boots thudding against the worn wood floor. He didn't sit. He planted his hands on the edge of Hancock's table, leaning forward just enough that the scavver leader felt the weight of what he carried. "Tomorrow at dawn," he said flatly. "Fifty soldiers. Four trucks. Two Humvees with guns mounted. Preston's pulling from his best. We move on the power station before the Brotherhood even knows we're there."
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to still. The murmurs faded, the scrape of crates paused. Hancock's grin widened slowly, his dead eyes gleaming with something that might've been amusement, might've been hunger. Then he let out a low whistle.
"Damn," Hancock drawled. "You don't play small, do ya? Fifty soldiers. That's a whole parade marchin' through the ruins. Shit, the Brotherhood's gonna hear us comin' from Cambridge."
"That's why your people are leading the way," Sico countered. His voice was calm, but the steel beneath it was clear. "Your routes. Your shortcuts. You keep us quiet until we hit the station. Once we're loaded, Preston's boys hold the line if the tin cans show up."
Hancock tilted his head, tapping a skeletal finger against his chin. For all his swagger, there was sharpness behind his gaze, a calculating edge most folks overlooked. He studied Sico for a long moment, then finally leaned back in his chair, coat tails spilling around him like dark wings.
"Well, shit. Tomorrow at dawn it is." He snapped his fingers, and three scavvers hustled closer, notebooks in hand. "You heard the man. We're movin' with an army at our backs. I want routes checked, stashes prepped, gear double-packed. We don't got time for mistakes. You screw this up, you're explainin' it to our boy Mel while his fancy gun's sittin' dead at thirty percent."
The scavvers scattered, their faces tight with focus. Hancock looked back at Sico, that grin still carved across his ruined face. "You know, boss, I like the way you think. Big. Bold. Reckless as hell, but bold. Makes a ghoul feel young again."
Sico didn't smile. "This isn't bold. It's necessary."
"Semantics," Hancock said with a shrug. "Point is, I'll have my best with me. Not the rookies, not the thrill-seekers — my real crew. The ones who know how to move quiet, fast, and mean. You'll get Mel's shopping list checked off, or I'll eat my damn hat."
"See that you do," Sico said. His voice softened just slightly, enough to let the weight of his words carry through. "Lives depend on this, Hancock. Not just Mel's, not just mine. Everyone in Sanctuary. Everyone who thinks they've got a shot at a tomorrow. We can't afford to fail."
For once, Hancock didn't fire back with a joke or a grin. He studied Sico, the flicker of his ruined features unreadable. Finally, he nodded once, sharp. "Then we won't."
The storm outside broke then, rain hammering against the reinforced steel doors, drumming against the roof like the march of a thousand boots. The sound filled the room, heavy and relentless.
Sico straightened, pulling away from the table. "Dawn," he repeated. "Be ready."
Hancock gave a lazy salute, but his eyes burned with something sharper. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, boss."
Sico turned and strode back toward the doors, the scavvers parting instinctively to clear his path. As the heavy steel swung shut behind him, the rain struck his face cold and sharp, washing away the dust and sweat of the day. He pulled his collar up and set his stride back toward the heart of Sanctuary.
________________________________________________
• 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:-