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And for the first time in a long while, Sico let himself simply exist — not as the general, not as the strategist, not as the soldier — but as a man who'd helped carve a sliver of peace out of chaos, sitting on a porch beside an old friend, watching a world he'd helped rebuild continue to grow without him needing to hold it together.
The days passed quietly.
The first morning had been filled with the simple rhythm of life — breakfast with Nora and Shaun, helping mend a broken fence post in her backyard, even taking Dogmeat out to the edge of the northern ridge where the grass swayed like ripples across a quiet sea. It was a peace so steady, so fragile, that it almost felt unreal. By the second evening, when the stars came out sharp and bright over Sanctuary, Sico found himself lying awake on the porch chair, watching the constellations trace faint silver lines above him.
The air was cool, the kind that slipped into the lungs clean and weightless. Somewhere nearby, a brahmin lowed softly, and in the distance, the watch fires at the edge of town flickered like tiny embers. He'd gotten used to falling asleep to the murmur of soldiers and the grind of machinery; this kind of silence still felt foreign — not unpleasant, just… strange.
But peace has a rhythm of its own, and even a soldier can learn to hear it, if he listens long enough.
When the third morning came, he woke before sunrise.
The sky was still gray, painted in soft streaks of pale lavender and gold. A faint chill clung to the air, the kind that crept through the gaps in the walls and made the wooden floor cold beneath bare feet. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up slowly, stretching until his shoulders gave a small crack.
Today was the day his vacation ended.
He'd known it before he even opened his eyes — the same way a soldier knows when the air shifts before a storm. The quiet days were over; the Republic wouldn't stop moving just because he'd taken a short breath.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the old floorboards creaking softly beneath his weight. A sliver of dawn light cut across the room, painting dust motes gold as they drifted lazily through the air.
Sico sat there for a long moment, elbows on his knees, just breathing. The faint smell of iron and oil still clung to his clothes — a soldier's scent that never quite washed away. He ran a hand through his hair, then stood, pulling on his shirt and trousers before heading toward the kitchen.
The house was quiet, save for the faint hum of the wind outside and the occasional soft groan of settling wood. He filled the kettle and set it on the small stove, striking a match and watching the blue flame catch. The hiss of boiling water filled the silence, soon accompanied by the familiar sizzle of brahmin strips hitting the pan.
Breakfast wasn't fancy — it never was — but it carried that comforting, lived-in smell that filled every home across Sanctuary at dawn: fried meat, roasted cornmeal, a faint hint of bitter coffee.
He cracked two eggs into the pan, letting them hiss beside the brahmin slices, and leaned against the counter while they cooked. Outside the window, the horizon was coming alive — farmers already out by the fields, smoke rising from chimneys, the faint chatter of early risers setting up their stalls.
For a moment, he caught sight of Nora's roof through the mist and thought of her — the easy way she smiled, the calm certainty she carried even when the world frayed around them. He imagined Shaun probably still asleep, tangled up in blankets with his wooden sword leaning against the wall beside his bed. The thought brought a faint smile to Sico's face.
He plated his food and poured himself a mug of coffee, sitting down at the table. The first sip was strong, almost too strong — the kind that burned a little going down but reminded you that you were awake, alive, and moving.
He ate slowly, letting the warmth settle into his bones. The fork scraped softly against the plate, the kind of small sound that feels bigger in an empty room.
When he was done, he leaned back in his chair and stared for a long while at the mug between his hands. The steam curled upward in thin spirals, twisting into the light before vanishing. He followed it absently, thinking — not of grand strategies or war reports — but of what came next.
He didn't fear returning to work. If anything, the quiet had made him restless. But there was something heavier lingering in his chest — the understanding that peace was never permanent in the Commonwealth. It was something you borrowed, never owned.
He rose, took his plate and mug to the sink, and rinsed them under the cold tap. The water sputtered once before flowing steady. He smiled faintly — the pipes still held.
Then, with the sun just cresting over the treeline, he grabbed a metal bucket and stepped out the back door.
The morning air bit at his skin, sharp but clean. His breath came out in faint clouds as he walked across the yard toward the water pump. It stood just where it always had — sturdy, old, painted a dull green that had faded under years of sunlight. He wrapped his hands around the cold handle and began to pump.
Each motion sent a groan through the metal, followed by the rhythmic gush of water splashing into the bucket below. He worked steadily, muscles flexing beneath the worn fabric of his shirt, the sound of the pump blending with the faint chirp of crickets retreating from dawn.
When the bucket was nearly full, he stopped, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. The cold droplets clung to his fingers as he carried it back toward the house.
He set it beside the wash basin, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. The water was shockingly cold when he splashed it against his skin, drawing a sharp breath from him. But he didn't mind. It woke him up in a way that coffee couldn't — clean, cutting, honest.
He washed his face, then filled another basin for his shower. It wasn't much — a tin setup, a trickle of water from a small elevated tank — but it worked. He stripped down, stepping into the makeshift stall behind the house, and let the first cascade of cold water hit his back.
It made him hiss softly through his teeth, but the sensation quickly shifted from sting to relief. The grime of sleep and sweat washed away, replaced by clarity — that soldier's kind of alertness that only cold water and morning quiet could bring.
He took his time, running his hands over the old scars — reminders carved into skin and memory both. Each one told a story: a firefight in Quincy, a desperate retreat from a collapsing tunnel beneath the Institute ruins, the burn from a plasma grenade that had almost taken his arm.
They didn't hurt anymore. But they whispered to him, always.
When he finished, he toweled off and stood for a moment under the rising sun, the light catching the steam rising from his skin. His body still carried that quiet strength — not of youth, but of endurance.
Back inside, he dressed in his usual gear — combat shirt, tactical vest, weathered coat. The same outfit that had seen him through years of command. It felt heavy, but right — like slipping back into a language his body never forgot how to speak.
He strapped his sidearm to his hip, checked the knife at his belt, and looked at himself in the small cracked mirror by the door. The reflection that stared back wasn't the man who'd first taken up arms years ago. His hair was streaked faintly with gray now, his eyes sharper, more tired but also more certain.
He didn't look like a legend or a leader. Just someone who'd seen enough to know what mattered.
A faint knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Come in," he called.
The door creaked open, and Preston Garvey stepped inside, the familiar sight of his battered hat and laser musket slung over his shoulder.
"Mornin', General," Preston said with that easy grin that never quite faded no matter how long the days got. "Hope I'm not interrupting your last few minutes of peace."
Sico smirked faintly. "You're right on time. Figured you'd be the one to come knocking."
"Someone's got to make sure you don't try to extend that vacation another week."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Sico said, grabbing his satchel. "What's the news?"
Preston's expression shifted, the humor fading. "You've probably heard it by now — the Brotherhood's visit stirred up talk all across the Commonwealth. Folks are worried, Sico. Rumors are spreading fast. Some say Maxson's preparing for war again."
Sico's jaw tightened slightly, though his tone stayed even. "And what do you think?"
"I think people are scared," Preston said honestly. "And scared people make bad choices if no one's there to steady them. We've got settlers looking to arm themselves again, scavvers holding back supplies 'in case the Brotherhood comes for 'em.' It's not chaos yet, but… it's close."
Sico exhaled slowly. "Alright. Call a council meeting for this afternoon. I'll talk to the Republic heads, get everyone aligned. We'll handle this before fear gets a foothold."
Preston nodded, relief flickering briefly in his eyes. "Knew you'd say that. Sarah's already back at HQ — she's been getting reports from our border scouts. The Prydwen hasn't moved, but there's more vertibird traffic than usual out east."
Sico's gaze drifted toward the horizon through the window — the same direction where the faint morning haze met the faraway outline of the city ruins. "Then we'll be ready."
Preston adjusted his hat. "Good to have you back, General."
Sico gave a small nod. "It's good to be back."
When Preston left, Sico stood there for a while longer, the echo of his boots fading down the path. The calm that had filled the last few days still clung to him, but beneath it, he could feel the pulse of purpose returning — that quiet current that ran through every moment of leadership.
He stepped out onto the porch once more, the early sun blazing now across the settlement. Farmers were already heading to the fields, guards switching shifts, the hum of daily life resuming in full force. Sanctuary was alive — but fragile, as all good things were.
He rested his hand briefly on the railing, the wood warm beneath his palm. "Back to it," he murmured, mostly to himself.
The walk from Sico's home to the Freemasons Headquarters was a familiar one — but today, every step carried that quiet gravity that came before a storm. The sun had risen fully by the time he crossed the rebuilt main square, bathing the settlement in gold. Children darted between stalls with laughter on their tongues, traders bartered over crates of supplies, and engineers were already busy at their workbenches. Life in the Republic went on — steady, vibrant — but beneath it all, there was something else.
A tension in the air.
A whisper that traveled faster than any messenger: the Brotherhood was watching again.
Sico could see it in the way people carried themselves. Soldiers on patrol gripped their rifles a little tighter. Farmers glanced toward the skyline more often, as if expecting the silhouette of a vertibird to cut across it. A mother in the crowd hushed her child when the word Prydwen passed between two men at a stall. Fear had always been the Commonwealth's oldest disease — one that spread quicker than radiation and was twice as hard to cure.
He walked past them all with that calm, steady pace he'd learned years ago — the one that told people without words that things were under control. That there was still order in the chaos. A few settlers nodded as he passed. Others simply watched. To most of them, Sico wasn't just a general; he was the line between peace and the old world's ruin.
By the time he reached the HQ gates, the guards straightened to attention.
"Morning, General," one of them greeted, his voice firm but respectful.
"Morning," Sico replied, his tone even. "Council already gathered?"
"Most of them, sir. Sarah and Preston arrived first. The rest have been trickling in since."
Sico nodded once and stepped through.
The Freemasons Headquarters — built from the bones of an old pre-war municipal complex — stood as both a command center and a symbol. Its stone walls bore banners of deep red and gold, the emblem of the Republic painted boldly across the entrance hall: a compass and gear, bound by an open hand. Order and unity — creation, not domination.
The air inside carried that faint hum of motion — boots on tile, voices from distant corridors, the steady rhythm of a civilization not just surviving but building. It always reminded him of what they were fighting for.
He took the stairs two at a time, the familiar creak of the old steps echoing faintly behind him, and pushed open the doors to the meeting chamber.
The room was already alive with voices.
At the long wooden table — a relic salvaged from an old courthouse — sat Sarah Lyons, posture straight as ever, her armor's pauldrons gleaming under the overhead light. Across from her, Preston Garvey leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, his Minuteman hat tilted back slightly. Beside him, Jenny and Mel were deep in conversation, a stack of schematics spread between them, their murmurs a mix of engineering jargon and half-formed ideas.
Sturges stood near the wall, arms folded, a wrench still tucked into his belt, while Robert leaned against a window ledge, quiet but watchful. Hancock sat with his boots up on the far end of the table, his red coat draped loosely around his shoulders, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers. MacCready occupied the chair beside him, flipping a bullet between his knuckles with a restless kind of focus.
On the opposite side, Albert — the Republic's logistics officer — was already scrolling through a clipboard of notes, while Magnolia sat beside him, her usual warmth tempered with concern. Curie stood near the corner, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes bright and curious behind her glasses as she conferred quietly with Piper Wright, who was flipping through her notepad.
At the end of the table, Ronnie Shaw's voice crackled faintly through the radio, patched in from The Castle, while Cait's sharper tone occasionally cut through the static from Minutemen Plaza. Both women's presence, though distant, filled the room with their familiar grit.
As Sico entered, the conversations quieted. Heads turned.
"General," Preston said, straightening. "Good to see you back."
"Glad you're all here," Sico replied, his tone steady but warm as he took his seat at the head of the table. "Let's get started."
Sarah leaned forward slightly. "We've all seen the reports. Vertibird activity around Boston's perimeter is up nearly forty percent in the last week. The Brotherhood's keeping to their usual patrol routes, but they're flying closer to our borders."
"And the settlers have noticed," Piper added, flipping to a page in her notes. "Every town with a radio's been buzzing with rumors — some say Maxson's planning a strike, others think he's gearing up to reclaim the Commonwealth outright."
Hancock gave a low whistle. "Nothing like a little paranoia to get folks all riled up. Had to calm down a couple of traders in Goodneighbor yesterday — they were ready to pack up and run north to Far Harbor."
"Same story out west," Ronnie said through the speaker. "The folks at The Castle are getting jumpy. Some of 'em started doubling the night watch on their own."
"Which only makes others think something's already happening," Preston said grimly. "Fear's feeding fear."
Sico listened in silence for a moment, eyes moving from face to face. He could feel the weight of their words, the truth in them. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the calm authority that always seemed to steady a room.
"Alright. Let's start by reminding ourselves what we know, not what we fear."
He turned to Sarah first. "Any direct communication from the Brotherhood since Danse and Brandis's visit?"
She shook her head. "Nothing official. No threats, no demands. Just silence. Which, knowing Maxson, isn't a good sign."
"Could be he's biding his time," Robert said from his place by the window. "Testing how we'll react."
"Or maybe he's just trying to make us sweat," MacCready added. "Wouldn't be the first time someone tried to play mind games with us."
Curie adjusted her glasses. "Regardless, such tension can destabilize civilian morale if left unaddressed. The people must be reassured — not simply through words, but through visible preparedness."
"Agreed," Sico said with a nod. "That's why we're here."
He rose slightly from his chair, resting his hands on the table. "The Brotherhood's trying to gauge us — see if we'll flinch. We won't. But we're not about to start waving rifles at their airships, either. Our goal right now is stability. Order. No panic."
Mel leaned forward. "We could increase patrols near our borders — make it look like a routine drill. If anyone asks, we're 'strengthening communication lines.' That way, we're ready if something happens, but we're not announcing a war."
"Smart," Jenny agreed. "And while we're at it, I can coordinate with Sturges and Curie to run maintenance checks on our power grids and defense turrets. A few adjustments to the auto-calibration should double their response speed."
"Do it," Sico said. "But quietly. We don't want to spook the settlers."
Preston nodded. "And I'll make sure our Minutemen patrol captains remind folks that the Republic's got things under control. If we show confidence, they'll follow suit."
"Confidence and communication," Magnolia added softly. "I can use the broadcast station at Goodneighbor to send out an evening message — a song first, then a reminder that the Freemasons Republic stands united. A calm voice in the dark does wonders."
Hancock grinned. "You sing it, doll, and people'll start believin' the sun's never gonna set."
Magnolia smiled faintly, then looked toward Sico. "With your permission, of course."
"Granted," Sico said, his tone warmer now. "It's a good move. Remind them of who we are."
Piper leaned in next. "And I'll publish something through the Commonwealth Times — an article to cut through the rumors. Something grounded. Maybe even an interview with you, Sico — just a short piece. People trust your voice."
Sico tilted his head slightly, considering it. "Alright. But make sure it focuses on facts, not heroics. The Republic's what matters, not me."
Piper smiled faintly. "Wouldn't dream of writing it any other way."
From the radio, Cait's voice crackled in with that familiar roughness. "You want me to have the Plaza guards pull a night rotation near the main transport hub? If the Brotherhood's gonna try somethin', they'll go for supply lines first."
"Do it," Sico said. "Keep it subtle — don't make it look like we're expecting trouble, just that we're being smart."
"Aye, General," Cait replied before the line clicked softly with static.
Ronnie's voice followed, calm but edged. "And what about us down here at The Castle? We've got more eyes on the ocean than the sky, but I can keep the artillery teams on alert."
Sico nodded. "Have 'em run drills. Keep their reflexes sharp. But no firing unless ordered. We don't start this fight."
There was a brief pause, then Ronnie said, "Copy that. We'll be ready either way."
As the discussion rolled on, the tension in the room began to shift — no longer the edge of fear, but focus. Everyone had a role, a purpose. That was how they'd always survived — by turning uncertainty into motion.
Sico took his seat again, exhaling softly. "This is what we do best — adapt, prepare, and protect. We've been through worse than Maxson's shadow. If he wants to test us, he'll find a Republic that's ready to stand."
Sarah watched him for a moment, then gave a small, approving nod. "It's good to have you back in the chair, Sico. You've got a way of making the noise fade."
He met her gaze, then glanced around the table — at each of them, the people who had built this Republic from ashes and war. "We've come too far to be shaken by ghosts in the sky. The Brotherhood may have power armor and vertibirds, but we have something stronger — purpose, unity, and the will to build instead of destroy."
The council room seemed to breathe with a strange rhythm — a mixture of tension and resolve. The air still carried the faint hum of voices and static from the radio lines connecting The Castle and Minutemen Plaza, but the tone had shifted. What began as a meeting shadowed by fear was now becoming something sharper, steadier — purpose forged from uncertainty.
Sico leaned back in his chair for a moment, letting the murmurs fade before he spoke again. His gaze moved toward Mel, who was still half-buried in a bundle of blueprints and mechanical notes scattered across the table. The engineer's sleeves were rolled up, his fingers stained with grease even here in the council chamber — a mark of someone who never really left his workshop.
"Mel," Sico began, his voice cutting clean through the soft noise. "Tell me something — how many mobile AA guns have we built since the first one?"
Mel looked up, blinking once, clearly having expected the question but still needing a second to collect his thoughts. He pushed his notes aside and straightened, his tone turning sharp and professional. "Two more, General. That makes three in total. The second and third units are nearly ready for field deployment — we're just running final structural checks on the trucks to make sure they can handle the recoil. The last thing we want is one of them tipping over the first time it fires."
Sturges, nodded in agreement. "We had to reinforce the suspension systems. Those guns pack a hell of a kick — more than anything the Commonwealth's seen since the pre-war military. Once we're sure the frame can take it, they'll be operational."
Sico leaned forward slightly, his hands steepled before him, eyes narrowing in thought. "Good. That's exactly what I wanted to hear."
Mel tilted his head, curious. "You thinking of field-testing them soon?"
Sico gave a small, humorless smile. "No need yet. But I know why the Brotherhood's acting the way they are." He paused, letting the silence gather a heartbeat of attention from everyone in the room before he continued. "They've seen what we're building. They know about the first AA gun we deployed out near Lexington Ridge. And they're afraid."
A few brows lifted around the table. Sarah's expression turned analytical, while Hancock whistled softly, exhaling a thin trail of smoke.
Sico stood now, moving slowly around the table as he spoke, his tone low but steady — the kind of voice that carried conviction through reason. "The Brotherhood's greatest advantage has always been their air power. Vertibirds, gunships, their control of the skies — that's what's kept them untouchable for years. But for the first time, they're not looking down on us from above anymore. They're looking across at us."
He stopped near the end of the table, one hand resting on the polished wood. "Our first mobile AA gun changed that balance. We haven't fired it at a vertibird yet — and I don't intend to, not unless we have no choice — but they know what it's capable of. They've seen the range tests, the blast radius, the targeting systems. They know that one pull of a trigger can turn their air fleet from a weapon into a liability."
Robert gave a sharp nod from his place by the window. "Damn right. Those things could bring down a vertibird before the pilot even realizes they've been locked on."
Sarah crossed her arms, eyes thoughtful. "So you think their increased patrols aren't preparation — they're intimidation."
"Exactly," Sico said. "Maxson's trying to remind us that he still owns the sky. But fear's a funny thing. The moment you start trying to prove you're not afraid, you already are."
There was a moment's silence — the kind that carried weight, the kind that made every soldier and council member in that room realize just how deep the shift had gone. The Brotherhood wasn't untouchable anymore. The playing field had changed.
Mel leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his chin. "If that's true, they're gonna double their surveillance runs. They'll wanna map out exactly where we've stationed the prototype."
"Let them look," Sico replied. "It's better that they see how far we've come. Fear keeps them cautious. And cautious enemies don't make reckless moves."
Magnolia, sitting quietly near Albert, finally spoke, her voice soft but sure. "Still… fear can turn to desperation, can it not? If the Brotherhood feels cornered, they might strike before they lose their advantage completely."
"True," Sico said, giving her a small nod. "That's why we need to stay ahead. Mel, Jenny — once you've done the recoil checks, I want the second and third units deployed to separate zones. Spread them out. One near the northern defense perimeter, the other near the river route. Keep their locations classified, even to our field captains. Only command-level personnel are to know."
Mel nodded firmly. "Understood. I'll handle it personally."
Jenny added, "We'll have both ready within the week. And if the Brotherhood's watching, they'll see the movement — not the guns themselves. Just enough to make 'em wonder."
"Good," Sico said. "That uncertainty will work in our favor."
Hancock leaned forward, his usual smirk returning, though there was a flicker of seriousness beneath it. "You realize what this means, boss. The Brotherhood ain't gonna take this lying down. You just poked their biggest pride right in the eye."
Sico turned his gaze toward him. "Let them fume. Let Maxson rant and send his scouts. We're not the ones who started this race — but we'll finish it if we must."
Sarah exhaled, her tone measured. "You're right, but we can't underestimate him. Maxson's not just a soldier. He's a zealot with a fleet. If he feels threatened, he'll convince himself that he's fighting for humanity's survival, even if it means burning the Commonwealth to prove it."
Sico's expression hardened, the light catching in his eyes like the edge of a blade. "Then he'll find out that humanity isn't his to command."
The words settled like weighty stone, grounding the air itself.
Preston spoke next, his tone more diplomatic but no less firm. "If we're gonna keep this from spiraling into another war, we'll need to be careful how we move. The settlers don't need to see guns rolling through their streets or turrets being manned twenty-four-seven. They need to see life going on."
Sico nodded. "And they will. That's where you come in, Preston. Keep the militia visible, but calm. Rotate your patrols through the settlements as usual. Make it look routine. If anyone asks, tell them we're conducting readiness drills — nothing more."
Preston smiled faintly. "You've got it."
Robert finally spoke again, his tone quieter but laced with that soldier's edge. "General, if the Brotherhood does make a move… what's our play? You want us to hit back hard or wait 'em out?"
Sico met his gaze. "If they strike first, we defend. If they posture, we let them. We won't give Maxson the excuse he's looking for. But if he crosses our borders — if a single vertibird fires on our soil — then the sky itself will remember who it belongs to."
The room fell still. No one questioned it. No one needed to.
Sico straightened, drawing a long breath before continuing, his tone easing slightly — not softer, but more grounded. "We didn't build the Freemasons Republic to live in fear. We built it so our people could wake up to mornings like this — so kids could laugh in the markets, so engineers could build without being bombed from the sky. We don't seek war. But we'll never bow to those who do."
Mel gave a small nod, a rare spark of pride in his eyes. "Guess the Brotherhood finally realized they're not the only ones who can build something powerful."
"Power isn't what defines us," Sico replied, his gaze sweeping across the room. "Purpose does. The Brotherhood built machines to control the world. We build them to protect it. That's the difference."
Across the table, Sarah sat silently for a moment before saying, "Then let's make sure that difference shows in every move we make."
Piper scribbled something quickly into her notebook, glancing up with a determined look. "That's a line worth printing, you know."
Hancock laughed quietly. "Yeah, stick that on the front page, Wright — maybe it'll finally shut up the doomsayers for a while."
Even Sarah smirked faintly at that.
Sico moved back toward his seat, lowering himself slowly into the chair again, his hand brushing across the table's scarred surface. The wood bore scratches and burns from years of use — planning battles, negotiating truces, shaping the Republic's path. It wasn't polished, but it was solid. Real. Much like the people in the room.
He let a few moments pass, allowing the murmurs of conversation to return — plans being formed, schedules being arranged, quiet agreements passing between the council members. Then he spoke once more, his tone final.
"Alright. Let's get to work. Mel, you get those AA trucks ready. Preston, coordinate the patrol rotations and reassure the outer settlements. Piper, you'll handle communications. Magnolia, record your message for the evening broadcast. Everyone else — keep your people calm, focused, and ready. We're not preparing for war. We're maintaining peace — our way."
There was a murmur of assent around the table. Even the static from The Castle crackled faintly with Ronnie's voice: "Understood, General. The Republic stands."
Sico nodded once, then looked toward Sarah. "Once the meeting's adjourned, I want you to send a message to Danse and Brandis. Keep it diplomatic — a courtesy notice that our defense systems are being maintained, nothing more. No threats, no boasts. Just… truth."
Sarah inclined her head. "I'll see to it personally."
"Good," Sico said. "Let them know the Freemasons Republic stands ready — and that we still prefer peace."
As the meeting began to dissolve into smaller discussions, Sico rose again and stepped to the wide window overlooking Sanctuary. The afternoon light spilled across the valley — fields green with crops, rooftops glinting faintly, people moving through the streets with purpose. Beyond the horizon, faint and distant, a vertibird glided across the sky — a speck of shadow moving against the gold.
________________________________________________
• 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:-