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And with that word, something broke loose in the crowd. Cheers rose, ragged but fierce, echoing across the farm. Hands clapped shoulders. Voices shouted names. A few even sang. As the fifth farm has finish build, and the fence stood.
The morning broke colder than usual, a thin veil of mist hanging low over the ground as though the earth itself was still asleep, reluctant to rise after the days of backbreaking work. Sanctuary felt different now. The five farms stood like sentinels across its heart, damp soil freshly seeded, fences crooked but unyielding, and the people who had bled into them walking a little taller despite their exhaustion.
Sico didn't allow himself much time to linger. He had stood late into the night by the fires, watching the last of the workers trickle away from the fields, their shoulders slumped but their laughter real. He'd let Jenny take the final word then, her voice carrying across the embers, promising that from tomorrow onward the Republic would no longer fear hunger. But while the farms meant food, and food meant survival, there were other truths gnawing at him.
The Brotherhood wasn't going to care how fertile their soil had become. Raiders weren't going to admire the straightness of their rows. Super mutants wouldn't pause at the fences. Survival wasn't just about planting. It was about protecting what had been planted.
That was why, at first light, he found his boots carrying him toward the training yard.
The clang of steel met him before he even saw it—the sharp ring of blades striking against practice dummies, the hollow thud of boots hitting packed dirt, the bark of orders carried on a gravel-thick voice. The mist hadn't burned off yet, and the shapes in the yard looked like phantoms moving through fog, the rhythm of their discipline the only thing grounding them in the world of the living.
Robert was at the center, of course. He had a way of anchoring a space without trying, broad-shouldered and square-jawed, his scarred arms folded across his chest as he watched a line of soldiers move through drills. Beside him stood MacCready, a rifle slung across his back, his cap pulled low against the chill. Mac was speaking quick and sharp to a pair of younger recruits, his words clipped but not unkind, the kind of man who'd been in enough firefights to know barking alone didn't make better marksmen.
Sico leaned against the post at the edge of the yard for a moment, letting his eyes sweep over them. Hundred men and women moved in disciplined unison—rifles raised, boots planted, breaths measured. Not regular soldiers. Not just militia. These were the Commandos, the unit he had carved out of the Republic's fighting force months ago, forged from the hardest veterans and the hungriest young fighters. They were meant to be more than soldiers. They were meant to be the blade he could thrust into the heart of whatever enemy came knocking.
"Commander."
Robert's voice cut through the yard as he turned, spotting him at once. He gave a curt nod, enough to quiet the men nearest without a word. The rest of the Commandos didn't stop, but Sico could feel the weight of their discipline—the way they knew who was watching, and what it meant.
Sico pushed off the post and stepped into the yard, boots stirring the cold dust. "Robert." His eyes flicked briefly to MacCready, who gave him a short salute, then back to the man at his side. "How are they?"
Robert followed his gaze back to the drills. His expression was stone, but there was pride tucked in the corners of it. "Sharp. Getting sharper. We've been running them dawn to dusk for the last week. Rifles, blades, close-quarters grappling. They're bruised, but they're learning to fight like one body."
"Good," Sico said, crossing his arms. His gaze tracked the way a recruit corrected her footing after a stumble, how the one next to her adjusted without being told. That was cohesion. That was trust. "And the recruits? Any new blood?"
Robert exhaled slowly, his jaw flexing. "We've taken on six more since last month. All volunteers. Two came out of Preston's guard, one from the patrols near Concord. The other three were regulars from Sarah's unit. Strong backs, steady hands. They'll need time to mold, but they've got fire."
MacCready, overhearing, cut in with his rough-edged voice. "One of 'em nearly knocked me flat in a sparring match yesterday. She doesn't know a thing about proper grip yet, but she's got enough fight in her to make up for it. We'll hammer the rest in."
Sico's mouth tugged into the faintest shadow of a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "It has to be the best of the best. No dead weight. No exceptions."
Robert nodded firmly. "I know. I've been turning away more than I've been taking. Some don't like it. They think every willing hand should be given a rifle and called a Commando. But this unit—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. His eyes met Sico's. "This unit isn't a consolation prize. It's the point of the spear."
Sico stepped closer, his voice lowering just enough that only Robert and MacCready could hear. "It's more than that. You know as well as I do the farms we just built mean nothing if we can't defend them. When the Brotherhood comes—and they will—it'll be the Commandos standing first in their way. I need to know they're ready to bleed and win without hesitation."
"They will," Robert said, no hesitation of his own in his voice. "I'll stake my life on it."
MacCready spat into the dirt and muttered, "Hell, most of us already have." Then he straightened, tugging his cap a little higher. "What about numbers, though? Twenty's a strong squad, sure. But if you want them hitting like a hammer instead of a pinprick…"
Sico's eyes drifted back across the line of fighters. The sound of boots slamming the dirt rose like a drumbeat, steady and relentless. "I don't want numbers. I want certainty. Twenty who can take down a hundred. Fifty who can break a battalion. That's what this unit has to be."
Robert's lips pressed into a hard line, but he nodded again. "Then we'll keep recruiting, slow and careful. Only the ones who can carry the weight."
Sico grunted in agreement, then stepped forward until he was close enough that the recruits could see him properly. The drills slowed, faltered slightly, then steadied as Robert barked for them to keep moving. But Sico knew they were watching him, all the same.
He let the silence stretch for a moment, the air heavy with mist and sweat. Then he spoke, voice low but carrying across the yard.
"You're tired," he said simply. "I can see it in the way you move. In the way you grip your rifles. You've been pushed harder than the others. You've been asked to bleed in the dirt so that when the time comes, you don't bleed on the battlefield."
Boots shuffled, breaths hitched, but no one spoke.
Sico's eyes narrowed. "I built this unit because the Republic needs more than farmers and guards. It needs wolves. Wolves who can tear through steel when the rest of the pack is cornered. That's what you are. That's what you will be."
He let the words hang, then turned slightly toward Robert and MacCready. "Keep molding them. Test them harder. Break the weak bones now before the fight breaks them later."
Robert's chin dipped in acknowledgment. "Understood."
MacCready grinned a lopsided grin that didn't quite hide the steel in his eyes. "Don't worry. By the time I'm done with them, they'll either be Commandos or corpses."
Sico shot him a look, but there was no real rebuke in it. That was MacCready—half gallows humor, half promise.
The yard stayed behind him like a heartbeat, the rhythm of boots and the clash of steel still ringing in his ears even as he stepped past the outer posts and into the slow quiet of Sanctuary's lanes. A few early risers were already out, dragging sacks of feed, repairing loose boards, rubbing the chill out of their hands as they moved between homes and workstations. The mist clung to the rooftops like a stubborn memory, curling off in tatters as the sun's first light started to burn through.
Sico gave a short nod to a pair of young men carrying water buckets—they straightened instinctively at the sight of him, then relaxed when he offered a faint smile. He didn't linger. The morning had been long already, though barely an hour old.
He needed to see Virgil.
That thought had been gnawing at him for days. The former super mutant—no, he corrected himself, the man who had been a super mutant—was now something else entirely. Virgil had clawed back a piece of himself from the abyss, and while others still eyed him with suspicion, Sico couldn't shake the conviction that Sanctuary needed minds as much as it needed guns and farms.
The path to the Science Department wasn't far, just beyond the refurbished halls that once served as nothing more than workshops and storerooms. Now, they buzzed with an undercurrent of purpose—lights strung from salvaged wires glowed faintly against the walls, and the low hum of generators powered equipment that looked half cobbled together, half miraculous. It still smelled of solder and oil, and beneath it all, that sharp, sterile tang of chemical reagents that reminded Sico of the Institute.
For a moment, that thought almost made him stop in his tracks. The Institute. He could see it even now—the sterile white halls, the gleam of glass, the cold calculation etched into the very walls. Virgil had belonged there once. Had built things for them. Weapons, experiments. And now, here he was, in Sanctuary, walking free among people who still bore scars from what the Institute had done.
That was why this mattered. Why he had to know. What project did Virgil intend to give his mind to now?
Sico stepped inside the hall.
The air was warmer here, the mist burned away by the steady heat of machinery. He caught the faint buzz of a terminal and the quiet hiss of steam from some chemical setup in the corner. The place was cluttered in the way only real laboratories were—papers stacked high, tools left within reach, wires coiled like snakes along the floor. It wasn't chaos. It was the organized madness of a man who knew exactly where everything belonged.
And in the center of it, hunched over a bench with a pair of delicate lenses perched on his nose, was Virgil.
His transformation still startled Sico, even after seeing it with his own eyes. Virgil was tall, broad, but no longer monstrous. His skin, though scarred, had softened back into something recognizably human. His face bore the weight of years, of choices that could never be undone, but his eyes—sharp, amber-flecked—were alive in a way they hadn't been before. He looked less like a man clawing at survival, and more like a man considering what kind of future he might yet build.
Sico cleared his throat.
Virgil glanced up, blinking once as though surfacing from deep water. His mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile, but it was close enough. "Sico." His voice carried the gravel of disuse, but it no longer rumbled with the distorted bass of mutation. "I wasn't expecting you so early."
"Figured I'd catch you before you buried yourself too deep," Sico said, stepping forward. He let his eyes travel over the workbench. Strange diagrams covered the papers—sketches of circuits, chemical notes, anatomical drawings. Nothing immediately sinister, but enough to prickle curiosity.
Virgil chuckled dryly. "You know me well, then." He removed the lenses and rubbed at his eyes. "I lose track of the hours when I'm in here. Feels… familiar. Almost comforting. Haven't had that in a long time."
Sico stopped at the edge of the bench, leaning one hand on the wood. "That's why I'm here."
Virgil studied him carefully, as though measuring the weight behind the words. "Go on."
Sico met his gaze without flinching. "You've got one of the sharpest minds I've ever seen. You clawed your way back from something no one thought possible. Now you're here, in the Republic, with more freedom than you probably ever expected to have again. So I need to know…" He paused, choosing the words like ammunition he couldn't waste. "…what project do you want to do? What's the thing you're putting all of this—" he gestured around the cluttered lab "—into?"
For a long moment, Virgil didn't answer. He leaned back on his stool, folding his arms across his chest, eyes narrowing in thought. The silence stretched, heavy with the hum of machines and the faint tick of a clock on the wall.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, deliberate.
"You want the truth?"
"That's all I want," Sico said.
Virgil's gaze dropped to the bench, his fingers tracing the edge of one of his diagrams. "Part of me wants to keep working on the FEV. Not to weaponize it—God, no—but to find a way to reverse more of it. To make sure no one else ever has to live the way I did. To give people back their humanity when it's been stolen."
Sico's brow furrowed. "You think that's possible?"
Virgil gave a short, bitter laugh. "If you'd asked me years ago, I'd have said no. But I'm standing here, aren't I? Flesh and blood again. It's possible. The question is whether it can be repeated safely. Whether it can be made into something more than a one-in-a-million miracle."
Sico let that sink in. A cure for super mutants. Not just survival, not just defense, but healing. Redemption. It was almost too big to wrap his head around.
But Virgil wasn't finished.
"On the other hand," he said, straightening slightly, "there's another path. Something more immediate. Energy. Power. I've been sketching ways to stabilize fusion cells, extend their life, even create new sources of sustainable energy. If we could do that…" He glanced around the hall, at the wires and the flickering lights. "Sanctuary wouldn't just survive. It would thrive. Light in every home. Heat in the cold months. Machines running without fear of shutdown. You'd have an infrastructure the Brotherhood couldn't dream of matching."
Sico rubbed his chin, weighing the words. Two projects. Two futures. One aimed at healing the scars of the past. The other at fortifying the foundation of the present. Both monumental. Both dangerous if mishandled.
"And you?" Sico asked finally. "If it was only your choice—no Republic, no Commandos, no politics—what project do you want to do?"
Virgil hesitated, then met his eyes with a steadiness that hadn't been there before.
"The cure," he said simply. "Because I know what it's like to wake up every morning in a body that isn't your own. To feel like a monster when all you wanted was knowledge. If I can stop even one more person from going through that, then everything else is secondary."
Virgil's words lingered in the air like smoke. The cure. It wasn't just an idea anymore—it was a man staring Sico in the eyes, saying he was willing to spend the rest of his days chasing redemption through it.
Sico leaned heavier against the workbench, the wood creaking faintly under his palm. His gaze drifted over the diagrams again, the scratchy notes scrawled in Virgil's sharp, impatient hand. He let a beat pass before speaking, his voice low, deliberate.
"All right," Sico said, "let's say you manage to pull it off. You build something that turns a Super Mutant back into flesh and blood again. A cure." He drew in a breath through his nose, exhaling slow. "What happens to their brains, Virgil?"
The question stopped the scientist cold.
Sico went on, his words steady but edged with the kind of weight a commander carried when he thought not only about what could be built—but what it would do to the people who lived with it.
"They've been walking around like that for years. Some for decades. Their bodies warped. Their minds… corroded." He gestured with his hand, not unkindly but with a blunt honesty. "FEV scrapes away at them, doesn't it? Makes them aggressive, simple, broken in ways you can't see from the outside. If you give them back a human body, what's left up here?" He tapped two fingers against his temple.
Virgil's jaw tightened, his eyes flicking away as though the thought itself pressed into an old wound. For a long while he didn't answer, his hands clasped together on the bench.
When he finally did speak, it was with a quiet heaviness. "That's the part no one wants to face. The truth is… I don't know."
"Not good enough," Sico said flatly.
Virgil snapped his head back toward him, frustration flashing across his features before softening into something more resigned. "You think I haven't thought about it? You think I haven't asked myself that same damn question every night since I changed back?" He let out a slow, ragged breath, scrubbing a hand down his scarred face. "The FEV doesn't just twist muscle and bone. It rewires the mind. Enhances certain neural pathways. Destroys others. Some of it's reversible. Some of it's not."
His voice dropped, softer now. "If I gave a cure to a mutant who's been that way for thirty years… maybe they'd come back. Maybe they'd wake up with pieces missing. Memories gone. Personalities fractured. Maybe they'd be a husk. Or maybe they'd be something… less."
The words hung heavy between them, too cruel and too honest to ignore.
Sico's expression didn't waver. "So you're saying we could bring them back, but they might not be the same people they were. Not fully."
Virgil nodded slowly. "Exactly. Some could recover with time, maybe with therapy, training, stimulation. The brain is resilient, but it's not magic. Others… might never be more than shells wearing human skin again."
Sico let silence fill the space, his eyes drifting toward the terminal that flickered on the far desk. He thought of the Commandos, the farmers, the people dragging water buckets through the morning mist. He thought of wolves and shields, of the Republic standing at the edge of a war it wasn't ready for.
Then his gaze sharpened again.
"All right," he said. "That's one side of it. But let me ask you something else."
Virgil tilted his head, wary. "Go on."
"What if," Sico began carefully, "instead of curing them all the way back, you… redirected it? Not the mutation that twists them into monsters, not the kind that rots their brains. But something controlled. A serum. Something that takes the strength, the endurance, the agility—everything the FEV gives—but cuts off the part that transforms them into hulking beasts. What if you could filter it?"
Virgil froze, eyes narrowing.
Sico pressed on, his voice steady, the commander in him laying out strategy as though he were placing pieces on a war table.
"Think about it. Right now, my Commandos are good. They're sharp. But the Brotherhood? They've got power armor. Vertibirds. Energy weapons. When the fight comes, and it will come, we're going to need an edge. If you could make my best fighters into something more—stronger, faster, able to fight for days without breaking—then we'd have our own answer. A team of soldiers with all the power of a Super Mutant and none of the mindless rage. A superhuman unit."
The words rang in the laboratory, brash and dangerous and full of possibility.
Virgil stared at him, disbelief etched into his features. "You're asking me to weaponize the FEV."
"No," Sico shot back, his tone sharp. "I'm asking if it can be harnessed. There's a difference."
Virgil's lips parted, then closed again. He turned away, his hands gripping the edge of the bench as though bracing himself against the storm of thought roaring through him. His voice was quieter when it finally came.
"You don't know what you're suggesting."
"Yes, I do," Sico countered.
"No, you don't," Virgil snapped, whirling back toward him. "The FEV isn't a tool. It's not a tap you can just turn on and siphon out the good parts. It's a virus. A mutagen. It consumes, rewrites, dominates. Every attempt to control it has ended in disaster." His voice broke for a moment, memory flashing like fire behind his eyes. "Do you think I don't remember the vats? The failed experiments? Do you think I don't still see them at night?"
Sico held his ground, voice level. "And yet you're standing here. Human again. Proof that something can be done. Proof that it can be changed."
Virgil clenched his fists, the tendons in his neck standing out. "Changed, yes. Controlled? That's another matter. You're asking me if I can create a serum that turns men into gods without the curse of the monster. And I'm telling you—no one's ever done it. The odds of success are…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Slim."
"But not zero."
The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bow.
Virgil finally exhaled, a long, weary sound. He leaned back against his stool, shoulders sagging. "Not zero," he admitted grudgingly. "But you need to understand, Sico—this isn't just dangerous. It's a line. Once you cross it, there's no coming back. People already look at me sideways just for being here, just for my history. You start talking about enhancing soldiers with FEV and they'll hear echoes of the Institute, of experiments, of monsters in cages."
Sico's eyes didn't soften. "I know. That's why I'm not talking about this outside these walls. Not yet. But tell me the truth, Virgil. If anyone alive could find a way to separate the curse from the gift… could it be you?"
Virgil didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted down to his own hands—scarred, steady, human once more. For a moment, his face softened, as though he were seeing the echo of the monster he'd been. Then he lifted his eyes back to Sico's, and when he spoke, it was with a grim honesty.
"If it can be done… yes. I might be the one to do it."
Sico's lips pressed into a hard line. He gave a single nod. "That's all I needed to hear."
Virgil huffed out a mirthless laugh, dragging a hand over his face. "God help us all."
The phrase clung to the stale warmth of the place, laced with the smell of solder, oil, and chemical tang, hanging like a curtain between the two men. Sico didn't move at first, didn't even shift his weight on the bench he leaned against. His gaze stayed on Virgil, sharp and unwavering, the way a man looks at something he knows could change the world if it's handled right—or burn it down if it isn't.
He let the silence sit for a few heartbeats longer, then finally spoke. His tone wasn't loud, but it was deliberate, carrying the weight of command and conviction all at once.
"Then maybe that's exactly what we do," Sico said, his voice low but steady. "We build it. We refine it. And when it's ready—when we have soldiers who can handle the FEV without becoming monsters—we send them against the mutants themselves. Superhumans fighting Super Mutants."
Virgil's head jerked up at that, his brow furrowing deep.
But Sico wasn't finished. He leaned in, closing the space between them, his voice hardening like steel drawn from the forge.
"And when they win—because they will win—we don't just leave bodies behind. We take them. Capture them alive, if possible. Bring them back here, into your lab. You want test subjects? You want a chance to make the cure more than a miracle? There it is. We fight them, we beat them, and then we use what's left to drag them back to humanity again."
The words hung there, stark, uncompromising.
Virgil's jaw tightened, his amber-flecked eyes narrowing as if he was staring straight into the heart of a storm he had no wish to walk into. "You make it sound so simple," he muttered. "March in with a squad of enhanced soldiers, knock a mutant unconscious, haul them back like a sack of grain. You think it'll be clean. It won't."
Sico's gaze didn't flinch. "Nothing in this world is clean, Virgil. You of all people know that. But you just told me yourself—if the cure is ever going to mean something, you need more than theories. You need subjects. Well, there they are. Out there in the wastes, tearing people apart, scaring families into the dirt. You can curse the FEV all you want, but maybe the only way to redeem what it's taken is to use the very strength it gives to turn the tide against it."
Virgil stared at him, his lips pressed into a thin line. His hands fidgeted against the workbench, restless, like they needed to grab a tool just to distract themselves from the weight of what Sico was suggesting.
"You realize what you're saying, don't you?" Virgil asked finally, his voice low, almost hoarse. "You're talking about weaponizing men into something more than human. You're talking about field tests that could go wrong in a hundred different ways. A serum that hasn't been stabilized. Soldiers who might lose themselves to the mutation if the line between control and corruption slips even an inch. And then you want to throw them against some of the most dangerous creatures the Commonwealth has ever produced."
Sico's face was hard, but his eyes burned with the kind of fire that only men who've carried armies on their shoulders ever had. "I know exactly what I'm saying. I also know that if we sit on our hands waiting for the Brotherhood to roll over us, or for the Mutants to finally swarm these walls, then all this—" he gestured around the lab, around Sanctuary itself "—is gone. Burned. Broken. And the people we swore to protect? Dead."
He took a step closer, lowering his voice, letting the words cut sharper because of the quiet. "I'm not asking you to turn us into monsters, Virgil. I'm asking you to give us a fighting chance. If we can harness the FEV—just enough, not too much—then maybe the scales finally tip our way. And if, in the process, we bring home mutants we can try to cure? Then you get the chance to finish what you started. To make your redemption real."
Virgil's mouth opened, then closed again. His eyes flicked to the diagrams scattered across his bench—the scratch of his handwriting, the lines of his formulas, the fragile bridges of thought that stood between him and either salvation or damnation. His shoulders sagged under the weight of it all.
"You talk like it's war," he said quietly.
"It is war," Sico answered, no hesitation in his tone.
Virgil drew in a long breath, then let it out in a slow, shaky sigh. He pulled the stool back and sat, his elbows braced on his knees, his hands clasped tight. For a moment, he looked less like a scientist and more like a man trying to decide whether to damn himself all over again.
Finally, his voice came, hushed but raw. "If we go down that path… there's no telling where it ends. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't. Maybe you get a squad of super soldiers who can hold a line against power armor. Or maybe you get a squad of half-mutated men screaming in agony until they turn on the very people they were meant to protect. You gamble with lives either way."
Sico gave a slow nod, acknowledging the weight of it without flinching. "War is gambling with lives, Virgil. The only difference is whether you gamble blind or stack the deck in your favor. I don't expect perfection. I don't expect guarantees. But I do expect us to fight with every tool we've got. And right now, that tool is sitting in this lab, waiting for someone brave enough to make it work."
The lab fell quiet again, the hum of the terminal and the faint hiss of steam filling the gaps between their words. Virgil sat hunched, his face shadowed, while Sico stood over him like the unyielding voice of a future that refused to wait.
When Virgil finally looked up, there was no anger in his eyes anymore—only exhaustion, and something else. Something like reluctant resolve.
"If I do this…" he began slowly, "…if I even try… it has to be controlled. Limited. No mass production. No throwing it into the veins of every soldier who volunteers. We start small. One subject. Maybe two. We monitor everything—neural function, hormone regulation, immune response. One wrong move and they'll spiral into mutation before you can blink."
Sico's lips pressed into a thin line, then curved, just slightly, into the ghost of a smile. "That's all I'm asking for. A start."
Virgil shook his head, muttering under his breath. "A start to madness."
But even as he said it, he reached for one of the diagrams on the bench, pulling it closer, his eyes scanning the notes with new intensity. His fingers tightened around the paper, and his mind—despite every protest—was already turning over the equations, the sequences, the possibilities.
Sico watched him for a long moment, then straightened. He didn't press further. Didn't need to. The seed had been planted. Virgil might fight it, might curse it, but the man's mind was a machine that never stopped turning once the gears caught.
Sico adjusted his coat, gave one last look at the cluttered lab, and spoke before heading toward the door. "You once told me redemption wasn't about erasing the past. It was about building something better with what's left. This is your chance to do that. Build something better, Virgil. For all of us."
Virgil didn't answer, not with words. His hand dragged across the bench, pulling another set of notes into his reach, his eyes already narrowing, already calculating.
Sico stepped out into the morning air again, the mist thinner now, the light cutting sharper across Sanctuary's lanes. The rhythm of boots and tools and voices carried through the settlement, the heartbeat of a people trying to survive.
________________________________________________
• 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:-