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Sico listened without interrupting, his eyes sweeping every corner as though weighing the words against the reality. The stronghold was already forming in his head — stone walls bristling with turrets, supply caches buried beneath, barracks echoing with disciplined boots. A bastion carved from ruin, a statement to the wasteland: this far, no farther.
The night passed without ceremony. No feasts, no fires, no boasts of victory. Only the low murmur of guards at their posts and the slow rhythm of hammers fading into silence as exhaustion finally dragged the settlers to their bedrolls. The ruins of C.I.T. stood quiet, broken stone etched black against the sky. Only the lanterns glowed, little sparks scattered across the bones of a dead world.
Sico didn't sleep much. His cot had been laid out in what had once been a dean's office — cracked floorboards, walls stripped bare, glass dust still glittering in the corners. The wind pushed through holes where windows had once been. It whistled like a thin, cold breath, never letting him forget how fragile this new bastion was. He spent most of the night bent over maps instead, a single candle guttering low on the desk as he studied the terrain around the ruins.
Super Mutants. Mutant hounds. Raiders who hadn't yet caught the scent of blood but would soon enough. The Institute, if they were bold enough. And always, always, the shadow of the Brotherhood circling overhead like carrion birds.
By the time dawn broke, he'd made his choice. Before they built high walls, before they laid new foundations, before they raised their flag in defiance of the wasteland, they had to secure the ground they stood on.
And that meant a patrol.
The sun hadn't risen fully when Sico stepped out into the courtyard. The air was sharp, carrying a faint tang of ash and cordite, the leftover perfume of yesterday's gunfire. Soldiers were already assembling, armored boots crunching gravel as they gathered in a rough line. Some checked their rifles, others adjusted straps on packs, one or two chewed down quick bites of stale bread before the march.
Sico's presence drew their eyes. He didn't need to call them to order; the weight of his shadow was enough.
"We're taking the perimeter," he said without preamble, voice cutting through the air like a drawn blade. "This stronghold won't mean a damn thing if we've got mutants wandering into our front yard. Today we sweep the area. Anything green, anything with too many teeth — it doesn't walk away."
There were no cheers, no war-cries. Just curt nods, the steel-eyed understanding of men and women who knew what waited out there.
Preston stepped up beside him, tightening the strap of his laser musket across his shoulder. "Scouts mapped two nests to the northeast. Smaller packs than the big ones we've seen out in Cambridge, but close enough to be a problem."
"Then we clear them first," Sico said. He adjusted his gloves, leather creaking, before his eyes swept the line of soldiers again. "Form up. We move now."
The march began with silence, only the crunch of boots and the soft rattle of gear marking their passage. The land around the ruins was a graveyard of the old world — rusting cars half-swallowed by earth, street signs bent and unreadable, skeletal buildings leaning like drunks against each other. Nature had clawed much of it back, weeds pushing through cracks in the pavement, roots splitting concrete. But every so often, the signs of something else appeared: heavy prints in the dirt, claw marks gouged into walls, bones stripped clean.
Mutant country.
Sico walked point, rifle slung but ready. His eyes never stopped moving, scanning shadows, rooftops, the alleys between crumbled brick. He didn't trust silence in these places. Silence was the breath drawn before the roar.
One of the younger soldiers — barely more than a boy, freckles still cutting across his cheeks — broke the quiet with a low murmur. "Sir, you think the mutants'll hit us here? C.I.T., I mean. Once we're dug in?"
Sico didn't turn his head. His voice was steady. "If we don't clear them, they will. Super Mutants don't need reasons. They're hunger and violence wrapped in flesh. Leave them close, and they'll come."
The boy swallowed hard, knuckles whitening on his rifle grip. Preston caught Sico's eye and gave the faintest nod. The commander had given the boy truth, not comfort — and in the wasteland, truth was the sharper weapon.
They reached the first nest by mid-morning. An old subway entrance yawned open at the base of a collapsed overpass, its sign too faded to read, stairs leading down into shadow. The stench hit them first — rot and wet dog, the stink of blood that had gone to slime.
Sico raised a hand, the line halting instantly. He crouched by the entrance, gloved fingers brushing across the dirt. Prints, wide and deep. Mutant hounds, at least half a dozen, and bigger prints beside them. Super Mutants.
"Preston," Sico murmured.
"Two, maybe three full-sized," Preston answered, scanning the ground himself. "Rest are dogs."
Sico nodded once. "Then we end it quick. Frag grenades down the hole first. When they come up, we cut them down."
The squad moved like a machine, practiced and efficient. Two soldiers primed their grenades, the metallic click sharp in the air. A heartbeat later, the grenades clattered down the stairwell, their echoes swallowed by the dark.
The explosions shook the ground, thunder muffled by stone. A howl followed — high, savage, furious. Then another. Then the pounding of feet against stairs.
"Positions!" Sico barked.
The first hound burst into daylight, jaws foaming, eyes wild. A volley of rifle fire dropped it before it cleared the last step. Another followed, then two more, bullets tearing them apart mid-leap. Blood sprayed across cracked pavement, the smell of burned powder biting the air.
Then the shadows shifted, and a Super Mutant surged upward, skin stretched thick and green over slabs of muscle. It bellowed, a guttural roar shaking the air, and swung a rusted rebar club.
Sico's rifle cracked, round punching into its chest. It staggered but didn't fall. Another volley from the squad peppered it, driving it back. A grenade went off at its feet, spraying gore across the stairwell.
Another mutant charged, then another, their voices a chorus of rage. The firefight lit the ruins with muzzle flash and echoing thunder.
Sico moved among his soldiers, calm and precise, shouting orders, adjusting positions. "Left flank, tighten! Preston, take the high ground! Hold the line!"
The battle lasted minutes, but felt like hours. When the last mutant collapsed, half its head gone from a clean shot, silence returned as sudden as a door slamming shut. The soldiers stood breathing hard, the acrid smoke of gunfire drifting over them.
Sico scanned the stairwell, then nodded once. "Clear it. Make sure there's no stragglers."
Two soldiers moved cautiously down, rifles raised. Moments later, they returned. "Nest is empty, sir. Just bones and trash."
Sico let out a slow breath, then turned to the squad. "That's one. We move to the next."
By midday, the second nest was in sight: an old elementary school, its windows shattered, swings rusting in the yard like skeletal arms. The laughter of children had long been replaced by the guttural growls of beasts.
The fight here was harder. More mutants. One of them carried a makeshift machine gun, its roar rattling windows and chewing concrete. The squad pressed into cover, bullets sparking stone and wood.
Sico took the risk himself, crawling low along a collapsed wall until he had line of sight. He braced, exhaled slow, and put a round through the mutant's throat. The gun clattered to the ground, the beast choking on its own blood before toppling.
The rest of the squad surged forward, momentum theirs now. Grenades thundered, rifles cracked, and one by one the mutants fell.
When it was over, the school was silent but for the drip of blood from broken desks and splintered walls. The soldiers fanned out, clearing classrooms, stomping out what little resistance remained.
Sico stood in the main hall, looking at the faded murals on the cracked walls — smiling cartoon animals, numbers painted in bright colors. The sight pressed at something in him, heavy and bitter.
Preston stepped up beside him, voice quiet. "Used to be a place of learning. Now it's just another battlefield."
Sico's jaw tightened. "Then we make sure it never becomes one again. Not while we hold this ground."
By the time the sun dipped westward, the patrol had returned to C.I.T., their boots and armor stained with blood and ash. The courtyard stirred at their arrival, settlers and workers pausing to watch as the soldiers filed back in, weary but alive.
Sico halted at the arch, his voice carrying across the yard.
"The area's clear. Mutant nests are gone. This place is ours."
A ripple of relief passed through the crowd. Some cheered softly, others clapped shoulders, a few simply sagged as though a weight had been pulled off their backs.
The courtyard hadn't fully settled when Sico peeled away from the soldiers. Preston had already moved to debrief the squad leaders, making sure ammunition counts and casualty reports were squared away. The settlers had gathered in loose knots, murmuring among themselves, their voices a mix of relief and nerves — the kind of sound that said they knew victory today didn't guarantee safety tomorrow.
But Sico's boots didn't linger there. He cut straight across the courtyard, toward the western arch where the makeshift scaffolds had been thrown up. He didn't have the luxury of basking in the relief. The patrol had bought them time, yes, but time was a fickle currency in the wasteland. If they didn't spend it wisely, it vanished like smoke.
Sturges was exactly where Sico expected to find him — in the middle of a chaos that somehow seemed to bend around him like it was planned. The man was crouched low over a slab of concrete that served as his drafting table, pencil scratching furiously across a half-unfurled roll of paper. Around him, his crew was buzzing: measuring walls with frayed tape, tapping at beams with hammers, arguing over weight distribution.
"Don't you go puttin' the supports too damn close together, Jimmy," Sturges was saying, waving the pencil like it was a general's baton. "We're buildin' a stronghold, not a birdcage. Needs space, needs flow. Ain't nobody defendin' a place they can't move through proper."
The younger man he was snapping at just grinned sheepishly and adjusted his mark. Sturges huffed, muttered something about "kids these days," and bent back to his paper. That was when Sico's shadow fell across the plan.
Without looking up, Sturges spoke. "Well, well. Commander himself, back from his monster-huntin' trip. You smell like gunpowder, by the way. Suits you."
Sico crossed his arms, letting the jab roll past him. "The nests are gone. Perimeter's clean, for now."
That made Sturges pause. He finally looked up, eyes narrowing at the faint smears of ash and dried blood on Sico's gloves. "Huh. Guess that explains why the dogs stopped howlin'. Good work." He set the pencil down and leaned back against a stack of broken bricks, cracking his knuckles. "So, what's next? You here to ask me if I can build you a castle in a week?"
Sico's face was unreadable. "Something like that. I want to know if you and your team have finished the plan. And I want to know when you start."
That drew a low whistle from Sturges. "Straight to business. Man don't even stop to ask if I've eaten today." He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw, then leaned down to tap the roll of paper with a knuckle. "Lucky for you, Commander, this here baby's just about wrapped. We've been goin' through every inch of this ruin since yesterday. Sketchin', measurin', swearin' at each other — the usual. And now? Well, we've got ourselves a plan."
He unrolled the sheet with a flourish. The pencil lines weren't neat — Sturges never was one for straight edges — but the vision was there. The central courtyard boxed in by high reinforced walls. A rebuilt tower to the north, tall enough to serve as both lookout and gun nest. Barracks along the east wing. Workshops and storage bunkers dug into the west. Entrances narrowed, choke points established, fallback positions mapped.
Sico's eyes moved slowly over it, taking in the flow, the shape of what was to come. His gloved finger traced along a drawn wall, paused at a mark where a turret had been penciled in, then followed a tunnel route that had been scrawled in darker lines.
"When do you start?" he asked again, voice low but pressing.
Sturges gave a small shrug. "Day after tomorrow. Tomorrow I'm contactin' Sarah, tellin' her to send more workers. Gonna need a lot more hands if we want this done proper. Right now I've got, what, fifteen folks? Half of 'em can barely swing a hammer without hittin' their thumbs. We need at least fifty, and that's me bein' stingy. Seventy if we're serious about fortifyin' fast."
Sico's brow furrowed slightly. "And Sarah can provide that?"
Sturges smirked. "Sarah can provide damn near anything if you tell her it's for the Republic. Woman's got more pull than a Brahmin team on Jet. She'll get the workers here. Maybe not overnight, but soon. That's why I'm sayin' two days. Gives me time to shuffle materials, mark where things gotta go, and figure out who's doin' what. No use throwin' bodies at a wall if nobody knows what they're hammerin'."
For a moment, Sico didn't respond. He stood there in silence, the ruined C.I.T. stretching out around them, the future sketched in graphite beneath his hands. Then, finally, he spoke.
"You'll have your workers. You'll have your materials. And you'll have protection. But I want this stronghold standing before the Brotherhood makes their move. No excuses."
Sturges let out a sharp laugh. "Damn, Commander, you don't let a man breathe. But alright. No excuses. I'll give you walls so strong the Brotherhood'll crack their damn teeth on 'em. Just… give me my two days. Let me set the stage before you light the fire."
Sico's eyes met his, cold steel against the engineer's spark. For a long moment, neither man spoke. Then Sico gave a single nod. "Two days. Then you start."
Sturges grinned again, wide and unshaken. "You got it, boss. Now, unless you're plannin' to pick up a hammer yourself, how 'bout you let me get back to work?"
Sico said nothing more. He turned, boots grinding over the rubble, leaving Sturges to his schematics and his crew.
The night passed in a low, steady hum. C.I.T. was never silent — not anymore. Even when the workers collapsed into their cots and the soldiers rotated through their watch shifts, there was always the wind whispering through the half-broken towers, always some beam groaning against old stone, always that faint buzz of lanterns in the dark. The ruins breathed now, like something long-dead stirring beneath layers of dust.
Sico didn't sleep. He tried, stretching out on the cot in the old dean's office, but his eyes stayed open, fixed on the ceiling where cracks forked like lightning across plaster. Too much weight rested on the next few days. The mutants were gone from the immediate perimeter, but their blood still clung to his gloves, and the memory of their guttural roars still echoed. That was one threat silenced — for now. The wasteland never ran dry of others.
When dawn finally pushed pale and thin across the ruins, he rose without ceremony. He pulled on his gloves, checked the rifle by habit, then stepped into the courtyard. Smoke curled from a cookfire where a few settlers stirred thin broth. Soldiers on rotation nodded as he passed, their eyes tired but sharp. Life here was already moving again, every hand bending to survival.
He found Sturges where he always seemed to be — at the heart of things, leaning over some jury-rigged contraption that looked one good shove away from collapse. Only this time, instead of a drafting table or wall to measure, Sturges had claimed the rust-bitten husk of an old communications terminal. Wires dangled like guts from its side. A generator coughed smoke nearby, sputtering like it resented being woken so early.
Sturges looked up as Sico approached, his face smeared with grease, his grin sharp despite the shadows under his eyes. "Commander. Right on time. Was hopin' you'd tag along — gonna need someone with a voice that makes people sit up straight. Sarah might listen to me, but she sure as hell listens to you."
Sico stepped closer, eyeing the machine. "This will work?"
Sturges patted the terminal's rusted flank with mock affection. "She'll talk. Might not be pretty, might screech and pop, but we'll get Sarah's voice comin' through one way or another." He crouched, twisting wires together, then gave the generator a solid kick when it sputtered too loud. The engine caught properly this time, humming with a steadier rhythm.
Static filled the courtyard, sharp and grating. Sturges spun knobs, fine-tuning with a scowl until the screech settled into a low, rolling hiss. "Alright, alright… come on, darlin'. Don't fail me now." He leaned into the microphone, pressing the toggle with his thumb.
"This is Sturges at C.I.T. Ruins, callin' Freemasons HQ. Sarah, you read me?"
For a moment there was only the hiss of static. Then, faint, crackling, but there — a voice.
"Sturges? This is Sarah. Signal's weak, but I hear you. What's your status?"
The tension in Sturges' shoulders bled out a little. He shot Sico a quick glance before leaning closer. "Status is we're sittin' on a damn gold mine of broken concrete and busted walls. We've got plans drawn, we've got men eager, but what we ain't got is enough bodies to put hammer to stone. I'm askin' for workers. Seventy-five, if you can spare 'em."
The line crackled, then steadied. Sarah's voice came sharper now, carrying that clipped efficiency that made people believe in her. "Seventy-five? That's more than a request, Sturges. That's a demand."
Sturges scratched his chin, smearing grease across his jaw without noticing. "Yeah, well, buildin' a stronghold outta the corpse of the old world ain't exactly a one-man job. We got fifteen folks here right now. That's enough to trip over each other and argue about where to set the scaffolds. We need more. Lot more. Otherwise, you're lookin' at three months before this place looks like a fortress instead of a pile of rubble. And three months we don't got."
Sarah was silent for a moment. Then she asked, "Sico's with you?"
Sico leaned down, his voice cutting through the static, low and steady. "I'm here."
There was a pause. Then Sarah's tone softened, if only slightly. "You really think this is the move? Fortifying C.I.T.?"
Sico's gaze swept the courtyard, at the workers sharpening tools, at soldiers standing sentinel on the half-broken walls, at the ruins stretching out like scar tissue. His voice carried iron. "This isn't just a move. It's the only move. The Brotherhood is coming. If we're not ready, they'll wipe this place clean and use it as their own. We need walls. We need barracks. We need a stronghold. And we need it now."
The line crackled again, faint rustle of papers on the other end. Then Sarah sighed. "Seventy-five workers. I'll make it happen. They'll move today. Expect a convoy by nightfall."
Sturges punched the air, letting out a triumphant, "Knew you wouldn't leave us hangin', Sarah!"
Sico gave no outward sign of relief, but the weight on his shoulders shifted just slightly. "Thank you," he said simply.
Sarah's voice returned, brisk once more. "Don't thank me yet. Seventy-five people is no small pull. You'd better make damn sure they're protected when they get there. If the Brotherhood catches wind of a convoy that size, you'll have a war on your doorstep before the walls are even half-built."
Sico's reply was steady. "Then we'll protect them. No one will touch them."
The line hissed, then cut to silence. Sturges leaned back, blowing out a breath. "Well, Commander, looks like you just got yourself seventy-five pairs of hands. Now we just gotta make sure none of 'em end up mutant chow on the way here."
Sico's gaze turned eastward, toward the broken skyline. "They'll make it." His voice was quiet, but there was no doubt in it. "They have to."
The day stretched long. Sturges and his crew spent it marking sections of the ruins with chalk and paint, shouting at each other over where to place walls, where to dig, where to brace. Soldiers rotated through patrols outside the perimeter, eyes sharp for any sign of raiders or mutants. Settlers moved in small clusters, hauling rubble to clear the courtyard. The place pulsed with energy, anticipation tightening every movement.
Sico moved among them like a shadow, not shouting orders but watching, steadying, his presence a silent anchor. He checked sentry positions, studied maps, spoke briefly with Preston about reinforcing patrol routes. Every action was deliberate, part of a rhythm he was forcing into the ruins, shaping chaos into order.
By evening, the air had cooled, the sky bleeding orange and red across the broken horizon. People drifted toward the courtyard, pulled by the same unspoken expectation. The convoy was coming.
And then, faint at first but growing louder — engines. The low growl of Brahmin carts. The clatter of wheels on cracked asphalt. The sharp bark of a driver shouting orders.
Lanterns flared higher, torches raised. Shadows stretched long as the convoy rolled through the arch. First came the guards, rifles at the ready, eyes sweeping every corner. Then the carts — heavy with supplies, crates of tools, stacks of lumber strapped down with frayed rope. And behind them, the workers. Dozens of them, faces drawn and weary from the road, but eyes wide at the sight of the ruins rising around them.
Sturges was already striding forward, arms spread like a preacher welcoming his flock. "Hot damn, look at this! Fresh blood, fresh muscle, and fresh complaints waitin' to happen. Welcome to C.I.T., folks! Hope you didn't plan on takin' a nap, 'cause we're startin' tonight!"
The workers groaned, a ripple of tired laughter and protest. One man, broad-shouldered with soot still smeared across his cheek, called out, "Tonight? We just marched half the damn Commonwealth to get here!"
Sturges clapped his hands, grinning wide. "And now you're here! Ain't no time to lose, friends. The Brotherhood ain't sittin' on their asses waitin' for us to get cozy. You think war takes coffee breaks? Hell no. We start now. Small stuff tonight — clearin' rubble, markin' the lines, settin' scaffolds. Tomorrow, we start raisin' walls."
The workers muttered, but none walked away. Already, soldiers were unloading carts, hauling crates into piles. Lanterns were hung from broken walls, casting the courtyard in a web of shifting light.
The courtyard was alive in a way it hadn't been in centuries. Lanterns swung from jury-rigged poles, their light catching on motes of dust that hung thick in the air. The clang of hammers against metal, the scrape of shovels cutting through rubble, the bark of orders shouted and answered — it all fused into a single, constant roar. The ruins of C.I.T. no longer felt like a graveyard. They were becoming something else. Something breathing. Something defiant.
Sturges was everywhere at once. One moment he was shouting at a pair of teenagers to move a scaffold closer to the east wall, the next he was on his knees showing a settler how to brace a beam without snapping it clean through. His voice carried above the din, filled with that strange mix of irritation and encouragement only he could manage.
"Don't just drag the damn plank — lift it! Brahmin carry loads, people carry 'em smarter!"
"No, no, don't toss the bricks there — stack 'em neat or you'll break someone's toe, and I ain't patchin' up crushed feet tonight!"
"Good! That's what I like to see. Keep it steady, keep it movin'."
Despite the long road behind them, the workers moved. Fatigue was painted across their faces, but there was something stronger beneath it — purpose. The wasteland didn't give people many chances to feel like they were building something lasting. Tonight, they had that.
Sico stood at the center of it all, his eyes sweeping the scene like a commander taking stock of a battlefield. Except this wasn't destruction. This was creation. The rhythm was different, but the stakes were just as high. Every stone laid, every scaffold raised, every scrap of rubble cleared — it all bought them a stronger chance at survival.
He turned as Preston approached, the young officer's face half-lit by torchlight. His armor was streaked with dust, his rifle slung but close at hand. He carried the look of a man who had been everywhere at once, checking squads, tallying headcounts, but still found himself restless.
"Busy night," Preston said, scanning the chaos with a faint smile.
"Busy's good," Sico answered, his voice steady but low. His gaze lingered on a group of soldiers offloading crates from a wagon, their muscles straining under the weight of iron reinforcement bars. "Keeps them sharp."
Preston nodded once, then glanced sideways. "You're not worried about how hard Sturges is pushing them? They marched half the Commonwealth today, and now he's got them working until dawn."
Sico didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted across the ruins, to where sparks leapt from a settler's torch as she tried to cut through an old steel frame. The workers were tired, yes, but they moved with something beyond obligation. And Sturges — for all his grumbling — knew how far people could be pushed before they broke.
Finally, Sico spoke. "They'll manage. Fatigue breaks the body. Idleness breaks the spirit. Right now, they need to feel this place changing beneath their hands. Otherwise, tomorrow feels too far away."
Preston let that sink in before giving a slow nod. "Fair point."
Sico's gaze sharpened, his tone shifting from reflection to command. "But there's something else I want from you. From tonight forward, I want patrols out. Always. Two squads minimum, rotating. No gaps."
Preston raised his brows slightly. "You're expecting trouble already?"
"I'm not expecting," Sico replied, his voice like iron striking stone. "I'm preparing. The Brotherhood's scouts don't miss much. Raiders sniff out caravans like wolves. And mutants…" His eyes flicked briefly toward the jagged skyline, where shadows pooled in broken windows. "Mutants never stay gone for long. If there's even one left near here, it'll smell the fires and the food. They'll come."
Preston's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. "Two squads, rotating. I'll make sure of it. They'll cover the perimeter all night."
"Good." Sico placed a gloved hand on the younger man's shoulder, firm but not unkind. "I want them ready to fight the second something stirs. If trouble comes, I want the enemy cut down before it even reaches these walls."
Preston nodded, the weight of the responsibility clear in his eyes, but also a spark of pride at being trusted with it. "Consider it done." He gave a quick salute and peeled away into the noise, already calling names for the first rotation.
Sico stayed a while longer, watching as the patrol squads formed and moved out into the dark. Their lanterns bobbed briefly against the ruins before vanishing into the night beyond, leaving only the faint crunch of boots on gravel.
The work inside the courtyard surged on. Beams were hoisted into place, ropes creaking under the strain. Crates cracked open to reveal nails, hinges, and half-rusted tools that suddenly seemed priceless. Someone started singing under their breath — a low, rough tune — and others picked it up, weaving the rhythm into the clang of hammers.
________________________________________________
• 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:-