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Danse sat rigid, his thoughts turning behind his eyes, the soldier's mask unbroken. Ingram's fingers drummed faintly on the arm of her chair, already calculating the engineering nightmare of stretching steel across two fronts. Quinlan's gaze was distant, his mind racing through reports, maps, probabilities. Kells' jaw clenched tight, the look of a man who would rather charge headlong into every enemy at once than concede the necessity of restraint. And Li… Li simply folded her hands again, her eyes heavy with the knowledge that the weight of their hope rested on circuits, alloys, and the hands of men and women already working to exhaustion.
The hum of the Prydwen's engines, the clipped voices of Maxson and his commanders, the tension of war councils — all of that faded like the echo of a storm as the story bent back down to the cracked pavement and skeletal remains of the C.I.T. ruins.
Here, the world was dust and noise, sweat and iron. The ruins breathed differently than the Prydwen's sterile steel corridors. The air carried a strange mix: old paper burned into ash decades ago, wet cement from new foundations being poured, and the acrid tang of plasma scorches still blackening the walls from recent skirmishes.
Sturges had taken center stage, his voice carrying like the bark of a foreman who'd spent a lifetime turning wrecks into something resembling homes. He had a piece of chalk in one hand, the stub barely the length of his thumb, and he used it to mark lines across the broken concrete floor. Around him stood not just soldiers but carpenters, machinists, even a handful of settlers who had volunteered, all craning to see the plans sketched out with that chalk.
"Alright, listen up, y'all," Sturges said, crouching to thump the chalk against the jagged floor. "This here line? That's where the new wall's gonna run. Reinforced concrete, steel rebar inside, backed with sandbags where we can. Don't have enough prefab panels, so we're makin' do with what we got. That means the wrecked faculty building over there? Strip it. Every usable beam, every plate of steel, I want it hauled here."
He jabbed the chalk toward the west wing — a collapsed mess of stone and twisted girders that once housed lecture halls. A couple of workers nodded grimly, already setting about with pry bars and torches.
Sico stood nearby, not interfering but watching with that calm intensity of his — arms folded, head tilted slightly as though measuring not just walls but futures. His coat fluttered faintly in the evening breeze that came crawling through broken windows, and his eyes tracked every movement. For him, this wasn't just construction. This was survival. This was the foundation of something larger than even the Freemasons could yet see.
Preston was at his side, his expression carrying that soldier's balance between pride in seeing civilians hard at work and worry for the men and women under his command. The Minutemen colors on his coat seemed to catch the last strands of daylight filtering through the fractured glass above.
Sico broke the silence first. His voice was steady, but there was a weight beneath it — the kind that made Preston turn immediately, already bracing himself for an order.
"Preston," Sico said, his eyes still on the workers. "The wounded here… some of them aren't going to make it if we keep them in these ruins. Too much dust, too much noise, and not nearly enough hands to treat them right."
Preston gave a slow nod. He'd been thinking the same thing, watching the makeshift med tents sagging under their own patchwork canvas, hearing the coughs and groans of the injured bleed into the night. "I know," he said quietly. "We've done what we can, but this place isn't a hospital. It's a battlefield with walls going up."
"Exactly," Sico replied. His gaze finally slid from the workers to Preston, sharp and decisive now. "I want two trucks prepared. The wounded who can't be stabilized here — load them up. Sanctuary's got the facilities, the clean space, the doctors. That's where they'll have a fighting chance."
Preston's brows furrowed as he ran through the logistics in his head. "Two trucks… that'll carry about thirty, maybe thirty-five if we push it. But that's a long run across Commonwealth roads. Raiders, ambushes… hell, the Brotherhood themselves could decide to take a swipe if they think we're moving assets."
"That's why I want two Humvees as escort," Sico said without hesitation. "Armed, fueled, ready to ride shotgun all the way. No detours, no stragglers. If anyone thinks they can prey on our wounded, they'll find out fast what it means to cross us."
Preston allowed himself the faintest of smiles — not of amusement, but of recognition. This was Sico at his most unflinching: protective, sharp-edged, and unwilling to leave anyone behind. "I'll see to it," Preston said. "We'll have them staged by dawn."
Sico gave a firm nod, then reached for the field radio clipped at his belt. The old metal crackled faintly as he tuned it, his fingers deft despite the scratches and grime. He held the receiver to his mouth and pressed the switch.
"Sarah, this is Sico. Do you copy?"
Static filled the air for a long moment, punctuated by the grind of machinery somewhere deeper in the ruins. Then the line hissed and cleared, and Sarah's voice came through — a little fuzzy, but strong. "Copy, Sico. Go ahead."
He cast one last glance at Preston, then spoke, his voice calm but carrying that undertone of urgency only she would catch. "We're sending wounded back your way. Two trucks, two escorts. They'll be carrying the ones we can't treat here — some critical, some stable but fragile. I want you to prepare Sanctuary to receive them. Clear the main road in, post extra guards, and get the hospital ready to take them the second they arrive."
There was a pause on the other end, then Sarah's reply came, steadier now, her tone shifting into the sharp clarity of command. "Understood. I'll have the med team standing by at the gate. We'll move them straight to triage, then sort them by priority. You'll have no delays, I promise."
Sico exhaled softly, just enough to ease the edge of tension in his shoulders. "Good. Time matters on this one. Some of them won't last another night in these ruins."
The radio hissed once, then Sarah's voice softened — just for a beat. "We'll take care of them, Sico. I'll see to it myself."
He gave the faintest nod, though she couldn't see it, then clipped the radio back to his belt.
Preston shifted beside him, already making a mental list of drivers, gunners, and medics to assign to the convoy. "We'll need to load them carefully," he said. "No rough roads, no sudden stops if we can avoid it. I'll pick the best we've got."
"Do it," Sico replied. His eyes flicked back toward the med tents, where lamplight spilled through thin canvas, illuminating silhouettes of men and women stretched out on cots. Their moans carried faintly on the air, each one a reminder that time was the enemy as much as bullets or Brotherhood steel.
For a moment, Sico let himself stand there in the ruins of what had once been a place of learning — now scarred into a fortress, into a hope for survival. Around him, the clang of hammers and the whine of saws echoed. Sparks from welding torches lit the darkness like fireflies. The Freemasons were building something that would outlast the dust, but the cost was written on every weary face, every body laid out waiting for the ride home.
He set his jaw, straightened his shoulders, and turned back toward Preston. "Let's make sure we don't lose any more than we already have."
The night had deepened by the time Sico walked the short stretch of broken pavement toward the med tents. The clang of tools and the hammering of steel still echoed through the ruins, but here the sound was softened, muffled by the low canvas and the weight of suffering inside. Lanterns burned low, casting a yellow glow that blurred the edges of shadow and light.
Inside, the air was heavy with antiseptic and blood. It smelled of sweat and damp cloth, the metallic tang of used instruments, and the faint sweetness of chems that dulled pain but never quite silenced it.
Doctors moved among the cots with quiet efficiency. Some were settlers who'd learned medicine the hard way; others were wastelanders pulled from every corner of the Commonwealth who had thrown their lot in with the Freemasons because they believed in something more than survival. Their voices were hushed but firm — murmured reassurances, quick instructions, the occasional sharp order when a patient's condition worsened suddenly.
Sico stepped inside, and the conversations dipped for a moment. Eyes turned toward him, measuring, weighing, but he didn't raise his voice or demand their attention. He simply nodded once to the nearest doctor — an older woman with streaks of white in her hair, her hands still stained from stitching wounds — and spoke in a tone low enough not to disturb the patients.
"Start choosing," he said. "The ones who need Sanctuary most. Critical, fragile, or anyone you know won't last another two days here."
The doctor's eyes flicked toward the rows of cots, her expression tight, weary. "That's not going to be an easy call."
"It never is," Sico replied. His voice carried no judgment, only the weight of inevitability. "But you know your patients better than anyone. Sanctuary's waiting. Make the list, and we'll move them."
She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded sharply and moved off, gathering two others to help her. Together they began the grim task of sorting through the wounded.
Sico lingered, walking between the rows of cots. Faces stared back at him: some pale and fevered, some clenched in pain, some too still. A young man clutched his side, bandages already dark with blood; his lips moved in silent prayer. A woman missing an arm whispered lullabies to herself, her voice thin and cracked but steady. A boy — no older than sixteen — lay curled in a blanket, his eyes wide and glassy, watching everything with the hollow look of someone who had seen more death than life.
For each, Sico felt the same weight. Not pity, not detached command, but something heavier — responsibility. They were here because he had brought them into this fight. And now he had to make sure at least some of them had a chance to see daylight again.
Behind him, Preston's boots crunched over rubble. He stopped just outside the tent, not wanting to intrude on the fragile quiet, but his voice carried in low. "Convoy's coming together. Trucks fueled, Humvees armed and ready. I've got Matthews driving the lead, Geller taking the second. Both steady hands, won't panic on rough roads."
"Good," Sico said without turning. "And escorts?"
"Rodriguez and Haines," Preston answered. "Best gunners we've got. They'll ride the Humvees. I'll assign medics in each truck too. They'll keep people alive until Sanctuary."
Sico gave a short nod, the closest thing to approval he ever offered in moments like this.
By then, the doctors had begun marking patients. A piece of red cloth tied around the wrist meant transport. White meant they stayed behind. The decisions were brutal — sometimes a matter of hours, sometimes a gamble.
The old doctor approached Sico again, her hands trembling just faintly. "We've marked thirty-two," she said. "Some are stable enough to survive the ride. Some…" She hesitated, swallowing. "…some may not make it even if they reach Sanctuary. But they'll have a chance there they don't have here."
Sico's jaw tightened, but he gave only one reply: "Load them carefully. No one gets tossed around like cargo."
Word spread quickly, and the tent filled with a different kind of sound — not just the moans of pain, but the soft weight of goodbyes. Those staying behind reached out to clasp hands, to share words that might be their last. A man with a shattered leg gripped the arm of his comrade who was being tagged for transport, their foreheads pressed together in silent farewell. A mother kissed her unconscious son's brow before the medics lifted him, whispering, "I'll be here when you come back."
One young woman tried to refuse, clawing at the red cloth tied around her wrist. "I can't leave," she insisted, her voice breaking. "My brother's still here. I can't just—"
The doctor crouched beside her, speaking softly but firmly. "You'll see him again if you go. If you stay, infection will kill you before he ever does."
The girl sobbed, torn between duty and survival, until finally Sico stepped forward. He knelt down, his eyes level with hers.
"You'll do more for him by living," he said, his voice calm, steady. "Go to Sanctuary. Heal. When you're strong, you'll see him again — and you'll both keep fighting."
Her eyes filled with tears, but she nodded at last. The medic helped her to her feet, and she leaned heavily against them as they guided her toward the waiting trucks.
Outside, Preston oversaw the loading. The trucks sat near the shattered courtyard, engines idling, their paint dulled by years of dust and war. Soldiers lifted stretchers carefully, laying them across the benches inside. Others helped the more stable wounded climb in, steadying them with firm hands and murmured encouragement.
The Humvees rumbled nearby, mounted guns gleaming in the lamplight, crews checking ammo belts and radios. The night smelled of fuel and sweat, of determination and fear.
Farewells continued, raw and unguarded. Friends embraced, promising to see each other again. Some exchanged keepsakes — a ring, a scrap of cloth, a photo worn at the edges. One man pressed a battered holotape into his friend's hand. "Play it if I don't come back," he whispered.
Sico moved among them, not as a commander now but as something heavier — a witness. He clasped hands, met eyes, spoke words when silence wasn't enough. He reminded them of why they fought, of the home they were building, of the promise that Sanctuary was more than just a name.
When the last stretcher was secured, Preston approached him again, his face grim but steady. "They're ready."
Sico stood still for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over the convoy — the trucks heavy with the wounded, the Humvees bristling with weapons, the soldiers poised for the long road ahead.
Then he stepped forward, his voice rising just enough to carry over the courtyard.
"You're not cargo. You're not burdens. You are the reason we fight. Sanctuary waits for you, and so do we. Hold fast. Survive. We will see you home again."
The words hung in the air, not flowery, not rehearsed, but raw enough that even the most stoic soldier bowed his head.
Preston raised his hand, signaling the drivers. Engines roared louder, headlights cutting across the ruins. The convoy began to roll out, wheels crunching over broken stone, carrying thirty-two lives into the uncertain night.
The convoy rolled into the night with the slow groan of engines pushed to their limits. Diesel fumes clung to the air, mingling with the acrid bite of gun oil and the faint copper tang of blood that still lingered from the loading. Every headlight beam cut wide, casting jagged shadows across ruined walls and the skeletal remains of houses that lined the Commonwealth's roads.
Preston rode shotgun in the lead Humvee, rifle balanced across his lap, eyes fixed on the shifting darkness ahead. His hand tapped rhythmically against the door, not from nerves but from the constant calculation of distance, terrain, and danger. In the driver's seat, Matthews kept both hands clenched on the wheel, his jaw locked, steering the heavy vehicle around collapsed sections of asphalt and jagged rebar that jutted like teeth from the earth.
Behind them, the first truck rattled and groaned under the weight of its passengers. Inside, the wounded lay as still as their injuries allowed. Some were conscious, their faces pale, hands gripping the bench or the edge of a blanket whenever the wheels bounced into a pothole. Others floated in the haze of chems, drifting in and out of consciousness. A few had eyes wide open but unfocused, staring not at the canvas ceiling above but at memories that clung like ghosts.
Rodriguez manned the turret of the second Humvee, his figure a dark silhouette against the sweep of headlights behind. He swept the mounted gun from left to right in steady arcs, scanning rooftops, alleys, treelines — anywhere raiders or worse could be waiting. His partner, Haines, crouched beside him, binoculars pressed to his face, lips moving as he muttered bearings and shapes spotted in the gloom.
The Commonwealth at night was never truly silent. Even here, away from the worst of the city, the wind carried echoes: the distant crack of gunfire, the sharp yelp of feral dogs, the low moan of something larger and far more unsettling roaming beyond sight. Every sound carried with it the question: was it coming closer?
The convoy slowed as they reached a narrow bridge, half its surface collapsed into the river below. Matthews cursed under his breath but didn't stop. He angled the Humvee carefully, tires crunching over the narrow strip of cracked pavement that still held. Water glistened beneath the headlights, black and fast-moving. One wrong turn, and the truck behind would slide into the current with its fragile cargo.
"Steady," Preston murmured, eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror. He could see the first truck inching forward, medics inside bracing the stretchers so the wounded wouldn't shift. A woman clutched the rail above her, whispering a prayer through clenched teeth as the wheels ground over the broken edge.
The truck made it. Then the second Humvee. Then the final truck. When the last vehicle thumped back onto solid asphalt, the tension eased, but no one spoke.
Further along, the headlights caught movement at the edge of the road — shapes darting between trees. Haines' voice rang sharp through the comms. "Contact left, multiple."
Rodriguez swung the turret immediately, the heavy weapon whining as it shifted. Preston raised his rifle, peering into the dark.
For a breath, nothing happened. Then a figure burst from the treeline — a ghoul, its skin stretched tight, jaw working soundlessly as it scrambled toward the convoy. Rodriguez didn't hesitate. The mounted gun thundered once, and the ghoul disintegrated in a spray of dust and limbs. More followed — half a dozen — charging wildly out of the dark.
The convoy roared back to life. Matthews slammed his foot on the pedal, Humvee lurching forward. Trucks rattled, engines howling, as the drivers pushed for speed. Gunfire erupted — Rodriguez cutting down ghouls in controlled bursts, Preston leaning out his window to fire precise shots. Behind, soldiers in the second truck added their own rifles to the storm, muzzles flashing in the night.
One ghoul managed to scramble onto the back of the last truck, clawing at the canvas flap. The wounded inside screamed. A medic swung a pipe wrench with desperate force, striking the creature's head again and again until it finally tumbled off into the dirt.
Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it ended. The road stretched empty again, bodies strewn in the headlights' glow, and the sound of the convoy's engines swallowed the silence.
They drove harder after that, no one daring to relax. Every bump in the road jolted the wounded, drawing groans or sharp cries, but the medics worked tirelessly — pressing hands to wounds, adjusting straps, whispering words of reassurance even as sweat slicked their brows.
It was hours before the lights of Sanctuary flickered in the distance. The walls, reinforced with steel and watchtowers, loomed like a promise. Lanterns burned at the gates, where Sarah Lyons stood waiting, armored but bare-headed, her blonde hair catching the glow.
The convoy slowed, engines sputtering as they pulled through the gates. Guards raised their rifles in salute before rushing forward to help unload. The air shifted immediately — from the tension of survival to the hurried urgency of care.
"Move them straight to triage!" Sarah barked, her voice sharp but steady. Medics from Sanctuary surged forward, stretching out arms to catch stretchers as they were unloaded. The courtyard filled with motion — shouts, the clatter of boots, the squeal of wheels as carts were rushed toward the medical wing.
Sico wasn't there — he'd stayed at the front — but Sarah carried his presence in her stance, in the way she steadied each man and woman who stumbled from the trucks. She touched shoulders, spoke names, gave orders like a commander and comfort like a sister.
Inside Sanctuary's medical hall, Curie was already waiting. She'd donned her lab coat over combat fatigues, her dark hair tied back tight, eyes sharp with focus. As the first stretcher came through the door, she moved without hesitation — hands already gloved, instruments ready.
"Here, vite!" she called, her accent thickening with urgency. "This one is bleeding internally. Set him there, I will stabilize."
She worked like a storm, her voice steady even when her hands moved faster than sight. Chems were administered with practiced precision, wounds cleaned and dressed, improvised equipment used with the finesse of someone who saw no barrier between human medicine and wasteland improvisation.
But it wasn't just her skill that filled the hall. It was her presence. She bent low to meet each patient's eyes, whispering to them in tones soft and unshakable. "You will not die tonight. Not here. Not while I am your doctor."
One boy, barely sixteen, whimpered as medics laid him out, a jagged wound across his chest. Curie's hand pressed firm to stem the bleeding, but her voice was soft as she leaned close. "You are brave, mon petit. Stay with me. Think of your maman, yes? She would want you to fight."
Through the night, Curie did not stop. Neither did Sarah, who moved constantly between the hall and the courtyard, coordinating supplies, pulling in fresh linens, even carrying buckets of water when hands grew scarce. She was commander, nurse, and shield all in one, her armor smudged with blood that wasn't hers.
By dawn, the worst of the wounded had been stabilized. Some had been lost — no convoy could save everyone — but more had lived than any had dared hope. The air in the hall shifted from frantic motion to exhausted relief, the kind that came only when the sun's light revealed the faces still breathing.
When Sarah finally found a moment, she slipped into a quiet corner and activated her comms. Static crackled before Sico's voice came through, low and edged with fatigue.
"Report."
Sarah drew in a long breath before answering. "The convoy made it. Thirty-two wounded delivered. We lost three on the road, but the rest…" Her voice faltered just slightly, then steadied. "…the rest are alive. Curie hasn't left their side since they came in. She's giving them everything she's got — chems, skill, attention. She's even working cases herself that should take three doctors. If they survive — and I think they will — it's because of her."
There was silence on the line for a beat, the kind that carried more weight than words. Then Sico's voice came back, quieter than before.
"Good. Tell her… tell her I'll remember that."
Sarah closed her eyes, leaning against the wall, her body aching but her spirit steadier. "I'll tell her. And Sico… you should know — they believe in this. All of them. Even the ones who barely made it through the gate. They see Sanctuary not just as a place, but as proof. Proof we can do more than survive."
Another pause. Then, softly, almost like a vow: "Then we'll make sure it lasts."
The comms crackled for a moment before Sico's voice cut through again, firmer now, less like a weary commander and more like someone who had found his resolve in the weight of Sarah's words.
"Sarah," he said, "tell Preston I want him back at the C.I.T. Ruins as soon as he's rested enough to drive. Not just the Humvees—he'll take the trucks too. But this time, they won't be carrying the wounded. They'll carry supplies. Food. Water. Ammunition. Building materials. Medical stock. Everything Sanctuary can spare."
Sarah straightened from the wall, exhaustion still heavy in her bones but tempered by the steel in Sico's tone. "Understood," she replied. Her voice was quieter, but it carried the certainty of someone who would see it done.
"Make sure it's enough to matter," Sico added. "Our people at the ruins don't just need to hold—they need to build. If they see the walls rising, if they see rations stacked instead of dwindling, if they see crates of ammo ready for the next fight… then they'll know we're not just bleeding out in the ruins. They'll know we're pushing forward."
Sarah nodded, though he couldn't see it. "I'll get it done. Preston will take them back at first light."
"Good," Sico said, and then his voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "And Sarah… thank you. For all of it."
The line went dead, leaving Sarah alone in the corridor, the low hum of generators filling the silence. For a long moment, she just stood there, letting the weight of it settle — the night's blood, the survivors, the orders, the future. Then she pushed off the wall and strode back into the hall, armor still marked with the red-brown of dried blood.
By midmorning, Preston stood in the courtyard of Sanctuary, his arms crossed as he watched the trucks being reloaded. The air smelled of woodsmoke from the cookfires and fresh mud from last night's rain, but beneath it all lingered the sharper tang of oil and metal — the smell of preparation.
The same trucks that had carried thirty-two fragile lives through the dark now stood open to receive a different kind of weight. Wooden crates of canned food and dried meat were stacked carefully inside, tied down with ropes so they wouldn't shift on rough roads. Barrels of clean water — purified by Sanctuary's filters — were rolled up planks and wedged between boxes.
On another cart, ammunition was loaded in sealed tins, the stenciled labels barely legible after years of rust but the rounds inside polished clean. Beside them went crates of nails, steel plates scavenged from ruins, rolls of wire, and sacks of cement mix that left gray dust on every pair of hands that touched them.
The final cart carried the medical stock. Sarah herself oversaw that loading, checking every crate before it was hauled into the truck. Bandages, antiseptic, chems, spare surgical tools — all packed tight, all labeled. Curie had come out of the hall just long enough to press a small satchel into Sarah's hands, filled with vials and medicines she had brewed herself overnight.
"These are delicate," Curie had said, her voice clipped from exhaustion but still precise. "Handle them with care, s'il vous plaît. Some are experimental, but if used correctly, they may save lives no other supply can."
Sarah had promised her they would be delivered intact.
Now Preston watched it all with the unblinking eyes of a man who had learned long ago that a single missed rope, a single loose crate, could mean the difference between a convoy making it through or spilling its lifeline across the Commonwealth. His men moved with quiet discipline, every step purposeful.
At his side, Sarah approached, helmet tucked under her arm. "Supplies are nearly loaded," she said. "Food, water, ammunition, building materials, medical stock. It's everything Sico asked for."
Preston gave a short nod. "Good. He's right — they'll need it. You can't fight a war if your stomach's empty or if the walls around you crumble with the first blast."
"You'll be leading it?" Sarah asked.
He looked at her, and though his face was stern, there was no hesitation. "I'll take the trucks back myself. Matthews and Geller will drive again, same as before. Rodriguez and Haines on escort. They've proven they can handle the road."
"And you?"
"I'll ride the lead again." His jaw tightened slightly. "If anything comes at us, I'd rather it hit me first than the men behind me."
Sarah studied him for a long moment. She saw the weight he carried — the quiet willingness to put himself between his people and the darkness. She had seen it before, in others she had fought beside, but in Preston it was different. It was quieter, steadier. Not born of glory, but of duty.
"Then I'll trust you with this," she said finally. "Bring it through. They're counting on you."
Preston gave her the smallest of smiles, almost hidden beneath his weariness. "They always are."
The convoy rolled out of Sanctuary by noon. The gates swung wide, guards saluting as the trucks rumbled past. Children leaned from windows to wave, their small hands fluttering like flags in the wind. Settlers paused in their work to watch, some whispering prayers, others simply standing in silence, their eyes following the lifeline leaving their walls.
Sarah stood at the gate until the last Humvee passed, her hand lifted in a silent salute. Only when the sound of engines had faded into the distance did she turn back, her mind already on the tasks ahead — tending the wounded, preparing for the next arrival, and waiting for Sico's call.
On the road, the trucks moved slower than they had the night before, their heavy loads groaning with every bump. Preston sat forward in his seat, rifle balanced once again across his lap, eyes scanning the horizon. The danger hadn't lessened just because the cargo had changed. If anything, it was worse now. Raiders would fight savagely for supplies like these.
________________________________________________
• 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:-