If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And across the distance, Nicola sat waiting as the people inside were unaware that by this time tomorrow, everything inside it would be different.
Dawn came quietly.
It always did in the Commonwealth.
No matter how much tension lived in the air the night before, no matter how many plans had been made in hushed voices under lantern light, the sun still rose the same way it always had that slowly, steadily, pushing pale gold through the gray of early morning.
But this dawn felt different.
Because everyone at the FOB knew what it meant.
Long before the sun touched the horizon, the FOB was already awake.
No shouting.
No chaos.
Just movement.
Disciplined. Controlled. Purposeful.
Soldiers checked their gear in near silence with magazines seated, safeties tested, straps tightened, helmets adjusted. Engineers moved between vehicles, running final diagnostics on engines, treads, comms relays.
The two Sentinel Tanks assigned to Sico's main assault group stood like quiet giants near the front line, their heavy frames outlined in dim pre-dawn light. Crew members moved around them, running gloved hands across plating, checking joints, testing turret rotation with slow, careful turns.
Beside them, four Humvees idled low, engines barely rumbling, headlights off, silhouettes barely visible in the darkness.
To the south, further along the tree line, Preston's force mirrored the same quiet preparation.
Another hundred soldiers.
Another pair of Sentinel Tanks.
Another four Humvees.
Different approach.
Same purpose.
Inside the FOB's command center, Sarah stood with the comms team, multiple channels open across her tablet, headset resting around her neck, one hand already hovering near the transmit control.
"Check channel one," she said softly.
"Channel one clear," a technician replied.
"Channel two."
"Clear."
"Air band?"
"Clear. Callahan standing by."
Sarah nodded once.
"Keep it that way," she said. "No chatter unless it's operational."
Across the FOB, Sico stood beside his own column, helmet under his arm, looking out toward Nicola.
It sat in the distance, still quiet.
Still unaware.
He took a slow breath.
Then put his helmet on.
Hours earlier, while most of the FOB prepared for the morning, two shadows had already moved through Nicola's outskirts.
Robert and MacCready.
Commandos at their backs.
They had entered under the cover of full darkness, slipping through the gaps in Nicola's outer perimeter with places they had already mapped, already tested, already confirmed.
No gunfire.
No alarms.
Just silent movement.
Inside, Nicola was different at night.
Less structured.
Less guarded.
Militia rotated shifts with uneven discipline. Patrols overlapped in some places and left blind spots in others.
The commandos used those gaps.
They moved through narrow alleys, between scrap-built structures, across rooftops where they could.
They reached the civilian sectors first.
Quiet knocks.
Soft voices.
"Freemasons. We're here to help. Stay calm. At first light, move when you hear the signal."
Fear in the eyes of the people.
Confusion.
But also hope.
Because they had heard the rumors.
They had heard that Sico gave chances.
That he didn't slaughter settlements.
That he rebuilt them.
So they listened.
And they waited.
By the time the first gray light began to bleed into the sky, Robert and MacCready's commandos were already positioned across Nicola.
Some guiding civilians.
Some marking safe routes.
Some watching Kevin's command center.
Waiting.
Back at the FOB, the eastern horizon began to glow.
Not bright yet.
Just enough.
Just enough for shapes to be seen.
For formations to move.
For an operation to begin.
Sico stepped forward.
He looked once more at his officers.
At Preston's distant column to the south.
At the faint shape of Nicola ahead.
Then he raised his hand.
And dropped it.
"Move."
Engines came alive.
Not in a roar.
In a controlled surge of sound.
The two Sentinel Tanks at Sico's front began to roll forward first, their heavy treads biting into the earth, leaving deep, deliberate tracks behind them.
Behind them, the four Humvees followed, then the 200 soldiers of the main force moving in organized formation around the vehicles.
To the south, Preston's column began to move at the same time.
100 soldiers.
Two Sentinel Tanks.
Four Humvees.
Their path angled toward Nicola's southern barricade.
Above it all, the air shifted.
The unmistakable thrum of vertibird rotors cutting through the morning sky.
Callahan's voice came over the command net.
"Air wing in position," he said. "Two birds on overwatch. Holding altitude. Weapons cold."
Sico responded calmly.
"Maintain visual. Engage only on my order."
"Copy that."
At the FOB, Sarah tracked every movement.
"Main column advancing," she said into the comms. "Southern column advancing. Commandos in position. Civilian sectors ready."
Her eyes flicked between screens.
Every icon.
Every signal.
Every movement.
Inside Nicola, the first signs of something wrong came not from the sky, but from the ground.
Militia on early watch noticed movement at the horizon.
Shapes.
Vehicles.
Lines of soldiers.
The alarm spread quickly.
Voices shouting.
Boots running.
Weapons grabbed.
By the time the sun broke over the horizon fully, Nicola was awake.
And they saw them.
The Freemasons Republic army.
From the front.
From the south.
And above them.
Vertibirds circling in controlled arcs, watching.
The main gate of Nicola was a reinforced structure of scrap metal, welded plating, and barricades layered with whatever materials Kevin's forces had managed to gather.
Behind it, militia scrambled into position.
Rifles up.
Some steady.
Some shaking.
Inside one of the towers, a lookout shouted down.
"They're coming straight at us!"
And they were.
Sico's 200 soldiers moved in clear formation behind the Sentinel Tanks, not charging blindly, not sprinting that advancing with calm, visible confidence.
Not hiding their numbers.
Not disguising their strength.
The message was clear.
This was not a raid.
This was a reclamation.
One of Kevin's lieutenants appeared on the wall above the gate, shouting orders.
"Hold positions! Don't fire until they get closer!"
His voice carried tension.
Because he could see what they were up against.
Two Sentinel Tanks.
Four Humvees.
Two hundred trained soldiers.
And above them.
Air support.
At the southern barricade, Preston's force appeared just as suddenly.
From the tree line, through the low ground.
Their Sentinel Tanks rolled forward with the same steady momentum.
Preston walked at the front, not behind the vehicles, not hiding from the line of fire.
Leading.
Visible.
His soldiers followed in perfect formation.
Weapons ready, but not firing.
Not yet.
From the southern wall, militia scrambled to respond, shouting to each other, trying to coordinate with the main gate.
But confusion was already setting in.
Two fronts.
One command structure.
Too much pressure.
At the same time, Robert and MacCready's commandos began their part of the operation.
Civilians were guided out of key zones.
Families were moved into safer buildings, into basements, into marked safe corridors.
"Stay here. Stay low. Don't come out until we tell you."
Some cried.
Some clutched their children.
But they listened.
Because the commandos spoke calmly.
Clearly.
And with a confidence that steadied people.
Once the civilian zones were secured, Robert gave the signal.
"Phase two," he whispered.
And the commandos shifted their focus.
Toward Kevin.
At the FOB, Sarah's voice remained steady over the comms.
"All units, this is command. Civilian corridors secured. No-fire zones active in sectors three, four, and six."
"Copy," came the responses from multiple units.
"Air wing, hold position. No engagement until ordered."
"Copy," Callahan replied.
Sarah looked at Sico's marker on the map.
Then Preston's.
Then the commandos.
Everything was moving as planned.
So far.
At the main gate, tension reached its breaking point.
One of Kevin's militia that young, scared, hands shaking as he saw the Sentinel Tanks getting closer.
Too close.
He fired.
The shot cracked through the morning air.
And everything changed.
Sico didn't flinch.
He had expected it.
"Shields up," he said calmly into the comm.
The Sentinel Tanks at the front activated their forward plating positions, absorbing the incoming small-arms fire that began to follow that first shot.
More militia opened fire.
From the walls.
From the towers.
From behind barricades.
A scattered, panicked volley.
Sico raised his hand slightly.
"Advance," he said.
And his forces moved.
The Freemasons soldiers returned fire, but not wildly.
Not indiscriminately.
Controlled shots.
Targeting weapons.
Targeting barricade positions.
Disabling, not slaughtering.
The Humvees rolled to flanking positions, their mounted guns firing controlled bursts to suppress the walls that not to destroy them.
Above, the vertibirds shifted position, maintaining overwatch but still holding their fire.
Callahan's voice came through again.
"Multiple hostile positions identified. Awaiting engagement order."
"Stand by," Sico replied.
At the southern front, Preston's force encountered the same breaking point.
Militia fire began from the barricades.
Preston raised his arm.
"Return fire. Controlled. Push forward."
His soldiers moved with the same discipline.
Step by step.
Breaking the southern defense line without turning it into chaos.
For a few moments after the first exchange of fire, there was still a thin chance that fragile, shrinking, but present as Nicola's defenders might stabilize.
You could feel it in the way some of the militia clung to their positions, backs pressed against scrap barricades, fingers tight on their triggers. You could see it in the lieutenants shouting from the wall, trying to force order into a line that was already starting to bend.
And then, from the center of Nicola, came the order.
It carried through the inner streets first that shouted from runner to runner, then taken up by radios where they still functioned.
"Deploy the Sentinels! All mobile units to the front! Now!"
Inside the settlement, engines roared to life.
Not the low, controlled rumble of Sico's disciplined columns.
These were harsher sounds.
Engines revved too high.
Gears grinding.
Metal clanking against metal.
But they were moving.
Two Sentinel Tanks, that they stole from Freemasons, lurched into motion from the central yard.
Behind them came a six of Humvees, mounted guns rattling as they bounced over uneven ground.
And then the Growlers.
Lean, aggressive motorcycles with sidecar-mounted machine guns, their riders hunched forward, goggles down, scarves pulled tight against the dust.
They tore through Nicola's inner streets, engines screaming, weaving past buildings, past civilians huddled behind walls, past the commandos who watched them pass from the shadows without yet revealing themselves.
The militia leader's hope was simple.
If he could reinforce both fronts fast enough.
If he could show strength.
If he could push the Freemasons back even a few meters.
Then maybe.
Maybe his people would hold.
Maybe the line would stop bending.
Maybe Kevin's vision would survive the morning.
At the main gate, Sico's advance had just broken through the outer barricade.
The bent metal of the gate still groaned as it settled into the ground, pushed inward by the weight of the Freemasons' Sentinel Tanks.
Sico stepped through that opening with his soldiers flowing around him, disciplined lines spreading into the first streets of Nicola.
Then the sound reached them.
Heavy engines.
Approaching fast.
One of Sico's forward scouts called out over the comm.
"Contact, enemy armor inbound from central sector. Two Sentinel-class units, plus light vehicles and fast attack bikes."
Sico's eyes narrowed slightly behind his visor.
He had expected something like this.
"Forward tanks, hold position," he said calmly. "Prepare for counter-armor engagement. Infantry, spread formation. Do not cluster."
His soldiers responded instantly, fanning out into the wider street, taking positions behind debris, behind corners, behind whatever cover the broken city could offer.
Then the militia Sentinels appeared.
They came through the smoke and dust of Nicola's inner roads, engines roaring louder than they needed to, guns already swiveling, looking for targets.
Behind them, the Humvees rattled forward, mounted guns beginning to fire in bursts that wild at first, then trying to correct.
And the Growlers.
They were the fastest.
They burst past the heavier vehicles, sidecar gunners opening up as they rode, spraying rounds down the street in long, aggressive lines.
For a split second, the street filled with noise.
Gunfire.
Engines.
Metal.
But what it did not fill with.
Sico's voice cut cleanly through the comm.
"Target tracks and weapon mounts. Disable. Do not overcommit."
His forward Sentinel Tanks moved first.
Not charging.
Not rushing.
They adjusted position slightly, giving themselves clear lines of sight down the street.
Then they fired.
Two controlled shots.
Precise.
The first militia Sentinel took the hit across its forward track assembly. Metal screamed as the joint snapped under the impact, the heavy machine lurching violently to one side, its forward momentum collapsing into a grinding halt.
The second Freemasons tank shifted aim and fired again as this time into the weapon mount of the second militia Sentinel. The gun assembly sparked, twisted, and jammed at an unnatural angle, leaving the machine mobile but effectively disarmed.
The difference in discipline showed in seconds.
The militia machines had entered loud and aggressive.
The Freemasons machines answered with precision.
Behind them, Sico's infantry began their work.
Controlled bursts.
Short, accurate fire that struck Humvee gunners, forced Growler riders to veer off or abandon their mounts, disabled engines rather than shredding everything in sight.
One Growler skidded out of control, its driver thrown clear, the sidecar gunner scrambling away, disoriented but alive.
Another tried to swing wide down a side street that only to find two Freemasons soldiers already positioned there, weapons raised, ordering the riders down.
At the center of it all, Sico watched.
Not detached.
Not cold.
But focused.
Every movement mattered.
Every decision shaped what Nicola would look like when this was over.
At the southern barricade, Preston's force encountered the militia reinforcements almost at the same moment.
The second militia Sentinel unit rolled into view from behind the inner structures, trying to push toward the breach where Preston's soldiers had begun to dismantle the barricade.
"Armor inbound," one of Preston's sergeants called.
Preston lifted his chin slightly, watching the approach.
He could see the difference.
The militia machines were loud.
Uncoordinated.
They were reacting.
His forces were not reacting.
They were executing.
"Forward tanks," Preston said into the comm. "Intercept. Disable the lead unit. Infantry, maintain pressure on the barricade."
His two Sentinel Tanks shifted forward, their heavy frames angling just enough to create a crossfire lane.
When the militia Sentinel came into that lane.
They fired.
The shot struck low, exactly where the suspension met the track housing.
The militia machine buckled.
Momentum died.
It tried to keep moving, engine roaring louder as if noise alone could carry it forward, but the damaged track dragged, twisted, and finally gave out entirely.
Behind it, the militia Humvees attempted to flank, mounted guns rattling, Growlers weaving between them in erratic, aggressive paths.
Preston stepped forward slightly, raising his hand.
"Focus fire. Vehicles first. Riders second. Keep your lines."
His soldiers responded with calm efficiency.
Humvee engines were hit.
Growlers forced off course.
One by one, the militia's mobile reinforcement lost cohesion, their advance slowing, then stalling, then beginning to falter.
Still, the militia fought.
They didn't collapse instantly.
Some of them held their ground behind the damaged vehicles, firing back with everything they had, trying to keep Preston's line from advancing further.
And Preston respected that.
Even as he moved forward, even as his soldiers pressed the advantage, he could see the difference between the ones who believed and the ones who were just trying to survive.
Within Nicola itself, the arrival of the militia reinforcements had been meant to inspire confidence.
For a moment.
It did.
Civilians watching from behind shuttered windows saw their own tanks roll out, their own vehicles surge forward, their own fighters racing toward the front.
There was a flicker of hope.
But then the sounds began to change.
Instead of a steady push forward.
There were impacts.
Explosions of metal on metal.
Engines stuttering.
Guns going silent.
And then, slowly, unmistakably.
Retreat.
Not a full collapse.
Not yet.
But small steps backward.
Militia falling back from the main gate streets, pulling wounded with them, dragging disabled equipment aside.
At the southern front, the same pattern.
Positions that had been held moments before were given up meter by meter as Preston's forces advanced in disciplined lines.
The reinforcements had arrived.
But they hadn't turned the tide.
They had only slowed it.
For a handful of long, grinding minutes, Nicola held in that fragile balance with militia fighters pulling back step by step, Freemasons soldiers pressing forward with measured discipline, the air thick with dust, smoke, and the echo of gunfire bouncing between metal walls.
Sico stood just behind the forward line at the main gate street, boots planted on broken concrete, visor angled slightly upward as he listened—not just to the comms, but to the battle itself.
He could hear the change.
Not in the volume.
In the rhythm.
The militia's fire was becoming uneven. Bursts too long. Pauses too wide. Shots fired from positions that had already been abandoned.
Momentum was slipping out of their hands.
And Sico knew exactly what that meant.
They were at the point where a push would break them.
Or give them space to regroup.
He lifted his hand to his comm.
"Command to air wing," he said calmly. "Status."
Above Nicola, the eight vertibirds held their circular overwatch pattern, rotors chopping steadily through the morning air. Inside the lead craft, Callahan leaned forward in his seat, eyes tracking the movement below through the targeting scope.
"We have visual on both fronts," he replied. "Enemy units withdrawing in disorganized lines. Multiple concentrations along main avenue and southern corridor. Weapons still active."
Sico watched one of the militia Humvees reverse too quickly, nearly colliding with a Growler trying to turn around in the same street.
That was all the confirmation he needed.
"Callahan," Sico said, voice steady, "initiate suppression. Miniguns only. Target weapon positions and vehicle clusters. Push them back. Do not engage civilian sectors."
There was no hesitation in the response.
"Copy that," Callahan said. "Guns going hot."
A heartbeat later
The sky answered.
There four vertibird dipped its nose slightly as its side-mounted minigun spun up, the high-pitched mechanical whine building into a roaring stream of fire.
Then the rounds came down.
Not wild.
Not indiscriminate.
Controlled sweeps along the streets where militia forces were still attempting to hold or regroup.
Metal sparked.
Barricades shredded.
The hood of a Humvee erupted in a spray of fragments as the gunfire chewed through its engine block, forcing its crew to abandon it immediately.
The other four vertibird followed, its own minigun joining the pattern that crossing angles, covering retreat paths, herding the militia lines inward rather than scattering them into civilian zones.
From the ground, the effect was immediate.
Militia fighters who had been trying to hold their positions suddenly found the air around them filled with screaming metal and splintering debris.
"Back! Fall back!" someone shouted from within their ranks.
The Growlers, already shaken by the ground fight, turned sharply, engines screaming as they sped away from the incoming fire.
Humvees tried to reverse or turn, some managing it, others stalling out under the damage.
The remaining Sentinel as its weapon mount already crippled tried to pivot and shield the retreating fighters, but the sustained suppression forced it to angle back, its crew choosing survival over a stand they could no longer hold.
On Sico's line, one of his sergeants glanced up at the vertibirds, then back at him.
"They're breaking," the sergeant said.
Sico nodded once.
"Maintain pressure," he replied. "Advance in controlled formation. Do not chase blindly. Keep them moving inward."
His soldiers obeyed without hesitation.
They advanced behind the curtain of air suppression, rifles up, movements clean and practiced, clearing each position the militia abandoned, securing each corner, each doorway, each piece of ground.
At the southern front, Preston saw the same shift.
The moment the vertibirds' miniguns began their controlled sweeps across the outer barricade streets, the militia resistance there faltered hard.
The fighters who had been bracing behind damaged vehicles suddenly found themselves exposed, unable to hold under both ground pressure and air suppression.
Preston raised his hand again.
"Push them," he ordered. "Steady. No overextension."
His line moved.
Step by step.
Driving the militia inward.
Forcing them away from the outer defenses.
Toward the center.
Toward Kevin.
At the heart of Nicola, Kevin stood inside the building he had claimed as his command center with a reinforced structure of layered scrap and salvaged concrete, its walls thick enough to feel safe.
For the first time since the morning began.
That feeling was cracking.
The sounds outside had changed.
He could hear it even through the walls.
The heavier, rolling thunder of minigun fire from above.
The sharp, controlled gunfire of Sico's advancing forces.
And beneath it all.
The direction of movement.
Everything was coming toward him.
One of his lieutenants burst into the room, breathing hard.
"They've broken the outer lines!" he said. "Both fronts, they're pushing in! Air support's tearing through our vehicles!"
Another lieutenant, blood on his sleeve, added, "We're falling back to inner streets. We can still regroup, if we consolidate here."
Kevin's jaw tightened.
For a moment, just a moment, there was a flicker in his eyes.
A calculation.
A path not taken.
But then it was gone.
Replaced by something harder.
Something unyielding.
"No," he said.
The room stilled.
"We don't regroup to run," Kevin continued, voice rising with a fierce, almost desperate conviction. "We hold. Here."
One of the lieutenants hesitated. "Sir… we could still—"
"We hold!" Kevin snapped.
The words cut through the room like a blade.
"I would rather die here than kneel to him," he said, quieter now but no less intense. "This is our ground. Our future. If we fall, we fall fighting."
The lieutenants looked at one another.
Some of them believed him.
Truly believed.
Others.
They were afraid.
But they nodded anyway.
Because they had chosen their side.
Kevin pointed toward the doors.
"Gather everyone who can still fight," he ordered. "Pull them back here. Barricade every entrance. Every window. No one gets in."
"And the civilians?" one of them asked.
Kevin didn't hesitate.
"They stay out of it," he said. "This is our fight."
Outside, runners spread the order.
Militia fighters still able to stand were called back from the collapsing outer lines, retreating through the inner streets toward the headquarters building.
Barricades were dragged into place.
Doors reinforced.
Firing positions set behind windows and makeshift cover.
Kevin stood at the center of it, weapon in his hands, eyes fixed on the entrance.
He was ready to die for what he believed.
What he didn't know.
Was that he was no longer choosing the terms of this battle.
A few streets away, Robert and MacCready watched the shift unfold from within the inner district.
They had heard the vertibirds open up.
Felt the pressure change in the air.
Seen militia fighters rushing past their hidden positions that moving not toward the fight, but away from it.
"Outer lines are collapsing," MacCready said quietly, peering around the corner of a rusted wall.
Robert nodded.
"Kevin's pulling everything inward," he said. "He's going to make his stand at the HQ."
MacCready exhaled slowly.
"Called it," he muttered.
Robert tapped his comm, voice low but clear.
"All commando units, phase three. Converge on target building. Maintain silent approach. We take him before he knows we're there."
Soft confirmations came back through the earpieces.
Half of their commandos peeled away from civilian corridors, slipping through alleys and rooftops, moving like shadows toward the central structure.
The other half stayed where they were as they continuing to guard the civilians, keeping them inside safe zones, calming frightened families as the sounds of battle drew closer to the heart of Nicola.
Inside one narrow alley, a young commando paused beside a doorway where a mother held two children close.
"We're almost done," he told her quietly. "Stay inside. Stay low. We'll come get you when it's safe."
The woman nodded, fear still in her eyes, but trust there too.
Because she could hear the difference in the fighting.
She could hear that this was not chaos.
It was controlled.
It was ending.
Back on the streets, Sico's forces continued their advance.
The vertibirds maintained their suppression patterns just ahead of the ground lines, never striking blindly, always shifting to keep pressure on militia positions without touching civilian-marked zones.
Sico lowered his hand from his comm, listening to the latest reports.
"Main avenue cleared to second intersection."
"Southern corridor secured up to inner ring."
"Enemy forces retreating toward central district."
He took a step forward, moving with his soldiers as they advanced deeper into Nicola.
"Maintain formation," he said over the net. "Do not outrun support. Keep them moving inward."
Across town, Preston echoed the same discipline.
His line tightened slightly as they entered the denser inner streets, soldiers watching rooftops, windows, corners—alert for any last desperate counterattack.
But the militia were no longer pushing.
They were falling back.
All of them.
Toward one point.
Kevin's headquarters.
At the FOB, Sarah watched the map converge.
Every unit.
Every marker.
Every movement.
All roads leading to the same place.
"Central district becoming primary engagement zone," she said into the comm. "All units be advised as civilian density higher in surrounding blocks. Maintain no-fire zones."
"Copy," came the chorus of responses.
Above, Callahan adjusted the vertibirds' pattern, pulling them slightly higher as the ground forces neared the final objective.
"Air wing maintaining overwatch," he reported. "Standing by for further suppression if needed."
Sarah's eyes flicked to Sico's marker.
Then to the cluster that marked Robert and MacCready's commandos.
They were almost there.
They were already inside the ring.
Kevin stood at the center of his headquarters, weapon ready, listening to the sounds of the battle draw closer and closer.
He believed he was waiting for Sico.
For the final confrontation at his front door.
He didn't know that behind him.
Down the narrow service corridor that led to the rear entrance.
Two shadows had already slipped inside.
Robert moved first, silent, precise, checking each corner, each doorway.
MacCready followed, rifle up, eyes scanning, every sense tuned to the smallest sound.
Behind them, a line of commandos flowed into the building, fanning out to secure each room, each hallway, cutting off escape routes one by one.
No alarms.
No shouting.
Just quiet, controlled movement.
The kind that ended battles before they had a chance to explode into something worse.
Robert reached the final corridor that led toward the main chamber.
He paused, raising his hand.
MacCready stopped beside him, listening.
They could hear voices ahead.
Kevin.
His lieutenants.
Preparing for a fight they thought was coming from the front.
Robert glanced once at MacCready.
MacCready gave a small, tight nod.
Ready.
Robert took a slow breath.
Then he stepped forward.
Because while Sico's forces and Preston's soldiers closed in from the outside. The real end of Kevin's stand was already walking toward him from within.
______________________________________________
• 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:-