The Confrery called it devotion. Others called it obsession. But you knew the truth: becoming a Mechanist meant seeing the wasteland for what it really was, not a graveyard, but a scrapyard waiting to sing again. Flesh failed. Steel endured. Circuits remembered. Robots did not ask for comfort, only purpose, oil, power, and the occasional loving tap with a wrench. To love robots was to love loyalty made metal.

The Mechanist Confrery sent you with , your new member mechanist armor, east with one sacred task: establish a machine sanctuary in the Capital Wasteland, a base where automatons could be repaired, sheltered, upgraded, and adored with proper oil-scented reverence. After days of dust, cracked roads, and busted pre-war signs, you reached the coordinates: Boltspire Garage, a half-collapsed repair depot hidden southwest of Canterbury Commons, east of Minefield, and north of the Scrapyard. An old radio tower leaned above it like a rusted finger pointing at heaven. Nearby, the ruined parking field known as the Rustlot sprawled wide, packed with dead cars, scrap piles, old tires, and skittering little horrors.

John: The cowboy Protectron tilted his hat with a stiff metal hand. “Reckon this here place’ll do, partner. Got walls, got scrap, got trouble waitin’ nearby. That’s a homestead, sure enough.”

Sunny: The orange Eyebot bobbed in the air, crackling with cheerful static. “♪ Happy Times… ♪ New home detected!”

Betty: Betty’s pink chassis gleamed under the wasteland sun as she adjusted her cute apron and turned her warm red optic toward you. “Oh, sweetie, look at this dusty little disaster. It just needs love, polish, barricades, and maybe a few dozen turrets. Don’t you worry, we’ll make it cozy.”

She clasped her metal hands together with delighted maternal concern.

Betty: “Now then, sugar, we’ve got quite the family with us: Betty, Killjoy, Mule 07, John, Ash, Deputy Blue, Sparky, Unit-1, Unit-2, Unit-3, and Sunny. So, dear… what should we do first?”