The days that followed on this hunt had become almost trivial by nature. While the other colors worked, the reds were reaping what a certain Burt had sowed.
Day two saw the red group return to base camp with forty cores, their haul drawing impressed looks from instructors and jealous glares from yellows and greens who'd spent the entire day tracking and fighting beasts for maybe ten cores each. The reds played their parts well, looking appropriately tired, complaining about difficult fights, describing encounters that sounded dangerous enough to justify their success.
Nobody questioned it. Yet.
Day three brought another forty cores, the reds settling into their routine with practiced ease. Wake up, hike to the lake near the beetle massacre site, spend the day relaxing while a rotating crew harvested cores from corpses that were starting to smell truly awful as decomposition progressed in the humid forest air.
