It had been nearly two weeks since they cleared the last major rockfall in the right wing, and the warehouse finally felt… navigable. Not fully safe. Not finished. But navigable.
Hell, its about fucking time.
The crew worked in shifts now. Rotating excavation, scouting, patrol, and supply management like they were part of a factory line that somehow never slept. Cal had stopped bothering to micro-manage every crate or every shovel full of debris. Delegation wasn't a skill — it was a survival tactic.
And survival was still the name of the game.
The right wing had changed.
Once collapsed and sealed off from even the rats, it was now a network of semi-stable walkways, patched walls, and reinforced doorways made from scavenged steel and melted rebar. Crates had been hauled into categorized storage. The makeshift lights buzzed with power routed from four separate sources. There was even talk of turning one sub-room into a proper armoury — once they actually opened the buried one they still couldn't access.
Cal personally led the final inspection route on Day 13. Cole, Tasha, and Marta followed behind while Joe took a second crew to double-check the old elevator shafts embedded in the collapsed west corner, while Kev and his team of mad engineers were repairing what tools they could.
The deeper they went, the more twisted everything became — support beams at unnatural angles, stairwells that went nowhere, metal melted from old fires.
They didn't find bodies. But they found bones.
Fused into wall panels. Buried beneath rebar. Burned beyond recognition. Whoever died here hadn't had a clean end — and the warehouse had never been just a warehouse.
At the southernmost corner of the right wing, behind what looked like the crumpled remains of an old vending machine, Cal found a narrow hallway, crushed sideways.
The air shifted faintly.
He followed it — crawling past hanging cables and sagging ceiling slabs until he emerged into a new corridor. Not part of the warehouse.
It was part of the skyscraper.
Or what was left of it.
A basement access point? Sublevel loading dock? No clear label remained — just rusted stair rails and collapsed drywall, faded federal signage warning about emergency access zones.
Cal didn't tell the others. Not yet.
He chalked a barely visible mark on the edge of the debris and retreated. Quietly.
Later, he logged the find in his personal notes:"Unknown sub-access zone — possible skyscraper foundation breach. Future asset. Keep hidden."
Above ground, they were also expanding.
The tunnel entrance beyond the northeast corner had been stabilized with reinforced support beams and backed by two floodgate-style emergency locks. Cole's idea. "If anything comes through that we don't want," he said, "we seal it until it stops making noise."
Smart.
The scouts had mapped out a rough perimeter of 300 meters beyond the tunnel mouth — mostly collapsed commercial zones, ruined streets, and overgrown urban wreckage. No active settlements. But plenty of signs of former life.
Old camps. Ripped tarps. Makeshift fences painted with symbols.
And fire pits — not cold, but still warm.
Someone had been out there. Recently.
Lia's squad documented one such location near an overturned metro station sign. A scavenged pack had been left behind with a half-eaten can of beans, a broken rifle stock, and the faint scent of antiseptic. The symbols painted on nearby walls weren't Firefly or FEDRA. Something different.
Cal ordered the team to mark but not engage. Observation only.
The warehouse interior had adapted too.
New tunnels had been carved using old maintenance lines that looped behind the storage blocks. A few now connected directly to sealed skybridge remnants. Too unstable. One wrong step and someone would fall into two stories of concrete and regret.
Still, Cal had plans.
Plans for the day they'd be able to turn those skybridge ruins into secure lookout towers. Maybe even trade entry points. But not yet.
Instead, he focused on efficiency. Power flow stabilizers had been rerouted from scavenged FEDRA junk. The ration counter had grown into a semi-functioning kitchen with three full crates of preserved food, mostly MREs and dried grain pouches. The beds were less like nests now — more like real bunks, aligned and organized.
It was starting to look less like a scav base and more like a hidden outpost. A small, stubborn piece of civilization in the ruins.
And the people? The summons? They were adapting too.
Some took initiative with repairs. Others built small things — shelves, lantern rigs, even a primitive pulley system to move crates between lower levels.
But Cal noticed something else, too.
They talked more now. Quietly, but often. Conversations about the past. Jokes about their "old towns." Dreams they claimed to have had. Stories from "before."
And every now and then… contradictions.
But he didn't focus on that. Not yet. He wasn't ready.
By the start of the third week, Cal stood atop the ruined scaffolding overlooking the tunnel mouth with Cole and Rusty at his side.
"This place was a coffin," Cole said. "Now it's breathing."
Well, a breathing coffin.
Cal didn't respond at first to him.
He just stared out past the horizon — where the city's edge met the rotted tree line and a distant flock of birds cut a black scar across the skyline.
They were not ready for a full reveal. Not yet.
But soon, maybe.
He pulled out a stub of chalk and marked a single note near the tunnel entrance.
"Skyscraper ruins — deeper breach possible. Reinforce. Patrol. Do not expand yet."
[Major Mission Progress Update]Mission:Map the Collapse – Phase IIIStatus: 97% CompleteObjectives:• Clear and document all accessible warehouse wings – ✅• Establish secure tunnel access to outer city perimeter – ✅• Identify all adjacent structures and subzones – ✅• Explore, catalogue, and reinforce sub-access corridors – ⚠• Open the sealed armoury vault – ❌• Confirm external scouting reports (raider symbols, possible camps) – ⚠
Rewards on Completion:• +500 EXP• +2 Scavenger Rank Credits• +2 System Points• Unlock New Feature: Base Designation – Hidden Outpost Status• Temporary Buff: Morale Boost – All Active Members• One Summon Token
------------------------------------------------
They spotted the first one just past the collapsed metro access tunnel — a crude symbol painted in charcoal on a crumbled support beam. Three horizontal scratches. A curve underneath. Almost like a grin. But not a friendly one.
Cole knelt beside it, tapping the butt of his rifle against the cement. "Definitely not Firefly. Not FEDRA either."
"You sure?" Rusty asked, rubbing the faded paint with his glove.
"Yeah," Cole said. "Fireflies don't use symbols like this. They use letters, dates, codewords. This is something else."
Cal crouched nearby, squinting at the symbol. It was old. Faded, yes, but not weathered enough to be more than a few months gone. And the wall behind it — scorched black. As if someone had lit a fire too close and then moved on in a rush.
The ground told a similar story.
Char marks. A broken ring of stones. Scraps of burned plastic tarp fluttered in the dust. Some were melted into the concrete. Near the centre of the fire pit lay a few rusted tin cans — one still half-full of spoiled meat. Rotten, but recent.
Lia knelt a few feet away, frowning hard. "This wasn't abandoned. It was evacuated."
Joe whistled low from the slope behind them. "You ever seen a raider sign like that?"
"Maybe," Lia muttered. "But it doesn't match the Boston crowd. Might be from outside."
At that moment the raiders that are supposedly attacking FEDRA convoys few months back popped in my head, and I did not like it one fucking bit.
They scouted the area in expanding spirals. Each loop brought more evidence.
Another charcoal symbol carved into an overturned billboard.
Rusted nails hammered into tree trunks to form hanging lines — now empty.
Boot prints near a creek bed that hadn't yet been washed away.
They were careful not to disturb anything. Cal made sure of that.
They weren't here to make noise. They were here to learn.
By mid-afternoon, they counted three confirmed camp spots in a one-block radius. All old. All abandoned. All marked.
And then Marta found the backpack.
It had been wedged beneath the collapsed ribs of an overpass beam, wrapped in plastic and duct tape. Hidden. Protected.
Inside:
One cracked pair of binoculars
Two water pouches, empty
A blood-stained map of Boston's perimeter zones, circled in red ink
A photo of two men in their twenties, smiling beside an old pickup
On the back of the photo, scratched in permanent marker:
"Took 3 days to cross the river. Jim didn't make it. Waiting for signal before moving north."
The ink had smudged. Rain? Blood? It didn't matter.
Cal held the photo for a long while, then folded it carefully and slid it back into the pack. He didn't know who Jim was. Or if the guy in the photo had made it.
But he knew one thing: this zone hadn't been forgotten. Not entirely.
Someone had been using it. Watching. Maybe even trading in it.
The worst part? None of the nearby FEDRA patrols had ever logged any of it. Not a single camp. Not a single sighting.
Boston QZ acted like this whole quadrant was just collapsed junk and infected nests.
It wasn't.
It was a no-man's land.
And someone else had claimed it first.
Later that night, back at base, Cal rolled out the recovered map on the planning table and studied the markings.
"See these red circles?" he asked. "They're checkpoints. Or at least, they were supposed to be. Here, here, and here."
Tasha nodded slowly. "That's our outer loop. They've been watching this area longer than we have."
"Or they had plans for it," Lia said darkly.
Joe chewed his lip. "Think they're still around?"
"I hope not," Cal replied.
Because if they were… things were about to get a lot more complicated.
[Major Mission Progress Update]Mission:Map the Collapse – Phase IIIStatus: 98% CompleteObjectives:• Clear and document all accessible warehouse wings – ✅• Establish secure tunnel access to outer city perimeter – ✅• Identify all adjacent structures and subzones – ✅• Explore, catalogue, and reinforce sub-access corridors – ⚠️• Open the sealed armoury vault – ❌• Confirm external scouting reports (raider symbols, possible camps) – ✅
--------------------------------------------
It started with a knock.
Not the kind you hear on a reinforced door or a rusted locker. This was quieter. Hesitant. A soft thud-thud on the edge of the warehouse's patched side entrance — the one barely used.
Cal turned from the planning table in his warehouse office. The others were out finishing a sweep of the raider zones. Only Joe and a few runners remained.
Joe stood in the entryway, arms crossed, a glint in his eye that Cal had seen maybe three times before — the kind of glint he got when he found a bottle of pre-outbreak scotch, or heard a really dumb FEDRA officer story.
Behind him, shadowed figures waited.
"Okay," Cal said, grabbing his crowbar and walking over. "Why do you look like you've either adopted a puppy or kidnapped a youth group?" This is going to give me a fucking headache I can tell.
Joe scratched the back of his neck. "Don't panic."
Cal blinked. "That usually puts people into panic and its not how you start a good sentence."
"I might've found us some help."
"…What kind of help?"
Joe turned and motioned the group forward.
Eight people stepped out of the gloom.
Young, mostly. A few older teens. Maybe one woman in her early thirties. All of them scrappy, thin, layered in torn jackets and mismatched boots. Not starved, but definitely lean from running. Two had makeshift weapons. One carried a rusted radio slung with a rope. Another had a crutch with a nail bat duct-taped to the end like a discount jousting pole.
Cal gave Joe a look. "Stray scavengers?"
"Former QZers. Smarter than they look. Didn't fit into FEDRA's neat little box, so they got squeezed out — or jumped out. I've been watching 'em. Quiet. Careful. Not Fireflies. Not raiders. They've been living in that half-collapsed parking structure way off East."
Cal's eyes narrowed. "And now they're here?"
"They're not idiots," Joe said. "They heard whispers. About supplies. About trades. About the 'ghost faction' moving goods without a face. And they found me."
One of the teens — maybe sixteen, wiry, blond hair like a rat's nest — stepped forward. "We're not looking to screw anyone over. Just want to help. Watch your perimeter. Carry crates. Do whatever for food and security."
"Names?" Cal asked.
They answered, one by one:
Rin — quiet, precise, with a map folded twelve ways and dirt under every fingernail.
Mark — twitchy, fast-talking, and probably going to break something within the hour, another Donny. Great.
Maya — ex-FEDRA trainee, apparently. Knew more about ration codes than Cal did.
Shiv — not their real name. Had knife scars on their knuckles and refused to explain them.
Dani — medic, or at least used to be. Knew enough about antibiotics to be terrifyingly useful.
Leo — carried the radio. Said nothing. Stared too much.
Clem — the one with the crutch-bat. Made Cal uncomfortable. Also had perfect posture.
June — the oldest. Former teacher. Still bossy. Might be more dangerous than the rest combined.
Cal eyed them all in silence. Then turned to Joe.
"You vouch for them?"
"I do."
"And you want them inside?"
Joe shrugged. "We're growing. You need people who don't blink when they hear footsteps or scavenge without a full panic attack."
Cal stared at the group a moment longer. Then sighed.
"They don't come in yet. Not fully. Not until they earn it."
Joe raised a brow. "Fair."
"You're their handler. You train them. You watch them. You report anything off."
"You want 'em as scouts?"
"Exactly," Cal said. "Perimeter, early warning, and outside salvage. No core access. No sleeping near anything valuable. If someone asks too many questions about tunnels or crates, I want to know yesterday."
Joe nodded. "Understood."
The group didn't react. Some exchanged looks. Maya raised her hand halfway like a schoolkid.
"We still get food, right?"
Cal snorted. "You'll get enough to survive. Whether you get more depends on if you make yourself useful."
Mark grinned. "I like this kid already."
"I don't like you," Cal said flatly, turning back toward the base. "Joe will show you where not to die."
[Side Mission Unlocked]Name:Eyes on the EdgesType: Recruitment/PerimeterAssigned Handler: JoeObjective:• Integrate 8 new non-NPC recruits under strict watch• Assign perimeter scouting duties only• Report on any suspicious behavior or useful traits• Ensure no access to central storage or systemsReward (upon 30 days successful integration):+200 EXP+1 System Point+1 Summon Token✅ Mission Accepted
-----------------------------------------------------------
The alleyway house creaked under the usual midday weight of activity, at least most people learnt it the hard way that I hate the other name for it and are using the proper name of it.
Pipes are clinking with recycled water, the soft hum of salvaged ventilation fans, and the shuffle of boots on rebar-stiff floors. Cal leaned over the makeshift bench in what they generously called the "tool room," fidgeting with a damaged relay node. Sparks hissed, and he yanked his hand back with a muttered curse that sounded suspiciously like. "Fucking electric bastard."
"You're gonna fry yourself," Lia said from the other side of the room, eyes not even looking up from the ration log she was updating. "Again."
Cal blew on his singed fingers and grinned. "Better me than the node. This thing's our only reliable junction for the whole storage block. If it shorts, you can kiss trade season goodbye."
"I'd rather kiss a working light grid, thanks," Lia shot back without missing a beat.
Before Cal could respond with something equally dumb, the door slid open with a groan of abused hinges. Tasha stepped inside, her jacket dusted with fine powder from the right wing and her sleeves rolled to the elbow. She had that look — the one that screamed I've got opinions and no intention of keeping them to myself.
"Lia," she said curtly, wiping her hands with a rag. "You mislabelled the crates again. The powdered bleach goes in storage bay two, not one. We use bay one for tradeable cleaners, not corrosives."
Lia's eyes narrowed. "I didn't mislabel anything. Maybe if someone didn't dump six crates in the middle of the floor without marking those, I wouldn't have to guess."
Cal looked up, sighed, and sat back. Ah shit, here we go again.
"That's not guessing," Tasha said. "That's called incompetence. There's a difference."
"Oh really?" Lia stood up now, brushing her hands on her pants. "Funny coming from someone who nearly opened a red-seal crate last week. What was it again? Oh right — 'I didn't see the mark, Cal, honest!'"
Tasha flushed slightly. "That mark was faded. And I asked before touching it."
"You asked after you had it halfway open."
"Because I'm not a coward who needs to double-check every move."
Lia stepped forward. "No, just someone who thinks having a big knife makes her the boss."
"I turned sixteen last month" Tasha snapped, eyes flaring. "I am an adult, thank you very much." She then smiled smugly and looked down at her. "You're just a brat with decent handwriting."
Lia's eyebrow twitched. "And you're a glorified bouncer with impulse control issues and a knife fetish."
Cal stared between them like a spectator at an emotionally unstable tennis match.
Man I could use some popcorn right about now.
"Okay, wow. You two have been breathing the same recycled air for way too long."
They both turned to him at once.
"What?" he asked, genuinely confused. "Is it full moon or something? Why are you both going thermonuclear over bleach and penmanship?"
Tasha folded her arms, glaring at Lia but addressing Cal. "She treats this like a playground. This isn't a game."
"And you treat it like a military academy," Lia said. "You're not his handler. Stop acting like it."
Cal blinked. "Handler?"
Lia scoffed. Tasha's ears turned red.
"Okay. Okay," Cal said, waving both hands. "Pause. Time out. Emergency break. Whatever. Look, if this is about chain of command, we can all sit down later and—"
"It's not about chain of command," Lia said quickly, too quickly, voice sharp.
Tasha's eyes flicked to her, then back to Cal. "No. Of course not. Why would it be about that?"
Cal stood slowly. "You know what? I'm gonna go inventory the spare wires and not get dragged into whatever this is. Feel free to fight to the death — just don't do it near the power supply."
He started toward the side hall. Behind him, the tension didn't die. If anything, it congealed.
By the time Cal returned, the tool room had been rebranded as a temporary silence zone. Lia was in the corner scribbling fiercely into the ration log, pressing the pencil like it had insulted her family. Tasha leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, glaring at the opposite end of the room like she could punch reality itself.
He decided to try peacekeeping. Again.
"So. I'm thinking of assigning someone to catalogue the north wall's damage layers. You two are good with detail — maybe one of you wants to take point?"
Silence.
Cal looked between them, eyes narrowed.
"Guys. C'mon."
Tasha rolled her eyes and muttered, "Ask the kid."
Lia looked up, annoyed. "I'm the same age as him, genius."
"You don't act like it."
"Neither do you. You act like someone trying way too hard to be taken seriously."
"I am serious. You think this world gives a damn about feelings and flirting and—"
"Wait, who's flirting?" Cal interrupted, confused.
They both snapped their attention to him, faces flushing, one in fury and the other in mortification.
"No one," Lia muttered.
"Shut up, Reyes," Tasha said.
Cal blinked his eyes in quick succession. "Okay. Didn't mean to touch the landmine. You know what, I'm gonna go install that bypass in the upper junction. You two can… not kill each other."
He left them in that cold standoff, scratching the back of his head.
Why the fuck are they so weird? We are all trying to survive here, I am too busy as it is managing this circus I cant be dealing with angry co-workers.
In another corner of the house, Donny and Mark sat on upturned crates playing an improvised card game using faded poker decks and old Firefly propaganda leaflets. They glanced up as Cal passed.
Mark grinned. "You just walk through a warzone?"
"Something like that," Cal said. "If the roof collapses, it'll probably be from emotional stress."
Donny raised an eyebrow. "Still haven't figured it out, huh?"
"Figured what out?"
Donny smirked. "Never mind. You'll get there. Maybe."
Cal gave them a confused glance and kept walking.
He didn't get it. And he wasn't sure he wanted to, he had much better things to do, like fixing the power and managing people, wish I could get a holiday or sick leave. Sigh
In the alley just outside, the sun filtered weakly through cracked windowpanes and sagging tarps. Cal took a seat on an old stool, sighing as he wiped grime from his face. The tension inside lingered like humidity, and his head throbbed with half-understood implications.
Why couldn't people just be normal?
Why did everything feel more… complicated lately?
He had a faction to build, tunnels to reinforce, routes to scout, negotiations with other factions. And here he was, stuck in the middle of a bizarre cold war between a sarcastic supply girl and a knife-wielding protector who both acted like he was the problem.
It wasn't his fault they were constantly sniping at each other.
Right?
Inside, Tasha and Lia sat on opposite ends of the same bench, the silence thick and weaponized.
After a few minutes, Lia muttered, "He really doesn't get it."
"Nope," Tasha replied.
Lia glanced at her, half a smirk playing on her lips. "You turned sixteen and thought it made you psychic or something?"
Tasha let out a small huff of laughter despite herself.
"Maybe. Or maybe I just got tired of pretending like it doesn't matter."
"Yeah. Well…" Lia looked away. "It probably doesn't. To him."
And for once, Tasha didn't argue.
The door buzzed once — short and sharp. Cal looked up from the table in the side room, where he was carefully untangling a spool of half-melted copper wire that someone (Mark) had tried to 'fix' with a soldering iron and blind optimism.
"Someone get that!" he yelled.
No response. Tasha was upstairs, brooding. Lia was somewhere in the back, probably pretending not to be seething. Donny and Mark had conveniently vanished once the girls stopped pretending to whisper insults.
The buzzer sounded again.
"Ugh, fine," Cal muttered, wiping his hands on his hoodie as he got up.
He opened the reinforced front door and blinked at the silhouette on the stoop — tall, one hand on her hip, black cargo vest half-unzipped, heavy boots muddy from recent scavenging. And, as always, her brown hair, now with a white streak of hair that was tucked behind one ear like it wasn't the most stylish apocalypse warpaint anyone had ever managed.
Meredith, self appointed aunt, courtesy of her friendship with my mom. God fucking damnit.
"Delivery," she said with a crooked grin, hoisting a crate in one arm like it weighed nothing. "Your favourite aunt got your spool, grumpy. Tell your guy to stop trying to melt his way through short-circuits."
Cal stepped aside, still blinking. "You're early."
"Call me aunt kid Rays." She dropped the crate on the table. "Careful, it bites."
"I thought you were doing the north run this week," he said.
"I was. Took a shortcut." She winked. "Thought I'd drop in and see my favourite little warlord, your mother told me to keep an eye out on her wayward son."
"Don't call me that."
"Why not?" she leaned on the table with both hands, looming just a little. "You've got a faction, a secret tunnel, and two girls who look like they're ready to poison each other just so you'll notice."
Cal frowned. "What?"
She arched an eyebrow. "You really haven't noticed?"
"I notice they argue a lot."
"Mmhm." Meredith tilted her head. "And who do they argue about, you think?"
Cal gave her a blank stare.
She sighed. "Oh Cal, sweetie. You're smart enough to run a black-market logistics network and outwit both FEDRA and the Fireflies, but emotionally you've got the awareness of a wet sock."
"...what does that mean?"
"Never mind. Just sit down and look pretty while I explain how I nearly got shot trading for this wire."
He obeyed, still a bit thrown off. Meredith ever since his birthday and the talk with his mom has become the self proclaimed "aunty" which was weird as fuck.
As I was trying to understand what this woman who will steal my secret stash of cigarettes was talking about she opened the crate with a box cutter and flipped up the lid like she was unboxing treasure. Inside were coils of glistening, untarnished electrical wire, zip ties, and a salvaged circuit board that had definitely come from a working vehicle at some point.
"Where'd you get this?" Cal asked, peering inside with suprise.
"I have my ways," Meredith said. "Let's just say a Firefly stash turned into an ex-Firefly stash after a little... negotiation."
"You killed them?"
"God, no." She smirked. "I flirted, Cal. Just enough to make them think I'd stay for drinks."
He wrinkled his nose. "Gross."
"Grow up. It's called leverage."
Before he could say anything else, footsteps came down the hall — fast and too heavy to be accidental. Lia appeared in the doorway, stopping when she saw Meredith.
"Oh," she said flatly.
Meredith turned and smiled like a predator spotting a limping deer. "Hey, kiddo."
Lia crossed her arms. "Didn't know you were dropping in."
"I figured I'd surprise you. Besides," Meredith said, strolling over casually and patting Cal on the shoulder, "I had to make sure your little empire builder here wasn't overworking himself."
Cal, still seated, blinked at the gesture.
"Is there such as thing as overworking while trying to survive an apocalypse?" he asked.
Lia raised an eyebrow at Meredith. "You tell me."
Meredith leaned a bit closer to Cal now, her voice lower. "Maybe you've got too many things on your mind. Supply chains. Tunnels. Girls glaring at each other when you're not looking."
Cal frowned. "Why do people keep saying that?"
Tasha descended slowly, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like a hawk. Meredith didn't even flinch — if anything, her smile widened.
"Oh good," she said. "Now it's a party."
Cal stood, trying to defuse whatever this was becoming. "Okay, let's not do the weird standoff thing again—"
"Again?" Meredith asked, feigning surprise. "How often does this happen, Cal?"
"I don't know," he muttered. "They're just always... tense, its quite annoying."
"Annoying," Lia said, deadpan.
Meredith clicked her tongue. "Tense is one word for it. Hormonal is another."
Tasha growled. "We're not—"
"Not what?" Meredith teased.
Cal just wanted this to be over with, "I'm right here."
"And yet your head is on Mars." Meredith leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Has anyone ever told you how cute that is? Watching you try to make sense of interpersonal chaos while chewing on wires like they'll give you wisdom, like some sort of electric beaver?"
Cal stared, completely stone-faced. "...Are you okay? Do you need something for a fever?"
That broke something.
Lia, who had been clenching her arms like she was made of concrete, burst into laughter first — short and sudden. Tasha followed, choking back a laugh and then surrendering to it.
Meredith stood up, waving them off. "See? You made them laugh. Maybe there's hope for you yet."
"I don't get it," Cal said, genuinely lost. Wires and managing I get, but this? I fucking dont, I just want to make a little piece of heaven where I can sleep in past 7am on a supposed free day.
Meredith ruffled his hair — the one patronizing action he absolutely hated — and walked toward the hallway.
"I'll leave you to it future warlord. Oh, and Cal?"
He looked up.
"You owe me a crate of canned fruit. Pineapple, preferably. Don't skimp. Also Elena says hi."
Cal nodded, still blinking like someone who'd just walked into a hurricane and come out with socks on his head.
She disappeared into the side hall, humming as she went. The door clanked shut behind her.
Silence returned. Lia and Tasha glanced at each other, neither smiling now, both slightly flushed.
Cal finally broke the silence.
"I think she's weird."
Tasha let out a sharp breath. "You're an idiot."
"I'm starting to see that," Lia added.
Later, as Cal reorganized the crate of supplies Meredith left behind, he made a note on their whiteboard:
To Do:
Distribute wire to relay points
Repair rooftop vent
Understand interpersonal relationships between co-workers (???)
He stared at that last line for a moment.
Then erased it.
Some mysteries were better left unsolved.
✅ Resource Gain: +1 Electrical Spool Crate❌ Social Awareness Skill: Not Found
------------------------------------------------
Next day, as I woke up I found my self in the kitchen to witness my mom and "aunt" Meredith having poor excuse of a coffee and having a chat. Weirdest thing? Mom is actually smiling but as soon as she spoke to me, dread filled me.
There's a particular kind of dread that sets in when your mom tells you, in that calm, clipped tone, to wear your cleanest hoodie.
Not your nicest. Not your military hand-me-down. No, your cleanest. Which meant someone important was about to look me over like a suspicious ration can.
I hadn't even finished my morning wake up routine before Dad appeared in the kitchen with his uniform pressed to regulation perfection and a silent nod toward the hallway.
"Time to go," he said.
No explanation. No warning. Just "go."
My gut already knew.
Mom and Meredith just waved me goodbye gossiping like its not a apocalypse and we don't live in a military dictatorship.
Dad didn't tell me where until we passed the checkpoint near the administration block, and I saw the reinforced doors of the Boston QZ's eastern compound — the place where real meetings happened. The kind of meetings with guards outside and clipboards inside.
Not the casual check-in type.
The "we're watching you closely but pretending not to" type.
Which, funnily enough, is exactly how I'd describe FEDRA.
The conference room was colder than it needed to be — clean lines, blackened windows, and the hum of too much power being wasted on too few lights. They didn't waste time with warmth in these buildings. You didn't need it when your job was suspicion and subtle threats.
The General was already waiting when we entered.
General Voss. He didn't stand when we came in, but he did flick his eyes at me — a slow, calculating sweep that felt like getting x-rayed through three layers of my hoodie.
I'd seen him before. When they were talking about the convoy raiders and the transmission. remember thinking he looked like a man who'd never smiled in his life and would probably die proud of that fact.
Now he was looking at me like I was some piece of unexploded ordnance someone left under his chair.
"Callum Reyes," he said. Not a question.
I nodded once. "Sir."
"You know why you're here?"
I shrugged. "Not exactly."
Dad tensed beside me.
Landers leaned back in his seat, folding his hands. "Headquarters in the Rocky Mountains has taken notice of your… efforts."
Ah. So that's what this was.
"Efforts?" I asked, casually.
Landers didn't blink. "Unofficial supply channels. Recovery of high-value salvage. Discretion in handling unsanctioned trades with both friendly and neutral parties."
He paused. "We didn't authorize these actions. And yet, we haven't shut them down."
I said nothing.
He continued. "Reports from Rocky HQ mention improved ration flow, rare electrical equipment circulating back into repair centres, and high-quality metals showing up at repurposing sites." He gave me a hard look. "All of it traceable, if one tries hard enough, to this zone."
So someone had traced it. Probably someone with too much free time and not enough paperwork to chew on.
"And they think it's me?" I asked, playing just enough dumb to sound like I wasn't insulted, but could be, if this dragged on.
"They think it's someone operating quietly, efficiently, and with support from… inside," he said. Then looked at my dad.
That was the moment it clicked. They weren't being punished for me. They were being used to funnel me upward.
"You're offering me something," I said, squinting slightly.
"I'm warning you first."
"About what?"
Landers's mouth twitched — not a smile, not quite a frown. The kind of twitch that meant a shift in tone.
"You've been useful," he said. "You've kept things stable. Made our lives easier. But usefulness isn't immunity."
He leaned forward now.
"The Rockies want more."
There it was. The real line.
More.
"Expansion. Growth. Visibility." He paused. "Your model — whatever it is — works. But we need more product. More reach. You've proven your value. Now you're expected to scale."
I blinked. "Scale what?"
He didn't smile. "Your operation. Your infrastructure. Your returns."
So this was a performance review. FEDRA-style.
Alright then.
Landers stood, stepping slowly around the table, hands behind his back. He didn't circle me, just stopped across from where I stood.
"The only reason you're not in a cell," he said quietly, "is because what you've done benefits us and you dont supply the fireflies and other terrorist organisations.."
He let that hang for a second.
"But if it stops benefiting us… if the returns slow significantly, or the problems grow…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Dad finally spoke.
"We've monitored his movements. We've reviewed his connections. He's kept it quiet and productive. No risk to the QZ."
Landers glanced at him. "Which is why HQ has instructed us to support him."
"It's real now," he said. "No more shadows. No more pretending."
Landers returned to his seat.
"You'll receive materials to support expansion. But they come with expectations."
"What kind?" I asked.
"You'll be briefed shortly. A mission. Something worthy of HQ's investment." He laced his fingers. "And something to prove this wasn't all luck."
He tapped the table once. "You've got one month. Impress us."
I swallowed. My heart was pounding, but I kept my face flat.
One month. A major mission. More exposure. More oversight.
More danger.
All for staying in the game.
"You got a name for this project?" I asked, sarcastically.
Landers didn't laugh.
"No. But you'll want to make one."
The door shut behind the general with a final hiss of military-grade indifference. The moment he left, the air shifted. Not got lighter — just... different. Less like being locked in a test chamber, more like being handed a test and told "you better not fail."
I stayed quiet for a moment, eyes scanning the table where General Voss had sat. There was still a faint outline where his coffee cup had been. Half-drunk. Bitter. Like him.
"They're serious."
No shit.
Dad folded his arms. "They won't give you details unless they're sure you'll cooperate. That's their way. Incentive without security."
"Manipulation with badges," I muttered.
I leaned back in my chair, mind already racing through potential angles. One month. They wanted expansion, visibility, influence. What was I going to do? Invite tourists? Print t-shirts? Maybe make a zoo with infected? Sigh
The problem wasn't ideas. It was scale. We'd cleared the tunnel. Mapped the skyscraper. Reopened the right wing of the warehouse. Hell, we even painted warnings over spore zones. But pushing further would mean clearing the last major blockage: the buried armoury under the right wing.
And right now, it was sealed behind enough steel and concrete to laugh in the face of crowbars, chisels, and bad intentions.
"I need something," I said out loud.
"If they want growth, I need access. The rest of the warehouse — the real part of it — is blocked. I need through."
Dad narrowed his eyes. "You'll probably need high-heat breaching gear or precision charges."
"I figured."
You're not asking for it."
"No," I said. "I'm offering something in return."
Ten minutes later, we were in a smaller adjoining room — cooler, quieter, with less pressure bearing down. A different officer, lower rank, tapped through a terminal while I explained my situation, my "supply operation," and the existence of a blocked section that likely contained value to everyone involved.
I might've left out the parts where I already knew exactly what was in there. Minor detail.
The officer looked sceptical until my dad chimed in — his word, crisp and sharp, acted like a verified password. Suddenly, he was accessing inventory manifests.
"We've got old stores of thermite," he said eventually. "Stuff from before the Fall. HQ doesn't use it anymore — it's volatile, heavy, takes specific safety parameters. Not practical for surface ops."
Perfect.
"I want that," I said.
He raised a brow. "That's a dangerous ask."
I smiled politely. "I'm a dangerous investment."
He didn't laugh. Figures.
He pulled up a requisition form. "HQ wants a result. You deliver something worthwhile, you keep getting material support. If not... this offer disappears."
Dad added quietly, "They won't wait long. You've got maybe a month."
The officer turned the screen toward me, showing a new mission prompt.
System Mission Unlocked – Operation: Weight of Ash
Description: Unseal the buried military armory beneath the right wing of the warehouse. Retrieve and categorize any functional equipment or records. Provide proof of salvage and utility.
Requirements:
Open the armory using thermite.
Document contents with visuals and logs.
Provide one supply drop's worth of usable military-grade gear to FEDRA.
Complete within 30 days.
Rewards:✅ +2 Scavenger Rank Credits✅ +1 Summon Token✅ +4 System Points✅ +1200 EXP✅ Level Cap Breakthrough: Level 20 Upgrade Unlocked⚠️ Warning: Failure will permanently reduce FEDRA trust and material support.
I didn't flinch.
1200 EXP. That was more than I'd earned in months.
A summon token. More rank credits. And a level cap upgrade.
This was it. The mission that could change everything — or end it.
I hit Accept.
Back outside, I exhaled slowly as the heat of the day hit me through the building's entrance. The Boston QZ didn't look any different, but the world felt heavier now.
"You really think you can pull this off?" Dad asked as we walked.
"I don't have a choice," I said.
Well at least after I open the armoury I will finish multiple quests at once.
Name: Callum "Cal" Reyes
Nicknames: Little warlord, Trader, Reyes Kid
Age: 12 (Birthday recently passed)
Level: 19
EXP: 675 / 950
Current Job: Leader of a scavengers
Condition: Stable
Stats & Resources
System Points (SP): 8
Scavenger Rank Credits: 4
Summon Tokens: 1
Storage Expansion Credits: 1
Buffs: Currently none
Debuffs: WARNING! - ESSENTIAL SKILL: Social Awareness : Not Found - 3 perception, - 3 charisma - 3 Wisdom
Faction Reputation:
FEDRA (Boston QZ): Provisional Resource Associate
Fireflies: Suspicious interest
Black Market (Robert, Meredith): Neutral–Friendly
Equipment
Primary Weapon:
Knife (Graded: OK, gift by Tash)
Crowbar (Graded: OK)
Berretta (Holstered)
Clothing:
Black and grey military hoodie
Grey baggy pants (muddy, patched)
Duct-tape-reinforced backpack
Hidden side holster (suggested by his parents)
Inventory (Common Items):
2x Water pouches
Basic first-aid kit
Chalk stub
Half a stale ration biscuit
Cracked multitool
Cracked flashlight (partially repaired)
Electrical Spool Crate (New)
Attributes
Strength – 4Above average for his age. Can lift moderate loads, swing crowbars or pipe weapons, and climb through ruined structures with relative ease.
Endurance – 5Solid stamina for his age—able to sustain long warehouse shifts, city treks, and tough physical labour. He experiences fatigue under prolonged pressure but pushes through.
Dexterity – 5Reflective and agile—quick in tight or dangerous environments. Useful for dodging infected or navigating precarious terrain.
Intelligence – 7Highly adaptive. Excels in planning routes, strategizing escape or smuggling operations, and navigating complex social and tactical situations.
Charisma – 6Persuasive in his own reserved way. Can negotiate—sometimes even with smugglers or armed adversaries—relying on a compelling presence.
Perception – 5Detail-oriented. Able to track movement, spot environmental risks, and quickly interpret changing cues in his surroundings.
Luck – 10Exceptionally high and uncanny. Cal often finds crates where none should exist, narrowly evades dangerous outcomes, and gains timely help from allies. The system may play a role, but it feels like there's something—or someone—looking out for him.
Sigh
I should probably spend my points and credits. But what the fuck is Storage Expansion Credit?