Two doors down: "STORAGE A", and right beside it, the one I actually wanted—"SECURED GEAR." Thicker door. Same kind of lock.
I slid the key in.
Click.
Shouldn't have worked. But maybe whoever ran this place didn't care enough to match keys properly. Or maybe this depot had been operating on wishful thinking and coffee breaks for the past decade.
Not my concern.
Inside, the air smelled like dry oil and old canvas.
Metal racks lined the walls. Some empty, others stacked with plastic bins labeled in Sharpie:
"RIOT / CROWD,"
"RESPIRATORS,"
"NV GEAR – TESTED."
One bin just said: "???"
The first one I cracked open held two scratched riot shields. Heavy, dented, but fully intact. Good enough.
Stored:
Slot 12 – Riot Shield (x2)
Next shelf—a modular duty belt. Nylon. Half the pouches were missing, the Velcro was on its last life. Still useful.
Stored:
Slot 13 – Tactical Belt (empty)
Toward the back, one case felt suspiciously heavy.
Inside: a shotgun wrapped in green canvas with the zipper halfway open.
Old Remington 870. Wood chipped. Barrel clean.
Unloaded, but intact.
Stored:
Slot 14 – Pump-Action Shotgun (Unloaded)
Most of the rest was support gear. I picked through it:
– Five gas masks, two with cracked seals. I kept three good ones.
– Three flashlights, one already leaking battery acid. Took the other two.
– A stack of helmets, standard-issue plastic—grabbed two decent ones.
– Six backup batteries. I tested all of them by popping each into a flashlight—four worked.
Stored:
Slot 15 – Gas Mask (x3)
Slot 16 – Flashlight (x2)
Slot 17 – Tactical Helmet (x2)
Slot 18 – Rechargeable Battery (x4)
The broken stuff? Left behind, tucked neatly into a bin so it wouldn't get anyone's hopes up later.
By now, my inventory was filling fast, but still light enough to move quick if needed.
Anything I didn't need later could go.
I gave the room one last pass, just in case I'd missed a marked crate—or something unmarked but promising.
Toward the rear wall, half-hidden behind a rolling cart and a stack of old traffic cones, was another wire-mesh cage. Not labeled, not locked with anything fancy—just a mechanical keyhole and a broken padlock hanging like a suggestion.
I stepped closer and tested the door.
It gave with a metallic creak. Inside: rows of standard police supply cases, some open, others taped shut but clearly rifled through before. Nothing explosive, but—
Bingo.
A foam-padded box labeled "Ammunition – Training / Range". I flipped it open.
Shotgun shells. Lots of them. Mostly 12 gauge, target load. No armor-piercing, no buckshot—not military-grade, but they'd feed the Remington just fine.
Next to them: a plastic box of speedloaders and half a box of loose 9mm rounds. No handgun in sight, but the ammo was worth grabbing. If nothing else, trade value.
Stored:
Slot 19 – 12 Gauge Shells (x24)
Slot 20 – 9mm Rounds (x36)
There was also a battered cleaning kit, a spare shotgun sling, and a box labeled "confiscated"—which turned out to be full of junk: busted stun guns, dull knives, a slingshot, and… a flare gun.
I held it up, weighed it in my hand. Ugly. Orange plastic. But intact.
Stored:
Slot 21 – Flare Gun (Loaded)
Not bad.
I checked the rest of the box. Spare flares—two sealed, one cracked and leaking powder.
Stored:
Slot 22 – Flare Rounds (x2)
The damaged one? Left behind.
One last sweep—not instinct, not really.
But all that music-fueled parkour training was starting to pay off. Mystical Infiltration humming in the background while I vaulted fences and dodged air conditioners—turns out, that kind of thing sharpens your awareness.
You start noticing when something's just... off.
Little things popped out now—like how that cabinet didn't sit flush against the wall. Just a couple centimeters off, but enough to catch my eye.
I crouched down, reached behind the leg, and bingo: something stiff wedged just out of sight.
Folded paper. Old checklist.
Most of it was boring. But one line caught my eye, thick marker scribbled over the middle:
"Locker #9 – Sidearm transfer pending – HOLD"
I blinked. Then grinned.
Training was supposed to help with stealth—not spotting misaligned furniture.
Unexpected bonus. I'd take it.
I turned, scanning the nearby lockers. Most were the wide, gray kind you'd find in any warehouse or high school gym. Locker #9 sat at the far end of the row. No padlock. Just one of those old twist dials, half rusted.
I tried it. Jammed. Figures.
But the hinges were exposed—basic screws, stripped with time. I slipped the pry bar into the seam, gave it a gentle wiggle. The metal creaked, then popped.
Inside the locker:
– A snub-nose revolver, matte finish, clearly used but cleaned.
– Two speedloaders—one full, one empty.
– A small pouch with twelve loose .38 Special rounds.
I didn't hesitate.
Grabbed the revolver, flipped open the cylinder, and loaded six rounds in smooth—no fumbling, no drama.
Stored:
Slot 23 – .38 Revolver (Loaded, 6/6)
Both speedloaders—loaded and stacked. One for backup, one for "oh crap" moments.
Stored:
Slot 24 – Speedloader (Loaded, .38 Special x2)
No extra bullets left rolling around. Everything accounted for.
Then came the shotgun.
I knelt down, pulled it from inventory, and fed it five 12-gauge shells like I actually knew what I was doing.
Snug fit. Classic sound. Satisfying as hell.
Pumped it once, just to see if everything was right. Then stored it again.
Stored:
Slot 14 – Pump-Action Shotgun (Loaded, 5/5)
Remaining shells?
Stored:
Slot 19 – 12-Gauge Shells (x19)
I stepped back from Locker #9, one last glance to make sure I hadn't left anything behind.
The label read "Ammunition – Training / Range", and the revolver had definitely matched the "training" part. But if this was a range, there might still be other leftovers—spare targets, cleaning kits, maybe even a second locker someone forgot to clear.
Worth a sweep.
I took a slow loop around the space. The far corner had markings on the floor—rubber scuff lines, faded safety tape, and the faint chemical reek of old gun oil. If people had practiced here, they'd done it years ago. Most of the racks were empty now, but—
A battered range bench caught my eye. The type with a locking compartment built underneath. No lock on this one, just a bent latch.
Inside:
A half-used cleaning kit, missing brushes.
A faded paper target of a silhouette that looked like someone had drawn it angry on purpose.
One box of 12-gauge shells. Mostly full.
Score.
I cracked the lid open, did a quick count—fifteen extra shells. Clean. Unused.
Stored:
Slot 19 – 12-Gauge Shells (x34 total)
(previously 19, now +15)
Cleaning kit? Meh. I took the cloth, left the dried-up solvent and cracked bottle.
Stored:
Slot 25 – Weapon Maintenance Cloth (Basic)
Target? I rolled it up for fun. You never know when you'll need a distraction or something vaguely intimidating.
Stored:
Slot 26 – Paper Target (Humanoid, Crumpled)
Still running Mystical Infiltration—soft pressure at the edge of awareness, like reality's peripheral vision just kept glancing away from me. Even after loading shells and poking around lockers, the technique held steady.
It made everything easier. Quieter. Like walking through a place the world hadn't rendered all the way.
I moved with it. Low profile. Light steps.
Back at the "SUPPLY / ARMORY – Authorized Access Only" door, I double-checked my surroundings. No voices. No cameras. Just one dusty corridor and a half-forgotten sign warning me not to be here.
The lock was manual. Worn. A quick wedge from the pry bar and it gave without protest. I eased the door open just enough to slip through.
Inside:
No alarms. No guard dogs. Just dust, faint gun oil, and the quiet hum of neglect.
The room was wider than I expected—maybe an old staging area once, now turned into loose storage. Shelves along the left wall held a scatter of equipment, nothing organized. On the right lockers. Some open, some locked. Tags peeling. A couple said things like "SPARE MAGS" or "TRAINING – TAGGED." Most didn't say anything at all.
A half-empty crate near the door held worn gloves and a dented water canteen. I kept moving.
Then—
Bottom shelf. Something metal tucked under a folded canvas.
I crouched, peeled the canvas back.
Short, wide canister. Faded paint. Looked like it had been kicked around a few too many drills. No label—just a dent, a thumb-cap, and a faint stencil mark that read:
"T-RNG FB – MK.II"
Training flashbang.
Low-yield. Loud, bright, but not enough to rupture eardrums or fry retinas. Designed to disorient, not destroy.
Still packed a punch if you weren't expecting it.
I picked it up and gave it a once-over, then tucked it away.
Stored:
Slot 27 – Flashbang (Training – Low-Impact, High Disorientation)
Not bad.
Basically the dollar-store version of a real one, but hey—sometimes chaos was the goal.
Especially if it gave me a few extra seconds to move.
That was the last sweep. Nothing left that looked worth the slot.
Mystical Infiltration still wrapped around me like a soft hum, muting each step as I retraced the route out. Same fence, same shadowed alleys. No surprises. No eyes.
I was starting to feel the drop-off— hunger, the kind of mental buzz you get after too long running on focus alone.
Time to call it.
I moved fast, keeping low, back through the routes I'd mapped before—same rooftops, same maintenance ledges. The city didn't seem to notice I'd ever left.