'They had a shape now.
Next, they'd find out at what cost.'
Auntie Junia stepped forward, and the restless noise eased on instinct. If leadership had weight, hers was the kind that settled people instead of pressing on them.
"We survived our first major storm," she said. Her voice was steady, grounded. "The valley was washed clean, now we choose what kind of Deepway Clan we will be."
The words Deepway Clan rippled through the bunker—soft, startled, almost reverent.
Auntie Junia nodded toward the slate crowding the far wall, covered in overlapping chalk scrawl.
"We're starting with what we've all been writing on that board. Our Code of Conduct. The rules that let us live together without tearing each other—or this place—apart."
She glanced at Talia.
Talia gave her a small nod.
'Go.'
"At its heart," Auntie Junia said, turning to the clan again, "our code is our promise to each other. How we behave, how we protect each other, what we refuse to allow and what we stand for."
The hall stilled completely. Not fearful—listening.
She stepped back, and Grandma Elene rose.
"A Code of Conduct," Grandma said, "isn't a list of punishments. It's an agreement. How we move through shared space without making life harder than it already is and how we remember we're not alone."
She picked up a smaller slate. "We read every suggestion. We argued, edited, and compromised. Some gave us bones, others the heart. This is what we're bringing back to you."
She nodded to Theo.
He crossed to the big slate, chalk in hand, and began to write.
"The Deepway Code of Conduct," Grandma read. "Twenty-two foundational laws."
The hall leaned forward.
"One. Protect the children first. Clan survival begins with safeguarding its future."
A young mum near the front clutched her daughter tighter. "That one was mine," she whispered.
"Two. Respect all labour equally—everyone contributes, everyone eats."
An older nomad elder nodded, shoulders loosening. "We wrote that," he murmured.
"Three. No stealing. Ever. Trust is survival."
A few people shifted. Talia's jaw tightened.
"Four—"
"Nine. Attend training. Strength keeps the Clan alive."
Groans rose; Dav didn't bother hiding his smirk.
Ten. No discrimination: nomad, core, Rowe, or new arrival—Deepway is one Clan."
A few Core families exchanged looks. Some nomads stared at the floor. No one objected aloud.
"Eleven. Respect private space and personal boundaries.
Twelve. Teach skills to the young. Knowledge must continue.
Thirteen. Do not provoke, interfere with beasts, or with Beast Hall operations without permission."
At the back, Kass pumped a fist. "YES. Stop trying to pat the murder-chickens."
Several youths snorted.
"Fourteen—"
"Seventeen. Everyone helps during emergencies. No exceptions."
A gruff hunter near the wall went red as people glanced his way.
"Eighteen. Treat all Sentinels and public servants with respect—they carry the Clan's burden."
Someone muttered, "Who snuck that one in?"
Theo's mouth twitched.
"Nineteen. Do not climb the water channels."
A cluster of kids tried and failed to look innocent.
"Twenty. If you see a Hearthlop stuck somewhere," Grandma paused, amused, "help it."
Half the room stared.
"The children insisted," she said. "We agreed—with some amusement."
"Hearthlops are very stupid," one small boy announced solemnly. "But they try hard."
"Twenty-one. Speak truthfully and kindly. Stress is high; cruelty costs lives.
Twenty-two. We are Deepway. The Clan comes first."
A small ripple of people whispering, "We are Deepway," followed.
Grandma read the full list but some laws just drew more attention than others. She lowered the slate.
"We'll inscribe that last line where everyone can see it," she said. "Not as a chain. As a reminder. This is who we chose to be."
A murmur rolled through the hall—people fitting the words against private fears and hopes.
Beside Talia, Theo sat back. "They're taking it," he said quietly.
"For now," she murmured. "We'll see if it holds when things get ugly."
Talia pushed to her feet. "Next, you should hear from the Sentinels who'll be working with you every day. This isn't some faceless system. They'll also introduce the new laws tied to their work."
She nodded to Cael.
He stood, presence dropping over the room like added weight.
"Law is protection," he said. "Not punishment."
"First. Sabotage of core systems or deliberate harm to the Clan is a capital crime."
The room went still.
"Only intentional sabotage," he continued. "Fear isn't a crime. Confusion isn't a crime. Losing your head in your first beast attack isn't a crime. But if you knowingly endanger our people, shelter, food, water, or protection for your own gain—you're choosing to step outside Deepway."
"About time," an old man said. "Too many people back on Earth ruined things and just apologised later."
A mother in the front row hugged her child. "Good," she whispered. "No more playing with our lives."
"Second," Theo said. "Deepwatch and the Judicial Department."
Collie and Cael both stood.
"Deepwatch isn't a punishment squad," Collie said. "We prevent damage. We watch for danger outside, fractures inside. We mediate disputes before fists or blades. We investigate, gather evidence, and bring it to the council."
"And the Judicial Department enforces it," Cael finished. "Not them."
"And who watches Deepwatch?" someone called. "What if you abuse power?"
"Then the Judicial Department steps in," Cael said. "Every Sentinel, every council member, every worker—subject to investigation and accountability."
"…Even the Lord?" another voice asked.
Tension rippled.
Cael inclined his head toward Talia. "The Lord sits outside Deepway law—that's the nature of a Territory. But our Lord has agreed to be bound in spirit by the same code she asks of you. That's her choice, not an obligation. Besides, if the Lord loses the Clan's trust, she loses the Clan's cooperation—no law needed."
Talia's quiet nod settled the worst of it.
Dav rose next.
"Training," he said. Groans answered.
"Two hours a day," he continued. "Combat, survival, or general fitness. You choose. We're not trying to break you. We're trying to make sure that when a beast charges, your body doesn't fail on step one."
"My knees are already gone," an older woman complained.
"Then we work around them," Dav said. "Breathing, balance, grip, reaction time. If you're alive, we can train something."
A parent lifted a shaking hand. "And children?"
"Not frontlines," Dav said bluntly. "Not unless survival's at stake. But they'll learn to run, hide, follow orders, use basic tools and signals. This world won't wait until they're grown. We won't pretend it will."
An auntie snorted. "Mine already tried to jump off a half-built platform to 'practice landing rolls'."
Laughter loosened the room.
Grandma rose again. "School starts now. This bunker doubles as classroom and childcare until the third floor is ready. Literacy, numbers, basic survival, Beastworld ecology, ethics. And yes—homework."
A collective groan, adults included.
"Education keeps us from repeating the worst of Earth," she said. "That's all."
Dillon and Nathan gave a quick briefing on labour and craft—six-hour shifts, rotation, measured contribution, no one trapped in one job forever.
"Every task that keeps Deepway alive is valued," Nathan said. "Food cooked, wounds treated, clothes stitched, metal forged, roads cleared—we stand on all of it, not just whoever swings a weapon."
Kass bounced to her feet.
"Beasts," she announced. "Stop treating them like plush toys with teeth. Or you will be headbutted."
Nervous laughter.
"We'll run Beast Education hours," she added. "Signs of aggression, safe distances, how to move around a pen, what not to poke, which ones might adopt you if you act like a nice tree. If you want to work with them, talk to me. If you don't, talk to me anyway. You still have to live next to them."
Ben raised his hand.
Talia sighed and waved him on.
"Rules aren't cages," he said. "They're scaffolding. On Earth people thought 'freedom' meant 'no limits'. It didn't. Here, we don't have the resources to absorb chaos. Consistency keeps the floor from dropping out beneath us. That's it."
That landed better than the lecture he'd been winding toward.
Then Megan stepped forward.
"Contribution Points," she said. The room sharpened.
"Beast shards are external currency," she said. "They're also fuel for the territory system and future trade. We can't use them for internal spending yet. So we're introducing CP—Contribution Points—as an internal ledger. CP does not measure your value as a person. It measures hours, effort, risk, impact."
"You earn CP through work," she went on. "Labour shifts, teaching, crafting, hunting, research, childcare. Dangerous jobs earn more. Steady roles earn reliable amounts. Anything you bring in off-shift—prey, forage, crafted items—can be sold to the Clan for CP at set rates."
"What do we spend it on?" someone asked. "We're still half in tents."
"For now: priority housing and choice of house position when the third floor opens. Optional upgrades to living spaces as we grow. Access to better food when stocks allow. Extra rest days. Priority for specialist training. And a limited supply of Earth luxury items some of us may have panic-bought."
Laughter rippled.
"As Deepway grows," Theo stood and commented, "CP will matter more. This is us building a small, controlled economy now, so we don't drown later in favours and grudges."
Excitement flickered in some faces. Wary calculation in others. But they were listening.
All through it, Cael stayed near the wall, arms folded, tracking where people flinched or leaned in. Talia watched too—the nomad elder nodding at "respect all labour," the Core teenager who rolled his eyes at "no discrimination" then sat a little straighter, the kids whispering about Hearthlops, the mother whose shoulders finally dropped at "protect the children first."
Auntie Junia closed with a few simple remarks—steady, practical, warm enough that people started to breathe again.
Then Talia stood.
No one had to call for quiet. The sound drained away on its own.
"We've set our foundations," she said. "We've chosen how we want to live. We've chosen to be a Clan, not just a crisis camp. That matters."
People nodded. Some firm, some hesitant. Others avoided eye contact.
Her expression grew cold.
"And now," she said, "we address the wound."
The word wound thickened the air.
They had their code now.
Next, they'd learn what happened when someone broke it.