22 The Cost of Survival

The air inside MedCore Central Supply felt sterile—cold, bright, and clinical—the sharp scent of antiseptic cutting through the space. Rows of digital inventory displays flickered with scrolling lists of medicine, biostims, and gene therapies.

Leah walked with purpose, her boots clicking on polished floors, Ross trailing half a step behind—silent, watchful, and cutting an imposing figure that made every employee think twice before approaching.

But Leah wasn't here to browse.

She was here to take everything.

A woman appeared—polished, efficient, her voice smooth and professional: "Welcome to MedCore. I'm Dr. Elaine Marris, Director of Supply Services. How can we assist you today?"

Leah's eyes, sharp and cool, locked onto hers:

"I'm placing an order."

Her voice, smooth but iron-clad:

"For Kael Voss."

The doctor's professional mask flickered—just slightly—at the name.

But she recovered, her tone clipped and formal:

"Voss Industries. Understood. May I ask—" her eyes flickered to the console, "—the quantity and type?"

Leah's voice, steady and absolute:

"One million units."

A beat.

The doctor's fingers paused, the number flashing bright on the console—an impossible bulk order for a single client.

Her voice, tight with surprise: "That's—enough to supply a fully staffed Ark for years."

Leah's eyes, cold and cutting: "Exactly."

The doctor's lips pressed, her fingers resuming their glide over the console, her voice carefully even: "Very well. We can allocate general stock—standard antibiotics, antivirals, trauma kits—"

Leah's voice cut through, sharp and precise:

"I want more than standard."

The doctor's gaze flicked up, wary but waiting.

Leah's voice, smooth but edged with steel:

"First—1 million units of general medicines. Trauma kits, antivirals, antibiotics—everything for normal illness and injuries."

The doctor nodded, fingers flying—numbers stacking into the order queue.

Leah's voice dropped lower, colder, and pointed:

"Second—I want two specialty drugs."

The doctor's fingers paused, and her eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind?"

Leah's gaze cut through her:

"One for Alphas. The other for Omegas."

The room seemed to tighten.

The doctor's voice dipped lower, cautious: "You're asking for a gene-specific cocktail. Those aren't—"

Leah's voice hardened:

"I know exactly what they are."

Her tone, cold and clinical:

"They can be used as a proprietary cocktail—Vitamins B-complex, gene stabilizers, and immune fortifiers." Her eyes burned,

"A preventive line to stop Alpha and Omega gene degradation."

The doctor's breath hitched, her gaze sharpening—because what Leah was describing was not public knowledge. It was cutting-edge treatment, only implemented after catastrophic gene collapse rates had decimated entire Alpha-Omega colonies.

The doctor's voice, tight and wary:

"That formula isn't common protocol."

Leah's eyes, ice-cold:

"It's a necessity. And I want it—" her voice dropped, sharp and lethal:

"In bulk."

The doctor's hands hovered over the console. Her voice dropped: "That drug is restricted. We can't—"

Ross—who had been silent, still as a blade in a sheath—finally spoke, his voice smooth and gravel-edged:

"You can."

The doctor's eyes snapped to him, and her lips parted—

But Ross's voice—low, even, and dangerous:

"This order is under Voss's clearance." His blue eyes—cold as ice:

"Don't pretend you don't know what that means."

A flicker of tension—a pause—

And then—

The doctor's fingers resumed their glide over the controls.

Her voice, tight but compliant:

"Alpha-Omega Stabilizer Cocktail: 200,000 units each. Gene-coded and packed for cold storage. Scheduled for immediate transfer."

Leah's gaze cut once more:

"One more thing."

The doctor's fingers paused. "What now?"

Leah's voice—low, cold, and uncompromising:

"Sleeping agents."

The doctor's brow creased, her voice flickering with confusion:

"Sleep aids? You mean sedatives?"

Leah's eyes burned, sharp and unrelenting:

"No. I mean gas-based sleep inducers. Pressurized canisters. Bulk volume."

The doctor's eyes sharpened, a flicker of something—alarm.

"That's—" she hesitated, "—that's military-grade."

Leah's lips pressed, her voice cold and absolute:

"Which means you have it."

A tense silence.

Then—the doctor's fingers moved, her voice clipped and strained:

"Sleep Gas Agents: Multi-canister deployment units, 50,000 units. Compressed and sealed for long-term storage."

The final click.

The order—sealed.

The doctor's voice, cool but tight: "You've just drained a quarter of our deep reserves."

Ross—smooth, his voice laced with dry amusement—broke the silence:

"So," his lips quirked, "Vitamins, knockout gas, and apocalypse meds. Nice little shopping list."

Leah's voice, cold and cutting:

"It's called survival."

Ross's eyes, sharp with something darkly amused:

"No wonder Voss likes you."

Next was Crestline Wholesale Depot. The building stretched before Leah—massive, cold, and built for volume, not aesthetics. Towering racks loomed overhead, stacked with crates of clothing, uniforms, and textiles under the hum of automated loaders and conveyor belts. Digital inventory boards flickered, counting thousands of units in real time.

The air smelled of fabric, plastics, and industrial efficiency.

Ross walked beside her, his sharp blue eyes sweeping the operation with the lazy alertness of a man who had seen too many supply runs end with gunfire. His voice, smooth and amused as they passed row after row of identical crates:

"So—" his tone light but edged with curiosity, "—you shopping for just us, or the whole damn planet?"

Leah's lips curled faintly. "Just a thousand people. Plus the kids. So," she glanced toward the approaching manager, her voice dry, "Basically, the whole damn planet."

The warehouse manager, a middle-aged man with a thin frame and a sharp gaze, approached with a data pad in hand. His voice, clipped and efficient:

"I'm Garrick, supply chief. You must be with Voss Industries." His eyes flicked to Ross briefly—assessing—then back to Leah. "What's the order?"

Leah's tone, crisp and iron-clad:

"I need clothing supplies—bulk standard and private issue."

She raised two fingers and began, her voice smooth but absolute:

"First—Standard uniforms." Her eyes, cold and calculating:

30 sets per person—fully modular.Climate-adaptive, vacuum-seal capability.Integrated ID chips.

Garrick's brow lifted slightly at the volume. "That's... standard for a full long-term deployment."

Leah's gaze stayed hard: "It's for Ark 0."

The name hit, and Garrick's fingers twitched over his console—registering the clearance. His voice tightened, but he nodded:

"Understood. 30,000 sets of standard modular uniforms."

Leah's voice cut right through:

"Second—Children's standard sets."

Garrick's fingers hesitated—just a fraction—as he glanced up.

"Children?" His voice sharpened with a flicker of uncertainty:

"For Ark 0?"

Leah's voice, cold and final:

"2,000 sets."

A beat. The hum of machines and conveyors seemed louder.

Garrick's lips pressed thin, but he entered it without a word.

Ross, beside her, his voice smooth but laced with curiosity:

"Kids, huh? Planning for a long haul."

Leah's eyes flicked sideways, sharp and cool:

"I'm planning for a future."

Ross's lips curled—dry, amused, but edged with something deeper:

"Smart."

Garrick's voice broke the moment, his tone clipped:

"30,000 adult standard sets. 2,000 children's sets. Climate-adaptive, vacuum-safe, integrated ID." His eyes lifted: "Anything else?"

Leah's voice, low and final:

"Yes."

Her gaze, cold and precise:

"Private wear. Enough for 1,000 people."

Garrick's brow flicked. "Specifics?"

Leah's tone, smooth and cutting:

"Variety. Seasonal. Sleepwear. Formal. Training gear. Personal packs—30 sets each."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face—wholesale orders rarely included personalized sets. But Leah's voice, cold and iron-edged, shut it down:

"They'll live on Ark 0 for 15 years. I don't want them dressed like prisoners."

Ross's voice, soft, amused: "Luxury, huh?"

Leah's eyes, sharp and burning:

"Dignity."

Garrick's voice, tight but professional:

"I'll prepare the order. ETA: 12 hours."

As he walked away—

Ross's voice, low and wry:

"You really are packing a world."

Leah's lips curled—sharp and cool:

"We're not just surviving." Her eyes, dark and unyielding:

"We're living."

It was a different choice.