Requiem

The morning sun cast long shadows across the ruins of Washington Square as we gathered what remained of our fallen companions. Maya had given us space, understanding without words that this was something we needed to do alone.

Aurora knelt beside the spot where Professor Chen had made his final sacrifice, his tablet still clutched in hands that no longer existed. The destroyer's beam had been precise—everything from the waist up simply erased, leaving only legs and the device he'd died trying to share with us.

"He was trying to help us understand the energy matrix," she said quietly, her voice still hoarse from the Sentinel's grip. "Even at the end, he was thinking about how to win."

I picked up Chen's tablet, its screen cracked but still functional. His final research data glowed in the morning light—energy patterns, behavioral analysis, tactical assessments. Three days of desperate observation compressed into digital form.

"He blamed himself," I said, remembering the guilt in Chen's eyes when he'd realized his research had helped create the enhanced variants. "Thought his work made this possible."

"Maybe it did." Aurora stood slowly, her movements still pained from the acid burns. "But he also gave us the tools to fight back."

We found Professor Valdez's glasses near the chamber opening, somehow unbroken despite everything. The elderly Lunar Historian had been the first to sacrifice himself, stepping into the destroyer's beam to give us the experience we needed. His final act had been one of pure courage.

"He knew what the System was doing to us," Aurora said, carefully cleaning the lenses with her torn sleeve. "The way it turns people into resources. And he chose to fight back the only way he could."

The others were harder to memorialize. The woman with the crossbow—we'd never even learned her name. The burned teenager who'd been so scared, so young. The middle-aged man who'd held the woman while Chen ended their lives.

We gathered what personal items we could find. A wallet photo of the teenager with his family, everyone smiling at some long-ago barbecue. A wedding ring from the middle-aged man, worn thin from decades of faithful wear. A small silver cross the woman had worn—bent but not broken.

"They weren't just experience points," Aurora said as we arranged the items in a small circle near the park's memorial arch. "They had lives. Families. Dreams."

I nodded, though part of me—the part enhanced by Intelligence and Cosmic Insight—couldn't help but think tactically. Their sacrifice had gained us the power to defeat the Sentinel. The abilities that might save countless others.

That calculating voice in my head horrified me almost as much as what we'd done.

"I keep thinking about the math," I admitted, hating myself for the words. "The experience they gave us versus the lives we might save with that power."

Aurora looked at me sharply. "That's exactly what the System wants us to think. That human life can be reduced to equations."

"But what if it can?" The question escaped before I could stop it. "What if that's just reality now? What if the System is forcing us to make choices we never wanted to make?"

"Then we resist," Aurora said fiercely. "We remember that they were people, not numbers. We honor their memory by staying human ourselves."

I pulled up my status screen, the blue glow reflecting off the memorial items we'd arranged.

Nathaniel Moretti

Level: 11

Experience: 1,245 / 4,500

Main Class: Astral Equationist (★★★★★)

"How much do you need?" Aurora asked, reading my expression.

"Four and a half thousand for level 12," I said. "You?"

She checked her own screen. "Thirty-eight hundred. The requirements are getting steeper."

I did the math automatically, my enhanced Intelligence making the calculations effortless. "Basic zombies don't give any experience anymore. We've outleveled them completely."

"But enhanced variants still give decent amounts," Aurora added, checking her combat log. "That Spitter gave me 180 points. The Flexors were around 220 each."

The implications were concerning. At our current level, we'd need to fight maybe twenty enhanced zombies per level. Challenging, but manageable—if we could find enough of them.

"The real problem isn't the amount of experience," I realized. "It's that basic zombies are everywhere, but enhanced variants are rare. We'll need to actively hunt stronger enemies."

Aurora's hand moved unconsciously to where her sword would be. "Which means venturing into more dangerous territories. Places other Sentinels control."

I remembered the woman in the bookstore, her corrupted energy signature, the casual way she'd spoken about murder. She'd found an easier path to power—hunting other enhanced humans instead of searching for rare monsters.

"We can't go down that path," Aurora said, as if reading my thoughts. "Whatever it takes."

But even as she spoke, I could see the calculations running behind her eyes. The tactical assessments, the resource allocation. The System was changing how we thought, making us more efficient, more ruthless.

A distant howl echoed across the city—not close enough to be an immediate threat, but a reminder that other Sentinels still controlled vast territories. Each one now warned about our abilities, prepared for our tactics.

"Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we'd never gotten classes?" I asked. "If we'd just been normal people when this started?"

Aurora was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the bent silver cross. "We'd be dead," she said finally. "Or worse. Turned into those things."

"But we'd still be innocent."

"Innocent people don't survive apocalypses," she replied sadly. "The System made sure of that."

A soft breeze stirred the memorial items, making the wallet photo flutter. The teenager's family smiled up at us from that frozen moment of happiness—a barbecue, a normal day, a world that no longer existed.

"We should say something," Aurora suggested. "Some kind of prayer or remembrance."

Neither of us was particularly religious, but standing there among the ruins with the items of the dead, some kind of ritual felt necessary.

"Professor Chen," I began awkwardly. "You spent your life trying to understand how things work. You died trying to help us understand. Thank you for your sacrifice. We'll try to make it matter."

Aurora picked up the thought. "Professor Valdez. You saw what the System was doing to us and chose to fight back with wisdom instead of power. You saved us by showing us another way."

We continued around the circle, naming what we knew of each person. The teenager who'd been scared but brave. The woman who'd protected her group until the end. The man who'd chosen dignity in death.

As we spoke, Maya approached quietly, carrying a small bundle of supplies. She waited respectfully until we finished before offering what she'd brought—medical rations, clean water, fresh bandages.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said simply. "I know what it costs to survive in this world."

Aurora looked up from the memorial. "How many people have you lost?"

"My entire hospital," Maya replied quietly. "Three hundred patients and staff. I was the only one who made it out with a class."

The weight of her words settled over us. We'd lost five people and felt crushed by guilt. Maya had watched hundreds die.

"How do you keep going?" I asked.

"Because giving up dishonors their memory," she said. "Every person I save, every group I help—it's proof that their deaths weren't meaningless."

A distant howl echoed from the north—closer this time. Whatever territorial adjustments the Sentinels were making, they were expanding toward us.

"We should move," I said, standing carefully. My injuries from the Sentinel fight were healing thanks to my enhanced Constitution, but I was still far from full strength.

Aurora gathered the memorial items carefully, wrapping them in a piece of torn fabric. "We take them with us," she said. "So they're not forgotten."

As we prepared to leave Washington Square, I took one last look at the crater where we'd fought the Sentinel. The site of our greatest victory and our deepest shame.

We'd won. We'd grown stronger. We'd opened the path to Aurora's family.

But we'd also learned the true cost of power in this new world.

Maya shouldered her medical pack and gestured toward the north. "There's a group of survivors about ten blocks from here. Twelve people, mostly low-level classes. They've been hiding in a subway station."

"Are they safe?" Aurora asked.

"For now. But there's an enhanced zombie pack that's been probing their defenses. They won't last much longer without help."

I felt the familiar tug of tactical thinking. Twelve survivors. If we saved them, it would slow our journey to Queens. But if we didn't...

"We help them," Aurora said firmly, reading my expression. "That's who we are."

Maya smiled—the first genuine expression of joy I'd seen from anyone in days. "This is how we fight back. Not by becoming monsters, but by remaining human."

The memorial bundle weighed almost nothing in Aurora's pack, but I felt its presence like a physical burden as we walked away from the ruins.

Five people had died so that two could live.

Now we had to make sure their sacrifice meant something more than just our survival.