Sparks, Steel, and Stirring Voices
By now, I should've had a throne made of tin cans and broken zip ties.
Instead, I had a cracked folding chair, a pile of scavenged ration packets, and a system screen floating in front of me that looked way too smug for a glowing interface.
System Upgrade CompleteNew Features Unlocked:
Tier 2 Summon Access (Limited)
Crafting Blueprint Expansion
Mission Type: Structural, Trade, Personnel
Buff Library Unlocked
Summon Management Tools v1.1
Oh great. Now it even came with version numbers. I swear, one of these days I'll find out there's a patch log that says "nerfed childhood trauma; buffed insomnia."
I leaned back, staring at the flickering lightbulb that served as my sun down here. One month since the assembly, one month since the FEDRA suits played their little guilt symphony with radio transmissions and dead soldiers, and one month since the system decided I was ready to be promoted from "creepy scavenger kid" to "underground operations manager."
And yeah, I got a reward. Kind of. The supply drop that came two weeks back had legit gear this time thermal blankets, sealed water jugs, enough jerky to make Donny cry, and even a real multitool that didn't look like it had been chewed on by rats or Kev.
Alongside that? Five new summons.
Each one a wild card. All human-shaped, all alive. And all with the exact amount of weird tension that made it clear they were more than walking skillsets now. Some of them talked about "what came before." One cried in their sleep. One had actual opinions.
Which brings us back to the main problem: I didn't summon a team. I summoned a damn community.
I scrolled through the interface, watching the crafting menu breathe open like a metal flower. New categories blinked in:
Tools (Tier 2): Compact wrench set, wire splicer, bolt cutter (partial)
Clothing Mods: Padded linings, reinforced sleeves, hidden pocket stitching
Utilities: Basic air filter (jury-rigged), small heater (unstable), water purifier upgrade
Weapons: Crude crossbow, pipe hammer, smoke vial (prototype)
I whistled low. This wasn't scraps anymore. This was base-building. Territory defense. Pretending I knew what the hell I was doing.
The mission board had changed, too. No more just "Scavenge Run 003" or "Fix Rusty's Screwdriver Before He Kills Someone." Now it had categories:
Base Defense Missions
Trade and Barter Routes
Personnel Assignments
"Personnel," huh. Like I was running payroll.
I shook my head, leaning forward again. The folding chair creaked like it was trying to retire early. I reached into the crate beside me, pulled out a lukewarm pouch of water, and cracked it open with the grace of a dead ferret. It splashed down my chin, and I didn't even flinch.
Leadership.
Somewhere across the warehouse, someone was arguing. Again. Probably about blanket distribution or who had to clean the piss bucket today. I didn't want to deal with it. I wanted five minutes to process the fact that the system had just handed me the keys to a rusted, possibly cursed kingdom.
But the longer I sat there, the more I knew I couldn't just wing it anymore.
Too many people. Too many variables. Too many eyes starting to look past survival and toward options.
Some wanted rules. Some wanted freedom. Some secretly wanted out.
And me?
I just wanted them not to break the welded door and get eaten by clickers.
Some time later as I was busy I heard a distinct sound that meant things were going sideways.
It wasn't yelling. Yelling was normal. You got used to the acoustics of panic when you lived under concrete beams and fluorescent lights that buzzed like anxious wasps. It wasn't the clatter of someone dropping something. Either, Donny did that twice a day. No, this sound was more dangerous.
It was silence.
The kind that came after arguing. Tense, held-in-the-throat, nobody-move silence.
I rounded the corner from the main storage aisle, crowbar in one hand, chalk in the other, and there they were. Three of the newer summons. Middle-aged guy with wiry arms Roy. Young woman with a sleeve tattoo and attitude issues Clara. And the third one, Jules, the quiet type with a scout's eye and a moral compass stuck somewhere between "dead center" and "do not resuscitate."
They were standing in a loose triangle near the map wall, where Lia had been organizing routes for the scav teams. Except none of them were touching the map. Just… hovering. Tension humming off them like heat.
"I'm telling you, it's not just about scavenging anymore," Roy said, too calm. "We've got resources. Water. Shelter. Skills. The way I see it, we've got a chance to move."
"Move where?" Clara snapped, arms folded. "You think FEDRA's gonna high-five us for popping up topside uninvited? Or maybe you'd rather go camping with the Fireflies? Grow a conscience and get shot in the back?"
"Better than waiting down here for someone to sell us out." Jules, flat. No anger. Just fact.
They all turned when they saw me. Not like they were scared. Just… calculating. Measuring how much I'd heard.
"Morning," I said, biting into a stale biscuit like it was a conversation starter. "Hope I'm not interrupting your poorly-timed game of 'What Could Go Wrong.'"
"Just talking," Roy said.
"Loudly," I nodded. "In a base built like a megaphone."
Clara rolled her eyes. "You said this place was about survival. Not prison."
"And you're still alive," I said, voice flat. "Congratulations on reading the fine print, want an extra ration bar?"
Behind me, Rusty appeared with uncanny janitor timing. He didn't say a word just glanced at the trio, then at me, then went to work wiping something off a nearby crate. Probably nothing. Probably blood.
"I'm not saying we should bolt," Roy muttered. "But some of us are thinking long-term. Real future. Maybe even finding others."
"And maybe," I said, stepping closer, "you should think about what happens if FEDRA or raiders or just one hungry clicker decides your future's looking delicious."
"Or would you prefer the cannibals? You will certainly live longest, its the conditions in which 'you will be alive'. Afterall, meat doesn't spoil on corpses."
No one spoke.
"Let me make this simple," I said. "Topside is suicide right now. Patrols are thick, rumours are worse, and if anyone here gets caught, they don't ask questions. They shoot. Then they ask your corpse if it has friends."
"Thought this was about choices," Jules said, quietly.
"It is. You choose to stay. Or you choose to walk out and deal with the world. But you don't choose to drag everyone else down because you've got ants in your boots."
Roy gritted his teeth. Clara looked like she wanted to throw something, but settled for glaring. Jules just… stared.
Not at me. Through me.
I didn't like it.
Later, when I checked the Relationship Menu, there were changes.
Roy — [↘ Mild Distrust]
Clara— [↘ Resentful]
Jules — [↘ Reserved. Observing. Calculating]
One tick closer to a group that didn't just survive together, it whispered. Lovely.
Rusty passed by again on his way out, muttering, "You should lock up the chalkboard. They've been writing things when you're not looking."
I blinked. Que?
Then I walked over to the board.
And found one of my rules had been smudged. Just enough to change:
Rule #5: No unnecessary risks
into:
Rule #5: No unnecessary questions
Cute. Maybe I should make them write "No unnecessary risks" 500 times on the wall? Though for now, I will ask our resident ex-FEDRA here to observe them closely.
Later as I am working I have achieved certain enlightenment.
There's a certain peace to working with your hands.Not the zen kind. More like the if I'm busy hammering this hinge into a half-rotted door, I don't have to deal with other people's emotional baggage kind.
Rusty didn't talk much while we worked. That was the nice thing about Rusty. He didn't ask questions. He didn't mutter about FEDRA or conspiracies. He didn't mope in the corner like someone called his anime waifu C-tier. He just worked. Wrench in one hand, duct tape in the other, screwdriver in his teeth like some post-apocalyptic handyman pirate.
The supply drop had included an old fold-out schematic, half water-damaged and labeled "Secured Access Node: Version 2."Rusty took one look at it, nodded, and said, "I can fake that."
Which is how we ended up building what might generously be called a "security hub" and less generously be called "a desk with wires and trauma taped to it."
We stripped parts from broken radios and melted battery casing. Welded a rebar brace onto a file cabinet to turn it into a workbench. Connected three salvaged lights to a single power source we rigged from the old generator housing, now reinforced with scrap metal and positive thinking.
Meanwhile, Lia had dragged out a pile of ration crates to organize new patrol routes, even though we had no actual patrols. She claimed it was "preemptive strategy." I called it "hopeful paranoia."
Clara helped her. Loudly.As in: she questioned why we needed "shifts" at all, who was deciding who gets to stand guard, and why no one voted for anything.
I was about three screws away from installing a megaphone with my voice on loop:"This isn't a democracy. It's a barely-hinged death closet with chores."
But I held it in. Mostly.
Across the room, Tasha was sitting against the far wall, sharpening a knife in slow, deliberate strokes. Not her usual kind of silent. More... removed. Eyes unfocused.She wasn't watching the group. She was watching me. Or maybe past me.
The Relationship Menu hadn't moved for her in days. Just sat there, somewhere between supportive neutral and loyal with a question mark.
Donny wandered into the scene just in time to knock over a box of spare wire, trip on it, then try to play it off by saying "I was testing the floor tension."
Sigh
I didn't even look up.
"You okay, boss?" Rusty asked under his breath while tightening a bolt.
"I'm building an empire out of trash and managed mental breakdowns. Never better."
He grunted with approval, or maybe sympathy. It was hard to tell with Rusty. Probably too many electric shocks fried his brain a bit.
Joe passed by at one point but didn't stay. Just offered a nod and kept walking like he didn't want to be tied to what this was becoming. I could feel it in the way people looked at each other lately. Not a group. Not even a gang.A pile of puzzle pieces from different boxes, all pretending to fit.
I wiped sweat off my neck, leaned back, and admired the workbench. It had a steel plate welded crookedly across the top, a socket strip mounted sideways, and a drawer labeled "IMPORTANT STUFF — DON'T TOUCH (I WILL KNOW)."
Rusty gave it an approving slap. "It won't explode."
"That's what I say about my life," I said. "Right before something does."
He smirked, for once. A rare win.
Later that night, I checked the Relationship Menu again:
Clara — [↓ Argumentative]
Jules — [↓ Disengaged. Watchful.]
Tasha — [— Unchanged, loyal (?)]
Rusty — [↗ Solid]
Donny — [↗ Cheerful, Oblivious]
Only person in the entire group who was genuinely happy was the guy who thinks rust counts as seasoning.
Next day, it was a normal day however, someone started an idea.
It started like all bad ideas do, casually, like it didn't want to admit how much of a fuse it was holding.
"Hey," Clara said one morning while pretending to sort tools she'd already organized twice. "If you had to pick one day to go topside, just... hypothetically. Which would it be?"
I looked up from the power node I was trying to keep from sparking. "Is this a new drinking game? Because I'm eleven, and you'd lose."
Clara huffed. "I'm serious."
"Yeah, that's the problem."
She didn't press it right away. Just shrugged, muttered something about curiosity, and wandered off.
But later that day, it was Jules.
We were standing near the welded door, the door I'd marked as permanently off-limits and reinforced more so that nothing can really smash on through. The metal was warped and welded shut, and the clicker incident from months ago had made sure no one wanted to be near it… mostly.
Jules wasn't touching it. He just stood there. Staring at it. Like the door owed him something.
"Do you ever wonder," he said, voice low, "if staying hidden too long makes you soft?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Funny. I was just wondering if some people mistake suicidal tendencies for bravery."
He turned, gave me that unreadable look, part bored, part iceberg. "You're afraid of what's out there."
"Correct," I said immediately. "Because I enjoy breathing and not being eaten."
He stepped a little closer, arms crossed. "Some of us… remember things. From before. Outside. People. Places."
No the fuck you don't Mr made in a test tube by a system gifted by a douchbag from my previous life.
"You remember a fantasy. The outside now doesn't care about your nostalgia."
Jules didn't argue. He didn't even nod. He just walked past me, slow and deliberate. And I watched him go because I didn't know if stopping him would make it worse.
That night, I checked the fallback routes. Just in case.The chalk marks I'd drawn weeks ago were still there, my hidden paths. One looped through the collapsed drain duct. Another crossed the sealed vent system. No one else knew the whole layout. I made sure of that.
Rule #9 burned in my head:
No one goes topside unless I say so. And I never say so.
But I wasn't dumb. I knew what I saw.Clara was testing boundaries. Jules was scouting options.And me?
I was running a pressure cooker under a leaky roof.
No alerts. No rebellion. Not yet.But the kind of silence that grows teeth.
Then I remembered when I was seven, my father sat me down in our cramped apartment, right after a FEDRA training drill nearly went wrong.A recruit dropped a live smoke grenade in the wrong corridor. No one died, but someone got a broken wrist and a long silence afterward.
Tomas Reyes didn't yell. He didn't lecture.
He just looked at me and said:"Orders aren't about control. They're about survival. You follow orders so no one dies. You give them so someone takes the fall instead of everyone."
I'd nodded like a good little future soldier.
Didn't tell him I hated the way it felt.
Back in the warehouse, I stood in front of the chalkboard again.The old rules were still there. Faded, some smudged. Someone had added a doodle next to Rule #3 (Don't eat things that smell like regret). I was 90% sure it was Donny.
But Rule #9? That one needed a rewrite.
I rubbed the old line off slowly. Stared at the board for a moment, then picked up the chalk.
The air behind me was still. Silent. Not because I was alone. I wasn't, but because everyone knew what the board meant now.
Rules weren't suggestions. They were warnings.
I wrote, with hard pressure:
Rule #9:No one goes topside unless I say so.And I never say so.
No jokes. No sarcasm. Just truth.
When I stepped back, I saw it. Not the words, the way people looked at them. Rusty, watching from the workshop corner. Tasha, arms folded near the bunk curtain, unreadable. Lia, eyes narrowing just a little, but saying nothing.
Even Clara, across the room, didn't mouth off this time.
And Jules?He wasn't there.
The system pinged while I was eating half of a flavourless protein bar.
It wasn't dramatic. No drumroll. Just the usual sterile pop-up floating in my vision like a smug ghost that wanted to ruin my day.
New Mission Unlocked: STRUCTURE THE FUTURE
Objective:
Assign formal roles to at least 4 members
Establish active workstations in 4 base sectors: • Security • Trade • Repair • Scouting
Maintain role functionality for 5 days
Reward:+400 EXP+1 Rank 2 Summon Token+1 Buff: Crafting Efficiency (Minor)
(Note: Failure to maintain roles will delay mission reward. Consistency is key.)
Huh, that's a lot of rewards. Good, was getting bored with the drama anyway lets assign roles that will make those who didn't get it disgruntled. Fun.
Nothing says "relaxing childhood" like being told to create a functioning black-market militia before your voice finishes changing.
I closed the window and looked around the base like I was inspecting a fire I had just realized was my fault.
Security? That is obvious, there's Cole, but he was out running drills with Donny again, and lately he'd started asking if we needed a watch schedule "in case someone turns."Trade? Lia. Easy. She practically ran the ration flow already.Repair was Rusty's domain, no question.Scouting… technically we had Jules, but I trusted a rusted crowbar more than him right now.
Still. The roles were there. They just needed confirmation. Names on imaginary paper. Chores with titles.
I pulled out a piece of cardboard and scrawled the assignments:
Security — Cole (backup: Tasha)
Trade — Lia
Repair — Rusty
Scouting — [Pending]
I didn't want to give Jules the title. But I also didn't have anyone else. Maybe our resident creepy girl? She is observing and unnervingly quiet when walking, perfect scout, though I should check with others as well.
So I added a new line under Scouting:
Temporarily Unassigned.
There. Covered. Half-commitment with plausible deniability.
"Y'know," I muttered to myself as I tacked the board to the wall, "I was happier when it was just rats. Rats didn't argue. Rats didn't organize a union. Rats didn't want to vote. Rats didn't make me crazy"
Rusty walked by at that exact moment, lugging a coil of wiring. "Talking to yourself again?"
"Better than talking to people," I said. "People come with responsibilities. Rats just want crumbs."
I took a deep breath and sighed, again. "But rats make me crazy, and I was already crazy once and I got locked in a metal room, metal room filled with rats and rats make me crazy." I told him in my best monotone dead fish eyed look I could muster.
He just gave a low chuckle and kept walking and mumbling something about finally becoming like "good ol rusty".
I turned back to the assignment board and stared.
I was building something. A real structure. A chain of command.Not because I wanted to… but because if I didn't, the cracks would widen. And when things fall apart down here, they don't make noise — they vanish into silence.
Later that night, the system chimed again.
Mission In Progress: STRUCTURE THE FUTURE — Day 1/5Tracking Personnel Stability...
I didn't like that phrasing.
Later in the evening I found Joe sitting in his usual spot, the edge of the utility tunnel, just past the cracked pipe that dripped like a slow leak in God's patience. His back was against the wall, hands stained from scrubbing crates earlier, and his eyes half-lidded like he was either meditating or planning a funeral.
"Joe," I said, flopping down beside him with a tired grunt, "tell me a story that doesn't end in body parts or betrayal. I need a win."
He didn't look at me. Just reached into his coat, pulled out a crumpled piece of jerky, and offered it wordlessly.
"Pass," I said. "That thing's been in your pocket since the outbreak."
Still didn't look at me. But he smiled. That Joe smile the kind that made you wonder if he knew something you didn't or if he was just remembering a time before the world got chewed up.
Finally, he spoke.
"There was a man once," he said slowly, "who found a dry patch of earth in the middle of a swamp. No infected. No FEDRA. Just quiet."He paused to chew the jerky. Loudly. "So, the man started planting."
I leaned my head back against the pipe, already bracing for metaphor whiplash.
"He planted tomatoes. Then potatoes. Then some strange little purple plant that might've been illegal pre-outbreak, but hey — no cops anymore." He chuckled. "He built a fence. Dug a well. Others showed up. Some asked to stay. Some took what they wanted. But the garden grew."
"You're about to tell me it got burned down, aren't you."
Joe shrugged. "Nah. No fire. Just weeds."
I blinked. "What?"
"Too many seeds. Not enough trimming. The man stopped pulling the bad ones. Didn't notice when they started choking out the good ones."Another pause. "By the time he realized, the garden was still growing. Just… not with the plants he chose."
He finally looked at me then. Not with judgment. Just that old scavenger wisdom, buried under layers of sarcasm and grease.
"You're building a garden, kid. Just remember what kind of seeds you're planting."
I didn't answer.
On the way back to the core base, I passed the assignment board again. The list of roles.
I stopped.
Stared at the Scouting line.
Technically, Tasha was good with a knife. Fast. Quiet. Kept to herself.But she also kept giving me weird looks. The kind that lingered. The kind that made you wonder if your kidneys were still yours.She'd left that knife for me once, right? Gift or threat? I wasn't sure anymore.And she talked to herself when she thought no one was listening.
Not… great leadership vibes.
My eyes shifted down the hall, toward where Joe had settled back in.
Unreliable? Sure.Paranoid? Definitely.But he watched. He listened. And he understood things.
So I picked up the chalk again. Crossed out Temporarily Unassigned.
Wrote:
Scouting — Old Joe
Underneath it, I added:
(Backup: Tasha — only if desperate or suicidal.)
Then I added a little rat doodle beside it.
For morale.
I didn't sleep in the warehouse.
That was the rule. No matter how much I built down there, bunk spots, water stash, warm lighting, even patched-up mattresses, I always left for home,
But today I sat in a cracked service corridor just a few turns off from the sewer fork, something happened near the entrance and I can't leave right now.
Cold floor. Rusted pipes. The sound of dripping water somewhere behind me, like a clock for people who didn't believe in time.
My flashlight, half-working and leaned against a pipe, flickered as I leaned over my notebook.
The pages were starting to fray. Smudged graphite and sweat stains, corners bent from being shoved in and out of hiding spots. But this thing held the bones of what I was building. What I was pretending to be ready for.
Crafting Loadout: Future Maybe-Not-Deaths Edition
Water Purifier Upgrade — sand funnel, heat coil, battery trickle. Still missing: a miracle.
Improvised Radio Scanner — need: signal board, not-fried capacitor, stolen hope.
Reinforced Hoodie Stitch Plan — tarp lining, fishing wire, patience, no blood.
Crowbar Upgrade v3 — heavier core, cloth wrap, maybe coat in resin if I ever find some.
Next page: diagrams. Rough, messy lines. Just enough to tell me what I could build, if the system ever dropped the right junk.
Another page: fallback routes. Routes I'd mapped alone. None of them shared. Not even with Lia.
One out through the drainage crawlspace behind the junk piles.One up the broken vent near the storage sublevel.One that went nowhere yet, just a line with a question mark.
My handwriting was getting worse.
I was just about to pack it up and check if its clear when I heard boots.
Not running. Just steady.
Lia.
She spotted me before I even said anything. Light bounced off her glasses, and she slowed her steps like she wasn't sure if she should interrupt.
"You always pick the ugliest places," she said.
"Least popular real estate is the safest," I replied, flipping my notebook closed. "Nobody sneaks up on you when you smell like mold and disappointment."
She gave the faintest grin and leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed. She didn't ask why I was out here. Didn't ask what I was writing.
We sat in the cold for a minute. Not friends. Not strangers. Just two people who knew the warehouse wasn't as solid as it pretended to be.
"You've been quiet lately," she finally said.
I shrugged. "Everyone else has been loud."
She nodded, like that made perfect sense.
"Anything you need from inside?" she asked.
"Already stole half the inventory. I'm good."
Another pause.
"Then go home," she said. Not an order. Just… concern wearing sarcasm like a mask.
I stood slowly, slipping the notebook into my backpack.
"Trying but someone made an opsie and the area around the entrance is crawling with FEDRA" I said exasperatedly .
She just rolled her eyes "Great, hopefully they are already gone."
Next day I arrived earlier than usual.
No big reason, just work ended earlier due to some emergency in gate 2, so I just took that chance to leave. With Too many thoughts pacing circles in my skull I was ready for another day at this dumpster fire. Even if someone does something stupid I am too tired to care, someone in the apartment above us had started playing old FEDRA radio drills on loop again, and I wasn't about to get caught dreaming about "Standard Rifle Disassembly Procedures."
The sewer tunnel was cold, damp, and smelled like regret with a hint of mildew, but I moved fast. No rats this time. Not even the usual condensation drip to keep me company.
As I crept closer to the warehouse door, I slowed down.
Voices.
Low. Close.
I pressed myself against the wall and edged forward. They were just inside, beyond the main entrance into the warehouse from the sewers and our only so far working exit that somewhat connects us to the left overs of civilization. I slowly and quietly kept to the shadows and listened.
Clara. And Jules.
"I'm just saying," Clara whispered, sharp but hushed, "it's not like he owns us. He didn't find us. We showed up."
"He says he saved us," Jules replied, quieter.
"Sure, and I say I'm the queen of Boston. Doesn't mean it's true."
A pause.
"If we left," Clara continued, "just hypothetically… there's enough rations to last a few days. If we somehow got to the roof or one of the windows we could jump or make a rope to slide down."
"Then what? We get outside We'd be seen by FEDRA patrols immediately and get caught by them. Or shot."
"Or free."
Another pause. Jules again: "We'd need to be fast. Maybe split. Cover ground, we could get Roy on our side probably."
I leaned back, out of earshot. No need to hear more.
No plans were being made, not really. Just thoughts. The kind of thoughts you whisper when you think the walls are solid and the leader's still asleep.
I didn't storm in. Didn't call them out.
Didn't say a word.
An hour later, I dropped an extra ration bar in the common crate. Didn't say where it came from. Just watched Jules glance at it like it might be poisoned. Clara didn't even look up.
No confrontation. No accusations.
Just quiet.
That night, I stayed later than usual. Not overnight. But long enough to watch the group settle in. Lia passed out with her boots still on. Rusty snored like a half-functioning fan. Donny hugged a blanket like it owed him money.
I waited until the lights dimmed.
Then I slipped away.
Back out the tunnels. Past the second junction. Down the dry culvert I never marked.
There, under the loose panel of an old wall brace, I pulled out my chalk and updated the fallback map.
Three exit routes were already labelled. I added a fourth.
Route D: Silent Break.No crates. No lights. No sound. Just out.
Only for emergencies.
Only if it came to that.
Only if the fire started inside.