Practising and Deals.

The base still smelled like rot.

Not fresh — not the sharp tang of something currently dying but the stale, heavy kind that clung to rust and memory. The kind that settled into walls after blood soaked through concrete and never quite left.

Next day I came back earlier than usual. Earlier than expected.

No one greeted me.

The others were already awake, gathered in little pockets of silence. Most weren't even pretending to be busy. Donny was staring at the back wall like it had insulted his mother. Jun was scrubbing the same pot over and over with a dirty rag. Tasha sat cross-legged on a crate with her knife tucked into her sleeve, eyes half-lidded but watching everything. Lia was nowhere in sight.

And Cole?

Cole stood near the door we'd re-re-sealed the one the clickers came through and we went investigating.. Arms crossed. Rifle slung over his shoulder like he was expecting something else to come through at any second.

"Everyone's rattled," Rusty muttered beside me, arms folded. "Doesn't matter how many patrols Cole runs. That kind of breach doesn't just vanish."

"I know."

"They trusted the rules. The ones you gave them. And now…"

He didn't finish the sentence.

Didn't have to.

I didn't give a speech. Just stood in front of the bunk section with my arms folded and told everyone we were restructuring.

"Starting today, no more loose shifts. No more passive watch rotations. We're designating formal patrol routes, bunk sectors, task zones, and a guard list."

Someone coughed.

No one objected.

I pointed toward the northeast corner where we kept the cleanest storage crates and the extra bedding we'd salvaged but never used. Its where most bunks were already anywhere.

"That'll be the bunk zone. Official. No one sleeps outside of it, yes looking at you Tasha. Assign your spot and stick to it. If you're caught elsewhere, I'll ask why, and if the reason sucks, you're sleeping near the damn wall for a week."

Plus its near the janitor closet that Cole opened so if something people can barricade themselves in.

Donny snorted. "What if someone snores?"

"Then they sleep with taped mouth, if they suffocate its just natural selection."

A few people cracked half-smiles. Most didn't.

Progress is progress.

I was here to make sure we didn't lose more people.

Rusty helped me mark the floor with chalk, rough sector outlines, from Storage East to Toolbank West. We set up makeshift signs using duct-taped ration lids. The place started to look like a real operation.

Cole handed me a rough schedule draft by midday. Four patrol shifts, overlapping hours. He'd already assigned two names per shift, including himself for the most dangerous window between 2 and 5 AM.

Sadistic but reliable bastard.

"Won't keep anyone out," he said, "but it'll slow them down. If anything moves wrong, someone will see it."

I nodded. "Thanks."

"Next time, we shoot first."

Good point.

Later, I found Lia near the pipes, where she'd been pulling out loose wiring and reorganizing scrap.

"You okay?"

She shrugged without looking at me. "Didn't think they'd break the rule, maybe try and make a run for it and somehow slip past FEDRA, but to go and open an obvious door that's screams dangers is something I didn't think through, maybe they thought they would be able to take 1 clicker but?"

"Neither did I, arrogant fucks."

Silence stretched between us like a loaded wire.

"You trust everyone here?" she asked, finally.

"After this? Fuck No."

"Good. You shouldn't."

Then she handed me a half-functional clipboard made from reinforced plastic and old binder rings. "Start logging names. Jobs. Hours. Inventory. If you're running a camp, act like it."

I did.

I spent the rest of the day drawing up supply lists, marking crates by category, and carving out enough floor space to serve as an official work zone. Tasha loomed nearby for most of it — not helping, not bothering me, just there. Quiet. Watching. Sharp.

She never said a word. But every time someone glanced too long at me, she met their eyes until they looked away.

Honestly? I appreciated it.

By the end of the day, the base was still scarred.

Still haunted.

But for the first time since Roy bolted into the dark and Clara screamed her last, it didn't feel lost.

It felt like something we could shape.

Maybe even rebuild.

Some days later we decided its time to go back in to the sealed zone.

No rush.

That's how people died thinking if they moved fast enough, they could outrun what already happened.

This time, we did it right.

Cole led the return team. I followed second.

He made sure of it "No leader goes first through a door he hasn't cleared." Rusty took rear. Tasha walked near me again, quieter than usual but less twitchy. Her eyes tracked the dark edges of the corridor like she wanted something to try her.

Donny, Lia, and two newer recruits Nora and Shane made up the rest. All armed with either metal pipes, crowbars, or salvaged gear. 

We brought 3 semi working flashlights.

The clicker blood had dried black on the floor. It crusted at the hinges of the opened door, mixed with flakes of mold and the faint smell of rusted iron.

No one said anything as we crossed the threshold.

The hallway was darker than I remembered. Quieter too. Like the air itself had been holding its breath since the breach.

We moved in tight formation.

First room: clear. Just some busted crates, torn cloth, broken shelves, and bootprints from the last time someone tried running.

Second: More sealed lockers. No names, but numbers stamped in military font across the tops: U.S. GOV SURP – CONTAINED. One had an impact dent in the side that looked like it had taken a shotgun blast. Another was padlocked — old, probably pre-QZ. We marked it for later.

The deeper we went, the colder it got. The hallway angled slightly downward and the ground turned from concrete to something more industrial steel panels with riveted seams. Sound echoed weird here. Every step we took sounded like a warning.

Then we saw it.

The next hallway split in two.

To the left: more debris. Torn-down wall piping. Red crates that hadn't been touched.

To the right: a heavy blast door military green, covered in faded yellow paint. A handprint, long dried, was smeared down the center.

Above it, stenciled in chipped block letters:

PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES ARMY

Cole grunted. "That explains the hardware."

Rusty knelt and studied the hinges. "This one's not welded. Sealed. Like it was meant to stay shut but not forever."

"Any markings?"

"Yeah. Stamped with AUX STAGING – LOCK C. Probably one of their fallback points."

"Think there's something good in it?"

Cole looked back at me. "Guaranteed."

After and hour an a half we entered all the rooms that we could get into, this whole place was a mess, it didn't have as much crates but mostly paperwork, this most likely worked as an office or something of the sort for this whole warehouse. There are few crates, boxes, lockers etc but all of them are military grade, no way in fuck are we getting in without good equipment or weeks of smashing on it.

Later as I sat near our work area I though back to when I was younger like, a whole two years ago I used to imagine what being in charge would feel like.

I figured it'd be loud. Heroic. You know, the type where you say something cool and people instantly nod and do it. Maybe a war table with maps. Maybe a really dramatic jacket.

What I didn't imagine?

Wading through chalk dust and broken duct tape labels, mumbling to myself about how many people lived here and where the hell the last clean blanket went.

Leadership didn't feel like commanding a ship.

It felt like trying to patch a leaking raft with soup wrappers and sarcasm.

I stood up and walked over to the room near the sewer entrance my unofficial "office" the table in there didnt smell like mold or regret — and after some cleaning and re-arranging stuff inside it started turning it into something that vaguely resembled a command centre.

A notebook became my ledger.The old dusty cheap Ikea desk became my officer desk.A ripped curtain from a busted FEDRA tent served as a makeshift "operations board," nailed to the wall with bent screws and too much hope.

First thing I did?

Made a list.

Personnel 

Sleeping quarters assignment

Work rotation

Guard shifts (Cole's already done half of it)

Inventory priority

Repair logs

Open crate tracking

Active missions (mine, not theirs)

Emergency supply fallback

Tools that are probably stolen

Rusty hovered behind me for a bit before finally muttering, "This is either the start of a dictatorship or a functioning society."

"Can't it be both? If you guys dont behave I will make sure its a dictatorship"

He smiled wryly and handed me a working pen, so I'm taking that as support.

Lia eventually wandered over, arms full of torn wires and a half-crushed can of something labelled VITA PROTEIN. She dropped both and studied the wall of scribbles with a raised eyebrow.

"You missed patrol overlaps. And sanitation."

I blinked. "What sanitation?"

She pointed to the corner bucket. "That's gonna be a problem in three days. Two, if anyone eats beans."

I added 'waste logistics' to the list with a sigh and shoved it to the bottom. I'd rather fight another clicker than deal with that, at least we know that there was a toilet in the new zone so after a while we can refurbish it and not piss and shit in a corner or a bucket.

The bunk sector slowly came together.

Elsie and Donny helped move supplies. Marta re-folded the blankets. Tasha rearranged the beds without speaking, dragging them into a strict grid. Not lined up for comfort lined up like she'd done this before, in a place where neatness meant survival. No one questioned it.

Cole showed up with a few crates of salvaged tools and muttered, "Weapon cache locked up in Storage C. Marked it with chalk."

"What's in it?"

"Guns. Or rocks. Could be rocks shaped like guns."

"Useful."

He didn't laugh, stoic as always.

The hardest part?

Assigning jobs.

People weren't built for structure anymore not in this world. Most of them had lived in chaos so long that asking them to take shifts and inventory things felt like punishment, even if their lives are just implanted memories from the system.

Some of them pushed back.

Not loud, not rude — just… dragging their feet. Pretending not to hear. Smirking like I was playing at something I didn't really understand.

Which, fair.

I wasn't a general.

I was an 11-year-old with a mild God complex and a very long to-do list.

But the second someone looked at me like I was just pretending to lead — Tasha stepped into view. Blade half-out of her sleeve. Head tilted just slightly.

She didn't say anything.

She didn't need to.

No one argued again.

You know what, she's no longer creeping me out. 

She is now my elite employee.

By nightfall, we had working logs for everyone. Tasks for the week. An updated map of the new zone. Patrol schedules. Firewatch.

I stood in front of the operations board, staring at it like it would spontaneously give me answers.

Instead, it gave me a headache.

But the good kind.

The kind that says: you're actually building something now.

Not just scavenging. Not just surviving.

Building.

Next week was just the same - open crates, log it, eat something and plan to sell it.

Cole also made 2 expeditions into the new world, which was the right zone. 

Didnt really bring anything back, maybe some old snacks from overturned wending machine but thats all. 

But on the 3rd expedition he brough back a somewhat destroyed box that he stated looks like a small weapons cache.

This excited absolutely everyone

By the time I got over there, Cole was already trying to force the indented crate open, it was matte black, not the faded green of old FEDRA crates.

I saw that someone brushed away the decades of rot, rust and dust from the front, first thing I noticed it had different markings.

And stenciled in block-white:

"MUNITIONS – CLASS C / PROPERTY OF USMC"LOCKED – ARMORY DESIGNATE / SERIAL 87-AC-3172

Below that, a scratched-in label barely legible beneath grime:AUTHORIZED HANDLER: CPT. R. MINTER

Cole looked up at me, then back to his work at hand. "Military." He says as a bead of sweat rolls down his forehead

"No shit."

Rusty whistled low from behind. "U S of fucking A military, marine core in particular, wonder if the crayon munchers kept the gear nice and tidy for us."

"And sealed since then?"

"Could be twenty years untouched or its just an old box they brough out from vietnam-era storage so even longer. Wont know till we open it"

"I hope its a big sniper rifle"

Was that just Tasha asking if its a sniper rifle?

Better get going on opening this.

After a solid hour and two crowbars, a screwdriver, and Cole muttering some very un-military words to crack it open.

When the lid finally gave, the air inside came out stale and sharp — like old metal and oil and something preserved too long.

We all leaned in.

Six firearms sat in foam molds, dusted with age but untouched by moisture. Four rifles, two pistols. Matte finish. Standard military issue, none of that shiny black propaganda FEDRA liked showing off.

Cole muttered something about standard old M4s and Berreta

I reached in and pulled one of the pistols free.

Heavy. Clean. Chambered in 9mm. Mag already inserted. Reminds me of my past life playing cod, Cole said Berreta, so I guess this isint a Glock like I thought but a Berreta.

Rusty flipped open a side panel and pulled out two partial ammo boxes — one half-empty, the other holding maybe 50 or so rounds.

"Overall around 235 bullets for the rifles and around 68 for the pistols," he muttered. "Maybe we can find more if we scrape around. Not enough for war, but enough to make a statement, we should find where the infected soldiers left their weapons or something." 

If this room was general stuff from FEDRA the left room was mainly government and businesses than that means-

Gulp

All those crates.

All those boxes and lockers.

They are probably all military or I hope they are.

While I was having a realisation of a lifetime, Cole was already inspecting one of the rifles.

He checked the chamber, cycled it, nodded once. "Functional."

We didn't cheer. Didn't whoop or holler or do any of that post-apocalyptic TV survivor nonsense.

We just stood there in shocked, bug-eyed silence, less than 20 people around a crate of killing tools, weighing what it meant.

Because this wasn't just protection.

It was escalation.

I claimed one of the pistols.

Not to show dominance.

But because I finally understood something: if I was going to be the one giving orders the one people trusted to keep them alive I needed more than plans and rules and systems.

I needed teeth.

Easy to carry it around since low rank soldiers and officers wont really bother me since my family is mid tier officers but even if they do, it wont be weird for a child of officers to have a spare pistol.

That dick Mason has one, a clean and shiny M45A1 that he claimed he had to wrestle a Firefly for and use it immediately on a stalker.

Daft fucking bitch, we are kids and stupid but not that stupid.

Cole obviously took one of the rifles. No one questioned it.

The other 3 rifles went to Rusty, Kev and Marta. 

Meanwhile I gave Tasha the other pistol - and that creepy look is back.

Fucking phenomenal. Bloody splendid innit?

I holstered the pistol in a makeshift hip sling and covered it under my hoodie.

If we were going to keep guns in this base — real ones, not bent pipes or sharpened poles — we needed more than weapons.

We needed control.

So Cole did what Cole does.

He trained us.

Side Mission Unlocked: "Trigger Discipline"Objective: Conduct firearm safety training for selected group members once a day at least for a week.Requirements:

Choose up to 6 individuals for basic firearms handling. (can include yourself)

Practice dry-fire drills and safety protocols.

Use live rounds to confirm accuracy and reaction under pressure.

Assign active carry approval to qualified members.

Reward:+85 EXP+1 Leadership Buff (Temporary, 3 days)Unlocks Firearms Handling Tier I in Crafting Tips menu(Maintenance tips, cleaning basics, reduced weapon degradation chance)

Note: Failure to monitor usage may lead to accidental discharges or trust loss.

It started two mornings after the weapons crate opened. No announcement. No meeting. Just Cole standing in the back corridor with a rifle across his chest and a rust-stained water jug for target practice.

Only six people were called.

Not volunteered. Not voted on. Called.

It included almost everyone from the beginning crew including me there was: Kev, Marta, Rusty, Tasha, even Donny was here since he is loyal and he will probably shoot himself or someone else so its better to train him now. He will be using Coles gun for this training.

Not because I was exempt, but because, as Cole put it, "Even gods fumble when they think they don't need practice."

I mean, he is right but I am not that bad. I think.

We met in the narrow hall in the right wing. It had a mostly-straight line of sight, decent echo dampening thanks to some leftover insulation panels, Cole called it "controlled enough for now."

First lesson wasn't aiming.

It was standing.

Feet shoulder-width apart. Back straight. Elbows loose.

Then came grip. Pressure points. Trigger awareness.

"Rifle ain't a toy," he said, correcting Donny's grip for the third time. "It kicks, it screams, and it doesn't forgive mistakes."

Donny tried to joke. "Yeah, like Tasha."

Tasha didn't blink. Just rotated her pistol like she was spinning a coin. Kev muttered something about bad timing and took a half step back.

Cole ignored them both.

He moved like someone who'd done this a hundred times. Not showy. Just efficient.

One by one, we dry-fired into the target — unloaded weapons, safeties engaged, no ammo in sight. Every time someone slipped into bad form, he stopped them cold.

Marta flinched every time her finger hovered too close to the trigger. Kev kept sighting too high. I caught myself holding my breath when I should've been exhaling.

And Tasha?

Perfect.

Alarmingly perfect.

She didn't ask questions. Didn't miss steps. She held the pistol like it had always been hers and looked down the barrel with the kind of familiarity most people reserved for old friends or sharp knives.

Cole gave her a nod. "You've done this before."

She didn't answer.

Just smiled a little too slowly and said, "You don't forget your first love."

Jesus. Oh God.

Mr System fuck did you send my way.

Next day we graduated to real bullets.

Only five rounds each. No exceptions.

Cole set up a battered water jug against a crate of ruined wiring and braced it with sandbags. "You miss, you pay with your pride. You shoot reckless, I take the gun. You hit it proper, you get your name logged for active carry."

Donny missed all five. Claimed the sight was off. Cole didn't answer. Just took the rifle away and handed him a pipe instead.

Marta hit two. Kev hit three. Shane only managed one, but he didn't flinch or panic. 

Tasha? She hit all five.

Not the centre, no — she aimed slightly off, at the seams and vulnerable points. Intentional. Calculated. Like she wanted to cripple, not kill.

When she lowered the pistol, she didn't look proud.

She looked… pleased.

That was worse.

When it was my turn, everyone went quiet.

Even Tasha.

I loaded the mag, lined up the sights, breathed slow.

And missed my first shot.

Fucking embarrassing.

Cole didn't say anything. Just watched.

I adjusted. Controlled the twitch in my hands. Imagined Mason's smug face on the jug.

Second shot — hit.

Third — hit.

Fourth — miss. Too high.

Fifth — dead center.

Three out of five. Not bad for someone who technically shouldn't even be allowed to use scissors unsupervised.

Cole marked my name next to Tasha's in the ledger he'd started.

"Active carry approved."

After practice, we broke into pairs. Cleaning, reloading drills, safety protocols. No one got to keep their weapon on them not yet. Guns went into Storage C behind a triple-lock system, checked in and out by either Cole or me only.

I started another list. A rotating carry schedule. Who could draw weapons during emergencies. Who needed more practice. Who shouldn't even be allowed near sharp pencils like Donny, let alone loaded firearms.

We were no longer just looters and survivors.

We were becoming something else.

Not a militia.

Not a gang.

A unit.

That night, as the others rotated through dinner shifts, I sat in my office and ran my fingers along the cold desk. Thought about what it meant to give someone power — real, lethal power — and trust they wouldn't turn it back on you.

Thought about Roy.

Thought about Clara.

And thought about the weight on my hip that wasn't just for show anymore.

If this base was going to survive, I couldn't just be the planner.

I had to be the weapon too.

On my left a gun, on my right the knife Tasha gave me and the crowbar hooked to my bag. I'm starting to look like a proper post-apocalyptic raider now, albeit a kid one. I opened the system.

Current Status:

Name: Callum ReyesLevel: 12EXP: 160 / 700System Points: 0Scavenger Rank Credits: 0Summon Tokens: 0Condition: StableBuffs: Leadership (Temporary)Debuffs: None

Inventory Highlights:

Pistol (Beretta M9 – 9mm) – 1

9mm Ammo – 38 rounds

Rifle (M4A1) [in storage] – 4 units total

General food, scrap, and tools: low to moderate

Notes:

You are now managing an armed, structured base.

Chain of command influence increasing.

Tasha's loyalty: High

Cole's trust: Solidified

Rusty's commentary rate: Unchanged

Things really went back to normal.

The dead got names carved into concrete with chalk. Roy didn't. No one brought him up except to curse his cowardice or joke that maybe the rats raised him now. Fine by me. Let them laugh. Laughing kept people sane.

Every day after the breach, we fell into a rhythm.

Open crates. Inventory what we could. Stack what we couldn't.

Then repeat.

Except about a 75% of the crates stayed shut or took hours to open.

Fuck this stupid governmental, military durability.

Especially the ones from the right wing they were positavely. Locked. Military-grade steel cases with faded USMC stencils, some fused from rust, others padlocked with codes we didn't have. No bolt cutters strong enough. No grinder. No spark tools, cant penetrate the crates itself.

Just fantastic.

Cole tried smashing one with a sledge from our salvage pile. Took out a corner of the crate. Bent the tool. Didn't even dent the lock.

"Goddamn government-grade garbage," he muttered. "You'd think the apocalypse would come with keys."

We marked them with red chalk and frustration.

Rusty nudged one with his boot. "Some of this shit might be older than me."

I shot him a look. "I thought you were mid 40s."

"I feel mid 40s."

"You look like expired milk."

That got a weak grin. Still progress.

But jokes didn't break metal.

And by the end of the day, we had more chalk than answers.

That night, I was sitting on a crate near the bunk sector, staring at a scribbled map of what we'd cleared. My fingers were smudged with graphite and something sticky I chose not to identify.

Lia walked up, arms crossed. No smile.

"I might know someone," she said.

My head tilted. "For...?"

"Getting those crates open."

"Thought we were trying to avoid dying violently."

"Not that kind of someone," she said. "A contact. Someone my aunt knows. Not Robert."

That got my attention.

She didn't say the name. Didn't have to. The way she said not Robert meant someone serious. Someone trusted. Someone who didn't screw people over for a pack of smokes and a half-warm lighter.

"He works in the shadows," she continued. "But he's good. Could find the tools. Maybe even trade for them. If he likes you."

I raised an eyebrow. "What's the catch?"

"We'd have to meet him. In person. Up north. Abandoned church near the edge of the QZ."

"You already asked your aunt beforehand didn't you, also neutral ground?"

She nodded, which answered both my questions.

I leaned back. We hadn't left the warehouse since the breach. Not topside. Not for more than a supply dump or a safe trip back home and doing school or work that could not be ditched. The idea of walking into a maybe-trap with unknown players… felt like tempting fate.

But these crates? They mattered. We all felt it. The seals, the gear, the layout of the entire forgotten section—it wasn't just surplus. It was intentional. Someone buried this stuff for a reason.

And I wanted to know why.

The next day, I made the call.

We'd go.

Me. Lia. And two of the heaviest hitters we had.

Cole didn't even flinch when I told him. Just nodded and said, "I'll clean the rifle."

Tasha?

She smiled.

Not a warm smile.

Not a smile that made you feel good.

The kind of smile that said: finally.

Before we left, I briefed Rusty.

"You're in charge while we're gone."

He blinked. "You trust me with that?"

"No. But I trust that you like the warehouse too much to let it burn."

"Fair."

"Also Tasha threatened you last week. You probably want to stay on her good side."

"Very fair."

We left just after dawn, when FEDRA patrols were light and the alley paths quieter. The streets were still scarred with debris and burn marks. Cracked concrete. Abandoned checkpoints overgrown with moss and trash.

Lia led. Cole flanked left. Tasha kept rear, knife tucked into her sleeve like always. Now that I think its their first real time being topside, except in their implanted memories.

Meanwhile me?

I kept my hood up and my mouth shut.

We passed the ruins of an old quarantine station. Rusted signs. Empty booths. The outline of a bloodstain on the wall that no rain had washed away.

We kept walking.

The church wasn't far now. Somewhere ahead, past a row of collapsed buildings and a cracked stretch of asphalt.

And if Lia's contact was who I thought it might be… well.

We were about to make a deal with the kind of people who never forget who they shake hands with.

But that was fine.

Because I wasn't a scavenger anymore.

I was building something.

And if that meant stepping into the lion's den with a fake smile and a real pistol?

Then so be it.

As we walked up, the church didn't look like a church anymore.

Not unless churches came with bullet holes in the bell tower and a tree growing through the left wing.

We stood in the shadows of a half-collapsed archway, staring up at what used to be a place for prayer. Now it looked like a forgotten checkpoint wearing a holy costume. Barricades made from pews. Scavenged tarp roofs. A cross above the door, burned halfway through like even God had abandoned the zip code.

"I thought you said abandoned," Cole muttered.

Lia didn't answer.

She was already scanning the perimeter.

Tasha crouched beside a stone idol that had lost its jaw. Her eyes didn't stop moving. Her fingers kept twitching near the blade she always carried.

I adjusted the grip on my hoodie where the pistol was tucked, hidden beneath layers of caution and adolescent bravado.

We weren't alone out here. Not by a long shot.

Even if the area looked quiet.

Even if there weren't boots on pavement or voices on the wind.

The world had a tone when you were being watched. And right now? That tone was ringing like a low warning bell behind my teeth.

Getting here was uneventful.

That was the weird part.

FEDRA patrols didn't cross this far north. Not often. Too many crumbled buildings and blind corners. Fireflies came through sometimes, sure, but this was scavenger turf — unaffiliated, unstable, unwanted.

The kind of place where people disappeared without needing an infected excuse.

"Up ahead," Cara, Lia's aunt whispered. "There's a side entrance. Should be unlocked."

Cole moved first. Always.

He didn't even pause at the creaking door. Just shoved it open with his foot and ducked inside, rifle in hand.

Tasha followed, nearly silent.

I went last. Followed By Cara and Lia.

Inside, it smelled like wet stone and rot.

Old water clung to the edges of cracked basins. Bibles turned to mulch in collapsed confessionals. One stained glass window still remained — mostly intact — a shattered saint with a hole where her heart should've been, casting light through it on the rotten and collapsed cross..

We stepped into the nave.

No echo. Just dust and tension.

Someone had cleared space near the front. Pushed pews back. Set up a crate as a table. A lantern on top, flickering faint light over another figure already standing there.

A man. Lean, broad, and older. Thick arms. Weathered face.

His coat hung heavy off his shoulders, sleeves rolled. His boots were scuffed, but not broken. His hands were scarred.

He didn't reach for a weapon. Didn't smile either.

The woman beside him leaned against a pillar, arms crossed. Messy hair. Sharp jaw. She did smile — the kind that didn't reach her eyes.

"Well, well," she said, voice dry. "Didn't expect to be meeting kids today."

I didn't flinch.

Not even a blink.

Because I knew that voice.

I knew that man.

Joel.

And if that was Joel… then the woman was Tess.

Yeah. Real friendly company.

Cole stepped up beside me, quiet but squared like a wall with a pulse.

Tasha stood a few steps back, blade already unsheathed. Not hostile. Just prepared.

Lia stepped up and spoke, voice clear.

"We need specialized equipment. Silent tools. Portable. Strong enough to crack sealed lockers."

Joel grunted. "That's vague."

"FEDRA grade," I added, stepping forward. "Or better."

He looked at me.

Really looked.

Not in the way adults usually do — not like I was small or fragile or in the way.

More like he was weighing me. Trying to figure out if I was lying. Trying to figure out if I was real.

"You from one of the blocks?" he asked finally.

As soon as he said that Tess gained a particular look that she shot in my direction that I did not particularly like.

"Mid-tier," I said. "My folks are FEDRA. Doesn't mean I am."

"Doesn't mean you aren't." Tess said from the side.

We stared at each other for a beat.

He blinked first.

Tess unfolded her arms. "You want the tools. We've got two ways of doing this."

She held up a finger. "Option one — we find them. Could take a week. Could take a month or more."

Second finger. "Option two — we steal them."

"From who?" Cole asked flatly.

"Someone who won't miss them for long."

Joel added, "But that one costs more."

"Define more."

Joel didn't smile.

Didn't need to.

"Something useful. Something you wouldn't give up unless you needed something worse."

I didn't look back at the others. Didn't need to, because they all know the decision is with me and I already knew what I was gonna say.

I drummed my fingers on my hoodie, the part that obscured my gun, clearly showing them that I am in fact also armed.

Tess just gave me a predatory smile, as if challenging me to do something ridiculously stupid like threatening them with my FEDRA parents and pulling a gun if they don't agree.

Joel just kept his expressionless stare, as if he was tired of life. Which he probably was.

Tess leaned her hip against the altar like she owned it, like this was her turf now, not some half-collapsed graveyard for saints. Her arms were still crossed, but her eyes were hungry — not desperate, just calculating. Like she'd already decided what she wanted from us but was letting us flail for dignity first.

"What's the price?" I asked.

Joel didn't blink. "You got meds?"

"Some."

"Non expired?"

"Yes. Civilian stock. Sealed. Expiry's still good, assuming you're not picky about taste."

Tess snorted softly. "We've eaten worse."

Joel didn't move. "What else?"

"Repaired flashlight. Not duct tape and prayer — actually works. Swapped the bulb last week."

"And?"

I purposefully looked at his worn out, cracked and obviously not working wristwatch.

"I can get someone to fix that for you, since you are carrying it even when its broken it means it matters to you.

Not really.

But something in him did.

Like a string got plucked behind his ribs.

His hand twitched — not toward the gun, not toward me. Just twitched. Then clenched.

I kept my voice even. "I know a guy who might be able to fix it. Real fix, not scrap-job. You get us the tools, I'll see what I can do."

Tess raised an eyebrow. Joel looked at her — just for a second. Not long. Not enough to matter.

Then he looked at me again.

Harder this time. Not hostile.

Just… tired.

Tired in a way that didn't come from walking or fighting or not sleeping.

Tired like someone who used to care about the world and got punished for it.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Eleven."

He didn't say anything for a long time. Just stared at his watch.

"I had a daughter once," he said quietly. "She was about your age."

The "was" explained it to everyone what happened.

Tess didn't interrupt. Neither did I.

Cole's hand shifted toward his sidearm, just in case. Tasha didn't blink — she never did when it counted. Lia had gone still beside me, lips slightly parted.

Joel didn't look away. "Tools for meds, flashlight, and the watch repair, throw in some food and we have a deal."

"Deal," I said.

We shook once. His hand was like sandpaper over steel.

He didn't crush my fingers. But he could have.

I think that was the point.

Afterward, Tess walked us out through the side entrance. Said they'd contact us when the job was done. No specific date, no promises — just a mutual understanding.

She paused before the exit and glanced at me. "You sure you're not FEDRA or one of em Fireflies?"

"Not really my style. So positive."

"Then keep it that way."

Outside, the sun was already going down. The QZ skyline looked jagged against the sky — half-toothpick towers and smoke columns. The wind smelled like moss and dust.

We didn't talk much on the walk back.

Didn't need to.

Because now we had a deal with ghosts.

And when ghosts owe you something, the living better tread carefully.