Exposure and Negotiation

I knew something was terribly wrong the moment I saw the carrots.

Not the fact we had carrots. That was already weird. But the fact they were fresh, as in not smelling weird or mushy top it off they were real ones. Not the shrivelled dried-out orange mummified sticks they sometimes ground into powder for ration soup. These were full, vaguely damp, and had that green stem bit like something out of an old cartoon.

Tasha just held one up and blinked like it had personally insulted her lineage. "Is this... edible?"

"I mean," I said, poking at a half-crate of them, "if it bites first, we throw it out."

They are probably chock full of weird chemicals. 

However, they didn't bite. Neither did the celery. Or the two sealed boxes of painkillers. Or the extremely not-from-FEDRA hygiene kits with those soft soaps that smelled like actual lemon. Stuff like that didn't show up in the QZ anymore unless someone smuggled it in from another zone or stole it off a dead courier.

Crate 1: food supplies. Civilian surplus, late model. Expired, sure, but not by much. Stuff people would kill for in the outer blocks.

Crate 2: medical. Nothing revolutionary, but a mix of bandages, burn salves, antiseptics, antibiotics. Mostly still good. Rusty looked like he was going to cry and then tried to play it off by spitting on the floor and calling everything "cheap crap" under his breath.

Crate 3: the jackpot. Civilian luxury and hygiene surplus. Tampons, toothpaste, real razors, even two cartons of unopened smokes. I almost kissed the box. Might still.

I might be 11 and a half for now but I will bite and beat half to death anyone with my crowbar, to anyone who touches my fucking smokes. I feel like Gollum with my smokes, now I need some Guinness and some fish and chips and its like I am back in UK.

We moved it all fast. Logged it. Stored half. Prepped the other half for low-key sales to Lia's aunt's buyers in the northern district. Whispered deals. Barter by shadow.

I was proud. Stupidly proud.

Which is exactly when shit decided to go wrong.

Not loudly. Not with sirens or stomping boots. Just… little things.

Joe came back from a quiet sale near the Spine and said two FEDRA patrol guys glanced at the medcrate too long. Cole caught a civilian with ink-smudged hands trying to sketch our way to our new refurbished laundromat sex shop alleyway setup that is now watched by Joe almost all the time with one of the non-important summons. Jack, who's implanted backstory was apparently a bouncer before outbreak. The alleyway now is a small ramshackle house that connects to a part of the laundromat, no one really said anything.

Someone else said they heard a runner named Cas whispering about "new goods from the east tunnel 3 zone," which was not a zone and also not good.

And then Lia walked into base, pulled me aside, and handed me a scrap of paper with one sentence:

"You're being watched. Shut it down or clean it up."

I stared at it like it might spontaneously burst into flames. "Who gave you this?"

"Aunt didn't say," she replied. "Just that someone high enough up wanted you to know before someone higher noticed."

So I did the rational thing.

Freaked out. Quietly. Maybe already picking the spot I want my remains burned.

"Maybe we lay low," I muttered, pacing behind the bunk crates. "Sell less. Say we found fewer crates. Maybe we just— I don't know— make shit look worse again."

Rusty scratched his jaw. "Or maybe we stage a robbery."

"Of what? The carrots? What kind of world-ending scheme is the Great Carrot Heist?"

Lia leaned against the wall. "It's not the stuff, Cal. It's how fast it showed up. And who you are."

Right. Who I was.

Mid-tier FEDRA brat. Son of two uniforms. Kid with complete opposite of perfect school attendance and slightly above-average grades. I wasn't supposed to be capable of smuggling. I wasn't even supposed to notice the underground stuff until I turned sixteen and someone offered me a moldy cigarette behind a collapsed checkpoint.

"Maybe someone talked," I muttered. "Maybe Mason."

"Probably Mason," Lia said.

Mason, that smug, permanently-pleased-with-himself twit, had been bragging all week about "knowing a guy who had connections." Of course he had. I bet he saw the soap bar I sold to one of people and he offered him something or threatened him then that person started chirping like a cracked radio.

I chewed on the corner of my thumb. "Alright. Worst case, they come knocking."

Cole snorted. "You mean when."

Tasha nodded, still carving grooves into the table with her knife for no reason. "You'll need an alibi."

"I've got one," I said.

It wasn't a lie. Just a repurposed version of the truth. A story I'd been working on for weeks. About a dead smuggler with a sealed stash. About a scav group with no real leader until I "stepped in" to co-lead and organize with promises to ask FEDRA on their behalf for limited protection in exchange for first pick of goods we find in danger zones even elite FEDRA dont go in. 

So we kept selling. Carefully. Quietly.

And that's when I found the carrots again.

New batch. Different crate.

And a small note tucked underneath:

"Heard your carrots are sweet. Might visit for a taste. — M."

THIS FUCKING COCKSUCKER.

I will throw him into a stalker den I swear.

I stared at it for a full ten seconds.

Then I folded the paper in half, shoved it into my pocket.

Sigh

Time to prepare the performance of a lifetime.

Later as I arrived I realised that the house was clean, too clean.

Not the usual kind of clean — not my mom's constant "wipe your boots or I'll skin you" kind. This was the quiet kind. The kind where everything was already in its place before you walked in. No cooking smells. No radio chatter. No dad's jacket half-draped over the back of the chair like a tired ghost.

Just stillness.

I stepped inside and shut the door carefully behind me, letting the warehouse dust shake off my hoodie. No creaks. No scolding. Just the muffled tick of the wall clock and the faint hum of the power unit in the next room.

"Cal?" my mom's voice came from the kitchen.

"Yeah."

She stepped out a second later, wiping her hands on a cloth that was already clean. Her eyes flicked down to my boots, then up to my face. Her hair was tied tighter than usual, not a strand out of place. Glasses spotless. Posture too straight.

"Back early."

I shrugged. "Shift got cancelled. Power hiccup again."

She didn't call me on the lie. Just nodded slowly.

"Go wash up," she said. "Dinner's soon."

That was it.

No questions. No raised eyebrow. No "and how's that warehouse project of yours going, son?"

I went to the sink, scrubbing off more grime than I thought I had on me. When I came back, the table was already set. Dad had joined her. He looked tired, the kind of tired that sank into the lines around his eyes. Uniform pressed anyway. Fork held just a little too tightly.

We ate quietly.

Rice, powdered meat, one of the canned veggies they kept locked away for special occasions. Everything was too normal.

Halfway through, my dad cleared his throat.

"So," he said, not looking at me directly, "tomorrow you won't need to go to school."

My fork paused mid-bite. "…Why?"

He gave a vague gesture. "Something's come up. Important. You'll be coming with us instead."

"To work?"

"Not exactly."

Mom set her glass down with a faint click. "Just wear your clean clothes. The blue button-up."

Shieeeeet...

Now that was a red flag.

That shirt had been ironed and waiting in my drawer for months — the "formal" one, just in case we ever had a district ceremony or someone died important enough to warrant dressing up. Not something they trotted out for family bonding or shadow ops.

"…Do I need to bring anything?" I asked.

"No," Dad said. "Just be ready at 8:30. We're leaving by 9."

I nodded slowly and chewed the rest of my meal in silence, the faint thrum of unease pounding in my ribs like a second heartbeat.

They knew.

They didn't say it, not yet but something had filtered through. Whether it was whispers, a patrol report, or that smug rat Mason running his mouth didn't matter. Whatever I was about to walk into wasn't a friendly favour.

It was damage control.

And I had less than twelve hours to look like I wasn't the black-market messiah of Boston.

No pressure. Totally cool.

I wonder if Jackson is already operating under Tommy and his lady. Maybe they will take in a stray who can make miracles.

Next day I woke up before the sun did.

Didn't mean to. Just jolted upright around 6:12 AM with that wired, stomach-sinking feeling you get right before a test, a punishment, or some kind of public execution disguised as a "meeting." My blanket clung to me like guilt. The air in the room felt thicker than usual, like someone had turned the pressure up overnight.

Everything was still quiet.

Too quiet.

No distant thump from neighbors arguing. No morning patrol buzz. Even the pipes weren't groaning.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a second, letting the silence settle. Then I got up and started the routine like nothing was off.

Toothbrush, half-functioning. Face rinse, cold as always. I skipped breakfast. My appetite had packed its bags and left around midnight.

The blue button-up was already laid out on my dresser. My mother had ironed it so sharp it could probably cut glass. Black pants, regulation fit. The kind worn by mid-tier officers' kids on parade days and in propaganda posters that always looked too clean to be real.

I dressed in silence.

Even slipped on clean socks which in this hellhole might as well be ceremonial.

When I stepped into the hallway, both of my parents were already waiting.

Mom wore her formal uniform, hair in that regulation-tight knot, glasses perched like they were inspecting the world. Dad looked like someone had shoved him back into officer mode with a crowbar: polished boots, crisp collar, and that particular stare that said "Don't say anything stupid today."

I'd like a clarification on what constitutes "stupid" but I am afraid if I did I would be sent to wherever the fuck we are going on the tip of his boot.

"Ready?" Mom asked.

I nodded.

No one said another word.

We stood near the door like mannequins until 8:59. On the dot, there was a knock short, firm, impersonal.

Dad opened it.

Two FEDRA soldiers stood there in full gear. Helmets, rifles, gloves, the whole intimidation package. Oh, those are the elite division that only a general of a QZ can order around, so in this instances General Voss.

Not good.

They didn't look angry. Just... thorough. Like they were here to deliver a message without using words.

One of them gave a sharp nod. "We're escorting you to Central Admin. General wants a word."

Well thats a start, at least we aren't going to the execution square.

I didn't flinch. Didn't smile either. Just adjusted the collar of my shirt like it was itchy and followed my parents out the door.

Our block was quiet as we walked. The kind of quiet where windows shut just a little tighter when boots passed. People weren't stupid. They knew a uniformed escort this early meant something serious. Either a promotion or a purge.

We didn't speak the entire walk.

I counted steps. Fifty-three to the corner. Another eighty-two to the checkpoint gate. The soldiers never turned to check on us. Just marched.

The moment we entered the Central Admin sector, I saw it — the tall, faded building that used to be a municipal centre, now wearing FEDRA banners like war medals. Its windows were darkened. Working cameras turned our way with lazy indifference.

We were ushered through the side entrance, not the main one.

Not for show, then.

Inside, the halls echoed with the kind of sterile silence that made you feel like your shoes were too loud. I didn't recognize any of the faces we passed. That was probably on purpose.

Eventually, we were led into a waiting room with exactly one door and two guards stationed beside it. Dad sat down stiffly. Mom crossed her legs and stared straight ahead.

They knew.

Maybe not everything. Maybe not how I was pulling it off. But enough.

Enough to bring the kid of two mid-tier officers into Central Admin with an armed escort and no briefing.

I'd spun lies before. Worn masks and played games. But this?

This was the spotlight. No more pretending to be small.

If I wanted to keep what I'd built — the warehouse, the people, the plan — I'd have to outplay FEDRA itself.

And I only had one shot.

The new room they brought us into wasn't a courtroom. Not officially.

But the way it was built wide, cold, with a single long table under overhead lights that buzzed just slightly too loud, made it feel like one. Everything about it screamed judgment, from the stack of blank files to the reinforced walls with zero windows. There were three chairs on one side, already waiting. One for me. One for Mom. One for Dad.

Across from us sat two uniformed officers I didn't know and one I did.

Captain Travers.

Huh, maybe general is too busy and he let him do it.

Clean-cut, iron-browed, a career bureaucrat with just enough front-line dust on his boots to be feared by both grunts and paper-pushers. He didn't rise when we entered. Just waved a gloved hand and said, "Sit."

We did.

The other two officers flanked him but didn't speak. They didn't need to. Travers was clearly in charge, and he had that same expression people got when they found rats in their storage lockers — a mix of disappointment, irritation, and a quiet desire to burn the whole thing down just to be safe.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked, directing the question at me, not my parents.

I met his gaze. Didn't blink. "No, sir."

"Let me help, then."

He slid a folder across the table. I didn't reach for it. I didn't need to. The photo clipped to the front was of a QZ vendor stall — clearly snapped from a distance, probably with a long-lens camera. On the counter: several goods that had no business being there.

A working flashlight.

Sealed protein pouches with 2027 expiration labels.

A nearly intact medical tin with pre-outbreak branding still visible.

Beneath that photo were more.

Different stalls. Different traders.

But the pattern was obvious.

New items. Strange origins. And more importantly — spreading.

"We've noticed," Travers said, voice like gravel dragged over cement, "a recent uptick in high-grade salvage circulating in the Boston QZ. Items not issued through standard FEDRA channels. Not found on official patrol routes. But still... appearing."

I said nothing.

"One of our surveillance reports," he continued, tapping the folder, "tracks three different vendors who've sold items matching descriptions that — when traced — lead back to an unnamed teenage source."

He tilted his head, tone flat.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Reyes?"

I let out a small, perfectly timed breath and leaned forward, not cocky — earnest. "I was going to report it officially. Eventually."

"Eventually?"

"I didn't want to cause a panic. Or step on toes."

Travers stared at me like he was trying to decide whether to laugh or shoot me.

I gave him the version of the truth that was just close enough to believable.

"I found a scav group that lost its leader," I said. "Outside the QZ wall, in an abandoned warehouse, they had a smuggling entrance through a sewer. 

"How many fucking secret entrances are there in this QZ?" one of the other officers asked, frowning.

I nodded. "Guy named Roland. Used to lead them but he died in a collapse near the docks. He was the only one who knew the sewer paths, and only way to get into them was from topside, even if his group got around the sewer they wouldnt be able to open the entrance from their side.

For the love of god, please buy it, I already deviated from the established lie I made with Lia. She is so gonna kill me if this doesnt work out.

Travers raised a brow. "And you found the entrance, navigated your way around the sewer and didn't immediately get killed by the group?"

"Luck I guess. Around 2 months ago. I had a flashlight and I found the entrance where the laundromat and sex shop were." The adults gave me a look when I mentioned the sex shop, come on people its apocalypse don't tell me you worry about a kid knowing what a sex shop is.

"One of their people spotted me in the sewer once and brought me back to the warehouse." I made a dramatic pause for effect, and it worked I think since my dads hand clenched like he was about to punch through the desk or through my head.

"Their new impromptu leader, Rusty. A true madman who is more interested in getting his rocks off through electrocution then actually leading so I proposed that I co-op what's left of the group and since I am son of a FEDRA I could eventually make a deal with you guys for protection in exchange for the stuff we find."

At this point I was full on in my trade arc and activated my charisma buff I stashed a while back, and with the best vendor voice I started talking.

"The warehouse they are in had some good stuff that they have dragged over time from exploring dangerous places, places other scavs and even FEDRA don't go in like the old stadium that turned into a field hospital 3h away, the one that was overrun and infected at the start of the outbreak.

At the mention of the stadium Travers eyes went and others went wide.

"You are telling me that these mad men actually went through the ruined city on foot, avoided the raiders, patrols and infected, snuck into the stadium avoiding the literal horde in there and carried the goods back?"

"Oh yeah, they are very good they regularly went to dark places and bring them back to the warehouse so they have a lot of stashed. WAIT, I know what you are thinking to take over the whole warehouse right now. But if you just take it then the very good, very profitable scavs will move away and then what? You will run out of these eventually and no one will go to the stadium, the old barracks or other shitholes. Plus, some of these crates it takes days to open so instead of spending manpower on opening these crates we could also be opening them for you."

I can see that Travers and other officers have somewhat believed me. 

My parents? Not so much, they have taken care of me my entire life they can feel I bullshit but not exactly on what and how much.

The officers whispered something among themselves before turning towards me again.

"And what exactly have you been doing with it, the people the supplies?"

"Well, the group was really a mess and was about to disband since they they didnt really have a leader, connections to make trades or protection from FEDRA or Fireflies, who they apparently were in small conflicts before. Also, I told the group that since I am a FEDRA kid I dont really want to supply Fireflies since they cant really pay us and they are just terrorists, they readily agreed since FEDRA is the most powerful faction in the east coast and have more resources to trade." Yes, yes. Gotta appeal to the anti-firefly sentiment and FEDRA superiority complex.

"As for the stuff? I am distributing it. Carefully." I paused. "Selling what I can't use. Small trades. Mostly for favours, info, small gear. I was building up enough stock to come forward."

The room was quiet for a long moment.

Then Travers asked, "Why not come to us directly?"

"Sir... respectfully... if I had told the wrong person, it would've been stripped clean and I would've been labelled a smuggler, shot dead or a corrupt official or a Firefly sympathiser would have taken it for themselves." I folded my hands on the table. "I was going to offer a deal. Trade protection for exclusivity. Boston QZ gets first pick, if I expand then other FEDRA outposts 2nd, anyone else is 3rd. With a definite on Fireflies. I don't move weapons. Just salvage."

That part was a lie. A big one, I have an entire fucking armoury that is just not opened yet.

But it was the kind they wanted to believe.

A kid of two officers, entrepreneurial, obedient, bending the rules to help FEDRA, not undermine it. The fantasy of internal loyalty with just enough maverick flavour to keep it interesting.

Travers glanced at my parents.

Neither said a word.

Finally, he sighed, tapping the folder closed. "We've confirmed nothing illegal has changed hands. Yet. And the inventory you've pushed hasn't been traced to any known breaches or theft."

Then his tone hardened. "But make no mistake. This operation, whatever it is — exists because we allow it."

"Yes, sir."

"From now on, you will submit detailed records of your trades, the... sex shop laundromat alley can be refurbished as your front in the QZ, you get those 2 buildings and the alley to refurbish as you see fit. FEDRA will grant you protection inside the QZ and our patrols will be made aware of friendly smugglers and scavs in the area, however FEDRA gets first right on all high-value salvage. And if we find out you're dealing with Fireflies, or anyone linked to insurgent groups…"

His eyes locked onto mine.

"You'll lose everything. And so will your parents."

I nodded once. Calm. Cool. Like it was just a school detention.

"I understand, sir."

Travers leaned back. Studied me for a long moment. Then finally said, "Dismissed."

As we rose, one of the guards opened the door.

And just like that — I wasn't a criminal.

I was a contractor.

Unofficial. Untrusted. But allowed.

They didn't drag us back. No cuffs. No public shame.

Just a quiet escort out of the administrative block, past the checkpoint, and into the cleaner mid-tier streets of the officer district. From the outside, it probably looked like a routine visit. A family check-in. The kind that only mattered if you wore a uniform or knew someone who did.

Inside, though?

It felt like I'd just handed the executioner the axe and convinced him to use it on someone else.

We got home. No one said a word. Not until we were behind the locked door, in the cheap, reinforced apartment my parents called safe. Dad sat down like he'd been holding tension in his shoulders for a week. Mom started boiling water like her mind had already moved on to ration coffee and the next protocol drill.

Me?

I waited.

Waited for the follow-up.

The reckoning.

Instead, my father looked at me and said, "They'll allow it."

I blinked. "What?"

He nodded once, slowly. "Boston QZ command is starving on resources due to the convoy ambushes that still plague the route between the rockies HQ and Boston, they are probably filing it as a provisional clearance. Non-sanctioned salvage operation, with monitored output and restricted channels. As long as you follow the terms, you're not in violation of the Trade Stability Act."

My mom didn't look at me. Just stirred the water and said, "Three conditions."

I leaned against the wall. "Let me guess. Don't sell weapons, don't sell to Fireflies, don't get caught doing something dumber than I already did."

Dad smirked despite himself. "Close enough. First condition: FEDRA gets first choice on any goods. No exceptions. If you find food, medicine, gear they get the pick. You log everything. Even if it's broken."

"Fine."

"Second: No price gouging. They'll tolerate independence, but if you start charging officer-tier rations for a cracked flashlight, they'll shut you down."

"Also fine."

"Third," Mom said, voice flat, "no communication, direct or indirect, with insurgents. Fireflies, smuggling rings, fringe militias. If you're caught trading with them, it's over."

I didn't answer right away.

Because let's be real I'd already brushed that line. Joel and Tess weren't exactly wearing glowing Firefly ID cards, but I knew the rumors. I knew the weight behind the name Marlene. And I knew that if I admitted anything now, this entire leash-with-benefits deal would snap tight around my neck.

So I just nodded.

"Got it."

Dad looked at me for a long time. Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just... tired. "You're a smart kid. Smarter than I ever was at your age."

My age there weren't infected and you probably had a stash of playboy behind your bed and didint do your homework.

"But smarts don't mean invincible. This thing you've built? It's bigger than you now. If you screw it up, you won't just take yourself down. You'll drag others with you."

"I know."

He stood. Walked over. Put a hand on my shoulder. "Then act like it."

We left it there.

I went to my room. Laid on the bed for a while with my hoodie still on, the pistol pressing into my side like a silent reminder that the stakes had changed.

Then, like a divine slap of reality, someone knocked on our door and mom shouted for me to check who it is since she is busy.

I opened the door to find Mason standing there.

What is this little shit doing here.

Same cocky slouch. Same too-perfect uniform. Same stupid smirk that made me want to test the durability of his jaw on the metal frame.

"You alive?" he asked, half-grinning. "Heard a couple officers were pulled in for a private sit-down. Lotta buzz. Some people said a kid got caught trading black market gear."

I stared at him.

Didn't smile.

Didn't blink.

Just said, "Weird. Guess someone's feeding the wrong rats."

Mason narrowed his eyes. "So you didn't get hauled?"

"Oh, I did."

"And?"

I gave him the biggest, most irritating smirk I could manage. "I got a promotion."

His jaw twitched. "Huh."

"Guess some of us know how to talk and are useful for mankind you pompous fuck."

Then I slammed the door in his face.

No one said smugness wasn't part of survival.

Later I decided not to go to the warehouse today and just sit back and chill, spent the entire day tinkering with some small electronics doing the annoying physical mission that still only got me 5EXP.

Sigh

I haven't had a major mission in so long, even the side missions are like "check the inventory," or "scavenger run 017" that only gives me exp now and no buffs or credits.

By the time it was evening I had fixed 2 flashlights a walkie talkie, cleaned most of the house as was ordered by my mother since "You have nothing better to do." and just looking over the inventory.

Dinner was alright, some canned beef and honest to god potatoes, damn we celebrating tonight.

After we finished eating with some small talk in between a silence settled on us.

Then mother exhaled, pinched the bridge of her nose, and pointed at my side. "I dont know how or why you have that but that thing under your hoodie? It's obvious. Half the QZ could tell you're carrying."

I glanced down at the lump under my jacket. The pistol I claimed from the military crate. Heavy, familiar now. Sloppily hidden. My dear Berretta, or as I call it FireBetty, since you know it FIREs and is a Berretta?

"Right," I muttered. "Didn't have a proper holster."

"You will," she said. "Tomorrow. I'll requisition something from the quartermaster. Civilian-pattern. You'll modify it, make it look like junk, but it'll hold the piece tight."

Dad looked up from his log. "Also means if someone pats you down, they'll assume it's legit. Low-profile carry, tied to officer family. Not enough to raise questions, but enough to give you breathing room."

"So I get to keep it?" I asked, only half-joking.

Mom gave me a look. "If you're stupid enough to carry, you're smart enough to do it right."

I nodded. "Thanks."

She hesitated, then added — quietly this time, almost like a warning to herself — "Just be careful."

"I know."

"They'll wait for you to screw up. Not because you're dangerous. Because you're inconvenient."

I didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

Because yeah, I was inconvenient now — a problem with a permit.

But sometimes, being a problem was the only way to survive.

And with a proper holster, I could survive a little louder.

2 days later there was another piece of good news, that made my already great-ish week even better, considering I made great profit from the crates and got a somewhat of a go ahead from FEDRA. 

The tools came two days later, wrapped in a scrap of waxed canvas and delivered inside a ration crate marked "Spoiled — discard." To our now new, real and legal ramshackle house premises in the QZ, for now we just call it the sex house, courtesy of Rusty who is sporting a black eye which was in turn a courtesy of Marta, better name pending. But really, spoiled and discard? Real subtle, Joel.

They were heavier than expected. The kind of weight you feel in your arm and your gut, a quiet message that said, these weren't meant for kids. Bolt cutters, pry levers, an extendable torque wrench with a military-grade head, and a modified angle grinder that ran off a small power cell, even a better welding machine that doesnt start smoking every 30 seconds. Not just tools. Entry kits. The kind of thing that screamed black market, or a very well-supplied smuggler.

Tess didn't even show up. Joel dropped them off himself. No words, just a nod, then he vanished. I didn't stop him. He'd done enough.

Lia helped carry the gear down to the sewer with me. She didn't ask questions. She didn't need to.

Everyone except those on the lookout were already waiting at the warehouse by the time we got back. Not because I called a meeting, but because word travels fast when someone hauls in a locked crate with "U.S. GOV PROPERTY – ARMS STORAGE" stenciled in half-flaked paint.

We didn't open that one first, though.

First, we hit a crate we'd marked weeks ago, one with heat-sealed clasps and reinforced hinges. Rusty had tried to brute force it once with a crowbar and gave up after 2 hours and 20 minutes and two bent rods.

Now?

The angle grinder didn't even struggle.

Sparks flew. Heat shimmered off the metal. The group stepped back, tense but quiet — like watching surgery on something sacred and dangerous.

Inside was a neatly packed case of chemical gear. Not FEDRA. Government-labeled, color-coded. Field-use antidotes, decontamination kits, a few broken syringes, and two sealed canisters of anti-spore aerosol, probably wont work on these kind of spores though. With expiry dates that predated Outbreak Day by months. Which made them… vintage.

Not usable. But valuable.

We logged everything.

Then we moved on.

Crate after crate cracked open. Sometimes the payoff was good, rations long turned to powder, yes, but also sealed filtration tablets, intact bandages, water sterilizers, and one pristine thermal blanket. Other times, it was junk. Rotting boots. Unused survey equipment. A crushed comms terminal that looked like someone sat on it during the panic.

But with each success, morale shifted.

They stopped looking nervous when we opened the boxes. Started looking hungry.

Hope does that.

Then we found the locker. Not a crate. A standing military locker, dusty but upright, half-buried behind collapsed drywall and rusted scaffolding.

It had a keypad.

No FEDRA ID. No hint who it belonged to. Just an embossed tag that read "QZ EXT-082" and a five-digit lock.

I stared at it for a long moment. Then turned to Cole.

"Can you open it?"

"Not cleanly," he said. "Keypad like this? I'd need a guess or a way to bypass it. Or we burn it."

"Burn it?"

"Thermal lance. We don't have one."

Rusty stepped up, arms crossed. "We could try to brute force the lock… but we'd need more gear. Safer gear. Right now we're risking sparks near mold patches."

"Yeah," I muttered. "We need more."

Lia crouched beside the locker, trailing a finger across the keypad.

Then she looked up at me, expression unreadable.

"I might know someone."

That got everyone's attention.

"Not Robert," she clarified quickly, probably seeing my face twist into oh hell no territory. "Its not Joel either if you are worried."

"So who?"

She hesitated. "Someone my aunt knows. Doesn't do open market. Doesn't advertise. But if there's something rare to be found — he either already has it or knows where to look."

"Of course your aunt know everyone, next thing you tell me she knows the leader of FEDRA?"

"Probably does to be fair, but no, she plays careful, is older. Quiet. Doesn't take dumb jobs. She said she used to move through QZ checkpoints without a sound. Only works for people she respects."

"You trust them?"

"I trust my aunt. And if she says he doesn't screw people, then I believe her. I mean Joel delivered quickly didn't he?"

I leaned back against the side of a crate, considering.

This could go bad. Real bad. But the kind of tools we needed weren't going to fall out of the sky. Joel had helped once, and that had already cost more than I liked admitting.

"Can she contact her?" I asked.

"I already asked," Lia replied. "She said she's agreed to a meet. One condition: it's neutral ground, near the west area of the docks.

I glanced at Cole. He didn't say anything — just gave me the faintest nod. A soldier's approval.

Tasha, on the other hand, tilted her head slightly and smiled.

Not the good kind of smile.

The I-hope-someone-starts-something kind.

Of course.

"Alright," I said finally. "We go. Quiet. No shows of force, no starting drama. Just a negotiation. Again, hopefully they don't ask too much for such high quality gear."

"Who's going?" Cole asked.

"You. Me. Lia. And…" I paused, then gave Tasha a glance "Joe will go with us."

Tasha just froze and looked shocked, - Is she fucking pouting?

"Four people," I continued, unperturbed. "Two talkers, two backup."

Rusty didn't argue. He just muttered something about packing a flashlight that didn't die if you sneezed on it.

The plan was set.

We had three days to prep.

Three days.

Three whole days to prepare for one possibly suicidal meeting with a mysterious supply contact who may or may not be a ghost from someone's aunt's smugglery past.

Naturally, I spent the first one cleaning out my gear like I was going to prom. You know, the apocalypse version, no corsages, just concealed weapons and backup ration bars.

We met at the warehouse base that morning, quiet but ready. Cole was the first to arrive, already dressed in what could generously be described as "military chic" — black fatigue jacket, reinforced jeans, a belt that looked like it came off a riot cop. No insignias. No shine. Just durable and forgettable. Exactly what we needed.

"I packed light," he said, dropping a cloth satchel near the crate table. Inside: water flask, zip ties, some folded rope, and a rolled-up canvas that clinked when he moved it and with a butt of his rifle sticking out that he promptly re-covered.

"Subtle," I said.

"Subtle gets us out alive."

Lia showed up next, slipping through the pipe tunnel in a patched-up civilian jacket that used to be pale green but was now just grey-ish... maybe fungus-kissed? I didn't ask. She carried two smaller bags, one with supplies to barter, one empty in case things went well.

Her hair was tied up today. Practical. Focused.

"You sure your contact won't try to shoot us on sight?" I asked.

"She's more of a 'stab you later' type," Lia replied. "We should be fine."

Charming.

Joe arrived last, puffing from the walk but with his usual half-mad grin. He wore a blue windbreaker from before the outbreak — the kind that probably belonged to someone who jogged. Or thought jogging would save them. He didn't carry much, just a walking stick and a satchel held shut with three different kinds of tape.

He saluted me with two fingers. "Heard we're meeting spooks in a dead zone. Should've brought my lucky rat skull."

"Please don't ever say that again."

"Too late. It's already blessed the mission."

Cole looked like he was considering walking into traffic.

We ran a final check — packs, pockets, comm items (read: two half-working walkie-talkies), and weapons. I kept my pistol tucked under my hoodie in the new holster my dad passive-aggressively suggested after last week's FEDRA "conversation."

Better than shoving it down my pants like a discount action movie extra.

Cole carried his rifle slung low and easy. Not aimed. Not hidden. Just a reminder.

Joe had… nothing visible. But knowing him, at least two things were sharp and badly rusted.

We planned on leaving around midday.

Though, earlier I did spot Tasha glaring? I think she is glaring I cant tell she's a bit too far away. Well she is glaring in my direction, when I pulled up the loyalty screen it just showed

Loyalty:

Tasha - Loyal (?) Feeling betrayed.

Betrayed? Nani the fuck. Yeah, I got more pressing matters than dealing with... Whatever the fuck this is.

The plan was to exit through the back tunnels, loop north via old underground service routes, and surface near the west docks, outside the usual patrol paths. After we leave the warehouse tunnels we move to the city tunnels that are all connected. I don't know why the warehouse tunnels are sealed off from the rest of the city but I don't care really, though the path that is collapsed probably leads to the rest of it. 

As we started filing out the warehouse door I spotted Tasha, of course, she was watching us go.

She didn't say anything. Just stood by the edge of the base zone, arms crossed, wearing the same expression as someone left out of a group project but planning to key your bike later, at least I can tell she was glaring before.

I smiled and waved.

She flipped me off.

Ah, Balance, restored.

The outside world hit different.

It always did, but this time it really hit, in the lungs, in the nose, in the part of the brain that screamed you are exposed even though no one was watching yet.

Sunlight filtered through broken glass and plant-choked alleyways, turning ruined buildings into jagged bones poking out of moss. Distant birds chirped like they didn't care humanity had screwed up the entire planet. Typical birds.

We emerged in a service hatch behind an old supermarket that had collapsed in on itself years ago. No one was around. No bodies. No noise. Just the sound of wind dragging debris across pavement.

Cole paused at the top of the hatch ladder, scanning the area.

"Clear."

Joe climbed out like he hadn't just complained about his knees for the last twenty minutes.

"Still got it," he said, stretching. "And by 'it' I mean severe back pain."

The ruined dockside shipping office sat in the western fringe of the QZ. Less patrols. More shadows. The kind of place FEDRA ignored unless a body floated by. I'd seen it once before as a kid — back when Dad walked me past it without a word and muttered something about "wasted steel and sunken bribes." Back then, I didn't understand. Now? I saw the stories in the rust.

Lia led us in through a gap between a collapsed fence and what used to be a stack of shipping containers. She moved like she'd done it before. She probably had.

Cole walked silent behind her, a looming shape that even the rats gave wide berth to. Joe followed next — a wiry shadow, leaning more on instinct than logic, but still sharper than he looked. I brought up the rear, hoodie pulled tight, pistol tucked under the waistband in the world's worst imitation of professionalism.

The air smelled like wet rope, old oil, and the kind of fish that had been dead since before Outbreak Day.

"Nice place," I muttered.

Joe gave a half-smile. "Reminds me of my third ex-wife's kitchen."

"You had three wives?"

"No. Just liked saying 'third.'"

Inside the shipping office, it was darker than expected. The windows were boarded with thin aluminum. The dust hung in the air like dried regret. Faded paperwork still clung to the walls, some with stamps that read 'REJECTED' and others marked 'CLEARED – PRIORITY TRANSFER.' Old world logistics. Their version of the system.

A flickering battery lantern waited on an overturned desk in the center of the room. Its light cast just enough glow to make the corners seem darker.

Then she walked in.

Not through a door — through a false panel in the wall. Like a ghost with steel-toed boots. She was older. Not old, ,maybe younger than mom. She Wore a scarf low over her face, leather jacket zipped to the neck, and had the kind of gaze that made you feel like your thoughts were being indexed. She has shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes.

"Reyes," she said.

That snapped me upright. "...You know my name?"

"Your mother's name travels further. Elena's and Tomas boy, right? Know her way back in the day."

I didn't answer, how in the flying fuck does she know my mom? Was my mom a smuggler or was she a FEDRA? 

She nodded once. "Name's Meredith. You've been making waves."

"Small ones."

"Small waves still erode walls."

I liked her immediately. The kind of woman who'd been through hell and came out with receipts.

Lia stepped forward, looking between us not knowing we had apparent connection. "He's the one I mentioned."

Meredith gave her a short look. "I figured."

Then she turned to me. "You're in need of something not usually found in polite FEDRA company."

"Yeah," I said. "Something to open high-security lockers. Quiet, fast, and without blowing the walls apart."

"Custom order. High-risk. You're not the only one digging into the bones of the old world, kid."

I nodded. "That's why we're here. We want the best. We pay fairly."

She studied me a moment longer, like weighing a coin she couldn't see.

"You've got five minutes. Tell me what you've found, what you want opened, and why I shouldn't take this to someone else who'd pay more or rat you out to a Firefly earner."

I didn't flinch. "I want to open certain lockers I found and sell the contents, I'm not looking to compete. I'm looking to trade. Long term. Quiet routes. Steady flow. FEDRA's already got their leash around my neck — I'm not about to bite the wrong hand."

Joe whistled low under his breath. Cole didn't move. Lia just raised one eyebrow like she was waiting to see if I'd drown.

Meredith stepped back. Her eyes never left mine.

"Say that again."

I did.

Word for word.

That's when she smiled — not wide, not kind. Just enough to suggest the wheels were turning.

"Alright. I can work with that. You get a free sample set. One thermal pick, one pulse latch tool, one bypass spike. If you prove you won't waste them, maybe I sell you more if you bring me good stuff."

Fair enough.

She motioned toward the crate she came through. Reached behind it. Pulled a satchel from what looked like a wall vent.

Inside: a kit that looked more like surgical gear than lockpicking tools. Wrapped in oiled cloth. Precise. Pristine. Expensive.

I nodded. "Deal."

She paused, holding the satchel back. "On one condition."

Oh great. Here it comes.

"You don't let this gear end up in a Firefly stash. If I find out you're flipping these, or worse, arming rebels with them, we're done."

Ah, so Ex-FEDRA then with a bone to pick with Fireflies.

I didn't hesitate. "I don't deal with the Fireflies."

Not directly, anyway.

She passed me the satchel. "You do now. Carefully."

And then, just like that, she vanished again — back through the false wall, leaving behind only a faint trail of boot prints and the scent of old metal.

Outside, as we stepped back into the sickly daylight, Cole spoke first.

"She's dangerous."

"No fucking shit, didn't realise that an ex-FEDRA that has access to such high quality gear isn't dangerous.."

Joe nodded. "But fair."

Lia just exhaled, a slow release of tension I hadn't noticed she'd been holding.

We didn't say much on the way back. No need. We had what we came for.

And now?

Now it was time to crack that locker.