The Last Of Us: Summon, Scavenge, Survive

Oh lord, I am about to bust.

This gear the very nice lady gave us is what we needed, with the locker groaning before it gave way.

It wasn't graceful. Wasn't quiet either, but by god was it fucking magnificent.

The angle grinder kicked and screamed, the sparks made half the group flinch, and the sound it made when the metal hinge finally snapped was something between a scream and a death rattle.

But it opened.

QZ EXT-082, the military locker we'd found in the right wing, the one that stared at us like a sealed tomb finally spilled its guts.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Not rot or mold. Just age. Metal. Dust. Old oil. The kind of scent that clung to pre-Outbreak relics and military leftovers like a ghost. The second thing was the black fabric folded neatly along the top.

Cole leaned in first, sweeping his flashlight across the interior. He whistled.

Oh boy, must be something good.

His voice was steady, but low but I could practically feel the excitement from his little military heart.

"Body armours. Plate vests, Kevlar pads, ceramic inserts. 4 helmets… good condition."

He paused and reached further in.

"And guns."

My breath caught for half a second.

He gently laid one on the open table beside the locker. Just a standard M4 carbine with a weird sight I could not name, holographic? Fuck if I know it is a bit worn but clean. Oiled. Maintained. This wasn't abandoned in panic, someone packed this with intention. Like they thought they'd be coming back.

Rusty let out a low whistle. "Two more in here. M4s again. One looks modified — short barrel, maybe personal build."

"And pistols," Tasha said, reaching in with gloved fingers. She held one up, sleek, dark matte. Magazine half full. "We're getting real lucky or real close to a cursed jackpot."

There were 6 total: 3 rifles, two pistols. One of the rifles had an old Boston QZ emblem burned near the trigger housing. Another had tally marks scratched into the stock — fifteen slashes, then a gap, then one more. 

But the holy grail? 

The motherfucking SAW, a light machinegun M249, however the magazine is empty and I don't know if we have ammo for it here.

In total this adds another 240 rounds to our rifles and around 60 to our pistols.

Theres plenty of clothes and small personal mementos, snacks and others, which included a picture of a young girl flashing the camera with a lipstic mark on it. Every guy whistled when they saw it but Lia and Tasha covered my eyes and told me I am not allowed to look.

Like all right? I guess I will just take a look later then...

Rusty and Kev just chuckled because they knew what I was thinking, and by the glares I can feel the girls did too.

Beneath it all there is a small lockbox. Rusted but intact.

We pried it open.

Inside: dog tags. Three of them. Folded letters too, water-damaged but readable. One was written in loopy cursive to someone named Andrea. Guess we know who the girl in the picture was.

No one spoke.

Cole just closed the box slowly and looked to me.

I nodded. "We keep it all. Store it in the private section."

Even the photo? You fucking pervert.

What you gonna use it as a communal jackoff material?

Its always the quiet ones huh.

If he knew what I was thinking I am sure id join the soldiers in the afterlife, but he didn't and continued saying that these weren't just weapons. They were traces. Proof that someone, somewhere, lived and died by this gear. They weren't coming back. We'd take the tools. Respect the ghosts.

The rest of the locker was standard issue: ammo boxes and magazines, old ration tins, a folded QZ logistics map from 2024 with locations circled in red ink. A backup radio unit with no battery. An MRE heat-pack cooker. Also we found another photo, this time framed, it tucked at the very back, a cracked photo in a Ziplock bag. A company of around 100 people, predominantly guys, with 3 women, though by the muscles they have they could probably put in the dirt any guy here, maybe except Cole.

I didn't ask to keep the photo. Didn't need to. No one argued when I slid it into the locker lid and shut it again.

We logged the equipment. The rifles went to the armoury closet — still limited access, locked tight, all quiet so FEDRA doesnt raid us, they know we have some guns but probably think we dont have ammo for them. I already have one pistol from before so one went to Lia. Donny cannot be trusted with a gun so this pistol will be given to someone who passes Coles gun course. People who have pistols can carry them all the time but rifles are only for those on guard rotation.

With this the tone in the warehouse shifted.

This wasn't just scavenging anymore.

We were picking up the pieces of history. Gear left behind by real people. And maybe, just maybe, gear that made us matter.

No one said it, but I saw it in their eyes.

We were building something real now.

--------------------------------------------------------

It had been nearly a month since we cracked open that locker, and I am pretty sure the guys are still crying over the burn photo of that girl. Tasha is ruthless. 

Photos and burnings aside, we hadn't stopped moving since.

Deals, trades, even missions suddenly increased with bigger rewards, they just kept coming.

Especially from them.

FEDRA.

Funny how things changed. Not that long ago, I had to lie to get them off my back. Now? I just finished my fourth "official" delivery to their requisitions division. Three crates of scavenged spare parts for machines and electronics and other miscellaneous things, a box of industrial filters, and three working canteens, not exactly gold bars, but to a starving outpost it was a feast. Due to raiders the convoys are not as frequent but they are bigger and slower.

Though I don't, care my returns are good.

+250 EXP+1 Summon Token+1 Scavenger Rank Credit+2 System Points

Level Up!Level: 15EXP: 75 / 750

Oh lord yes.

That familiar ping, reminiscent of the ping a M1 Garand makes, when it hits the back of my skull as the mission is finalized. Its godly, comforting even. Wait, have I been equivalent of clicker trained?

Shit. Whatever, its like the universe was giving me a nod and a slap on the back for not dying another day, yep. Lets keep like that.

The alleyway that I had to sneak through had changed too. Some still called it the "sex house" thank Rusty and his black eye, but the joke didn't even get laughs anymore.

It had grown. Expanded sideways into the buildings beside it the sex shop and the laundromat along with our ramshackle house being reinforced on top of the sewer entrance into one big building.

Its unofficial hallways carved with crowbars and hand axes, flooring repurposed from rotted storage pallets. A single ramshackle building, now reinforced was now an interconnected maze of old brick, mismatched furniture, and shelves made from doors, at least the laundromat and sex shop just needed patched up, block a window there, fix and reinforce the door there and its good.

All 3 buildings are connected through doors and our main entrance is through the sex shop since when we cleared it off. The uhh, left over "Merchandise" it was pretty spacious so we going to use it as a chokepoint and where FEDRA comes over to collect their goods, and leave the payment also.

It wasn't home. But it was ours.

And the warehouse?

The warehouse was humming.

With Meredith's tools, we cracked open crates like it was sport. Rusty trained a second shift crew to do rotations on welding and breakdowns. Tasha started organizing shelves by "murder potential" and "weird science." and started practicing being "ninja" since we also recovered an old comic book we found.

Also, Cole ran security so tightly that even the rats seemed nervous.

I didn't even have to give orders anymore.

They knew their roles. Some watched the door. Some broke down salvage. Some prepped trade routes. And some the careful few logged every item that left or entered in chalk and ledger alike.

Even Cole made his own team of grumpy security guards, now numbering 5, we have some dedicated, full time security.

Controlled trades. Smart planning. Fewer mistakes.

We were a machine.

One made of duct tape, insomnia, and morally grey child labour… but a machine nonetheless.

In other words? 

Business is booming.

Lia had even taken the lead on organizing our street-level smuggling interface. "Interface" being a loose term for people we didn't fully trust who passed packages through alleys and storefronts and sometimes under garbage bins. She smiled too much when people called her "Boss, or Chief or Miss." They didn't see the ledger under her sleeve, or the smile she only gives when no ones looking.

And me?

I walked slower now.

Not because I was tired (I was) or because my leg still ached when it rained (it did), but because things moved when I did. People watched me. Asked me. Waited on me.

Somewhere in the chaos, I'd stopped being "the kid with the stash" and turned into something else.

Something dangerous.

A leader.

Didn't mean I knew what the hell I was doing. But pretending? That I'd mastered.

I moved through the warehouse's right wing, the one still half-buried under skyscraper rubble — and counted crates with Cole. "We'd need machinery," he muttered. "This area's got load-bearing collapse. Dig too much, the whole ceiling caves in."

I nodded. "Mark it for now. Prioritize the west corner first."

"You think the guns are under this side?"

"No," I said. "I know they are, we seen the company, photo, at least some of their gear is probably here."

That was the thing. I could feel it. We weren't just running a stash anymore. We were running an operation. One that supplied Boston QZ. One that kept the machine running.

And one that was getting too big to hide.

By the time I made it back to the main hall, Rusty had set up another salvage station, Tasha was arguing with someone about why you don't store ammo near portable generators, and Joe had just started boiling water for tomorrow's ration stew.

Normal.

Weird, terrifying normal.

The kind that made you wonder how long it would last.

Turns out it didn't take long.

When operations go from "barely scraping by" to "moving three crates before lunch," word spreads. Especially in a city like Boston, where nothing good ever lasts and everything new is someone else's problem waiting to happen.

So when Robert's name started floating in the background, in whispered warnings, offhand mutters, and one particularly greasy heads-up from a scrappy fence near the rail lines — Cal wasn't exactly shocked. Disappointed, maybe. But not shocked.

It happened the way things always did: when he was already busy.

Rusty had just broken open a sealed medtech crate with a crowbar and a burst of cursing. Inside were IV bags — sloshing with yellowed saline, probably still usable. The group was cataloging supplies when Tasha showed up, chewing what might've been an old ration bar or a piece of wall, and muttered, "You've got a guest in the alley."

Cal didn't ask who.

He already knew.

Robert stood like he owned the place — long coat, hands clasped behind his back, and a smile just shy of being too wide. He always looked like he was about to sell you a used truck with six missing wheels and convince you it was a bargain.

"Kid," he said, like they were old friends.

Cal didn't smile. "You're early. Or late. I never scheduled anything."

"Word on the wind is you've got… product. And I respect enterprise." Robert glanced around the alley like he could see the crates behind the walls. "It's rare, these days. A little operation growing quiet-like. No standover men, no bodies in the street. You've done good."

I know what this greasy fuck wants.

"And you want a cut." I deadpanned at him.

Robert laughed, too loud, too quick. "Don't insult me. I want a partnership. You've got the supply, I've got the demand. And the routes. The fences. The people who know how to move things without stirring up FEDRA or... anyone else."

"And in return?"

"You get to keep making money. Maybe even more of it. Maybe I even help protect you. Boston's changing, kid. Not just spores and soldiers. You're not gonna stay invisible much longer."

Cal didn't answer right away. He was weighing it — not just the offer, but the man. Robert was a snake, but snakes survived. Joel hated him. Tess once mentioned him like she was spitting gravel. But he was still breathing. That meant something.

"I'm not giving you guns," Cal said flatly.

"Of course not. Not yet." Robert raised both hands like he was hurt. "I just want a few crates to move, maybe a couple of your lesser finds. Nothing that'll get you in trouble. Nothing military-grade."

"And if I say no?"

Robert's smile didn't waver. "You won't. You're smart. And smart people know when a good deal's better than a messy end."

That was the thing about people like Robert. They didn't threaten. They promised futures and let you guess whether those futures involved breathing.

Cal took a breath, slow and even. "Limited trade. You send someone I trust. If they screw me over, deal's off."

"Fair," Robert said immediately. "I'll even send my quiet one. Name's Marek. Doesn't talk much, doesn't drink, doesn't steal. You'll like him."

"I don't like anyone."

"Then you'll tolerate him. I'll be in touch."

Robert left with the same smug strut he came in with, and Cal leaned against the wall, exhaling like he'd just finished a sparring match with a ghost.

Behind him, Tasha peeked from the shadows.

"That guy's a walking lie," she said.

"No argument," Cal replied.

"You gonna work with him anyway?"

He didn't answer.

She didn't need him to.

--------------------------------------------------------

Some days later a mysterious piece of paper was found.

Tasha found it tucked through the back slit of the alleyway entrance, not the main one where they usually moved crates, but the smaller rust-crawling gap that led to the emergency storage hatch. It was an awkward slot, really. Just barely big enough to jam a bottle through. Which meant someone had known exactly where to put the letter so it wouldn't get blown away or ignored.

There was no name.

No stamp. No logo.

Just a scrap of folded paper. One side blank. One side written in a sharp, angled hand:

Overheard an interesting thing, thought you might want to know:

"Tell the boy: He doesn't have to keep serving FEDRA. Boston has other clients. A better future. We're watching. Meet. Quietly. Westwater checkpoint ruins. 4th underpass. No weapons visible.2 days."

The handwriting was firm but also scribbled as if in haste or on the move. Not FEDRA-style, too loose. Too human. No official seal. No dates or formal language. But the kind of message you remembered, because it didn't ask. It assumed.

Cal stared at it under the dim emergency bulb of his topside office, hands flexing like he expected the paper to explode.

"You found it?" he asked.

Tasha shook her head. "Nope. It was actually Derek who found it on his shift. Thought it might be for supplies until he read it. Didn't wanna move it till we confirmed."

Cal re-read the words. Every line etched into his memory. "A better future."

Subtle as a brick through a stained-glass window.

"They're Fireflies," he said.

Rusty, crouched by a parts crate nearby, let out a long sigh. "You're sure?"

"Who else writes watching like it's a threat and an invitation?"

Cole arrived a minute later. He took the letter, skimmed it once, and handed it back without a word.

Cal folded it, tucked it into the inside of his hoodie. It felt heavier than it was.

"I thought they'd wait longer," he muttered.

"They don't like sharing assets," Cole said.

"They think I'm an asset?" Cal scoffed. "I'm a kid with some boxes and a good lie. Plus I am a FEDRA kid. Don they hate my kind or something?" I just crumpled the paper a bit and threw it on the other desk to my right.

Cole didn't correct him.

Tasha stepped forward, lips tight. "So? We go to the meet?"

Cal didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned and stared at the far wall — the one with scribbled notes and a growing tally of contacts, crates, missions. A web that kept getting messier.

"Yeah," he said after a moment. "We go."

"Guns?" Tasha asked, perking up.

"No," Cal replied. "Visible ones, at least."

"They did say no visible weapons," Rusty pointed out.

"That's not the same as 'come unarmed.'" Cal looked to Cole. "Prep a backup kit. Concealed only. Silent types. If they try anything…"

"They won't walk away," Cole finished.

The room went quiet again.

It wasn't just about Fireflies. Not anymore.

Someone had gone out of their way to track them down, not the group, him. They didn't approach as customers. They approached like recruiters. The way FEDRA had, in their own blunt way.

Everyone wanted a piece of the operation now.

Everyone thought he could be used.

Cal cracked his knuckles, slowly.

Let them think it.

He'd play the game. Make the meet. Hear the pitch.

And then decide who would regret reaching out first.

--------------------------------------------------------

The meeting location was classic Firefly.

Ruined checkpoint. Low visibility. Only one semi-stable path in. Two exits that barely counted as crawl holes, and an overhead bridge that had half-collapsed under its own guilt. Westwater was one of the oldest decommissioned FEDRA posts in the northwestern ruins of Boston, and the underpass in question had been gutted of its functionality sometime around 2028. Which made it, apparently, perfect for shady business. 

Cal arrived first.

Of course when he arrived there's fuck all in terms of visibility.

Cole and Joe were the first on the scene, both moving like they were part of the ruined landscape, both with a hidden blades and guns deep in their coats, with eyes that didn't miss corners.

Lia and Cal followed five minutes later. Cal wore his black and grey hoodie like armour with a big grey jacket over it, but underneath all of it he carried a compact stun rod and a knife sheathed along his back with his gun holster empty as a distraction but the gun was deep in the pocket of his jacket. He hoped he didn't need to use any of them.

Tasha and 4 others where hidden away in some ruined shop with rifles in case things turned for the worse, the other party probably did the same thing.

Both groups had the mentality of "better be prepared and wrong, than not be prepared and dead.

Though, Tasha originally was not part of the plan, only being allowed to come after a full emotional spiral that ended with her whispering something about "not needing others anyway."

Once we were fully under the underpass the smell hit us like the truck that killed me in my other life. It smelled like ash and rusted piss with a sprinkle of shit and some spores and rotten corpse of an unidentified animal, or human.

Old protest signs still clung to chain-link in tatters. Someone had once spray-painted "They Lied" in a looping font across a guard post wall, and it still bled faintly through the rain-smeared grime.

"Comforting," Lia muttered.

Cal gave a tight nod. "Hope they appreciate the ambiance."

They waited five minutes. Ten.

And then footsteps.

Soft, deliberate. Then firmer. The sound of boots that knew where they were stepping.

From behind the far support beam, two figures emerged.

One was a woman — short, cropped black hair, wrapped scarf around her mouth, arms folded like she expected to be disappointed.

The other was a man. Pale. Tall-ish. Wearing a repurposed courier jacket. Eyes sharp like old glass — once smooth, now jagged with something bitter.

Cal knew the type.

"I expected someone older and more mature, but got a kid." the woman said, stopping a few paces away.

"I expected freedom fighters and brave soldiers but got Fireflies." Cal replied dryly.

That earned him the faintest twitch of her eyebrow. "So you did figure it out."

"Do I look fucking stupid to you? Wait, dont finish that sentence, anyway. You stuck a note in my storage room."

"Subtlety's expensive these days."

The man didn't speak. Just watched. Evaluated.

"You said we had options," Cal went on. "Let's hear them."

The woman tilted her head. "You've got resources. Movement. You're supplying FEDRA, but not with FEDRA. That's a distinction."

"Someone has eyes and can use them. Good job, glad you noticed."

"We're not here to start a fight."

Cal smirked faintly. "Then you're the first group in months that hasn't."

A beat passed. Her stance didn't change.

"You're neutral," she continued. "That makes you dangerous. It also makes you valuable. FEDRA doesn't trust you. We don't trust you. That's fair. But people like you get to decide where the tide goes, because no one's really got you on a leash yet."

Lia shifted slightly beside him. Cal didn't move.

"We're offering a better tide."

"There's always a cost," Cal said. "What's yours?"

The man finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, sandpaper dragged across old regret.

"Access. Periodic exchanges. You give us first word when something valuable comes through. And if FEDRA ever tries to pull your leash tighter, you call us."

I hummed in thought and rocked back and forth on my feet. "Sounds generous."

"It is," the woman admitted, "Because this is the last time we offer it." Though the guy is smirking like they already won.

Cal narrowed his eyes.

"And if I say no?" Well that certainly wiped the smirk off that creepy fucker, wins a win.

"Then we walk away," she said. "But someone else might not."

That wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a promise.

It was a fact.

And it pissed him off more than if she'd pulled a gun.

He looked at Cole, who barely nodded, expression unreadable. Joe was scanning the periphery like he was already planning six escape routes.

Cal stepped forward just enough to make it clear he wasn't scared.

"I'm not yours. I'm not FEDRA's either. I'm just trying to keep my people alive."

"You'll have to pick eventually," the woman said.

"Maybe." But it wont be today or tomorrow you stuck up bitch.

"And when you do?"

"I'll pick the ones that don't threaten my friends or people to make a point."

That landed like a slap. Her jaw twitched. 

Uh-oh the guy looks constipated, maybe I should make a trade, laxatives for some rations?

Cal turned. Walked.

Didn't run. Didn't raise his voice.

Just walked.

And the Fireflies didn't follow.

But he knew they wouldn't forget.

------------------------------------------------

It started like a normal day.

Which is funny, in hindsight, because the most dangerous days usually do.

Lia was scheduled to check the old bakery stall four blocks down from the main market. It was an easy barter route, cleared weeks ago, one she'd done alone more than once. Just spare filters, stitching thread, and an old tool part wrapped in paper. The kind of drop nobody really watched.

She left after breakfast. Said she'd be back by midday.

Midday came.

Then an hour passed.

Then two.

Than three.

Rusty was the first to say it.

"She should've checked in."

Cal didn't answer. He was already halfway to the hatch when Cole caught up with him.

"You think something went wrong?"

"No," Cal said flatly. "I know something did."

They retraced her route, staying low, sticking to blind spots. Cole kept his eyes on corners; Rusty brought up the rear with a salvaged revolver they hadn't meant to use yet. Streets were quiet. Too quiet. Even the usual background noise of scavengers and muttering drunks had gone soft.

That was the first sign.

The second came when they reached the bakery, or what was left of it.

The crates were undisturbed. Paper still wrapped tight. The barter bag was there. Still full.

And sprayed across the broken window, painted in thick, ugly red:

"Wrong side. Last chance."

Cal stared at it.

He didn't blink.

He didn't breathe for a full ten seconds.

Rusty let out a soft, "Shit."

Cole reached forward and brushed dust off the crate's edge. "No signs of struggle."

"No blood," Cal muttered.

"No body either."

He hated that hope felt worse than confirmation.

Back at the alleyway safehouse, they pieced together what they had. Rusty cracked open his scavenged map of Boston and started marking possible holdouts — old Firefly squats, known blind spots, areas too risky for FEDRA but ideal for angry outliers.

"They didn't get orders for this," Cole said.

Cal nodded. "This isn't sanctioned."

"Which makes it worse," Rusty added grimly. "Means they'll be sloppy."

"Means they'll try to prove something," Cal replied. "To me. To her. To themselves."

He didn't say what everyone was thinking: They might not keep her alive long enough to gloat.

The underpass meeting wasn't even two days old, but it had clearly planted a seed — one that had grown into a full-grown screw-you message.

This wasn't negotiation.

This was revenge.

And it was the first time someone had taken a person, not a crate, not a tool, not a deal.

Lia wasn't just a friend. She was part of the foundation. One of the only real people who knew just enough to be useful, and smart enough to ask the right questions without pushing.

And now she was gone.

Someone wanted to teach Cal a lesson.

He stared at the red words again in his mind.

"Last chance."

That was cute.

In the evening he sat at the far edge of the alley house's attic crawlspace, the only spot without noise, without breath, while the others quietly gathered weapons, maps, and scraps of intel. Cole stayed nearby but didn't speak. Rusty kept to the ground floor, muttering things under his breath as he polished a rusted blade until it shined again.

And Cal just stared at the cracked wall.

Trying not to imagine what they'd done to her.

Trying not to imagine what he would do in return.

Eventually, when the silence thickened too far to ignore, he reached into himself and pulled up the System Menu. Not because he needed stats. Not because he needed missions. But because sometimes, the cold digital readout felt more honest than the world outside.

SYSTEM MENU — ACTIVE

Name: Callum Reyes

Level: 15

EXP: 75 / 850

Scavenger Rank Credits: 2

Summon Tokens: 1

System Points: 2

Condition: Elevated Stress

Buffs: +1 Leadership (Temporary), +1 Morale Control (Passive) low bloodlust (Passive)Debuffs: Sleep-deprived(Physical) low bloodlust (Mental) 

NEW- Bloodlust causes the user to experience lack of judgment and increased aggression, can mistaken friend for foe, however in exchange stats go up by 2 with perception going up to 3 due to you noticing more things in combat oriented scenario.

Status Effects: Focused, Sleep-Deprived

Attributes:

Strength 4: Above average for his age. Can lift moderate loads, swing crowbars or pipe weapons, and climb through ruins.

Endurance 5: Solid stamina for his age helps with long warehouse hours, city treks, and physical stress. Slight fatigue under pressure.

Dexterity 5: somewhat sharp reflexes. Quick in tight spaces. Useful for dodging infected or picking through dangerous terrain.

Intelligence 7: Adaptive thinker. Plans routes, outsmarts some adversaries, and understands social and tactical nuance.

Charisma 6: Cal is persuasive, darkly charming, able to somewhat negotiate even with smugglers and killers.

Perception 5: Has an eye detail. Tracks movement, spots risks, and reacts quickly to environmental cues.

Luck 10: Unnaturally high. Outcomes subtly bend in his favour, impossible crate finds, dodging certain death, allies showing up at the right time. The system might be helping, but it feels like something else or someone is…

Unlocked Features:

Attributes

Relationship Menu

Crafting Tips Menu (Upgraded)

Base Setup Tracker

Supply Route Ledger (FEDRA-linked)

Reputation Tracker (BETA - Active)

Relationship Menu (Key Contacts):

Rusty: Stable / Loyal/ Angry

Cole: Neutral / Professional / Determined

Joe: Guarded / Respectful

Tasha: Volatile / Attached / (?)

Donny: Scared / Loyal

Elsie:  Respectful / Guarded

Marta: Respectful / Neutral

Kev: Loyal / Supportive 

Meredith: Cautious / Cooperative

Robert: Opportunistic / Testing

Mason: Scornful / dismissive

Elena (Mother): Tired / Worried

Tomas (Father): Overworked / Respectful

General Voss: Neutral 

Commander Travers: Distrustful / Opportunistic 

Lia: [Signal Active] — Emotion Detected: Confused. Scared.

Hector: Worried / Scared

Cara: Fond / Appreciative

Lia: Loyal / Attached - Warning! [Abnormal Mental Signals Detected] — Emotion Detected: Confused / Scared / Hopeful

I read through all the relationships I had, one by one. Finally stopping at Lia, seeing the abnormal warning sign along with the detected emotions got my eye twitching and the hand around my pistol tightening.

--------------------------------

The plan wasn't elegant. Just efficient.

Cal, Cole, Tasha, and two others Kev and Marta we went out under cover of a routine scav run. They dressed light, moved fast, and said nothing to the others beyond "we're clearing something up."

The tenement was a half-collapsed relic from the old middle ring of Boston, right between the newer FEDRA patrol lines and the broken zones no one admitted still had people in them. A grey brick skeleton with vines clawing up the east face. Dust. Silence. A smell like mildew and cigarette rot.

Lia was inside.

They knew because Cole had pieced it together from the trail. Notes. Schedules. An overheard whisper from one of Meredith's old contacts. And then there was the spray-painted message: Wrong side. Last chance. That didn't sound like someone bluffing.

They breached just before dusk.

No dramatic countdown. No rallying speech. Just movement.

Marta took the rear entrance. Kev the stairwell. Cal went in with Cole and Tasha through a smashed wall that led to the second floor. The floor creaked like it knew better. They moved anyway.

The first Firefly didn't even have time to raise his gun.

Cole dropped him with a single strike, the kind that didn't make a sound, just changed a man's condition from "armed threat" to "breathing problem."

The second one fought back.

Hard.

A woman with a bandolier of stolen rations and a knife that curved like a question mark. She caught Tasha off guard, slashing across her hoodie and nearly opening her arm. Tasha didn't scream.

She laughed.

In these scenarios I am glad she's on my side.

Tasha then like a bull who just seen red, tackled her so hard into the peeling drywall that the knife fell and never got back up. Kev pinned her. Cole confirmed the rest of the building was clear.

And Lia?

She was tied to a heater pipe with melted cable ties. Face swollen. Mouth gagged. Knees scraped raw from struggling.

Cal got there first. He didn't speak.

Just knelt, took out the multitool, and cut her free.

She didn't cry. Didn't collapse. Just leaned forward and let her forehead rest against his shoulder for a second longer than she needed to.

That second broke something in him.

When they left, they didn't burn the place down. Didn't paint warnings. Didn't shoot the captured Firefly.

But they didn't untie her either.

No casualties on their side. 

Back at the warehouse, everything moved like someone had hit the mute button.

Lia was alive. That should've been enough.

She didn't talk much when they got back. Just took the thermal blanket Rusty offered and crawled into the cot nearest the boiler room, eyes glassy, skin pale. She was breathing. Awake. But… frayed. Like someone had cut a string inside her, then tied it back together wrong.

No one questioned it. No one dared.

Cole stayed nearby, quiet but present. Tasha cleaned her wound herself, still grinning faintly like the whole fight had been an appetizer. Kev and Marta disappeared to the upper levels, inventing tasks that didn't need doing.

Cal sat on the concrete steps near the main exit, crowbar resting across his knees. He didn't remember grabbing it. His jaw ached from how hard he'd been clenching it.

That's when Robert showed up.

Not loudly. Just there, as if he'd always been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, one boot scuffed from the ash outside.

"Rough couple of days?" he asked like he was commenting on the weather.

Cal didn't answer.

Robert pushed off the wall and wandered closer, gaze flicking around the warehouse with that oily kind of confidence that said I know more than I let on and I like it that way.

"Word travels," he said. "Especially when someone's little runner crew starts bleeding into faction business."

Cal didn't flinch, but his shoulders tensed.

Robert noticed. Of course he did.

"Relax, kid," he said. "I'm not here to sell you out. I'm here to remind you of the obvious."

Cal glanced at him, eyes dull and hard.

Robert leaned in slightly.

"You're in now. Whether you like it or not. FEDRA, Fireflies, me, doesn't matter. You've got eyes on you."

He straightened, dusted off his jacket like he'd just done Cal a favour by saying it out loud.

"Here's what you need to understand: no one stays neutral forever. Not when there's value on the table. And you?" He gestured around the warehouse. "You're valuable. That makes you a target. A partner. A threat. Depends on the day."

Cal said nothing.

Robert didn't seem to mind.

"I'll give you this, free of charge. Tips. Tricks. How to move things quiet. How to make your drops look like garbage pickups. How to keep your name out of places it doesn't belong."

He grinned. "I've been doing this a long time. You either learn to juggle lies, or someone else writes your truth for you."

Cal finally spoke. Quiet, bitter. "And what's the price?"

Robert's smile didn't fade. "Just remember who gave you the playbook when everyone else starts rewriting the rules, or when I am tryina hide in your warehouse after a pissed off customer didint get what he wants." He laughed, as if it was the funnies thing in the world, him running to some kid like me. 

Well motherfucker, when Joel and Tess come over to do your kneecaps in my doors will be shut, though maybe if you don't shaft me I might consider letting you escape the QZ through my tunnels.

As I was having my very healthy internal conversation, like a magician exiting a trick, he turned and walked away no fanfare, no deal signed, just smoke and pressure left in his wake.

Cal sat there long after he was gone.

-------------------------------------------

The chalkboard didn't used to mean much.

At first, it was just for crate tallies and gear lists. A few snide remarks. Sketches of rats with swords. Rusty once drew a very anatomically incorrect giraffe that lingered in the corner for weeks because no one had the heart to erase it.

Now, it was policy.

Cal wiped the board clean that morning. Scrubbed it with a damp rag until the dust clung to his fingers and the last of the giraffe vanished.

Then, in crisp, sharp lettering, he wrote:

OPERATIONAL RULES – REVISION 3

No runs alone.

Drop routes change every 72 hours.

Trusted personnel only for external barters.

Mandatory check-in windows 3x daily.

No unscheduled contact with Firefly or FEDRA agents.

Two-person confirmation required for new crates.

Emergency fallback points marked: A–F.

Assume everyone is watching.

He paused at the ninth line. Tapped the chalk against the board.

Then added:

9. If captured don't talk. Don't promise. Don't wait. Survive. Rescue will come.

There were no jokes under it this time. No sketches. No sardonic smile in the margins.

The room behind him was quiet. But he knew they'd read it.

Kev stopped joking the moment Lia came back bandaged. Marta hadn't asked any questions, just cleaned and reorganized half the gear wall. Even Cole, gruff and controlled, had started walking slower in the warehouse, listening harder. Even for a second Donny, the walking disaster that's scared of his own shadow looked less scared and more determined.

Tasha?

Tasha had vanished that morning. Came back three hours later, no words, just calm silence and dry blood on her shirt that wasn't hers.

She didn't hand him the knife.

She slid it across the table when he sat down near the bunk area, just the two of them there, lamps dim, air still smelling faintly of melted plastic and sealed antiseptic.

Cal picked it up.

Same blade she'd given him months ago, now notched near the end and painted in something dark, crusted along the side. Not blood. Not just blood.

A message.

She looked at him and said:

"People talk less when you show them this first."

Cal didn't reply.

Didn't thank her.

Didn't argue either.

He slid the knife into his belt, he didn't even realise when she took it, and he tucked it behind the crowbar now sheathed at his back.

Later that night, when the others were asleep or pretending to be, he went to the resource board.

Logged the day.

JULY 25, 2028— Trade mission complete.— Lia recovered. Status: Stable.— Casualties: 0 (current), Psychological impact noted.— Relationships: Tense.— Morale: Shaken but functional.— Leadership: Adjusting.— Lesson: Humans are worse than infected.— Identity: Shifting.

He stared at that last line for a while.

Then added one final note in the corner of the chalkboard, tiny and easy to miss.

"Today we stopped being just scavengers."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The right wing of the warehouse still smelled like ash and dust.

Cal crouched by the edge of the half-collapsed corridor, a flashlight beam sweeping across the twisted metal and rubble ahead. Rusted pipes jutted from the ground like skeletal fingers, framing the path that used to lead to the armoury side or what he assumed was an armoury, based on the crates they'd only managed to glimpse weeks ago.

The last attempt to clear a path had cost a whole day, a cracked wrist, and a warning from Cole about structural collapse.

Even now, flicking the light deeper in, Cal could see the glint of something half-buried. A crate handle. Maybe a rifle stock. Maybe just another crushed chair. It didn't matter.

They couldn't reach it. Not without power tools they didn't have, or a goddamn industrial-grade excavator.

"Months," Cal muttered to himself. "Unless we get lucky. Or suicidal."

He leaned back, rubbing grit off his hoodie sleeve, mind already turning gears. He needed more people. More hands. Someone good with mechanical recovery, or even a demolition expert. But every summon so far came with human needs and zero guarantees.

And they were running out of weapons.

They had gear. They had meds. They had crates stacked five high in the east wing and a new bunk zone under construction but they were short on heat. Cole carried a proper rifle. Cal had his sidearm, and the few rifles and pistols we had and the empty M249.

He could summon more people equip them with pipes and all, strength in numbers for sure.

But throwing a survivor into this world without a weapon was asking for betrayal. Or death, not to mention we don't have as many supplies.

He exhaled sharply and turned to leave, and that's when the ping came.

Not a loud one. Not the system blare of discovery. Just a quiet flicker at the edge of his vision, like a candle catching flame in the dark.

[System Notice]New Unlock Preview – Level 20 Milestone Detected.

Scavenger Rank Credits: Tier Expansion Pending

At Level 20, Scavenger Rank Credits may be exchanged for low-tier ranged weaponry and limited standard ammunition. Available Item Pool (Randomized):— Worn .22 pistols— Modified 9mm handguns (unmarked)— Spare magazines (5–15 rounds)— Poor condition shotgun (extremely rare pull)— Basic firearm maintenance kits (common)

Note: All weapon items require associated SP upkeep. Firearm quality is not guaranteed. Accuracy and durability will vary.

First unlock requires: Level 20 + 3 Scavenger Rank Credits

Estimated availability: Reach Level 20 to view catalogue.

Cal blinked, mouth halfway open.

"That's... new."

He tapped the message once, but it was already fading. No catalogue, no further detail. Just a hint of what was waiting if he kept pushing forward.

Three credits. He had two right now. Which meant at least one more successful trade route, maybe two if they came up short on value.

He thought about the future, not the long-term dream of factions or freedom, but the immediate: standing in this dust-choked tomb with four more mouths to feed and nothing to arm them with.

Having the ability to summon a weapon, even if it jammed every third shot?

That was power.

That was security.

That was the difference between asking someone to trust you... and proving they should.

He stood, brushing dust from his knees, and let his flashlight settle on the shadowy, blocked corridor again.

Still months of rubble. Still unreachable.

But maybe not for long.

Because now? The system was offering him another door — and this one didn't need a crowbar.

Cal grinned, just a little.

"Hell, its about time. Guess I better start hoarding credits."