Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

The med bay had quieted down by the time the nurse returned. Tinio was asleep, an IV drip keeping his vitals steady. Delgado was sitting up now, bandaged and sipping from a metallic water pouch. Captain Villamor, still sore and sluggish, had finished the hydration bag and leaned back against the cot, eyes shut but mind racing.

"Vitals are stable," the nurse said after a quick scan. "You're cleared for movement."

Villamor opened his eyes slowly and gave a small nod. "Appreciate it."

He reached for his helmet but left it hanging by his side, his energy not quite recovered. His vest was zipped up again, gear still dirty, but he no longer looked like a man on the brink. Just a soldier who'd seen too much in one day.

As he stood, the door slid open with a hydraulic hiss.

Phillip stood in the doorway, hands behind his back.

"Captain," he said with a slight nod. "The boss is ready for you."

Villamor nodded back. "Let's not keep him waiting."

The two men walked together through the corridor—Villamor limping slightly, Phillip silent beside him. They passed engineering personnel, patrol units, and a few medics, all giving them brief glances. The atmosphere inside the refinery was a strange blend of professionalism and tension, like a military outpost run by civilians who knew exactly what they were doing.

Eventually, they reached a reinforced metal door with a biometric pad. Phillip pressed his palm to it, and it slid open.

Inside was Thomas Estaris's office.

Large, clean, efficient. One wall was a massive tactical screen with various grid overlays and drone feeds. A sturdy metal table sat in the center, with maps, documents, and a half-eaten protein bar. The only window in the room gave a wide view of the refinery yard, where diesel trucks and quadcopters moved like clockwork.

Thomas stood behind the table, sleeves rolled, tablet in hand. He looked up as they entered.

"Captain Villamor," he greeted, voice level. "Glad to see you in one piece."

Villamor offered a tired nod. "Likewise."

"Sit," Thomas gestured to a steel chair opposite his desk.

Villamor took the seat and leaned back. It was surprisingly comfortable.

Phillip moved to the side and placed a small tray on the table—two sealed water bottles and a packet of compressed biscuits. Villamor blinked at it.

"Refreshed and fancy," he muttered, cracking a smile.

"Best we can offer," Thomas said. "Eat, drink. You've earned it."

Villamor opened a bottle and took a long sip before resting it on the table. He opened the biscuit pack but didn't take one yet.

Thomas studied him for a moment, then said plainly, "I want to start by saying… sorry about your men. No one should've had to go through that."

Villamor exhaled slowly. His eyes dropped to the table. "Five KIA. Some of our best. We didn't even get to finish the damn mission before those things jumped us."

"You made it back," Thomas replied. "That's what matters now."

Villamor met his eyes again. "And we owe that to your gunship. And your drone. And your crew."

"You'd have done the same if it were my people out there."

Villamor gave a short, almost reluctant nod. "Maybe. But we don't have that kind of firepower."

Thomas didn't respond immediately. He just studied Villamor, then stepped around the table and leaned against the edge.

"So," he said, folding his arms. "You didn't risk your life out there just to thank us. Let's hear it."

Villamor straightened, cleared his throat, and adjusted his posture.

"General de Vera has made a decision," he said. "Given our current state… dwindling supplies, limited security, and no way of dealing with special variants like the Mawbeasts—we want to open formal diplomatic relations with Overwatch."

Thomas didn't react at first. He simply looked at Villamor, waiting.

Villamor continued, "The General's hoping for a working partnership—resource sharing, coordinated patrols, and defense planning. A proper alliance, if that's what you're after."

Thomas finally nodded once. "It is."

He walked back around to his seat and lowered himself slowly.

"But if we're going to do this," Thomas added, tone shifting, "there are conditions."

Villamor expected that. He gave a slow nod, waiting.

"Overwatch will retain command and control over all joint operations," Thomas said. "Your camp operates under our network. You'll get access to supplies, intel, and support, but major decisions—strategic or otherwise—come through this facility."

Villamor's jaw tensed slightly, but he didn't speak.

"We're not here to play dictator," Thomas clarified, "but I'm not putting my people at risk because someone on your side thinks they know better. That's not negotiable."

Villamor looked at the water bottle in his hand, silent for a few seconds.

"You're asking for subordination."

"I'm asking for structure," Thomas corrected. "You've seen what we can do. We're not perfect—but we're effective. You want protection? You want us to keep hammering monsters like the ones you saw today? Then we need unity. Not split command."

Villamor let out a breath, then nodded slowly. "I can't say yes or no. I'm just the messenger."

"Fair enough," Thomas said. "Then deliver it."

"I will," Villamor replied. "They'll want to know everything. Your chain of command, your operations model, the kind of intel you're willing to share."

"They'll get that—once I get confirmation from your General," Thomas said. "We'll draft the formal terms."

Villamor leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling for a second.

"To be honest," he said, "I don't know how de Vera's going to take it. But he'll listen."

"He'd be stupid not to," Thomas said plainly.

Villamor smirked faintly. "You're not much for sugarcoating, are you?"

"No point," Thomas replied. "Sugar gets people killed."

The room went quiet for a few moments. Then moments after—, Villamor finally stood.

"I'll get you your answer."

Thomas nodded once, standing as well. "We'll be ready."

Villamor turned and walked to the door. Just before stepping out, he glanced back.

"And Thomas?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For pulling us out."

Thomas gave him a hard look—then a rare, subtle nod.

"Get some rest, Captain. You'll need it."

Villamor left, boots echoing down the hallway. And Thomas sat back in his chair, eyes drifting to the tablet's screen—still showing the Reaper feed over the cratered jungle.

"Today's job is done."