The thermite was heavier than it looked, a dull green metal canister with faded hazard stencilling and a dent in one side — courtesy of FEDRA's "careful" surplus storage. Even through the gloves, the casing felt faintly warm, like it remembered every chemical reaction it had ever been part of.
The armoury door loomed in front of us: steel plating bolted over a reinforced frame, its paint blistered from years of damp air. No amount of crowbar prying, bolt-cutting, or "just hit it harder" tactics had worked on this thing. It had been taunting us for weeks, sitting here in the right wing behind mountains of cleared debris, smug in its own stubborn way.
Cole and Joe stood just off to the side, keeping the curious at a distance. Lia leaned against a support beam, arms folded, eyes flicking between me and the canister. She didn't say anything, but her raised eyebrow said, If this blows up the entire base, it's your fault.
Rusty knelt by the doorframe, running his hand over the seam one last time. "You're sure about the mix ratio?" he asked, voice low but edged with that mechanic's caution.
"As sure as I can be without a lab coat," I muttered, kneeling down and setting the thermite. The instructions from the FEDRA general's quartermaster had been short: Keep it stable. Place it close. Stand back. Which, considering the contents, was basically the polite way of saying Hope you like your eyebrows while they last.
The hiss started immediately after ignition — a sound like an angry rattlesnake buried under a waterfall. Sparks flared bright enough to paint every shadow in the right wing with violent orange, casting long, twitching silhouettes on the concrete. Heat slammed into my face like opening an oven door mid-bake. I squinted through the glare as the chemical reaction chewed through the steel, molten streaks dripping and hissing when they hit the floor.
The smell was acrid and metallic, a sharp tang that stuck in the throat. Lia coughed and pulled her scarf up higher. Someone at the back of the crowd muttered something about not wanting to breathe "door juice."
Then, with a sharp metallic groan, the locking mechanism surrendered. The door didn't so much swing open as it slumped, half-melted hinges giving way with a reluctant shriek. Inside was darkness — deep, stale, unmoving air, the kind you could feel sitting on your skin.
I stepped back, letting the glow from the last dying embers of thermite fade. Whatever was inside had been sealed away for years. Maybe decades. The system didn't chime, didn't throw confetti, didn't congratulate me for a job well done. It just waited, patient and silent, like it knew this was only the beginning of what we were about to uncover.
I pulled my flashlight from my belt and looked at the others. "Alright," I said, my voice quieter than I intended. "Let's see if it was worth the trouble."
The beam from my flashlight cut through the stale air like it was trying to pry secrets out of the dark. Dust motes drifted lazily in the light, spiralling as if they'd been startled awake after years of stillness. The first thing I noticed was the smell — old oil, faint mildew, and that dry metallic tang of sealed metal. It wasn't rot. It wasn't decay. Whatever was in here had been protected from the worst of time.
"Clear?" Cole asked from behind me, voice low but with that edge he used when his instincts were twitching.
"Depends on your definition," I muttered. My boots scuffed against the smooth concrete as I stepped inside. The temperature dropped by a few degrees, the kind of cold that seeped from walls designed to keep things in or out.
The walls on either side weren't bare. They were lined with racks. Not random scavenged junk, but actual military issue. Olive-drab crates stacked three high, each with stencilled markings: USMC. Numbers. Dates. Some labelled simply ARMORY CONTENTS – DO NOT RELOCATE.
Cole moved in behind me, scanning the corners. His light found the first real prize — a rack of rifles. The metal was clean, protected by oiled cloth wraps. He pulled one free, checked the action, and whistled low. "Preserved. These aren't rust buckets. Someone prepped these for long-term lockdown."
On the opposite wall, Lia ran her hand over a tall metal cabinet before tugging it open. Inside was a neat row of helmets, each with faded unit insignias, next to sealed plastic bins of what looked like body Armor plates. The gear looked almost out of place — too clean, too intact — like it had been frozen in time just before the world went to hell.
Rusty was already crouched by a pile of smaller containers, his gloved hands running over the edges with almost reverent care. "Ammo crates," he confirmed, giving one a gentle shake. No rattle — packed full. "We'll need to log this before we even think about using it. Could be a mix of calibres."
I kept moving deeper. The armoury wasn't huge — maybe the size of one of the larger right-wing rooms — but it was packed with intention. There were portable field radios in cases, medical supply kits sealed in military-grade waterproofing, and even a few tubes I recognized as mortar launchers from the stencilled diagrams.
Oh lord, I'm bout to bust.
The system didn't say a word, but I felt the invisible weight of value settling into my mind. This was more than just loot. This was leverage. With this, we could arm more people, defend more territory, and bargain with FEDRA on our terms — or at least get them to look the other way a little longer.
Behind me, someone asked, "What's the plan for all this?"
I didn't answer right away. My flashlight lingered on a row of sealed plastic cases at the very back of the room, each one with bold red-letter warnings: HAZARDOUS MATERIAL – RESTRICTED USE. The kind of stuff you don't open without knowing exactly what you're doing.
"Plan," I said finally, "is we don't touch anything until we've logged every single piece. No free-for-all. No 'just testing it out.' We do this right."
Cole smirked, tossing the rifle back into its rack with careful precision. "You're starting to sound like a quartermaster."
"Better than sounding like an idiot who blew himself up," I shot back.
We began hauling the first batch out into the right-wing staging area, stacking it neatly for cataloguing. My mind was already racing ahead — which of this could be traded, which needed to stay, and how much could I safely hand over to FEDRA without giving away exactly how deep our supply hole went.
Whatever came next, this armoury had just changed the game.
We'd only made it through the first row before it hit me just how far this went.
The racks didn't stop at the walls — they kept going into smaller side compartments, each one locked, each one packed to the brim. It wasn't just an armory. It was a preserved battalion cache.
Rusty was the first to put numbers to it. He crouched beside a cluster of olive-drab trunks, each stamped with USMC – INFANTRY EQUIP SET. He pried one open and froze for a second before letting out a low whistle. "Full combat loadouts," he murmured. "Vests, pouches, hydration packs, helmets… enough for an entire company in this crate alone."
Lia pulled down a manifest clipboard left on a hook near one of the shelves. The paper was brittle, the ink faded but legible. "This… this isn't just one unit's gear," she said, scanning the rows. "Looks like they staged enough to resupply three companies. Maybe more."
Cole was moving slower now, his eyes taking in each discovery like he was mentally mapping the firepower. "That's not even counting the heavy stuff." He tilted his chin toward a steel cage in the far corner. Through the mesh, I could see the distinctive long tubes of M320 grenade launchers, stacked carefully beside tripod-mounted machine guns still wrapped in their factory oil paper.
And then there were the mortars. Four of them, each with a tidy stack of ammunition tubes beside them like someone had been planning a weekend fireworks display — if fireworks were 60mm HE rounds.
The deeper we went, the more surreal it became.
One cabinet was filled entirely with radios — not the beat-up, mismatched handsets you find topside, but actual working, long-range military comms with charging docks and sealed spare batteries. Another shelf had satchels of signal flares, smoke grenades, and infrared strobes.
Then came the medical section. Lia opened a waist-high chest and sucked in a breath. "Field hospital kit. Sterile dressings, sutures, antibiotics, IV bags… even morphine." Her eyes lingered on the last part, and I could tell she was thinking the same thing I was — the value of this on the black market could buy half the QZ.
Rusty's voice cut in from the far side. "Uh, boss… you might wanna see this."
I followed his flashlight beam to a reinforced double-door locker. The stencilling on the front read: HAZMAT STORAGE – LEVEL 3 CLEARANCE ONLY. A yellow triangle marked biohazard. Whatever was in there wasn't just dangerous — it was something they didn't want anyone to touch without orders.
I didn't open it. Not now. Not without a plan and probably a hazmat suit we didn't have.
Instead, we started cataloguing.
Two hours passed in a blur of inventory calls and careful stacking. Lia took notes while Rusty handled the physical inspection, and Cole kept a running tally of weapons versus ammo versus "do not touch unless desperate" gear.
By the time we finished, my rough mental count looked like this:
Rifles: ~120 M16A4s, ~80 M4 carbines
Grenade Launchers: 15 M320s
Machine Guns: 12 (mix of M240s and M249 SAWs)
Mortars: 4, with ~200 rounds split between HE and illumination
Pistols: ~90 M9s, all clean and oiled
Body Armor: ~300 full plate sets
Helmets: ~300 with comm mounts
Radios: 50 long-range units, 100 short-range handsets
Medical Kits: Enough to run a field clinic for months
Ammunition: Tens of thousands of assorted rounds, all sealed
Miscellaneous: Flares, smoke, demolition kits, fuel cans, rations, water purification gear
This wasn't a stash. This was a war chest.
Standing in the middle of it, I felt the quiet hum of possibility — and danger. With this, we could survive almost anything. But the second word got out, we'd paint a target so big even FEDRA wouldn't be able to pretend they didn't see it.
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The system's ping came while I was still staring at all the goodies we unearthed.
[Major Mission Completed: "Beyond the Wall"]Rewards: +1 Summon Token, +2 Scavenger Rank Credits, +500 EXP, +1 Storage Expansion Credit
A follow-up flashed almost immediately:
[Side Mission Completed: "Tunnel Rat"]Rewards: +150 EXP, +1 Luck Buff (Temporary – 30 days)
"Alright," I muttered, stepping past Cole, "time to play inventory clerk for the military's long-lost toy chest."
Rusty followed me in, notebook already out. Lia was at my shoulder with a battered FEDRA-issue camera, one of the only working ones we'd managed to scrounge. Cole posted himself just inside the door, eyes scanning the shadowed racks like he expected the ghosts of USMC quartermasters to leap out swinging clipboards.
The place was packed. Not just with weapons — though there were plenty — but with the kind of "boring" gear that, in the apocalypse, suddenly meant survival. Armor in neat stacks, helmets in sealed crates, sealed field rations, medical supply kits, flare packs, communication radios, even a few heavy-duty tool kits that looked like they hadn't seen daylight since before the outbreak.
We worked the way only my inner circle knew how: efficient, quiet, and paranoid. Lia photographed everything in sequence. Rusty logged serial numbers and condition notes. I moved through the racks with a mental tally — not just for the System's satisfaction, but for mine.
Because here was the real trick: FEDRA didn't need to know everything.
They'd get their drop, sure. One supply's worth of "usable military-grade gear," exactly as the mission required. But the definition of "usable" was up to me. The mission didn't say all of it. And I wasn't in the business of giving away every ace in my deck.
What FEDRA Got:
10 M16A4 rifles and 20 M9 (well-cleaned, but not pristine)
15,000 rounds of 5.56mm (ammo they'd definitely want)
50 sets of ballistic armor (good quality)
100 helmets (varied models, all functional)
200 field medkits (sealed)
300 flares (mixed colors)
45 portable radios (with chargers, because otherwise they'd just hoard them)
What I Kept:
The rest of the rifles and pistols
All heavier weapons (MGs, mortars, the M320s, because no way in fuck am I giving it to FEDRA).
Specialized gear (night vision, signal jammers, encrypted comms - Bravo 6 going dark style).
About 60% of the ammo stock. (Because more Dakka is good Dakka)
Most of the USMC-labelled MREs — because if you've ever eaten a FEDRA ration biscuit, you know why.
We loaded the FEDRA-bound gear onto the "respectable" side of the tunnel network, where it could be picked up without anyone sniffing too close to the warehouse's heart. I'd learned that lesson early: keep the smuggling lanes compartmentalized.
By the time the last crate was staged for pickup, the System pinged.
System Notification – Mission CompleteWeight of Ash ✅Requirements Met:
Armory breached using thermite ✅
Contents documented with visuals/logs ✅
One supply drop delivered to FEDRA ✅
Rewards:+2 Scavenger Rank Credits ✅+1 Summon Token ✅+4 System Points ✅+1200 EXP ✅Level Cap Breakthrough: Level 20 Upgrade Unlocked ⚠️Warning: Failure would have reduced FEDRA trust and material support.
The usual rush of an EXP bump hit — but this one came with a delayed snap, like the System had been waiting to rub it in.
I froze mid-step. My vision hazed for a heartbeat, and then the long-overdue notification rolled in, big and smug.
Level Up - 22
New Feature: Advanced Summoning (access to higher-tier, specialized summons.)
New Drop Unlock: Supply Grade III (poor-grade weapon and armour equipment available via Scavenger Rank Credit exchange and more)
Passive Bonus: +5% efficiency to all scavenging missionsCurrent EXP: 925 / 1050
I blinked, and for a second I swear the corners of my vision flickered like the System was smiling.
It all lined up in my head:
The FEDRA mission was off my back.
The System's own requirement — the "explore the buried right wing" chain — was done.
And I'd just cleared the invisible ceiling I'd been bashing my head on for weeks.
Rusty caught my expression. "That your 'I just got rich' face or your 'I'm about to lie to everyone' face?"
"Little of both," I said. "Mostly the first one."
We didn't linger. Even with Cole and two armed watchers at the door, it was bad practice to stand around with this much loot sitting open. We locked it back up — our lock this time — and withdrew to the main hall.
As soon as the right wing door swung shut behind us, I let myself take a real breath.
I could feel it. The shift. Not just in the System's menus, but in the operation itself. The same way you can feel the air change before a storm.
The mission Weight of Ash hadn't just been about feeding FEDRA their weekly ego boost. It had cemented something between us — enough to buy me room to maneuver, maybe even push them for specific trades. And inside the System, it had opened the door to things I'd only guessed at: stronger summons, better supply drops, the kind of advantages that could tip the board in my favor for months.
I didn't announce any of that to the others, of course. The cover story was simple: "FEDRA's happy, we've got room to breathe, now let's plan the next run."
Inside, though? My head was already spinning through what came next.
Advanced Summoning meant I could finally diversify the roster — specialists, not just general survivalists. Combat medics, engineers, even logistics planners.
Supply Grade III drops meant I could bypass scavenge luck entirely for certain gear — the kind of stuff that could take months to find naturally.
The extra Scavenger Rank Credits, System Points, and Summon Token were fuel for the next phase.
And that next phase was coming fast.
When Lia came by with the final log sheets for the FEDRA drop, she didn't even bother asking how much I'd held back. She just gave me a look that said I know you, and I gave her one back that said and you'll never be able to prove it.
By the time the FEDRA pickup team arrived, we were already moving on to other things. They gave the crates a cursory inspection, saw the ammo and medical supplies, and left satisfied. Which was good — because if they'd looked too hard, they might have wondered why some racks in the armory looked like they'd been "empty" for years.
When the last of their boots vanished down the tunnel, Cole let out a low whistle. "You know, one of these days, someone's gonna realize you're playing three sides at once."
"Yeah," I said, already scanning my System menu, "but by then, we'll be four moves ahead."
This was it — the tipping point. The place where all the little side missions, scavenge runs, and quiet deals stacked high enough to build a real foundation.
Level 20 wasn't just a number. It was leverage. And I intended to spend it wisely.
Next step: cash in the new rewards, burn those Scavenger Rank Credits, and see exactly what Advanced Summoning could do.
And if the System was feeling generous? Maybe it'd give me one more wildcard. Something — or someone — who could change the game.
✅ Mission Completed: Weight of Ash✅ Level 20 Achieved – Advanced Summoning unlocked✅ FEDRA Supply Drop Delivered – trust maintained⚠️ Operational Status: Major expansion imminent
Name: Callum ReyesAge: 12Level: 22Current Job: Civilian (Unranked)EXP: 925 / 1050Condition: Stable
System Points (SP): 12 (+4 from Weight of Ash)Scavenger Rank Credits: 6 (+2 from Weight of Ash)Summon Tokens: 2 (+1 from Weight of Ash)
Buffs:
1 Charisma Buff (permanent)
Passive: +5% efficiency to all scavenging missions (unlocked at Level 20)
Debuffs: None
Equipment:
Weapon: Crowbar (Graded: OK) Knife (Graded: OK - Gift from Tasha)
Weapon: M9 (Limited ammo)
Clothing: Black and grey military hoodie, grey baggy pants (muddy), duct-tape-reinforced backpack
Storage Expansion Credit: 1 (unused)
Inventory:
Water pouch
Crowbar
Zip Ties
MRE
Flashlight and Radio
Cracked multitool
Chalk stub
Half-torn map
Various stored military gear from the armoury
Unlocked Features:
Relationship Menu
Crafting Tips Menu (Upgraded)
Access to small crafting recipes
Reduced tool failure rate
First aid basics unlocked
Base Setup Tracker (full recognition)
Advanced Summoning (new)
Supply Grade III (new — military-grade equipment can be bought with Scavenger Rank Credits)
----------------------------------------------------------------
First order of business — redistribute the spoils.
I ducked into the side room we'd converted into my "command desk," which was really just a bolted-down table with scavenged office drawers and a stack of ledgers Lia had bullied me into keeping. The door stayed shut. Nobody saw the real transaction.
[Spend System Points?]Yes.
Three went into Inteligence, because better decision-making in this life-or-death roulette was worth more than stronger biceps. Two into Charisma, because negotiations with FEDRA and smugglers went smoother when they didn't think you were a twitchy street rat. The last one went into Luck, because sometimes you just wanted the dice to roll your way when you cracked open a crate.
That left my stats sitting prettier than they had in months.
[Spend Scavenger Rank Credits?]Yes.
The system menu unfolded like a catalogue you'd kill to keep out of FEDRA's hands. Under the new Supply Grade III tab, the options weren't "spare parts" or "hand tools" anymore. This was the real deal — civilian grade armoured vests, helmets like the ones used for motorcycles or riot police basically just a helmet with a front plastic visor, rifles, crates of ammo, field med kits still in plastic. Though not the best graded and prone to malfunctions they can be fixed up with the spare parts from the armoury.
I burned one credit on 100 high-quality military helmets and body armour sets — good enough to make FEDRA practically wag its tail when they saw them.
One credit went to a bulk ammo crate — mostly 5.56 and 9mm, with a scattering of .45 ACP also known as Anti-Cow-Projectile.
The third went into field medical gear — trauma kits, bandages, morphine syrettes — things that made commanders go soft-eyed because it meant fewer letters to grieving families.
And the last? Radios. Dozens of them, clean, functional, and most importantly — network-locked to channels we could monitor.
Then came the fun part — the Summon Token.
[Use Summon Token?]Yes, use both.[Special Protocol Active: Advanced Summoning Enabled]
The system's hum felt different — heavier, like it was drawing from a deeper well. The "normal" survivors came first: 4 dockside workers, a middle-aged machinist and his brother, and a wiry ex-delivery driver who smelled like cigarette smoke and engine grease. Good hands, steady eyes. They'd fit right in.
And then the special summons.
The room temperature seemed to drop. The silhouette that formed was taller than Cole, dressed in a mix of pre-outbreak tactical gear and scavenged layers. When the light solidified, I was staring at a woman in her late 30s, dark hair pulled back tight, eyes that looked like they'd memorized every face they'd ever seen — and weighed them all.
The system fed me the implanted backstory: Alexandra "Ash" Keener, ex-National Guard logistics officer. Lost her unit during the first year, survived as a contract guard for convoy runs, never fully trusted any faction again. She sized up the warehouse in one slow sweep, then looked at me like she was already deciding whether I was worth following.
Before I could take in the weight of that stare, the second special summon began to form. This one felt different — not heavier, but faster, like the system was flipping through pages to find the right one. When it stopped, Noah Brandt stood there — mid-20s, buzzcut, lean build, wearing battered urban camo and carrying himself like every inch of him had been trained to stay unnoticed. His backstory hit me in flashes: former recon scout for an unnamed QZ militia, expert in mapping hostile zones, and with a reputation for slipping past patrols that should have caught him. He didn't look at me so much as through me — measuring distances, exits, and risk.
Perfect.
Later as we moved into the warehouse Alexandra didn't waste time with pleasantries. She scanned the warehouse layout like she was committing it to memory, then immediately started asking about storage capacity, distribution routes, and inventory turnover. The kind of questions that made most people blink — but she didn't even wait for answers before sketching out an improvised supply chain using chalk on the nearest flat surface. She was already rearranging crate stacks in her head. Lia watched her with this faint frown, half admiration, half who the hell just took my job?
I didn't stop her. If the system handed me someone who could make the whole base run smoother, I wasn't about to get in her way. Besides, the way she moved — calm, precise, zero wasted motion — told me she wasn't just making plans for today. She was setting up a machine that could run for years.
Noah was a different story. He didn't talk at first, just drifted through the space, eyes sliding over doorframes, corners, exits. He ghosted past Cole and Joe without a sound — which earned him a raised eyebrow from Cole and a muttered "damn" from Joe. When he finally spoke, it was to ask for a map of the QZ and the tunnel layouts we'd cleared so far.
"You're our new resident scout?" Joe asked, watching him flip the map around.
"I'm the don't-get-caught guy," Noah replied without looking up. He tapped a few points along the tunnel lines, subtle marks where he said patrol timing could be dodged, and where entry points could be expanded without drawing attention. Cole leaned in, adding notes about watch patterns topside, the two of them falling into a quiet, technical rhythm that sounded like they'd been working together for weeks.
By the end of the hour, Alexandra had reorganized two sections of the warehouse into more efficient storage bays, Noah had plotted a safer tunnel route to the outer edge of the QZ, and the four regular recruits were already carrying out tasks like they'd been here all their lives.
The system had just handed me two specialists who could shift the entire balance of what we could do. And for once, I didn't feel like I was scrambling to catch up.
The warehouse had always been busy, but with the new faces, it felt like a whole different animal. The air carried that restless energy you only get when people know something's changing — and they're waiting to see if it's for better or worse.
Alexandra slotting herself into Lia's good books, helping restructure the daily work rosters into something that actually ran on time. Noah was already on his third inspection before anyone else had even finished breakfast, and he'd flagged three spots where the old concrete was close to caving in.
The first thing I did was test them. Not a speech, not a pep talk — just a sudden order:"We're moving two full crates through the north service tunnel by sundown. No questions, no excuses."
Half of them probably thought it was some hazing ritual, but within minutes, Noah had the route mapped, Alexandra was barking load assignments.
It was a controlled run — the crates only held spare bedding and old repair tools — but it told me everything I needed to know. They were quick, adaptive, and not afraid to take initiative. When they rolled back in before dark, no one had lost gear, no one had wandered, and nothing had broken. That almost never happened.
The next two days were a blur of quiet drills and shadow runs. Noah's scouting reports came in so detailed that Joe started redrawing the entire QZ map, marking every service hatch, water line, and potential choke point.
I didn't give them praise — not out loud — but I did hand each of them a set of privileges I rarely gave anyone this fast. Access to the tunnel keys, authorization to approve small trade deals without my oversight, and first pick from surplus food crates. That told them everything they needed to know.
By the third night, the warehouse had settled into a new rhythm. The old crew knew these newcomers weren't temporary; the newcomers knew they were being watched. And me? I knew we'd just taken a step closer to something bigger — something that would let us move more freely than anyone else in the QZ, without FEDRA or the Fireflies ever figuring out how.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
If there's one thing I've learned about Robert, it's that the man could hold a conversation with a brick wall and somehow make the wall feel like it owed him a favour. That, and he has a bad habit of making every meeting feel like we're about to pull off a heist — even when it's just to talk.
Today was no different.
The morning air in the QZ still had that damp chill that clung to your clothes no matter how many layers you wore. I'd been expecting to meet him in the usual spot near the edge of the market, somewhere public enough to keep people honest. Instead, Robert had waved me off when I showed up, told me we were "taking a walk," and dragged me halfway across the middle zone until we were in one of those forgotten alleys where the sunlight had to fight to even reach the ground.
I was leaning against a rust-flaked dumpster, hands in my hoodie pockets, when Robert finally stopped pacing long enough to light something that smelled like it could double as paint thinner.
"You know," he said, blowing a stream of smoke toward the wall, "most kids your age are busy stealing candy or hiding dirty magazines under their beds. You? You've got people running crates across the city like it's a war zone."
I gave him a flat look — the kind I usually reserve for people trying to sell me something I already own, I don't hide dirty magazines but my packs of smokes thank you very much. Most folks would get the hint and move on to the point. Robert? He just smirked, like my irritation was part of his entertainment.
"Relax, kid," he went on, flicking ash into a puddle. "It's a compliment. I've been in this game a long time. Runners, smugglers, traders — they all make the same mistakes sooner or later. But you? You've got a way of moving things without anyone ever catching you in the act. That's… rare."
"Is this leading somewhere," I asked, "or are we doing the motivational speech thingy today?"
"Both," he said, grinning. "But mostly somewhere dangerous."
That got my attention, though I didn't let it show. Robert took another slow drag, like he was enjoying the build-up too much to ruin it with efficiency.
"Word is," he said finally, "you've got a mole in FEDRA." Why am I not fucking suprised.
I didn't answer right away. The word "mole" is one of those things you don't joke about in this world. It's not just a leak — it's rot from the inside, the kind that gets you killed because you didn't see it coming.
"Don't ask me who," Robert continued. "If I knew, I'd tell you, for the right price of course. But somebody in uniform's been passing your name around to the wrong ears. Firefly cells. A couple of independents. The kind of people who don't need much of an excuse to cause trouble."
"And what exactly are they saying?" I asked.
"That you've been moving a lot of goods lately. Big shipments. Stuff nobody's seen in the QZ for a long time. Weapons, armour, morphine." He squinted at me through the smoke. "And they're not wrong, are they?"
I didn't bother denying it. Robert already knew enough to connect the dots, and lying would only make me look sloppy.
Instead, I asked, "Why are you telling me this?"
He shrugged, a lazy roll of the shoulders that somehow still looked calculated. "Because you're good for business. And because you're one of the only people in this place who actually deals straight with me. Most traders? They either try to rip me off or act like they're above me. You? You're all business. No ego. I like that."
"Touching," I said dryly, though I meant it more than I'd admit.
Robert gave a short laugh. "Point is, the wrong people know too much, and you can bet some of them will try to find you. Eyes are gonna be on you for a while — some friendly, some not. And if it comes down to it, you call me before you make enemies you can't shake."
"Since when do you play security?" I asked.
"Since I learned that keeping the right people alive is more profitable than replacing them." He leaned in slightly. "Look, I've got contacts. The kind of people who can make problems disappear, one way or another. I'm not saying you should hide — I'm saying pick your fights."
We stood there for a moment in the muffled quiet of the alley, the hum of distant generators and the occasional shout from the main street bleeding in like background noise.
Finally, I said, "Alright. But if I find out you're the one feeding this to them—"
Robert cut me off with a raised hand. "Kid, if I was gonna sell you out, I'd have done it months ago. You're worth more to me alive and making trades than dead in a ditch."
It wasn't exactly a heartfelt pledge of loyalty, but in Robert's world, it was about as close as you got.
We spent another twenty minutes hashing out our upcoming deals. Small stuff, mostly — scrap electronics, some preserved food, a few tools — the kind of trade that didn't raise suspicion but kept the flow going. Robert had a knack for reading the market, knowing when to sell fast and when to let rumours make something more valuable. I could almost respect that, if it didn't come wrapped in so much smug self-satisfaction.
Before we split, Robert pulled one last drag from his cigarette and said, "One more thing — don't underestimate how fast word travels in here. QZ like this, everyone's listening for something. All it takes is one bored guard with a grudge, and suddenly half the city thinks you're running the black market."
I nodded, tucking that away with the rest of his warning. As much as I wanted to shrug it off, the reality was simple: if there really was a mole in FEDRA, it wasn't just my operation at risk. Lia, Joe, Rusty, Cole, Tasha… even the people I'd just summoned. All of them depended on the secrecy we'd built.
As I left the alley and cut toward one of the quieter streets, my mind was already moving three steps ahead. I'd need to tighten the routes, cut out any loose ends, maybe even set up decoys to keep people guessing. If someone wanted to watch us, fine — let them follow the wrong trail.
And somewhere in all of that, I'd have to find out who inside FEDRA was playing both sides.
Infections have a way of spreading if you don't cut them out. And this one? This one was going to require a clean, quiet cure.