Author - So posted the last chapter like 3 almost 4am, 2 pm now here. Imma take a fat fucking nap then eat something shower and go work les do et.
The tunnel back felt shorter than it had on the way out, probably because everyone was still running on the aftershock of adrenaline. We'd left the enemy depot in shambles, the street littered with bodies and warnings, the smell of smoke clinging to our gear like it wanted to move in permanently. Nobody spoke much on the walk just the occasional cough, grunt, or muttered curse as boots crunched over the grit of the tunnel floor. Every breath felt thick and metallic.
By the time the first light from the alleyway side seeped into view, people started looking at each other again. Not with unease, with the kind of small, crooked grins you give after a fight you survived and won. The moment we stepped through the hidden entrance, the air changed. It was warmer, smells of cooking and the faint musk of oil and gunpowder mingling together. The reserve team was already there, weapons down, eyes wide in that mix of curiosity and relief.
Someone let out a low whistle. "You all look like hell."
Cole dropped a dented helmet onto the nearest crate with a metallic thunk.
Rusty limped past, half his pant leg dark with someone else's blood. "You should see the other guys."
And just like that, the edge started to soften. People began taking their packs off, weapons getting leaned against walls, and a low hum of chatter started up. Even those who weren't directly in the fight seemed to absorb the victory like heat in their bones.
We did what came naturally after a job like that we started laying everything out.
The main table in the centre of the storage area turned into a growing pile of spoils. Rifles first, then pistols, then whatever melee weapons we'd pried from dead hands and other shit. Armour plates scraped free of harnesses, some dented, some pristine. We counted ammo in neat rows, each box opened and stacked, each loose bullet corralled into tins. The sound of metal-on-wood clicks filled the air.
Behind me, Tasha laid her marksman rifle down carefully right beside the hunting rifle she kept as a trophy, her fingers brushing over the scratched scope. "Only 2 rounds left," she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else.
"Better than zero," I said. She gave me a quick, tight smile.
Molotov bottles were tallied, fuses replaced on the nail bombs we hadn't thrown. Every piece of gear had its story now, the dented helmet Cole tossed came from some guy who'd almost caved in my ribs.
The mood was… strange. Not quite joyous, but charged. Nobody had to force their smiles. We'd done something big and brutal, and nobody here was pretending otherwise. The fresh bruises, the scorched gear, the torn sleeves and burnt gloves all proved it. But so did the pile growing in front of us.
Injuries got the same treatment as loot, counted, catalogued, addressed. A few burns from the fire, Kev's shoulder cut from shrapnel, two cracked ribs on one of the newer guys. Cole had taken a bullet to the armour that left him with a nasty bruise but nothing broken among other injuries, worst someone had was getting an axe to the thigh shattering bone, they'll live but with permanent limp. No one was dying, which, considering the amount of lead we'd just exchanged, was its own miracle.
I pulled out the small ledger we kept for supply runs and kills. It wasn't about bragging rights it was about keeping track of what we spent and what we earned. From the attack alone we'd used up:
5 Molotovs
3 nail bombs
Roughly 260 - 300rounds of mixed ammo
4 flares for lighting up the areas.
4 full armour plate
8 half plates cracked but still usable
In exchange, we'd gained:
14 guns(8 good quality, 6 poor)
3 shotguns (2 functional, 1 broken but fixable)
1 hunting rifle (claimed by Tasha)
9 pistols (5 functional, 4 near-junk)
Various melee weapons (axes, crowbars, knives)
18 full armour plates in varying condition
Over 500 rounds of ammunition
3 crates of assorted tools and repair gear
Around 12 crates of various supplies, food and medicine and miscellaneous stuff.
Every time something new hit the table, there was a ripple — low whistles, muttered "Damn"s, or just the kind of satisfied nod you give when a job's worth the trouble. Rusty was practically glowing over the repair tools, already muttering about which machines in the base could be fixed faster. Kev doing the same but also running his fingers along the stock of a rifle like it was a long-lost lover.
This hadn't just been about loot. It had been about payback.
I leaned back against the table, scanning the room. Everyone was either cleaning weapons, checking armour, or patching themselves up. Nobody was slumped in a corner trying to forget the night. There was a new posture to them — shoulders squared, movements sharper. They'd gone into that fight as my people. They'd come out of it as something more dangerous.
And the funny part? They all knew it.
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Boston FEDRA Command wasn't the sort of place where you expected to see anyone rattled. It was polished floors, clipped boots, pressed uniforms, the whole facade of unshakable authority. Which is why the low hum of tension in the war room was so noticeable when the reports started coming in.
The first courier had arrived from the outer patrols just after sunrise. By mid-morning, General Voss had all the senior staff in the command chamber, standing around the central operations table with faces caught somewhere between disbelief and a kind of… grudging respect.
"Run it again," Voss said, his voice low, unreadable.
The projector flickered to life, feeding grainy stills from the scout patrol's camera. The first image was distant, smoke still curling into the overcast sky.
A crucifix. Metal beams roughly nailed together, planted into the torn-up street like a macabre signpost. On it — or rather, to it — was a man, the supposed "defeated" leader, slumped and pale, head lolling forward. Alive when they put him up there, dead by the time the patrol got there. And the wall beside his head, painted letters.
"Smile, you could be worse off :)"
A couple of the junior officers shifted uncomfortably at the sight, eyes flicking away. One of the colonels let out a slow breath through his nose.
"Jesus Christ…" muttered Captain Morrissey, breaking the silence. "Who does that?"
Nobody answered right away. They didn't have to — every person in the room had already heard the same whispers in the last hour: Cal Reyes. The General's new "resource associate."
Voss didn't flinch at the image. His eyes lingered for a moment, then moved to the next set of pictures. Bodies strung from lamp posts. Scrawled warnings painted in dark, dripping strokes on nearby walls.
A few of the older officers the ones who'd fought in the early collapse years, were watching with an almost analytical detachment. To them, brutality wasn't shocking, just a question of efficiency. Others, especially the younger lieutenants, looked… unsettled.
"This," Major Keller said carefully, "is going to draw attention. Not just from outside groups, from inside. People see this, they're going to think we endorsed it."
"Do we?" Morrissey asked, a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
That earned him a warning look from Keller. But Voss just folded his arms and kept staring at the projection.
"It worked," said Commander Harrow finally, tone flat. "That depot's gone, their supply line's crippled, and the ones who lived are going to spend the next six months pissing themselves every time a shadow moves. The results are undeniable."
"The method is what concerns me," Keller shot back. "We keep this boy close, and sure, we get results like this. But if we keep him too close, people start thinking we condone… crucifixions."
"He's not ours," Harrow said. "We've never given him direct orders for these actions."
"Doesn't matter. He's operating under our tolerance. We've given him space. That's enough for people to make the connection."
The General finally spoke, voice cutting through the murmur like a knife. "Enough."
The room went still.
Voss stepped forward, resting both hands on the edge of the table. "We are not here to wring our hands over appearances. We are here because someone just eliminated a hostile cell that's been bleeding this sector for months. And yes — he did it in a way that will echo for a long time." He paused, glancing at the crucifix image again. "Which is both an asset and a liability."
There were no interruptions this time. Just the faint hum of the projector and the shuffle of boots as people adjusted their stance.
"We keep him close," Voss continued. "We monitor his movements, his trades, his contacts. If he stays useful, we let him work. But I want reports on everything. If this kind of spectacle becomes a pattern, we'll need contingency plans."
"Sir," Keller said after a moment, "do we… commend him for this?"
Voss didn't answer right away. When he finally did, it was with the kind of calm that left no room for argument. "We acknowledge the result. We do not praise the method."
Around the table, that landed differently for each officer. Some looked relieved. Others, frustrated. But the meeting moved on, into logistics and political fallout. Outside the war room, the rumour mill was already churning. Word of the crucifixion and that mocking message, would be in every corner of the QZ by nightfall.
And every person who saw it would know one thing for certain: Boston had just gotten itself a new player. One who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty.
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The Firefly safehouse smelled of damp plaster and old gun oil.
By the time Marlene arrived, the place was already tense. The small meeting room was packed folding chairs scraping over warped floorboards, people leaning against the walls, their voices low and urgent. A battered radio sat in the middle of the table, still tuned to a scratchy, half-faded patrol channel. The chatter coming through was ugly. Distorted words. Phrases like "strung 'em up" and "cross nailed to the street."
She didn't need the pictures to know what they were talking about. Word had been spreading fast, faster than most news travelled across the city. A massacre in the QZ, people displayed like trophies. A crucifixion with a mocking sign.
And at the centre of it… him.
Cal.
"Alright," she said, voice cutting through the noise. "Talk to me."
One of her lieutenants, Diaz, a wiry man with close-cut hair pushed forward a sheet of paper with a hand-drawn map. "Small depot. Not one of ours. Belonged to an independent cell. Hit hard. No survivors except a few prisoners who looking at this, wont live long. Whoever hit it wasn't looking for just supplies, they wanted to send a message."
"That's putting it lightly," muttered someone near the back.
The words hung in the air.
"Reports say it was that kid," Diaz went on. "The one FEDRA's been letting run his own little scavenger operation. Reyes."
"Bullshit," said one of the younger women against the wall. "A twelve-year-old doesn't pull something like that."
Across the table, a man with his arms folded and eyes closed finally spoke, low, like he was talking to himself more than anyone else. "My cousin… he was with that group."
The room went quiet.
"I heard the descriptions. The lamp posts. The painted walls. That sign…" His jaw clenched tight. "That kid put him up there like it was nothing."
Someone swore under their breath. Marlene's eyes flicked toward the man, but she didn't interrupt. When he finally opened his eyes, they were wet but hard. "Don't care if they were raiders. There's a line. You don't do that."
A couple of others nodded.
"That's the problem," Diaz said quietly. "He did. And people are already talking about it. This morning it was just shock. By tomorrow, it's going to be stories. 'Kid warlord.' 'The boy who out-FEDRA'd FEDRA.' You know how this city works, reputation sticks."
Marlene sat back in her chair, feeling the knot in her stomach tighten. She'd known the boy existed, of course, even met him. A shadow moving between trades, feeding goods into the QZ, too slippery to pin down. She'd even respected his efficiency, a child outplaying hardened adults in a world that ate the weak alive. But this…
This was something else.
"He's twelve," she said, not really to anyone in particular. "Twelve years old. And he did this."
"It's not just the age," one of the older Fireflies, a woman named Halloway, said. "It's what it means. If a kid can pull that off, the message is that anyone can, that brutality works. That it's how you get respect. You think that's not going to spread? We're going to see copycats. More chaos. Less discipline."
"And you think FEDRA's going to complain?" someone else added bitterly. "They'll let him run around as long as he hurts people they don't like. He's their monster now."
Marlene's jaw tightened. She didn't argue. It was true enough.
But she could also see the other side, the way this would shift the balance of fear in Boston. People already hated FEDRA. If this boy started making them look merciful by comparison… that would complicate everything.
In the corner, the man whose cousin had been killed shook his head slowly, like he still couldn't quite believe it. "Never thought I'd say it, but I'd rather have FEDRA come for me than him, they at least kill you quick and fast. That little fuck tortures even prisoners."
The words landed heavy.
Marlene finally stood, her presence drawing all eyes. "This isn't one of ours. Let's make that clear to anyone who asks. We don't crucify prisoners. We don't hang people from lamp posts." Her voice hardened. "And we sure as hell don't let a twelve-year-old decide who lives or dies."
No one argued, but no one looked reassured either. Outside, rain began to patter against the boarded windows, muffling the sound of the city. Somewhere in that darkness, the kid was probably sleeping just fine.
And already, his legend was outgrowing him.
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Boston wasn't a big place anymore.
Not in the sense it had been before the world cracked in half. It wasn't the sprawling, living city of millions — just a cramped maze of controlled streets, checkpoints, barricades, and forgotten corners. But what it lacked in size, it made up for in the way news moved. Word here didn't travel it sprinted. By the time the sun was fully up, what happened two nights ago had already been chewed up, twisted, spat out, and passed around a dozen times over.
The Market Murmurs
The ration market in Sector 3 was never quiet. Even in the rain, the narrow lanes were choked with stalls selling dented cans, bootleg tools, scavenged shoes and the people who came to haggle for them. That morning, though, the normal arguments over trade ratios were drowned out by the same conversation over and over.
"You see it?" a woman asked as she weighed out a bag of flour. Her hands moved automatically, her eyes locked on her customer. "Apparently they crucified left alive, for hours."
The man she was selling to flinched. "Yeah. Heard it was the kid the FEDRA brat. What's his name?"
"Doesn't matter," she said, lowering her voice. "They say he was smiling while they did it."
"Bullshit."
"Maybe. But my cousin's brother works the checkpoint on the north road. Says it's true."
Down the row, another group huddled under a tarp. Someone had scrawled the words SMILE, YOU COULD BE WORSE OFF :) on the inside of the stall wall in dripping black paint. A poor imitation of the real thing, but close enough to make a few passers-by shiver.
Joel and Tess
Two blocks away, in a backroom behind a boarded-up clothes shop, Joel leaned against a counter, arms crossed, while Tess paced.
She had the tone she got when the city's latest piece of gossip wasn't just noise, when it was something worth thinking about. "They're saying it was him," she said. "That little bastard you've been half-watching in the alleys. The one who's been running trades under everyone's nose."
Joel's expression didn't change much. He'd heard the talk too, in the way the guards at Checkpoint 4 had been buzzing, in the way a runner he trusted had come back pale and shaking after a supply drop outside the wall.
"You believe it?" he asked.
"I believe somebody did it," Tess said, stopping to face him. "And if it was him, that's a problem. The sort of problem that makes people start looking over their shoulder. FEDRA won't care as long as he's useful. The rest of us? We have to decide if we make friends with him or slip a knife in his throat."
Joel rubbed at his jaw. "Kid that age? Pullin' somethin' like that?" He shook his head. "If it's true… it means he's either got people who'll follow him anywhere, or he's too damn crazy for anyone to say no, besides hes just a kid. I ain't gonna go after him." He paused for a bit. "'sides hes got good stuff."
Tess's mouth twitched in a humourless smile. "Your right, the little bastard has good stuff, though I'd love to just rip his tongue out sometimes."
Robert
In the docs, Robert sat in the back of a dimly lit bar that doubled as a smuggler meeting point. He had a cigarette burning low between his fingers, letting the ash build up just for the hell of it.
One of his men slid into the booth, rain still dripping off his coat. "Heard you're the one fed him intel."
Robert snorted. "I don't feed kids. I feed business."
"Yeah? Well, business just painted the street with blood and used humans as lamppost decorations."
Robert's eyes narrowed, but he didn't argue. He'd been in Boston long enough to know that when something this loud happened, you either positioned yourself to profit from it, or you got the hell out of the way.
"Tell the boys to keep the routes clear," he said, after a pause he lifted his half empty glass of suspicious alcohol high in the air in a toast. "Well, you've up and done it lil warlord, hope business stays good."
Small Factions
Beyond the walls, the reactions were sharper, and colder.
The Bitter Dogs, a half-starved raider gang that operated out of a collapsed mall to the west, held their own council in the rain. They weren't big, but they still had numbers and some trained guys and plenty of good equipment.
"He's a kid," one of them spat, warming his hands over a barrel fire. "You telling me we're scared of a kid?"
"You weren't there," another growled. "You didn't see what they did to the bodies. That wasn't FEDRA-style. That was worse."
"Yeah," the first man said darkly. "And if we're scared, what's that make us?"
The argument went on until the fire burned low.
In a different part of the wasteland, the Dockside Union — a loose collection of smugglers and mechanics decided the whole affair was an opportunity. "He's got balls," their leader said, sipping from a dented flask with a feral grin. "Maybe we can use that. Get him moving our product through his little routes."
One of the men shook his head. "Or maybe he uses us, and we end up on a lamp post."
Outside Boston – Smuggler Stories
In a safehouse two days south, a pair of smugglers from Pittsburgh were trading stories over a half-empty bottle.
"Heard about the kid in Boston?" one asked.
"Yeah. Heard he made FEDRA look like saints."
They both laughed, but it wasn't the warm kind.
"You think it's just talk?" the first asked.
"Maybe. But word is, he's got enough pull that FEDRA lets him do his thing. That's not a rumour you ignore."
Main FEDRA HQ – Long Transmission
Hundreds of miles away, in a reinforced outpost linked to the Rocky Mountain Command chain, a communications officer leaned over a long-range transmitter. The static cleared just enough for the voice on the other end to cut through.
"This is HQ Command — we've received your report on the… incident."
A pause. Then the Boston relay officer's voice: "Yes, sir. Multiple confirmed dead. Enemy cell neutralized. High-value target crucified outside their own base. Perpetrator is Asset R-17 — the local 'resource associate.'"
The man at HQ frowned. "Asset? You're telling me this was sanctioned?"
"No, sir," the Boston voice said carefully. "But General Voss appears to be keeping the individual on a long leash. Performance has been… effective."
There was a long silence before the HQ officer replied. "Send full dossier. This kind of brutality draws attention. Could be leverage. Could be a liability."
"Yes, sir."
The transmission ended with a hiss of static, but the scribbled note that followed said enough:
Asset R-17 has made a significant move. Monitor closely. Potential to escalate.
By nightfall, the story had twisted again. In the alleys, the sign was said to have been written in the victim's own blood. In the market, someone claimed the boy had walked away from the fight without a scratch, laughing. Out by the docks, the mechanics whispered he'd used explosives to set the whole place alight.
None of it was exactly true. None of it mattered.
Because now, in Boston and beyond, the "kid warlord" wasn't just a shadow moving goods in and out. He was a symbol — of fear, of control, of something darker than anyone had expected from a boy his age. And symbols, in this world, were harder to kill than people.
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The knock came early.Not wake-up early, trouble early. That thin, metallic echo of knuckles on the reinforced apartment door that never meant good news.
Dad answered, already halfway into his uniform. Two heavily armed FEDRA soldiers stood in the hall, rifles slung but hands resting on the grips. Behind them, a third, no rifle, just a clipboard — spoke with the kind of clipped tone that suggested everything had already been decided.
"One named Callum Reyes. Is to report to General Voss's office immediately."
Mum appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "What's this about?"
"Orders from Command," Clipboard said. "No delay."
Dad's eyes narrowed. "Then we'll both come with him."
Clipboard didn't even look up from his form. "Negative. The summons is for the boy only."
That went down like a brick. Mum straightened, her voice sharper. "He's twelve. He doesn't go anywhe-"
"Ma'am, those are the orders. General's explicit. Parents remain here."
The two armed soldiers shifted slightly, their body language making it clear this was not a debate.
They didn't cuff me. That was either a good sign… or they figured they didn't need to.
The walk to the Command sector was quiet except for the crunch of boots on wet pavement. The rain hadn't stopped since yesterday, it was the kind that seeped into your clothes no matter how fast you moved. The streets at this hour were thinly populated: a couple of early-shift workers hunched under ration-market awnings, a guard at a checkpoint lighting a cigarette.
And all of them, every single one, glanced up as we passed. Some looked away fast. Others didn't bother to hide it, their eyes lingered just long enough to make me wonder which version of the story they'd heard.
The three soldiers didn't talk to me, but I caught them exchanging a couple of sidelong looks. Not hostile more like they were trying to figure out if I was really the kid from the rumours. The one who'd supposedly crucified a man and left a sign with a smiley face.
Wonder which rumour they heard? The one where I bathed in the blood of the enemy while laughing or the one where I drained them off the blood and used it in a satanic ritual to unholy bless myself and my people.
Pffff
Satanic rituals, yeah right. Though maybe it would work? I did have a run in with a supernatural being in my past life, even if he was a troglodyte bastard.
After a while we got into the area where the FEDRA soldiers on guard duty didn't slouch, didn't look bored. Instead they looked alert and ready for anything. Buildings looked better maintained, streets cleaner and even normal civilians had a healthier look to them.
Man, high officer housing is something else.
The Command building was a square block of concrete with more cameras than windows, its main entrance flanked by guards who looked like they'd been carved from the same grey stone.
Inside, the air smelled of gun oil, wet coats, and paper. Always paper. For all the talk about modernizing, FEDRA still clung to clipboards and hardcopy reports like they were holy scripture.
Clipboard handed me off at the front desk, muttered something to the duty officer, and left without a backward glance.
A corporal in starched fatigues appeared, looking down his nose at me like I was a stray dog that had somehow wandered inside. "Follow me."
We went up two flights, down a hallway lined with closed office doors, and stopped outside one with a nameplate that read:
GENERAL A. VOSS – COMMANDING GENERAL OF BOSTON QZ
The corporal knocked once, waited for a muffled "Enter," and opened the door.
The room was bigger than I expected. Not fancy, FEDRA didn't do fancy but neat. Desk at the centre, maps on the walls, filing cabinets along the back. One wall was almost entirely covered by a tactical board marked with QZ sectors, patrol routes, and red pushpins that clustered thickest near the outer perimeter.
General Voss sat behind the desk, reading something on a battered laptop, that is older than me by a mile.
He didn't look up right away. The corporal stepped aside, shut the door behind me, and was gone.
For a few seconds, it was just the two of us, and the quiet hum of the old laptop fan.
Finally, he closed it. "Sit."
I sat.
Voss leaned back in his chair, studying me the way a mechanic studies an engine making an unfamiliar noise.
"You know why you're here?"
I thought about lying. Then I thought about how pointless that would be.
"I can guess," I said.
One corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile. "Good. Saves us time."
He opened a folder, glanced down at a single page, and then fixed his gaze on me again.
"We need to talk about what happened out there."
Voss didn't speak right away. He just sat there behind his desk, watching me like he was measuring how much trouble I was about to be for him. The quiet stretched on long enough that most people would have started fidgeting or filling the air with excuses. I didn't. I'd been rehearsing this conversation since before we even left that burned-out base, turning the truth into something FEDRA could swallow without choking.
He finally gestured toward the chair opposite him. "Start at the beginning."
I leaned back as I sat, making sure my body language said "not intimidated" without crossing into "cocky." "Our trade guys got hit while going to a customer," I told him. "Mostly runners, some armed guards 8, they got ambushed 4 killed, loosing all the supplies they were carrying If we didn't deal with it, they'd see us as weak and they and others would keep bleeding us until there was nothing left."
"And?" His tone didn't change, but his eyes stayed locked on mine.
"And… we tracked them back to their base. Watched their routines, counted their numbers. They had people, sure, but no discipline. I put together a team, brought whatever gear we could scrounge, and hit them at night."
"You put together a team," he repeated, like he was testing the weight of the words. "How many?"
I gave a small shrug. "Enough."
His gaze sharpened for a second, but he let it slide. "Where did you get your… gear?"
I'd known that question was coming. "They'd been trading with a few out-of-QZ smugglers for months," I said. "Picked up scrap, some weapons, even a few pieces of armor. We… acquired some of it during the raid."
"Acquired," he echoed.
"They weren't gonna need it anymore," I said evenly, letting a hint of ice into my voice. I wanted him to think it came from personal anger, not from calculated logistics.
"Most of it was junk," I added. "Half the ammo was corroded, a lot of the mags didn't feed right. But a few pieces were good enough to keep. The armour especially."
"And the rest?"
"We left some behind. Too heavy to carry or not worth the effort." The lie slipped out smoothly. No need to mention that "left behind" meant tucked into hidden caches I'd return to later.
Voss didn't blink before the next question. "The… display out front. That your idea?"
I met his gaze without flinching. "They left our guy rotting in the street. Thought it was funny. Figured they deserved worse."
His eyes stayed on me, reading every flicker of expression. "The smiley sign?"
"That was Kev's," I said casually, letting the blame drift toward someone else who wouldn't deny it. "Said it'd get the point across."
He didn't say whether he believed me. He didn't have to. The important thing was that he wasn't asking why we'd gone that far — only whether it had been deliberate. Which meant he understood the point of it.
"You realize you've drawn attention," he said finally. "Not just from us. From everyone. That kind of brutality… it creates a ripple. Some see strength. Others see a target."
"Then they can pick which one they think I am," I replied, leaning forward just enough to make the challenge clear without pushing it into open defiance.
The corner of his mouth twitched into something almost like approval before it was gone again. He shut the folder on his desk with a quiet snap. "Boston's safer now than it was last week. But safe doesn't mean stable. Stability is my job, Reyes."
"Good thing I like helping you do it," I said.
He stared for another long second, then leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Let's talk about what happens next."
General Voss didn't waste time. He wasn't a small-talk kind of man. "You're going to hand over the weapons you captured," he said flatly, fingers laced on the desk like he was delivering a verdict. "Boston FEDRA will see they're put to better use than your… private militia."
That last part had just enough emphasis to be a warning.
I didn't flinch. If anything, I leaned back a little in the chair, like I was comfortable. "I'm not against that," I said, keeping my voice level and mild. "But the armour we took? We keep that. It fits my people, they're trained on it now, and swapping it out would just slow us down."
His jaw shifted slightly, like he was grinding a thought between his teeth. "Armor is a FEDRA asset."
I tilted my head just enough to let a ghost of a smirk show. "Armor is useless sitting in a locker waiting for some half-trained conscript who's going to pawn the plates for cigarettes. We've already tested it in the field. It works for us. You want us to keep hitting problems before they hit you? Let us keep what works."
One of the aides by the wall gave me a sharp look for that. I ignored him.
"You're a resource associate, Reyes," Voss said. His tone was the kind that usually meant don't push me. "That does not make you exempt from standard requisition procedure."
"And I'm the reason you've got a whole cache of new rifles instead of another gang chewing on your perimeter," I countered. "Half the people we fought were using weapons that wouldn't have scratched a patrol's paint job. The good stuff is rare. And I'll be honest with you — if you take the armour, I lose time training replacements. That means slower responses to problems. That means your problems."
Silence. Just the ticking of the old wall clock and the faint hum of the overhead light.
Voss leaned back in his chair. He didn't look convinced, but he didn't shut me down either. That was something. "Some of the firearms as well?"
"Some," I said, careful to sound like I was compromising. "The stuff we… bought from the black market before the fight stays with us. Same goes for anything in good working condition that's already integrated into our loadouts. Swapping it out would just create confusion. And if you want results, you don't mess with what works."
He studied me with the same expression he'd use to evaluate a defective rifle — figuring out if I was salvageable or needed to be scrapped. "And the rest?"
"The huge majority goes to you," I said with a show of cooperation. "Rifles, sidearms, shotguns. Most with full or partial ammo loads. I'll even throw in the busted crap they were using as backup. Plenty of spares for your armorers to tinker with."
I didn't add that the "busted crap" was going to be the majority of the delivery. Or that a few higher-quality pieces would get sprinkled in just to make it look generous. The real gems — the clean, well-maintained rifles, the sidearms with crisp triggers, the rare magazines that still fed smoothly — those were staying with us.
The aide by the wall shifted again, looking between me and the general like he was waiting for one of us to explode.
Voss tapped his fingers against the desk. "You understand," he said slowly, "that if we find you're holding back… there will be consequences."
"I understand," I said, letting the faintest smile curl my lip. "Then I guess I won't get caught."
The aide stiffened, probably ready to lecture me on respect or discipline, but Voss just stared at me for a long moment. His eyes were the kind that didn't blink much. The kind that measured you like a problem to be solved. Finally, he gave a short nod.
"Fine. The armour stays with you, some of firearms too, your pick, though no huge calibres or big guns. The rest comes to us. This is your one free pass, Reyes. Don't abuse it."
I leaned forward slightly, enough to make it look like I was accepting terms in good faith. "Deal. I'll have the crates prepped and sent over tomorrow morning along with some of our usual products even throw in some alcohol we acquired from them."
As the meeting wound down, I caught Voss watching me not like an officer looking at a subordinate, but like a chess player staring at a piece that kept moving itself when he wasn't looking. He didn't trust me. That was fine. Trust was overrated anyway.
When I stood, I made sure to move at a calm, unhurried pace. No nervous fidgeting, no looking over my shoulder. Just the picture of someone who believed he'd won a small but important victory — because I had.
By the time I walked out of the office, I'd already sorted the inventory in my head. The good rifles were staying. The clean armour was staying. Any weapon with solid stopping power, reliable feeding, or high-capacity mags? Staying. The rest would go to FEDRA, with just enough shine to keep them from thinking too hard about what I'd kept back.
15 Assault Rifles (Mixed Condition)
6 clean but mid-tier rifles from the enemy cache (he keeps the best ones)
9 older, more worn rifles — some with minor feeding issues or stock damage (still usable but require maintenance)
3 Shotguns
1 pump-action, in good but not pristine condition
2 older break-action shotguns, functional but outdated
5 Sidearms (Mixed Models)
3 standard semi-automatics with noticeable wear
2 revolvers with heavy triggers
1 Light Machine Gun (Worn)
Kept as a "showpiece" to make the delivery look generous, but with a worn barrel and heat warping that will need FEDRA's armorers to repair
around 500-600 rounds total (mixed calibers)
~55% are clean, boxed ammo; 45% are loose rounds of mixed condition
Kept in mismatched crates to look like a genuine battlefield collection
9 Machetes (some with nicks in the blades, others well-oiled but average steel quality)
5 Crowbars (rust cleaned off but otherwise unmodified)
2 Rusty Fire Axes (functional but heavy and unbalanced)
3. Armor & Protective Gear
12 Partial Armor Sets
Mostly mismatched chest plates and helmets
A few cracked plates that have been "patched" but aren't combat-grade
Older FEDRA stock repurposed by the enemy
Keeps the high-quality, properly fitted armor for his own crew
Spare Parts & Tools
Old but functional power tools
Electrical wiring spools (half-used)
A box of pre-outbreak socket sets
Electronics & Communication Gear
3 handheld radios (scratched, but operational)
1 damaged generator starter motor (they'll have to fix it)
Loose circuit boards and components scavenged from QZ junk piles
Medical Supplies
1 crate of basic first-aid kits (bandages, antiseptic wipes, scissors)
half a box of outdated antibiotics (still viable, but near expiry)
1 large crate of surgical gloves and masks
"Sweeteners" to Make It Look Good
1 sealed pre-outbreak whiskey (probably the most eye-catching part of the delivery)
3 bottles of aged rum
6 bottles of wine in dusty but intact bottles
Luxury Food Items
2 sealed tins of imported coffee
1 box of pre-outbreak chocolate bars (slightly stale but still edible)
Miscellaneous Finds
A few enemy banners and armbands (a trophy-like morale boost for FEDRA propaganda)
A battered acoustic guitar from the raider camp Voss might pass this to the morale unit
They'd get their cut. I'd keep mine. And as long as I kept solving their problems faster than they could make new ones, I'd keep this game going.
Because that was the thing about power — you never gave it away for free. And you never, ever let someone else decide how much of it you got to keep.
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The front door clicked shut behind me with that tired little groan it always gave, like the hinges had been keeping track of my bad decisions and were sighing on behalf of the whole building. I hadn't even taken two steps in before the living room light snapped on.
Dad was in his uniform, minus the cap, arms crossed so tight it looked like he was trying to keep his spine from snapping. Mom sat at the kitchen table, her glasses pushed down her nose just enough for the glare to catch the lenses. The silent but synchronised "sit" from both of them was almost louder than anything they could've said.
I dropped my backpack by the wall and sat. No sense dragging it out. They'd clearly been waiting.
"You want to tell us what the hell that was?" Dad asked, voice low. Not angry-yelling — the kind of quiet that meant he was making an effort not to.
"That what was?" I said, because old habits die hard, and maybe if I played dumb, we'd get this over with faster.
"You know exactly what," Mom said. "Half the officer corps in the QZ heard about it before lunch. The other half have seen the pictures by now."
Ah. The pictures. Someone had clearly decided to take artistic snaps of my little roadside crucifixion project. I imagined some FEDRA clerk shaking their head while tacking them to a bulletin board.
Dad leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You can't just… go off and do something like that without consequences, Cal. This wasn't scavenging. This wasn't trading. This was—"
"Making sure they never try it again?" I cut in, voice harden than I intended.
The pause that followed was heavy. Neither of them could say I was wrong.
Mom took off her glasses, pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're twelve."
"Yeah," I said, shrugging. "And somehow I'm doing more for your QZ's security than most people three times my age. Should I be proud or embarrassed?"
"That's not the point," Dad said. His jaw flexed like he was grinding his teeth. "The general likes results. He's… impressed. But impressed doesn't mean safe. The more people see you as a threat, the more they'll come for you. That includes your so-called allies."
I leaned back in the chair. "Then I'll just have to make sure they're more afraid of me than of trying anything."
Mom's expression went from tired to something sharper. "Fear is a leash, Callum. It works until it snaps — and when it does, the dog turns on you."
That one stuck. Not enough to make me admit it out loud, but it sank in.
Bribe it is, for the bribe can solve plenty of problems.
They let the silence stretch, like they were both waiting to see if I'd crack first. I didn't. Instead, I reached into my hoodie pocket and pulled out a wrapped piece of stale chocolate one of the luxuries I hadn't given FEDRA — and slid it across the table toward Mom.
"Here," I said. "For putting up with me."
Her mouth twitched, but she didn't take it.
Bribe not work? Why not work mom? You not love your son? Vey sad.
Dad sat back finally, his arms unfolding. "We need to be clear on something. You pull another stunt like this, you tell us first. We can't stop you, clearly. But we can at least keep you from getting yourself shot in the back."
"Or from hanging yourself metaphorically," Mom added, finally reaching for the chocolate.
Oh, so she does love me.
I gave a small nod. "Fine. Next time I go on a mass-murder-slash-public-art-installation spree, I'll pencil you in."
Dad sighed. Mom looked like she was about to throw the chocolate at me.
When I stood to leave, Dad stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. "We're proud of you," he said quietly. "We just… don't want to bury you."
For a moment, the sarcasm slipped. "I know," I said. Then I picked up my bag and headed to my room before either of them could see the flicker of something funny cross my face.
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Late morning in the QZ had that strange mix of movement and watchfulness. People walked faster now, eyes darting to corners and alley mouths, whispering in clumps when they thought no one important was listening. My little "message" outside the raider base had clearly rippled through more than just the smugglers' grapevine. Even in the mid-tier blocks, the air felt… tighter.
I didn't go to school anymore, not really. The cover story was "working with my parents" or "assigned to supply handling," but everyone knew the truth, I was just another body the administration didn't feel like tracking as long as I wasn't causing them a headache inside the walls. Well… not too big of one, not like I needed to go to school again, one lifetime was enough.
My bag was slung over one shoulder, heavier than usual with the stuff I was taking to the warehouse. The plan was simple: check in with Cole, see if Kev had done the inventory I told him to, and make sure no one decided to treat the armoury like their personal shopping trip while I'd been gone.
I'd made it halfway down one of the narrow service lanes that fed into the market when someone stepped out from behind a stack of empty ration crates. Skinny guy, bad haircut, too-bright eyes. He gave a quick two-finger wave like we were old friends.
"You Cal?" he asked, not really needing the answer.
"Depends who's asking," I said, not breaking stride until he matched my pace.
"Robert's runner," he said quickly, pulling a folded scrap of paper from his jacket and pressing it into my hand. "Told me to find you, say 'good job.'"
That was it. No seal, no mark, just two words scrawled in a hand I didn't recognize. I tucked it away without looking again. "Tell Robert next time he can send flowers," I said.
The runner gave a snort, already peeling off toward the market. I kept moving, cutting across an open stretch where the wall's shadow fell over everything.
That's when the second one found me.
This one didn't bother hiding who he was, patched jacket, faded Firefly symbol still ghosting the fabric, like it had been scrubbed too many times but wouldn't quite fade. He didn't smile, didn't try to play friendly. Just stopped a few feet ahead of me and held out a small envelope.
"From my people," he said, voice low. "You'll want to read it somewhere private."
I took it, feeling the slight weight inside — more than paper. "And if I don't?"
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Then I guess we both wasted a walk."
He moved past me without another word, disappearing into the trickle of foot traffic like he'd never been there.
I waited until I was two streets away, behind a delivery truck that hadn't run in years, before slipping the flap open just enough to see what was inside. A folded note and a thin strip of metal stamped with coordinates.
The note was short: We have business. Discreet meeting. Don't bring half the city.
I slid it back into the envelope and kept walking. Warehouse first. Then we'd see which "business" this was — and whether it ended with a handshake or another corpse on display.
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The alleyway house looked the same as it had before the raid, sagging brick, patched reinforced door, a stack of empty crates in the corner for show but the mood inside was different. I could hear voices before I even touched the latch, low but quick, the kind that fill empty space when people are trying not to think about what they've been imagining all night.
The door creaked open and half the room turned toward me. Cole was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, expression calm but his eyes flicking over me like he was checking for new holes. Kev was at the table with a mug of something that definitely wasn't QZ coffee, and a few others were crowded near the corner stove.
Relief spread across the room in a wave that nobody wanted to name. A couple of the newer recruits smiled outright; others just relaxed their shoulders and went back to whatever they'd been pretending to focus on.
"Guess you're still in one piece," Cole said.
"Disappointed?" I asked, dropping my bag onto the nearest surface.
Before he could answer, Meredith appeared from the back room. Arms folded, braid hanging over one shoulder, expression sharp enough to cut wire. She didn't slow down until she was standing in front of me.
"You're late," she said.
"I was busy," I replied.
She gave me a long, slow once-over — the kind that starts at your boots and ends somewhere between your eyes and your guilty conscience. "You know what it's like in here when you vanish after something like that? People pacing, wondering if you're coming back or if we need to start making backup plans. I had Kev sharpening a damn knife for three hours."
Kev made a face in the corner but didn't deny it.
Meredith's voice softened, but only slightly. "You did good work. Brutal, but… effective." She glanced at Cole, who nodded once. "We heard what you left them with. Half the city's talking."
I shrugged. "Better they talk than forget."
She tilted her head, studying me in that way she did when she was trying to figure out if I'd changed since yesterday. "Just remember, the kind of fear you're spreading cuts both ways. Eventually someone's going to want to test if it's real."
"I'm counting on it," I said, and she actually smirked before stepping aside.
The rest of the room started to buzz again. Someone asked if we'd brought anything worth drinking. Someone else wanted to know if the stories about the crucifixion were true. Cole pulled out a chair for me without comment, and the air settled into that strange balance between comfort and readiness — the kind you only get when everyone knows the next move's coming, they just don't know when.
I dropped into the seat and reached for the nearest cup. "Alright," I said, "let's see what kind of mess we're cleaning up next."