The corridor stretched ahead in a long, silent line. Dust hung thick in the air, stirred by every careful step Zarc took. His flashlight beam cut through the dark, catching bits of metal and broken signage along the walls — Containment Sector B, Security Wing, Research Access – Authorized Personnel Only.
He stopped at the third sign, brushing away grime with his gloved hand. "Security Wing," he read aloud, voice echoing faintly.A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If there's one place in this hole that still has guns, that's where they'd be."
He adjusted his grip on the Glock and moved forward, Cube pulsing faintly under his sleeve. Every few steps, something on the floor caught his attention — a discarded tool, a rusted vent plate, a broken terminal panel. Without much thought, he let the Cube do its work.
[Consume: Confirmed.][Blueprints Acquired: Power Cell Fragment, Steel Reinforcement Plate, Circuit Shard.]
It had become a rhythm now — walk, scan, consume. Each pulse from the Cube was a heartbeat, each shimmer of dissolving debris a breath. He chuckled under his breath."Guess I'm turning into a walking recycling plant. Eco-friendly apocalypse survivor, huh?"
The halls twisted and branched, the deeper levels marked by signs of decay. Old blood stains marked the floor — dried to a dark, flaking brown. The bodies were fewer here, most slumped near doorways, some still clutching empty rifles.
Zarc crouched beside one of them — a guard in black tactical armor, his helmet cracked down the center. He turned the corpse over and inspected the armor plates. The material looked lighter, stronger than the uniform he wore now. He felt the Cube stir.
[Potential upgrade detected. Consume?]
Zarc smirked. "You don't even have to ask."
The body shimmered blue for a moment, the armor disintegrating piece by piece until only bones remained. The Cube pulsed brighter, feeding him another readout.
[Blueprint Acquired: Tactical Armor v2 – Reinforced Composite Model.]
He tapped the side of his head. "Nice. Keep this up, and I'll walk into the city looking like a damn mech."
He continued deeper. The Cube's glow faintly illuminated the walls now — enough that he didn't have to rely fully on the flashlight. Every door he passed got the same treatment: pried open, scavenged, consumed.
A storage room.A break area.A small dorm filled with bunks and lockers.
Everything went in. Metal chairs, broken mugs, even torn curtains.
[Resources Consumed: +78 units][Blueprints Acquired: Standard Furniture, Polymer Frame, Reinforced Glass Sheet.]
Zarc laughed quietly, shaking his head. "I'm gonna have to apologize to the janitor's ghost after this."
Eventually, the hallway opened up into a larger chamber. A thick blast door stood ahead, sealed but dark — no active power lights. A faded sign above it read: SECURITY COMMAND CENTER.
He whistled softly. "There you are."
The keypad beside the door was dead, its display cracked and cold. He knelt beside it, tracing the edges of the lock. "Electronic seal. Probably linked to the main grid…" He paused, glancing at the Cube. "Think you can handle it?"
The Cube pulsed faintly, as if it understood.
[Electronic System Detected – Damaged.][Consume for data extraction?]
Zarc grinned. "You read my mind."
The keypad glowed blue, its casing melting away into particles as the Cube consumed it. A soft hum followed, then a click.
[Blueprint Acquired: Electronic Lock – Security Model V4.][Manual Override Unlocked.]
The blast door gave a heavy groan before sliding open a few inches, dust and stale air spilling out. Zarc pushed it the rest of the way with a grunt, flashlight cutting through the darkness.
The room inside was large — rows of consoles, flickering monitors, overturned chairs. And in the far corner, a weapons rack lined the wall. Most of the rifles were rusted, their stocks splintered and barrels corroded, but a few still looked intact.
"Jackpot," Zarc whispered.
He stepped forward, scanning the weapons. The Cube pulsed eagerly.
[Consume: Firearm components detected.]
He hesitated. "No. Not yet." He ran a finger over the nearest rifle — an old service-grade carbine — and grinned. "Let's keep a few for manual testing first."
The Cube dimmed slightly, almost like it was sulking.
Zarc chuckled. "Don't worry, buddy. We'll feed you soon."
He slung one of the rifles over his shoulder, pulled the remaining ammo boxes closer, and began checking the rest of the room. There were maps, logs, and torn papers scattered across the floor. The power was gone, but maybe — just maybe — the system still had some data stored locally.
I moved through the command room like a man in a dream — slow, careful, the flashlight beam licking every rack and crate before my fingers touched anything. Gear hung on the wall in neat rows the way things used to be kept when people still believed in order: rifles on a rack, magazines trimmed into pouches, helmets lined up like obedient heads, vests folded on shelves. For a moment it was almost beautiful, a museum for a world that'd stopped showing up.
I checked the nearest rack first. Service carbines, a couple of compact SMGs, an older bullpup I didn't recognize. A few looked like they'd been shot and forgotten, barrels crusted with rust. But half a dozen — half a dozen — were intact enough to be worth hauling out. The crates of mags under the bench still had foam dividers and labels: 5.56mm, 9mm, some oddball .300 rounds I didn't like the look of but took note of. There were slings, optics, spare bolts and firing pins in a battered kit. Helmets with mounts for NVG, pairs of thick gloves, extra boots tucked in a corner. Plates. So many plates.
The Cube pulsed against my wrist as I catalogued with my flashlight. It was quiet, patient — like it knew when to chime. I tapped the holo and let it do a sweep of what I'd pointed at. The readout was clinical, instantly precise.
Inventory scan complete:• Rifles (service grade, salvageable): 18• Carbines (compact): 6• SMGs (compact): 8• Magazines (various calibers): ~120 (condition variable)• Ballistic vests (complete): 22• Helmets w/ mounts: 22• NVG units (damaged): 5 (partial)• Tactical radios (intact): 6• Misc: optics, batteries, straps, toolkits
Eighteen service rifles. Twenty-two vests. My flashlight wobbled in my hand for a second and I had to laugh — the sound bounced off the consoles and came back thinner. Two full squads. Even with some pieces missing and some mags corroded, this room was a goddamn jackpot.
I let myself imagine it: two teams in decent gear, radios that actually worked, helmets that didn't fall apart. The Cube had already shown me it could reconstruct from what it consumed — polish rust into clean metal, spin fibers back into whole cloth. The question now was not whether it could do it, but how much of what I'd scavenged I wanted to give it.
Being practical beat fancy. I ran a hand over a vest and thought about how many composite plates would be needed to make twenty-two vests whole and serviceable. I pictured the mags: some needed just a spring and a new follower, others needed full fabrication. The Cube had material stored from everything I'd fed it so far; the holo told me approximate reserves. Enough, if I was careful — but not limitless. Whatever I built had to be prioritized.
I started with the essentials: make the rifles reliable and the vests protective. I used the flashlight to highlight one rifle at a time and commanded the Cube to analyze and prepare reconstruction material if needed. Where the weapon was salvageable, I had the Cube consume the corroded parts — pins, cracked stocks, spent bolts — and polish out the functional pieces. Where vital components were missing or ruined, I ordered full reconstruction.
The room filled with the same soft hum as earlier. Particles swirled from pre-damaged stocks and broken mounts into the Cube; the holo flashed lines of data. In the thirteen minutes it took to make the first six rifles pristine and service-ready, I went through my checklist: extract the mags that were reusable, set aside the corroded ones for conversion, pocket NVG mounts and optics, and earmark radios for immediate repair. The Cube spit out rebuilt barrels and handguards, each one sudden and immaculate on the bench — factory-clean, the kind you only saw now in sealed caches or legends.
I didn't reconstruct everything in one go. That would be stupid. I prioritized: six frontline rifles first, eight SMGs for close-quarters, enough mags to load both squads with an initial complement. I told the Cube to reconstruct 44 full magloads (locked to common calibers), and to refurbish the radios — basic transmit/receive, short-range but reliable. Each command shaved at the Cube's stored reserves, the holo logging material consumed and blueprints referenced, but the numbers stayed within reason.
When the last radio blinked alive on the bench it was almost an anticlimax. The real thrill came when I strapped on a rebuilt vest and the weight settled right: not too heavy, plates fitting where they should. I shouldered one of the new carbines and felt the balance in my hands like an old friend's handshake. I checked the optics, tried the sling, racked the charge and felt the mechanism respond clean and sure.
I grinned stupidly, the kind of grin you get when you find shelter after a night in the rain. Two full squads. Twenty-two vests, eighteen rifles, the SMGs for support, radios for coordination, helmets, spare mags enough to last a while if they used them judiciously.
"Jackpot," I said aloud to the empty room, to the Cube, to myself. The word sounded small and enormous at the same time.
But practicalities reasserted themselves fast. Arming two squads wasn't the same as having two squads. People were the variable — reliable people even more so. I could walk into the city wearing this gear and become dangerous overnight, or I could trade it as a package, change hands, bargain real weight for the right kind of help. The Cube made the gear; I had to decide the price.
For the moment, I set aside the rebuilt weapons and loaded up a conservative amount into my new utility pouches. I left a couple of rifles on the rack, intentionally incomplete — a bargaining chip should I want to bring someone on side. The Cube pulsed faintly against my skin as if nudging me to plan.
I strapped a service rifle over my shoulder, checked my Glock out of habit, and ran my flashlight along the wall once more. The shelter hummed in the dark, machines asleep but memory-full. I felt the weight of possibility on my back and the Cube's soft thrum under my sleeve.
"Not bad," I told whatever passed for company down here. "Not bad at all."