Level 3 Clearance was a different world. It was less about access to new places and more about access to new information. Leo now had a security pass that let him into the strategic archives, a data vault far more comprehensive than the dusty room he had first explored. Here, he could see mission reports from every Vulture team, redacted data on high-level monster physiology, and, most importantly, the faint, electronic whispers of communications with other survivor enclaves.
He spent the next week absorbing it all. He learned that at least three other major settlements existed within a five-hundred-mile radius: 'The Summit' in the Tri-Corp tower, as Rostova had mentioned; a heavily armed agrarian commune called 'Providence' in the distant farmlands; and a mysterious, technocratic enclave known as 'The Arcology' somewhere to the west. Rostova was engaged in a cold war of information and resource denial with all of them. The Foundry wasn't just a sanctuary; it was a nation-state in a world of warring tribes.
His team settled into their new status. With Level 3 clearance, their lives improved. They were moved to a larger barracks unit in a quieter section of The Foundry. Their rations were better. They were given priority on equipment requisitions. But with the privileges came pressure. They were now one of Rostova's elite teams, and the eyes of the entire Foundry were on them.
Grunt and his team kept their distance. The open hostility had been replaced by a tense, simmering resentment. They were still the primary combat force, the ones sent to deal with rampaging behemoths on the perimeter, but the Custodians were the ones being assigned the "interesting" jobs, the missions that required more than a hammer.
The new mission came not from Rostova, but from a frantic Chief Stokely.
Leo found the one-armed chief in the cavernous primary storage warehouse, his face darker than a thundercloud. This warehouse was the Foundry's stomach. Pallets of scavenged canned goods, sacks of grain from the hydroponics bay, and—most critically—purified water containers were stacked thirty feet high.
"We've got a thief," Stokely growled, his voice low and furious. "Or a whole damn crew of 'em. Been happening for two weeks, little things at first. A box of jerky here, a case of batteries there. I thought it was just Cogs getting greedy. But last night..."
He led Leo to the back of the warehouse, to a section where the Foundry's most precious resource was stored: refined medical alcohol and sterile saline solution, crucial for the infirmary. An entire pallet was gone. Not forced open. Not smashed. The heavy steel cage around it had been opened as if with a key, the asset removed, and the cage neatly re-locked.
"The lock logs show nothing," Stokely explained, his voice tight with anger. "No authorized keycard access between 22:00 and 05:00. The guards on patrol saw nothing, heard nothing. The inventory logs were even edited to show the pallet was never here. It's like a ghost just walked in and took a ton of medical supplies. Rostova's furious. If people find out our core supplies are being stolen from under our noses, it'll cause a panic."
Leo ran his hand over the cage door. His [Sense Contamination] skill felt nothing. No supernatural residue, no sign of phasing like the Night-Stalker. This was a clean, professional job.
"But this is the part that's really got my gears grinding," Stokely said. He pointed up. A single security camera, one of only a few in the warehouse, was mounted near the ceiling. "Camera footage from last night."
He handed Leo a tablet. It showed grainy, black-and-white footage of the aisle. For hours, nothing happened. Then, at 03:17, a figure moved into view. The person was covered head-to-toe in a dark, form-fitting suit, their face obscured by a reflective visor. They moved with a liquid grace, their steps silent. The figure didn't pick the lock; they held a standard-issue Phoenix Initiative keycard up to the panel, and the lock clicked open.
"We've accounted for every Level 3 keycard in The Foundry," Stokely said. "No one was signed out on duty in this sector last night."
The figure on the screen finished loading the supplies onto a small, quiet anti-grav cart, then re-locked the cage. Before they moved out of the camera's view, they paused and looked directly up at the camera lens. They raised a hand and gave a small, mocking salute.
Then they vanished into the shadows.
"We have a traitor in the ranks," Leo said, his mind putting the pieces together. "Someone with high-level access, ghosting the system, and covering their tracks perfectly. They know our security protocols inside and out."
"That's what Rostova thinks," Stokely nodded. "She's got her Phoenix Guard running a full internal investigation, but they're soldiers. They're looking for someone breaking rules. This person… they're using the rules." Stokely sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of responsibility. "Rostova tasked her goons with the official investigation. She tasked me, unofficially, with finding out what's really going on. And I'm tasking you."
He looked at Leo, a glimmer of desperate hope in his one good eye. "You don't think like a soldier. You don't think like a scavenger. You see the systems. You see how things fit together, how they work, how they break." He jabbed a thumb toward the empty space where the pallet used to be. "This is a maintenance problem, Custodian. A high-level pest has gotten into the pantry. I want you to find the nest. And I want you to clean it out."