Morning in the Boston QZ doesn't start so much as it endures. Alarms don't blare. Roosters don't crow. What wakes you up is the sound of footsteps in the stairwell, the low grumble of ration crates being rolled out below, and that one neighbour coughing like he's been dying since the first outbreak.
I blinked awake to ceiling stains and aching legs. My muscles still throbbed a little, but nothing serious. I'd limped home yesterday, shoved my new loot into the hollow wall panel I pried open months ago, and passed out with a half-eaten can of beef substitute still in my hand.
Breakfast? A crushed ration bar and disappointment. Nothing says balanced meal like chewing cardboard while standing on one sock because the other is mysteriously gone.
Once the taste of synthetic shame was gone, I got dressed, same patched-up hoodie, still grey and black, still smelled like rust and effort. Mud-streaked pants, permanently crusted. My backpack looked like it had survived three wars and was itching for a fourth.
The best part? I didn't care. Because today wasn't about looking good. Today was about testing something big.
But first? FEDRA school.
Yay.
I slid into the hallway, nodding at Mrs. Carver, our chain-smoking neighbor who always looked like she hated kids, daylight, and the concept of hope. She gave me her usual once over equal parts suspicion and mild concern — and then went back to muttering about rations.
Downstairs, I slipped into the usual routine: a few hours at the learning centre pretending to care about structural integrity math and FEDRA-approved history. Spoiler: they still insisted the outbreak was completely contained and totally under control.
Like man, sure is under control cant wait to go visit the beaches in Florida for the summer holidays.
After school came my shift at the admin post. Mostly just paper pushing, occasionally loading crates, the lighter ones since I am still a kid and sliced my leg couple days ago, and once in a while sweeping the same corner five times so some sergeant felt powerful.
Nobody asked about my leg. No one looked too closely. A bandage here, a fake smile there, and you're just another cog in the machine.
By the time I was done, the sun was a sickly yellow smear across the cracked skyline. Perfect cover.
I made my way to aptly named sex sewer.
Back alleys. Cracked walls. Trash that moved if you stared too long. I kept my pace steady, posture loose. Not casual, casual gets you stopped. Not too fast either. Just that perfect blend of "I belong here" and "please don't talk to me."
At the alley behind the old sex shop, I double-checked the surroundings. No eyes. No patrols. Just the city breathing its slow, toxic breath.
I slipped through the gap and knelt by the hidden hatch. Pulled my pack off.
Inside?
Two cans of food, half a roll of gauze, and my weapon.
Well. "Weapon."
It used to be part of a chair leg. Now it was wrapped in scavenged leather strips, sharpened on one end, reinforced with nails hammered through with a brick. Not exactly peak craftsmanship, but it'd put a hole in something if it tried to bite me.
And if what I was about to do went sideways, I might very well need it.
I popped the hatch and climbed down.
Tunnel welcomed me back like an old friend: damp, echoey, and reeking of things best left unnamed.
But this time, I wasn't just here to explore.
Today was different.
Today was step two in whatever twisted game I'd been dragged into.
And I had a system to test.
The hatch sealed shut behind me with that same satisfying clunk. I waited in the dark for a second. Let my eyes adjust. Let the silence settle.
Just me, a busted flashlight, half a protein bar, a water pouch, and a pipe with some duct tape around the grip like that made it official. While making my way to the warehouse.
I wasn't dumb. Summoning someone, even a low-tier human being with implanted memories and maybe a name like "Bob Trashfire" could go sideways fast. People were people. Glitched or not.
But I was ready.
Once inside the spacious warehouse.
I mentally pulled up the system.
[SUMMON MENU]
Summon Credit: 1
Tier Available: Beggar (Lv. 1–2)
Warning: Low-tier summons are unstable and may not survive extended deployment without proper support.
Initiate Summon?
I stared for a second. No backing out now.
> Confirm.
A pulse of soft blue light shimmered in front of me like static smoke caught in moonlight.
And then, thud.
A man landed. Sprawled. Groaning.
Older. Late fifties, maybe sixties. Grey stubble. Gaunt frame wrapped in a torn scavenger jacket with mismatched patches. He blinked, coughed, and sat up with a groan, already brushing at his chest like he was used to getting tossed by the universe.
He looked around, eyes pausing on me. Narrow. Calculating. But not panicked.
"Cal?" he rasped. "Is that you?"
What in the absolute fuck? How does he know my name? Is it the implanted memories maybe, hopefully nothing too weird.
I blinked. "…Yeah?"
He let out a laugh that turned into a wheeze. "Shit. Thought I was a goner. You really dragged me out of there, huh?"
I paused. He looked like someone who hadn't just arrived, but someone who thought he'd been here. Like a memory had been slotted into place the second he touched ground.
Well this is fun I saved a hobo, from what? A falling trashcan?
"Yeah," I said slowly, lowering the pipe just a little. "I got you out. Barely."
"Still hurts like a bastard," he said, touching his ribs. "But you saved my life. I owe you."
That was… interesting.
I opened the new tab the system had pinged me about.
[RELATIONSHIP MENU UNLOCKED]
Summoned: Gerald "Rusty" Barlowe (Lv. 2)
Type: Human Survivor
Personality: Cautious, resourceful, mildly paranoid
Loyalty: Moderate (Thinks you saved his life. Grateful, wary.)
Status: Stable
Relationship: "Owes you one. Watching to see if you're full of shit."
[RELATIONSHIP SNAPSHOT – Known Characters]
Tomas Reyes (Father)
Age: 36
Opinion: "Stubborn little idiot. Needs discipline."
Trust: Moderate
Relationship: Father-Son (Complicated)
Elena Reyes (Mother)
Age: 32
Opinion: "Too smart for his own good. Dangerous if left unchecked."
Trust: Low-Moderate
Relationship: Mother-Son (Strained, Observant)
Lia
Age: 11
Opinion: "Talks too much. Not stupid. Not safe."
Trust: Uncertain
Relationship: Peer (Neutral-Cold)
Old Joe
Age:54
Opinion: "Little bastard's got brains. And legs. Needs watching."
Trust: High
Relationship: Local Legend (Crack, Loyal)
Title: Local crackhead
Huh, out of all the people I know Joe is only one with a title, as shit as it is its still a title. I squinted, maybe titles give extra perks but I just cant see them, will have to check that in future.
Of course it would have my parents on the list. Of course they'd have those notes. Was this thing spying on me before it even turned on?
Whatever.
I closed the window and looked back at Rusty.
He was already checking out the place, scanning crates, muttering under his breath.
"Where the hell are we?" he asked, poking at a locker.
"Underground. Old warehouse, found it a week ago, chock full of pre-outbreak gear."
Rusty's eyes lit up like he'd just found religion in a box of spare parts.
"Well, damn," he said, grinning. "Guess we better get to work."
And just like that, I had a companion.
A grateful, scrappy, possibly delusional one.
But still. Mine.
Rusty didn't waste time.
The moment I gave him a nod, he started moving like someone who'd done this before. Or thought he had. Old habits guided his steps cautious, deliberate. He checked his footing, flexed his hands, then started scanning the room like a scavenger who'd survived on luck and paranoia.
"Some of these are sealed tighter than a sergeant's ass," he muttered, giving one crate a solid tap with the heel of his boot. "Might need a pry bar or a cutting torch to get in."
"No shit," I said, watching him move. "That's kind of why I brought you along."
He didn't seem offended. If anything, he grinned, crooked and tired, like a guy who knew exactly what kind of job he'd signed up for.
"Well," he said, rubbing his ribs with a wince, "still hurts like hell, but better than bleeding out in a ditch. Appreciate the save."
I gave a small nod. Played along.
Because as far as he was concerned, I'd dragged him out of some collapsed zone or burning wreck, and now he owed me one. Memory fragments, false or not, were stitched into his head like real trauma. Real gratitude. It made him loyal, until I eat his last bit of candy and he snaps my neck mid bite.
Still, something about the way he walked the warehouse, like he was trying to piece together déjà vu from a dozen lives, it made me pause.
"You sure you're alright?" I asked. "You keep looking at stuff like it's familiar."
Rusty scratched his jaw. "Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. Brain's a little foggy on the details, but places like this? I've seen worse. Same bones. Different rot."
He crouched beside a partially opened locker, whistling low when he spotted a rusted toolbelt tangled in wiring.
"This yours?" he asked.
"No. Found this place a week ago. Sealed up behind a mess of garbage and old machines."
"Lucky find."
"Maybe."
Rusty tugged the belt free and set it aside. "Could be useful later. Might be better with the right hands."
"You offering?"
He smirked. "I've got hands. And time. You've got the keys. Looks like a good arrangement."
I didn't answer right away. Just watched him feel out the space like he belonged here. Like he had a stake in it already.
And maybe, in a way, he did.
"I'm planning to build something," I said after a beat. "Not sure what yet. But it'll be better than whatever's up there."
Rusty gave a short nod. "Smart. The QZ? It's a waiting room for a slow death. Out here, at least you've got dirt under your boots and no one breathing down your neck."
He walked to the far side of the warehouse, where one of the bigger crates was bolted shut. He ran his hand across the side, fingers tracing symbols long since faded.
"You ever run a crew before?" he asked.
I snorted. "I'm eleven."
"Kids led worse," he muttered, like it was a fact not a joke. "Not saying you should. Just... if you're planning to make this place yours, you'll need more than just me. And more than just luck."
His eyes flicked to the ceiling. Listening to something only he could hear.
"Storm's coming," he added.
"Storm?"
"Not weather. Pressure. Change. Call it what you want."
I didn't say anything.
The silence between us stretched for a while. It wasn't awkward. Just quiet. Heavy with old echoes and new weight.
Then Rusty reached down, picked up a bent pipe, and gave it a couple testing swings.
"Not bad," he said. "Might hold up against a stalker. Wouldn't try it on anything bigger."
I crossed my arms. "Not planning on getting that close."
He grinned. "You always plan that well, or just when I'm around?"
"Guess you'll find out."
Another beat passed. The warehouse settled again.
Then he said, offhand, "You know... if this place is going to be something, you'll need a name for it."
I raised an eyebrow. "What, like 'Rusty's Revenge'?"
He actually laughed at that. "Hell no. Call it whatever you want. Just don't make it cute. Last group I rolled with named their base 'The Nest.' Place got wiped by clickers in two weeks."
"Noted."
He grabbed the toolbelt, slung it over his shoulder, and gave me a nod.
"Where do we start?"
I looked around the space. At the crates. At the forgotten gear. At the cracked window where light still trickled in from the overgrown outside world.
And I smiled.
The sun had started to dip by the time I made my way back to the upper city. Rusty stayed behind, said he'd "secure the perimeter," which mostly meant poking at crates and muttering about rust spots like a paranoid janitor with combat trauma. I left him with half a can of beans and strict instructions not to die or set anything on fire.
Not that I thought he'd actually listen. But it made me feel slightly more in control.
The streets outside the sewer were cooling fast. Shadows stretched long across the cracked pavement, and the stink of boiling garbage mixed with cooked rice from one of the south-side cook stalls. Familiar. Homey. Awful.
I walked slow.
Not because of the leg this time. I just needed a minute to think.
I had one summon. A warehouse. A broken pipe with duct tape. And somehow, I was still ahead of the curve compared to half the people in this place.
But I needed gear. Real gear. Something that didn't scream "child mugged a janitor for scraps."
Which meant I needed to see Lia.
Again.
Her stall was where it always was. Wedged between a rusted-out vending machine and a burned patch of concrete where a market tent had caught fire three months ago. Her aunt was still there, swatting flies and sorting canned soup with the blank-eyed focus of someone who had long since stopped caring about flavour or nutrition.
Lia didn't look up when I arrived. She was crouched, elbows on knees, fiddling with a broken radio.
I dropped a small bundle of tools on the crate in front of her. Just enough to get her attention.
"Don't worry. They're not stolen."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's not the part that worries me."
Fair.
I leaned in. "I need parts. Gears. Maybe a knife or something that isn't held together by spite and a curse."
Lia stared at the bundle, then at me. "You get these from the Spine?"
"No."
"Dont tell me you robbed FEDRA?"
I coughed. "No. I uhhh, I found them on the streets?
She gave me that look again. The "I am not gonna say it, but I'm judging you" kind of look.
Then she stood, brushed her hands on her pants, and disappeared behind the curtain behind the stall. Came back a minute later with a wrapped cloth bundle.
"What's this?"
"Spare pieces. A couple of scrap blades. A half-welded machete head. You figure it out."
I unwrapped it slowly. The metal was rough. Rusted at the edges. But usable. Better than the pipe, anyway.
"What's the price?"
"Bring me something next time," she said flatly. "Something worth more than stories."
I nodded. "Deal."
She didn't ask questions. Didn't care where I was getting this stuff. That's what made her useful.
And dangerous.
"Thanks, Lia."
"Don't die."
"No promises."
I left her stall and ducked down a side alley. Cut across the west fence and circled back toward the block. The light was fading faster now. Shadows closing in. No time to waste.
I had tools now.
Time to make something sharp.
The air back home still smelled like ration grease and disappointment.
Which made the warehouse feel like a palace in comparison. A rusty, tetanus-infested palace—but still. Home sweet sewer.
I stood in the main room, inventory spread out in front of me: a broken pry bar, some loose bolts I'd salvaged from a crate lid, an old wrench, the cracked hunting knife I found under a shelf last time, and the leg I'd taped up like it was a medieval artifact instead of plumbing.
None of it was impressive. Not yet. But it was raw material.
Rusty stood nearby, arms crossed, eyeing my mess like he was about to judge a cooking contest.
"You ever made a shiv out of rebar and spite?" I asked.
He grunted. "Close enough. Let me see what you've got."
I laid the pipe down and pulled out the knife—bent, dull, but still technically sharp enough to cause tetanus if it nicked you in the right spot. I'd tied it to the pipe with a torn strip of hoodie sleeve, then reinforced it with the electrical tape I found in the crate. It looked like a weapon someone in a very bad high school play would carry.
"This is what I call... the idiot's spear."
Rusty stared at it.
"You're not wrong."
"Hey, I'm working with trash here. Literally. Trash and creative resentment."
He didn't laugh, but his mouth twitched. That counted.
We fiddled with it together, tightened the grip, shortened the wrap, added one of the bolts as a counterweight. It didn't look better when we were done, but it felt better. More solid. Less like a toy and more like something I could jab into an angry infected's eye socket.
Which, honestly, was the dream.
Ping.[Crafting Tip Unlocked]Improvised Weapon Bonus: Slightly Improved Durability and Attack Speed+1 Relationship: Gerald "Rusty" Barlowe
Neat.
I opened the menu long enough to log it under the mission tracker. The "Upgrade Prep" side mission blinked to 2/3 pieces acquired.
Two down. One to go.
"Not bad," Rusty said, giving the pipe-spear a quick spin and handing it back. "Still gonna get you killed if you swing wrong."
"Thanks. I'll write that on the handle."
He clapped me on the shoulder, then went back to reorganizing the junk pile he'd claimed near the lockers. Like a raccoon with purpose.
I sat on a crate, spear across my lap, and took a breath.
Not much else to do right now. Not without better gear. Not without a real plan.
But I'd made something. With help. And it didn't fall apart the second I touched it.
That was progress.
Quiet, grimy, scavenged progress.
Which, in this world, counted for a hell of a lot.
I didn't say goodbye.
Didn't feel like I had to.
Rusty was busy prying open an old toolbox with a grin that could've belonged to a kid on Christmas. The way he muttered about rust patterns and structural fatigue, you'd think we had a full-blown workshop, not a sewer-side trash heap with aspirations. I caught him humming, too — tuneless, low, nostalgic. A sound from a memory he never lived.
I adjusted the strap on my patched-up backpack, now holding a mix of minor loot, repurposed trash, and one very optimistic bottle of expired disinfectant. My new weapon — a pipe-turned-spear with a crude, sharpened piece of scrap bolted to the end — was sheathed awkwardly in my hoodie like a prosthetic spine. Awkward, heavy, not remotely safe.
Perfect.
"Don't burn the place down," I said.
Rusty gave me a two-fingered salute. "No promises."
I nodded once, turned, and slipped out the warehouse door into the tight, musty corridor beyond. The path to the surface was shorter now. Familiar. I ducked under the bent pipe, avoided the rotting pallet, and sidestepped the puddle that I was 90% sure it was mostly not water.
The sewer tunnel welcomed me like a wet cough.
Stale air. Moss-slicked concrete. Echoes.
Always the echoes.
But for once, they didn't feel hostile. Just... quiet.
My footsteps thudded dully, pipe boots meeting rust and stone, the soft shuffle of my patched pants whispering like old secrets.
The ladder was cold against my fingers. The hatch creaked open with only a minor protest. I peeked up first, scanned the alley — still empty. Still gross.
Still mine.
Back to the surface.
Back to the Zone.
I sealed the hatch with a careful push and stepped out into Boston's finest back-alley collection of mold, piss, and discarded shame.
The "Sex Sewer" loomed behind me — or rather, the faded remnants of a once-proud adult novelty shop that now resembled a collapsed clown funeral. The peeling sign read "XXX-Cite Your Night", which was both gross and somehow fitting.
I took a second. Breathed it all in.
Cough. Fuck, it stinks.
Even through the grime, Boston QZ had a unique flavour. Somewhere between wet cardboard, concrete dust, and overcooked rat.
The alley opened into a narrow service road. I followed it, keeping to the shadows, head down, posture casual. The trick was to walk like you belonged, like you had somewhere boring to be. No eye contact. No lingering.
I passed a crumpled soda can that hadn't moved in three months. A fire-blackened wall with half a Firefly symbol scrubbed out by some poor janitor with zero overtime pay. A broken fence wrapped in wire that served as a divider between "unsafe" and "slightly less unsafe."
Checkpoint 3 was nearby. Too nearby.
But I'd timed it. Most FEDRA patrols took this stretch during dusk changeovers. I had about ten minutes before any boots showed up.
The Spine — the place I'd claimed I fell, the lie I bled for — wasn't far from here. I gave it a wide berth, just in case. No need to run into anyone who might remember more than I wanted them to.
A few people milled around a ration stall up ahead. I recognized the vendor, but not well enough to nod. Perfect.
I turned down a cracked service path, passed a sagging school fence, and took the back trail past Admin Block 4. Kids sat on the steps, flicking ration wrappers at each other and pretending not to be hungry. One of them, Juno, I think. Looked up, our eyes met. She looked away first.
By the time I hit the residential tier, my legs were aching again.
The nicer parts of the QZ weren't fancy. Just slightly less grim.
Our apartment block sat on the edge of the mid-tier officer zone. Clean-ish concrete. Fewer boarded windows. Power lines that worked on weekdays. The FEDRA insignia above the entrance had been repainted recently — someone's idea of morale-boosting, probably.
I walked past two bored guards who didn't even glance at me. Familiarity was camouflage. They knew my face. Kid. Reyes' boy. Problematic, but not worth paperwork.
The stairwell smelled like disinfectant and old feet. I trudged up three flights, each step heavier than the last.
Home.
The reinforced steel door of Apartment 3B waited at the end of the corridor, double-locked, scratch-marked, but dependable. I knocked twice with my knuckles, a habit I still carry from my past life, then let myself in.
A faint buzz from the old wall radio hummed through the living room. My mom must've left it on.
The apartment smelled like boiled beans and something overly bleached. The metal shutters were drawn halfway, letting slanted light paint long lines across the table.
I closed the door behind me, slid the top lock into place, and leaned back against it for a moment.
I didn't say anything when I walked in.
Didn't have to.
The smell of reheated lentils was already assaulting my senses. That meant Mom was home and that she'd either had a short shift or was too pissed to stay at work.
I tossed my bag near the foot of the couch and limped toward the kitchenette like a guilty dog. My pipe-spear leaned against the coat rack. Tactical.
She was at the table. Military-straight posture, glasses on, sleeves rolled up. A cold ration tin in front of her, mostly untouched. Reports spread around like she was trying to solve a murder.
"You're late," she said, eyes not moving from the page.
I grunted something noncommittal. "Got stuck behind a supply cart near the Spine."
She didn't look up. "Funny. I didn't hear the checkpoint report any delays."
I grabbed a cracked ceramic cup from the rack, filled it from the half-working tap. The water came out with a groan. Lukewarm. Slightly brown.
"Must've been internal then," I said.
That earned me a glance. Sharp. Not quite suspicion, but definitely circling it like a shark that smelled sarcasm.
"You've been favoring that leg again," she said. "Reopened it?"
"No. Just being careful."
"You're not good at that."
Touché , I shrugged and sipped the water anyway. It tasted like pennies and regret.
She finally leaned back and sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "You've got school reports to catch up on. Admin pinged me."
"Yeah. I know."
"And food duty this weekend. I put your name down."
Sigh. Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkk
"Thanks for the warning."
She gave me a flat look. "You want me to take your shift?"
"No. I'll do it."
For a second, just a second, she looked… not proud, but something adjacent to it. Then it was gone, replaced by her usual steel.
The front door clicked.
My dad stepped in, already shrugging off his jacket. His boots were muddy. That meant outer inspection again. He looked tired. Not the usual Reyes-brand tired, but the kind that said he'd argued with at least four idiots and possibly a wall.
He nodded at me. "You're home."
"Glad your eyes are sharp as ever, Dad."
He gave a quiet snort that might've been a laugh in another universe.
Dinner wasn't fancy. It never was. Lentils, boiled greens, a sliver of something that could be meat if you closed your eyes and lied to yourself.
We ate mostly in silence.
Except for the clink of metal spoons and the low hum of the hallway generator through the wall.
"Admin bumped curfew again," my dad said eventually. "Some supply runners went missing last night near the tunnels."
My throat tightened for half a second.
I didn't respond.
"Idiots probably thought they could shortcut through the east-end debris field," he added. "Place is half-collapsed."
My mom glanced at me, but didn't say anything.
I kept my eyes on the bowl. Stirred slowly. Let the conversation drift.
After dinner, we cleaned up. I did the plates. Mom filed her reports. Dad sat on the couch with a half-functional radio, flicking between static and pre-recorded FEDRA announcements.
The night settled over us like a weighted blanket soaked in dust.
And still, no one asked where I'd been.
Not exactly.
Not yet.
But I could feel it building behind their eyes, the quiet worry, the invisible clock ticking in their heads. Wondering how long until I cracked again. Until I vanished into some forgotten alley and came back stitched together with lies and blood.
I didn't blame them, I wouldn't trust me either.
By the time I made it to my room, the lights had dimmed. Power rationing again. The generator buzz had dropped to a low grumble, barely enough to run the fridge.
I locked my door. Sat on the edge of the bed. Let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
For a few hours, I'd been just Callum again.
The quiet, sarcastic, occasionally troublesome Reyes kid with too much curiosity and not enough fear.
No summons. No glowing menus. No system grinding away in the corner of my mind.
My bed was lumpy. Springs worn down by time, a mattress that smelled faintly of sweat, mildew, and whatever ancient sadness came standard in FEDRA-issue furniture. But tonight? It felt like a throne.
I stared at the cracked ceiling.
Let the shadows crawl across it while my system menu hovered quietly in the corner of my vision, dimmed but present. Always present.
I didn't open it again.
Not tonight.
Rusty's words lingered in the back of my skull, half-muted by exhaustion. "If you're building something down here, I could help."
Help.
The word hit weird. I'd spent so long navigating this place alone, weaving lies, hiding cuts, dodging attention. The idea of help, of anyone else being involved, still felt... foreign.
But he hadn't been useless.
Far from it.
The man knew how to pry, how to scavenge, how to move like this world didn't owe him anything. And he didn't ask questions he didn't need answers to.
That alone made him more valuable than most people I knew.
I pulled my blanket up to my chest and rolled onto my side. The wall was cold against my back. I didn't mind.
The day played back in pieces.
The crates.
The tools.
The system missions.
That brief moment, just a flicker where I'd felt like I was doing something. Not surviving, not dodging, not scraping by on smirks and spite… but building something. Starting something.
Like I had weight now. A direction.
It wasn't much. Just a sewer base, a summoned scavenger, and a few tools that might fall apart if I sneezed too hard.
But it was mine.
And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't just planning how not to die.
I was planning what came next.
Better gear.
More summons.
More missions.
Whatever else this system was hiding from me — I was going to pull it into the light. Even if I had to crawl through every dead zone and sewage tunnel to do it.
I reached over and turned off the little makeshift desk lamp beside my bed. Its bulb flickered once, then surrendered to the darkness.
My last thought before sleep finally took me was simple.
Not a question.
Not a worry.
Just a quiet, steady truth.
That this is just the beginning.