Caelan was admiring his haul in the dim light of the ruined supermarket. He adjusted the gaudiest of the chains around his neck, the cheap gold plate cool against his skin. It was absurd, useless, and utterly magnificent. He was a king without a kingdom, an emperor of rubble, and this worthless junk was his crown. As he was trying to fit a bulky, rhinestone-encrusted ring onto his finger, the cobalt-blue text bloomed in his mind once more.
[Detected Non-Standard Resource in Administrator's possession: Aurum Alloy (Trace), Silicate Compounds (Crystalline), Various Industrial Metals (Plated). These items possess negligible combat or survival utility.]
Caelan snorted. Tell me something I don't know.
[Query: Would the Administrator like to exchange these materials for a quantifiable asset? Proposal: Exchange miscellaneous trinkets for Requisition Points.]
Caelan froze mid-pose, the tacky ring slipping from his grasp and clattering on the tiled floor. Points? For his treasures?!? A delirious grin spread across his face. He had stumbled upon a goldmine—literally. He could strip this entire mall, this entire city, of its shiny baubles and turn it into an army! He would have squads of Astartes, legions of Guardsmen! The thought made him giddy.
Yes! Exchange it! Exchange it all! he projected gleefully, mentally holding up all the chains, watches, and rings he had looted. How many points will I get? A hundred? A thousand?
There was a faint, internal hum, as if the System was scanning him. The jewelry in his pockets and around his neck lost a tiny, imperceptible fraction of their weight.
[Analysis complete. Value determined by base material worth and mass, not perceived cultural value of originating society. Exchange complete.]
[1 Requisition Point Acquired.]
[Current Requisition Points: 49]
Caelan's triumphant grin faltered, then melted into a slack-jawed scowl of disbelief. He looked at the mountain of tacky splendor he was wearing. All of it... for one. Single. Point.
"ONE POINT?!" he screamed in the privacy of his own mind, his face flushing with indignation. "Are you kidding me?! This is pure, high-quality… stuff! You're a scammer! This is highway robbery! A ripoff! I want a refund!"
The System's reply was as placid and infuriating as ever.
[The exchange rate is non-negotiable. Material mass was minimal. Perhaps the Administrator is confusing sentimental value with actual resource value. A common error among emotionally-driven organisms. My condolences for your poor investment.]
Caelan was sputtering, formulating a string of mental curses that would make a sailor blush, when the thunderous footstep of Primus brought him back to reality. The Astartes had completed his initial sweep of the ground floor.
"My Lord," Primus's vox-grille crackled, his impassive tone cutting through Caelan's internal tirade. "The lower level is purged. I have located a defensible position suitable for your command post."
He gestured with his massive chainsword, its teeth still gummed with filth, towards a small, solid-looking door marked 'STAFF ONLY'. "A security office. Reinforced door, no windows, single point of entry. It will serve as a secure bastion while I cleanse the remainder of this structure."
Caelan, still fuming over his one-point fortune, forced himself to appear composed. He grandly waved a hand. "An excellent choice, Primus. My throne room. Secure me within."
Primus led him to the door, pulled it open with one hand, and stood aside. Caelan scurried into the cramped, dark room. The Astartes looked in, his red lenses seeming to pierce the gloom. "Remain here, My Lord. I will purge the rest of this nest. Do not open the door until I return."
Before Caelan could reply, Primus shut the heavy door, plunging him into near-total darkness. He heard a scraping, grinding sound as the Astartes dragged a massive, overturned vending machine in front of the door, effectively sealing him in.
And then the sounds began.
For the next few hours, Caelan was a captive audience to an orchestra of extermination. He huddled in a dusty chair, listening. He heard the enraged, high-pitched scream of the chainsword echoing through the cavernous store, rising and falling in furious crescendos. He heard the wet, sickening thuds of ceramite fists pulverizing rotten flesh, the crunch of bone under armored boots. Occasionally, there was a shriek—not from the dead, but the chilling, terrified scream of a living thing being extinguished. Each sound painted a vivid, horrifying picture in his mind.
Yet, he was safe. In his little steel box, he was utterly untouchable. He found a forgotten case of bottled water under a desk and a box of stale, but edible, granola bars in a locker. While his champion was wading through blood and viscera, Caelan munched on a bar and sipped clean water, watching his Requisition Point counter climb in his mind.
[+1 Point]… [+1 Point]… [+1 Point]… It was slow, steady, a grim testament to the massacre unfolding just outside his door. He felt a detached sense of accomplishment, like a player grinding levels while their overpowered character did all the work.
After what felt like an eternity, the noises stopped. The silence that followed was profound, deeper than before. Minutes ticked by. Caelan's heart began to thump in his chest. Was Primus... gone? Overwhelmed?
Just as true panic began to set in, he heard the grinding scrape of the vending machine being moved. The door clicked open, flooding the small room with the dim light of the store. Primus stood there, silhouetted in the doorway. He was a canvas of carnage, his grey armor almost completely obscured by streaks of black, brown, and crimson filth.
[Mall Purge Complete. Undead (Standard Strain) x248 Purged.]
[Points Earned: 248]
[Current Requisition Points: 297]
Caelan let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Report," he managed, trying to sound authoritative.
Primus stepped aside, and Caelan saw that he was not alone. Huddled behind the Astartes's massive leg were two small figures. A boy and a girl, no older than ten and eight, respectively. They were stick-thin, their faces smudged with dirt, and their clothes were little more than rags. They stared at Caelan, their eyes wide with a terror so profound it was paralyzing. They had clearly been crying.
Primus gestured to them with a blood-caked gauntlet. "The rooftop. They were hiding. Famished, dehydrated, but alive."
The children flinched at the movement, pressing themselves tighter against the unyielding ceramite leg. To them, Caelan must have been a terrifying sight—a gaunt, aggressive-looking man draped in gaudy, fake gold, emerging from the dark like some bizarre scavenger king, associate to the blood-soaked monster who had just laid waste to their world.
The Astartes, a being designed for war and nothing else, turned his impassive crimson gaze from the children to Caelan. For the first time, his voice held a trace of uncertainty, a logical gap in his programming that he could not fill.
"My Lord. I have found... non-hostile human survivors."
He paused, the silence in the ruined mall stretching taut around them.