Rain hammered the rusted sheet metal roof like a .50 cal on full auto. Reaper's Fang dripped thick zombie gore into the irradiated mud at my feet. Miller's shotgun barrel stared me down, his fat finger white-knuckled on the trigger, sheriff's badge glinting under his piss-stained jacket.
"Antibiotics, Jack. My fucking kid needs 'em. You understand, right?"
Bullshit. Twenty years shaking down tweakers for bong water, and this fat fuck's hands shook like a hooker in church. Behind him, Shamblers groaned wet through Patient Zero's choking Lich fog rolling thick from downtown. Runners twitched in the shadows, coordinated now—my Sector 1 should've been untouchable. Labor Chains humming 300% efficiency. Global Top 10 territory. Power Plant node chained, drones swarming, Yana's Shadow Step flanking like a goddamn ghost.
Should've been enough.
BOOM. Slug tore through my gut like a Brahmin through wet paper. Hot copper blood sprayed my chin. [Warlord's Appraisal] flickered one last glitchy scan through the pain:
MILLER
LABOR VALUE: RED (Muscle)
LOYALTY: ░░░░░░░░░░ 0%
BREAKING POINT: RIGHT FUCKING NOW
Knew it six months back when his bar dipped red at the highway 101s blockade. Should've shoved his ass in the Level 1 shitter with the rad-roaches instead of "second chances."
"Store, you motherfucker." Blue hologram stuttered through rain-blurred vision. 12,000 points banked from the Power Plant fusion core chain. Not enough. Second System activated Day 180—Top 10 Territories only. I'd clawed to #7 before that undead Lich cocksucker respawned his entire downtown horde like a Fallout Super Mutant factory.
Yana's war chest stash? Wasted on this timeline. Boyd's drone swarm? Shot down by Validus snipers. Harlan's Gene Forge cure burning in the Level 2 lab? Pointless now.
The System voice droned final judgment: "User terminated. Culling Trial continues."
No rage. No begging. Just cold fucking regret—not for dying, but building the perfect goddamn machine and still losing to cowardice.
Blackness swallowed me whole.
Blue System light stabbed my skull like a Plasma Rifle overcharge. Not death. Regression.
"FUCK YES!" I bolted upright in my shitty pre-war apartment bed, six months early. Digital clock glowed mocking: October 15th. Day -180.
Heart slammed Brahmin-kick against my ribs. [Warlord's Appraisal] hummed live in my temple. Dominion Map flickered empty—virgin sectors waiting neon conquest lines. No neon territory borders. No pulsing node beacons. Pristine canvas.
Three intel nukes locked in my skull from 187 days of Wasteland hell:
1. Timeline: Every horde migration date, faction war trigger, Resource Node spawn pulse—carved in blood and spent casings.
2. Labor Chain Exploit: Nulls compound Territory output exponential like a goddamn Enclave fusion reactor. No other Users sniffed this glitch.
3. Endgame: Day 187. Second System wipes the board. Only Top 10 Territory holders punch through to whatever irradiated hell comes next.
Miller eats Reaper's Fang Day 1 this time. Gary's "Shaun of the Dead" cricket bat stays buried in the trunk. Travis doesn't melt screaming to Bloater acid piss in Ch16.
No hero bullshit. No "save the Wasteland" speeches.
This timeline? I fucking own the ruins.
"Store." Blue hologram unfolded crisp as Day 1 cherry. 500 points from pre-regression "debt mission" arbitrage—shell company loans only a time-looping bastard sees coming.
BASE FORTIFICATION KIT - 450 pts
Perfect. Cold War silo beneath the bankrupt textile mill, Sector 1 coordinates locked. Impenetrable concrete fortress mocking every Deathclaw horde and rival warlord cocksucker.
Coffee brewed black sludge—no Nuka-Cola chaser. Laptop open: real estate listings blinking rustbucket mill, construction loans primed, demolition permits greased. Six months to forge apocalypse-proof empire.
Vanessa's text buzzed. Ex-wife. Downtown HR drone in heels too stupid for rubble. First timeline: Committee tax goons zombied her glass tower Week 2. I'd prioritized the Gas Station node.
"Jack divorce settlement. Rent due asshole."
Fuck papers. She'd scrub entrails as "Paige." Corporate soft hands gripping pipe wrenches soon.
"Mill site. 10AM. Job. Work boots."
Day -180. Empire construction starts now. Fallout Wasteland awaits its king.