The warning from the System hangs in the air, a silent specter beside the glowing blue text.
Significant deviation may cause destabilization.
I understand the words. They are a leash. I can act, but I must walk the tightrope of my own past actions. The boy I was spent this day in anxious denial, playing video games and arguing with his parents. I am now a continent away from that timeline, standing in a dusty warehouse. Is this deviation significant? The System does not say. It only warns.
I have no time for philosophy. Action is my shield.
I start my inventory. The main floor is a cathedral of emptiness, but I know where to look. The management offices are in the mezzanine. I find the stairs and climb.
The office door is glass. I use the elbow of my hoodie to clear a circle in the grime. Inside, a standard desk, a fallen chair, and a filing cabinet. The bottom drawer of the cabinet is locked. I kneel down. The lock is simple. I pull the multi-tool from my pack, select the smallest flathead, and work it into the mechanism. After thirty seconds of focused pressure, it clicks. A skill from my first life. It feels like putting on an old glove.
The drawer slides open. Inside are not files, but keys. Two heavy rings, labeled in faded marker: "Maintenance" and "External Units." Jackpot.
I also find a laminated map of the warehouse complex, taped to the wall behind the desk. I pull it free, wiping dust off with my sleeve. It shows the main building, the attached truck bays, and the separate generator shed. I fold it and put it in my pocket. Knowledge is a weapon.
My next target is the generator shed. According to my memory, it holds three industrial diesel generators and a fuel tank that was half-full when we discovered it years into the invasion. The keys in my hand make it easy. I exit the main building through a fire door, the alarm long dead, and cross a short stretch of cracked concrete to a smaller, fortified shed.
The padlock here is thick, but the "External Units" key ring has a match. It opens with a solid clunk.
The smell hits me first: cold metal, old oil, and the sharp tang of diesel. It is the best smell in the world. Two large generator units sit like dormant beasts. A third, smaller one, is on a pallet. I trace the fuel lines to a sizable internal tank. I find the gauge. It reads 38%. Not half-full, but enough. More than enough for years of careful use.
This is the first major resource check. A wave of solid relief passes through me. It is confirmed. My memory is accurate. The foundation of my plan is sound.
I return to the main warehouse. My backpack is light. I need to fill it with precision tools. I head for the section marked "Hand Tools" on my map. The shelves are mostly bare, picked clean of popular items long ago. But in the lower bins, under layers of dust, I find treasure.
A full set of screwdrivers. A heavy-duty claw hammer. Two pairs of channel-lock pliers. A hacksaw with a box of spare blades. I take them all. I find a sealed five-gallon bucket of industrial-grade bolt cutters. I pop the lid. They are coated in protective grease, their jaws capable of biting through inch-thick steel. I lift them out. They are heavy, real. I strap them to the side of my pack.
Every item is a thread tying this future to my past. I am not deviating. I am implementing. The boy I was would have wanted these things if he had known. This logic is my shield against the System's warning.
I am in the "Camping & Outdoor" aisle, pulling down a compact water filtration pump and a bundle of chemical light sticks, when I hear it.
A sound that does not belong.
The scuff of a shoe on concrete. Not my own.
I freeze, my hand closing around the shaft of the hammer on my belt. The sound came from the far end of the aisle, near the loading bay doors. In my first life, this warehouse was completely empty until my group found it three months after the invasion.
This is a deviation.
I move, silent. I drop into a crouch behind a pallet of PVC pipes. My breathing is shallow. I listen.
Another scuff. A muttered curse. A man's voice, low and rough. "Place is picked clean. Told you."
A second voice answers, younger, nervous. "There's gotta be something. We can't go back empty."
My mind races. Looters. Before the invasion? It's possible. This is an industrial area. But in my history, they did not come here today. This is new. This is change.
The System window flickers at the edge of my vision. No new text. It just pulses softly, a silent alarm.
I peer through the gaps in the pallet. Two figures. One tall and lean, wearing a stained jacket. The other shorter, wearing a beanie. They are poking at empty shelves with frustration.
A choice crystallizes, cold and hard.
Option one: Stay hidden. Let them leave. Minimize interaction. Preserve the timeline.
Option two: Engage. Remove them. They are a variable, a risk. They have seen the broken door. They could come back. They could bring others.
My hand is steady on the hammer. I have killed before. Not people, not yet. But I have killed things that were once people. The principle is the same. Survival is a series of ruthless equations.
The taller man turns, his eyes scanning. They pass over my hiding place. I see his face clearly. He has a deep scar across his chin. I do not recognize him.
That is the deciding factor. He is not part of my memory. He is an unknown. In the equation of my survival, an unknown is a threat.
I stand up.
The movement is smooth. I step out from behind the pallet, the hammer held loosely at my side. The two men startle. The younger one in the beanie takes a step back.
"Who the hell are you?" the scarred man snarls, recovering. He holds a small pry bar.
"This place is taken," I say. My voice is flat. It does not sound like the voice of a sixteen-year-old. It sounds like the voice from the Depot. "You need to leave."
The man's eyes dart around, confirming I am alone. His fear evaporates, replaced by a cruel confidence. "Or what, kid? You gonna hit me with your toy hammer?"
He takes a step forward. The younger one flanks to the side.
The System text shimmers, updating silently.
Sub-Objective: Secure Base of Operations.
Status: Compromised.
Action Required: Neutralize external variables.
I do not wait for them to charge. I have the advantage of decision. I move toward the scarred man, not away. It surprises him. I close the distance fast, my boots silent on the concrete. His pry bar comes up in a clumsy swing. I duck inside the arc and bring the hammer up, not at his head, but at his leading arm.
The crack of the radius bone breaking is loud in the vast space. He screams, the pry bar clattering away. I shove him hard into a metal shelf. He crumples, clutching his arm.
I turn. The younger one is frozen, eyes wide. He is looking at me, then at his moaning friend, then at the hammer in my hand.
"Go," I say.
He doesn't need telling twice. He runs, vanishing into the gloom toward the broken door.
I look down at the scarred man. He is cursing, weeping, crawling away from me. He is no longer a threat. He is a problem.
I have made my first true deviation. I have altered an event that never happened in my first life. The cost is unknown.
I drag him to the main entrance and push him out into the lot. "If you come back," I say, "I won't break your arm. I will break your skull."
He scrambles away, holding his limp arm.
I close the shattered door as best I can, barricading it with a long steel shelf bracket. My heart is a steady drum. There is no guilt. Only assessment.
The threat is neutralized. The base is secure. The deviation is recorded.
The blue screen updates one final time for the chapter.
Sub-Objective: Secure Base of Operations.
Status: Achieved.
Deviation Threshold: Minor. Stability: Nominal.
I return to the camping aisle. I pick up the water filter and the light sticks. I place them in my pack. The work continues. The world ends tomorrow. I have a fortress to finish.