Michael stared at the glowing blue screen for a long ti.
It stared back.
He tried poking it but his finger went straight through. The screen wobbled like disturbed water and then resettled, completely unbothered.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. Cool. That’s fine."
It was not fine. It was the opposite of fine. There was a holographic interface floating in his kitchen at the end of the world and he had absolutely no frawork for processing that information. His brain kept trying to file it under hallucination from hunger but the screen was persistent in a way hallucinations probably weren’t, so he gave up on that explanation after the third poke.
He read it again.
[Sovereign Build System. Anchor Point. Multishop.]
[Awaiting first command, Host.]
"Host," Michael repeated, tasting the word. He’d seen enough online videos to know what a system was, he wasn’t completely culturally illiterate, but knowing the concept and having one materialize in your kitchen were two very different experiences. "So I’m a... host. Of a system. During the apocalypse."
The screen offered no comntary. Just blinked patiently.
"Right." He pushed himself up off the floor, knees popping. He was twenty-four years old and his knees already popped. That felt like a separate tragedy. "Okay. Let’s — let’s figure this out."
He pulled up the Multishop first because he was hungry and his priorities were perfectly reasonable given the circumstances.
The interface expanded at the ntal command, which was a strange sensation, like flexing a muscle he hadn’t known existed, and split into two clean panels.
[SURVIVAL STORE] on the left. [BOND STORE] on the right.
He imdiately went left.
The Survival Store was exactly what it sounded like, it was a catalogue of real world items organized into neat categories. Food. Water. dicine. Weapons. Gear. Building Materials. Fuel. Each item had a price tag in [SP] and a small description. The selection was genuinely absurd. Military ration packs sat next to gourt canned goods. Basic first aid kits sat next to fully stocked trauma bags. A rusty hunting knife sat at fifteen SP while three rows down a tactical combat blade glead at four hundred.
Michael’s eyes went straight to the food section.
[Canned Mixed Vegetables — 5 SP]
[Military Ration Pack x3 — 20 SP]
[Ergency Calorie Bar x10 — 15 SP]
His stomach growled loud enough to be embarrassing even with nobody around to hear it.
He checked his SP balance.
[Current SP: 0]
He checked again, in case it had changed.
[Current SP: 0]
"...Of course." He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Of course I have a shop and no money. That tracks. That is exactly my life."
He closed the shop with slightly more aggression than necessary and pulled up the Anchor Point description instead.
[Anchor Point — Designate any location as your sovereign territory. Access the Blueprint Interface to design, plan and construct structures. Deposit required materials to instantly raise any blueprint.]
Okay. That one he could actually use right now. Probably. Maybe.
He looked around his apartnt. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, a living room that had slowly transford into a survival bunker over eighteen days, furniture pushed against the door, windows covered with taped-together bin bags, empty cans stacked in the corner because he hadn’t figured out what to do with them yet.
It wasn’t much. But it was his.
He ntally reached for the Anchor Point skill the sa way he’d opened the shop and felt sothing respond. A soft pulse of warmth behind his eyes, and then a translucent grid materialized over his entire apartnt, turning everything into a faintly glowing blueprint overlay.
[Anchor Point available. Designate this location as your sovereign territory?]
[Yes / No]
He picked yes without hesitating.
[Ding! Anchor Point designated — Michael’s Apartnt, Floor 6, Block C, Harlow City.]
[Territory established. Blueprint Interface now accessible. Current Base Tier: 1 — Shelter.]
[Base upgrades available. Current upgrade requirents displayed in Blueprint Interface.]
A new panel opened. The Blueprint Interface. It was genuinely impressive, actually. A full three dinsional layout of his apartnt rendered in glowing lines, every wall and room mapped perfectly, with a sidebar full of structure options he could drag and drop into the space.
Reinforced walls. A proper storage unit. A water collection system. A reinforced door with a system-grade lock that he very much wanted imdiately.
He checked the material requirents for the reinforced door.
[Reinforced Door — Required: x8 Steel Plates, x4 Iron Bars, x2 Bolt chanisms]
He looked at his kitchen.
He had a butter knife and a broken umbrella.
"Okay," Michael said, to nobody, in the way he’d been saying okay to nobody for eighteen days now. "I need SP to buy materials. I need to kill things to get SP. I need to go outside to kill things." He paused. "I need to go outside."
He looked at his front door, beyond which the hallway had produced three separate horror movie sounds in the last four days.
He looked back at the screen.
"This is fine," he decided. "Totally fine. People go outside all the ti. It’s a normal thing people do."
He picked up his kitchen knife which was wobbly at the handle and held it with the energy of a man who had never been in a fight in his life and was trying very hard not to think about that fact.
The System, to its credit, seed to sense his energy.
[Quest Available: First Blood]
[Objective: Eliminate 1 Rotter outside your Anchor Point territory.]
[Reward: 50 SP Blueprint Unlock: Basic Storage Unit]
Fifty SP. It was enough for three military ration packs and change.
Michael stared at the quest notification. Then at his knife. Then at the door.
"Fifty SP," he muttered. "For one zombie." He did the math. "I could eat for a week."
His stomach growled again, right on cue, like it was voting.
"Alright." He stood up straight, squared his shoulders, and adopted what he hoped was the posture of soone capable. "One zombie. I can do one zombie. Probably. Almost definitely."
He walked to the door. Pressed his ear against it and he could hear s ilence from the hallway which was good.
He gripped the handle.
His hand was only trembling a little bit.
"For the ration packs," he told himself firmly, and opened the door.
The hallway was dim, half the overhead lights dead, the other half flickering in a way that felt deeply personal. The carpet had seen better days and better weeks and better apocalypses. Three doors down, one apartnt stood open, darkness pooling past the threshold.
Michael stood very still.
Nothing moved.
He took one step out. Then another. Then a third, with his knife raised in a grip that a real fighter would have found embarrassing but was the absolute best he had.
The open apartnt drew his eye. He should check it for resources, maybe, if the previous tenant had left anything useful. He drifted toward it slowly, ears sharp, every nerve alight with the very reasonable fear of a man who had never done anything remotely like this in his entire unremarkable life.
He reached the doorway and peered in.
A Rotter looked back at him.
It had been, at so point, soone’s elderly neighbor. They wore a cardigan with so slippers. It now had the glassy dead eyes and slack jaw of sothing running on biology alone, and it was approximately four feet away from Michael’s face.
They stared at each other.
The Rotter lurched forward.
Michael yelped and stumbled backward, he hit the hallway wall and bounced off it then swung his kitchen knife on pure panicked instinct.
The blade caught the Rotter across the side of the head. It was the desperate flailing of a man who wanted ration packs badly enough to go outside and was now deeply regretting the decision.
But sohow the Rotter dropped to the floor.
Michael stood over it with his chest heaving and knife still raised, staring at the very dead figure on the carpet.
[Ding! Rotter Eliminated.]
[ 30 SP earned.]
[Quest: First Blood — 1/1 Complete.]
[ 50 SP bonus awarded.]
[Total SP: 80]
[Blueprint Unlocked: Basic Storage Unit]
Eighty SP.
Michael lowered his knife and looked at his hand. Then he looked at the Rotter and looked back at his hand.
"I did it," he said, quietly, to the empty hallway. The way a man sounds when sothing works out despite all reasonable probability.
He straightened up. Took a breath and opened the Survival Store.
[Military Ration Pack x3 — 20 SP]
He bought two sets without blinking.
[Purchased: Military Ration Pack x6 — 40 SP deducted.]
[Current SP: 40]
Six ration packs materialized in his hands with a soft shimr of blue light, solid and real and beautiful. He clutched them to his chest like they were precious cargo and turned back toward his apartnt.
He was halfway to his door when he the sound of sothing running down the hall way at the end like it was chasing sothing.
He was about to get inside when he had a pleading and desperate voice.
"Soone help — HELP —"
Michael stopped.
He stood in the dim hallway with six military ration packs pressed to his chest as the stairwell door burst open.
A girl stumbled through it and nearly hit the floor. Behind her, three Rotters spilled through the door in a graceless, hungry pile.
She saw Michael.
He saw her.
The Rotters saw both of them.
[Ding! Rescue Quest Available: Save The Survivor]
[Reward: 150 SP Bond Point x1]
Michael looked at the quest notification then looked at the girl, who was staring at him with the expression of soone who had been hoping for a soldier and received a man clutching ration packs.
"Hi," Michael said.
She blinked. "...Hi?"
"I’m going to help you," he said, with the tone of soone trying to convince himself as much as her. "Probably."
He raised his knife.
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