Raven stepped forward slowly, the soft red tracking lights casting a dull glow over the sniper rifles laid out before her like relics. Each weapon sat nestled in its custom case, lined with dark velvet, their long barrels glinting under the flickering overhead lights. She reached for the nearest one—a CheyTac M200, its length imposing, its finish pristine. As her fingers closed around the grip, she tilted it slightly and muttered, "Ultra-light alloy fra. Of course. Even a kid could shoulder this."
The mont she lifted it free, the rifle vanished in a shimr of light.
A soft chi rang in her ear.
[Apocalypse Ascendancy System Notification: Military Arsenal Storage Unlocked. Category: Weapons and Military Vehicles. Capacity: Adaptive. Loading efficiency: 100%. New Item: CheyTac M200 Anti-Materiel Rifle stored.]
Raven blinked.
Then her lips parted into a faint, sharp-edged smile. "It's stealing ti."
She moved like a shadow from case to case, hand brushing each rifle. The Barretts. The TAC-50s. The high-end, custom-built prototypes she barely rembered drafting at fifteen. With every touch, the weapons shimred out of existence, claid by the system. Ammunition crates followed—rows of .50 BMG rounds, explosive-tipped shells, armor-piercing variants, and subsonic sniper cartridges. Gone. Stored.
Her heart beat steady and cold, not from excitent but from sothing more pure a questionablely sane of a girl who loves guns.
She turned and faced the tanks.
"System," she said aloud. "Collect all three of those."
[Notification: Black Leviathan All-Terrain Battle Tanks (x3) stored. Designation includes: Amphibious Deploynt Protocols, Armored Reactive Plating, Twin .50 Cal Auto-Turret Systems, Modular Artillery Cores. Welco to the Apocalypse Cavalry Division.]
Raven raised an eyebrow.
"Apocalypse Cavalry," she repeated. "You are getting cocky. I like it."
She walked over to the drone platform next. Twin ard drones stood locked in maintenance racks, each outfitted with a compact missile launcher and thermal tracking sensors. Their wings were sleek, the rotors retracted. With a tap of her fingers to the casing, they vanished like the rest.
[Ard Predator-Class Recon Drones (x2) stored.]
She continued with brutal precision.
Bazookas and RPGs. Mortar launchers and ammunition. Omni Silencer crates disappeared next, dozens of variants ant for pistols, carbines, shotguns, and battle rifles. Then she backtracked through the warehouse, retracing every step.
Pistols in glass cases. Glocks, Sig Sauers, M1911s. Every one untraceable. Every one wiped from the world and claid by her.
Rifles next. Row after row of pristine automatic weapons collected in succession—AKs, AR-15s, SCARs, AUGs, and Tavors. The sheer volu was overwhelming, but the system absorbed them all, turning years of paranoia and arms dealing into tools for her survival.
And the ammo.
She didn’t just take bullets. She took magazines. Drum rounds. Specialized slugs. Caseless prototypes. Every bit of firepower her father ever hoarded.
All of it was hers now.
By the ti she returned to the vault’s entrance tunnel, the warehouse felt hollow. Not empty—cleansed.
She tightened her coat around her shoulders and moved toward the back exit. The sa one she entered through. Her fingers brushed the flashlight clipped to her chest.
Then she stopped.
One wall didn’t look like the others.
She stared at it, head tilting slightly.
It was just off.
The brick layout was too clean. Too even. And when she squinted, the light caught on a seam that didn’t exist anywhere else in the room.
A secret wall.
In the apocalypse, that was practically tradition.
Everyone who had sothing worth hiding built secret compartnts, false panels, trap doors. Humans weren’t afraid of monsters. They were afraid of each other.
And their greed made them crafty.
Raven stepped closer, one hand out, pressing against the surface. It gave slightly beneath her palm. Real, but hollow. She began pressing thodically across the brickwork, feeling for gaps or abnormalities. Her fingers skimd over a slightly misaligned edge. When she pried it loose, a fake brick ca off in her hand.
Behind it, recessed into the wall, was a small black card reader.
No lights. No logo. Just the port.
"Cute," Raven muttered.
She pulled a screwdriver from her coat pocket and carefully removed the outer casing. Wires exposed. She pulled a long cable from her belt pouch and clipped it to her phone. Within seconds, a diagnostic overlay opened. The system flickered as it ran local encryption.
She began typing.
Sub-layer encryption. Legacy firmware. Multiple failed login attempts. Whoever built it hadn’t updated it in years. Sloppy.
Her fingers flew across the screen. She wasn’t just guessing—she was slicing through old subroutines and rerouting the access prompts. It took less than a minute.
Then ca the beep.
The card reader lit up.
A chi echoed through the silence.
The door began to open.
Raven stepped back, her eyes narrowing.
Whatever was on the other side of that door, her father had gone to great lengths to hide it.
Which ant it had to be worth seeing.
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