Raven stepped out of the security room, her boots silent against the gleaming tile. Behind her, Grand Theft Autonomous was now blind, its alarms dead, its caras offline, and its phone lines cut. She didn’t bother locking the door behind her—no one would be calling for help. Not tonight.
She made her way through a side corridor until she reached the sealed double doors that led to the service wing. The maintenance bay stretched out before her, wide and tall like an industrial cathedral. Lifts, diagnostic arms, tire racks, belt stations, and enough parts to keep an entire fleet on the road lined the walls.
This was the real prize.
She crossed the main floor with calculated steps, eyes flicking across labels and stacks. Windshields, axle parts, suspension systems, compressors—none of it useless. Not to her.
People didn’t realize the power of junk… until you could rebuild the world with it.
Technomancy.
The word echoed in her mind, a whisper from a life not yet lived. The ability to mold machines, to breathe new purpose into broken tech, to make order from scrap. Her powers hadn’t awakened yet, but she could feel them growing beneath the surface.
In her previous life, she was the only one of her kind A unique existence able to use both Plant Powers as well as Technomancy. But once awakened, her power ranged from Level 1 to Level 10, each level a leap beyond logic.
At Level 1, Raven would be able to repurpose windshield glass, folding and layering it to craft bulletproof glass panels for the Ironhowl. She could patch cracks with a touch, heal shattered components, and bend tal without a forge.
But until then, she had to prepare.
She walked to the nearest stack of replacent windshields and placed her hand against the top pane. One by one, they vanished into her system storage.
Her mind cataloged the inventory automatically. Raw materials. Future armor.
“I’m gonna build the kind of ride warlords envy,” she muttered.
Next ca the tires.
Dozens lined the back wall, sorted by brand, size, and terrain. Off-road, performance, snow tread. Rubber was apocalyptic gold—impossible to recreate from scratch once manufacturing broke down. With Technomancy, she could reshape it, lt it down, reform it for insulation, pads, or sealants.
She absorbed the entire section.
Further in, she claid the hydraulic lifts. Massive machines that could raise a car ten feet off the ground with a hiss of compressed force. Not exactly portable—but in Sanctuary, she had the space. And once her power blood, she could dismantle and rebuild them as compact mobile rigs.
Then ca the tools.
Torque wrenches, pressure gauges, belt tensioners, electric saws, screwdrivers, welding kits, diagnostic tablets. Every station had its own complete kit. She left nothing. Even the used oil containers—black, half-empty, reeking—were absorbed. In ti, she’d be able to purify them.
“If it’s not bolted down,” she whispered, “it’s mine.”
She crossed the bay toward a locked tal door labeled FUEL ACCESS. She pried it open with a tal bar and stepped into a side room filled with internal tanks—one diesel, one standard unleaded.
She laid her palm on the nearest valve.
The fuel vanished into the system. The tanks drained until only vapor remained. With this, she added another few thousand gallons to her already formidable cache—now over twenty tons of gasoline and diesel combined soon, she would have even more.
Butt soon enough, even that wouldn’t matter.
Once she reached Technomancy Level 3, she’d be able to generate synthetic power cores, develop hydrogen-energy fusion batteries, and channel bioelectric grids to power vehicles indefinitely with enhanced solar panels. Gasoline would beci a historical artifact.
Her vision blurred briefly, then cleared.
Another system projection appeared, sliding into her ntal space.
[Apocalypse Ascendancy System Notification:]
“Vehicle Maintenance Category Unlocked. All vehicle parts, fuels, tools, and repair equipnt into designated retrieval archive. System may assist with automated installations or equipnt deploynt within Sanctuary.”
She dismissed it with a blink.
Raven stepped back into the heart of the maintenance bay, the air thick with oil and potential. Around her, the empty shelves stood like monunts to a dead world.
But she was just getting started.
Her healing abilities—the power to control plants—would follow soon. And when they did, she wouldn’t be able to advertise them. Anyone who could cure the zombie virus, heal wounds, grow crops? They were hunted. She was one of a kind, but others had lesser versions of her powers and were treated like slaves.
She rembered it all.
Survivors trying to barter for her blood. Warlords promising protection in exchange for her servitude. Entire camps rising and falling around her. She had to kill, and kill again, just to stay free. After she refused to bend the knee to the governnt remnants, camp leaders, and raider warlords.
Nobody stays free if they admit they can cure the virus.
That was the first rule of survival. Even before the undead walked.
Always Lie and Lie well.
But this ti?
She had a head start.
She ran a hand along a cold steel support beam and whispered, "What else can I steal?"
She turned back toward the dealership’s main floor, her boots echoing through the maintenance bay.
The vehicles were next.
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