Shift One: Michael & Robert
The stars overhead flickered through torn clouds, casting dull silver shadows across the camp. Michael sat with his back against the outer barricade, shield propped beside him. Robert was perched on an overturned crate, flipping his dagger in rhythmic, lazy arcs.
"You hear that scream again?" Robert asked.
Michael grunted. "Couldn't forget it if I tried."
A long pause.
Robert looked toward the dark. "You think we're ready? For more of them?"
Michael didn't answer right away. "We survived. That's what matters."
Robert scoffed. "You always talk like that. Like surviving is enough."
"It is," Michael said, sharper this time. "You think there's some big prize at the end of this? There's not. You stay alive. That's the win."
Robert studied him for a moment. "You're still pissed we lost supplies."
Michael cracked his knuckles. "Yeah. I am. Could've been avoided."
"I get it," Robert said. "But you don't have to carry it like it's all on you."
Michael didn't reply. He just reached for his mace and adjusted the handle.
Some wounds didn't bleed — they just sat, heavy in the silence.
Shift Two: Marianna & Marie
Marianna twirled a stray strand of hair as she leaned against the outer post, watching the quiet horizon. Marie sat nearby, cross-legged, reading something scribbled into a wrinkled notebook.
"You know," Marianna started, voice low, "I could stir up some real chaos tomorrow."
Marie didn't look up. "You could not."
Marianna smirked. "Boring."
"I mean it," Marie said, eyes finally lifting. "We're already stressed enough. One wrong word and someone snaps."
"Oh come on. Drama keeps people sharp."
Marie's gaze was cool. "Drama gets people dead."
Marianna was quiet for a moment, lips pursed.
Then, softly, "You ever miss how it was before?"
Marie closed the notebook. "Before TechRot? Before survival was all we did?"
Marianna nodded.
"All the time," Marie said.
A long silence followed. It wasn't heavy — just true.
Shift Three: Adam
Alone now.
Adam sat cross-legged on top of the storage container, eyes scanning the perimeter — one hand on his revolver, the other slowly tapping against the music player wired into his ear.
Tinny notes buzzed just loud enough for him to hum along.
Classical remix. Something old. Something comforting.
The tech beside him blinked green — a small, silent nod from the sentry systems.
He should've felt secure.
Instead, his fingers fiddled with a small brass gear from his hoard, flipping it back and forth.
"I don't trust this quiet," he muttered under his breath.
His eyes were tired, but his mind was buzzing — building things, breaking them, rebuilding them better. Always better.
Sometimes the music drowned the past. Sometimes it didn't.
Tonight it almost did.
Shift Four: Sage & Azariah
Azariah kicked her feet lazily from a ledge, chewing on a stale ration bar with visible regret.
"This tastes like soap," she said.
Sage, crouched nearby with her hood half up, didn't respond.
"You think Adam's okay? He looked twitchier than usual."
Sage shrugged. "He's always twitchy. Built like a wound."
"That's deep. You write poetry or something?"
"No," Sage said flatly. "You do enough talking for both of us."
Azariah grinned. "That's fair."
A beat.
"Hey… did you take anything from the stash?"
Sage looked at her sideways. "Would I tell you if I did?"
Azariah's grin faltered slightly. "I mean… no. But I'd still ask."
Sage didn't answer. Her eyes stayed on the treeline.
Then she said, "I only take what we won't miss."
Azariah looked like she wanted to respond, but then—decided not to.
Instead, she swung her feet again and said, "Well, if you ever decide to steal from me, at least take the soap bars."
Sage cracked a rare smirk. "Deal."