"Mmmm, sorry man but I... I dont swing that way"
The veterans words hit me a full second late.
Hearing them I stiffened. Like, full system freeze stiffened. My spine locked.
My jaw set. My face went dark. Not literally, but metaphorically, like someone had just shoveled coal straight into my expression and set it on fire.
…what?
Slowly, very slowly, I locked my eyes with his.
What the fuck, man?
I stared at the bearded veteran like he'd just accused me of kicking puppies recreationally.
Are you fucking serious right now?
I thought.
Me?
I continued, incredulous.
The guy who whored his way through his we ties, thirties and forties and fathered gods know how many little shits?
My eye visibly twitched.
"Urgh…"
I muttered, a wave of revulsion rolling through me.
I think I'm gonna puke.
I thought while Genesis, still hovering nearby and wiping spectral rainbow bile off her chin, paused mid-motion.
"…oh wow,"
She muttered.
"This is happening."
I awkwardly removed my hand from the veteran's shoulder like it had suddenly turned into a live landmine and took a step back.
"Neither do I,"
I added stiffly, clearing my throat.
"Just… to be clear."
Silence followed. Not the dramatic kind. The uncomfortable kind.
The kind where everyone involved is replaying the last five seconds of their life and wishing they could uninstall the memory.
The fire crackled. Somewhere, something popped. A survivor coughed. Nobody made eye contact.
The veteran scratched his beard. Once. Twice, then cleared his throat.
"…cough... cough... anyways,"
He said finally, coughing into his fist like he was trying to reboot the conversation.
"First things first, we're in serious need of materials, so..."
I cut him off immediately.
"So in other words,"
I said, already sighing,
"you want me to go out and scavenge some shit."
He blinked. Then nodded.
"…yeah pretty much"
I looked around the camp. The broken walls. The patched tarps. The survivors pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.
"Got it,"
I said, waving a hand.
"Say no more."
Then I paused.
"But first..."
I added, glancing back at him,
"... you got any tools? Torchlight, crowbar, something that won't explode in my hands and I could work with?"
His shoulders visibly relaxed, like he was relieved we were back to business and not… whatever the hell that was.
"Yeah,"
He said, turning.
"Right over here."
He led me toward the corner of one of the half-collapsed house, turned man cave apocalypse edition.
As we rounded it, a pile of industrial junk came into view, old-world remnants stacked like offerings to a dead civilization.
Flashlights with cracked lenses. Crowbars bent at ugly angles.
Welding torches missing parts. Toolboxes dented and rusted shut. Coils of cable.
Duct tape aka every army grunts best friend, with that magical shit you can fix almost everything.
Strap a scope on a rifle? Duct tape! Want to make a bundle of grenades to blow someone or somenthing sky high to kingdom come? Duct tape! No bandages? Duct tape! Soles falling of you're combat boots? Duct tape! You want double mags because reloading normally is for pussies? Duct tape!
Basically there's no problem that duct tape can't solve, it's only a matter of how much you got to use!
And vy the love of the gods there was so much duct tape. I nodded slowly.
"…nice"
I said.
"This'll do."
I stepped closer, rolling my shoulders. Then, without ceremony, I reached up and began unequipping my scavanged armor. Plates unclasped with dull metallic clicks. Straps loosened. Reinforced segments slid free. I tossed each piece onto a growing pile beside the tools, heavy thuds punctuating the moment. The survivors nearby flinched with each impact. Chestplate. Thunk.
Shoulder guard. Clang. Gauntlets. Thud. I straightened up in my dried blood stained clothes, rolling my neck once. Something popped. Satisfying.
"Alright,"
I said, eyeing the pile of junk like a chef judging ingredients pulled out of a dumpster.
"Let's start cooking, shall we?"
I grinned and cracked my knuckles. Loud. Final. A sound that made three survivors flinch like I'd just chambered a round. Genesis sighed in my head.
"…why do I get the feeling you're about to commit several crimes against engineering?"
Well thats because engineering committed crimes against me first, such as a number of technical issues with the first gen power armor.
I thought still holding a grudge for almost dying a few times because of them as I grabbed a welding torch. It sputtered and died seeing this I smacked it against my palm while cursing.
"Huh? Son of a bitch!"
It sparked to life with a whine like a dying animal.
"Hmph thats more like it, you fuck"
What followed could generously be described as creative craftsmanship. I dragged my scavenged armor closer, ripping it apart without ceremony. Plates pried off. Bent.
Hammered flat against a chunk of concrete. Sparks flew. Steel screamed. Duct tape came out by the meter. I didn't build so much as force reality into compliance.
Steel scrap plates, cut from car doors, appliances, and something that might've once been a safe.
Were welded together in overlapping layers forming a shape of modern front and back plate carrier plates. Not pretty. Functional. Heavy where it mattered.
Angled just enough that bullets would hopefully glance instead of dig in.
Leather straps, cut from old belts, boots, and one suspicious couch, were threaded through drilled holes and reinforced with, you guessed it, duct tape. So much fucking duct tape.
Genesis watched the whole thing in horrified silence.
"…that's not how armor is supposed to work."
I tightened a strap with my teeth and spat.
"Yeah, yeah whatever as long It does Its job its good enough for me ."
I muttered as I moved onto the helmet which was my favorite part, I started heating scraps of steel with a torchlight, then hammered them and welded them until a shape of a low cut helmet appeared.
Once done reinforced the inside with padding ripped from a car seat and, again duct tape, a shit load of duct tape, and for the cherry of the cake, I used the remaining pieces of leather scrap to make the chin strap system. I held it up and nodded my head In approval.
After about an hour of sparks, smoke, and one small fire of final touches that definitely wasn't my fault, I leaned back and admired my work. A proper armor plate carrier. Crude. Heavy. Ugly as sin.
But solid. I lifted it only to start cursing.
"Son of a bitch, its heavy as fuck..."
I cursed as I barely managed to slip it over my shoulders.
"Ha what did you expect you numbskull, not only youre a weak ass loser but those plates are made out of fucking steel"
Genesis remarked on the side giving me the stink eye.
"Oh fuck off will you"
I barked out loud as I cinched the shoulder straps tight causing a few survivors to look at me strangely because to them It looked like I was talking to myself.
Finally once I was more or less satisfied with the weights distribution across my body I grabbed my helmet and put It on. It was a little tight so I knocked on it with my knuckle. Thunk.
I would be cursing my ass off pretty soon because of the headache that was sure to follow, but hey that was a problem for future Drac and not me.
Just as I was about to reach for my rifle a familiar chime echoed in my skull.
DING!
CRAFTING COMPLETE + XP
Seeing this I blinked.
"…huh."
I stared at the air.
"…wait a fucking minute"
I slowly turned my head.
"…I get XP for crafting?"
Genesis pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Of course you do."
She muttered.
"Why wouldn't the universe reward you for duct-taping trash into war crimes?"
I let out a low laugh, deep and pleased.
"Well I'll be fucked."
I flexed my shoulders, feeling the armor shift with me, solid and real.
"Guess I'm a handyman now."
From somewhere in my peripheral vision, the chibi handyman version of me reappeared briefly, gave a proud thumbs up and a hollywood level wink, and vanished with a hammer twirl.
Seeing this I just shrugged and reached for my rifle. The familiar weight slid into my hands like an old friend who didn't ask questions.
I slung it across my chest, strap snug, muzzle angled down in low ready. My fingers rested near the trigger guard, not on it. Old habits die hard. I walked back toward the veteran.
He stiffened slightly as I approached, eyes flicking to the armor, then the rifle, then my face like he was recalculating every life decision that had led to this guy being in his camp.
"Alright,"
I said, voice calm, professional.
"Open up. I'll see what I can find out there."
For half a second he just stared. Then he nodded once, sharp and decisive, and climbed down from the watchtower.