The sound was a crisp, metallic tink… tink… tink…that echoed with a strange clarity in the cavernous, dimly-lit chamber. It was the sound of Michael's knuckles, repeatedly rapping against the cold, unyielding surface of the colossal machine before him. A wide, almost foolish grin was plastered across his face, undeterred by the sharp pain beginning to bloom in his fingers. A Gundam. A real, honest-to-goodness giant robot stood before him, a fantasy made manifest in steel and composite armor. What red-blooded young man hadn't, in the secret recesses of his childhood, dreamed of commanding such a marvel? To be faced with the reality of it, several tons of dormant military-grade might, sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated glee straight through him.
As he continued his percussive inspection, circling the behemoth, Michael noted that 'elegant' was not a word that applied. Its head was a rounded, dome-like structure that bore an unfortunate resemblance to a bulky, family-sized rice cooker. The limbs and torso were blocky and utilitarian, sheathed in a faded, gritty grey desert-camouflage paint scheme that had seen better decades. It was, by any conventional standard, ugly. But its aesthetic failings did nothing to diminish the visceral thrill of its implied destructive power. Mounted on its left shoulder was a compact missile pod, its hatches sealed like a dormant insect's wings. On the right sat the corroded, skeletal remains of what might have once been a directed-energy cannon. Each of its thick, hydraulic-actuated arms terminated in the formidable, gaping muzzles of 12.7mm heavy machine guns, and slung across its broad back with intimidating casualness was a slab of metal that could only be described as a door-sized greatsword. Merely imagining the raw, concussive force of this behemoth in motion—the crushing impact, the sheer kinetic violence of it plowing through a target—made Michael's mouth go dry with anticipation.
A vivid, covetous daydream unfolded in his mind. All that time wasted fantasizing about dragging that rust-bucket M4 Sherman back home,he thought with a mental scoff. That would have been child's play compared to this… this masterpiece.The mental image of piloting this metal titan through the familiar streets of his own time was so potent it was dizzying. Zhang Tiezhu and I are practically brothers-in-arms now. Surely he wouldn't mind me… borrowing it for a little joyride someday? He can't be that stingy.
His grandiose fantasies were interrupted as Zhang Tiezhu, his face etched with a mixture of pride and solemnity, began a proper briefing. It was then Michael learned the machine's true designation: the Demon-Slayer Type-2 Combat Exoskeleton. During the final, desperate decade of the war, Zhang explained, humanity had cast aside old rivalries under the existential threat. The technological leaps made in that frantic period had compressed fifty years of peacetime progress into one. This machine was a fruit of that global cooperation, a top-tier fusion of bleeding-edge technology, produced in minuscule numbers for the most elite units. Its primary role was anti-personnel work against high-value, biologically-enhanced enemy commandos—a hunter of monsters. More often, however, it served as an unbreakable bulwark in defensive actions, a mobile fortress.
'Demon-Slayer' indicated its specialization. Its armor and internal baffles were specifically tuned to resist and dissipate energy-based attacks—the strange, corrosive fire or shocking force some of the more terrifying interdimensional entities could unleash. The designation hinted at the existence of other frames, specialized for close-quarters or long-range combat, wonders Michael doubted he would ever see. The 'Type-2' suffix meant it was no prototype, but a mature, battle-proven system, its scars and worn paint a testament to past campaigns.
"So," Michael breathed out, his voice thick with naked desire, "you're telling me that with some oil, grease, and hydraulic fluid, this beauty will walk? And if we feed it some 12.7mm rounds, it'll fight?"
"Of course," Zhang Tiezhu confirmed, a note of paternal pride in his voice as he patted the machine's massive armored calf. "This was the strongest asset our forefathers had when they secured this base. It's the reason they held on during the worst of the sieges. We've maintained it as best we could, but the lubricants degraded decades ago. Running it dry would shred its core actuators. But with the right supplies…" He let the promise hang in the cool, damp air, which smelled of ozone and old metal.
Michael's heart did a small, joyful flip. In that moment, in the deepest, most unapologetically selfish part of his soul, the machine was already his. The thought of sourcing lubricants didn't cause him a moment's anxiety. In the Wasteland, finding a single, un-contaminated can of oil was a miracle. In the modern world? He could already hear the cheerful query: "How many drums do you need, boss?"
A sudden, dreadful thought punctured his euphoria. His face paled. "Wait," he asked, his voice suddenly cautious. "What does it… you know, run on? Gasoline? Diesel? The best diesel I can get is probably number zero, and the highest octane gasoline is maybe 95. Will… will that work?"
A profound, awkward silence settled over the chamber. The weathered faces of the soldiers surrounding him took on a politely strained expression. After a long moment, Zhang Tiezhu cleared his throat, choosing his words with the care of a man explaining basic arithmetic to a very slow child. "Sir… you may be unfamiliar with Super Graphene Ultra-Capacitor cells. This unit is powered by such a system. Our analysis suggests that, despite some decay from prolonged storage, a full charge should still provide approximately one hour of high-intensity combat operation."
Michael felt a hot flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. Okay, so I just got schooled.But the sting was momentary, washed away by a renewed wave of exhilaration. The base, which he had assumed was picked clean, held this one, monumental secret. A genuine, technologically advanced marvel stood dormant, waiting only for his modern-world resources to awaken it.
For the rest of the day, as Zhang guided him through the other, less impressive relics stored in the mountain's belly—cannibalized vehicles, rusted recoilless rifles, stacks of obsolete firearms in a bizarre, useless 9.65mm caliber—Michael's mind kept drifting back to the Exoskeleton. It wasn't until a pressing bodily need forced a visit to the communal latrine that his focus was truly broken. And there, in that foul-smelling, dimly-lit pit, fortune smiled upon him in the most undignified way. Stacked in a corner, used as toilet paper, were bundles of pre-war currency. The greenbacks were faded and stained, but the denominations were legible. My god,he thought, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest. There must be millions here.The funding for his entire shopping list, just lying there. It was a discovery so absurd, so utterly lacking in dignity, that he vowed never to speak of its origin. A man had to have some pride.
The following morning, the atmosphere in the valley was transformed. The news that Michael could procure the critical supplies to revive the Demon-Slayer had injected a potent dose of hope into the grim resolve of Captain Liu and his men. The agreement was struck: they would wait two months, or even longer, for his return. The plan to evacuate the non-combatants to the relative safety of the Territory of Meili was accepted with a relief that was palpable.
As the ragged group assembled—twenty-six hardened adult fighters, and thirty-five others comprising the old, the young, and the infirm—Michael saw the full extent of their struggle. Only twelve, like the young sentry Li Hao, could be considered remotely healthy. The others bore the marks of their environment: hair loss, skin lesions, a profound weariness that went beyond mere fatigue. They were not infected, he was told; such a fate was considered a dishonor, and was met with a final, tragic act of defiance before the transformation could complete.
A new, sobering worry settled alongside his excitement. How could he help these people? Were there drugs in his world, real medicine, that could treat chronic radiation sickness? The task of saving the man in the cryo-tube had just expanded into the daunting challenge of saving those who had guarded him for generations. The weight of it was immense, but as he glanced back towards the hidden cave holding the Demon-Slayer, he felt a strange surge of determination. He had a mech to power up, a bank to potentially loot, and now, a people to heal. Life in the Wasteland had just become infinitely more complicated, and infinitely more compelling.