District F Administration Center.
"Supply Retrieval Squad B12, Captain Bryan, reporting for duty."
Bryan strode into the administration center with a nod to the soldiers flanking the entrance. He walked to the mission processing counter with the easy confidence of routine and placed his identification and assignment notice on the surface.
The clerk behind the counter took both items, verified Bryan's identity against his credentials, and returned the ID while shredding the assignment notice.
Then the clerk picked up a set of keys and murmured something into his shoulder-mounted radio. He walked to a large wall of lockboxes at the back—row upon row of small compartments, each with its own keyhole. He inserted the key, waited a few seconds, then entered a code with his free hand. A soft beep, and the compartment clicked open.
The clerk glanced up at the surveillance camera, reached in with both hands, and withdrew a sealed envelope.
He held the envelope's sealed face toward the camera for verification, then—under full surveillance—handed it across the counter to Bryan.
None of this was new. Bryan took the envelope without ceremony, didn't bother opening it, and slipped it into his pocket before heading for the exit.
Ever since the Fireflies had been driven from inside the QZ, they'd turned their attention outward. If they couldn't control what happened inside, they'd at least make life hell for the soldiers who ventured beyond the walls.
At first, small Firefly teams had staked out positions near the QZ gates, ambushing outbound convoys the moment they appeared. Indiscriminate gunfire, no questions asked.
A few attacks did produce casualties, but the results were ultimately limited—and the ammunition expenditure was catastrophic. For a resistance movement still finding its feet, the waste was unacceptable.
Worse, the increased attacks drew the military's attention. The QZ garrison dispatched large-scale search teams, sweeping the surrounding area methodically. Even though the Fireflies managed to go to ground, they still suffered losses.
After those setbacks, they'd pivoted to a far more effective strategy: rather than attacking convoys as they left the QZ, they'd wait at the destinations—the supply locations the convoys were heading to. An ambush on arrival.
Thanks to rampant corruption within the QZ, obtaining this intelligence wasn't hard. Despite orders from the top to crack down on leaks, there were always those who couldn't resist the lure of profit. Once the Fireflies came knocking, these insiders sold convoy routes, destinations, and mission parameters at fixed prices.
At first, no one noticed. But as time passed, the Administration Center's director picked up on the pattern—convoy losses and disappearances were spiking dramatically. A career politician with sharp instincts, he sensed something was deeply wrong. Without concrete proof, he couldn't report upward, so he launched a quiet internal investigation while simultaneously probing external conditions.
Shortly after, a soldier who'd barely escaped a Firefly ambush made it back and told him everything.
Simultaneously, the internal investigation revealed that someone within the Administration Center had been selling convoy intelligence.
The director was furious. He immediately reported the situation to high command and had every information seller executed for treason.
When Bryan learned all this, he'd counted himself lucky—none of his own missions had crossed paths with the Fireflies. In a situation where the enemy knew your every move and you knew nothing, he'd likely have ended up as bones on the roadside.
But the crisis also brought opportunity. With convoy casualties mounting, experienced personnel fled the assignment in droves—requesting transfers to safer postings. The work was already dangerous enough before, the supply share was pitiful, and now people were disappearing. A thankless job had become a death sentence, and staffing plummeted.
The shortage gave fresh graduates from the military training academy—soldiers like Bryan—their opening. On one of his early missions, he'd discovered a cache of critically needed supplies and brought them back safely, earning enough merit to be promoted to sergeant and given command of his own retrieval squad.
The intelligence breach had been a wake-up call for the QZ government, forcing them to acknowledge how internal corruption was eroding the very foundation of their authority. Soldier casualties weren't just numbers—they were chips breaking off the pillars that held everything up.
Hence the extreme security measures Bryan had just witnessed. Sealed envelopes, full surveillance during handoff, compartmentalized information. Only squad leaders knew the mission details. Everyone else learned the destination only after they arrived.
Leaving the Administration Center, Bryan passed through the adjacent checkpoint into the staging area—a sprawling zone designated for outbound operations, housing rows of vehicles and a refueling station.
This was also home base for all retrieval squads. Every team heading outside the walls assembled here first, waiting for clearance before departure.
Bryan headed toward the most prominent office building in the area. Along the way, he passed a processing window where a long line of QZ residents snaked through guide rails in a serpentine queue. At the front, a man was bent over the window, handing in a form—apparently registering for something.
Every QZ resident was required to participate in maintenance duties twice a year. These people were here to report for their assignment. Once tasks were posted, a coordinator would lead them to their designated work sites.
Judging by the grim expressions on their faces, none of them were particularly thrilled. And who could blame them? The assignments were random. A good one might earn you extra rations. A bad one might cost you your life.
Bryan gave them a passing glance and moved on. He'd seen the same scene every time he came through—nothing new.
Inside the office building, soldiers crisscrossed the lobby with purpose. A few stood in orderly lines at the side counters. Everyone wore the same taut, battle-ready expression—tense faces on every uniform except the clerks'.
Bryan took the familiar route to the stairwell and climbed to the second floor, finding a door labeled B12 on the left side of the corridor.
He pushed it open. A burst of laughter and roughhousing greeted him. Inside stood four young men, all shirtless, roughly his age, shoving each other around with the kind of easy camaraderie that comes from shared hardship.
Sitting apart from them, in marked contrast, was an older man. Deep worry lines carved his face, his eyes heavy with a weight the others didn't carry.
The moment they heard the door and saw Bryan walk in, the laughter died. All four snapped to attention—arms at their sides, backs straight, chests out.
"Captain!"
"At ease."
Bryan acknowledged them with a simple nod. He didn't comment on the horseplay. Life inside the QZ was oppressive enough; moments of levity were rare. As long as discipline held during missions, he wasn't going to police their downtime.
He opened his locker, swapped his casual shirt for a clipboard, then turned to face them. "Roll call. Let's keep it professional."
At this, several of them couldn't help but twitch, their eyes instinctively sliding toward the young man standing at the far left of the line.
The young man caught their looks and immediately adopted an expression of exaggerated innocence—shoulders up, palms out, the universal gesture of What? Me?
"Pfft—"
That was enough to break the others. Muffled laughter escaped from every direction.
Bryan raised an eyebrow, stepped forward, and rapped the clipboard against the young man's head—not hard, but not gentle either. "Getting bold, aren't you? My words just going in one ear and out the other now?"
The light smack was enough to make the young man shrink his neck and fall still. Privately, he was genuinely intimidated by his squad leader.
They might be the same age, and Bryan might look approachable—easygoing, even harmless. But this guy knew better.
Inside the QZ, the captain was the most laid-back person you'd ever meet. But the moment they crossed outside the walls? He became someone else entirely. Zero tolerance for insubordination. Ice-cold when cutting down Infected or Fireflies. Two completely different people living in the same skin.
He'd learned that the hard way—a single mistake during an operation had earned him a dressing-down so savage that even now, weeks later, the memory made his blood run cold.
...
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