[Current Objective: Locate and Secure a New Settlement]

The scrapyard lay a grueling three-hour trek northeast of Rustborder. Our journey was interrupted by a fierce encounter: a den of five Rust Badgers. These knee-high beasts, weighing around forty pounds each, launched themselves at us with razor-sharp teeth and savage claws. They aimed for our throats, intent on dragging us down and tearing us apart.

Regan, nimble and quick, danced around their attacks, her hammer striking with precision and sending the furry aggressors flying. Despite her skill, the Rust Badgers proved resilient, their frenzied eyes gleaming with defiance as they turned their wrath upon me. I evaded the first rush, driving my Chef’s knife upward with a newfound strength that split through flesh and bone, delivering a fatal blow. Energized by the fight, I dispatched the remaining badgers with a ferocity I hadn’t known before.

After looting and butchering the creatures, we found little more than raw crafting materials. I pocketed the pelts and meat, leaving the bones to scatter in the wind. Regan, meanwhile, unearthed a Rusty Screwdriver that inflicted poison damage, leaving us bemused about the peculiarities of a badger’s inventory management.

We continued our journey across fields and roadways, reclaimed by nature’s relentless advance. The wasteland, with its vibrant colors and wild growth, presented a hauntingly beautiful contrast to the grimy human settlements that dotted the landscape. Each crack in the brick and tarmac burst with verdant life, a stark reminder of nature’s reclamation. I mused on the possibility of rebuilding humanity with a renewed appreciation for beauty, though it seemed that such a transformation would necessitate the complete dismantling of what came before.

As I paused to gather my thoughts, I struggled to reconcile the wasteland’s eerie beauty with the reality that it was merely a simulation. The notion felt both cold and oddly comforting, as if accepting the virtual world as real might offer some semblance of truth. What if the histories and lore Meryl spoke of were genuine? What if we were deceived by a capricious entity manipulating our perception of reality?

A shiver ran down my spine at the thought, as if I were probing into forbidden knowledge. I tried to shove these unsettling ideas aside, but they lingered, gnawing at my consciousness.

“There it is, Crushing Fields Scrap Yard,” Regan’s voice broke through my reverie, pulling me back to the task at hand.

From the cover of a dense tangle of twisted branches, I caught sight of the scrapyard’s squared outline in the distance. Regan and I equipped the binoculars salvaged from Rustborder and scanned the area carefully.

The weather-beaten sign of Crushing Fields hung precariously over the main building, which served as both reception and office block. Encircling the building, rusted chain-link fencing enclosed a chaotic two-acre expanse. Inside, the scene was a jumbled mess of twisted metal strewn about a central garage that squatted beneath a towering steel pylon.

The pylon loomed as a steel pyramid, repurposed into a scaffold supporting various auxiliary structures. Gunner’s nests perched at its heights, armed with floodlights and other defensive gear meant to ward off intruders. Satellite dishes and antennas peppered its framework, hinting at a communications hub. Suspended beneath, hidden from view at ground level, was a platform that looked suspiciously like a makeshift temple.

“There are people,” I said, reporting back to Regan.

“A lot of them,” she confirmed, peering through her own binoculars. “I can count maybe forty. They’re all in green, so they must be part of the same cult,” she observed.

A heavy silence settled between us as Regan voiced the question that had been on both our minds.

“Are we going to kill them all?”

I lowered my binoculars and met Regan’s gaze. Her expression was firm, yet I could sense the subtle tremor of doubt beneath her resolute exterior. I wondered if my own face had mirrored that same inner conflict when I faced Rolland before venturing into the Porc nest.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” I said honestly. “I’m not eager to launch an assault on a group of people who were living their lives peacefully before we showed up.”

“But they’re Notters,” Regan argued. “We’re Players. We have agency; they don’t. We matter; they don’t.”

Regan wrestled with the moral implications of our plan, trying to reconcile her understanding of this world with the ethical challenges it posed. Her words carried an edge of uncertainty, as if she was searching for a justification beyond the simplistic dichotomy between Players and Notters.

I, too, found it difficult to respond immediately. After a moment's thought, I opted for a pragmatic approach.

“That’s not necessarily the case,” I said. “We don’t know if Notters respawn after death. If they don’t, they’re a finite resource. Some of them might even become Players. Maybe we can convince the cult to leave peacefully.”

Regan’s skepticism was evident. “So your plan is to stroll into their compound and ask them nicely to leave?”

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“Maybe,” I admitted, trying to keep my optimism intact. “If that doesn’t work, we might have to deal with their leader and take control that way. This was your quest, after all.”

Regan looked like she was about to counter that her role was more about guiding the primary player than owning the quest.

“Fine,” she conceded, her tone tinged with frustration. “What’s the plan for getting in? Wait for nightfall and sneak through the gate?”

“Nope,” I said, stepping out from the cover of the trees. “We’re going to walk right up and ask to be let in.”

As we approached openly, under the watchful eyes of the gunners, I signaled Regan to stay close. I kept an eye out for any notification of experience points from my Yellow Belly perk, hoping for a smooth entrance. To my relief, no alarms were triggered, suggesting the cultists were not immediately hostile.

We arrived at the outer reception—a dilapidated glass box with a sliding window. The glass, marked by bullet holes, remained intact despite the damage. Behind the counter sat an elderly woman with stringy white hair and a distant, contemplative expression. Her robes and shawls were a patchwork of vibrant greens and yellows, with three white dots painted on her forehead and a fourth beneath her lips.

“Well now, what do we have here?” she croaked, her voice imbued with a surprising warmth. “Wandering souls from the wasteland, seeking a reconnection with humanity?”

“Ahhhh, of course,” the old woman continued, her gestures grand and dramatic. “Everyone comes to the Human League searching for that lost sense of self. But not all are worthy. We must guard against spiritual decay by limiting contact with those who carry negative frequencies. So tell me, what do you offer?”

“I can cook,” I said, presenting my crafting skills. Given her elaborate speech, I figured that showcasing aggressive abilities might paint us as mere wasteland survivors rather than potential allies.

The old woman eyed me critically and slowly rolled her eyes with a theatrical flourish. “We all can cook, dear. Cooking is a basic skill for humanity, one that every Acolyte of the Human League learns first. Therefore, we have no need for cooks.”

“I’m an electrical engineer,” Regan interjected, inflating her crafting expertise. The receptionist's demeanor brightened instantly at the mention.

“Ohhh, that would be most useful,” she said with enthusiasm. “Very helpful indeed. You may enter, and your companion as well. But first, you must join us as Human Apprentices.” She handed us a pair of robes in a garish shade of green. We put them on, the vibrant hue clashing with my usual attire but leaving my Boar-tooth necklace untouched.

Once we were dressed, the receptionist pressed a buzzer. The electromagnetically sealed door slid open with a soft hiss, granting us entry.

“Keep walking forward, children,” she directed with an air of mysticism. “A most perfect future awaits, just down the hall.”

We followed her instructions, progressing from the front of the building to the back. As we stepped into a narrow corridor, the electromagnetic clamps released with a faint hiss, sealing the door behind us. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glow on the yellowing white paint slapped haphazardly over bare cinder blocks. Above the door at the corridor’s end, an unsettling message had been hastily scrawled: “Embrace the Mirror Man.”

Another buzz echoed as a third door slid open. Heavy footsteps reverberated through the corridor. Regan instinctively reached for her pistol, but I quickly shook my head.

“Not yet. We don’t know what’s coming,” I whispered urgently.

“Isn’t that exactly why we should be preparing for a fight?” Regan countered.

“No,” I said, my voice firmer than intended. “Put away the pistol. Now.”

With visible reluctance, Regan complied, falling slightly behind me as if to use me as a shield should my caution prove misplaced.

A stout man emerged from around the door. His bulk was barely concealed by heavy robes, and a large baton swung loosely from a loop of cloth at his side.

“This is the part where I take your weapons,” he said with an air of nonchalance. “Don’t worry, they’ll be safe in the armory.”

“And who are you?” I asked, eyeing him warily.

The man sighed with an air of exaggerated patience. “Outer-guard Darius Finkle, at your service. My job is to keep the troublemakers from causing chaos inside,” he said, motioning toward the door at the end of the corridor.

I shared a glance with Regan and gave a slight nod. “We’ll comply, Darius. But I have to say, you don’t exactly seem equipped to handle raiders.”

Darius blinked slowly, then a broad grin spread across his face. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. The Earth Mother has blessed me with a robust constitution,” he said, jiggling his substantial belly beneath his tight-fitting robes. “Unless those raiders have weaponry strong enough to breach power armor, I’ll withstand their assault. That’s the Earth Mother’s will,” he chuckled heartily. We followed suit, laughing as if sharing an inside joke.

We relinquished our firearms and melee weapons as requested. To my surprise, Darius permitted me to keep my cooking utensils, though Regan's attempts to keep her hammer were met with stern refusal.

“What’s your charisma?” I asked Regan as Darius returned to the armory and buzzed us through into Crushing Fields.

“My charisma is five. Completely average. Why, what’s yours?”

“Mine’s a six. I think we’ll need to boost our charisma as much as possible here. There are bound to be plenty of speech challenges. I should be okay, though, since my luck is a seven—”

Regan interrupted with a long, impressed whistle. “Damn, a seven in luck? That’s pretty impressive. Mine’s only a four.”

“It’s a what?” I started.

“A four. My luck stat is a four. Is that bad?”

I reflected on the many fortunate turns my journey had taken so far. Silas not delivering a fatal blow when he seemed poised to. Duroc hesitating before attacking. The timely appearance of the mysterious sniper on the hill. Meryll’s unexpected arrival. It was difficult to gauge how much of this good fortune was attributable to a numerical luck stat.

"It's not ideal," I said, carefully choosing my words. "Okay, new plan. Stay cautious and don’t try anything risky. We should be fine, hopefully."

When the inner door swung open, revealing Crushing Meadows in all its stark reality, a chill of apprehension washed over me. Here I was, nearly disarmed, standing next to someone whose presence might very well be a harbinger of bad luck. The situation was beginning to feel like an exceptionally misguided venture.