[Current Objective: Don't Start a Fight]

Against all odds, the Scrapyard compound was an unexpected marvel of organization and care. It resembled a meticulously arranged ant colony, with vehicles grouped into distinct sections that radiated from a central building with almost cosmic precision.

Two colossal buses had been whimsically converted into communal sleeping quarters, their interiors adorned with hammocks and makeshift bunks that offered a surprising level of comfort for a post-apocalyptic setting. Nearby, shipping containers had been creatively repurposed into washing facilities, their cheerful murals proclaiming a dedication to both cleanliness and artistic expression.

The farming precinct was a testament to human perseverance and botanical resilience. Here, new shoots thrived in a patch of soil liberated from concrete, nourished by a sophisticated sprinkler system that sprayed water with the enthusiasm of a hundred garden gnomes. This vibrant greenery suggested the compound boasted ample infrastructure, if not a complete grasp on sanity.

Another section, covered by an expanse of tarps, resembled a blend of a low-key circus tent and a spontaneous music festival. It buzzed with activity, featuring a cooking station that filled the air with mouthwatering aromas and crafting areas where cultists engaged in pottery and macramé. It was a place where even the most mundane tasks acquired a whimsical significance.

The final precinct housed a collection of farm animals, adding a pastoral charm to the scrapyard's industrial aesthetic. This sanctuary extended into a larger paddock, accessible via a rolling gate that led out into the untamed wasteland. It felt as if the animals had formed an unspoken alliance with the cult, contributing to the compound's bizarre equilibrium.

Regan and I halted in our tracks, utterly astounded by the surreal spectacle beyond the compound’s formidable fences. The scene unfolded like a living surrealist painting. Cult members, dressed in a bewildering array of green and yellow robes that seemed inspired by high fashion and abstract geometry, greeted us with cheerful waves as they went about their routines.

The air was a curious blend of tantalizing cooking scents and the sweet, soothing aroma of perfumed incense, which managed to mask the persistent undercurrent of old motor oil. The atmosphere was one of unsettling hospitality, as if welcoming us into a realm where every detail was meticulously crafted, yet deeply disconcerting.

Cult members bustled around us, immersed in their tasks. Their robes varied from plain, like ours, to elaborate and nearly ostentatious. Regan and I exchanged uncertain glances, unsure how to approach the delicate task of displacing these people.

“We need to get into the garage,” Regan said firmly, pointing towards the central building. “That’s where all the important stuff seems to be.”

I nodded but cautioned, “It’s heavily guarded. I count four sentries stationed around it. They won’t be easy to bypass.”

Before we could discuss further, a soft voice interrupted. A short man with two white dots on his face and a glassy, unfocused stare approached us, seemingly appearing out of nowhere.

“Ah, new souls,” he said, his voice dripping with enthusiasm. “Such great energy you both have. I can feel it from here. Wow.”

"Hi, can we help you?" I asked, assuming he might be a quest-giver.

“Oh, wow. Already eager to help, ready to reconnect with humanity. Such great energy,” he continued, seemingly more excited than informative. “It’s almost mealtime; come and share in the bounty of our human endeavor. Afterwards, we can discuss how you can contribute to our mission.”

With that, the man ambled away toward a makeshift mess tent. A bell rang, summoning the Human League from their tasks to the mess. Regan and I followed, already formulating a plan.

The meal was a simple fare of potatoes, carrots, and a sliver of pork. Given my recent escapades, I opted out of the meat. Regan, suspecting the food might be tainted, was reassured by my Connoisseur perk, which confirmed the meal was safe.

We pressed our request to enter the central garage on our fellow diners. They explained that as new initiates, we were low-ranked within the cult and would need to prove our worth to advance. Only then would we gain access to what they called “the sanctuary.”

Proving our worth was straightforward but rather dull. Regan was directed to a workstation to repair various tools, while I was led to a medical tent. Inside, an array of crafting supplies awaited me. I was surprised to find that the Human League was well-stocked with medicinal herbs and roots. Some, like the Go-go leaf, were familiar from past adventures, while others were exotic and unfamiliar, but my Connoisseur perk shed light on their uses.

Among them was Trip Root, known for its potent psychoactive properties; Slumber Shroom, which induced sleep; and a flower named Death Wish, ominously labeled with a straightforward warning: “Do not eat.”

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I set to work, brewing a range of potions and lotions to tackle various ailments. I began with basic recipes, quickly observing a decline in my failure rate as I gained familiarity with the methods. It seemed the crafting system rewarded practice, improving proficiency over time.

As I became more adept with the basic recipes and my failure rate dropped below ten percent, I advanced to crafting simple healing items. My skills continued to refine, and I managed to reduce the failure rate for more complex recipes from forty-three to twenty-two percent. Despite several setbacks, my persistence paid off when I successfully crafted my first advanced healing item. This achievement earned me the Wasteland Pharmacologist perk, enhancing the potency of all my crafted medicinal items by an additional eight percent. Unfortunately, this bonus didn’t apply to my earlier creations.

As the day waned, Darius entered the tent.

“You alright, newbie?” he asked cheerfully. Beneath his painted smile, however, I detected a barely concealed hint of malice. With four white dots on his forehead, it was evident he held significant rank within the cult.

“Hi Darius. Yes, I’ve been busy proving my worth,” I responded, carefully guiding the conversation.

“We’ll see,” Darius said, his smile widening. “Time for you to hand over what you’ve made. It will be redistributed according to the needs of the Earth Mother.”

Darius extended a pudgy hand—a symbolic gesture since transactions would occur through our inventory interface. I approached cautiously, opening the trade window. For a moment, I considered inspecting Darius’s inventory for anything valuable but quickly dismissed the idea. Unlike Rolland, I lacked the finesse for pickpocketing. Armed mostly with my trusty cooking tools, I doubted I could hold my own in a fight if Darius turned hostile.

I traded all my basic and simple healing items to Darius. The portly security chief examined me with the unyielding gaze typical of Non-Player Characters.

“Is this all, Jonas? You ain’t holding out on me, are you?”

In truth, I was holding back. While I was willing to part with the basic items, I intended to keep the advanced ones, as they provided crucial advantages for our mission.

“That’s everything, Darius. I’m here to share my labor, not hoard it,” I said, my tone sincere.

Darius's forced smile faltered, then shifted into a more genuine, warm grin. I earned experience points for passing a speech check.

“I believe you, Jonas. You did a fine job here. Come with me to the Sanctuary. Earth Mother will want to make you a Fellow Man.” Darius pivoted and strode out of the tent. I followed cautiously, our footsteps echoing in the corridor as another mealtime bell rang.

Regan soon caught up, flanked by another security officer. Unlike Darius, whose bulk was concealed by flowing robes, this man’s simpler attire revealed his body armor.

“Enjoy your time fixing stuff?” I asked Regan, trying to keep the conversation light. She nodded with a lack of enthusiasm. Clearly, something was troubling her. We subtly increased the distance between us and our escorts as we walked.

“Something big is happening,” Regan whispered urgently. “All day, I’ve heard Notters talking about a Great Ascension. It sounds imminent, but I have no idea what it means.”

I cursed softly. “Our arrival probably set something off within the cult.”

“Like a quest or a scripted chain of events,” Regan concluded.

I nodded thoughtfully. “But I didn’t overhear anything specific. I was alone all day except for Darius, who seemed ready to be violent at the drop of a hat.”

“Well,” Regan said, “I guess we’ll learn more inside the garage.”

She gestured to the central building looming ahead. The structure was massive, designed to house several buses and trucks. Its corrugated steel walls were reinforced with welded scrap metal, standing six feet high. Outside one of the rolling shutters, another guard exchanged words with Darius before keying his radio. After a brief delay, the shutter groaned open with a rusty screech, granting us entry into the Sanctuary.

“Sanctuary” was a misleading term. The space inside was a hive of industrial activity. Cult members were cutting, welding, and dismantling scrap for purposes unknown. We were led across an oil-slicked floor to a ramp ascending through a multi-level scaffold structure.

Looking up, I saw the scaffold branching into multi-armed gantries at different levels, spiraling towards a central platform. This platform, about ten yards wide, was suspended by thick chains at each corner, ready to be hoisted into a docking space within the massive pylon that dominated the garage.

As we ascended, we passed sleeping quarters, a communications station, an armory, and a mess hall. Each area was enclosed by repurposed wire fencing, creating a panopticon effect—everything was observable but securely separated by locked gates. Bright floodlights cast harsh, unyielding illumination over the entire Sanctuary, adding to the sense of constant surveillance.

At the central platform awaited what could only be described as a temple to new-age aesthetics. Its walls, crafted from fragments of recycled glass held together by rusted metal beams, formed a crude yet deliberate mosaic that caught the sunlight, casting a dim, fractured glow—an arresting contrast to the industrial intensity below.

Each corner of the structure was anchored by a pillar constructed from a mix of driftwood and scavenged marble. These pillars, worn and weathered, were evidently robust enough to support the tension of the chains anchored to them. The entrance was marked by a sliding door adorned with strings of beads made from various materials, which produced a soft, musical clinking sound with each movement.

Inside, the floor was a patchwork of old rugs and yoga mats, their colors faded but still hinting at their former vibrancy. Crystals and geodes were scattered throughout, some faintly glowing, adding a touch of mysticism to the space. Dreamcatchers hung from the ceiling, their webs now filled with dust rather than dreams, swaying gently in the occasional breeze. Incense burned freely in large braziers made from reclaimed trash cans, creating a pungent odor that made my head swim.

At the center of the room was a small, square altar covered by a decorative sheet bearing a mandala pattern. Surrounding the altar were cushions and beanbags arranged in a circle to encourage contemplation and community. Yet, only one person occupied the largest beanbag. She was Earth Mother, and she was the most formidable challenge I had yet faced in the wasteland of Apocalypta.