[Current Objective: Defuse the Doomsday Device]

Dawn crept over the wasteland, casting a pale golden light that momentarily made the shattered ruins seem calm. But that peace was an illusion. It might be the last sunrise I’d ever see, and frankly, there was no use in dwelling on it. Survival in this world wasn’t about guarantees—only making it through the next hour.

Regan lay quietly on the bunk below mine, already awake but conserving her energy. The bus we’d commandeered served as our makeshift sleeping quarters, though “comfortable” was a stretch. We’d been gnawing on jerky bars for hours, trying to stave off exhaustion. The worst of my Unstable condition had finally passed, and I was thankful the shadows had stopped whispering madness into my ear.

I eased out of bed, slipping into the cold morning light. Regan was prepped for the plan—she knew the drill when the time came. Outside, I paced across the barren grounds of the Crushing Meadows compound, fully aware that sniper scopes might be tracking my every step. But I didn’t care. Wearing the same ragged robes as the other cult members, I was just another faceless worker going about routine tasks. Around me, others shuffled between chores, heads down, making it easy to blend in.

The mess tent loomed ahead, and I strode inside like I belonged. Three cooks were already in the back, moving like clockwork to prepare the day’s breakfast. I approached one—a gaunt, hollow-eyed man—and, with as much authority as I could fake, told him to take the morning off. To my relief, a charisma check flashed in my vision, and I passed. The guy didn’t argue, just wandered off, leaving me with the kitchen to myself. It occurred to me that my experience points were getting smaller by the day—a not-so-subtle reminder that Apocalypta wasn’t going to hand out easy wins anymore.

I headed to the fridge, half-expecting to find scraps, but was greeted with eggs, bacon, and mushrooms. They seemed oddly luxurious for a wasteland. Without hesitation, I snatched them up and approached the stove, equipping my trusty Chef’s Knife and Greasy Spatula. Hardly the weapons of a warrior, but in my hands, they’d do just fine. I got to work, crafting two Hearty Breakfasts—advanced-level meals that would give a solid endurance boost for the next four hours, not to mention fifty percent resistance to fatigue, exhaustion, and, crucially, instability.

Once the food was ready, I stashed the meals in my inventory. For a moment, I wondered if they’d turn to a mushy mess in there, but the inventory system held up, preserving the bacon and eggs with perfect integrity. Apocalypta had its quirks, but at least it wasn’t about to ruin breakfast.

With the Hearty Breakfast tucked safely in my inventory, I made my way over to the massive vat of communal porridge. The other cooks were too wrapped up in their routines to notice me. Perfect. I scrolled through my inventory, eyes settling on the three expert-level medical items I’d prepped the day before. Now came the tricky part.

The plan was simple, if by simple you meant "dangerously complicated." Slip a little something into the porridge—just enough to give Regan and me a clean shot at the Sanctuary without stirring up the entire cult. Once inside, we’d head straight for the temple. Regan would handle the nuke, detaching it from the computer before Earth Mother got wind of what was happening. Odds were high we’d have to face her eventually. I hadn’t seen her dine with the other Notters, so the Queen was probably holed up inside her fortress. Still, I’d rather tangle with her and a few diehards than face an entire cult ready to swarm us.

First option: Eclipsed Nightshade—a lethal tincture brewed from Death Wish flowers. The description said it all: "100% chance to inflict poison, dealing ten points of damage per second." After my Hearty Breakfast, my health would max out at one hundred points. I’d be dead in ten seconds flat if I downed the stuff. And it’d be the same for the Notters. A hundred dead bodies neatly stacked in rows, my experience bar overflowing. But no. I wasn’t about to go full genocide for a few XP. If I wasn’t willing to let Earth Mother torch these poor bastards in her mad quest for ascension, I sure as hell wasn’t going to do it myself.

Next up: Somnambulant Root Powder. A potent anesthetic from Slumber Shrooms, knocking anyone out within thirty seconds. The problem? It was unpredictable. The effects could last anywhere from half a minute to ten whole minutes. That left us racing the clock. Could Regan disarm a nuclear bomb in time? Maybe, if we raised the temple platform to buy ourselves distance, but if the cultists woke up before we finished… We’d be dead long before the nuke had a chance to go off.

Then there was Rageberry Extract. Despite the name, it was a mix of Trip Root and blackberries. The result? Complete and utter chaos. It induced a frenzy condition, turning the affected into berserkers for up to forty minutes. I thought back to the Porc skirmish—how berserk enemies had torn each other to pieces. In a camp like this, it’d be a bloodbath. Maybe we could use it to turn Darius or a few others against each other, creating enough chaos to cover our escape. The temptation was there, but so was the risk. The situation could spiral out of control fast.

I was burning precious time. The cultists would be here soon, hungry and ready for their morning slop. Finally, I made my call, trusting my gut. I added the chosen concoction to the porridge, slipping it in with the precision of someone who knew the stakes were life and death. As I stirred the mixture, a small notification flashed—experience points earned. Sabotaging breakfast might not be heroic, but the system rewarded initiative, even if that initiative involved spiking the meal of a hundred unsuspecting cultists.

I took a breath, letting the tension settle as I stepped back from the vat. The clock was ticking.

The bell rang, signaling breakfast time, and the cultists shuffled into the mess tent. They lined up in front of the vat, completely unaware of the sabotage lurking in their bowls. I stood by the vat, mimicking the movements of a kitchen assistant I’d studied the day before, trying to blend in. My heart was pounding in my chest, but I kept my expression neutral, banking on the cultists being too wrapped up in their daily routine to notice anything off.

One by one, they filled their bowls and took their seats. The first cultist lifted a spoonful of porridge to their mouth, and I held my breath, waiting for something—anything—to happen. Nothing. Not yet, at least. The concoction I’d slipped into their food wasn’t instantaneous. They’d need to finish eating before the effects hit.

Midway through the line, Darius appeared. His sharp gaze lingered on me for just a second, a brief pause that sent a spike of anxiety through my veins. I forced myself to stay calm, holding his gaze for the briefest moment before he moved on, taking a seat at one of the tables. No suspicion—at least, not yet.

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Regan was the last in line. She grabbed her food, and with quick, practiced movements, we traded out our meals for the Hearty Breakfasts stashed in my inventory. We sat as close to the exit as possible, eating fast, blending in, all while pretending like it was just another morning in the wasteland.

Then it happened. I saw the first cultist’s head slump forward. My pulse quickened as, one by one, they began to fall into their food, succumbing to the Sonambulant Root Powder. A notification chimed in my vision: I’d gained enough experience to level up. Level four. Normally, I’d savor the thrill of new perks, but there was no time for that. We had a mission.

“Go,” I whispered to Regan. We got up, moving quickly but not running. Running would draw attention, and we couldn’t afford that. There were still guards and sentries who hadn’t been at breakfast. If we got stopped, it would all be over.

We reached the Sanctuary’s outer door without incident. Slipping inside, I allowed myself a brief moment of relief, which was immediately shattered by the sight of the massive scaffolding structure inside. The Temple’s platform loomed ahead, already lowered and waiting at the docking station.

We didn’t waste time. We sprinted, our footsteps echoing off the plywood floors as we charged towards the platform. The eerie silence of the Sanctuary made every sound more menacing, more dangerous. But we were getting closer, step by step, hope rising in my chest. We were halfway there.

Then the sirens blared. Red lights flashed overhead. We’d been made.

I looked down, and there he was—Darius, his bloated form standing smugly at the doorway, his hand planted firmly on an absurdly oversized red alarm button. I cursed under my breath. I’d completely underestimated him. I thought his bulk was from overindulgence, but it was something else entirely.

My mind raced back to yesterday, to the temple, where Darius had shown no sign of discomfort from the heavy incense. Of course. The Sonambulant Root Powder hadn’t affected him. He was immune, and now we were caught.

“Traitors!” Darius roared, his voice reverberating off the steel walls as he barreled up the ramps. For a man of his bulk, his speed was terrifying—far faster than I’d ever imagined. Above us, the Temple platform groaned, the winches whining as they hoisted it higher and higher, out of our reach.

Regan, ever poetic in a crisis, unleashed a barrage of curses that could’ve made a hardened merc blush. There was no time to appreciate her creativity, though. We needed to move. Fast. Our boots thundered against the plywood, the sharp sound swallowed by the rising screech of the winches. The Boar Tusk Necklace around my neck buzzed with energy, lending me just enough power to surge ahead.

I reached the edge of the docking station, but the platform was already too high. The gap was too wide—I’d never make the jump. I didn’t even stop to think. I planted my feet, turning toward Regan, my hands outstretched. We’d done this a hundred times before. No words needed.

Regan was right behind me, eyes locked onto mine. In one fluid motion, she launched herself toward me. Her boot hit my interlocked hands, and I heaved with every ounce of strength I had. The Boar Tusk’s boost did its job—she sailed higher than we ever could have managed on our own.

For a gut-wrenching moment, she dangled at the edge of the platform, fingers scrabbling for purchase as it continued to rise. My heart stuttered in my chest. Time seemed to stretch as her boots kicked frantically against thin air, but finally—finally—she hauled herself up.

Relief surged through me, but it was short-lived. Regan was safe, and the next part of the mission—disarming the nuke—was in her hands. But as for me? I had another problem barreling my way.

The gantry trembled beneath my feet as Darius thundered closer, and it hit me like a punch to the gut—I wasn’t going to outrun him. I’d made the rookie mistake of assuming his bulk slowed him down, but his stamina was unreal. There was no escape route. I was trapped on the edge of the platform, nowhere to go, and Darius was coming for me like a freight train with no brakes.

I needed a plan. Fast.

Darius’s head came into view, bobbing up the ramp like an overgrown battering ram. I barely had a second to react before he swung his assault rifle up, aiming it with a terrifying precision. The moment his finger twitched on the trigger, I stepped back. Off the platform.

The sensation of falling was instant, a violent pull of gravity yanking me downwards. Panic flared in my chest. I calculated quickly—a fall from this height wouldn’t kill me, but it wouldn’t feel great either. Unless, of course, there was something below to break my fall. Spoiler: there wasn’t. Just cold, hard concrete fifty feet below.

At the last possible second, I reached out and snagged the edge of the platform. My fingers latched onto the cold metal, my body jerking to a stop, the impact rattling my bones. I dangled there, heart slamming in my chest, hanging on with a desperation that was probably way too dramatic given the circumstances.

Above me, Darius’s boots thudded on the ramp. He was getting closer, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold on.

Summoning a burst of strength that defied logic—and frankly, my own expectations—I hauled myself back into the fight. Darius, momentarily thrown by my reappearance—clearly a glitch in his Notter programming—hesitated just long enough for me to make my move. I re-equipped my trusty Chef’s Knife and the Greasy Spatula, a combo that probably wasn't designed for combat but had seen its fair share of action.

With the finesse of an overeager line cook, I launched the spatula at Darius. It spun through the air in a bizarre ballet before smacking him square in the nose. The handle connected with a satisfying thud, snapping his head back and throwing his aim off. The assault rifle in his grip spat bullets wildly, the rounds ricocheting off steel beams and plywood in a chaotic symphony of destruction. It was almost impressive, like the world’s worst fireworks show—if I weren’t in the middle of it.

The spatula, meanwhile, bounced and clattered down the gantry, its tragic descent echoing through the sanctuary until it hit the floor somewhere far below.

Not wasting a second, I charged at Darius, driving the knife into his robe. It sank into the armor beneath with an enthusiasm that was probably excessive. The impact sent us both tumbling down the ramp in a whirlwind of flailing limbs and armor. It wasn’t so much a fight as it was a graceless tumble, like two uncoordinated dancers locked in a gravity-defying spiral, both way too committed to their performance.

As we rolled, I scrabbled to pry the rifle from Darius’s grip. His strength matched mine, each of us holding onto our respective weapons with absurd tenacity. Every slam into the metal floor rattled my bones, and I watched with mild irritation as my health bar ticked down to ninety-eight. Great. Just what I needed.

I tried to yank my knife free for another stab, but Darius was quick—too quick. He released the rifle with one hand and grabbed my wrist in a grip that felt like it had been honed on actual boulders. The guy had endurance for days, and I was stuck in a hand-to-hand struggle with a human freight train.

Luckily, that grip gave me the leverage I needed. I wrested the rifle from his grasp and, in a move that could only be described as pure panic, hurled it over the side of the gantry. There was no time to stash it in my inventory—things were escalating faster than a soap opera finale.

We finally skidded to a halt on the lower floor. Darius, displaying an alarmingly fast recovery for a man of his size, yanked me to my feet like I weighed nothing. I barely had time to register what was happening before I saw the six white dots on his forehead moving closer, fast. Not dots of enlightenment—just the warning of an incoming headbutt.

His forehead collided with mine, and my vision exploded into a dazzling white flash. My health plummeted to ninety-two. Fantastic.

As I reeled from the impact, the grim realization hit me like an anvil: I’d severely underestimated this guy. Darius wasn’t just some portly, bumbling security guard. He was a tank, built for endurance, strength, and absolutely no chill. And here I was, foolishly trying to out-brawl a living fortress.