It was hours before the police left.

There are a few things they don't tell you in the movies about fighting criminals.

When someone dies in your house, even a criminal, you have …. things left.

You need to clean the blood.

You need to scrub and sanitize.

You need to do all this while managing your daily lives.

I wasn't particularly surprised when scrubbing the floor for an hour got me the skill Cleaning.

CLEANING: CLEANSE SURFACES OR OBJECTS UNTIL THEY SPARKLE.

LEVEL 1: 25% MORE EFFICIENT CLEANING OF SURFACES.

We spent the next day checking the house and making sure no one else could break in. I created an improvised alarm system with my Mechanic skill.

BLUEPRINTS UNLOCKED:

BASIC WINDOW TRAP: STUNS ENEMIES TRYING TO CRAWL THROUGH A WINDOW. MATERIALS + 100 MP

BASIC DOOR TRAP: STUNS ENEMIES TRYING TO SNEAK IN THROUGH A DOOR. MATERIALS + 150 MP.

Basic traps, I discovered, required MP and electric wires. When they worked, they would deliver a mild shock to anyone who tried to get in through the door.

The Crawley gang had broken in by bypassing our house alarms, which - to my shock - turned out to be unnervingly easy to hack. The traps I set, however, weren't connected to the house systems but instead acted independently.

Best of all, if a trap was triggered, I would get a notification immediately. Which would be the signal for me to call the cops and Anne to lock herself in her room.

We also added another trap in front of Paul's room door so no one could threaten him.

"I feel like we're bolting the door after the horses have run away," muttered Anne that evening.

"We may as well. It's not like we have anything else to do."

"About that. I got a message from school today. They're planning to restart classes online, for a week or so, and then reopen."

"So fast?"

"It's been a week since the attack. And they're saying the damage wasn't too bad. Only eight thousand people killed."

"That's what we call not too bad?"

Anne shrugged. "At the Battle of Washington, ninety thousand people died. We got off lightly, or so all the TV channels say."

"Lightly. Heaven preserve us from such lightness." I sighed. "We'll get you set up this week and you can take Tessie from next week to school. I'll stay home and monitor Paul."

"Will do," Anne replied.

"Any luck on accessing your dad's accounts?"

"No, why?"

I sighed. "The bill for the automated bed came today."

"Oh." Anne was quiet for a second. ".... Maybe I can speak some of Dad's friends."

"Anybody responded yet?"

"No, but I'll keep trying."

"All right. Don't worry about it too much, though. I'm sure something will come up."

Anne looked puzzled, but nodded.

I watched her head upstairs. She was a good kid; she didn't deserve to have this much to worry about.

I might not remember who I was, but I did know right from wrong. Anne having to give up school or give up her father's medical care was just…. wrong.

As the adult - or near adult - in the situation, I knew what I had to do to make it right.

I had to get a job.

In a shattered city, with many people still living in shelters, you'd think jobs were hard to find.

You'd be wrong.

The first thing that happens in the aftermath of an alien attack is a government stimulus package for the city. Followed by government-assisted reconstruction efforts.

And that means construction workers.

It took me half an hour searching on Anne's phone to find a company that was hiring. Well, hiring without prior experience…. skilled construction workers were being offered as much as doctors right now, and construction managers were right up there with surgeons.

Unskilled - which was what I would qualify as - still made $18 per hour.

I discussed the idea with Anne that morning. "I think it's worth a shot," I explained.

She looked dubious. "Are you sure? It's not a very easy job."

"I'm sure it's manageable. And worst case, I do it for a couple of weeks, until your dad wakes up or you get in touch with some of his friends."

"Yeah …. but you don't have social security or a bank account. How are they going to pay you?"

"Cash. I called the company and they said they were willing to pay, daily, in cash."

"If you're sure…. I don't want to impose."

"Hey, I'm staying here and eating your food. I should be paying rent, right?"

Anne smiled sadly. "You're not a tenant, you're… you're family."

RELATIONSHIP WITH ANNE DRAKE INCREASED!

ANNE NOW CONSIDERS YOU FAMILY - A TRUE SIBLING, BY ADOPTION IF NOT BY BLOOD. DO YOU ALSO CONSIDER HER FAMILY? YES/NO

Annoying as the notification was, it seemed only right. I'd come to think of Anne as a little sister anyway.

YOU ARE NOW PERMANENTLY PART OF THE DRAKE FAMILY.

RELATIONSHIP WITH ANNE DRAKE: CLOSE FAMILY.

RELATIONSHIP WITH PAUL DRAKE: CLOSE FAMILY (HIDDEN UNTIL PAUL DRAKE AWAKENS).

"Well, I think of you as family too," I told Anne. "So as the big brother, I am hereby declaring that you will go to school and I will go to work."

Anne giggled. I snickered. Paul's machine beeped. All was well.

The next morning I found myself at Dixit Contracting.

Niklas Morell, the supervisor, was six foot two and heavily muscled. He gave me a lookover when I met him. "You're scrawny. Ever worked a site before?"

"No, sir. This is my first job."

He grunted. "Everybody starts somewhere. You'll be with the rest of the newbies."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

I was assigned to a group of six people, most of whom had as little experience at construction as I did.

Billie Joe Bunting was a painter whose studio had collapsed during the alien assault.

Tam Sorrell was a forty-something father of four. He normally worked as a realtor but had been having a lean couple of months even before the attack.

Jessica Novak had worked as a maid at a hotel. Her cousin, Bryan Novak, was also part of our group, and had been a waiter at the hotel's biggest restaurant.

"The Ambassador was in the centre of the city," he explained, "so it's pretty heavily bombed out. Doubt it'll open anytime soon."

The last member of our group, Martie, had been a pizza delivery boy.

Niklas assigned us the task of removing rubble from the site. The 'site' was actually a full neighbourhood of over seventy houses that had been blasted to bits. The tell-tale marks of plasma burns still charred the walls.

"The Army swept the site," Niklas told us, "so it's unlikely there's any explosives buried underneath. Still, if you see anything suspicious, don't touch it."

I made up my mind to Observe anything before moving it.

Fortunately, we didn't run across any unexploded ordnance. We did find a large number of sharp objects - knives, tools, even the odd axe - so the clearing had to be done carefully.

Ideally, earth moving machinery would do the job, but there wasn’t enough of it in the city. Also, we had to check if there were any valuables in the rubble that needed to be salvaged.

General rule was, if you found something precious or of sentimental value, you deposited it in a bin, which was sent to a central sorting section. Previous owners - or their heirs - could come by and claim it.

Mostly, though, we just found pulverized bricks, glass shards, burnt wood, and broken furniture.

Hauling the junk away wasn’t exactly safe, either. Each member of the group ended up scraping a hand or dropping something on their foot at least once in the day.

I was luckier than most - I cut my hand on glass and metal fragments several times during the day. Each time, I got a -3 HP notification.

Each time, I healed within a minute.

The heavy work also had another, unexpected benefit. After several hours of moving and shifting rubble, I got yet another notification:

FOR EXERTING YOURSELF MIGHTILY, YOUR STRENGTH HAS INCREASED.

+1 TO STRENGTH.

Well, interesting.

And also alarming, since this meant a punch would cause even more damage. Still.

Lunch consisted of tomato and cucumber sandwiches, which I’d packed for myself at home before leaving. To my surprise, Billie Joe and Martie hadn’t packed any lunch.

I shared a sandwich with each of them. I could spare the food, and they seemed worse off than me.

“This is good stuff,” mumbled Billie Joe as he munched through his. “Your mama make these?”

“No, I made them myself,” I replied.

“You could be a chef,” Martie added. “Pizza Hut’s always looking for talent. If you get tired of construction, you can lemme know - I’ll hook you up.”

“Thanks, Martie,” I smiled. “I’ll keep it in mind for whenever things open up.”

+1 ETHICS FOR SHARING FOOD WITH THE HUNGRY.

The Novaks and Sorrell kept to themselves through the meal.

Afterwards, we had even more shifting and moving to do. More rubble, more houses, more glass shards.

Late evening, I got yet another +1 to strength. This one, however, had taken much longer - the first boost came after three hours, the second after six.

By the time ten hours were up, we were exhausted. I felt tired mentally, but I was still better off than the others. Sorell and Jessica Novak had spent the last hour ‘sorting’ - essentially segregating out valuables - while the other four had continued to shift rubble.

Still, we headed back to the office to collect our pay.

Morell seemed surprised to see all of us show up. “Figured at least one of you would have quit,” he commented. “Construction isn’t for everyone. Heavy work.”

“Damned heavy work,” grumbled Sorell. “Can’t we get something lighter for tomorrow? I have a bad back.”

“You do the work we have,” rasped Morell, “or you find somewhere else to work. I don’t care about your bad backs or skinned knees. I need the jobsite cleared, and if you’re not up to handling it, I’ll find someone else.”

“I didn’t mean that,” muttered Sorrell. “Just asking.”

Morell handed us our cash and sent us off.

“Funny Tommy-boy should be the one asking,” Billie Joe commented as we left, “seeing as he sat on his backside for the last hour.”

I refrained from comment as I boarded the bus back home.

The next two weeks passed much the same. Every day, we hauled rubble away from the jobsite, and every day, we clocked out after ten hours to collect our one hundred and eighty dollars.

I was able to pay off the bed charges for a month and leave a little bit in reserve. Equally helpful was the fact that my strength kept boosting the longer I worked.

It went to 15 the second day, 16 on the fourth, and 17 on the eighth.

The only challenge was that each step upwards took twice as long to achieve.

After two weeks, the crew wasn’t the same either. Tom Sorrell had left after a couple of days, claiming he couldn’t keep up the pace. Jessica left at the end of the week, though her cousin stayed. Martie left as the grocery stores opened up.

“Delivery is delivery,” he told us, “and I’d rather work something safer than this.”

At the end of the second week, Morell came over to talk to me.

“You know,” he commented, “I thought you’d be the first to bolt.”

“Huh?” I was surprised. “Why would you think that?”

“You’re young. You’re a kid. You didn’t look like you’ve done hard work in your life. But now look at you.” He grinned. “You got muscles like a real construction man now.”

“Uhh….” I hadn’t thought about that. Of course my increased strength would show up visually - a man can’t increase his carrying capacity by nearly fifty per cent and not have it show. In my case, this had manifested as, well, muscles. “I didn’t really think much of it.”

Morell shrugged. “You probably had good genes. Your daddy or someone work sites?”

“When he was younger, yeah.”

“That’s probably it. Say, would your dad be interested in a job?”

“He’s in a coma. Accident on the day of the attack.”

“Oh.” Morell looked sympathetic. “Well, that explains it. So you’re the man of the house now?”

“Yeah.”

“You know anything about fixing stuff?”

“A little.”

“Come with me.”

Morell took me to the warehouse. There were dozens of damaged generators, spools of copper wire, air-conditioners, and broken washing machines lying around. “Can you fix any of this?”

“I can try.”

“Do that. This is mostly junk - anything you can get working is worth good money. Show me what you can do, and there could be more money for you in it.”

“How much more?”

“Twenty bucks for each machine you can fix.”

QUEST ALERT: FIX THE BROKEN MACHINES IN THE WAREHOUSE.

REWARD: +5 XP PER MACHINE FIXED, INCREASED RELATIONSHIP WITH SUPERVISOR MORELL, +$20 PER MACHINE FIXED UPON HANDING OVER TO SUPERVISOR MORELL.

Twenty dollars per machine fixed? This was the first quest that had some chance of making money.

“I’ll try.”

I spent the next four hours fixing washing machines, refrigerators, air conditioners, and generators.

The work wasn’t hard - Mechanic Level 7 meant I could fix simple machines without a manual - and the ability to use MP to make fixes happen let me cheat shamelessly.

Parts were still needed, but I could cannibalize a few machines and use them to fix the rest.

By the time Morell returned, it was evening, and I’d managed to fix seventy-six different machines.

Morell walked into the warehouse and did a double-take. “What in tarnation? Boy, did you fix everything?”

“Everything I could.”

“How many did you fix?”

“Uh…. seventy-six. That I could fix and test.”

“Test?”

“I plugged each into the power for a minute, just to see if it ran.”

His eyes bulged. “You fixed seventy-odd of these in three hours? And had time to test them?”

“Yes. Shouldn’t I have?”

“Hell.” Morell took off his helmet and scratched his head. “Well, you should’ve told me. Can’t blame you, though. Nobody fixes stuff that fast.” He frowned at me. “You’re not one of those inventor ultras, are you?”

“No, sir.”

He sighed. “Didn’t think so. ‘Cause what would an inventor be doing hauling rubble at a jobsite.” A pause. “I’ve only got a thousand on me. I’ll give you your ten hours pay, plus eight hundred for fixing forty machines. You can take the rest tomorrow; I’ll need to talk to the boss about it. That okay?”

“... Yes, sir.”

“All right. Here’s your money. Now scat. And boy…. from tomorrow, you don’t do the rubble. You work with me, I’ll tell you what to do. Got it?”

“Got it, sir.”

QUEST COMPLETED! FIX THE BROKEN MACHINES IN THE WAREHOUSE.

+380 XP, +$800, RELATIONSHIP WITH NIKLAS MORELL INCREASES TO COLLEAGUE.

HP: 120/120 PP 228/228

MP: 272/272 CP 220/220

AP: 132/132

$980.00 XP: 730/3000 Ethics: +7

And that’s how I began my second job at the site.

Every day, Morell would task me with fixing different things. These ranged from power tools to drills to other salvaged electronics. My Mechanic skill helped me make short work of them, and slowly levelled to 9.

When I’d reached Level 9, I also gained a new skill called Analyze.

ANALYZE: ALLOWS DEEPER UNDERSTANDING OF TECHNICAL EQUIPMENT. COST: 50 MP.

Using Analyze on broken machines gave me more information on their condition, what it took to fix them, and - sometimes - how they could be repurposed.

Apart from the damaged machines, the warehouse held quite a bit - paint cans, sledgehammers, protective gear, high-vis vests, welding torches and face shields, and whole crates of hammers, nails, crowbars and pipes.

It was when I tried a welding face shield on for the first time that I discovered a new trait altogether:

ARMOR EQUIPPED: FACE SHIELD

ARMOR POINTS: 60 (HEAD ONLY), DAMAGE REDUCTION: 50%, DAMAGE NEGATION: 15. BONUS: YOUR FACE IS CONCEALED DUE TO THE DARKENED GLASS OF THE FACE SHIELD.

What were Armor Points?

ARMOR PROTECTS IN THREE WAYS - ONE, IT REDUCES DAMAGE TAKEN, SECOND, DAMAGE LESS THAN THE MINIMUM THRESHOLD IS SIMPLY IGNORED, AND THIRD, IT ABSORBS A CERTAIN AMOUNT OF DAMAGE BEFORE IT BREAKS.

YOUR CURRENT ARMOR IS FACE SHIELD. BE WARNED, THIS ONLY PROTECTS THE HEAD.

FACE SHIELD ALLOWS YOU TO IGNORE ANY DAMAGE LESS THAN 15.

FACE SHIELD REDUCES BY 50% ANY DAMAGE ABOVE 15. DAMAGE INFLICTED IS FIRST APPLIED TO ARMOR POINTS BEFORE REDUCING HEALTH POINTS.

FACE SHIELD CAN ABSORB 60 POINTS OF DAMAGE BEFORE IT BREAKS.

If I’d had armour of this type on while facing the Crawleys, the knife - or the gun - would have been ineffective. At least on my face.

Maybe I could make armour that covered the whole of me?

Morell spoke to the owner, Abhijeet Dixit, and got me listed as a repair technician, which meant a jump in pay to $24 per hour. Still cash.

No payroll taxes.

I asked him about it once.

“Son,” he explained, “we work in a notified disaster area. For the first two months after an attack, the government doesn’t charge taxes.”

“No taxes at all?”

“If you work in the area, or you’re a contractor hiring local labour, you don’t have to pay taxes for the two-month period. As long as you hire locals, union membership isn’t a requirement.”

“Huh,” I muttered. “Smart. Gets more money into the hands of people, stimulates spending.”

Morell gave me a funny look. “You studying for college? You sound like one of those econ - professor types.”

“Uh, I just read the news.”

If Morell suspected that I hid more, he let it go.

On days when the workload was light, I volunteered to help Billie Joe and Novak’s team. They had cleared the rubble and were now helping with setting up for construction. Morell harrumphed at first but couldn’t find a reason to object, as long as I was fully utilized. He even approved paying me the repair technician rate while helping them.

My Strength increased to 18.

I met the owner, Abhijit Dixit, a couple of times. On both occasions he thanked me for my efforts. The second time, he hinted that if I wanted to take up working for him long-term, he might consider it after the contract was over.

Anne was going back to school. Paul still hadn’t woken up, but the hospital had said it was only a matter of time. We had enough money to last us for a while.

Best of all, a follow-up conversation with Mrs. Taft had resulted in my getting a brand-new set of identity papers, including a Social Security number, proclaiming me to be Andrew Drake. Things were looking up.

Of course, I should have known it wasn’t going to last.