Three days later, the sound of engines rolled across the wasteland—an organized, thunderous chorus that didn’t belong to scavengers or raiders.  

The government convoy had arrived.  

From the fortress tower, Gene watched the line of trucks and armored transports snake toward the gate, dust rising behind them like a pale storm.  

As always, the exchange would happen at the side gate—no exceptions, no visitors, no tours.  

“Contact confirmed,” Reina reported, adjusting her headset. “One female officer in command. High rank, judging by insignia.”  

“Female officer?” Liz grinned. “This is gonna be good.”  

Kayla frowned. “You say that like it’s entertainment.”  

Liz shrugged. “It *always* is.”  

Gene ignored them, focusing on the monitors.  

The soldier stepping out of the lead vehicle wore a crisp, ash-gray uniform. Her posture was flawless; her gaze sharp enough to cut steel.  

She moved like someone used to command—efficient, fearless, utterly professional.  

Her name tag read **ANGEL GATES.**  

He noted the irony. The apocalypse had a sense of humor.  

The usual procedure followed:  

Inspectors checked crates, sensors scanned the cargo.  

Everything matched the manifest—one container full of titanium ingots, neatly packed and sealed.  

Transaction: complete.  

Except…  

Reina’s brow furrowed. “Uh, Gene… something’s off.”  

“Off how?”  

She zoomed the camera feed. Among the titanium crates sat a smaller box—neatly wrapped in paper, topped with a ribbon.  

Beside it, a full case of canned coffee.  

And a note.  

Reina squinted at the screen. The officer had opened the card, read it—and froze. Her expression changed, that practiced stoicism faltering into something almost girlish.  

Then she smiled.  

Reina read the message aloud, disbelief dripping from every word.  

> “*The flowers pale next to your beauty. When weary, drink the coffee—it may not fix the world, but it will hold the fatigue at bay.*”  

Silence.  

Kayla turned to Gene. “...You’ve got to be kidding me.”  

Liz burst out laughing. “Oh, *that’s* romantic. A poet with bullets!”  

Reina deadpanned, “So. Who’s gonna tell me when you started adding flirtation to the trade inventory?”  

Gene stared at the screen, slack-jawed. “I didn’t! That wasn’t me!”  

He pointed helplessly at the camera feed. “Do you *see* me writing love notes between artillery shipments?!”  

> **System:** “Positive engagement protocols initiated. Gifts included to promote trust and morale.  

>  Bonus sentiment: statistically effective with female officers.”  

Gene’s jaw tightened. *You absolute pile of circuits.*  

He swore under his breath. *I just finished calming down the last five women, and now you’re trying to start World War Four?!*  

> **System:** “Host, your survival instinct is admirable. Relax— even if there were one hundred women here, you’d still survive.”  

*That’s not comforting!* he thought, gripping his forehead.  

The fortress command room erupted in noise.  

Questions, teasing, mock horror.  

“Didn’t think your type was *uniforms*,” Kayla remarked dryly.  

“Guess the fortress has a new fan club,” Liz added. “Maybe start printing membership cards?”  

Gene groaned, hands over his face. “Please. Stop. Talking.”  

But the radio crackled again. Reina turned.  

“Uh, Gene… she’s asking to speak with you. Directly.”  

He froze. “...What?”  

“She said, and I quote, *‘Tell the Supplier I’d like a word.’*”  

Liz leaned back in her chair, grinning like a fox. “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”  

Gene glared at her. “I can’t just ignore a government officer.”  

Kayla smirked. “You could. But we’d *never* let you hear the end of it.”  

Reina shrugged. “Besides, we’re all curious. What does the good soldier want with our legendary hermit?”  

Gene sighed. “Fine. Safe room, one-way glass. I’m not showing my face.”  

The secure chamber hummed quietly. One chair, one table, one microphone.  

On the other side of the glass, the officer sat poised—her uniform immaculate, hair tied back, posture perfect.  

“Major Angel Gates,” she introduced herself formally, voice clear and controlled.  

“On behalf of the Central Government Restoration Command, I’d like to thank you for your assistance—and for the… thoughtful gift.”  

*That gift was not mine,* Gene thought silently.  

He pressed the mic. “Supplies were delivered as promised. The gift was… uh, probably a logistical mislabel.”  

Her lips curved into a small smile. “Then your logistics team has impeccable taste.”  

Reina, watching from the control booth, nearly choked on laughter.  

Angel’s tone softened. “All humor aside—I came to deliver an invitation.”  

She folded her hands on the table.  

“The government is expanding its restoration effort. We need stable outposts, supply hubs—people who can help rebuild.  

We’d like you to join us, Mr. Hancock. As an official quartermaster for the Restoration Force.”  

Gene leaned back. “Appreciate the offer, Major. But I don’t join things anymore.”  

She blinked. “Not even to help rebuild the world?”  

“Rebuilding’s noble,” he said, voice steady. “But I trade with everyone. Governments. Settlements. Even raiders if they’ve got clean goods. I’m not a patriot anymore—just practical.”  

Her expression tightened, but not unkindly. “I understand.”  

Then, softer: “If we make it back from this mission, maybe next time… we could speak face-to-face?”  

He hesitated. “You’re heading out?”  

She nodded. “Expedition east. Trying to reclaim civilian zones.  

But every zone’s got its own warlord now. We’ll need luck—and maybe your supplies again.”  

Gene allowed himself a faint smile. “Then you’ll have both. Supplies and luck.”  

She stood, saluted. “Then this is goodbye—for now.”  

He watched her leave through the glass, boots clicking in rhythm, back straight, never once looking behind.  

The door shut. Silence filled the room.  

> **System:** “Major Angel Gates. Overall aesthetic rating: 90%.  

>  Dominant trait: high-command charisma.  

>  Classification: ‘Cold-Authority Type.’ Strong compatibility with host.”  

Gene rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Compatibility?! She’s a government officer, not a dating profile!”  

> **System:** “Correction: multitasking profiles are more efficient.”  

He groaned. “You’re gonna get me killed one of these days.”  

> **System:** “Statistically improbable. Survival instinct: 97%. Current female saturation ratio: 600% above stable norm.”  

Gene buried his face in his hands.  

Outside, the convoy engines roared back to life, fading into the horizon.  

Inside, six women, one AI, and one exhausted man prepared for another very long week.