Three days later, the apocalypse learned about kindness—and immediately ruined it.

It started with Liz Parker’s morning broadcast.  

Her voice, smooth as always, echoed across half the wasteland.

> “Good morning, survivors!  

>  Today’s story: an old man, two children, and one generous supplier who reminded us all that hope still exists!  

>  Here at Hancock Fortress, compassion is alive! Bring your little ones, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll find a miracle too.”

She even added soft background music. Piano. Piano!

By noon, the fortress cameras showed a line of people stretching beyond the dunes.  

Gene walked into the control room, took one look, and froze.

“…Why,” he said slowly, “are there thirty-seven adults holding children like shopping coupons?”

Reina zoomed in on one of the screens.  

“Some of them are even carrying dolls.”

Kayla slammed her notebook shut. “I told you not to let Liz near the mic.”

Liz beamed, unapologetic. “Hey, I was just boosting morale! Look at all that hope out there!”

Alyssa deadpanned, “That’s not hope. That’s opportunism with baby props.”

Freya gasped as she noticed a particularly suspicious man.  

“Wait—is he holding a kid upside down?”

“Borrowed,” Reina muttered. “Or stolen.”

> **System:** “Warning: high volume of trade requests.  

>  Processing queue overload. Estimated system burnout in… eight minutes.”

Gene rubbed his temples. “Fantastic. The apocalypse has discovered marketing.”

The first trader stepped forward on-screen: a scruffy man with a crying toddler perched on his shoulder.  

He held up a paper note. “We trade baby tears! For water!”

Kayla nearly choked on her coffee. “Baby tears?!”

> **System:** “Trade rejected. Emotional exploitation detected.”

The next one shoved forward, holding a kid that clearly wasn’t his—hair color didn’t even match.  

“This one’s an orphan! Very tragic! Can I get extra blankets?”

> **System:** “Verification failed.  

>  DNA mismatch.  

>  Possible kidnapping.”

Reina’s tone turned lethal. “Throw him out.”

Liz was laughing too hard to breathe. “This is the best episode I’ve ever aired.”

“Stop broadcasting!” Gene barked. “We’re turning into a daycare center with guns!”

But it was too late. The entire wasteland apparently believed that the “Supplier” had a weakness for kids.

By mid-afternoon, the fortress inbox overflowed with letters:

> “My neighbor’s cousin’s baby is cute—can we get food?”  

> “I just found this child wandering—give us medicine?”  

> “We have ten kids! Please, at least ten boxes of chocolate milk.”

Gene stared at the stack of paper. “System, tell me you didn’t approve any of these.”

> **System:** “Approval rate: zero percent.  

>  Tolerance threshold exceeded.  

>  Initiating crowd-dispersal protocol.”

The external speakers crackled.  

A metallic voice boomed across the wasteland:

> “Attention: Hancock Fortress is not a charity.  

>  Please retrieve your borrowed children and vacate the premises.”

A beat of silence—then shouting, groaning, and the sound of retreating footsteps.

Within an hour, the front gate was clear again.  

Only dust and a few abandoned dolls remained.

Kayla rubbed her forehead. “Next time, let’s not play Santa on live radio.”

Liz grinned. “Oh, come on, it boosted ratings!”

Reina snorted. “Yeah. And my rifle finger.”

Freya looked genuinely confused. “So… we’re not giving toys anymore?”

Gene slumped back into his chair, eyes dead.  

“No. No toys. No kids. No feelings. Ever again.”

> **System:** “Noted.  

>  Also, multiple dolls detected near gate.  

>  Requesting permission to incinerate.”

“Do it,” Gene groaned.

As the screens faded to normal, the fortress returned to its usual rhythm—  

arguments, sarcasm, and the faint smell of canned soup.

Somewhere in the background, Liz hummed the same piano tune from her broadcast.  

Because in the end, even in the apocalypse, bad publicity was still publicity.