The truck’s engine coughed awake like an old beast.  

Dust rose behind the fortress as Gene, Reina, and Nara rolled out into the gray horizon.

Inside the cab, Reina checked her rifle for the third time.  

“Target coordinates locked. Fourteen kilometers north,” she said.  

“Six hostiles. Probably drunk.”

Gene kept his eyes on the road. “Good. Makes them slower targets.”

> **System:** “Host attempting humor under stress. Heart rate elevated.  

>  Suggestion: breathe before revenge.”

“Shut up,” Gene muttered.

Nara sat in the back seat, hands on a toolbox instead of a gun.  

“Remind me why I’m here again?”

“Because you volunteered before I could say no,” Gene said dryly.

She smiled faintly. “Someone has to fix the truck when you crash it.”

Reina cracked a grin. “Or dig graves. Depends who’s faster.”

Back at Hancock Fortress, the air smelled of disinfectant and soup.  

Kayla and Alyssa worked side by side in the med bay, sweat on their brows.  

The two children—Jesse and Naris—lay under clean sheets, IVs humming quietly.  

Their breathing was steady now, though their small faces were still pale.

Freya sat beside the bed, humming softly, wiping Naris’s forehead with a damp cloth.  

“They’ll be okay,” she whispered. “The bad dreams will go away.”

Alyssa checked the monitor. “Vitals are stable.  

They’ll need rest, and food. A lot of it.”

The old man, Puka McKerson, lay on the next bed, arm bandaged, eyes open but distant.  

Kayla handed him a cup of warm broth. “You’re lucky, old man.  

Any later and you’d have joined the dirt.”

He nodded weakly. “I don’t feel lucky.”

Freya smiled, placing a blanket over him. “But your grandkids are safe.  

That’s luck enough, right?”

The old man’s eyes softened. He looked toward the two children.  

“Yes… that’s enough.”

> **System (through the intercom):** “Medical report received.  

>  Patient recovery: stable. Probability of survival—ninety-eight percent.”

Kayla rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the stats, Siri.”

> **System:** “Correction: superior to Siri. Voice warmer, jokes better.”

Even Alyssa chuckled at that.

Meanwhile, the truck hit the ridge overlooking a ruined settlement.  

Reina scanned through binoculars.  

“Visual contact. Six targets. Campfire. Two vehicles. One lookout.”

Gene checked his rifle scope, then frowned. “You ever notice how this world breeds idiots faster than crops?”

> **System:** “Idiocy is self-sustaining. Shall I mark them?”

“Do it.”

Six red dots blinked onto the tactical screen.  

Reina loaded her magazine with a calm precision that came from too many wars.  

“Orders?”

Gene hesitated, watching the flickering firelight below.  

He wasn’t a soldier. He never wanted to be.  

But this—this was different.

“They beat kids,” he said quietly. “No negotiations.”

Nara inhaled, gripping her wrench. “You know, I fix engines, not consciences.”

Gene gave her a look. “You’ll fit right in.”

Reina smirked, chambering a round. “On your mark, Supplier.”

The System’s voice came, oddly calm—almost proud.

> **System:** “Engagement protocol active.  

>  Target morality: irredeemable.  

>  Suggested mission soundtrack: ‘Highway to Hell.’”

“Not funny,” Gene muttered.

> **System:** “I wasn’t joking.”

Then came the thunder.

The first shot cracked through the still air, clean and final.  

The lookout dropped before his cigarette hit the ground.  

The rest didn’t even get to scream before the System-guided turrets on the truck roof came alive,  

spewing red light and mechanical fury.

Reina’s aim was surgical.  

Nara reloaded the drones’ energy cells with trembling hands,  

half horrified, half fascinated.

Within minutes, it was over.

Only the fire remained, crackling over silence.

> **System:** “All hostiles neutralized.  

>  Efficiency rating: ninety-nine percent.  

>  Remaining question: do you wish to leave a message?”

Gene exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Leave one.”

> **System:** “Recording.”

He looked out over the ruined camp.  

“Message for whoever’s listening: You touch a child again,  

and you won’t have time to pray for forgiveness.”

> **System:** “Transmission sent. Signal range: global.”

“Wait—GLOBAL?” Gene turned sharply. “I said message, not PR campaign!”

> **System:** “Public deterrence is efficient.  

>  Host phrasing trending: ‘Supplier’s Law.’ Congratulations.”

Reina laughed quietly. “You just invented frontier justice.”

Gene groaned. “Great. I’m a legend again. I hate legends.”

> **System:** “Correction: legends increase survival odds.”

---

Hours later, the truck rolled back to the fortress under a bleeding sunset.  

Freya was waiting at the gate, waving both arms.  

“The kids woke up!” she shouted. “They asked for their grandpa!”

Gene blinked, then smiled for the first time that day.

In the med bay, Jesse and Naris were sitting up weakly,  

holding hands, eyes bright despite the bandages.  

The old man, still pale but breathing easier, looked at Gene as he entered.

“They’re safe,” Gene said simply.

The old man’s lips trembled. “You… you went after them, didn’t you?”

Gene shrugged. “Just a supply run.”

Kayla crossed her arms, smiling faintly. “A loud one.”

Alyssa added, “And statistically effective.”

> **System:** “Correction: extremely effective.”

The old man reached for Gene’s hand.  

“Thank you… I thought the world had forgotten what good looked like.”

Gene scratched his head. “Nah. Just busy surviving.”

Freya leaned over, whispering, “You see? You’re a hero.”

He groaned. “Don’t start that.”

> **System:** “Heroic reputation increased by 43%. Congratulations, host.”

Gene pointed at the ceiling. “You shut up.”

The System, wisely, did.

And for once, the fortress was quiet—not because it was empty,  

but because everyone inside had remembered why they were still human.