Re: Apocalypse Game



The dull roar of engines grew louder, culminating in the appearance of the US military convoy. The vehicles, covered in dust from their journey, pulled to a stop, abruptly ending the duels that were taking place. As the dust settled, the soldiers, wearing their camo uniforms and carrying weapons, disembarked swiftly, forming a defensive line around the perimeter. The scene gave an immediate sense of authority, making everyone present rethink their actions.

At the forefront was Sergeant Dylan, a tall, imposing figure with a chiseled jaw and a no-nonsense demeanor. Two dozen soldiers flanked him, all scanning the crowd with practiced ease, their fingers hovering near their triggers. But despite his composure, Dylan's eyes widened in genuine surprise at the spectacle before him.

Alan, someone he had not expected to find in such a situation, was locked in combat with the half-wolf — a transformation that was the signature of the notorious Blood Patriots leader, Marcus Wright. 

Clearing his throat to command attention, he bellowed, "What the hell is going on here?!" His voice echoed through the silent fields, demanding an answer. He stood with a confident posture, his imposing figure making him appear even larger against the backdrop of the vast farms and the assembled crowd.

Alan, visibly catching his breath from the duel, wiped sweat from his brow before stepping forward. His voice, though tired, held a note of irony. "We were just having a friendly training session, Sergeant. Mister Marcus here was giving us a demonstration." The sarcasm wasn't lost on those who heard.

Marcus, realizing the balance of power had shifted, grunted and with a visible effort, reverted back to his human form — the transformation, though swift, was visibly taxing. His now human face, still showing traces of the wolf's ferocity, spoke before Dylan could process what just happened. "We were merely here to retrieve our men... and our supplies."

Dylan's eyes, sharp as a hawk, caught onto the word, "Supplies?" He smirked, "You wouldn't be talking about my food, would you?" The challenge was evident in his tone.

Marcus seemed taken aback, but before he could reply, Alan, with a sly grin, interjected. "As I mentioned to Mister Marcus earlier, I can't provide him with what he seeks. My supplies have already been spoken for, by the very people you represent." He paused for emphasis, "The military."

It all clicked into place. The reason for the military's presence, the halted duel, and Alan's confidence. He had orchestrated this, banking on the military's demand for resources. With their vast numbers, the military was constantly on the lookout for supplies. And Alan had reached out to them, turning a potential conflict into an opportunity.

Realizing his strategic disadvantage, Marcus approached his lieutenant, Sharon. She handed him a cloth, which he used to wipe off the blood splatters from his skin. With deliberate movements, he pulled on his shirt. Every action he took was calm and measured, belying the raging beast he had morphed into moments ago.

But before Marcus could fully retreat, Alan's voice cut through the tension once more, "Hold on a moment, Seeing as our negotiations were cut short, how about a consolation? I'll offer you the firearms at a 20% discount. A peace offering, if you will."

Marcus paused, considering the offer. After a brief exchange of glances with his men, he gave a curt nod. The understanding was clear; it was a transaction, not a truce. As for the 50 members, He gave no orders, no farewells, he didn't even give them a glance. Simply turned away, leaving them behind.

As the roar of engines faded, Alan addressed the abandoned Blood Patriots. "You are all free to do anything now, and yes you are welcome to stay here"

A cacophony of cheers erupted, but Alan barely acknowledged them. He was already locked in a silent conversation with Sergeant Dylan, whose penetrating gaze was filled with a mixture of respect and curiosity.

"Did you just fight Marcus Wright and win?!" Dylan inquired an incredulous tone in his voice.

Alan chuckled, the sound light but with an underlying tiredness. "Win? Against him? Not a chance. If you had been a minute later, I'd probably already lost a limb or two"

Dylan smirked, his stern facade cracking just a little. "Guess you owe me one then. And I do hope that translates into a good deal for the food."

Alan playfully rolled his eyes, "For the savior of my limbs, a 10% discount."

Dylan raised an eyebrow, "10% per limb? So that's 20%, right?"

The camaraderie between the two was evident, a stark contrast to the tension that had filled the air moments ago.

As Alan and Dylan walked side by side toward the farmhouse, an easy camaraderie surrounded them. Their footsteps fell in sync, the comfortable silence occasionally punctuated by bouts of laughter or murmured comments. It seemed as though they were picking up from a conversation they'd been having for years. And in a way, they were. To Alan, Dylan wasn't just the stern sergeant in front of him; he was the friend he had lost in another life. Their shared memories, though only truly remembered by Alan, created an unseen bond, making their interactions natural and unforced.

Upon reaching the farmhouse, Luis awaited them. Spread out in front of him were crates, each filled with packets of meat. The labels read: Rats, Squirrels, Bats, Frogs, Crows, and Monkeys. With a grand gesture, Luis announced, "A total of 3,000 portions, ready for delivery."

Alan gestured to the crates, "This should sustain about half of your forces for a day."

Dylan surveyed the meats, his eyebrows knitting together in a mixture of fascination and apprehension. "Some of these... Are they even edible?"

Alan chuckled, "They're not just edible, but nutritious too. Survival times call for survival measures." He then looked Dylan square in the eye, assessing. "It's 15,000 survival points for the lot."

Dylan hesitated, but only for a second. The pressing nature of their situation was clear. "Deal."

Watching the exchange, Luis beamed proudly. Alan had always been clear about his intentions. Hoarding was never the game plan. 500 portions for the farm's sustenance and the rest would be traded. Their group thrived because of Alan's knack for strategy and foresight.

Alan's mind briefly flashed back to the lessons from his past life. The haunting memory of losing countless players during the Nazi mission still lingered. The mistake had been clear: the military had spread themselves too thin, investing heavily in procuring daily food needs.

Snapping back to the present, Alan observed as the army personnel began loading the meat crates onto their vehicles. Yet, a glint in his eye signaled he still had an ace up his sleeve.

He leaned in, voice low but filled with promise, "Sergeant, if you're looking to secure more supplies..." Dylan perked up, anticipation evident. Alan continued, "There might be something else you'd be interested in."

Dylan's eyes widened in hope. "More? You've got more supplies?"

Alan grinned, mischief twinkling in his eyes. "Not exactly. Just follow me, Sergeant."

The two men ventured to the opposite end of the farm, past the barns and storage sheds. The path they walked was less trodden, overgrown with grass and weeds. It was clear this wasn't a regular part of Alan's daily rounds.

Suddenly, the path opened up to reveal an expanse of land, an oasis of green sprouts amidst the otherwise dusty farm. Rows upon rows of budding green plants stretched out in front of them, their tuberous roots hidden just beneath the surface of the earth.

Dylan's face lit up in recognition and disbelief, "Potatoes?! You've got a potato farm here? How did you manage this?"

Alan laughed, his pride evident. "This has been my little secret. I started this project four days ago." He squatted down, inspecting one of the plants. "They'll be ready for harvest by tomorrow morning."

Dylan, still reeling from the surprise, asked, "How much are we talking about here?"

Alan stood up, doing some mental calculations. "Given the in-game boost on these seeds, each plant should yield about 20 potatoes. Since I've sowed 50 seeds, we're looking at roughly 500 portions by tomorrow. And if I start another batch right after the harvest, we can have up to 10,000 portions ready in the next 5 days."

Dylan's eyes widened at the potential. The weight of his responsibility as the sergeant and the need to feed his men was always pressing on his mind. 

"So do you want them, Sergeant?!"

"Yes, I definitely want them!"

Alan nodded, having anticipated this reaction. But then he saw a shift in Dylan's demeanor, a realization. "However," Dylan started, his voice hesitant, "we don't have the 50,000 survival points"

The corner of Alan's mouth twitched into a knowing smirk. He had seen this coming and he had something else he planned to ask the military.

"What is it that you want?"