To Arm And Prepare So That | May Have A Place To Call Home

You are One. The One. The one who got away, the one who, by fate's good graces or sadistic whims (it's getting very hard to tell these days), was chosen to survive when so many others were not. You know your fortune. You've known it since that fateful day. While your conviction drives you to never make a promise, you did make one that fateful day. A simple one, yet one you've sworn not to break come hell or high water.

Live.

Survive, thrive, make use of that chance you were given however you may. Hell, you'd cut a leg off if it meant survival. But now it's bigger than just you; the whole Bastion is under threat, and if it goes… so might you. You can't risk that.

So fight you will.

You make your way to the armoury with the aim of requisitioning some sort of gun or ammunition to fight off the coming hordes, and there you are met by Juno. The gunsmith. She looks you up and down, her worn, jaded expression betraying no inner feelings as she asks your purpose. You state it. Her eyes narrow as she quite plainly states that she doesn't trust you. You can appreciate the honesty, but ouch. But then she surprises you by asking you to help her build up the Bastion's outer defences, mines and trenches and the like, in exchange for the ammunition.

You accept.

Your first mission is scavenging for materials to actually make the munitions. You sneak out to the nearby foraging sites to pick up the necessary resources for your operation, though under complete secrecy since Chris is becoming downright lunatic about locking down the Bastion. It hits close to home, that. Far too close. You can only hope it's just fear due to the horde, and not something more sinister. At your behest, you also collect some tree bark, much to Juno's confusion. Upon returning, you get to work: rust is mixed with aluminium to make thermite, scrap is melted down into new bullets and cases. Your sword comes in surprisingly handy to shave off small bits off aluminium from old pipes, as well as strip wires down for copper. To her credit, Juno does a good job at explaining the entire process and working you through what to do. It's actually quite fascinating stuff!

A couple of hours later, you have yourself a bunch of landmines and a bunch more ammunition. Not a massive amount, but impressive considering what you're working with and certainly far better than nothing. You also took the time to make a few signs warning people of the minefield. Just because you're willing to chop off a leg to survive doesn't mean that you, or in fact anyone, should have to. You get into a nice rhythm of dig, plant, and cover as you chat about your histories. Your heart aches to tell Juno the whole story, but after what happened with Salithra, you can't bring yourself to, so you just stick to your travels while she tells you of her forging techniques. Her expression takes on a warmer, softer look… almost like a mother.

But you can't pay attention to it for long, for her eyes are not the only ones looking back at you. From the trees, you spot one of them. A zombie. But it's just… waiting. Watching. Almost like a predator stalking its prey. Almost… intelligent. You try and catch Juno's attention, but are unsuccessful as it lunges at you with frightening speed. You scream and sidestep it, causing it to barrel right into Juno as they scuffle around. The brief second of shock wears off as you brandish your sword, skewering the zombie and yanking it with all your might off of Juno, which causes her to stumble and-

click.

Your ears ring as you pick yourself up off the ground. The blast from the mine knocked you right down onto the ground, and the wind still has not quite fully returned to your lungs. You're bleeding, but it's just surface-level cuts from shrapnel.

Juno is not so lucky. She's lying in a pool of blood, one leg heavily lacerated while the other has been reduced to an indistinct mass of bone, flesh and skin held together by loose bits of sinew. You scramble to your feet, picking her up and dragging her back to the Bastion, vocal chords straining from how loud you're calling for help. She can't die. She musn't.

You can't have the life of another sacrificed for your own.

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