Apocalypse Trade Monopoly
Chapter 93: : A pathway

Chapter 93: : A pathway

The spy glared but kept moving, one step behind Lucas, his boots scuffing in the broken asphalt. The city around them groaned under its own weight—old support beams creaking in the wind, fractured steel frames clawing at the sky like forgotten skeletons.

Ava walked beside Lucas in silence for a moment, then finally said it.

"You really want to drag him along?" She nodded toward the spy, her voice low. "Feed him? Keep him breathing?"

Lucas didn’t even look back. "Yes."

"Because?"

"Because he’s useful," Lucas replied. "And he’s carrying something we need. He just doesn’t know how to say it yet."

Ava exhaled through her nose, annoyed but not surprised. "Information?"

Lucas gave a nod. "There’s news on energy cores—new classifications, new uses. Upgrading systems through direct integration. Not just powering suits or weapons. Full sync-level augmentation. Some bunkers are already experimenting with injections."

"Voluntarily?"

Lucas gave her a sidelong glance. "You really need to ask?"

Ava’s jaw tightened.

People were desperate out here. Scavenging wasn’t just a job—it was a sentence. As far as the eyes could see it was a mix of collapsed apartments and makeshift shelters. The bunkers were the only stable places left, and even those were fraying at the seams.

People lived off nutrient packs and bad trades. Medical tech was rare. Clean water was rationed by political alignment. System users got more—more food, more space, more protection. Everyone else got in line or disappeared.

Even inside the bunkers, things weren’t equal.

Especially not between bunkers.

"You think he’s from Bunker Twelve?" Ava asked after a moment.

Lucas shook his head. "No. He’s not one of ours."

Ava gave the spy a quick look. The man flinched under her gaze, but kept walking.

"So where?"

Lucas’s eyes narrowed slightly, tracking their route as they approached another intersection of half-buried road and tilted signage. "If I’m not mistaken... Bunker Eleven."

Ava raised a brow. "That’s a private vault."

"Yup. Built pre-fall by a mafia boss with more gold than my old man. Crazy too. Custom foundation. Black market energy cells. Fully independent infrastructure. Hidden location, minimal traffic."

"And not on the government registry."

Lucas grinned.

"Exactly. Which makes it very interesting."

He tilted his head slightly toward the spy, still dragging his boots behind them like a half-defeated dog.

"Look for tattoos."

Ava glanced over, already pulling up her system interface. "Why?"

"Because Bunker Eleven’s people mark themselves," Lucas said, tone casual but precise. "Not military codes. Not faction tags. Custom ink, old mafia style. Usually small, specific, and designed to identify their tier within the vault. Entry-level grunts wear it on the wrist or back of the neck. But the smarter ones..."

He gave the spy a pointed look.

"...hide it somewhere less obvious."

Ava raised an eyebrow. "You sound like you know."

Lucas smirked. "Oh, my team has one too. I’m just not stupid enough to put it somewhere anyone with a flashlight can scan it."

She rolled her eyes but crouched beside the spy, who immediately tensed. Ava’s system scanned him quickly.

[SCANNING FOR INK SIGNATURES...]

[PIGMENT COMPOSITION: CARBON-BASED / MICRO-LAYERED]

[LOCATION: LOWER LEFT SIDE – BELOW THE RIB LINE]

"Found it," she said flatly. **"Small. Almost faded."

Lucas crouched next to her and peeled back the spy’s shirt without ceremony. There it was—ink dark against skin: a crescent flanked by four broken lines.

Lucas clicked his tongue. "Tier two. Inner defense. That means you’ve got access."

The spy stayed silent, but his jaw locked—tight.

Lucas leaned in, close enough the man could feel the heat of his breath.

"Here’s what happens next. You give me the bunker’s intake protocol, entry sequence, and any biometric fail-safes. I don’t care who you’re protecting. I care about why they’re watching me."

Still silence.

Lucas’s voice dropped, dangerously calm.

"Or I can start guessing. And trust me—you don’t want me guessing. I break things when I guess."

The spy hesitated. Then—

"Intake gate’s disguised as a waste compression unit in Sector 9. Needs three codes and a voice trigger from a linked wristband. But that’s just the outer shell."

"And the rest?"

"Inner chamber’s guarded by a biometric pulse lock—eye scan, heart rate, and scent key. They use synthetic pheromone markers. If you don’t carry the tag, you’ll trigger an alarm."

Ava raised an eyebrow.

Lucas just smiled, satisfied. But he didn’t let the moment breathe.

"Alright. Let’s play catch-up. Rapid-fire." He snapped his fingers once. "Start talking."

The spy blinked, confused.

"You want me to—"

"Trader in Dust Market who runs old biotech parts?"

"Wren. East side. Sells out of a clinic front."

"Who controls water routes south of the Metroline?"

"Gavric. Still."

"Last name of the courier who smuggled cores out of Bunker 18 last quarter?"

"Dao. He’s dead now."

"Name two zones north of Sector 5 that collapsed last winter."

"Torq Hollow and Blake Ridge."

"Who’s running blackprint forgery near Bunker 9?"

"No one. Military swept it."

"Wrong. They moved. Name the new location."

"Burnfield... underneath the mechanic warehouse."

Lucas gave a short nod, rapid-fire continuing as his tone sharpened.

"What’s the codeword for safe passage on the south ridge?"

"Teal frost."

"How many mutant shifts were recorded last month near Grid 12?"

"Fourteen confirmed. Maybe twenty total."

"And the underground trader who sells fake IDs?"

"Marcus."

"No—he died. Who took over?"

"...his sister. Reen."

Lucas finally paused, watching the man’s face, checking for stress tells, micro-tremors. Nothing cracked. Not yet. But the twitch in his left eye had returned, just faint enough to confirm pressure was building.

He circled back casually, voice dropping.

"Good memory. Now let’s go over the part that matters."

He stepped closer again, crouched just enough to meet the spy’s eye level.

"You said the intake gate’s disguised as a waste compression unit in Sector 9. How deep is it buried?"

"Two meters. Covered by storage crates and camo tarp. It’s heat-shielded to avoid scans."

"How many active guards in that quadrant?"

"Two, rotating every eight hours. No sync systems—just basic shifter types."

"And once we’re inside?"

"Stairwell drops fifteen meters. Then the biometric pulse gate. From there it splits—one path to internal housing, the other straight to logistics."

Lucas stood slowly, eyes narrowed. He turned to Ava without breaking rhythm.

"Thoughts?"

Ava’s system blinked quietly, then pulsed brighter as she initiated a deeper scan. Her irises flickered silver-blue as the interface kicked into high-speed processing. Layers of heat signatures, elevation overlays, material density, and directional markers rippled across her field of vision.

[DEEP ANALYSIS – LOCATION: SECTOR 9 / WASTE MANAGEMENT ZONE]

[TRIGGER: KEYWORD MATCH – INTAKE GATE / BUNKER ELEVEN]

[SATELLITE RELAY: ACTIVE]

[BUILDING STRUCTURE: PARTIAL COLLAPSE – ACCESSIBLE UNDER 2.1M DEBRIS]

[SIGNATURE MATCH – POLYMER WASTE COMPRESSION UNIT – SHIELDED]

[SECURITY DETECTED: 2 SHIFTING GUARDS – BASIC STRENGTH MODIFIERS, NO SYSTEM SIGNAL]

Her vision zoomed in on a crumbling industrial block labeled only as "Sector 9 – Municipal Storage." A wireframe model unfolded across her map—schematics forming in layers, bricks and steel outlining themselves in faded red and white. Then her system drew the path.