Lunch was great, so what now?

  Go visit the docks? I should probably do that. Arriving there was a different matter of course. Took me 30 minutes just to take the bus there. Was it far? Not really, but I have a lot on my mind to process things. Taking the bus allows me to learn about the different routes in the city and see the nooks and crannies of how the people here live and breathe.

  When finally arriving there. It paints a different picture entirely.

  The docks looked worse up close. Rusted cranes leaned like skeletons of a forgotten age, ships moored and abandoned, ropes frayed, and containers stacked like tombstones of an industry that had given up. The air smelled like salt, oil, and loss, although if memory serves me right, the dock workers did all of this to themselves in the past during the nineties, after a protest.

  I'd come here in my civvies with that odd Dreamhack hoodie right after what happened with Panacea and Glory girl, and then went for lunch. Do I need to change? I hope this is a nothing burger, nothing that'd scream "guy who saves the Pelhams' kids just another face in the Bay. Rumours dont move that fast anyway.

  That's when I saw him, the guy I mean, who else I'm talking of course, it's him, just standing near a rusted forklift, clipboard in hand, squinting at a manifest that probably hadn't been relevant for months. Middle-aged, tall, broad-shouldered, with the sort of face that's seen too much disappointment and just learned to live with it.

  Now, how the hell did I even meet him here?

  Coincidence? This is some providence bullshit, or my RNG is hella busted. Might as well make use of this encounter. Beggars can't be choosers, but a broke ass asian will be an opportunist asshole if he can't help it.

  "Excuse me," I said, approaching. "You work here?"

  He turned, offering a polite but tired look. "Used to. You're standing on what's left of the Dockworkers used to work at, not exactly functioning right now with the blockade."

  "Jason Lin," I introduced, offering a hand.

  "Danny Hebert," he said, shaking it. His grip was strong, old-school, huh..He's surprisingly strong. "You looking for work, son?"

  I shrugged. "Kinda. Depends on what kind of work there is."

  He chuckled bitterly. "Then I'm afraid you're out of luck. The docks are pretty much dead. What doesn't belong to the gangs is being stripped down by scavengers. We used to have six companies moving freight here, but now it's just one, and they're barely hanging on."

  I looked around, there's not much to see except broken debris, and most of the stuff here just remains unfunctional. "The place looks like it's been through a war."

  He nodded, eyes distant. "Feels like one too. Everyone here, gangs or otherwise, they all want up piece of the port. The city can't keep up, and no one's investing here anymore. Not when the capes blow up half the infrastructure every few months."

  He sighed and folded his arms. "I used to have a hundred men under me. Good people. Now most are laid off, moved away, or just... stopped trying. The few left are scraping by doing day labour or guarding empty warehouses for half pay."

  I leaned on the railing beside him, watching the water ripple against the hull of an old trawler while I wondered if there was anything I could do with Terran tools to elevate this place, maybe even revitalise it in the future. A dock like this could benefit everyone, especially me, in the long run.

  "You ever think about leaving?" I asked.

  "Every damn day," he said with a humourless smile. "But this place… It's my home. I've been fighting for these docks since before you were born. My wife she..." He stopped. His voice caught for half a second, eyes flickering toward the water. Then he continued quietly, "She used to tell me I cared too much about this place."

  I didn't push that. I just nodded. It's a shame what happened to her. If I could prevent it, I would, but I wasn't sent that far back. Sometimes, having meta-knowledge can suck so much. Even if I do prevent it, then what? Changing the narrative to what I know into Chaos? Like I said earlier. Got a lot to think about now that I'm really here. Meeting Danny just seals the deal, doesn't it? It hits you right in the face when reality says...

  These people aren't some characters you've read in some damn book. Just like your knowledge and supposed granted privilege of knowing and having the ability to change things doesn't mean you should just change things willy nilly. Don't be the next Xelnaga failure and turn things for the worse. You could do worse than lose a bet to two Gods and then get sent here with an SCV, though...heh.

  He studied me for a moment as the silence lingered, snapping me away from my inner thoughts. "You don't look local. You from out of town?"

  "Yeah," I said. "You could say I... landed here by accident." You have no idea, buddy ol pal.

  That earned a small smirk. "Then take an old man's advice, son. If you've got a choice, don't stay here too long. Brockton Bay has a way of chewing people up."

  I smiled faintly. "Maybe. But I've seen worse places come back from the dead. You just need the right people to start building again." and calling me son feels awfully humbling when you're already past a certain age, live through it, died..and gets reborn and transmigrated here. Coming back from the dead is...not pleasant.

  He chuckled softly. "Building? Are you a contractor?"

  "You could say that, Architech..Contractor and construction. The whole package," I replied, eyes drifting toward the shipyard cranes. "I'm good with heavy machinery. Logistics. Infrastructure. Build Cities and stuff."

  That seemed to get his attention. "You're an arcthitech? We could use someone like that, uhh...if we had any work left to give."

  He sighed again and set down the clipboard. "If you're serious, come by the Union office sometime. We don't have much, but… people around here could use a hand that's not attached to a gun."

  I nodded, shaking his hand again. "I'll think about it, Mr Hebert."

  He smiled at me, and I can tell it's quite genuine, too, the tired kind, but genuine. "Call me Danny." We decided to sit down. Danny and I ended up sitting on an overturned crate, staring at the bay. Danny took a sip from an old thermos and handed it to me. "Coffee. Cold as hell, but better than nothing."

  I took a cautious sip. It was bitter and strong like any strong Caffeine does, the kind that could wake the dead. I'm much more of a tea drinker myself, but coffee this strong? It's not that bad.

  "Wow, that's strong," I said. He gave a tired smirk. "Yeah, well, caffeine's the only thing keeping the Union running these days."

  I leaned back. "You mentioned the gangs earlier. I guess you meant the ABB, Empire, and Merchants, right?"

  "Yeah," he muttered. "Used to be the ABB stuck to the east end, but Lung's been getting more ambitious lately after he arrived two years ago. Empire's still doing their white-power garbage in the north, and the Merchants? well..." He shook his head. "Bunch of junkies pretending to be a gang. The only thing they're good at is spreading rot."

  He pointed toward the water. "See that cargo ship over there? Used to move container freight for a shipping company out of New York. ABB hijacked it three months ago. Police didn't even investigate it, too scared, too stretched, or too bought off."

  "Sounds like the PRT should've stepped in," I said, testing the waters.

  Danny let out a low, bitter laugh. "The PRT?" He spat to the side. "They're babysitters for capes, not protectors of the people. Half of them sit in their fancy HQ downtown while the rest of us live under the thumb of gangs. You call them, they tell you to wait for Wards or Protectorate deployment and by the time they show up, someone's already dead or missing."

  I frowned. Did he had a disagreement with the PRT? I wasn't aware of that, since when? "You sound like you've had experience."

  He looked down at his hands, jaw tightening. "My daughter goes to Winslow. Not exactly the safest place in the city these days."

  I stayed quiet. That's rather ominous. What does he even mean? Did the bullying already start? Or is it because he grew apart from his daughter?

  The wind picked up, carrying the distant cry of a gull and the faint rumble of trucks along the boardwalk as Danny here tries to be vague about his daughter. I wonder if I can do anything about that. The Nexus point of this world from the beginning till the end. The protagonist of this story. It's not my place to intervene in family matters, but her matter? I'm still contemplating whether it's wise to just let a poor girl suffer so she could have the potential to be Khepri.

  Musings of a transmigrator: What would you do in my shoes if you're here? To be soft? to help? Or let a poor girl suffer for the better good of mankind, on the chance it will succeed. Wouldn't that be no different than the Illuminati behind the scenes in this story? I dont need the path of victory to know it's a bad idea in hindsight. When the methods you use to get there are full of questionable and moral issues, it's no wonder the world will face an end to extinction. Fleeing from Earth Bet? Even if I have the firepower to kill the Golden freak, it won't stop the declining issue, wouldn't it?

  It seems even Danny kept silent as we both contemplated in our own way. I wonder what he will do if he finds out the truth? Spare him the troubling thoughts. Like I said...

  got a lot in my mind to process things, and not all of them have an easy cut-and-dry answer to solve, and are almost unsolvable issues without proper finessing. Terrans dont do complicated. They shoot first and ask questions later. A bunch of onnery species that somehow survived when far brighter and intelligent species would rather just die out, Nah...Terrans adapt and somehow survived with all the bullshit. Maybe I'd take a book out of Reynor's playbook and just ...dont think too much, son.

  Let the dice roll.

  He continued after a moment, voice quieter now. "Sorry..got lost in my thought, My... daughter has been distant lately, and work doesn't get easier each day. "

  I nodded, "Teenagers then? It's tough, being one. Dont ask me, I've forgotten how to be one despite my current mortal age."

  Danny just laughed instead," Haha! Is that so? "

  "What does the mayor think about all of this?" I asked

  It took Danny a bit awhile to formulate a response as he rubbed his neck, feeling a tad bit uncomfortable with the question. God probably knows he struggles with that question every single day."Well, the short answer, the mayor doesn't care. The city council is corrupt or scared. We've been filing petitions for months just to get one working patrol in this area, and what do we get? A speech about 'budget constraints' and 'civic priorities.'"

  "Let me guess," I said. "The priorities don't include fixing the docks."

  Danny gave me a dry look, but was slightly amused by it "You catch on fast."

  I rubbed the back of my neck. "You ever think about organising something yourself? Like, a security group, or even… I don't know, hiring a few local capes?"

  He actually laughed at that. "Hire capes? Son, we can barely pay our electric bills. You think someone like Miss Militia or Armsmaster is going to help a bunch of broke dockworkers when the mayor's waving PR contracts downtown?"

  I'd do it for free, just pay me in metal and gas, and I'm all good.

  He shook his head. "No, they'll only show up once the ABB or Empire make a big enough mess that it hits the news. Then they sweep in, take the cameras, and call it a success."

  I studied him. The way his hands clenched when he talked about the system. The way his gaze went cold when he said "ABB." Danny wasn't just a tired man; he was angry. The kind of quiet, simmering anger that only builds after years of watching everything you care about decay. A guy like that in a Marine CMC Armour? He almost feels like Jim Raynor.

  "Sounds like you've been fighting this fight for a long time," I said softly.

  "Too long," he admitted. "But I don't know how to stop. If I give up, the people under me… what happens to them?"

  I nodded slowly. "Maybe you just need… new tools." Danny Hebert in CMC armour spouting shit does seem more attractive when I think about it.

  He raised an eyebrow. "Tools?"

  "Yeah," I said. "You can't fix a collapsing dockyard with bureaucracy and wishful thinking. Sometimes, you've got to build from the ground up, even if it's a little unconventional."

  He gave me a half-smile. "You sound like you've got ideas, Mr Lin."

  I shrugged. "Let's just say I know a thing or two about logistics and infrastructure. Give me the right materials, and I can make things work again."

  Danny looked at me for a long time, like he was trying to figure out what kind of man I was. Then he nodded, slow and deliberate. "If you can do that, Jason, you'll have a friend here. Brockton Bay could use more people who build instead of break."

  I smiled faintly. "You'd be surprised how often those two overlap."

  He didn't quite get what I meant, but that was fine.

  "Here's my card, contact me if you have anything need anything in the future, anything related to the Docks I mean" I took the card and gave him a short, curt smile

  "Will do, Danny"

  As I stood and shook his hand again, I couldn't help glancing around the dockyard one more time. So much steel, so much land, so much potential just rotting away under gang control.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He gave me his phone number, and I naturally took a namecard from him too, laminated with plastic and the BBDWA logo on it. By the time I noticed it, it was almost evening. Danny had already left, but the conversation left me feeling morose about what to do next.

  Time to head back.

  After what I've talked to Danny, my appetite just dwindles even further. Brockton Bay's economic issues are now starting to be a factor going forward.

  Got a lot of my mind thinking about what to do next, what I wanna do here in this world. Uncle Ben's quote from Spiderman never rings truer than what I feel right now, With great power comes great responsibility. Funny thing is, Uncle Ben, do you even ask if the person wants that responsibility? What if some goddess decided to just send you here? Does responsibility even mean anything if I dont survive this first?

  A lot of my mind to thinking about it while time ticks away. Sometimes it feels so slow, sometimes it ends too soon. Either way, I need to make a decision sooner or later, either to ignore of factor in this problem into the equation, whether or not I'm fit to meddle in things when I'm in a position of power. That ...? will take a long, long time. Future me problem, not current me problem.

  I guess I am thinking too much. Contemplation was never my strong suit anyway. If I did, I would choose to play Protoss, not Terran. Lots of overall macro compared to minuscule micro on the fly. Planning long-term meta isnt my thing. Never was and never will be.

  Brockton Bay problems reminded me a lot of the early 90s in Asia, specifically South Korea. The birthplace of E esports. The place where Starcraft was dubbed the national game e-sports of that republic.

  When I think of StarCraft, I remember the community, pushing to rank up, custom games, and following my favourite pro players. The matters of the Confederacy and Jim's rebellion don't seem like it would matter.

  But something slowly changed. Why it hurts to see it fade over time, and what it means for the people still looking for one more match, I'd get absorbed in their story as time goes on, and I learned one fundamental thing that I never knew I needed to learn.

  It was the foundation of esports.

  When the people resonated with it. Why it happen so organically and natural?

  Where a whole nation dubbed it the National E-Sports at a time, and later changed into League of Legends when the game lost its popularity.

  The People of Korea understood the struggles of the everyday Terran, the unrelenting sheer force of Zergs and the Protoss stagnation despite being a power house much like the Nation that prided itself as the four Asian Tigers. It reflects their nation as a whole during their economic recession during the early and late 90s. How do they rise from a third-world nation to a first-world standard?

  That's their story.

  and for a time. Real-time strategy was the bees' knees, the endgame for all gamers, the radical dreamers that dared to dream before the Chronoshift, right before it was Y2k. Anyone who played RTS was what every gamer in Asia aspired to be...next to fighting games, of course, before the rise of MOBA and FPS dominated the scene.

  In South Korea, it was a National phenomenon. Then it spread here in South East Asia and the world. a global phenomenon.

  Where was I back then? Honestly...I've forgotten much about the past. I did remember playing my first game on a MAC, where most of Blizzard's games aren't available on that. Why was I remembering all of this? I had a dream, of course.

  And all dreams gotta end.

  Sleeping it off seems like a good idea.

  Powers...and Responsibilities, huh...

  July 16th, 2010.

  Wednesday.

  Sleep...was servicable. Bedroll? In hindsight, it might be a nice little thing, but I think I'd rather sleep in an SCV with the swaying and moving. The supply depot is too quiet for my taste.

  Still...It is what it is. This is the second day since I came to Earth Bet. Two days since I woke up in this world, and still no logout button. Still no money. Still no damn coffee or tea. The Supply Depot might be a good Idea at first, but it's turning into something of an inconvenience now that I think about it. No kitchen, no bathroom. I have to pee and poop like a caveman outside and dig holes in the ground like a cat.

  I sat up slowly, the thin blanket sliding off my shoulders.

  The supply depot hummed softly around me. The low, rhythmic vibration of its power core had become almost comforting, like white noise. A little piece of Terran tech in a world that ran on capes, gangs, and drama and reminded me that I'm still alive, but eh, I'm also on a timer.

  My "bed" was a rolled-up emergency bedroll I'd found in the depot's storage compartment.

  Thin, plasticky, smelled faintly of something I'm not familiar with, but after a lifetime of sleeping in airports, LAN centres, and budget hotels, I'd had worse; besides, it is free. Can't complain if it's free. Technically? I'm homeless. Beggars can't be choosers. I dont even have an ID here.

  Crap...I need an ID too. Ugh.. It's just not my priority right now.

  Morning light leaked through the small ventilation grate above, cutting across the dusty floor. The air smelled faintly of metal, and something vaguely… processed. I didn't think that neosteel had a certain smell to it, but I digress; it's time to wake up. Neosteel can smell like Coconut for all I care, the day isnt gonna get any better.

  My stomach grumbled.

  Right. Breakfast.

  I shuffled over to the storage racks where the rations were stored neatly stacked in metallic-grey boxes labelled "FIELD RATION, TERRAN STANDARD ISSUE." Each box had a picture of a very cheerful marine giving a thumbs-up.

  Yeah, that's reassuring. Really suspicious.

  The same guy who probably eats gun oil and washes it down with recycled water advertises for shit like this. Terran culture is weird. I grabbed one box and flipped it over. No expiration date. Just a production code that probably meant something like "manufactured before the Koprulu War." Where did this stuff get conjured from? Divinity sure is magical, able to just bring fictional stuff into reality.

  "Okay," I muttered, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "Worst case scenario, I get space dysentery. Best case, it tastes like chalk and regret." That betting goddess better not screw with me. This is food. Food is sacred after all.

  I popped the seal and was immediately hit with the scent of synthetic protein. The contents: a compressed nutrition bar, a tube labelled 'Caffeine Gel (Combat Strength),' and a pouch of something called 'Egg Substitute Type-2A.'

  I stared at the pouch. "Type 2A? What happened to 1A?"

  I tasted it.

  ...

  ...

  ...

  Tastes like ass.

  Fuck this shit.

  The SCV beeped somewhere outside, its dull mechanical voice echoing faintly through the depot: "Resource acquisition: seventy per cent efficiency. Metal stockpile nominal." Cool. more resources.

  That got me thinking...

  Ya know?

  I never knew how I felt about automated SCV. I'm actually thinking that I'd get one of those rowdy, typical redneck SCV drivers wearing jeans and a white singlet and red cap, yeah...real Murrica feel to it. Nah, instead I got a snarky chatbot with a failed humour app. Great work, Terrans! They do have sexbots. Oh, they do...Umoja Protectorate has a wide application to social tech stuff.

  I mean, do I really want to build one? Sexy bots? Pretty gynoids?

  ...

  ...

  ...

  DO I even need to ask? Of course, hell yeah. I'm gonna monetise that shit. Sex sells. Clankers are a money maker. But for now, SCV scrapping metal to convert into Pseudo Mineral and Neosteel is all I can do for the moment. Will Dragon get offended? eh..not my problem. That's Collin's problem.

  It's good to be single.

  Scavenging steel beams, scrapping derelict cars, sucking out leftover fuel tanks, even diving into the oily bay water to collect whatever trace hydrocarbons it could find. Gotta love my SCVs. I'd spent that time sorting piles, hammering dents out of usable panels, and occasionally yelling at the SCV when it tried to "mine" a crane that was left alone to rust. Dear lord..these things are dumb as fuck sometimes. I wish I had one of those Terran Adjutants right about now.

  And now on the morning of the third. We suddenly had enough?

  That was fast.

  Not as fast as in-game time, but still fast considering there are only 2 units. That's when the SCV chimed. "Alert: local activity detected. Individuals investigating resource acquisition patterns."

  Three days and there's chatter. Honestly?

  I thought I would get found out sooner. I wasn't exactly being subtle. There are threats out there, but it isn't something I wanna piss anyone off for now. I guess my days of going out are numbered. Dont wanna get kidnapped or worse...

  Getting pressed into joining some gang.

  I did well yesterday, but that's only because they act like base mooks. Not an actual cape with powerful superpowers. Whatever the leader of Chorus is gonna do, his tech failed. Even in the canon timeline, there wasn't much of a threat regarding the Chorus gang.

  "Unknown personnel. Three signatures. Civilian-grade power output. Observing from the northeast quadrant."

  I squinted in that direction. Beyond the fence line, a few silhouettes lingered, oh, never mind, it's just teenagers, maybe druggies or scavengers. Too far to make out clearly, but close enough that my stomach tightened.

  "Great," I muttered. "We've gone from invisible to local rumour."

  Still, it made sense. A giant Terran construction drone moving around the docks for two days straight? Yeah, that was bound to attract attention sooner or later.

  The SCV, unfazed as always, continued: "Resource quota met. Current inventory sufficient for structure construction: Command Centre." Scv1 chimed in. Finally.

  That got my attention real fast.

  I straightened up, looking at the growing pile of sorted metal. "You're serious? Enough for a full Command Centre?" I knew that they supplied every metal they acquired under the depot when they deposited it for processing.

  The Depot could even sink underground like a Terran Bunker if I wanted it to be. Besides, the base is a superstructure, a huge ass base like an Industrial Complex. Once this thing is built, it's gonna attract people real fast.

  Honestly? I would rather build some turrets now, but a Command Centre is enticing enough.

  I still have a Gauss gun, and the SCV are kinda like a mech, and they could fight off a basic zergling rush. Ordinary capes or zergs? I wonder which one is far more dangerous. I doubt there's any real trouble unless Lung or Kaiser came into the fray directly. Capes like Miss Militia and Armmaster might pose some issues, but Vista? The wards? heck..even oni lee can't keep throwing bombs at it. The thing can survive a direct nuke. It takes 3 nukes to completely tank it. I have faith. Terran Technology is way past any of Earth's tech anyway.

  I looked around the trainyard with all the broken rail lines, the decaying freight cars, the overgrown weeds, and the smell of salt and rust. Not exactly prime real estate. The place was abandoned to rot here.

  It wasn't exactly a tropical paradise, but… it was isolated.

  ABB territory was a few blocks north, Empire boys were across the city, and the PRT barely even patrolled this area unless something exploded, and since the rig is right smack towards the sea with the PRT controlling the middle of Brockton Bay, that just means their territory control is just terrible. Getting besieged from all sides and all that. An RTS nightmare in logistics.

  Which, in fairness, might happen once I start building, I could simply start my own gang.

  "Claim this place…" I murmured. "Make it my own little Terran outpost." The dominion will rule once again! hahah! I jest, of course, screw those guys. The idea was absurd. And yet, for the first time since waking up here, it felt right. Join the PRT? skip. Be a villaiN? nah...Independent? ...heck nah, why would I play on hardmode? I chose the warlord faction.

  Sure, it was risky. Someone was already watching. But if I could get the Command Centre up and running, I could hide most of the operation underground, set up proper defences, maybe even get the orbital uplink working again. Why not a fourth faction in BB?

  I glanced at the SCV, which was patiently waiting for orders, its arms still holding a load of crushed steel.

  "You know," I said with a smirk, "if this were a match, this would be the point where I turtle up and macro like a coward."

  "Acknowledged. Initiate macro protocol?"

  I laughed. "Yeah, buddy, no shit. Let's build a turtle. Proceed with the Command Centre."

  The SCV beeped affirmatively and trundled off toward the clearing near the old loading platform. The ground rumbled slightly as it began to flatten the terrain, cutting through weeds and concrete with methodical precision.

  "Construction estimate: seventy-two hours. Three local solar cycles are required for full Command Centre assembly."

  "Three days, huh…" I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. "That's not terrible, but it's a long time to be sitting here with our... well, with our reactor hanging out."

  I paced a little, eyeing the metal piles and the growing crater where the SCV had started to clear ground. The terrain was uneven, littered with scrap, half-buried rails, and the remains of a few shipping containers that had probably been there since the Bay's heyday.

  Three days.

  Three effin days.

  In a video game, that would be nothing. Queue it up, drop a mule, go grab a sandwich. But in this world? Three days were an eternity. Too much could happen. ABB patrols. Looters. PRT drones. Hell, even random civilians might stumble in. The noise alone could give me away. I leaned against a steel beam, thinking hard. "We can't risk that kind of exposure. Not here, not with eyes already sniffing around. But where else could I build it? certainly not in the middle of the sea."

  The SCV beeped in acknowledgement, as if it knew what I was thinking. "Alternate protocol: assign one unit to construction, one to standby patrol. Revised completion time: one hundred twenty hours."

  "Yeah," I sighed. "Safer. Slower. Welcome to the joys of playing without a build queue. Who needs a build order, right? It's not like the playing field is even, or I have someone to duel with right now. I have no proper opponents except the element of surprise, and then all hell breaks loose or not, depending on who's asking on the front door...Why is it worm...fucking goddess."

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and did some quick mental math. Five days meant I could lie low, stay mobile, and maybe draw attention somewhere else while the SCV worked. If I could get people focusing on another "weird event" across town, maybe no one would bother investigating a random noise from the trainyard.

  The problem was, distractions in Brockton Bay usually involved something on fire or someone in spandex doing the setting. Cape bullshit. Or maybe I'm just overthinking all of this. In the story I've read. The PRT are portrayed as incompetent, so who knows?

  "Alright," I muttered, making up my mind. "We do it your way. One SCV builds, the other stays on guard. Slow and steady. I can live with that. So from three to five? I can deal with five days."

  The building drone trundled into place, its arms unfolding with mechanical grace, welding torches flaring to life. Sparks illuminated the fog, and the low thump-thump-thump of foundation work began to echo through the yard.

  The second SCV rolled closer to me, its sensor eye swivelling like a dog waiting for instruction. Mengks SCVs got some weird quirks in it.

  "Standby," I told it. "If anyone gets too close, don't engage them, just alert me. And no, that doesn't mean run them over. unless they attack, then sure, go full drill mode on their posterity and zap them."

  "Acknowledged, sir!"

  "Good." I took a deep breath, watching the construction sparks fly in the misty dawn. "Five days. Just five days, and we'll have something permanent. A roof, a command terminal, maybe even a medbay if I'm lucky. With a medbay, maybe I could even requisition the med tech for a basic medkit..ooh maybe even one of those fancy Terran A.I for an adjutant. An A.I in this world is super handy."

  Before I could plan stuff...

  The thought hit me like a siege tank shell.

  I smelled awful.

  Not just "been working all day" bad, this was three days of scavenging in a rust pit with a power suit humming under a hoodie, kind of bad. The sort of stench that could strip paint off the inside of a dropship. I noticed that I haven't taken a bath in three days in an open area nearby, the rust and the sea.

  I lifted my arm, sniffed once, and immediately regretted it.

  "Oh, sweet Mother of Mengsk," I muttered, gagging. "That's not Terran-approved."

  "Environmental contamination detected. hehe-"

  "Yeah, thanks, genius. I am the contamination. So you're making jokes, huh? I see you. That humour module thing is doing wonders for your personality SCV1"

  "Acknowledge", it beeps happily.

  I looked around the depot. Plenty of storage crates, welding torches, a half-finished workbench, but no plumbing, no shower, not even a bucket. Just me, my filth, and the faint metallic tang of recycled air.

  sighed and dragged a hand down my face. "Okay, Jason. Think. You've got five days before the Command Centre's done. You can't exactly walk into town smelling like a vespene refinery."

  Where could I even shower in Brockton Bay?

  Let's see. The Boardwalk? Too public. The Docks? Too dangerous, also ABB territory, I might be asian, but I sure as hell won't find someone willing to lend me their bathhouse. Hotels? Out of my budget. Public gyms? What was it..Laborn Gym? That's actually a good Idea, but I wouldn't wanna meet Grue, and that's a whole mess I dont wanna deal with. The Protectorate HQ? Yeah, right. ahaha..."Hi, can I use your shower? Don't mind the Terran mech I parked outside."

  I rubbed my temples. "That leaves the beach."

  The idea sounded stupid the moment it left my mouth, but… what else did I have? The water was right there. Sure, the bay wasn't exactly clean, calling it water was generous, but there is an open shower for you to rinse off the salty seawater.

  I glanced down at my hoodie, streaked with grease, and sighed. "Fine. I need a place to wash this too, maybe get in some new clothes as well. Gotta find the cleaners"

  Before leaving, I grabbed a towel (technically an oil rag), and my emergency kit. I left the depot's systems on low power and told the standby SCV1 and SCV2

  "Hold the fort. If anyone comes snooping, make some noise but don't crush them."

  The SCV, ever helpful, beeped nearby. "Acknowledged."

  I'm tempted to bring the Gauss Rifle; I brought it along but hid it in a nylon bag. Need it to store my clothes too later, so it's a good idea to just bring it.

  It was late afternoon when I decided to act civilised again. The beach breeze carried that familiar Brockton Bay cocktail of salt, rust, and industrial misery; even this far off from the Graveyard docks, it still smells like that...or was it just me? honestly? I got used to it after three days of grease, metal dust, and recycled air; it smelled like freedom. Murica...yeah. Even had a gun too in the nylon bag.

  Not exactly subtle, but better than walking around like an apocalypse cosplayer. The Boardwalk wasn't far, I mean... I figured I could blend in with the after-work crowd.

  ...

  ...

  ...

  Not with a hoodie you're not. I have grown senile, I think, and I'd just never realise it, haven't I? What was I thinking?

  The Boardwalk itself was… nicer than I remembered from what little I'd seen of the city so far? It's no high praise. But it has its own charm, I suppose.

  A patchwork of old shops, beach cafés, and cheap entertainment spots, trying their best to look alive in a dying port town. Neon signs flickered over tourist traps, and I caught a faint whiff of fried food that made my stomach growl.

  Focus, Jason. Clothes first, dignity later. Much later.

  I ducked into a local beachwear shop, one of those places that sold everything from flip-flops to suspiciously knockoff sunglasses. The air smelled like sunscreen and new plastic. The lady at the counter gave me a once-over, eyes lingering on my hoodie and general hobo-in-hiding vibe.

  "Uh, looking for something, sir?"

  "Yeah," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "A couple of shirts, maybe some jeans. Shampoo. Body wash. The works."

  She blinked, then nodded slowly. "Rough day?" she inched back a little. I think my smell got to her, dear lord..that's embarrassing.

  "Rough, very rough." I nodded with a stoner face, Please just ignore me, sales girl, I smell bad.

  I grabbed what I needed. Just a cheap white T-shirt, jogging pants, a pair of sandals, a towel, maybe a spare jeans too and another T-shirt and a small bottle of coconut shampoo and bodywash that claimed to "restore vitality." God knows I needed that. Do I need more T-shirts? nah, two is enough.

  The body wash smelled aggressively like coconut and mint. Whatever, it'd do. When I paid, she gave me the kind of polite smile you reserve for people who look like they might start talking to themselves at any moment. "There's a public shower down by the pier if you need to, uh, freshen up."

  "Perfect," I said. "Thanks."

  Just the place I was looking for. I walked out, the paper bag rustling in one hand, the hidden rifle slung over my shoulder with that sports nylon bag.

  The public showers were exactly where she said they'd be, old concrete stalls half hidden behind a faded "Brockton Bay Beach" sign right along the city's waterfront. The paint was peeling, and the pipes rattled like they hadn't been used since the last time a parahuman would attack. But water was water.

  It was heaven.

  The water was cold, metallic, and a little brown at first, but it didn't matter. The grime came off in grey streaks, the oil washed out of my hair, and I could actually feel my skin again. For the first time in days, I didn't smell like something weird.

  The shampoo foamed up properly, the scent of artificial coconut never felt so pleasing in my life as it hit me with such nostalgic force that I almost laughed. Back in my StarCraft days, I used to travel with a similar bottle. The same smell, the same cheap brand. Guess some things survived across worlds.

  After a good fifteen minutes of scrubbing, I stepped out feeling like a new man. I changed into the new clothes: a plain black T-shirt, dark sweatpants, and sandals. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screamed I build Terran infrastructure and outed me as a Cape. Nahh...just your average asian taking a nice hot bat in the afternoon like a damn tourist here. Fuck I look like a tourist.

  five out of five. No Drama. All of that for 45 bucks. Damn. A little too pricey perhaps? eh... who's counting.

  Just… normal crap...I need to deal with.

  I caught my reflection in a cracked mirror by the stall, still tired, still worn, but less of a stray dog and more of a person again. I look younger, of course, like I was back at the age of 20. College years.

  If I ever got an ID? I'd pose as a working adult or someone attending College. Do I even look that attractive? eh, I can't tell. It doesn't really say..I wanna fuck myself because I'm a hot vibe. So no, I guess.

  "Not bad," I muttered. "You almost look human." My hair is a mess. I definitely need a proper haircut. Why the heck did the goddess build me like a hobo? I was definitely attractive when I was younger. My former wife said it, so it must be true. Then again, it was she who managed my appearance, the way I wear, my fashion, down to my very own slipper. Me?

  I have zero fashion sense. Give me jeans and a white t-shirt, and I'm ok with that. Got nothing against bright colours or pretty clothes, I just dont really care about external appearances much. I'm old...my soul is old, eventually? These things just really dont matter. Heck, I dont even bother cutting my hair for a year until my wife scolded me and won't ever sleep in the same room again until I get a haircut.

  Sheesh...women, I dont even remember what she looked like. I think I missed her.

  I wrapped the towel around my neck, Clean. no frills. All the dirty laundry is in the nylon bag. Time to do some laundry. Man, I never thought that would be the most peaceful part of surviving in a grimdark superhero world, just casually doing laundry. There's one nearby up at the Boardwalk.

  The laundromat sat a few blocks away from the Boardwalk, tucked between a pawn shop and a bakery that smelled way too good for my empty stomach. The bell above the door gave a weak jingle as I stepped inside. Warm air, detergent, and the low hum of machines greeted me like I did those back in the old days.

  I threw my bundle of clothes, my old jeans, shirt, and, most importantly, the DreamHack hoodie into one of the washers. That hoodie had been with me through tournaments, flights, sleepless nights, and way too many cups of instant noodles. It was practically my second skin. I wonder why the goddess made me wear that before coming here. When I was dead, I was pretty sure I wasn't wearing that, of course.

  Seeing it spin under soap and water made me realise how far I'd really fallen from my former life to a guy doing laundry in a superpowered war zone. It all seems a little too ridiculous.

  I sat down in one of the plastic chairs, the kind that creak whenever you breathe wrong. My reflection in the vending machine looked… better than a mirror. Less like someone who'd crawled out of a scrapyard. I even had a bit of colour back in my face.

  Five days.

  That's how long until the Command Centre finishes construction.

  Five days to figure out what the hell I was doing in Brockton Bay.

  I started running through possibilities.

  Hopefully, it doesn't involve screwing with the world too much.

  ******************

  A/N

  Not much stuff is going on in this chapter. I am still in the middle of writing most of the stuff. To everyone who read and gave a like, thank you for giving this fic a chance. I'm not a very sociable person, so forgive me if I dont reply to everything. Sincerely, truthfully, thank you. Sorry for the long write. The yap is too much, isnt it? But I dont wanna remove anything