Chapter 535.2: The Spark That Ignited The Barrel

That shit was classic player submitted satire.

It probably came from someone doing missions in Boulder Town, posted via a proxy on the New Alliance side. Still, it reflected what was happening there. What was even more ridiculous was how, just when they needed clarity the most, they stabbed themselves and buried their heads in the sand like ostriches.

Some Boulder Town residents still blindly believed in Mr. House’s rhetoric. They thought the nobles surely had solutions. After all, the Inner City had real institutions and even an entire division of advisors. They just had to keep the doors closed while discussing things, to stop the scavengers from the wasteland from overhearing.

After laughing, Ample Time grew a little more serious.

A pressing issue remained. The New Alliance still lacked a complete set of economic rules. The Player Handbook only had some generic rules similar to other games, meant to stop players from scamming others or the NPC legislature.

But as the game grew larger, with surging player and NPC numbers, it was only a matter of time before some bad actors slipped in and hurt themselves, leading the New Alliance down the same road as Boulder Town.

He loved the community more than anyone else. After all, he had laid the very first brick of it with his own hands, alongside his brothers. The land was soaked with their blood.

A faint idea came to him and a crafty smile appeared on his face again. "Speaking of which... the ‘Public Affairs’ update just dropped in version 0.5..."

He decided to draft a proposal for their financial law later.

...

Time passed and December arrived quickly.

At least one thing Mr. House hadn’t lied about. The winter wasn’t as cold as the previous year. Many had frozen to death by the same time the previous year, but they hadn’t heard a single person dying yet.

The factories were doing better and it looked like a good sign, suggesting that some outer city survivors had become richer. For example, Malvern’s youngest daughter’s tutor had started wearing Deathclaw leather shoes.

Ever since it was discovered that every survivor faction attending the celebration had received a Deathclaw as a return gift from the New Alliance, the Inner City nobles suddenly stopped worshiping Deathclaws quite as much.

Perhaps... Only Ideal City could forever remain their one true idol.

Spielberg couldn’t help but sneer inwardly. Perhaps it was time for him to adapt too. It was time to switch his shoes that were made from Deathclaw skin to something else, to better reflect his distinguished status.

What about Mutant Human scalp?

Whatever it was, his imagination was lacking.

Aside from the freakishly diverse evolved types of Slime Mold, nothing else on the wasteland was as terrifying as Deathclaws. Still, everything seemed to be slowly getting better.

Spielberg felt a rare sense of comfort, maybe someday that prosperity would reach him too.

His only disappointment was that during the month, Vega had tried to pay them in IOUs again, angering everyone. Even Kent had cursed him as a shameless crook, saying he left them no way to survive.

Then something happened. Someone had secretly sabotaged the wires in the slicing machines. Others played dumb and didn’t say a word, letting an entire canning line’s output get ruined. Vega was so furious his nose nearly twisted off his face.

Of course, the culprit was found. Someone had ratted him out.

But in a twisted way, they all benefited. Vega became more cautious and didn’t skip the previous month’s interest. Even if it came as leftover nutrient paste no one wanted...

Spielberg was slightly dejected.

He had hoped their boss might give them the ruined cans. But to his surprise, Vega dumped the food in front of them and had someone pee on it, just to make a point.

That same day, Mr. House’s broadcast aired a new advertisement. “Goodtaste Food Processing Factory will destroy all defective products before letting a single substandard one reach the market.”

Luckily, that was the only bad thing that happened. On the bright side, more and more workers were gathering outside Walnut Tavern just to hear the story of Bore the Awakener.

There weren’t just workers from Vega’s plant, there were folks from the steel factory, the sawmill, even engineers from the weapons assembly line.

As it turned out, educated folks loved their stories too, and sympathized with their struggles.

One of the engineers was short, had an electronic eye made by Boulder Town Arms Industry, and was quite generous. Occasionally, he would buy everyone a drink, even if it was just watered-down beer.

One day, drunk, he shouted that if Boulder Town Arms Factory ever tried paying him in IOUs, he wouldn’t stay silent. He swore he’d pack every shell with extra powder, and a touch of syrup.

He wasn’t joking.

Spielberg had immediately stopped reading that day’s story and clamped his hand over the man’s mouth, begging him not to do anything stupid. The Tide in the Spring was no joke. They couldn’t afford messing up the weapons.

Winter might just kill a few poor bastards, but Spring which came next would be hell.

"Wouldn’t it be great..." one young man said after hearing the end the story that day, envy in his voice. "If we had an administrator too."

He had seen through it all.

Those profiteers would never willingly empty their pockets, unless someone held a gun to their heads and made them change.

Spielberg couldn’t help but grin when he heard it.

Everyone here had heard him read the Survivor’s Daily editor-in-chief’s reply. The administrator had invited him to visit the New Alliance, and promised he could try on an exoframe.

He was such a down-to-earth man.

"When the Tide ends, we’ll go together," someone said. "I heard the marauders in the north are almost wiped out by those blue coats."

"But I heard they only pay in silver coins, not chips..."

"So what? The dancers at the Queen of the Night take silver coins now!" someone else chimed in.

"Exactly!" grunted a bearded man. "Anything’s better than IOUs!"

Still, others looked worried.

"But what about the Tide? Will we just come back and hide again?" an old engineer asked nervously. "I heard the Tide will sweep across the wasteland, leaving nothing alive in its wake..."

No one would leave the great walls unless life forced them to. Coming back meant paying 1 to 2 chips just to enter, depending on the mood of the guards. If they weren’t scared of mutants and marauders, they would have become mercenaries long ago instead of working in factories.

Those who stayed behind were the honest ones.

They always had been.

Spielberg shared that same worry. That was why he had mentioned in his reply that they should save up for travel expenses.

Those 20 or 30 kilometers wouldn’t be easy to traverse. Who knew what dangers lurked in the concrete ruins? He hadn’t seen those raw-eating mutant rats or dogs himself, but he had seen the convoy of guards escorting Director Malvern on his inspection tour.

Just then, the engineer who always bought drinks let out a quiet laugh. "Come on, you guys clearly haven’t been reading the newspapers. I remember an issue of the Survivor Daily mentioned those Crunchers were some kind of sporulated entity of Slime Mold. And that strain had something called self-limiting properties. Basically, once they spread to a certain extent, they would stop expanding. The suburbs probably didn’t face a Tide anywhere near as crazy as the city center. Otherwise, how would the survivors in the northern suburbs have made it? It’s not like they crawled out of the cracks in the concrete."

Everyone looked at each other in surprise, and even Spielberg’s face showed a flicker of shock.

That was indeed a gap in his knowledge.

He had always been glued to Worker’s Daily, treating it like his own child, and had completely forgotten about Survivor’s Daily or Mercenary Daily, which often shared practical wasteland survival information.

Clearly, that engineer from the Boulder Town Arms Industry was a regular reader of the Survivor’s Daily and just happened to catch that issue.

His expression of surprise turned into excitement. Spielberg clenched his fists with a surge of emotion, looking out at the crowd of fellow workers gathering at the entrance. "That’s great! If the wasteland isn’t as terrifying as we thought, let’s go see it for ourselves next spring! It’s true what they say, there’s strength in numbers!"

As long as even one person shared what they knew, their united comrades would grow more informed, and knowledge was power.

However, just then, a group of fierce-looking guards approached from a distance, causing Spielberg’s face to darken.

At the front was Phyllis, head of the industrial zone’s security, flanked by Captain Yalek of the security team and his old friend Kent.

"What’s all this gathering for? Are you planning a rebellion?" Phyllis barked, swinging his baton to scatter the drunks loitering outside the bar.

Spielberg looked toward the pub owner, Tang, who paled and shook his head. "It... It wasn’t me who called them..."

Before he could finish, Kent suddenly lunged forward like a hero, grabbing Spielberg by the collar and turning excitedly to Yalek. "It’s this guy! He’s the one making all the ruckus every day, reading that disgusting story of that guy Bore or whatever!"

Spielberg flared up. In a rare display of courage, he glared at Kent and yelled, "I’m reading it, yeah, but am I doing it outside your damn front door? What’s it to you?!"

Kent hadn’t expected the coward to talk back. He was about to spit on him, but noticed the other workers silently watching. His gut tightened with unease.