Public Residence Cluster. Standardized template spread across Commonwealth metroplexes – Type-7 vertical arcology. Reinforced concrete, low-maintenance composite panels, minimum hab-unit area: 24.6 square meters per occupant. Integrated recycling, communal hydroponics, waste treatment, internal commissary defunct after welfare collapse.

“…how many people lived there?” you ask softly.

He exhales heavily. “The entire civilian population could fit, and there’d still be room to spare.”

20,000-30,000 per Hab-Block. Current survivability index: unknown, trending negligible.

It’s worlds larger than the cryopod, but the limited space and density per occupant is enough to make your skin crawl.

“In any event,” Harper interjects, “There’s only a handful of scavengers that have the go-ahead from Estevez to scavenge residential areas. I happen to be one of them. The colonel says he doesn’t want to encourage looting as much as ‘repurposing’ and ‘reclaiming’ supplies and materiel for proper use by the rightful authorities.”

You snort in spite of yourself. “And what is it we’re looking for exactly?”

“Anything worth taking, even if it’s nailed down. Hell, we’ll even take the nails themselves.” The survivalist grins. “There’s only so much we can carry on our backs, but we can tag stuff for the 2nd Battalion to escort back on trucks and flatbeds.”

Probable assets – sealed food lockers, solar panels, fuel cells and batteries, pharmaceuticals, personal terminals with data caches.

Hopefully you’ll be able to find something more substantial than Ration Bricks, but you aren’t going to get your hopes up.

“Any threats?”

“But of course.”

He hands you a bulletproof vest. “Sucker’s bet to assume that the building’s empty. Again – opportunistic looters, bandit gangs, cyberpsychos…”

“Or flesh-flaying androids,” you mutter.

Harper’s smile is brittle. “Let’s hope we don’t run into any of those.”

>>Line Break

APCs are noisy things, boxy machines that belch smoke and reek of diesel, gunpowder, and unwashed bodies. You try to tune it out – the grinding gears, the clatter of rubber soles against metal – but the air is too thick to breathe right. Harper’s shoulder presses into yours, another soldier’s knee jabs your thigh with every bump. The walls feel closer with every bump and lurch the truck makes.

You shift your weight, trying to find space that isn’t there. Sweat itches down your spine, trapped under your clothes and ballistic vest. Someone laughs, too loud and close, and you twitch before you can stop yourself. You focus on your hands instead, counting the flex of your fingers and grounding yourself in the kinetic motion.

The engine drones.

The walls hum.

The only difference between this and the pod is the heat and the stench.

(cont.)