We left Souta's office and walked into the military base, where preparations were underway. Soldiers armed themselves with various weapons, and scouts reported on the trade market's location and possible dangers. The base, which had been a place of joy and peace, had transformed into a bastion of readiness, its inhabitants focused on the looming mission.
We headed to the makeshift war room, a space dedicated to strategic planning. A map of the surrounding area lay on a large table, marked with red and blue pins. The red pins indicated potential danger zones, while the blue pins showed possible routes to sneak into the trade market. The war room was filled with intensity, as survivors shared their insights and suggestions.
Souta, surrounded by key members of the group, explained the plan. "We'll send a small, elite team to infiltrate the trade market, gather information, and assess the situation. Once we have a clear picture of what we're up against, we'll decide on our next move."
I agreed with him, understanding the importance of a smart approach. The team selected for this delicate mission consisted of a mix of combat skills, stealth, and intelligence. Each member knew their role, and the harmony between them reflected the trust that had grown within the survivor community.
As the elite team departed, the situation became more serious. The world outside the base, which had been full of uncertainty, now presented a specific target. The survivors, united by a common purpose, embarked on a mission that would not only seek justice for the fallen soldiers but also secure the future of their thriving community.
The journey towards the trade market awaited, promising challenges, revelations, and the possibility of changing the course of their post-apocalyptic existence. The military base, now a hub of preparation, stood as a proof of the resilience and adaptability of those who refused to be defined by the horrors of the past.
Denver, the resilient survivor with the severed foot, emerged as the unexpected leader of the elite team chosen for the mission. Despite his physical condition, Denver had proven time and again that his determination and skills far surpassed the limitations of his injury. Carrying a specially crafted sword on his back and donned in a scrap armor, he exuded a quiet confidence that hinted at his proficiency in navigating the perilous world outside the base.
As Denver and his companion approached the trading market, they concealed an off-road motorcycle, a nimble choice for stealth and quick getaways. The motorcycle, strategically parked away from the main entrance, blended into the surroundings, keeping their approach discreet.
The trading market came into view, its makeshift walls towering ominously. Denver, experienced and perceptive, took note of the watchtowers strategically positioned along the perimeter. Guards, armed and vigilant, patrolled the area with a watchful eye, their guns poised for any sign of intrusion.
They walk straight to the entrance gate, with checkpoints looking at their bags and pockets. After that they went to the market.
The market itself resembled a chaotic blend of salvaged structures, tents, and repurposed shipping containers. A cacophony of voices and distant clatter filled the air, betraying the bustling activity within. Denver and his companion moved cautiously, sticking to the shadows and avoiding the direct gaze of the guards.
The atmosphere within the trading market hinted at a thriving but ruthless community. Merchants peddled goods, survivors bartered for essentials, and the air was thick with an undercurrent of tension. Denver, well-versed in the art of subtlety, observed without drawing undue attention.
Reaching a concealed vantage point, Denver surveyed the interior of the market. Rows of makeshift stalls displayed an array of goods – from scavenged supplies to questionable commodities. The layout suggested a hierarchy among the traders, each vying for dominance in this post-apocalyptic marketplace.
As Denver continued his reconnaissance, he couldn't help but notice a distinct area that appeared heavily guarded. A large tent, surrounded by armed individuals, stood as a focal point within the market. It bore the air of authority, and the whispers among the traders hinted at this being the heart of the operation – the trade hub.
The challenge ahead was clear: Denver needed to gather intelligence on the trade market's internal dynamics, assess the strength of its guards, and determine the potential threat it posed to the survivor community. The fate of the mission rested on Denver's ability to navigate the shadows, extracting vital information without alerting the vigilant forces within the market.
Denver split up with his companion, signaling him to cover the opposite side of the trading market. He hoped to gather as much information as possible from different sources, without arousing suspicion. His destination was a dimly lit pub, where the clinking of glasses and muffled conversations created an ambient backdrop. He walked around casually, blending in with the crowd. He arrived at the pub and sat down in front of the bartender, who greeted him with a gruff voice.
"What can I get for you?"
Denver slid a small container across the counter. The bartender took it and opened it, revealing a stash of medicines. His eyes widened slightly, and he quickly put the container in his drawer.
"Well, well, well. You've got some valuable stuff here. What do you want in exchange?"
Denver leaned in closer, lowering his voice.
"I'm new here, you see, and I want to know more about this place. Who's in charge? What's the deal with the trade hub? What's going on behind the scenes?"
The bartender glanced around nervously, then leaned in as well.
"Listen, buddy. This is not the kind of place where you ask too many questions. You could get yourself killed. But since you're paying me well, I'll tell you what I know. Just don't tell anyone I said anything, alright?"
Denver nodded, and the bartender began to talk.
"This base was supposed to be a safe haven for the civilians, and the leader was a politician who cared about the people. But he died of some unknown cause 8 months ago, and everything changed. Drastically. The base became a 'market place', where you can trade anything and everything. But that's just the front. This place is really the military's playhouse. They're selling slaves in the black market, and the military turns a blind eye to it, because they get a cut of the profits. And the profits are huge. They get resources, such as food, ammo, guns, and more."
Denver frowned, feeling a surge of anger and disgust.
"And how do they get those resources?"
"By raiding other bases. They have spies everywhere, who report back to them about the locations and defenses of the other survivor communities. Then they send their raiders, who attack and loot the bases, killing or capturing anyone who resists. They're ruthless, and they don't care about anyone but themselves."
Denver felt a chill run down his spine. He wondered if his own base was safe, or if it was already on their radar.
"And who's the new leader of this base now?"
"It's the son of the politician, but he's just a puppet. He doesn't have a clue about what's going on. He's a spoiled brat, who only cares about women and booze. He lets the real leader of this base do whatever he wants, as long as he gets his share of the fun. And the real leader of this base is-"
"That's him! The spy!"
Denver's heart skipped a beat, as he heard a loud voice behind him. He turned around, and saw a man pointing a gun at him. The man had a scarred face, and a patch over one eye. He wore a leather jacket, with a badge that read 'Raider'.