The hideout was silent. Only the occasional crackle of the fireplace and the hum of the generator broke the stillness. A soft snore drifted from the heated brick bed.
"Brrrring..." The alarm blared. 7:00 PM.
Thomas Smyth stretched, yawned, and shuffled to the bathroom. A quick wash later, he checked his private messages. Still no takers for the two items he'd listed. Suppressing a twinge of disappointment, his eyes landed on a message from Howie Wang. Something interesting.
[Magic Mushrooms]
Category: Fungus
Effect: 30 minutes after consumption, causes various status effects based on quantity consumed: [Gastroenteritis], [Neuropsychiatric Disorder], [Hemolysis], [Kidney Necrosis], [Rhabdomyolysis].
Description: A deceptively delicious food, notorious for its frequent accidental poisonings.
Note: Heating to above 100°C for 30 minutes reduces toxicity by 95%, making it safe to eat. Use [Antidote] if poisoned.
Below followed detailed descriptions of each status effect, outlining their debilitating consequences, from vomiting blood and hallucinations to paralysis and internal organ failure.
A grin spread across Thomas's face. Magic mushrooms. The status effects were potent, to say the least. He'd sampled them once before his transmigration, resulting in a night of heartfelt conversations with his dog. He'd steered clear ever since.
But now… His eyes gleamed. These strange items were becoming increasingly intriguing. Used correctly, they could be game-changers.
[City - Thomas Smyth: How many do you have? I'll take them all!]
[Forest - Howie Wang: Heh, knew you'd like these, Legend Smyth. My friend picked them a few days ago. He's got about twenty more. I'll get them for you.]
Friend again? Thomas raised an eyebrow. First the sandalwood, now this. Howie seemed to have a lot of conveniently resourceful friends.
Three minutes later, a trade request popped up. Twenty-seven magic mushrooms. Thomas promptly sent two bowls of Nourishing Mutton Stew in exchange.
[City - Thomas Smyth: Keep an eye out for more stuff like this.]
[Forest - Howie Wang: You got it. Won't bother you further.]
Thomas closed the message window and stashed the mushrooms in his inventory. He headed to the kitchen and downed a bowl of Nourishing Mutton Stew, fortified with ginseng, angelica, and goji berries. The familiar warmth spread through him, granting him the [Invigorated] buff and a two-hour boost to strength and reduced stamina consumption.
He noted with satisfaction that the hideout walls had upgraded to level 2, looking noticeably thicker. Their protective effects had also improved.
Next, he began organizing his gear. 7:15 PM. 3 hours and 45 minutes until 11:00 PM. The Trading Center was about 3 kilometers from Garden Station. He needed to move.
He meticulously checked his weapons: PP-91-01 Kedr-B suppressed submachine gun, a customized AK-101 assault rifle, a Mosin-Nagant sniper rifle, along with ample ammunition. His sidearm was a suppressed Stechkin APS pistol. For close combat, he had his trusty 6h5 bayonet. He packed a crate of grenades, including his modified shrapnel grenades and two flashbangs.
He also packed three large suitcases (8x8 grid inventory each) salvaged from the Pinewood Hotel, adding to his existing "Camel" travel backpack. His inventory now boasted five large-capacity containers.
He added his homemade remote-detonated plastic explosives, both regular and modified, along with sheets of chewing gum explosive and the necessary detonators.
For stealth, he packed his [Night Cloak] and [Black Mask]. Armor included a plate carrier with level 5 plates, a level 4 helmet, reinforced military boots, and tactical gloves. He added goggles, a digital headset, two doses of [Paralyzing Toxin], a towel, and assorted supplies. His medical kit contained a field surgery kit, a first aid kit, and ibuprofen. Finally, he packed Nourishing Mutton Stew, purified water, canned meat, and energy drinks.
He donned his [Cryogenic Suit], essential protection against the arctic blizzard raging outside. Connecting the respirator, he walked to the hideout entrance, taking one last look at the familiar space. Turning back, his eyes hardened with resolve.
He pushed the door.
Nothing.
Confusion replaced his steely gaze. He slammed his shoulder against the door.
Crack!
He stumbled out, the door swinging open. He turned back to see a thick layer of ice coating the wall where the door had been. Not just the wall, but the entire station was encased in frost, like the inside of a freezer.
The blizzard hadn't directly buried the station, but the extreme cold, now at -65°C, had turned the city into an icy tomb. He'd be a popsicle without the cryogenic suit.
He trudged towards the subway entrance. Despite being only 7:00 PM, the sky was pitch black. The entrance was buried under at least 1.5 meters of snow. Wind howled, whipping snowflakes into a white frenzy.
He dug out his snowmobile, climbed on with some difficulty, checked his bearings, and twisted the throttle. The vehicle whirred to life, turned, and vanished into the blizzard. The falling snow quickly erased any trace of his passage, returning the world to a pristine white silence.
Sparrow City Trading Center. Trading Hall.
The city's power grid had collapsed under the extreme cold, plunging everything into darkness. Twenty-odd refugees huddled around a massive bonfire, seeking warmth.
"Caban's really that tough, huh? Ambushed by the Boss and still managed to… damn, eighty of our guys gone," a refugee wearing a clown mask muttered, taking a swig of whiskey through a hole ripped in the mask's mouth.
"Clown, just take the damn mask off, will ya?" one of his companions chuckled.
"Nah, can't do that. Love my Clown," he replied with a grin.
Another refugee glanced at the staircase. "Mad Dog usually has us scattered around, holding different territories. Why call us all back today?" he whispered.
The question sparked immediate interest. All eyes turned to him. He savored the attention, taking a slow sip of his drink.
"Spit it out, man! Or we're not listening," someone urged.
"Alright, alright," he relented, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Don't tell anyone, but… Mad Dog didn't actually finish off Caban like he said this afternoon."
"What? Caban's still alive?" Shock rippled through the group. This contradicted everything Mad Dog had told them.
"Surprise! He lied. The whole thing's a sham," the refugee continued, enjoying their astonishment. "My cousin was there last night. It was a bloodbath, let me tell you…"
"Get to the point! What about Caban?" someone interrupted.
"He escaped through the sewers," he revealed. "Took a dozen of his men with him. That's why Mad Dog called us back."
The realization dawned on the others. Mad Dog was scared. He'd rallied them for protection.
"Knew that fat pig was up to something," someone grumbled.
"Well, we're here now. Let's drink," the Clown chimed in, passing around a bottle.
Half an hour later, the refugees were thoroughly inebriated, swaying in the firelight, occasionally taking swigs and bites of food.
"Gotta… gotta take a leak," the Clown mumbled, struggling to his feet and stumbling towards the restrooms.
"Just piss wherever, man. It's freezing out there," someone called after him.
"Screw you," the Clown slurred back.
But upon reaching the restroom, his drunken demeanor vanished. He pressed his ear against the door, listening intently. Silence. He slipped inside, retrieved a folded piece of paper and a red armband from a crack behind a urinal.
Just as he unfolded the note, a chill ran down his spine, piercing even his arctic gear. Someone was here. But how? He'd checked. Everyone was downstairs.
A towel covered his nose and mouth. Paralysis gripped him instantly.
Clad in his [Night Cloak] and [Black Mask], Thomas Smyth watched the refugee collapse. He'd infiltrated the building hours ago, observing, waiting for an opportunity. The Clown's erratic behavior had made him a prime target.
He checked his virtual map. The others were still by the fire. He quickly looted the unconscious refugee, finding a Glock 17, a 6h5 bayonet, a level 2 vest, three F-1 grenades, and some gauze. His main weapon was likely downstairs with the others.
Thomas stripped the refugee of his outer clothing, including the clown mask. He dragged the body into a stall, a swift bayonet thrust ending his life. He wiped the blade clean on the refugee's clothes and stowed it. The body lay face down, blood pooling and freezing in the toilet bowl.
"Ugh… this thing stinks," Thomas muttered, wrinkling his nose at the stained mask. He quickly ate a bowl of stew, refreshing his [Invigorated] buff. He removed his own mask and cloak, then, after a moment of hesitation, donned the refugee's clothes and the clown mask. He checked his reflection. Close enough.
He glanced back at the lifeless body, closed the stall door, and opened the window, letting the icy wind and snow sweep in, dispersing the faint scent of blood. Mimicking the Clown's unsteady gait, he headed back to the trading hall.
"Clown! Thought you fell in. Was gonna fish you out," a slurring voice greeted him.
"Nah… found something… good. Look!" Thomas mumbled, holding up his hands.
The drunken refugees, their vision blurry, focused on the objects in his hands. Their faces lit up with surprise. With his perfect imitation of the Clown's voice and mannerisms, none suspected a thing.