The return journey to the Territory of Meili felt unnervingly swift, the laden truck cutting a determined path across the cracked, sun-baked earth. Michael had left behind the bulk of the remaining food and water at Base 0005, a tangible promise of his return. Now, the truck's cargo bed, a cramped and jostling metal womb, carried the future of the base—its most vulnerable, the very old and the very young, swaddled in ragged blankets. Their quiet murmurs and the steady growl of the engine were the only sounds accompanying the stark landscape rolling past.
A little over two hours into the drive, a dark, familiar smudge appeared on the shimmering horizon—the outermost palisade of the town. A wave of something akin to… not quite homecoming, but territorial possession… washed over Michael. He was back in his domain. As the distance closed, the static-laden hiss of the truck's walkie-talkie resolved into a clear signal. The communications link was re-established. He snatched the handset, his voice cutting through the monotony of the drive.
"Convoy to Home Plate, this is Harry Potter Michael. Get Old Gimpy on the line. Now."
The response was almost immediate, a voice dripping with syrupy deference that he recognized as Lynda, the feline-eared attendant. "At once, my Lord! I'll fetch him immediately. And… welcome back!" The newly christened 'Communications Shack'—little more than a roofed platform atop the town's tallest ruin, housing the precious relay and a rudimentary broadcast system—was clearly operational. Michael felt a flicker of pride. His ideas were taking root.
True to his nickname, Old Gimpy's voice crackled over the speaker in under a minute, breathless and obsequious. "My Lord! You've returned!"
"Indeed I have… old sport," Michael replied, the archaic, vaguely gangster-movie slang slipping out automatically, a ghost from countless hours spent watching old Earth films. The phrase, utterly alien in this context, caused a palpable silence on the other end.
"My… my Lord?" Gimpy stammered, clearly bewildered.
Michael cleared his throat, swiftly steering the conversation back to business. "Report. Anything of note happen while I was away?"
"Nothing, Lord! All is quiet. Peaceful as a graveyard," came the reassured reply.
Satisfied, Michael broached the subject that had occupied his mind for the entire journey. "Gimpy, hypothetically… if we were to make a run to the Bullet Farm, what's the maximum amount of ammunition, particularly 12.7mm, and firearms we could acquire in a single trade?"
The old timer's answer was swift and deflating. "Those ham-fisted oafs? They can't manufacture 12.7mm! As for other calibers… they're a paranoid lot. Maybe two hundred rounds total, and two or three of their shoddily assembled rifles. They drip-feed their wares."
Two hundred rounds. It was a pittance, enough for a few minutes of intense fighting, a mere sneeze in the face of the monumental task ahead. Desperation nudged Michael towards a radical idea. "And if we had… premiumgoods for trade? Something like the 'Ma Yinglong Musk Hemorrhoid Ointment'?"
A sharp, audible intake of breath hissed from the speaker. Michael could practically see the old man's eyes widening at the sheer, extravagant value of such a proposal. In a world of constant physical hardship, such a miraculous balm was worth a king's ransom. Gimpy's mind was undoubtedly reeling, trying to reconcile the worth of a medical marvel against crude munitions.
After a long moment, Gimpy's voice returned, hushed with awe. "A thousand rounds, perhaps. Maybe ten guns. That would likely clean out their entire reserve stock. You can't squeeze blood from a stone, my Lord."
A thousand rounds was a small fortune by Wasteland standards, enough to make a man a local warlord. But for the operation Michael was planning, it was hopelessly inadequate. The final, reluctant conclusion solidified in his mind: the solution lay not in the scavenger economies of the Wasteland, but in the industrial might of his own world. He felt a leaden weight settle in his stomach. Procuring firearms from the modern era was a path fraught with immense risk and moral ambiguity, a line he had never intended to cross.
The following days back in Meili were a whirlwind of activity, each moment weighed down by the ticking clock. Settling the refugees from Base 0005, establishing their rations, overseeing the town's slow expansion, and initiating the recruitment of a tougher, more ruthless class of mercenary from the scavenger ranks—all of it was performed with a frantic energy. When Michael cautiously revealed his intention to lead an expedition into the heart of the Detroit ruins, the color drained from Old Gimpy's face. The old man's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish stranded on a riverbank, the sheer, suicidal audacity of the plan robbing him of speech.
Time was the enemy. Two months in the Wasteland translated to a mere three or four days in the modern world. In that cruelly short window, he had to acquire the means to arm a small army.
Yet, even amidst this pressure, Michael, the budding media mogul, had a contractual obligation to fulfill. Before his departure, he summoned his troupe of attendants. The down payment from the garment factory was burning a hole in his virtual pocket. A new, ambitious idea took shape: why not form a proper merchandising troupe? Lynda and Faye were his stars, but the wolf-girl and the other feline-eared attendant, once cleaned up, possessed a unique, exotic appeal that would surely break the algorithm back home. He envisioned a video with his two leads at the center, flanked by a cadre of 'concept models', a synergy of appeal that would surely overwhelm the viewers. The extras? A bonus, a free gift for the audience. He was nothing if not generous.
And so, on a drowsy, sun-beaten afternoon, the normally dour atmosphere of the settlement was punctured by the sound of upbeat, synthetic music and Michael's own director-like exhortations, shouted with the fervor of a man trying to outrun his impending doom. "That's it, girls, put your backs into it! More energy! Watch carefully, this song is called 'Paradise'! It's all in the hip movement! I want you to outperform the original performer!"
The townsfolk, going about their arduous lives, could only stop and stare, exchanging bewildered glances. It sounded… intriguing.
The transition between worlds was now a familiar, yet always disorienting, lurch. This time, however, it was different. As the nauseating twist of spacetime subsided, Michael kept his eyes closed, focusing inward. A familiar, faint green energy—a residue of the crossing—seeped into his being, a tangible warmth that pooled in his core. His muscles thrummed with a new, potent strength, his senses sharpened to a preternatural acuity. The threshold had been crossed. He was now, unmistakably, a third-level warrior.
With this advancement came a new, instinctive understanding of the portal. The cooldown period had shortened to ten hours. The duration he could hold it open had stretched to a full five minutes. But the most significant change, the one that made his heart skip a beat, was the ability to anchor. No longer was he tethered to his point of departure. He could now set a return point, a fixed coordinate in the fabric of reality. The strategic implications were staggering.
Once the dizziness passed, he attended to the mundane tasks of his other life: uploading the edited promotional videos, fulfilling his contractual duty. Then, with a deep breath, he scrolled through his contacts and placed a call. The line connected after several rings.
"David. I require your services. There's twenty thousand in it for you. U.S. dollars. Listen carefully. I will not explain why, and you will not ask." He spoke with a cold, deliberate calm he did not feel.
On the other end, the voice of the East Manganese fixer was slick with instant avarice. "My friend! You have only to ask! David's discretion is legendary, ask anyone!"
Michael laid out the plan, the cover story he'd concocted. "I need you to use East Manganese's diplomatic channels. Contact Northern China Arms Import & Export Corporation. I wish to procure a… modest quantity of light infantry weapons and ammunition. I will provide the list and funds. I need this shipment to leave a Chinese port within forty-eight hours. You will also procure for me credentials—something identifying me as an East Manganese-appointed inspector for the shipment." He paused, letting the audacity of the request hang in the air. "You understand, of course, that when the container arrives in East Manganese, it will be empty. This… logistical discrepancy must be handled with your famous discretion. The official receiver must be compensated for their… lack of observation."
The silence that followed was long and heavy. When David finally spoke, his tone was pained. "My friend… the money is… attractive. Very. And what you do with the goods is your business. But the timeline… it is impossible." He explained the tedious, suspicious reality of international arms dealing, especially for a nation like East Manganese, known for its begging-bowl diplomacy and habit of paying in agricultural products. The very officials Michael needed to expedite the process would be the most resistant, their inboxes filled with past-due invoices and unmet demands for aid.
The plan, his best-laid plan, crumbled to dust before it had even truly begun.
"I see. Then forget I asked," Michael said, his voice flat. "I'll wire two thousand Yuan to your account for your consultation. Remember, this conversation never happened."
He ended the call before David could protest, a cynical smile touching his lips. He could almost hear the man's anguished gasp on the other side of the world, the dream of twenty thousand dollars evaporating into the bitter reality of a two-thousand-Yuan consolation prize. He was back to square one, the immense challenge of the Detroit expedition looming larger and more desperate than ever. The path forward was shrouded in darkness, and he had just extinguished his brightest torch.