When the overseer's electronic watch struck once more at exactly 12:30 p.m., it marked the beginning of yet another eagerly awaited and most cherished part of the day for everyone within the Meri District—lunch hour.
This was particularly true for the prisoners of the band of thieves and the newly joined mercenaries.
The regular, timely provision of three meals a day had become, in recent times, the highlight of their lives. No encouragement was needed. Without a word, each man, clutching his own large iron food basin, lined up in orderly rows beside the worksite, creating a long chain of hungry laborers.
It was a familiar scene, one that had played out countless times before. Some, eager to satisfy their hunger, might dash ahead, but there were no disputes—no one dared cut in line. Previous harsh examples had made it clear that attempting to skip ahead brought severe consequences. The overseer's baton, ever ready, was not the worst of it. The true punishment came the next day, when the offender would find themselves forbidden from eating altogether. The work would continue, though, without any mercy, without a single ounce of leniency.
Soon, after a few examples were made, any lingering impulsiveness disappeared from the ranks, and the sight of orderly, patient workers became commonplace.
And so, under their watchful eyes, the overseer began the ritual of serving the meal.
From a large nylon sack at his feet, he pulled out a vacuum-sealed plastic bag, weighing five kilograms. The bag, its contents a mixture of discarded food, was torn open with a precise motion, the scent of preserved scraps wafting in the air. He poured the contents into each basin, filling it about halfway—roughly 0.4 kilograms of food.
For these men, whose bodies were accustomed to heavy labor, such a portion hardly seemed enough.
However, the clever Harry Potter, ever mindful of his crew's needs, had long ago anticipated this. The vacuum-sealed bags contained food scraps, carefully sorted and stripped of all liquids. Paper towels and toothpicks had been discarded, and the remnants were sanitized at high temperatures. The sealed bags, tough as bricks, ensured that nothing would spoil. All it took was a spoonful of water and a quick stir, and the contents would transform into a hearty, soupy rice dish—a thick, satisfying porridge with assorted meats and vegetables, enough to make any laborer's stomach groan in satisfaction.
The locals around the Meri District had come to call this dish the "Eight-Treasure Rice," for the mystery and variety it offered, as the contents of each bag were always a surprise.
The real luxury, though, lay in the fact that only the prisoners of the thieves and the newest mercenaries had the privilege to indulge in it. Even the overseers could only sneak a handful of the meal when no one was looking, savoring the rich flavors as if they were rare treasures.
A peculiar side effect of this food's unpredictable origins was the strange assortment of ingredients within it. Occasionally, the luck of the eater would favor them, and they might find strips of meat or even slices of thick, fatty pork. Rumor had it that one lucky soul had even found a chunk of meat so large it could cover three fingers.
It was a kind of food lottery—a surprise every time, and one that made the process of eating all the more exciting for the prisoners and mercenaries alike.
Once they each had their bowl of the fragrant, greasy stew, the prisoners and mercenaries—no longer distinguishable in their collective hunger—sank to the ground, hunched over and digging in with reckless abandon. The sounds of chewing and slurping filled the air, rhythmic and almost animalistic. The noise, unrelenting, was akin to a massive pigsty.
Amidst the noise and the consumption, Michael, the local lord, appeared. Accompanied by his old, limping companion, he had come on a routine inspection of his territory. It had been almost a week since he'd arrived with his bulldozer and excavators, and he was pleased with the progress.
When he witnessed the scene of hungry men devouring their meals, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride—not because the food he had provided was so well received, but because, after some thought, he had discovered that the notion that only Asians could squat like this was a total myth. It wasn't about race—it was simply a cultural preference that had never spread.
In fact, just the other day, Michael had found himself squatting at the entrance of a small building, savoring a massive dinner. His graceful squat had caught the attention of a few onlookers, and before he knew it, it had become a new trend. Word on the street was that anyone walking through the Meri District who couldn't squat like an Asian while eating was considered out of place, and too embarrassed to speak to others.
As he walked, lost in thought, Michael suddenly turned to his old companion behind him and asked, "Old Limpy, how many mercenaries and volunteers have we recruited recently?"
The old man, struggling to hide his hunger, swallowed a mouthful of saliva before answering. "We've got 120 mercenaries now, and 116 volunteers have signed up."
"That's quite a lot," Michael mused. "Alright, from now on, let's focus only on those with real potential. We won't be taking in any more for the action squads unless they're exceptional."
The action squad, of course, was Michael's personal team, the one he intended to lead into the ruins of Detroit.
The volunteers were mostly former prisoners from the thieves' band, those who had agreed to fight for their freedom. Anyone who survived the battles would be forgiven for their past crimes and granted official status within the Meri District.
Michael's personal guards would number thirty, while the base 0005 would contribute twenty more. These men, all heavily armed, would form the core of his fighting force.
The rest of the volunteers would make up the auxiliary squads—cannon fodder in the truest sense. They would serve as human shields, holding the line with cold weapons, sacrificing their lives to protect the more skilled troops. If they survived, they would earn Michael's trust and be considered "one of his own."
The sheer number of volunteers who had risked their lives for the chance to join the action squads caught Michael off guard. Now, he found himself needing to buy more protective gear and supplies.
After a long day's inspection, Michael finally turned to his companion. "We'll need to increase the food rations for the action squad. Their bodies are still too weak, so from now on, each meal should be at least 0.5 kilograms."
"That's a lot more food," the old man commented, frowning. "Can we really keep up with the supply?"
Michael chuckled softly. "Don't worry about it. I've outsourced the whole waste disposal operation to Fat Woman, and she's got it covered. With her in charge, we've got enough to last for months. Right now, she's got the whole southern part of Yang City under control, monopolizing all the waste collection. Every day, we're getting vacuum-sealed waste packed in tons."
"Well, if it's all good, then I guess we've got nothing to worry about," the old man said.
Later, as Michael made his way back to the small building, he remembered that the dishes made by the Fox Lady were likely ready by now, just waiting to be tested.
But before he could even reach the door, the walkie-talkie at his belt crackled to life, followed by an excited voice:
"Sir, it's Patrol Team One! We've encountered the Hawk Merchant Caravan! They're back, and this time, they've brought a lot of supplies!"