He swallowed his anxiety as he made himself approach his sister’s room, her door secured by yet another combination lock, one that he hadn’t even tried to open. Determined to respect his sister’s space, her privacy.

Before realizing that what held him back wasn’t reverence, but fear.

Fear that something bad had happened, and the minute he entered and studied whatever waited for him, would be the minute his hopes and dreams of being united with his loved ones would turn to ashes, dying forever.

It was a fear that kept him focused, determined to train harder than ever, as if to make amends for his own weaknesses. But finally accepting that it was time to leave this sanctuary, at least for a few hours, or however long it took for him to encounter and defeat at least one rat, also meant accepting that he had run out of reasons to avoid Elonia’s room.

What if there were supplies he could use? Or a note from his twin telling him information he really needed to know, like where they were headed? He wasn’t surprised they had rummaged his room before leaving. They had no doubt thought him dead or a lost cause. But his sister’s room...

He swallowed, forcing himself to examine that combination lock.

Because if there were any answers to where they had gone, what had happened, it was in that room.

He was surprised by how relieved he felt that his birthday didn’t unlock this combination, eager to latch on to that as an excuse not to violate his sister’s space.

But when he dialed in her birthday, just one digit over, it opened with an effortless click.

Ignoring the anxious knot in his stomach, he forced himself to enter, struck anew by how pretty and pink his sister’s room was, with just the faintest hint of lilac perfume.

And the note he saw on her writing desk, his name written in her distinctive looping handwriting, filled him with a sudden surge of joy.

And chagrin.

He really should have checked in here, weeks ago!

Because the first thing to catch his eyes was the seemingly random collection of runic symbols drawn on the wall, right over her bed.

A sign, one of many they had worked out over time. So that what looked like a rebellious teenage statement was actually a message.

A message for him to crouch on his hands and knees, then slip onto his belly, wincing as half-forgotten pain flared to life as he stretched tissue in ways it was no longer comfortable going… and found the underside of her bed absolutely littered with dirty clothes and all the junk she had hurriedly claimed from their quarters in the fully furnished hotel penthouse above, back when everything had gone to hell.

Heart in throat, he began carefully scooping out everything out from under the bed, a girl’s necessities making wince in pity for the billions of woman he could only hope had survived, with just one more problem men never had to worry about, before shaking his mind free of brooding thoughts and continuing his excavation, resolving tomorrow to massage and stretch his scarred limbs thoroughly before heading out... and then he found it.

At the very rear of the space under the bed.

Two reverse draw limb crossbows still in their sealed boxes, never assembled, and a full sleeve hauberk of shiny steel mail. An article of armor that was a favorite among HEMA aficionados and reenactors, even quality steel link shirts had been easy to get ahold of and relatively affordable, with a number of eastern European manufacturers happy to cater to the growing interest in both the States and Europe. And just feeling the tightly meshed and welded rings in his hand brought tears to his eyes.

Mr. Vincent had been quite adamant on the importance of quality armor for both realism and protection. And this was as real, and comfortable to wear, as it got, mail shirts having literally been in use for thousands of years. Ubiquitous because it was so comfortable and convenient to wear, and the modern replicas he had ordered, tight rings made of high carbon steel; welded, not butted, the latter being almost worthless against any decent thrust. But this shirt?

Alex swallowed the lump in his throat, having taken for granted the steel mail shirt he had worn like it was just a heavy costume prop for months on end at the set, a piece of equipment that, in this broken post-apocalyptic world, would be hard as hell to duplicate, and would probably be worth an absolute fortune, if he were to sell it.

Assuming people didn’t just try to kill him to claim it for themselves. “Definitely wearing a jacket over it, and padding underneath,” he said to himself.

Though their historically accurate gambesons comprised of twenty or more cross-stitched layers would have been best as padding and as extra protection, those had most definitely been grabbed by the survivors when they had left. Fortunately, a couple of flannel shirts would serve as perfectly suitable padding. Both as vital cushioning against the concussive impact of any blows, and to keep the steel rings from pulling at the keloid-covered mass of scar tissue that was most of his skin.

Frankly, Eric thought it a miracle that his sister had managed to leave him a mail shirt bundled up and carefully twisted in an old sweatshirt shoved in the corner of the bed that no one would even think of going through. His sister hadn’t been shy about what she had used as camouflage either. Eric winced in memory, and would always be grateful.

And the helmet hiding in plain sight, another set prop that had been just as realistic as their mail shirts, covered by a tricorn feathered cap and wrapped in a silk scarf, with a pair of rabbit ears on top and a pair of thick leather working gloves, completed his find.

Far from being a cheap costume prop like the rabbit ears, the open-faced helm was high-grade carbon steel.

It was there that he found the note.

Eric.

If you’re reading this, thank god you made it.

What happened to us, what we endured… is between you and me forever.

Thank you for my life, brother. I pray for you every day.

Vincent and Mother, (You do know they're lovers, right?) say that things have taken a bad turn. Even worse than they first thought.

We’re making our way close to where we used to vacation as children.

Remember the spot? If you find yourself strong enough to dare the journey, well, you know what to ask whatever passes for shopkeepers down there.

Vincent assures us that there are friendlies in the area, and isn't it damned convenient he can use a HAM radio, and that those actually work? But I'm not taking anything for granted.

You’ll be happy to know, I actually managed to hit ‘6’ where it counts!

But these rats multiply like mad, and I couldn’t find the breeder before I was told in no uncertain terms that it was time to go. Not that I blame them. The bodyguards at my back get nothing out of risking their lives, only some experience using spears against crazed rodents. They fear the pod. Not that they could have used it anyway, with you in there for weeks.

I left a message which you must have gotten under your mapsign. I pray you are reading this safely, and that the tunnels were still clear by the time you made it back.

I love you, brother, and I will always be grateful. Look around carefully. You’ll find what you need. But for fuck’s sake, please be careful! You’re one man. I had a team of three, and I got all the experience, because I’m the only classer. I hope you managed to grab a decent class yourself, but you’ll always be a paladin in my book.

Above all else, keep safe and be careful. Unlike the orc-infested city above, there's something of a civilized town run by survivors like us, several miles down the tunnels. (Which we found out have almost nothing to do with the city’s proper sewers, which explains why we never had to deal with any raw sewage, just excess runoff).

They treated us politely enough, but we were a party of six, kitted up in armor and wielding crossbows, spears, and what I now have. If you’re a lone wanderer… be careful, brother, that’s all I can say. Hunt prudently, grow strong slowly, carefully. Because I almost got killed twice, overestimating myself, underestimating those rats. And I wouldn’t even be writing this, if I hadn’t had Jess and Arlin at my back.

P.S. Their daughter was definitely making eyes and smiling at a couple of boys in town, and I’m pretty sure she sneaked off with at least one the night we stayed at their sorry excuse for a hotel, so… yeah. She’s a sweetheart, but don’t be an idiot and fall for her! She’s the kind of bee that likes to sample as many flowers as she possibly can. You know I would never judge anyone with the shit in my closet, but you’re my brother, so I’ll make an exception.

You can do better.

I’d far rather have you there, safe and sound, slowly growing, than getting yourself killed in a mad rush to meet up with the family. Besides, with the way you-know-who is acting… I swear, Eric, it’s like she knew all along.

We were teenage starlets. Why the fuck were we training every day with HEMA instructors for months on end? Why was she making you dope yourself for the sake of a fucking part? After all the shit I went through, getting clean last year?

So messed up.

And your skin was flawless before! And you could have just worn a muscle shirt underneath the mail!

I don’t care if it was with medically prescribed testosterone, and most kids our age get acne. We lucked out, before they fucked it up for you. They were messing with your health, and I still haven’t forgiven them for that.

I don't know what Mother's planning, but she's never had a moment where she looked like she wanted to break down and cry, or that she didn't know exactly what to do next. She’s still the same tough-as-nails woman as she always was, utterly focused on some goal she says I’m not ready to hear about. And if one more asshole town guard who doesn’t recognize her calls her my hot sister again… fuck. No one’s allowed to look that good in their forties.

If she tells me that movie we did was her fucking biography, I will so kill her!

Love you bro,

Elonia.

PS don’t stop hunting til you hit pay dirt!

Eric wiped away the tears in his eyes, rereading the message a second time, enjoying hearing her snarky sarcastic voice in his mind at least, as he committed the letter to memory, grateful he had found everything of note.

Before freezing up at the last line, wondering if she was speaking quite literally.

He did another sweet of the room, frowning when he detected nothing of interest.

It was only when he heard the faintest of jingles when he knocked over her stuffed bear that his heart began to race, flush with excitement he did his best to keep in check.

Carefully opening the bear, imagining a handful of quarters that might have some value in this new world, or at least work on vending machines if nothing else… instead finding a silken pouch filled with a handful of silver liberty dollars… and not one but three gold Krugerrands.

Eric couldn’t hold back a whistle, wondering just how valuable silver and especially gold might be, in the new world order.

Before putting all such speculations aside, bringing back his focus upon what he had to accomplish now, and for the foreseeable future.

Getting stronger, and playing it as safe as possible on what would be his first active hunt. The first time he would dare to confront the massive rodents that had filled him with such terror, just a few short weeks ago.

When he finally kitted up, he found that his flannel shirts did indeed make excellent padding for his mail shirt, protecting against the mail pinching his too vulnerable flesh, feeling no shame at all in wrapping his sister’s pink silk scarf about his neck over lifted and buttoned collars, once he donned and belted the hauberk of mail that went all the way down to his thighs.

In addition to the steel helm and hauberk, he wore thick leather work boots and leather gloves to protect feet, calves, and hands, with three pairs of blue jeans fitting his still painfully thin legs quite well, better than he'd like to admit. Pants that just might save those limbs from being savaged by toothy predators. Because a crippled Eric was a dead Eric.

But Lacking any sort of coif to protect his neck, the pink scarf might just be the lifesaver he needed against those rats, and any other predator that liked to go for the jugular, which was quite a number, now that he thought about it.

Carrying nothing more than the sword at his hip and the spear in his hands, his heart was pounding as he made himself face the vault-like door he had left safely sealed for two weeks.

And just before he spun it open, he realized what an idiot he truly was.

“Elonia left me two, two! Crossbows. Why the hell am I leaving them?”

It was a rhetorical question. After a frustrating night trying to assemble the reverse draw limb crossbows, first having to wrap his head around the fact that the limbs actually released towards him, not away, like every other crossbow or bow in existence, with a complex system of strings and pulleys that at least assured that the quarrel still went toward the target and not his eye, he had finally managed to assemble and fire one of them.

Tricky as they were to assemble, even with a decent scholarship and several hours pouring over the instructions in the kit box, they had definite advantages over most types of crossbows, including a lower draw weight and a longer draw stroke, with the center of gravity closer to his hands than the end of the weapon. All of which made it easier to cock and fire quarrels that were both faster and more accurate than most bolts fired by recurved crossbows.

He felt such a surge of exultation when he had actually managed to cock and load the two hundred pound draw weight weapon with the help of the stirrup and cocking rope, and do so without overly straining any muscle, or tearing off his finger.

It was a feat that he would have never have dared in the weeks prior to rehabilitating himself as much as he had. And as much as he had despaired of the slight tremble in his hands still fucking with his using the scope, once he tensed his hands and fired, the bolt tore through the air faster than any arrow, hitting only an inch or so off the target he had set up.

Which was a crime at just twenty feet, and an hour’s worth of practice hadn’t noticeably improved that margin. But his interface did acknowledge his skill, at least.

Crossbows skill successfully quantized at Rank 3!

You are at least as skilled as the average student who has spent hundreds of hours in the pursuit of his craft… or a natural marksman after a single day’s training!

Ounce per ounce, the weapon he was using was the deadliest crossbow for its draw weight on the market. He already knew that.

He also knew that it would be a pain in the ass for noobs who had never shot or practiced with them to assemble, especially with no SelfTube instructional videos in this brave new world. With all that factored in, most people would be far more comfortable with a classic recurved bow that was also a hell of a lot easier to maintain, with much less that could go wrong.

He shook his head, looking down at the bow.

“If only I had used my head, I would have been practicing every day, for these last few weeks. But I just didn’t have it in me to check my sister’s room until last night. I was so focused on recovering what I lost, increasing my abilities with the weapons at hand, that I totally neglected everything that didn’t revolve around getting physically stronger.”

His voice was slightly off from lack of use, but so much better than it had been before he had restored his Vitality. His lungs were now as fit as they had ever been, or at least his body was compensating brilliantly for his 5% deficiency.

But as grateful and relieved as he felt, slowly coming back into his own, he realized he had been a complete and utter fool.

He hadn’t even once thought to practice with the talent that that damned pod had used as an excuse to rob him of so much of his strength! While still following whatever code that thing was forced to abide by, he sure as fuck didn’t think that pod was humanity’s friend.

Eric shook his head, deciding to go for broke from the get go. Knowing he was being an idiot trying it on a highly complex tool for killing, with a cord under so much tension it could easily cut through a misplaced finger.

But he was done with pointless fear.

He girded himself, preparing for massive strain and inevitable failure as he tried to visualize the crossbow disappearing into whatever passed for his supposed storage space. A space that no doubt started the size of a dime, with a vindictive pod laughing in dark vegetative glee at the thought of fucking him over.

So prepared he was for a herculean effort, that what actually happened came as a shock.

Like bracing to lift a water jug and lurching back with surprise upon finding it empty, he was momentarily off balance with profound disbelief.

But only for a moment.

Before an awed smile graced his scarred features.

Because with less effort than it took to draw in a steadying breath, his crossbow had disappeared.

Alex felt a tingle of wonder shiver down his spine. “What the hell?”

He shook his head, awed by the irrefutable display of powers that could only be called magic.

Magic he hadn’t touched at all in the two weeks since he had crawled into this bunker a bleeding half-dead wreck. And as wondrous as his rapid recovery had admittedly been, he had hardly thought of it as magical. Rather, he viewed it as training his ass off almost every waking hour he wasn’t eating the steadily dwindling rations, or lost in deepest slumber.

But making a seven-pound crossbow with a 200 lb draw weight vanish in the blink of an eye, fully loaded, had definitely transcended any old-world explanation.

Strangest of all, it had taken no more effort than a blink of his eye.

But the real test came next.

He took a deep breath, the tips of his fingers tingling as his heart thumped in his chest, praying he wasn’t going to get torn apart by bow strings snapping under pressure while visualizing as intently as he could the crossbow appearing right in his hand…

And after about two seconds of concentration, it did so. As if it had never left.

He slowly, carefully put it down, donning his helm once more, and the safety goggles Vincent had worn when preparing their training gear for actual combat… before slowly squeezing the trigger of his crossbow.

No longer surprised by its kick, or how rapidly the projectile sprung forth, the flat-head bolt sinking in the sandbags up to the fletching, firing just a smoothly as it had with the first dozen shots he had fired.

The bow worked perfectly. There were no oddly displaced pulleys or cables, no weakness to the reverse draw crossbow’s appearance or structure, at least as far as Eric could tell with a basic stress test, even after being transported to his extra-dimensional storage space.

He couldn’t help grinning wide as he immediately set out to assemble the second crossbow, deciding it was time well spent, despite the delay, his mind now racing with possibilities as he prepared himself for the hunt to come.